Second Life (27 page)

I find the bathroom. I’m nervous, unmoored. Something doesn’t feel right. It’s the
dress, the shoes. The earrings. They’re beautiful, but they’re not gifts one buys
for someone they care about. They’re a costume. A disguise. This time he’s making
explicit what until now has been implied: this is unreal, a fantasy. I must become
other. I must take off my wedding ring, even though he knows I’m married. I must
pretend to be someone I’m not. This is a game, a masquerade. It’s exactly what I’d
told him I don’t want.

So why am I getting changed? Why am I wearing the dress? I can’t say; it’s almost
as though there’s no other option. What’s happening has its own momentum, a pull
too powerful to resist. I’m heading into the unknowable, the foreign. I’m light,
being drawn into the blackness.

I take the furthest cubicle from the door and lock it behind me. I take off the clothes
I’m wearing then hold the dress up in front of me. It unfurls itself, a curtain of
red, and I slip it over my head before shimmying the zip closed. I put the heels
on the floor then step into them. The height lifts me into another space, a place
where I am strong. I take off my earrings and replace them with the ones he’s given
me. The transformation is complete. I am other. Julia is no longer here.

I step out of the cubicle and go over to the mirror. My perspective has shifted;
everything is different. I no longer know who I am, and I’m glad.

I smile at my reflection and a stranger returns my gaze.
She’s beautiful, and utterly
confident. She looks a little bit like Kate, though thinner, and older. The bathroom
door closes behind me with a sigh.

At the bar I begin to relax. My heart slows to its normal pace, my breathing becomes
deeper. Before I can stop him, the waiter has poured some of the champagne Lukas
has left, but I ask for water as well. I look around. The bar isn’t busy, just a
few people dotted around. I put down my glass. I want to look comfortable when Lukas
arrives. Composed. As in something that’s made up, created. Something that’s a fiction.

I drink the water slowly, yet still Lukas hasn’t arrived by the time I finish the
first glass. I pour myself another as I look again at the clock on my phone. He’s
very late now, and there’re still no messages. I sip my drink and rearrange my dress.
I wonder what’s holding him up. I wish I were wearing my own clothes.

A moment later I realize there’s somebody behind me, leaning on the bar. I can’t
see him but I know it’s a man – there’s a solidity to him, the space he occupies
he does so confidently. Lukas, I think. I begin to smile as I turn, but I’m disappointed.
It’s not him. This man is larger than Lukas; he’s wearing a grey suit, holding a
glass of beer. He’s alone, or appears to be. He turns and smiles at me. It’s obvious,
unsubtle and I’m not used to it. Yet it’s flattering. He’s young, attractive, with
a beard, a strong jaw, a nose that’s been broken. I smile back, because it would
be rude not to, and look away.

He must take my smile as an invitation. He turns his body to face me, says, ‘How’re
you?’

‘I’m fine.’ I think of Lukas, resist the temptation to tell him I’m waiting for someone.
‘Thanks.’

His face opens. He grins, says, ‘D’you mind?’ He’s indicating the empty seat between
us but before I can tell him I’m saving it for someone he’s already sitting down.
I’m irritated, but only mildly so.

‘I’m David.’ He shakes my hand. His palms have a roughness not suggested by his
clothes. I see his eyes sweep my body, travel from my neck, to my arms, to my ringless
finger. It’s only when they come to rest once again on my face that I realize he’s
still holding my hand.

I’m impatient. It’s Lukas I want to be holding. His flesh, not this man’s.

But he isn’t here, and I’m annoyed, even if I don’t want to admit it.

‘I’m Jayne,’ I say.

‘You’re alone?’

A breeze caresses the back of my neck. I think of Hugh first, and then Lukas.

‘For now,’ I say.

‘Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Jayne,’ he says. He holds my gaze. He’s reaching
inside me. It’s an offer, a proposition. I’m under no illusions, I know it’s because
of the clothes I’m wearing. I might not have even noticed it a few months ago; Lukas
has sensitized me to it.

But I don’t feel the same thrill that I did when I met Lukas – the thrill of being
desired but also of feeling desire. This time it’s slightly uncomfortable. Again
I think of telling him I’m waiting for someone, or that I’m married, but for some
reason I don’t. That would be hiding behind a man.
You can’t have me, because I’m
promised to another.
It would make me weak. He shifts his weight on the stool so
that his right knee is close enough to brush against my left and I get a sudden thrill,
so intense it shocks me.

