Second Life (12 page)
‘Oh, I didn’t know you were in here.’
I close my machine and put it to one side. My heart thuds, as if I’ve been caught
taking drugs. He’s wearing a baseball cap I haven’t seen before and a black sweatshirt;
he’s chewing gum.
‘What’ve you been up to?’
‘Just studying.’
I force a smile. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Okay. What’re you up to?’
I feel dizzy. It’s as if domesticity is crashing in around me
in an inrush of banality,
of making meals, of ferrying to school and back, of worrying about what to cook for
dinner and whether the surfaces in the kitchen are clean.
I adjust my necklace. ‘Just reading emails.’
He asks for a snack. I make one for him, then he goes upstairs and I go back to my
machine. Largos86 is no longer online, so I message Anna.
– He says he’s called Lukas.
– And?
What to say? I have a feeling, a suspicion. Based on what?
– I don’t know. There’s something about him. He seems really keen.
I hesitate, but continue.
– I just wonder if he knew Kate.
– It’s unlikely, don’t you think?
I agree.
– But yes, it is possible he talked to her.
– You think?
– Well, there aren’t that many people who use that site.
– So you think it might be worth talking to him some more?
– Well, don’t get your hopes up. But maybe. We might be able to find out who else
Kate was talking to. Or at least prove one way or the other whether he knew her.
The next day I take my laptop into my studio. The same guy is online. Largos86.
– You disappeared, he says. I wondered what I’d done.
It’s his fourth or fifth message. At first I wasn’t sure I’d reply, but they keep
coming.
I can’t forget what he’d said.
You remind me of someone. Someone I liked a lot.
– I’m sorry, I say.
I resist the urge to make an excuse. I can’t tell him about Connor coming home. It
wouldn’t be right. It would take the conversation in the wrong direction. I wonder
who’s watching whom. I wonder who’s the cat, and who’s the mouse?
– Are you alone?
I hesitate. Connor’s in the house, doing his homework, he said, and Hugh’s out at
a concert with a friend, so I might as well be. I certainly feel alone.
Plus, I’ve realized I’m going to have to give something if I’m going to get something
back.
– Yes. Yes I am.
A moment later his message appears:
– I enjoyed chatting to you yesterday . . .
I wonder if there’s going to be a
but
. . .
– Thanks.
– But we never really got on to talking about you.
– What d’you want to know?
– Everything! But maybe start by telling me what it is you do.
I decide I don’t want to tell the truth.
– I’m in the arts. I curate exhibitions.
– Wow! Sounds interesting.
– It can be. So how about you? I know you travel.
– Oh, let’s not talk about me. It’s boring.
Maybe it is, but I’m trying to find out why he’s so keen to chat to me again tonight.
– No. I’m sure it’s not. Go on.
– I’m in the media. I buy advertising space for big campaigns.
– So what are you doing in Milan? Are you on holiday?
– No, he says. I’m living out here, temporarily. Doing some work. Staying in a hotel.
I’m thinking about going out for dinner, then maybe to a bar. But it’s no fun on
your own . . .
The ellipsis suggests he’s inviting a compliment. I remind myself I still need to
find out if he meets people he chats to, and what he does with them if so.
I try to imagine how Jayne might reply. At the very least she’d have to make a reference
to what he’d said.
– I bet you wouldn’t be lonely for long, I say.
– Thanks, he replies, and then another message comes through.
– Can I ask what you’re wearing?
So polite, I think. It’s not what I might’ve expected.
But then what did I expect? This is the way it goes, apparently.
What are you wearing?
Describe it to me. I want to take it off, tell me how it feels.
But much sooner,
within a few messages, not over a couple of days.
– Why do you want to know?
I wonder if I ought to add a winking face. Is that what Kate would’ve done?
– I just want to be able to picture you.
I feel myself tense. I’m not sure I want him to picture me. It leaves an unpleasant
taste. I remind myself I’m doing this for Kate’s sake, and for Connor’s. For all
of us.
– If you must know, I type, I’m wearing jeans. And a shirt. Your turn.
– Well, I’m just lying here on the bed.
I look again at his photo and picture him. I see the hotel room, bland and corporate.
I wonder if he’s taken his clothes off. I imagine he has a good body, strong and
muscular. He’ll have got himself a drink; for some reason I picture him with a beer,
drinking straight from the bottle. Something within me begins to open up, but I don’t
know what it is. Is it because finally I might be getting somewhere, unlocking the
riddle of my sister’s murder? Or because a good-looking man has chosen to send a
message to me?
– If you’re busy that’s cool. I’ll leave you alone.
– No. I’m not busy.
