Second Life
S. J. Watson’s first novel,
Before I Go to Sleep
, has sold over four million copies
in more than forty languages around the world. It won the Crime Writers’ Association
Award for Best Debut Novel and the Galaxy National Book Award for Crime Thriller
of the Year, and was recently adapted into a major movie starring Nicole Kidman,
Colin Firth and Mark Strong. S. J. Watson was born in the Midlands and now lives
in London.
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First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Doubleday, an imprint of Transworld Publishers
This edition published in 2015 by The Text Publishing Company
Cover design by W. H. Chong
Typeset in 11/14pt Sabon by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Author: Watson, S. J. (Steven J.)
Title: Second life / by S. J. Watson.
ISBN: 9781922079251 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781921961472 (ebook)
Subjects: Psychological fiction.
Dewey Number: 823.92
For Alistair Peacock, and for Jenny Hill
If repression has indeed been the fundamental link between power, knowledge, and
sexuality since the classical age, it stands to reason that we will not be able to
free ourselves from it except at a considerable cost.
Michel Foucault
God guard me from those thoughts men think
In the mind alone
W. B. Yeats
Contents
I climb the stairs but the door is closed. I hesitate outside it. Now I’m here, I
don’t want to go in. I want to turn round, go home. Try again later.
But this is my last chance. The exhibition has been on for weeks and closes tomorrow.
It’s now or never.
I close my eyes and breathe as deeply as I can. I concentrate on filling my lungs,
I straighten my shoulders, I feel the tension in my body evaporate as I breathe out.
I tell myself there’s nothing to be worried about, I come here regularly – to meet
friends for lunch, to catch the latest exhibitions, to attend lectures. This time
is no different. Nothing here can hurt me. It’s not a trap.
Finally I feel ready. I push open the door and go in.
The place looks exactly as it always does – off-white walls, a polished wooden floor,
spots in the ceiling that hang off tracks – and though it’s early there are already
a few people wandering around. I watch for a minute as they pause in front of the
pictures, some standing further back to get a better view, others nodding at a companion’s
murmured comment or examining the printed sheet they’ve picked up downstairs. The
atmosphere is one of hushed reverence, of calm contemplation. These people will look
at the photographs. They will like them, or not, then they will go
back outside,
back to their lives, and in all likelihood they will forget them.
At first I allow myself only a glance at the walls. There are a dozen or so large
photos hung at intervals, plus a few smaller ones between them. I tell myself I could
wander around, pretend to be interested in them all, but today there’s only one photograph
I’ve come to see.
It takes me a moment to find it. It’s hung on the far wall, at the back of the gallery,
not quite in the centre. It’s next to a couple of other shots – a full-length colour
portrait of a young girl in a torn dress, a close-up of a woman with kohl-rimmed
eyes smoking a cigarette. Even from this distance it looks impressive. It’s in colour,
though it was taken in natural light and its palette is mostly blues and greys, and
blown up to this size it’s imposing. The exhibition is called ‘Partied Out’, and
even though I don’t look at it properly until I’m just a few feet away I can see
why this picture is in such a prominent position.
I haven’t looked at it in over a decade. Not properly. I’ve
seen
it, yes – even though
it wasn’t a particularly well-used photograph back then it had been featured in a
couple of magazines and even a book – but I haven’t looked at it in all this time.
Not close up.
I approach it obliquely, and examine the label first. ‘Julia Plummer’, it says. ‘
Marcus
in the Mirror
, 1997, Cibachrome print’. There’s nothing else, no biographical information,
and I’m glad. I allow myself to look up at the picture.
It’s of a man; he looks about twenty. He’s naked, shot from the waist up, looking
at his reflection. The image in front of him is in focus, but he isn’t, and his face
is thin. His eyes are narrowed and his mouth hangs slightly open, as if he’s about
to speak, or sigh. There’s something melancholy in the photograph, but what you can’t
see is that up until
the moment before it was taken the guy in it – Marcus – had
been laughing. He’d spent the afternoon in bed with his girlfriend, someone he was
in love with as much as she was with him. They’d been reading to each other – Isherwood’s
Goodbye to Berlin
, or maybe
Gatsby
, which she’d read and he hadn’t – and eating ice
cream from the tub. They were warm, they were happy, they were safe. A radio was
playing rhythm and blues in their bedroom across the hall, and in the shot his mouth
is open because his girlfriend, the woman taking the shot, was humming along and
he was about to join in.
