Second Life (28 page)
‘Where the hell were you? What the—?’
‘I was late—’ he begins, and I interrupt him, furious.
‘Late! Like you not being on time is the important thing we’re discussing here. Who
was that guy? And how the hell do you know my husband’s name?’
‘What?’
‘That guy, he called him Hugh. I’ve never told you my husband’s called Hugh. Harvey.
I’ve always called him Harvey . . .’
‘Yes, why
did
you do that?’
‘I’ve got every right to. But that’s not the point! How did you—?’
‘Relax. You slipped up. Just once. You called him Hugh. Weeks ago. You were upset,
I guess. You called him Hugh, and I remembered.’
I try to think back, to remember, but it’s impossible. I want to believe him, though.
I have to. Not to believe him about this might mean I have to not believe him about
other things, too. And then everything would come crashing down.
‘Julia . . .’ He takes another step forward.
‘Don’t come near me!’ To my surprise he stays where he is. After a moment he turns,
goes to the mini-bar.
‘More champagne?’
I snort with derision.
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Not with me. But you will with a stranger.’
I’m furious. ‘You ordered that bottle!’
‘And you drank it.’
I look away. I can’t be bothered to argue, there’s no point. I’ve been a fool. I
don’t know him at all. I’ve rejected every warning, failed to see what was going
on at every turn. He’s taken my deepest desires, the things I ought never to have
told anyone, and turned them against me.
He opens a miniature – vodka, I think – and pours it into a glass. ‘You told me your
fantasy was being rescued. Or one of them was, at least.’
‘You think that’s what I wanted?’
‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘So you told him – that man – to be aggressive? To . . . to make me think . . . to
behave like that? You shared everything I’d told you?’
‘Not everything. Just enough. I kept some of it to myself.’
‘I said no more games, Lukas! No more. Remember?’
I sit in the chair. He sits on the bed. I realize he’s between me and the door; a
fundamental mistake, Hugh would say, though I don’t know why he’s ever had to worry;
his patients don’t tend to be the aggressive type. I stand up again.
‘I thought it’d be fun.’ He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Look, you
told me. Your fantasy. Being in danger. Being rescued. You did say that?’
‘I said lots of things. That doesn’t mean I want them to happen. Not really. That’s
why they’re called
fantasies
, Lukas.’
Dread hits. I remember the other things I’ve told him I fantasized about. Being taken
by force, not quite against my will, but almost. Being tied to the bed, handcuffs,
rope. Is he also planning that?
I try to backtrack. ‘Half of the things I said I wanted I only said to please you.’
‘Really? Like how Paddy had forced himself on you?’
He’s sneering. He looks as if he doesn’t care about me at all. I mean nothing to
him.
‘Poor Paddy. Accused of all those things he didn’t do. And look where it got him.’
I back away. Every part of me wants to reject what he’s telling me is true. ‘It
was
you!’
‘It’s what you wanted—’
‘It was
you
!’ My heart hammers. I tense, as if for escape. ‘It was you, all along!’
‘And the mysterious figure outside your window . . .’
‘What?’
‘It’s what you want, isn’t it? To be scared?’
I try to work it out. The first time I’d thought I’d seen someone watching me was
before I even met Lukas. But the other night? It’d seemed more real, then. Could
that have been him?
No. No, he doesn’t know where I live. He’s using my paranoia against me.
‘You’re crazy.’
He looks at me and I return his gaze. Something slips within me, like a lever that’s
been thrown. Somehow I see myself through him, reflected in his eyes. I see the clothes
I’m wearing, the shoes, even the way I smell. I realize, as if for the first time,
the place I’m in and how deep I’ve got.
I’ve been here before. In thrall to something that’s destroying me. Unable to escape.
I think of Marcus, and of Frosty.
I force myself to say it.
‘I’m leaving now. This is over.’
The room is still. The words have escaped. I can’t unsay them now, even if I wanted
to. He closes his eyes then opens them again. His face breaks, he smiles. He doesn’t
believe me.
‘You’re not.’ His voice is low and heavy; it sounds like it
belongs to someone else.
All his pretence has gone, leaving in its place nothing but a heavy malevolence.
My eyes flick to the door. If he wants to stop me there’s no way I can overcome him.
I draw breath, summon as much strength as I can.
‘Get out of my way.’
‘I thought we were having fun?’
