Second Life (7 page)

He smiles. It’s his sad smile, full of compassion. His surgeon’s smile. I used to
imagine him practising it in the mirror, determined not to be one of those doctors
accused of having a poor bedside manner.

‘I’m
sure
they are. We’ve discussed it with them. They’ve interviewed all her friends,
all the people she worked with. They’ve been through her phone records, they’ve taken
the information off her computer. They’ve followed up every lead. But something like
that? It can’t be easy. Random, unprovoked . . .’

‘You told them about the dating sites?’

‘Yes. I rang them as soon as you told me. But they already knew. Anna told them.
They said Kate didn’t have a boyfriend . . .’

‘But they’re not just about dating. Anna implied she was using them for sex. Casual
sex.’ He shakes his head but I go on. ‘You know. One-night stands. Anna says it wasn’t
that often, but she did it. And she didn’t always tell her where she was going, or
who she was meeting.’

A look of disapproval flashes on his face. I wonder for a moment whether he thinks
she deserves what she got, and then instantly I dismiss the thought.

‘D’you think that’s who killed her?’

‘Who?’

‘Someone she went to meet. To have sex with, I mean. Or someone she was messaging,
at least?’

‘I’m sure the police are looking into that—’

‘They haven’t told us they are.’

‘Look, we’ve been through all this, Julia. They’re looking into it. The truth is,
I think she talked to a lot of people online but only met up with one or two.’

I hesitate. I need to push him; I’m almost certain he knows more than he’s telling
me, that there might be a tiny fragment that’s been overlooked, a detail that will
unlock the rest and make it all fit into place.

‘But—’

He interrupts me. ‘Julia, we’ve been through all this a thousand times. They’ve kept
her laptop; they’re doing everything they can. But if she was doing that and keeping
it secret then it would be almost impossible to find everyone she might have been
in contact with. There might be sites she used that we don’t know about, any number
of people she was talking to . . . What’s that?’

At first I don’t know what he means, but then I see that he’s looking at my screen.

‘It’s a photograph.’ He isn’t wearing his glasses and has to lean forward to get
a better view. ‘It’s where Kate died.’

He puts his hand on my shoulder. It feels heavy, meant to reassure. ‘Are you sure
it’s a good idea to look at that, darling?’

‘No,’ I say. I’m not desperate, but I’d like him to approve.

But why would he? He thinks the police are doing their best and that’s the end of
it.

‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea at all, but what else am I supposed to do?’

‘Come back to bed?’

‘Soon . . .’

‘Come on.’ He squeezes my shoulder then gently closes the lid of my machine. ‘Come
and get some rest. You’ll feel better. I promise. Doctor’s orders.’

I stand up. I won’t feel better, I want to say, I never do. He turns to go back upstairs.

‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ I say. ‘I’m just going to make myself a cup of tea. I might
read for a bit. Until I feel sleepy.’

‘Okay,’ he says. He knows I have no intention of following him. ‘You haven’t forgotten
we’ve got people coming for supper? Have you?’

‘No,’ I say, even though I had.

‘Maria and Paddy . . .’

Of course. We’ve known the Renoufs for years, ever since Maria joined Hugh’s department
as a registrar. Hugh tipped her for success even then, said she was going places,
was someone he mustn’t let go. I like them both, but this is the first time he’s
invited them – invited anyone, in fact – since Kate died. I suppose he thought cooking
would do me good.
Maybe he’s right. Following a recipe. Chopping, weighing, measuring.
I used to enjoy it, before Kate. I went on courses, I was proud of the fact that
I’d gone from someone who knew nothing about cooking to someone who could make their
own pasta.

But, now? Now, I don’t want to see anyone.

‘Can’t we cancel?’

He comes over. ‘Darling. It’ll do you good, I promise.’ He kisses the top of my head.
It’s a tender kiss, warm. For a moment I want to climb inside him, have him protect
me. ‘We’ll have fun. We always do. Maria will talk endlessly about work and Paddy
will flirt with you, and then when they’ve gone we’ll laugh about it. I promise.’

He’s right. I know he is. I can’t keep running.

‘I’ll go shopping this morning,’ I say.

He goes back upstairs. I sit in the chair. I leave my machine closed. I don’t want
to log on to encountrz. I’m afraid of what I might see.

