Second Life

by S. J. Watson

  An absurd thought comes. It’s you, I think. You standing outside my bedroom window, both there and not there . . .

  And then he does it. He kisses me. There’s no groping, no urgent pushing into my clothes. It’s almost juvenile. It lasts for a few moments, and then we separate. I look at him. The world is still, the chatter from the party a distant murmur. This is the moment when we will either kiss again – this time with more urgency, more passion – or else one of us will look away and the moment will be over, lost for ever.

  His eyes narrow. Something’s wrong. He was looking at me, but now he’s not. He’s looking over my shoulder.

  I turn round to follow his gaze. Someone’s there.

  Connor.

  I stand up. The glass of wine that Paddy had been holding spills, soaking my dress, but I barely notice it. ‘Stay here!’ I hiss, forcing the door open. I begin to run. Paddy calls after me, but I ignore him, too.

  ‘Connor!’ I shout, once I’m outside. He’s walking away, back towards his father. ‘Connor!’

  He stops, then turns to face me. His face is inscrutable. ‘Mum! You’re there! I couldn’t find you.’

  I catch up with him. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, or whether I’m imagining it.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Dad sent me to look for you. He’s making a speech or something.’

  ‘Right.’ I feel terrible, worse than if he’d just come out and said it. I saw you kissing that guy. I’m telling Dad you’re cheating on him. At least then I’d know.

  But he says nothing. He’s impassive and unreadable. This is it, I think. I’ve screwed up. One indiscretion, in all this time, and my son has to be there to see it. It seems unfair, yet at the same time I deserve it.

  ‘I’ll be there in a second,’ I say.

  Once he’s gone I go back to Paddy. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Did he see us?’

  I don’t answer. I need to think.

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘No. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t see us.’ I run my fingers through my hair. ‘Shit . . . !’

  He moves towards me. I’m not sure what he’s going to do, but then he takes my hand. ‘It’ll be fine.’ His hand goes to my face, as if to stroke it.

  ‘Paddy, no!’

  ‘What’s the problem . . . ?’

  The problem? I want to say. My husband. My son. My dead sister.

  ‘I like you. You like me. Come on . . .’

  I remind myself he’s drunk.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Julia—’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Paddy, I’ll never sleep with you. Ever.’

  He looks wounded, as though I’ve slapped him.

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

  ‘You really think you’re something special, don’t you?’

  I try to stay calm.

  ‘Paddy. You’ve had a lot to drink. Let’s just go back and forget all about this. Okay?’

  He looks at me. His eyes are cold.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he says.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It’s three in the morning. It must be, maybe later. It’s too hot, my skin is heavy. I can hear the soft sound of summer rain against the window. I’m exhausted, yet sleep has never felt further away.

  My mind will not be still. I can’t stop thinking about Paddy. What I should’ve done, and what I shouldn’t. And I can’t stop thinking about what my son might’ve seen. Or might not.

  Hugh thought I’d had a drink. He asked me, on the way home. Casually, without looking in my direction. Hoping to ambush me, trick me into telling him the truth.

  He spoke quietly. Connor was in the back, listening to his iPod. ‘Darling. Have you . . . ?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you have a drink?’

  I was indignant. ‘No!’

  It took him a moment to work out whether to believe me. How far to push things.

  ‘Okay. I just thought I saw Paddy take one for you.’

  ‘He did. But I didn’t drink any of it.’

  I held my breath, but Hugh just shrugged. I looked over my shoulder; Connor was oblivious, a time bomb.

  ‘I’ve already told you I won’t drink again,’ I said, looking back to my husband. ‘I promise.’

  Now, I throw back the covers. I go downstairs and pour myself a glass of water. My laptop’s where I left it this morning, on the island unit in the kitchen.

  I ought to leave it alone. It’s the middle of the night; Lukas won’t be online. No one will. Plus, haven’t I done enough damage today? I rinse my glass and put it back on the drainer, then step over to the window. It’s dark outside. I look out, at the garden. My own reflection hovers above the patio.

  He hasn’t been in touch since yesterday afternoon; he was drunk even then. Who knows what kind of state he’ll have been in by the time he went to bed? I imagine him, lying face down in his hotel room, half undressed, one shoe kicked off.

  Or maybe he’s not alone. People pair off at weddings; romance is in the air, alcohol on tap, hotel rooms never very far away. What if some woman has attached herself to him? Or he to her? What if . . .