‘We were. But we aren’t now. Not any more.’
His mouth hangs, half open, then he speaks.
‘But I love you.’
It’s the last thing I expect him to say. I freeze. I’m disarmed, utterly shocked.
My mouth opens, but I have no words.
‘I love you,’ he says again. I want him to stop, yet at the same time I don’t. I
want to believe him, yet don’t think I can.
‘What?’
‘You heard me. I thought I was making you happy. All this’ – he gestures around the
room – ‘was for you. I thought it’s what you wanted.’
I shake my head. It’s another game. I know it is. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Lukas, no—’
‘Tell me you love me, too?’
I look at him. His eyes are wide, imploring. I want to believe him. Just this once,
I want to know he’s telling me the truth.
‘Lukas—’
He reaches out to me. ‘Julia. Tell me, please.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Yes. Yes—’
I freeze. His hands have dropped. He smiles, then starts to laugh.
‘It’s just another one of your fantasies, isn’t it? Me loving you?’
Suddenly I’m empty. Defeated. It’s as if everything has flooded out of me and, right
now, I hate him.
‘Fuck you.’
‘Oh, Julia, come on. What’s the big deal? Today? David? You want to be rescued, I
want to rescue you. I wanted you to think you really were in danger.’ He looks at
me. He’s trying to see if I’m softening, if the anger is burning off. It’s not. Not
really. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘All I said was he should try and pick you up. That you
might be keen, you might not. Either way, he shouldn’t take no for an answer. Like
you wanted.’
I take a step back. ‘You’re crazy.’ I whisper it. To myself as much as to him, but
he ignores me.
‘Shall I tell you what I think? I think you’re getting cold feet just as it’s starting
to get interesting.’ He pretends to reconsider. ‘Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe
you’re enjoying yourself a little too much.’ I begin to speak, but he continues.
‘You’re worried that you don’t deserve it.’ He finishes his drink, pours another.
‘Look. It’s a game. You know that. And yet you can’t quite think of it like that.
You still think of games as something that children play. Something you’ve outgrown.’
‘No,’ I say. My voice sounds cracked. I draw breath and say it again. ‘No. You’re
wrong. It’s not a game.’
He laughs. ‘What is it, then?’ I want to get out. I can think only of escape. ‘Your
problem,’ he says, ‘is that you’re still too attached to the old you. You can slip
away to hotels, you can dress up in all the gear, but you’re still the little housewife,
married to Hugh. You’re still the person that does his shopping and cooks his food
and laughs at his jokes, even though you’ve heard them a million times before. You
used to despise people whose only ambition in life was a nice rich husband and an
adoring son and a house in Islington with a patio and a garden. Yet that’s exactly
what you’ve turned into. You’re still someone who thinks there’s only
one way to
be married, only one way to have an affair.’
I’m enraged, now. Ripped open. I want to scream at him. I want to hurt him. It’s
as if he’s seen inside me, then emptied me out.
‘How does it feel to hate yourself?’
‘Get out of my way!’
He moves. He’s between me and the door.
‘You know, I was watching the whole time,’ he says. ‘Today. In the bar.’ He hesitates,
then lowers his voice. ‘And you loved it. Didn’t you? The attention.’
He’s right. I know it, deep down. He’s right, and I’m ashamed. I despise him.
‘Please, just let me leave.’
‘Or else . . . ?’
‘Lukas . . .’ I say. I try to push past him, but he blocks me.
I step back again. I look at him, this almost-stranger. He lowers his voice still
further. He’s threatening now. He has the power; he wants me to know it.
‘You enjoyed it. Didn’t you? You liked knowing he wanted you. A stranger.’ He takes
another step; this time I stay where I am. ‘No strings . . . nothing to worry about
. . .’
I try a different tack.
‘So what if I did? What about if I’d decided I liked him? I was going to have him?
This David? What then?’
‘Then things might have turned out differently,’ he says. ‘Were you tempted?’
I don’t hesitate. I want to see him hurt. More than anything, I want to see him
feel some of the pain that he’s inflicting on me.
‘Maybe.’
He doesn’t move. I don’t know what he’s going to do.
‘Before he started to threaten you? Or after?’
‘Hard to say.’ I don’t move.
