Second Life (26 page)
‘It was.’
‘But I’m going crazy. You’re all I think about.’
‘Lukas—’
‘Tell me you’ve been thinking of me.’
‘Of course I have. But—’
‘So, what’s the problem?’
‘I don’t know. I just . . . it freaked me out. It was . . . risky.’
‘I thought you liked risk? I thought you liked danger?’
‘Not like that—’
‘It’s what you’ve been telling me.’
I raise my voice. ‘Not like that. Not when it involves Connor.’
Shit, I think. I’ve told him my son’s name. It’s too late now.
He says nothing. We’re both silent for a moment. Neither of us has started to eat
the food in front of us. A sandwich for him, a salad for me. It occurs to me we’ve
never had a meal together, not properly. We never will.
‘How did you know what film we were going to see? Or were you looking over my shoulder
as I bought the tickets?’
He still doesn’t answer.
‘I want to trust you, Lukas.’
‘Then trust me. I’ve never lied to you. I made a mistake, that’s all. I’m not stalking
you. I didn’t attack your friend. I mean, after what you’ve been through?’
He looks angry, but also deeply hurt. It’s this that comes closest to convincing
me. Yet still I’m not certain. Not quite.
I came here wanting to end it between us, to get out, but now I’m not sure I can.
Not yet.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You have to trust me, Julia,’ he says.
I look down at my plate. ‘I find it difficult to do that with anyone, I suppose.’
He reaches out to take my hand. ‘Connor,’ he says, as if he’s trying the name out
for size, seeing how it feels, how it sounds. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had a son?’
I look at the wedding ring he’s wearing. You didn’t tell me you had a wife, I want
to say. Things start to add up. The ring, first, plus the fact he’s never – not once
– suggested we go to Cambridge, even though it isn’t far away.
‘You’re married, aren’t you?’ I speak softly, quietly, as if I don’t really want
him to hear.
‘I was. You know that.’
‘I mean, you still are. Admit it.’
‘No!’ He looks angry. Shocked. How could I suggest such a thing?
‘I told you the truth. I wouldn’t lie about that. Ever.’
I watch as his anger turns to pain. It’s visceral, unmistakable. The pain of loss,
something I know only too well, and for a moment I feel guilty, and desperately sorry
for him. I can’t help it. I wish I’d let him in. I wish I’d told him about my son,
right from the beginning.
‘Promise me.’
He takes my hand between his. ‘I promise.’
I realize I believe him.
‘Look, my son – Connor – has been through a lot. I wanted to protect him—’
‘You think I’d hurt him?’
‘No. But it’s not so much people I’m trying to protect him from, but situations.
He needs stability.’ I take a deep breath. ‘It’s complicated. Connor’s adopted. He
. . . his mother was my sister.’
I wait while he absorbs what I’ve told him.
‘The sister who was killed?’
‘Yes.’
A long moment.
‘When did you adopt him?’
‘When he was very little. My sister couldn’t cope, so we took care of him.’
‘He knows?’
I nod. He’s silent for a moment, then says, ‘I’m sorry.’
He looks at me. I have nothing else to say. I’m spent, empty. I begin to pick at
my salad. After a minute or two he says, ‘So, is this it, then?’
‘Is what it?’
‘That use of the past tense back there. This conversation. The fact you didn’t want
to go to a hotel. You want me to leave you alone.’
The answer should be yes, but I hesitate. I don’t know why. I’ll miss feeling desire;
I’ll miss having it reciprocated. I’ll miss being able to talk to him about things
I can tell no one else.
I want to keep hold of all that, even for just a few more minutes.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s all right. I had a feeling this was going to be one of those “I’m sorry, but
. . .” conversations. You know. “I can’t do this any more.” That kind of thing.’
Have you had many of those? I think fleetingly. And, if so, how recently, and from
which side? Dumping, or being dumped?
I look away. I think back, to everything that’s happened. I realize the dark place
my grief has taken me. I’ve become fragile. Paranoid. I see danger everywhere. There’s
a man standing outside my window, my lover has attacked someone when he doesn’t even
know their full name, much less where
he lives. If I’m not careful I will push away
everything that is good in my life.
I make my decision.
‘I don’t want this to be over. But what you did the other day . . . Don’t do it again.
Okay? I won’t have Connor brought into this.’
