Second Life

by S. J. Watson

  Finally, I’m ready. I look in the mirror. At my reflection. I think of my photo. Marcus in the Mirror. I remember that first time we had sex. I’ve never lacked confidence, but that night, even as he kissed me, I thought he might pull away. Even as he undressed me, I thought, this is the first time, and it will also be the last. Even as he entered me, I thought, I can’t possibly be good enough for this man.

  And yet I was. We started seeing each other. We started missing meetings, now and again at first, then more often than not. And then we moved to Berlin. It was cold; I remember we slept rough that first night, and then hooked up with friends he had out there. A week of sleeping on floors turned into a month, and then we found a place of our own, and—

  And I don’t want to think about it now. About how happy we were.

  I stand up. I check my phone for messages. Part of me hopes he’s cancelled. I could undress then, take off the make-up, put on the jeans and shirt I was wearing when I said goodbye to Hugh this morning. I could make myself a cup of tea and sit in front of the television, or with a novel. This afternoon I could do some work, ring some people. Along with my relief I could nurse a quiet resentment, I could vow never to message him again and then go back to Hugh and spend the rest of my life wondering whether Lukas knew Kate, whether he might have led me to the man who killed her.

  But there are no messages; he hasn’t changed his mind, and I’m not disappointed. For the first time in months I get the sense that something will happen, one way or another. I feel a kind of elasticity; the future is unknown, but it seems malleable, pliable. It has a softness, where before it’d felt as hard and unyielding as glass.

  I take a taxi. It’s sticky with the heat, even with the window open. The sweat trickles down my back. In the cab there’s the same advert I saw on my way home from dinner with Adrienne. BE WHO YOU WANT TO BE.

  We reach St Pancras. The car sweeps up the cobbled drive, the door is opened for me. I feel a breeze on my neck as I get out and go into the hotel. The doors slide open and marble stairs lead into the relief of the air-conditioned interior. The roof above us is glass, with iron girders, part of the old station, I guess. It’s all elegance here, cut flowers, the smell of lemon and leather and wealth. I look around the lobby; two men sit side by side on a green sofa; a woman in a suit reads the paper. There are signs: RESTAURANT, SPA, MEETING ROOMS. Behind the reception desk all is busy and efficient; I look at my watch and see that I’m early.

  I take out my phone. No messages.

  I wait for my breathing to slow, my heart to stop its insistent alarm, its attempts to warn. I slip off my wedding ring and put it in my purse. My hand feels naked now, as does the rest of me, but without my ring what I’m about to do feels less of a betrayal, somehow.

  At the reception desk I ask for the bar. The guy is young and impossibly good-looking. He points me in the right direction and wishes me a nice day. I thank him and step away. His eyes burn into me as I retreat, as if he knows why I’m here. I want to turn round and tell him it’s not what he thinks, I’m not going to go through with it.

  I’m only pretending.

  Lukas is sitting at the bar, his back to me. I’d worried I wouldn’t recognize him, but he’s unmistakable. He’s wearing a tailored suit, though as I get closer I see he hasn’t bothered with the tie. Some effort, but not too much. Like me, I guess. I’m surprised to see a glass of champagne in front of him, another in front of the empty seat at his side. I remind myself I’m here for Kate.

  Her face floats in front of me. She’s a little girl, seven or eight. Our father has told us he’s sending us to boarding school, just for a couple of years, though we both know it’ll be until Kate leaves home. She looks terrified, and once again I’m telling her it’ll work out. ‘You’ll have me,’ I say, ‘and you’ll make loads of other friends. I promise!’

  I didn’t know whether she would, back then. She had a temper, was developing a wild streak. She could take things to heart and get herself in trouble. But she did make friends, eventually. One of them must have been Anna, but there were others. Life was difficult for her, but she wasn’t unhappy, not always. And I looked after her. I did my best. Until . . .

  No, I think. I can’t think of that now. I can’t bring Marcus into the room. And so I push the image away and walk over.

  Lukas hasn’t seen me yet, and I’m glad. I want to arrive suddenly, to be there before he’s had the chance to appraise me from a distance. He’s ten years younger than me, and looks it. I’m nervous enough, I don’t want to risk seeing a flash of disappointment as he sees me approach.

  ‘Hi!’ I say, when I reach him.

  He looks up. His eyes are deep blue, even more striking in real life. For the briefest of moments his face is expressionless, his gaze invading, as if he’s unpicking me, learning me from within. He looks as if he has no idea who I am, or why I’m there, but then he breaks into a broad smile and stands up.

  ‘Jayne!’ I don’t correct him. There’s a momentary flicker of surprise and I realize he thought I wouldn’t come.