‘The fear added something. Admit it. That’s what turned you on.’ He’s whispering
now, murmuring. When I’m silent he moves forward, towards me. His mouth is inches
from my ear. His hand goes to my waist, I feel it on me. I pull away, but he’s strong.
His flesh touches mine. ‘Would you have gone upstairs with him?’ He pulls me to him,
I feel the warmth of his body, his hands on me, searching for my skin, moving firmly,
grasping, kneading. It triggers something, a muscle memory, and without me wanting
it to my body begins to respond. ‘Alone? Or with me?’
I don’t reply. Somewhere, deep within me, I know I should be crying out. I should
be fighting, kicking. I should be screaming for help.
But I’m not. I don’t do any of those things. It’s as if my body has mutinied. It
will no longer react to anything but his touch.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘Lukas . . .’
He tries to kiss me. I begin to respond, my body’s final betrayal. I gather my energy
and force myself to speak.
‘Stop! Lukas. This has to stop.’
He does nothing. He continues to push himself against me. Harder now. ‘Stop me, if
you want. If you really want.’
I feel his hands. They’re everywhere. At the back of my neck, in my hair, at my crotch.
He’s pushing and grabbing, with more and more urgency. He tries to push me backwards,
or turn me round. I flash on the time we’d had sex, in the cubicle, his hands around
my neck; it’d been a game then, but it isn’t now. I have to get away from him.
I lash out, aiming at his face, his eyes. It’s only a glancing blow, but my nails
draw blood. He wipes his hand across his face, wide-eyed and furious. He looks like
he’s about to hit me and I try to step away.
We square up against each other. I open my mouth to
speak but just then I hear the
sound of the lock sliding open. Relief floods me. It’ll be a maid, perhaps, someone
with room service. They’ll see what’s going on, Lukas will have to stop. I can dust
myself down, make an excuse, leave. He won’t follow me. I won’t let him.
We both look to the door. Too late I see that Lukas is smiling. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I
thought you’d got lost.’
Fear hits me, full in the gut. It’s David.
I grab my bag. I run. I slam past David, out into the corridor. Tears are coming,
I close my eyes, crash into the walls as I run towards the stairs, but I carry on
running. I see myself as if from a great height. It looks like me, but it isn’t me.
She’s not wearing the clothes I wear. She’s not doing the things I do.
I run and run and run, and all at once I’m back in Berlin. I’m shivering, at an airport,
not knowing how I’m going to get home. I’m phoning Hugh from a phone box in the departure
lounge, then I’m waiting. Waiting to be rescued by the man I’ll soon marry while
the one I’d thought was my whole life lies dead in a squat on the other side of the
city.
I made it out of the hotel. My legs shook, I was sweating, my heart was hammering
so hard I thought my chest might burst, yet still I managed to pretend to be calm
as I walked through the lobby, on to the street. Once outside I walked and walked,
and it wasn’t until I was sure I was out of sight of the hotel that I stopped to
check what direction I’d gone in. I hailed a cab, got in. ‘Where to?’ the driver
said, and I said, ‘Anywhere,’ and then, ‘The river,’ and then, ‘The South Bank.’
We began to drive, and he asked me if I was all right. ‘Yes,’ I said, even though
I wasn’t, and when we reached the South Bank I found a bench overlooking the Thames
and, because I knew Adrienne would say ‘I told you so,’ and I didn’t know who else
to call, who there was that I hadn’t pushed away, I phoned Anna.
‘How’re you?’
I told her everything, blasting it out in a mess of nonsequiturs that must have
been largely incomprehensible, and she first listened then calmed me down and asked
me to try again. When I finished she said, ‘You must go to the police.’
She sounded steely, determined. Absolutely sure.
‘The police?’ It was as if it were the first time I’d considered it.
‘Yes! You’ve been attacked, Julia.’
I flashed on his hands on me, all over me, grabbing my flesh, tearing at my clothes.
‘But—’ I said.
‘Julia. You
have
to.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, they didn’t . . . he didn’t . . . and Hugh . . .’
I imagined telling Hugh, making the call to the police. What would I say?
I’ve heard the stories. Even if I had been raped, they almost certainly wouldn’t
take me seriously, and if they did it’d be me who’d be on trial, not David, not Lukas.
‘And you went there for sex?’ they’d say, and I’d have to say yes. ‘Dressed in clothes
that he sent you?’ Yes. ‘Having told him, more or less, that rape was a fantasy of
yours?’