‘Likewise,’ I say. He asks me whether I’m staying in the
hotel, whether I’m here
on business. I say no. I don’t want to lead him on.

‘How about you?’ I say.

‘Oh, I’m in finance,’ he says. ‘It’s very boring.’

‘Travelling?’

‘Yes. I live in Washington DC.’

‘Really?’ I say.

He nods. ‘What’re you having?’

‘I have a drink already,’ I say. There’s a look of mock-disappointment on his face.
I smile, then glance at the time on my phone. Lukas is late and hasn’t sent a further
message.

‘Then I’ll have the same.’

There’s a swell and fizz as the drink is poured. We chink glasses, but I don’t drink.
Dimly, I’m aware of how this will look when Lukas arrives, which surely can’t be
long now. It pleases me. I’d rather this than he sees me alone, desperate, waiting
for him.

Yet at the same time I wonder how easy this guy – David – will be to get rid of.

‘So,’ he says, ‘tell me about you. Where are you from?’

‘Me? Nowhere, in particular.’ He looks confused, and I smile. I won’t tell him the
truth, but neither do I want to make anything up. ‘I moved around a lot as a child.’

‘D’you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘No,’ I say. I don’t want Kate in the room. ‘It was just me.’

I look up, into his eyes. They’re wide; the expression of sincerity on his face
is so perfect it can only be fake. I realize we’re sitting close. His hand is resting
on his thigh, his knee still pressed against mine. It’s intensely sexual. The room
seems to be tipping, off balance. Something is very wrong.

‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll just use the Ladies.’

I stand. I’m unsteady. It’s as if I really have been drinking, rather than just bringing
it to my lips and putting it down
again. In the bathroom I look at myself in the
mirror, trying to reclaim the confidence I felt earlier, but I can’t. Julia is returning;
she’s just wearing someone else’s clothes.

I take out my phone, dial Lukas; there’s no answer so I leave him a message. I splash
water on my face, take a few deep breaths and gather myself.

When I return David is still sitting on the stool, still leaning against the bar.
He watches me approach. He smiles. His legs are spread – to balance himself, I suppose,
though I wonder if he’s also offering himself in some primitive, animal way. I take
my seat.

He smiles, lowers his voice, leans forward. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss
me, but he says, ‘I thought we could take this upstairs. Somewhere more private?’

I can’t help it. There’s a tingle, an excitement. I realize I like the thought of
Lukas being upset by me wanting someone else. Yet he doesn’t know, and fear is also
flooding in. This isn’t what I came here for. This isn’t supposed to happen. This
man looks strong. He’s not someone I could fend off, even if I had to. Plus, we’re
in public and I don’t want to cause a scene. I play for time.

‘Here?’ I say. ‘In the hotel?’ He nods. I tell myself to concentrate. ‘I’m sorry,’
I begin, ‘but . . .’

I shrug, but he doesn’t stop smiling. I think of the girls at school, and what the
boys called them when they didn’t go as far as they’d unwittingly promised. ‘Cock-teasers’,
they said.

He doesn’t seem to get the message. He puts his hand on my knee, moves it a fraction
up, towards my thigh. He leans forward. I can smell him, pepper and wood, leathery,
like old books. He begins to stroke the inside of my wrist. I know he’s going to
try and kiss me, that in a moment he’ll close his eyes and open his mouth, just slightly,
and I’ll be expected to do the same.

I cough, and look towards the bar. He touches my arm. There’s another tiny crackle
of static.

He whispers. ‘I know who you are,’ he says, as if he’s read my mind. He smiles, baring
his teeth, as if he’s growling. He’s still stroking my skin.

I look at his lips, his dark skin, the faint shadow of stubble that he’s probably
never quite without. ‘What—?’ I say, as panic begins to gather within me.

‘Kiss me.’

I begin to shake my head. I try to smile, to look confident, but I can’t, I’m not.
I can’t believe what’s happening. Without thinking I reach for the glass of champagne.

Ride it out, ride it out, ride it out.

‘I—’ I begin, but he interrupts me again.

‘Kiss me.’

