Second Life

by S. J. Watson

  ‘Connor!’ He looks up, his face grim, but says nothing. I ask him what he thinks he’s doing.

  ‘What the fuck does it look like?’

  ‘Don’t you use language like that with me!’ I’m aware of Hugh arriving at my side, though he hangs back slightly; this is my argument, and he won’t take sides until he’s sure which one he should be on. The room is silent for a moment, thick with venom and animosity.

  Connor mutters something. Again it sounds like ‘Fuck you’, though that might be my imagination finally refusing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘What did you just say?’ I’m shouting, now. I can feel my heart in my chest, too fast. Preparation for the fight.

  ‘Julia—’ begins Hugh at the doorway, but I silence him.

  ‘Connor Wilding! Stop what you’re doing right now!’

  He ignores me. I go over, snatch the bag off the bed and toss it to the floor behind me. He raises his hand, as if he’s about to strike me, and I look in his eyes and see that he’d like to. I grab his wrist. For a moment I think about Lukas grabbing mine, and I’d like to twist my son’s in the same way, hurt him in the same way. Instantly, I’m ashamed. Distantly, I get the impression I’d never think this with a son of my own, one I’d given birth to; the thought of causing him pain wouldn’t cross my mind, not even fleetingly. Yet I’ll never know, and in any case I don’t get the chance. He wrenches his arm out of my grip; I’m surprised at his strength.

  ‘You stupid little boy!’ I can’t help it. I can feel Hugh bristle behind me; he takes a step forward, is about to speak. I get in ahead of him. ‘Where d’you think you’re going to go? Running away? At your age? Don’t be so ridiculous.’

  He looks wounded.

  ‘You think you’d last more than five minutes?’

  ‘I’m going to see Evie!’ he yells, his face inches from mine. His spittle falls on my lips.

  ‘Evie?’ I start to laugh. I’m regretting it already, but somehow powerless to stop speaking. ‘Your girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your girlfriend who you only talk to online?’

  His face falls. I can see I’m right.

  His voice cracks. ‘So?’ I experience a moment of triumph then feel utterly wretched.

  ‘Are you even sure she’s who she says she is?’

  I mean it to be a genuine question, yet it comes out as a sneering accusation.

  ‘Julia . . .’ Hugh’s taken another step forward, is by my side now. I can feel his heat, the faint aroma of his body after a day in the office. ‘Enough,’ he says. He puts his hand on my arm and I shrug it off.

  There’s a long silence. Connor stares at me with a look of absolute hatred in his eyes, then he says, ‘For fuck’s sake, of course she’s who she says she is!’

  ‘That’s enough of your language,’ says Hugh. He’s picked his team. ‘Both of you, just calm down—’

  I ignore him. ‘You’ve spoken to her? Have you? Or are you just Facebook friends?’

  My tone is supremely condescending, as if I find him pathetic. I don’t. It’s me I’m really talking to. I did exactly that, fell for someone on the internet. It’s myself I’m furious with, not him.

  I try to calm down, but I can’t. My anger is unstoppable.

  ‘Of course I’ve spoken to her. She’s my girlfriend.’ He stares right at me. ‘Whether you like it or not, Mum.’ He pauses, and I know what he’s going to say next. ‘She loves me.’

  ‘Love?’ I want to laugh out loud, yet manage to stop myself. ‘As if you –’

  ‘Julia!’ says Hugh. His voice is loud. It’s an attempt to shock me into silence, but I won’t be silenced.

  ‘ – as if you have any idea about love. You’re fourteen years old, Connor. Fourteen. How old is she?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘How old, Connor?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  Hugh speaks again. ‘Connor! Your mother asked you a question.’

  He turns to his father. Go on, I think. I dare you. Say ‘Fuck you’ to him.

  He won’t, of course. ‘Eighteen,’ he says. He’s lying, I know it. I snort. It’s through nerves, through fear, but I can’t help it.

  ‘Eighteen?’ I say. ‘No, Connor. No way can you go and see her. No way—’

  ‘You can’t stop me.’

  He’s right. If he were determined enough, then there’d be nothing I could do.

  ‘Where does she live?’

  He says nothing.

  ‘Connor,’ I say again. ‘Where does she live?’

  He remains silent. I can see that he won’t tell me. ‘I’m guessing from the bag that it’s not up the road,’ I say. ‘So how’re you going to get there? Eh?’

  Connor knows he’s beaten. He can’t survive without me, not yet.

