Second Life (34 page)

But no, that makes no sense; he was definitely seeing Anna first, before Kate died.
I’m back to square one.

Again the same thought forms, the one that’s been haunting me. It grows, I can’t
shake it, can’t hold it down. It’s
because I know he lives in Paris, now. It rises
to the surface, inexorable, unstoppable.

It was him.

But it can’t be. There’s Kate’s earring; they’ve made an arrest. Plus, we know the
police checked everyone out, all Kate’s online contacts. They’re satisfied. It can’t
have been him.

So why did he target me, then? Or am I not a target at all – was it just sheer chance?

I finish my cigarette then toss it on to the pavement, through the half-open window.
Straight away I feel the urge to light another; I fight it, but it seems pointless,
futile. I have to calm my mind. I have to sort it out. I lift my bag off the passenger
seat and begin to rummage inside it.

It happens quickly. I don’t see him come out of the hotel, don’t hear him approach,
I’m barely aware of him opening the door. I look up and he’s there; I’ve gone from
alone to not-alone in an instant. My heart leaps with sudden terror.

‘What the—?’ I begin, but he turns to me.

‘Surprise!’ His exclamation is dry and humourless. His face is inches from mine;
he smells of aftershave, the one I’m used to. The fragrance of wood – sandalwood,
I think – mixed with something else, something medicinal. He looks paler than I remember,
his features thinner. I try to tell myself that if I met him now I wouldn’t look
twice, but it’s a lie.

‘Lukas,’ I gasp. My muscle memory kicks in once again; instinctively I shoot as far
back in my seat as I can, move as far away from him as I can get without opening
the door and running. I wonder if that is what I should be doing. Running.

‘What d’you want?’

‘Oh, sweetheart. Don’t be like that . . .’ His voice sounds thick, not like him at
all.

‘Where’s Anna?’ I have visions of her upstairs, pacing. I
wonder if she knows he’s
with me; it’s possible he’s told her he’s just popped out for a walk, to get some
air.

He smiles. It’s bitter, resentful. ‘Relax. I don’t know what you think is going on,
but let me tell you, you’re wrong on every count.’ He pauses. ‘Anna’s upstairs,’
he says. ‘I left her in the shower.’ He grins. I wonder if I’m supposed to find his
comment suggestive, sexual. Titillating. Is this the game he’s playing? The three
of us, upstairs, naked.

‘She knows I’m here. She sent me. She’s sorry about losing her temper. She wants
you to come up and have a drink with us. Sort things out.’ He shrugs. ‘So how about
it?’

I want to believe him, but I don’t. How can I? Anna thinks I’ve met him for the first
time tonight.

‘Who are you? Tell me what you want.’ He ignores me.

‘No? Didn’t think so.’ He turns. ‘Look. Anna’s a big girl. She can look after herself.
I don’t know why you want to come and interfere.’

‘Interfere?’

‘Warning her away? Telling her I’m not who she thinks I am? Maybe I’m exactly who
she thinks I am, just not who you thought I was.’ He looks thoughtful. ‘Maybe it’s
you who doesn’t know anything about me. Not her.’ He leans towards me. ‘Anna trusts
me, you know? She tells me everything . . .’

I think of the printout I have in my bag. I should’ve given it to her when I had
the chance.

‘Maybe, for now—’ I begin, but he moves abruptly. He grabs my arm, twisting it as
he does so. It’s sudden, and brutal. I cry out, a scream of shock and pain, and then
I’m silenced.

‘You know,’ he hisses, still holding my arm, still digging in his fingers, ‘I don’t
like little tarts like you who come between me and my fun. So, this is what’s going
to happen . . .’ He
twists my arm further. I struggle, but he holds me. He’s using
only one hand yet still it seems easy for him. It feels as if he could snap my arm
with hardly any effort at all, as if that’s exactly what he’d like to do. I gasp
once more; again I remember his hands on me, how once they’d caressed the very skin
that now screams with pain. ‘You’re going to get the fuck out of my life,’ he says.
‘You’re going to leave Anna alone, and you’re not going to interfere. Get it?’

I gather all my strength. I turn to him; finally I manage to wrench my arm from his.
‘Or what? I saw you, you know. Earlier. Getting into the lift. You didn’t look that
in love to me. I don’t know what you’re doing, but she doesn’t deserve it. She’s
done nothing to you. She really thinks you love her.’