Originally the picture had been different. The girlfriend was in the frame, reflected
in the mirror just over the man’s shoulder, her camera raised to her eye. She was
naked, blurred out of focus. It was a portrait of the two of them, back when photographs
taken in mirrors were still unusual.
I’d liked the shot like that. Preferred it, almost. But at some point – I don’t remember
when, exactly, but certainly before I first exhibited it – I changed my mind. I decided
it looked better without me in it. I took myself out of the picture.
I regret it now. It was dishonest of me, the first time I used my art to lie, and
I want to tell Marcus I’m sorry. For everything. I’m sorry for following him to
Berlin, and for leaving him there, alone in that photograph, and for not being the
person he thought I was.
Even after all this time, I’m still sorry.
It’s a long time before I turn away from my picture. I don’t take portraits like
that any more. It’s families now, Connor’s friends, sitting with their parents and
younger siblings, jobs I pick up at the school gate. Pin money. Not that there’s
anything wrong with that: I put my best effort into it, I have a reputation, I’m
good. People will invite me to their children’s
parties to take shots of the guests
to be emailed as souvenirs; I’ve even taken the pictures at a kids’ party arranged
to raise money for the hospital Hugh works at. I enjoy it, but the skill is technical;
it’s not the same as making portraits like this one – it’s not art, for want of a
better word, and sometimes I miss making art. I wonder if I still could, whether
I still have the eye, the instinct to know when exactly to trip the shutter. The
decisive moment. It’s been a long time since I really tried.
Hugh thinks I should get back into it. Connor’s older now, he’s starting to live
his own life. Because of his difficult start we both threw ourselves into looking
after him, but he needs us less than he once did. There’s more space for me now.
I look briefly at the other pictures on the walls. Maybe I will, soon. I could concentrate
a little more on my career and still look after Connor. It’s possible.
I go downstairs to wait for Adrienne. Originally she’d wanted to come with me, to
see the exhibition, but I’d told her no, I wanted to see the picture alone. She hadn’t
minded. ‘I’ll just meet you in the café,’ she’d said. ‘Maybe we can grab a bite to
eat.’
She’s early, sitting at a table by the window with a glass of white wine. She stands
up as I approach and we hug. She’s already talking as we sit.
‘How was it?’
I pull my chair under the table. ‘A bit weird, to be honest.’ Adrienne has already
ordered a bottle of sparkling water for me and I pour a glass. ‘It doesn’t feel like
my picture any more.’
She nods. She knows how anxious I’ve been about coming here. ‘There’re some interesting
photos up there. Will you go and take a look? Later?’
She raises her wine. ‘Maybe.’ I know she won’t, but I’m not offended. She’s seen
my picture before and isn’t bothered
about the others. ‘Cheers,’ she says. We drink.
‘You didn’t bring Connor?’
I shake my head. ‘Definitely too weird.’ I laugh. ‘He’s busy, anyway.’
‘Out with his mates?’
‘No. Hugh’s taken him swimming. They’ve gone to Ironmonger Row.’
She smiles. Connor is her godson and she’s known my husband for almost as long as
I have. ‘Swimming?’
‘It’s a new thing. Hugh’s idea. He’s realized his fiftieth is next year and he’s
dreading it. He’s trying to get fit.’ I pause. ‘Have you heard from Kate?’
I look down at my drink. I hadn’t wanted to ask the question, not so soon, but it’s
out now. I’m not sure which answer I’d prefer. Yes, or no.
She sips her wine. ‘Not for a while. Have you?’
‘About three weeks ago.’
‘And . . . ?’
I shrug. ‘The usual.’
‘Middle of the night?’
‘Yep,’ I sigh. I think back to my sister’s last call. Two in the morning, even later
for her, over there in Paris. She’d sounded out of it. Drunk, I guessed. She wants
Connor back. She doesn’t know why I won’t let her have him. It isn’t fair and, by
the way, she isn’t the only person who thinks Hugh and I are being selfish and impossible.
‘She was just saying the same old thing.’
‘Maybe you need to talk to her. Again, I mean. When she’s not so—’
‘Angry?’ I smile. ‘You know as well as I do how much good that’s likely to do and,
anyway, I can’t get hold of her. She won’t answer her mobile and if I ring the landline
I just get her flatmate, who tells me nothing. No, she’s made her
mind up. Suddenly,
after all this time, all she wants in the world is to look after Connor. And she
thinks Hugh and I are stopping her for our own selfish reasons. She hasn’t paused,
even for a moment, to wonder how Connor might feel, what he might want. She certainly
hasn’t asked him. Once again, it’s all about her.’