  ‘I want to go and see her!’ His voice rises, it takes on a pleading edge, and I’m taken back to when he was a child, to when he wanted an ice cream or another bag of sweets, to stay up late to watch some show on TV. ‘Everything else this year’s been shit!’ he says. ‘Except for her! And you know why, Mum!’ It’s an accusation, hurled; it hurts because it’s true, and he knows it. It crosses my mind he did see the kiss I shared with Paddy after all; he’s been storing it up, it’s now when he’ll tell his father. I shake my head. I want him to cry, to turn back into the child I know how to comfort, but he remains resolute. He’s determined.

  ‘I hate you. I wish you’d never taken me. I wish you’d left me with my real mother!’

  It breaks. Whatever I’d been holding in check, it finally breaks. I slap him, hard, across the face.

  ‘You ungrateful little shit.’ I hate myself as soon as it’s out of my mouth, but it’s too late. His eyes are smarting, but he’s smiling. He knows he’s won. I’ve lost my temper. He’s become the adult and I’m the child.

  I hold out my hand. ‘Give me your phone.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Connor.’ Still he doesn’t move. ‘Your phone.’

  ‘No!’

  I look round, at Hugh. My head is tilted, imploring. I hate having to make this request for him to step in, but this is a battle I can’t afford to lose. He hesitates; there’s a long moment when I’m not sure what he’s going to say or do, then he speaks.

  ‘Give your mother your phone, Connor. You’re grounded for a week.’

  Hugh and I sit on the sofa. Together, but separate. We’re not touching. Connor is upstairs. Sulking. He’s surrendered his phone, dug out his old model from one of his drawers, which we’ve told him he can keep. It has no internet connection; he can make calls, receive texts, take pictures. But that’s it. No Facebook. No Twitter. We’ve left his computer in his room, but I’ve told him he has to delete every friend he doesn’t know in real life. He complained, but I told him it was that or I’d take away his computer altogether. He’s behaving as if we’ve cut off a limb.

  ‘So . . .’ I begin. Hugh looks at me with something like pity. There’s a calmness in the room, despite the music Connor has insisted on pla
ying loudly upstairs. In an odd way it’s refreshing that Hugh and I are united on something.

  ‘It’ll blow over. I promise you.’

  Shall I tell him? I think. I could, even though it would end it all. My marriage, this life I’ve built, my relationship with Connor. All of it would go.

  Yet still I imagine it. I’d take his hand, look him in the eye. ‘Hugh,’ I’d say. ‘There’s something you need to know.’ He’d know, of course, that something was wrong, that it was something bad. I wonder what he’d think: I’m ill, I’m leaving him, I want to move out of London? I wonder what his deepest fears are, where his mind would race. ‘Darling,’ he’d say, ‘what is it?’ And then I suppose I’d say something about how I love him and always have and that hasn’t changed. He’d nod, waiting for the blow, and then, eventually, once I’ve prepared the ground, I’d tell him. ‘I met someone. I met someone and we’ve been having sex, but it’s over. And it turns out that he was already engaged, to Anna of all people, and he has pictures and now he’s trying to blackmail me.’

  What would he do? We’d row. Of course we would. Things might be thrown. He’d blame the fact that I’d had a drink, I guess. And my duty would be to let him explode, to let him be angry and accuse me of whatever he wanted, to duck the crockery and to remain silent while he blows off his rage and Connor hears it all.

  And then, if I’m lucky, we might be able to figure out what to do, how to stay together. Or – just as likely, if not more so – that would be it. I’ve betrayed him. I know what he’d say. He’d tell me I could have let him help me cope with Kate’s death, but instead I’d run. First, in Paris, I ran to the bottle, back here I ran to the internet, then to bed with a stranger. I’ve no doubt he’d help me to sort out whatever mess I’m in, help Anna, but that would be it. Our relationship would be over.

  And he’d want to take Connor, and Connor would want to go with him, and I’d be powerless to stop them. My life would be over. Everything gone. Even the thought of it is utterly unbearable.

  ‘This Evie,’ I say.

  ‘The girlfriend?’

  ‘You know he’s never met her? Hugh? Doesn’t that bother you?’

  ‘It’s just what they do. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Do we even know she is who she says she is?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You hear stories, these days.’ I’m treading carefully. This is a story he can’t know I’m part of. ‘All kinds of things,’ I say. ‘There are horror stories. Adrienne’s told me. Kids being groomed . . .’

  ‘Well, Adrienne can be a bit melodramatic at times. He’s a sensible boy.’

  ‘It happens, though.’

  I picture Lukas, sitting at a computer, talking to my son.

  ‘We don’t even know she’s a girl.’

  ‘You’re the last person I’d have thought would have been bothered about that!’

  I realize what he means. ‘No, I’m not talking about him being gay.’ I could cope with that, I think. That would be easy, compared to this, at least. ‘I mean, do we even know this Evie is the person Connor thinks she is. She might be older, a bloke, anything.’