  ‘You made it!’ He’s grinning with relief, which makes me feel relieved, too. I sense we’re both nervous, which means neither of us has all the power.

  ‘Of course I did!’ I say. There’s an awkward moment. Should we kiss? Shake hands? He pushes my drink towards me.

  ‘Well, I’m glad.’ There’s another pause. ‘I got you some champagne. I wasn’t sure what you’d want.’

  ‘Thanks. I might just get some sparkling water.’

  I slide into my seat and he orders my drink. I look at him, at this unshaven, blue-eyed man, and again ask myself why I’m here. I’ve been telling myself it’s to find out whether he knew my sister, but there’s more, of course there is.

  I wonder whether I’m being naive. Whether it might be him she was going to meet that night. The thought assaults me. It’s brutal. The man in front of me looks incapable of violence, but that means nothing. It’s not only those who have shaved their heads or inked their bodies that are capable of wielding weapons.

  I remind myself of what I’ve seen. Of where he was in February. I begin to calm down as my water arrives.

  ‘There you go. You’re not drinking?’

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  I see the familiar readjustment that people make when I tell them. I know they’re trying to figure out whether I’m a puritan, possibly religious, or an addict.

  As usual, I say nothing. I don’t need to make excuses. Instead I look around the bar. It used to be the ticket office; people would queue here before boarding their train, and many of the old features – the wood panelling, the huge clock on the wall above us – have been retained. It’s busy; people sit with their suitcases, or newspapers. They’re eating lunch, or afternoon tea. They’re in transit, or else staying in the hotel above. For a moment I wish I were one of them. I wish the reason I find myself here could be that uncomplicated.

  As if for the first time, I realize Lukas has a room, just a few floors above. The reason he thinks I’m here swims into focus.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he says. There’s a tension in the air; we’re hesitant. I remind myself that he thinks we’re both single and that even if his path has crossed with Kate’s there’s st
ill no reason I should be finding this difficult.

  ‘Fine. Thanks.’ I pick up the glass as if to prove it. ‘Cheers!’

  We chink our glasses. I try to imagine him with my sister. I can’t.

  I wonder what would usually happen now. I imagine Kate, or Anna – I know she’s done this kind of thing, too. I see kissing, tearing at each other’s clothes. I see people being pushed on to a bed in fevered lust. I see naked bodies, flesh.

  I sip my water. When I put my glass down there’s lipstick on the rim and I’m shocked, momentarily, by its colour. It seems bright, as if it’s in Technicolor, plus it’s not what I wear, not in the middle of the day. It’s not me. Which was the point of wearing it, of course.

  I feel lost. I’d thought this would be easy. I’d thought I’d meet him and the answers would spill out, the path to the truth about what happened to Kate instantly become clear. But it’s never felt more muddied, and I don’t know what to do.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he says. I grin and thank him. I look at him. He looks solid, more solid than anything has looked for a long time. I can hardly believe he’s here, that with almost no effort at all I could reach out and touch his flesh.

  He smiles. I hold his gaze, but still, somehow, it’s me that feels naked. I look away. I think of Hugh, at work, a body under the sheets in front of him, flesh parted, wet and glistening. I think of Connor in the classroom, his head bent over his desk at the end of another school year, the long holidays in front of him. And then Lukas smiles and I put these feelings back, lock them away. He puts down his glass and my eyes catch on something glinting on his left hand.

  I’m almost relieved. It’s a shock, but the awkwardness that has built between us is broken.

  ‘You’re married.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘But your ring . . .’

  He looks at his own hand, as if to check what I’ve seen, then at me. ‘I never told you?’

  I shake my head. I remind myself that I can’t accuse him of deception, with the lies I’ve told.

  ‘I was married . . .’ He takes a deep breath, then sighs heavily. ‘Cancer. Four years ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m shocked. It’s brutal. I search his eyes and see only pain. Pain, and innocence. I reach out my hand as if to take his. I do it automatically, without thinking. A moment later he reaches and takes hold of mine. There’s no crackle of electricity, no spark of energy jumping from one to the other. Even so, I’m dimly aware that this is the first time we’ve touched, and the moment therefore has significance no matter what happens next.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ It feels inadequate, as it always does.

  ‘Thank you. I loved her very much. But life goes on. It’s a cliché, but it’s true.’ He smiles. He’s still holding my hand. Our eyes lock. I blink, slowly, but I don’t look away. I feel something, something I’ve not felt for a long time, so long I can’t quite work out what it is.

  Desire? Power? A mixture of both? I can’t tell.

  Once again I try to visualize him with Kate. I’d know, surely? All through our childhood I’d known what she was thinking, when she was in trouble. If this man had anything to do with her death then wouldn’t I just know?