I turn my head away from him and wrest my hand from his. I start to speak, to protest.
We’re in public, I want to say. Leave me alone; but my words tumble and fall. His
mouth is inches away from mine; I can smell alcohol, and beneath it is something
stale. Garlic, perhaps. Where’s Lukas? I think. I need him. I want him.

I look over my shoulder. The crowd has thinned out even further; the few guests that
remain are engrossed in their own conversations. No one has noticed what’s going
on, or else they’ve chosen to ignore it.

‘How much?’ he says. I gasp, a little grunt of horror, but he just shrugs. It’s as
if the answer to his question concerns him as little as do my protests.

‘How much?’ he says again. ‘That’s all I’m asking. Name your price.’

My price? My mind races. This man thinks I’ll sell myself, we just have to negotiate
a price.

‘You’ve got it wrong.’ My voice is unsteady now. Slurred not with alcohol but with
dread.

‘Have I?’ He moves his hand further up my thigh; his thumb, his fingers, are underneath
the hem of my skirt. Distantly, as if from a great height, I wonder why I haven’t
moved away. I imagine the whole room watching; somehow everyone knows what he’s doing,
can see that I’m not stopping him. I glance towards the nearest table: the couple
sitting at it have halted their conversation to sip their drinks; the man behind
them is speaking into his phone. No one has noticed us. No one is looking.

‘Stop it,’ I hiss.

‘I will. If you kiss me. If you promise to come upstairs and then let me fuck you.’
He licks his lips, as if he’s hungry. The action is deliberate, it carries a message;
if it’d been Lukas I’d be flattered, excited, but from him it’s more like a threat.
‘Like I know you want me to. Little slag . . .’

I turn in on myself. There’s a rush, a swell of anger. Lukas is supposed to be here,
not this man. I feel myself in balance, a perfect serenity that cannot last, and
for a long moment I’m unsure what I’m going to do, which way I’m going to fall.

I steel myself. ‘Look.’ I’ve raised my voice, just slightly. I want to attract attention,
though without yet causing alarm. I speak firmly, hoping my voice will have an authority
I don’t feel. ‘I’m asking you, politely, just this once. Take your hands off me,
right now, or else I’ll break your fucking arm.’

Even as I say it I’m not sure how he’ll react. Hurt perhaps, but surely he’ll get
the message? I expect him to turn away, mutter something under his breath, but it’ll
make no difference. I’ll stand up, walk out. I’ll hold my head up and walk away and
I won’t look back.

But he doesn’t move. He’s perfectly still, then without warning he grabs my wrist.
I recoil, try to get away, but his
grip is powerful. He digs in tight, twisting as
he does. ‘You want to go home? Is that it? Home to your faggot husband? Hasn’t had
you in weeks? Is that what you want, Julia?’

I freeze. I know I should cry out, but I don’t. I can’t. I’m paralysed.

He used my real name.

‘What—?’ I begin, but then he speaks again.

‘What’s his name? Your husband?
Hugh?
’

Fear floods me. I haven’t mentioned being married, much less told him my husband’s
name. How does he know? This can’t be right. The room begins to spin; for a moment
I feel I might collapse, but then there’s a voice. ‘Is everything okay here?’ I turn
and it’s him. Lukas. Relief rushes through me as instantly as if a tourniquet had
been released. The sound of the bar rushes back, like blood cells closing in on a
wound. I’m safe.

This other man, David, lets go of me. He holds up his hands, palms out, a gesture
of submission aimed not at me but at Lukas. It’s as if he’s asking this other man
for his forgiveness, saying he’s sorry for touching his property, and it enrages
me. What? he seems to say. I was just having a bit of fun. No harm done. At the same
time Lukas steps in, putting himself between me and David. I can see his broad back,
his hair, curly and unkempt. Finally I understand; the rush of excitement and fear
I feel is so vertiginous that for a moment I think I might gasp aloud. I’d asked
for this.
A stranger
, I’d said, during one of our chats.
In a bar. Someone who won’t
take no for an answer.

He’d planned it. After everything I’d said, he’d planned this.

We go upstairs. The door slams behind me. Vaguely I’m aware that I’m the one who
slammed it. Lukas turns to face
me. I have the sense I shouldn’t feel safe with him,
yet somehow I still do and I realize that the feeling is familiar. It’s the exact
same feeling I used to have about heroin; how can something that feels this good
ever hurt me?

‘What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck—?’

‘Don’t be—’ he begins, but I interrupt again.