‘Okay.’
‘I mean it. I’ll just walk away.’
‘Okay.’ He looks anxious, and as I see this I start to relax. The balance of power
has shifted, yet it’s more than that.
I realize this is what I wanted, all along. I wanted to see him bothered, I wanted
to know that he understood what was at stake, I wanted to see him frightened that
he might lose me. I wanted to see my own insecurities reflected in him.
I soften my voice. ‘No more games. Okay? All that stuff we’ve been talking about’
– I lower my voice – ‘the playacting, the rough sex. It has to stop.’
‘Okay.’
‘I can’t have you turning up unannounced. I can’t go back home covered in bruises
. . .’
‘Whatever you say, as long as it isn’t over.’
I reach across and take his hand. ‘How can it be over?’
‘What happens now?’
‘Now? I go home.’
‘Will I see you on Tuesday?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
He looks relieved.
‘I’m sorry. About the games, and stuff. I guess I’m not so good at romance.’ He pauses.
‘We’ll do something. Next time. Something lovely. Leave it with me.’
A week passes. Connor goes back to school, a year nearer to his exams, to adulthood
and whatever comes with it, a year nearer to moving away from me. I’ve had his blazer
dry-cleaned and taken him shopping for shirts and a new pair of shoes. He’s not enthusiastic
about going back, but I know that will only last a day or so. He’ll be reunited with
his friends, with his routine. He’ll remember how he enjoys his studies. Hugh’s right
when he says he’s a good kid.
On his first day back I go to the window and watch him walk down the street; by the
time he’s gone a few feet, barely past the end of the drive, he’s loosened his tie,
and just at the corner he waits for a moment. One of his friends arrives, they clap
each other on the shoulder, then set off together. He’s becoming a man.
I turn away from the window. I have another job tomorrow – the woman whose family
I photographed a few weeks ago has recommended me to a friend – and another next
week. The hole in my soul is closing, yet part of me still feels empty. Kate’s death
still haunts everything I do. When Connor goes, I don’t know how I’ll cope.
I try not to think about it. Today’s Tuesday. I’m meeting Lukas. I have the morning
to myself, hours to get ready. It’s like the first time we met, all those weeks and
months ago, back when I thought it would be a one-off, nothing more
than an opportunity
to find out what happened to my sister.
How that has changed.
Yet I know it has to end. Sometimes I think about that moment, when we separate,
finally and for ever, and wonder if it’ll be something I’ll be able to survive. Yet
separate we must; my relationship with Lukas has no happy ending. I’m married. I’m
a mother. I love my husband, and my son, and I can’t have everything.
When I leave the house Adrienne is pulling up in a car. It’s a surprise, not like
her at all. I wave and she opens the car door. Her face is grave, set in a hard line,
and I’m nervous.
‘New car?’
‘Whatever. Darling, can I come in?’
‘What is it? You’re scaring me.’
‘I thought I’d ask you the same question.’ She points back the way I’d just come.
‘Shall we?’
I stay where I am.
‘Adrienne? What is it?’
‘You’re ignoring me. Why?’
‘Darling, I’m—’
‘Julia. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days.’
‘Sorry. I’ve not been well.’
Another lie. I feel wretched.
‘Is something going on? Dee says you’re not returning her calls either. And Ali said
she invited you to a party and you didn’t even reply.’
Did she? I can’t even remember. I feel something give, as if something in my head
has slipped, some kind of defence. My mind begins to flood. Yes, I want to say. Something’s
going on. I want to tell her everything, I want it all to come out.
But I know what she’ll say.
‘Going on? Like what?’
She shakes her head. ‘Oh, darling . . .’
‘What?’
‘Bob’s seen you.’
I flinch. It’s not the enveloping fog of guilt, or shame. This is something else,
razor sharp, a scalpel on my skin.
‘Seen what?’
‘You with some guy. He said you were having lunch.’
I shake my head.
‘By the river?’
I tense. I’m flooded with adrenalin. I can’t let her see. ‘Last week?’ I say. ‘Yes,
I was having lunch with a friend. Why didn’t he say hello?’
‘He was in a taxi. A friend? He said he didn’t recognize him.’
I try to laugh. ‘Bob doesn’t know all my friends, you know!’
I see her begin to soften. ‘A man friend. He said it looked pretty intimate. Who
was it?’