  I stop myself. Why am I even thinking like this? It’s not as if I have any reason to be jealous.

  I sit down. I can’t help myself.

  He’s online. At first I think maybe he’s just left his computer switched on, but then he sends me a message.

  – You’re there! Can’t sleep either?

  I smile. It’s as if we’re connected somehow.

  – No. Had a good time?

  – I only got in about an hour ago. I didn’t want to go to bed.

  – Why?

  – Hoping I’d get the chance to speak to you, I suppose. I was going to ring, but didn’t want to wake you.

  I feel a mix of emotions. I’m flattered, yet relieved. Hugh would have heard the call, and who knows what he might have thought?

  It would have been an irresponsible thing to do, but then I remind myself that Lukas thinks I’m single. Available.

  – I wasn’t asleep.

  – I couldn’t stop thinking of you. All day today. I wished there was some way you could’ve been there. Some way I could show you off to people.

  I smile to myself. Not for the first time I wonder how he always manages to say the right thing.

  After a moment his next message arrives.

  – I have a confession.

  I try to keep it light.

  – Sounds ominous! Good or bad?

  – I don’t know.

  Is this it, I think?

  – Then you’d better tell me.

  I wonder how I’d feel if he were to type, ‘I was in Paris in February and I did a terrible thing.’

  I remember the Facebook page I’ve looked at. It’s no
t that.

  – It’s good, I think. I didn’t tell you before because I wasn’t sure, but now I am.

  There’s a pause.

  – But I want to tell you face to face. I want to meet you.

  Whatever is growing inside me swells further. I realize part of me wants that, too, but another part wants just to look him in the eye. To appraise him, weigh him up. To assess what he knows, or might have done.

  I shake the image away. I’m getting too close to the edge. I’m married. He’s in Milan, I’m in London. I can’t see it happening. It’s a fantasy. That’s all. Preposterous. I’m only imagining it because I know it’s impossible. Lukas must exist in a box; there has to be a protective barrier between him and my real life.

  Another message arrives.

  – We can meet, he says. I didn’t want to tell you in case it freaked you out, but the wedding was in London.

  I freeze.

  – I’m here. Now.

  Fear ripples through me, but it’s mixed with something else. Excitement; my stomach knots and tips, I can taste the metallic kick of adrenalin on my tongue. My excuses have vanished. He’s here, we’re in the same city. It’s as if he’s standing right in front of me. The things I’d thought about, the things he’d described doing to me, could really happen. If I want them to. But, more importantly, I could meet him, on my terms, my own turf. I could find out what he knows. Whether he knew my sister.

  I try to calm myself. I type.

  – Why didn’t you tell me?

  I’m relieved that he can’t see me, can’t see the anxiety written on my face.

  – I don’t know. I wasn’t sure you’d want to meet me. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. But something happened today. I missed you, in a weird way. Maybe because I had your number. Anyway, I know it’s what I want. You’re what I want.

  His words sit there, on the screen.

  You’re what I want.

  – Tell me you want to meet me, too.

  Do I? Yes, I think. For Kate. If he knew her she might have told him about others, people she’d met. She might’ve told him all kinds of things, things she told no one else. He might be able to help me.

  I think of what both Adrienne and Anna have both told me. Be careful.

  I wish I’d told him about Hugh. I wish he knew I was married, that I have a son. That things are not as simple as they seem. I could be honest then. I could tell him how impossible it is for me to meet him, no matter how much I might want to. I wouldn’t have to invent an excuse.

  – You do want to meet me, don’t you?

  I hesitate. I should tell him I’m busy. I have something I can’t get out of. A meeting, I could say. An appointment. I could even tell him I’m about to take a flight, off on holiday. I could be vague. ‘Such a pity,’ I’d tell him. ‘Maybe next time.’

  But he’d know what that means, really. Next time, meaning, never. And then I’d lose everything, all the progress I’ve already made. And for the rest of my life I would wonder if he might have held the key to unlocking what happened that cold February night in Paris, and I’d just let him slip through my fingers.

  I think back to his first words to me. You remind me of someone.

  I make my decision.

  – Of course! How long are you here for?

  – Until Tuesday evening. We could meet that day. Around lunchtime.

  I know what Adrienne would say. She’s made it clear. Talk to Hugh. Give his details to the police and then walk away.