  ‘I can’t bear this any more. Shall we go upstairs?’

  This isn’t right. This isn’t why I came.

  ‘I’m sorry. Can we just talk, for a while?’

  He smiles and says, ‘Of course.’ He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair, then takes my hand once again. I let him. We speak for a while, but it’s small talk, we’re avoiding things, though what we’re avoiding is different for each of us. For me it’s Kate, but for him? The fact he wants to take me upstairs, I guess. After a few minutes there’s a moment of decision. He’s finished his drink, mine is gone already. We can get more and carry on talking, or we can leave. There’s a hesitation, a drawing in, then he says, ‘I’m sorry. For not telling you I was married, I mean.’ I don’t reply. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why did you say you were in Paris? When we first talked, I mean.’

  We’re skirting the edges now, circling in.

  ‘I was. I was on holiday out there.’

  ‘Alone?’

  I think of Anna. ‘With a friend.’ I see my chance. ‘Why? When were you last there?’

  He thinks for a moment. ‘September last year, I think it was.’

  ‘Not since?’

  His head tilts. ‘No, why?’

  ‘No reason.’ I try a different tack.

  ‘You have friends there?’

  ‘Not really. No.’

  ‘No one?’

  He laughs. ‘Not that I can think of!’

  I pretend to look wistful. ‘I’ve always wanted to be there in winter. February. Valentine’s day in Paris, you know?’ I smile, as if dreaming. ‘Must be beautiful.’

  ‘So romantic.’

  I sigh. ‘I guess. You’ve never been in winter?’

  He shakes his head. ‘It’s funny, I can’t imagine it snowing there. I guess I associate it with the summer. You’re right, though. It must be beautiful.’

  I look at my glass. Why would he lie? He doesn’t know who I am. Why would he tell me he’d never been to Paris in winter if he had?

  ‘So who’s your friend over there?’

  I look puzzled.

  ‘The one you were visiting?’

  ‘Oh, just a friend.’ I hesitate, but I’ve already decided what I have to do. ‘I thought you might know her actually.’

  ‘Know her?’

  ‘She sometimes uses encountrz.’

  He smiles. ‘I don’t know many people off that site, believe it or not.’

  I force myself to laugh. ‘No?’

  ‘No. You’re the first person I’ve met.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I swear.’

  I realize I believe him. He never talked to Kate. Disappointment begins to build.

  ‘But you talk to people on there?’

  ‘A few. Not that many.’

  I know what I have to do. I take out my phone and unlock the screen. I’m smiling, trying to keep it light. ‘Wouldn’t it be funny . . .’ I’m saying ‘. . . such a coincidence . . . She’d love it if . . .’

  I hold my phone out to him. I’ve opened a picture of Kate. I force myself to speak.

  ‘This is her. My friend.’

  Silence. I look straight at him as he takes my phone in his hand.

  ‘Have you chatted to her?’

  His face is expressionless. I’m aware that the next emotion that flashes in his eyes will tell me the truth. I’ve sprung the photo on him, he’s unprepared. If he’s ever seen Kate before he’ll give himself away. He has to.

  There’s a long moment, then his face breaks into a grin. He looks at me. He’s shaking his head, laughing. ‘Never seen her online, no. But she looks like fun.’

  I can s
ee that he’s telling the truth. I’m certain of it. More disappointment slides in, yet it’s muted, and mixed with relief. ‘She is!’ I say. I force myself to smile and put my phone away. I begin to babble. ‘To be honest, she doesn’t go online that much. Not any more . . . in fact, I’m not sure she ever did, really . . .’

  Lukas is laughing. I worry that he can tell something’s wrong. ‘It would have been quite a coincidence! Shall we get another drink?’

  I say no. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  I try to calm down.

  ‘So how about you? Do you meet up with many people you speak to online?’

  ‘No, not really. No.’

  ‘But you met with me.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I did.’

  He takes my hand again. He’s looking me in the eye.

  I can hardly breathe. He didn’t know my sister. He never met her.

  ‘Why?’

  I should stand up. I know that. I should walk away, tell him I’m going to the bathroom, never come back. It’d be easy enough; he doesn’t know where I live.

  I will, I tell myself. Soon.

  ‘I like you, I guess.’

  ‘And I like you.’

  He leans towards me. He sighs. I can feel his breath on my cheek.

  ‘I like you a great deal.’

  I can feel the warmth of his skin, I can smell his aftershave, mingled with sweat. He’s opened me. Something I’ve been holding in check for weeks, months, years, is flooding me.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  ‘No. No, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Jayne . . .’ He’s almost whispering. ‘Beautiful Jayne . . . I’ll be gone tomorrow. This is our one chance. You want it, don’t you? You want me?’