I make tea, I sit with my book. An hour passes, two. Hugh comes downstairs, showered
now, ready for work, then a little while later, Connor.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he says. He’s dressed, wearing his uniform, the grey jumper, the white
shirt with a maroon tie. I watch as he gets himself a bowl of cereal, pours himself
some juice. He’s looking older every day, I think.

‘Are you all right, darling?’ I say, and he replies, ‘Yep,’ with a friendly shrug,
as if there’s no reason at all he might not be.

Maybe he really is fine, but I doubt it. He’s stopped crying now, but if anything
that’s more worrying. The only time he ever talks about Kate’s death is to ask if
there’s ‘any news’, by which he means, ‘Have they got them yet?’ I’d felt angry
at
first – it’s all he can focus on – but now I see that it’s the only prism through
which he can process his grief. After all, he’s just turned fourteen. How else is
he supposed to respond?

He sits down with his breakfast and I watch as he begins to eat.

The counsellor we’ve taken him to says all this is normal. He’s doing as well as
can be expected, working through his grief in his own way, and we should try not
to worry. But how can I not? He won’t talk to me. He’s slipping away. Now, I need
him to know how much I love him, that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him, but
it’s almost as if he’s decided he no longer cares.

I clear my throat. ‘It’s okay, if you want to talk.’

‘I’m fine.’ He eats his cereal quickly as I make myself a coffee. For a moment I’m
back with Kate, it’s her getting ready for school, not her son, but then a moment
later Connor is standing, gathering his things. Don’t go, I want to say. Sit with
me. Talk to me. But of course I can’t. ‘See you later!’ I say, and before I know
it he’s almost out of the door. From nowhere comes an almost overwhelming urge to
hug him.

I would have done, once, yet now I don’t. These days he’s as likely as not to respond
to a hug with indifference, as if what I’m doing is of no concern to him, and today
I couldn’t bear that. ‘Love you!’ I shout instead, and he says, ‘Bye, Mum!’ as he
leaves. It’s almost enough.

He’s growing up. I know that. He’s becoming a man; it would be a tough time even
if he didn’t have Kate’s death to wrestle with. I have to remember that, no matter
what happens, how hard it gets, how distant he becomes, he’s in pain. I might feel
like I’ve already failed him a million times but still I have to look after him,
to protect him, like I
looked after and protected his mother when she was a child.

I turn away from the window. I’m photographing a family next week – a colleague of
Adrienne’s, her husband, her two little girls – and I need to think about that. It’s
the first time I’ve felt able to work since Kate died and I want it to go well. Plus,
I have a dinner party to prepare. Things must get done.

Chapter Seven

I call Adrienne to get her friend’s details. I want to make arrangements. I have
my studio at the bottom of the garden in which I keep my tripods and lights, a couple
of backdrops I can suspend from the ceiling. I have a desk there, though usually
I do my editing on my laptop in the house, at the kitchen table, or in the living
room. ‘It would be good if they could come to me,’ I say. ‘It’ll make it easier.’

She can hear the lack of enthusiasm in my voice.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You can tell.’

‘Of course. Talk to me.’

I don’t want to, but I can’t work out why. Is it because I’m worried she’ll just
tell me to leave things alone, to stop meddling, to stop worrying?

‘I looked through Kate’s things. The stuff Anna gave to me.’

‘Darling—’

‘I found her login details. For the website she was using.’

‘For what?’

‘Meeting men. There was a list of names. Of people she was talking to – or meeting,
I guess.’

‘Have you given them to the police?’

‘Hugh said they already had them.’

‘Good. Then there’s nothing more you can do.’

But there is, though.

‘I could log on. As her, I mean. I have her password. I could find out if there was
anyone else.’

For a long time she’s silent.

‘Adrienne?’

‘Wouldn’t the police have done that?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe they don’t realize what encountrz.com is? Or that Jasper1234
is her password? I thought I could go online and just look at her chat history. See
if there are any other names on there.’

‘I don’t know . . . it sounds risky.’

Her reservation strengthens my resolve.

‘I’m just talking about getting a list of names.’

There’s a long pause, as if she’s trying to weigh something up. The wisdom of me
having something to do, perhaps, versus the chance, the likelihood, it will just
lead to more disappointment.