  But I can’t do that. They’ll do nothing. My hands hover over the keyboard. It’s getting light outside; soon my husband will get up, then Connor. Another day will begin, another week. Everything will be exactly the same.

  I have to do something.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Morning. Hugh and Connor have left, for work and school. I don’t know what to do with myself.

  I call Anna. She doesn’t answer, but a minute later I get a text message. ‘Everything OK?’

  I tell her it’s urgent and she says she’ll make an excuse. A few minutes later she rings back. Her voice echoes; I guess she is in one of the bathrooms at work.

  ‘Well, we didn’t see that coming!’ she says, once I’ve explained what happened last night. ‘You’ve told him you’ll meet him?’

  I think back to my final message.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay . . .’

  ‘You think it’s a bad idea.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘No. It’s just . . . you really need to be careful. You’re sure he’s who he says he is?’

  Yes, I think. I’m as sure as I can be about someone I’ve never met.

  ‘He could be anyone,’ she says.

  I know what she’s trying to tell me but I want someone on my side. ‘You think I shouldn’t go.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I just have to know. One way or the other.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘For Connor, as much as for me.’

  She doesn’t answer. I hear something in the background, running water, voices, a door closing, then she speaks.

  She sounds anxious, yet somehow excited, too, as if she senses that we’re edging closer to the truth.

  ‘You’ll meet him somewhere in public?’

  We’ve arranged to meet in his hotel, at St Pancras.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Promise me.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Could you take a friend? Adrienne?’

  ‘He thinks we’re meeting for . . . well, he thinks it’s a date.’

  ‘So, she can sit in a corner. You don’t have to introduce her.’

  She’s right. But I already know what Adrienne would say if I asked her, and there’s no one else I can go to.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Ask her!’

  ‘Okay . . .’

  I wish she weren’t so far away.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘Just promise me you’ll be careful.’

  ‘I will.’

  I get ready. I shower, moisturize. I shave my legs with a fresh razor, the same number of strokes on each leg. An absurd need for symmetry I haven’t experienced in years.

  I talk to Hugh over breakfast. I toy with the idea of telling him the truth, but I know what he’ll think, what he’ll say. He’ll make me feel absurd. He’ll stop me from going through with it. And so I need an excuse, an alibi, in case he rings and I don’t answer, or comes home unexpectedly. ‘Darling,’ I say, as we sit down with our coffee. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  He looks so worried. I feel a sharp stab of guilt.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing serious. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about your idea. About seeing someone. A counsellor. And I’ve decided you’re right.’

 
He takes my hand. ‘Julia,’ he says. ‘That’s great. I really don’t think you’ll regret it. I can ask a colleague, if you like, see if they can recommend someone—’

  ‘No,’ I say, a little too hurriedly. ‘No, it’s okay. I’ve found someone. I’m seeing them later.’

  He nods. ‘Who? You know their name?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  There’s a silence. He’s waiting.

  ‘Who is it?’

  I hesitate. I don’t want to tell him, but I have no choice. And, really, it can’t hurt. He’ll observe the Hippocratic oath. He might look him up, but he’ll never try to contact him. ‘Martin Green.’

  ‘You’re sure he’s good? I know plenty of people who could recommend—’

  ‘Hugh, I’m not one of your patients. This is something I have to do, by myself. Okay?’ He begins to protest, but I silence him. ‘Hugh! It’s fine. Adrienne says he’s very good and, anyway, it’s just an initial consultation. Just to see how we get on. Trust me. Please?’

  I see him relax. I smile, to show him any anger has vanished. He returns my smile, then kisses me. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he says. I feel guilt wash over me, but ride it out. ‘Well done.’

  Now, I go over to my wardrobe. I must choose my clothes carefully. I have to convince Lukas I am who he thinks I am, that I want what he thinks I want.

  I try my jeans with a white blouse, then a dress with tights and boots. I stand in front of the mirror. Better, I think. I choose a necklace and make up my face – not too much, it’s the middle of the day, after all – but enough for me not to feel like me any more.

  Maybe that’s what I’m doing, really. Choosing the clothes that will turn me from Julia into that other person, the one Lukas has met online. Into Jayne.

  I sit at the dressing table and spray my perfume, a squirt behind each ear, one more on each wrist. It smells buttery and sweet. It’s expensive, something Hugh bought me for Christmas a couple of years ago. Fracas. My mother used to wear it, and it was always Kate’s favourite, too. Its fragrance makes me feel closer to them both.