I feel his resolve waver, just slightly. I’ve hit a nerve. But then he speaks. ‘It
makes no difference to me what you think you saw.’ His smile is sickly, thin. ‘And
you
are
going to leave us alone.’

He seems so certain. Dread fills me.

‘Or what?’

‘Or I might just make my private archive a little bit more public . . .’

I don’t understand what he’s saying, yet I feel myself tense. It’s as if my body
has already worked it out while my mind lags behind.

‘Your what—?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’ve got some very interesting photos in my collection. Videos,
too. Want to see?’

I feel myself falling. He seems so totally confident. I’m no one, nothing. He could
destroy me, without even having to try.

I shake my head. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through some screens.
‘Ah. This is a good one.’

He selects a photograph, and the glow from the screen
briefly illuminates the dark
interior of the car, then he angles the screen so that I can see the picture. It’s
a woman, taken from the waist up. She’s naked.

It takes me a moment to realize it’s me.

I gasp. ‘This is . . .’ I begin, but the words catch in my mouth and I can’t get
them out.

‘This is from that first time . . .’ he says. ‘The first time you turned your camera
on. D’you remember?’

I do. I’d been in my studio, the door locked. I’d angled my camera, stood up. I felt
stupid, at first, but then I’d become swept up in it until there was just me, and
him, and the rest of the world had faded to nothing.

The betrayal seems absolute. I can’t look at it any more, but neither do I want to
look at him.

‘You took it . . . you
kept
it?’

‘I like having an archive.’ He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. ‘For when I’m bored, you
know?’

‘How dare you!’ Fury is rising in my chest, but something else, too. A new fear,
cold and hard and piercing. If he has this, I think, then he’ll have more.

He begins to scroll through his phone. ‘I have plenty of others,’ he’s saying. ‘This,
for example? Or this?’

He shows me image after image. A rerun of the past few months, the edited highlights.
Almost every time I’d stripped for him, because he was bored, or horny, and I missed
him and wanted to please him. With each picture I sink lower, until I feel I’m drowning.
The water is closing over me, invading me, until I can’t breathe.

‘Oh, and this.’ This one is different, taken in the hotel after we’d had sex. In
it I’m standing up, smiling at the camera; he’s caught me as I was dressing. I remember
the day he took it. I’d been flattered at the time; he wanted a memento, some reminder
of the day.

I’d been glad, yet I remember I’d asked him to delete it. ‘I just feel uncomfortable,’
I’d said. He told me I was beautiful, that he wanted a picture. ‘Please, Lukas,’
I said. ‘Delete it?’

Clearly, he hadn’t. Now, as I look at it, I’m horrified. It’s like one version of
me looking at another. Julia, looking at Jayne. I’d thought I could keep them separate,
in boxes, locked away, but I was wrong. Things have a habit of escaping.

Another wave of despair hits. None of it was real. From the beginning it was based
on a lie, an illusion of love.

‘Anyway, you get the general idea.’

‘You bastard . . .’ I whisper. Even this word feels wholly inadequate, after what
he’s taken from me.

‘Oh, come on now. These pictures are great! You should know. It’d be very selfish
of me not to share . . .’ His hand goes to his pocket again. When he takes it out
he’s holding a memory stick. He holds it up. ‘Here’s your copy, for example.’ I
stare at it but refuse to take it from him. ‘No? You might as well have it. There
are plenty more . . .’ He smiles, then puts it between us on the dashboard.

‘But you’re in half of these photographs. Why would you share them?’

‘I’m in some of them, yes. But not all. And, in any case, I don’t have a child. I’m
not married to a surgeon. I think I’d just about get away with it.’ He smiles. ‘Just
think . . .’ He shakes his head, tutting. ‘Imagine what the press would say. The
Mail
? T
OP
S
URGEON’S
W
IFE IN
S
EX
S
CANDAL
? It might even go viral. Don’t you think?’

I don’t reply. He’s right. The future collapses in slow motion. On top of the complaint
against Hugh, it would be too much. I see the scandal, our friends turning away from
us. Maria, Carla – all of his colleagues. I imagine myself walking down the street,
feeling people’s eyes burning into
me, not knowing what they’d seen, what gossip
they’d believed.

He’s won, I think, and there’s nothing I can do. He has Anna, he will get his hands
on my sister’s money, and then he’ll abuse and mistreat Anna the way he has me.