  I realize I’m closer than I thought to telling him. It’d be easy, now. I could just say it. I think I know who it is. I think it’s this guy. I’m sorry, Hugh, but . . .

  ‘Well . . .’ He draws breath. ‘I’ve spoken to her . . .’

  A mixture of emotions hits at once. Relief, first, that Connor is safe, but also annoyance. Hugh has been allowed into a part of our son’s life to which I’ve been denied access.

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘I can’t remember. She called. The night you went out with Adrienne, I think. She wanted to speak to Connor.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘And what you’re asking is if she’s a girl? Yes. She is.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘I don’t know! I didn’t ask. She sounds about – I don’t know – seventeen?’

  ‘What did she say?’

  He laughs. He tries to sound flippant. He’s trying to reassure me. ‘She said she’d tried his mobile, it was just ringing out, he must have it on silent or something. She asked if he was there. I said yes, we were halfway through a game of chess—’

  ‘I bet he loved that . . .’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  I shrug. I don’t want Hugh to know that none of Connor’s friends knows he plays chess with his father. ‘Carry on. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. I gave the phone to him, he took it into his room.’

  I’m angry, yet relieved.

  ‘You should’ve told me.’

  ‘You’ve been very distracted,’ he replies. ‘There never seems to be a moment to talk. Anyway, he’s growing up. It’s really important that we allow him his privacy. He’s had a really tough time. We should be proud of him, and we must tell him that.’

  I say nothing. Silence hangs between us, sticky and viscous, yet familiar and not altogether uncomfortable.

  ‘Julia. What’s wrong?’

  If only I could say. Life is spiralling. I see danger everywhere, I’m paranoid, hysterical.

  I don’t speak. A single tear forms.

  ‘Julia?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Nothing. I . . .’

  I let the sentence disappear. Again I wish I could tell him, but how can I? All this has happened because I tried to take more than I was owed. More than I deserved. I had my second chance, my second life, and it wasn’t enough. I wanted more.

  And now, if I tell my husband, I’ll lose my son.

  I go upstairs. There’s a message on my phone, one that I suppose I’ve been expecting.

  It’s from Lukas. My heart leaps, though now my response is Pavlovian, meaningless, and as soon as it forms it disappears and turns to terror.

  You’ve won, I think. Okay, you’ve won.

  I want to delete it unread, but I can’t. I’m compelled, driven. I marvel at Lukas’s timing, almost as if he knows exactly when I’m most vulnerable. I wonder if Connor’s somehow back on Facebook already, broadcasting to the world.

  I click on the message.

  There’s a map. ‘Meet me here.’ It’s just like the old days, except this time the message continues.

  ‘Noon. Tomorrow.’

  I hate him, yet I look at the map. It’s Vauxhall, a place I don’t know well.

  I type quickly.

  – No, I say. Not there. Forget it.

  I wait, then a message appears.

  – Yes.

  I feel hate, nothing but hate. It’s the first time my feelings for him have been wholly, unambiguously, negative. Far from giving me strength, for the briefest of moments it saddens me.

  A moment later an image appears. Me, on my hands and knees, in front of him.

  Bastard, I think. I delete it.

  – What d’you want from me?

  – Meet me tomorrow, he replies. And you’ll find out.

  Ther
e’s a pause, and then:

  – Oh, and surely you don’t need me to tell you to come alone?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I don’t sleep. Morning comes, my family eats breakfast. I claim a headache and more or less leave Hugh to make sure Connor gets ready for school. I feel nothing. I’m numb with fear. Unable to think of anything other than what I have to do today.

  I take the tube. I’m thinking back to Lukas’s last message. Who would I bring, anyway? Does he think I know someone who could be trusted with this? Anna still isn’t answering my calls, and even if I felt I could confide in Adrienne, she’s away until next week. I realize again how grief has overwhelmed me, has taken everything, and in its place there’s nothing but emptiness. And so I’m here, facing Lukas, alone.

  I emerge from the tube station into the clear light of a sunny day. There are people everywhere, on their way to lunch, pushing prams, smoking on office steps and outside the station. Ahead of me there are blocks of flats, silver and glistening after a misting of rain, and beyond them the river. I follow the map on my phone and walk through a tunnel, lit with neon, as trains roll overhead, and emerge to traffic and more noise. There are alleyways, graffiti, refuse bins everywhere, but the area has a strange beauty. It’s rough, it has edges. It’s real. In different circumstances I would have wished I’d remembered my camera; as it is, I couldn’t care less.

  I check my phone again. I’m here, more or less, the corner of Kennington Lane and Goding Street. The Royal Vauxhall Tavern stands alone; beyond it is a park. I wonder if that’s where Lukas intends us to go. I tell myself I’ll refuse, if so. It’s too dangerous.