After all, she’s right. In all probability the police have done all this already.

‘I suppose it can’t hurt,’ she says. ‘As long as you’re only talking about getting
the list. But why not double-check with them first?’

Suddenly I’m not sure it’s a good idea at all. A list of names. What would the police
even do with it?

‘I probably won’t even bother.’

She sighs. ‘Just be careful, Julia. Whatever you do. And keep in touch.’

I spend the afternoon shopping, cooking. For a while I lose myself in the rhythm
of the recipe. Just for a moment. But the evening gets off to a bad start. Connor
announces that he’s doing homework and wants to eat in his room, which means that
Hugh and I bicker about whether we should let him.
Tensions fester, and things don’t
pick up until our guests arrive.

After that the evening follows its usual pattern, yet the atmosphere is undeniably
different. Kate’s death casts its now-familiar shadow – Paddy mentions it almost
as soon as they arrive, and they both say how sorry they are – but it’s more than
that. I’m detached, I can’t engage. They talk a lot about Geneva, where Hugh’s been
invited to deliver a keynote speech at a conference next week. Maria’s going to present
her work, too, and even though I’ve been there I don’t contribute. I feel outside
of it all, observing from a great distance. I watch as Hugh pours wine and nod as
they all sip it appreciatively, I eat the beef Wellington I’ve cooked and accept
their compliments graciously, but it’s an act, I’m pretending to be a normal person.
It’s not me.

When we’ve finished Paddy says he’d like to pop outside for a cigarette. ‘I didn’t
know you smoked,’ I say.

‘Filthy habit,’ he says, ‘but . . .’ He shrugs his shoulders. I tell him we’re happy
for him to smoke in the house near one of the open windows but Maria protests.

‘No way! Make him go outside!’

He pretends to be upset, but it’s good-natured, humorous. He takes his cigarettes
out of his jacket and looks at me. ‘Keep me company?’

I say I will. Hugh looks at me but says nothing. We go outside, closing the patio
door behind us. It’s almost dark, still warm. We sit on the wall, at the edge of
the pool of light that shines from the kitchen; behind us sits my studio. He holds
a cigarette out to me. ‘You don’t, do you?’

I take it. ‘Very occasionally,’ I say. He lights his cigarette and hands me the lighter.
I inhale deeply, feeling the draw of the smoke, the instant hit. We sit in silence
for a moment, then he asks me how I’m coping.

‘Really, I mean.’

I swallow hard. ‘It’s tough. You know . . .’

‘I do. My brother died. Years ago. Cancer. He was older than me . . .’

‘Oh, God,’ I say. ‘I had no idea.’

‘No reason you should.’ There’s silence. A beat. ‘The end wasn’t unexpected, but
it was still awful. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.’

We sit for a few moments.

‘How’s Connor?’ he says.

I sigh. There’s nothing to say, yet still I’m glad he’s bothered to ask. ‘He’s all
right, I think. He’s not really talked about it. I’m not sure that’s a good thing,
though . . .’

‘He will, I guess. When he’s ready.’

‘I suppose so. I just wish I knew what he was thinking. What was going on in his
mind. He spends hours in his room, though that’s nothing new, I suppose. It’s as
if he’s avoiding me.’

‘He’s at that age, I suppose. Plus, he’s a boy.’

I look at him, at his profile, silhouetted against the light in the house. Is it
as simple as that? I lost my mother when I was young; I have no idea what’s normal.
Maybe he’s right, it’s just the fact that he’s a boy, and I’m a woman, and that’s
why he’s slipping away from me. I find the thought curiously reassuring. Maybe it
has nothing to do with the fact that I’m not his birth mother.

‘Have you and Maria ever thought about children?’

He looks over at his wife, visible in the kitchen, helping my husband to prepare
the dessert. Connor has joined them, they’re laughing at something.

‘Not really,’ says Paddy, looking back to me. ‘Maria’s career . . . you know? And
I’m not that bothered. I’m from a big family. We have a lot of nieces and nephews
. . .’

He sounds disappointed, but I don’t know him well enough to probe further. Not really.

‘That’s good,’ I say. I grind my cigarette out.

‘Shall we go back in?’

‘Sure!’ He wipes his hands on his jeans, then stands up and holds out his hand for
me to take. ‘Are you going to Carla’s party?’