He hasn’t finished, though. ‘There’s Hugh’s boss at the hospital, too. All his colleagues.
Can’t be good for business. For his reputation. There’s Connor’s school, all those
parents. I can’t imagine it’d be too difficult to get hold of their email addresses.
Oh,’ he says, as if something’s just occurred to him, ‘I just remembered. There’s
all those porn websites I can upload these to. “Hot amateur.”’ He looks at me, watching
for my reaction. ‘“Older woman fucks young stud.”’

It happens suddenly, comes from nowhere. I slap him, as hard as I can. It’s as if
all the energy I’ve been clamping down has erupted. I want to kick and scream and
fight.

Yet his only response is to laugh quietly, almost under his breath, and I realize
he’s pleased.

He looks at me. His eyes are expressionless. I wonder if he’s capable of experiencing
pain.

‘So, as I was saying, you’re going to stay away from me and Anna.’

I feel myself begin to cry. I tell myself I won’t let the tears come, I won’t give
him the satisfaction, but they burn behind my eyes.

Yet at the same time I’m almost relieved. When everything’s gone, there’s no more
pain, nothing else to lose.

Staying away from him and Anna – it might be difficult, but it can be done.

‘Plus,’ he says, ‘why not have a think about how much these pictures might be worth
to you. I mean, I know your sister left a bit of money to Anna, but I understand
there’s a lot more that’s gone to your son . . .’

‘You bastard,’ I say again.

He turns to open the door. The temperature in the car seems to drop as he moves away
from me and the rest of the world rushes in. ‘I ought to be going,’ he says. ‘Anna
will be wondering where we are. Plus, I guess you’ve got a lot to think about. I’ll
tell her you were still upset, you had to get home to Connor. Something.’

I want to give up, to let him go, but then I think again of Kate and I know what
I have to do. I’m strong enough; this year has taught me that, if nothing else. I’m
stronger than I think.

‘Wait.’

He pulls the catch, but doesn’t step out. He turns to me, instead. ‘What?’

‘Anna trusts me.’ Now I’ve made my decision, my voice is strong, defiant. ‘She’ll
never believe you. Not if I tell her what you’re doing.’

He closes the car door.

‘Tell her whatever you like. The truth is, Anna is beginning to think you’re a bit
crazy. Sick. She thinks your sister’s death might have sent you off the rails. That
perfect life you had . . . and now . . .’ His hand goes to his pocket. ‘She thinks
you’re a little bit unpredictable. A tiny bit jealous, perhaps. Which of course you
are, though she doesn’t know why.’

I think back to the time I spent with Anna in Paris, to all the conversations we’ve
had over the months. He’s wrong.

‘You’re lying. Whatever—?’

‘Makes her think that? I guess this doesn’t help . . .’ He holds his hand up, between
us. He’s holding something; it must’ve been in his pocket. It takes me a moment to
realize it’s a knife.

I’m overcome with panic. I try to back away but the car is cramped and there’s nowhere
for me to go. It happens in an
instant. He grabs my hand with both of his, so that
he’s holding me tight. The knife is exposed, sticking out towards me, in his hand
though it looks as if it’s in mine. I struggle to free myself, thinking he’s trying
to stab me, and he begins swinging my hand, left, right, back again. It’s as if we’re
struggling, as if he’s trying to get the knife off me, even though he’s the one holding
it. I hear a voice, shouting, and at first I think it’s coming from outside the car,
but then I realize it’s me and I see it all. It’s as if I’m watching from the street,
peering into the car. It looks as though I’m trying to stab him as he tries to hold
me off with both hands. He relaxes for a moment, and just as I think he’s about to
drop the knife he does it. With sudden ferocity he pulls both hands towards his face
and the knife he’s holding catches against the skin of his cheek. ‘Fuck!’ he says,
and then a moment later there’s a dull gush of blood.

‘You silly bitch.’ He smiles. He shoves my hands away as if I repulse him and drops
the knife. It falls into my lap and I see it’s just a kitchen knife, one I’d use
for preparing vegetables, and was never going to do much damage. Yet still it’s sharp,
it’s cut him, the blood is beginning to run down his cheek.

‘You tried to stab me!’ He scrabbles, as if he’s trying to get away from me, then
he’s stumbling, out of the car. I’m speechless, dumb. There are a couple outside
the car, a man and a woman. They peer in, trying to see what’s going on. My mouth
opens and closes, pathetic. I can see the wound on his cheek is a scratch more than
anything, but still the blood pours. It’s over his mouth now, running off his chin,
dripping on his white shirt.