‘Just someone I met. I took a photograph of him and his wife.’ I take a risk. ‘She
was with us.’
‘He said it was just the two of you.’
‘She must’ve been in the loo. What’s this about? You think I’m having an affair?’
She looks right at me. ‘Are you?’
‘No!’
I hold her gaze.
‘Adrienne, I’m telling the truth.’
‘I hope so,’ she says.
I don’t look away. I
am
, I want to say. I want to plead my innocence.
But is that because I want it to be true, or because I want to wriggle off the hook?
‘I’m really sorry, but I have to go. I have a shoot.’
I’m carrying no equipment. I see her notice.
‘Later, I mean. I have to get some things first. Some shopping.’
She sighs. ‘Okay. But call me. We’ll talk properly.’
I tell her I will.
‘Where are you off to? Do you want a lift?’
I tell her, ‘No, no I’m fine.’
‘Promise you’ll call me,’ she says, and then she’s gone.
Now I’m in a taxi. I feel jumpy, anxious. Bob has seen me and Lukas. A lucky escape,
I think, but next time? Next time it might be Adrienne herself, or even Hugh.
I’ve been neglecting him. I know that. I have to give Lukas up.
Either that or I have to start being more careful. I’m not sure which I want more.
I pull up to the St Pancras hotel and go into the lobby. It reminds me of the first
time I came here. There’s the same sense of danger, and excitement. The same notion
that everything might be about to change.
I go to the reception desk and give my name. The woman behind the desk nods. ‘For
Mr Lukas?’ she says.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
She smiles. ‘There’s a package for you.’ She reaches under the desk, then hands me
a parcel. It’s a little bigger than a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper, sealed with
packing tape. My name is scrawled on the front in black marker pen. ‘And Mr Lukas
asked me to give you a message,’ she says. She hands me a slip of paper. ‘Running
late,’ it says. ‘There’s champagne on ice behind the bar. Hope you like the gift.’
I thank her. I wonder why he’s bought us champagne when he knows I don’t drink. I
begin to turn away. ‘Oh,’ I say, turning back, ‘do you have some scissors?’
‘Of course.’ She hands over a pair. I stand at the desk and
slit through the tape.
I think of Hugh as I do so; I imagine myself touching a scalpel to yellow-stained
flesh, watching as the skin yields then gives with a swell of red. I hand the scissors
back to her then take the box to one of the chairs nearby. I want to be alone when
I open my gift.
I take a deep breath and fold back the flaps. A smell hits me – not unpleasant, stale
air, a faint, floral trace of perfume. Inside, there’s tissue, a sealed envelope.
It’s this I open first.
There’s a postcard inside. It’s plain, creamy white. I think back to the cards that
were put through my letterbox, the ones I’d told him might have been from Paddy,
but there’s no woman in lingerie, no breasts, no pouting girl who looks not quite
old enough to be holding the pose she’s holding, wearing the expression she has
on her face.
I flip the card over. On one side is a message.
‘A little gift,’ it says. ‘See you soon. Wear this. Lukas.’
I put the note to one side. If he’s crammed an outfit into the box, there can’t be
much to it. I lift out the bundle and tear through the tissue paper it’s wrapped
in.
It’s a dress. Bright red. A mini-dress, short, with long sleeves and a low-cut back.
I can already see how tight it’s going to be, how it will hug my body, hiding nothing,
only accentuating the curves of my flesh. I check and find he’s picked the right
size, but it’s not the kind of thing I’d wear at all, which must be why he’s chosen
it. Beneath it there’s a pair of shoes. They’re black, high-heeled, almost four inches
I guess, much higher than I’m comfortable in, with a tiny bow on the toe. I take
them out; they’re beautiful. They look expensive.
At the bottom of the box is one more thing. A padded jewellery case in soft red leather.
My heart beats with childish excitement as I flip it open. Inside there’s a pair
of earrings. Gold drop with a four-leaf-clover design and, unlike the shoes, they
look inexpensive.
I react instinctively. My heart thuds, I snap the box closed. They’re similar to
the ones Kate was wearing. It’s coincidence, I think. It has to be. He’s forgotten.
It’s like when Hugh casually mentioned that Paddy had been mugged but nothing had
been taken. I’m over-sensitive. I have to pull myself together.