– Okay. So I’m here, and you’re there. What’re you up for? What’re you into?
I try to imagine what Kate would’ve said.
I can’t.
– I’m not sure.
– Are you okay?
I decide it’s easier to tell the truth.
– I’ve never done this before.
– No problem. We can chat another time, if you’re uncomfortable?
– No. I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t want to disappoint you.
– You’re beautiful. How could you disappoint me?
Deep down, but unmistakably there, there’s a weak throb of excitement. A distant
signal from the remotest star.
– Thank you.
A moment, then he replies:
– It’s a pleasure. You
are
beautiful. I’m enjoying talking to you.
– I’m enjoying talking to you, too.
– Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing this evening?
I stop to think. Soon I’ll cook our evening meal, then I might sit with a book. But
I don’t want to tell him that.
– I might go out, with friends. Or maybe catch a film.
– Nice.
We talk for a little while longer. He asks me what movies I’ve seen recently, we
talk about books and music. It turns out we both love Edward Hopper and have tried
but failed to finish
Finnegans Wake
. It’s pleasurable, but I seem to be getting further
and further from finding out whether he’s ever chatted to my sister, or was in Paris
in February, or even
who I remind him of. After a few more minutes he says:
– Well I’d better get ready, go for dinner.
– And then go on to your bar?
– Possibly. Though I’m not sure I can be bothered now.
– How come?
– I might just come back to the room and see if you’re still online.
There’s another tiny shock of pleasure.
– Would you like that?
– I might.
– I’d like to chat again.
I don’t reply.
– Would you?
I stare at the blinking cursor. For some reason I’m thinking of my time in Berlin,
in the squat with Marcus and Frosty and the rest; the sensation of both wanting and
not wanting something at the same time.
Again I remind myself who I’m doing this for.
– I would.
We end the conversation. I log off and call Anna.
‘How did it go?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Did it get sexual?’
‘Not really. No.’
‘It will,’ she says.
‘Listen, will you look at his profile online? Let me know if you recognize him?’
She hesitates. I hear her stand up; she’s moving around her apartment. ‘Of course.
But I don’t recognize his name. I don’t think he can be one of the ones Kate met.
I suppose it’s possible he’s someone she chatted to.’
‘I need to find out.’
‘Just don’t get your hopes up.’
I won’t, I tell her. We talk some more. After we’ve said goodbye I go back online.
I can’t help it. I look at Lukas’s profile, at the photographs he’s uploaded. They
look completely ordinary. He’s wearing a checked shirt, open at the neck, his face
is broad and handsome, his eyes dark. Did he know my sister? Is it possible?
I read the rest of his profile. He describes himself as athletic, he’s a lover of
fun, he enjoys reading, music, eating out. When I scroll down I see there’s a link
to his Facebook page. I click on it.
He’s used the same picture there, but I hardly look at it. I navigate straight to
his timeline and begin to scroll backwards. I go back as far as February. I have
to be sure.
There’s a photo of him, standing in the desert next to a man. They have their arms
round each other’s shoulders, in triumph. Uluru is in the background. ‘We finally
made it!’ says the caption. When Kate was killed he was in Australia.
It doesn’t mean he didn’t know her, though. I think again of what he said.
You remind
me of someone.
I send a message to Anna: ‘Checked Facebook. He was in Australia.’
I go to bed. It’s later than I think; Hugh’s turned out the light and is already
asleep. He’s left the curtains open for me to undress in the light from the street
outside. Before I do I check if anyone’s there, but tonight the street is empty,
other than a couple walking arm in arm, looking either drunk or in love, it’s hard
to tell. I’m naked when I get into bed; I turn on to my side and look at Hugh, silhouetted
in the half-light. My husband, I tell myself, as if I need to be reminded of the
fact.
I kiss him gently, on his brow. The night is hot and sticky
and I can taste the sweat
that’s formed there. I turn on to my other side, away from him. My hand goes beneath
the covers, between my legs. I can’t help it. It’s the talk, this afternoon. The
chat with the guy online. Lukas. Something has been aroused, some desire that is
complicated yet undeniable.
I let it come. I’m thinking of Lukas. I can’t help it, even if it does feel like
a betrayal.
You’re beautiful
, he’d said, and the excitement I’d felt had been instant
and pure. I imagine him now, he’s saying it over and over,
You’re beautiful, you’re
gorgeous, I want you
, yet for some reason he changes, becomes Marcus. He’s leading
me upstairs, we’re in the squat, we’re going to the room we shared, to the mattress
on the floor, to the tangle of bedclothes unmade from the night before. I’ve spent
the day here alone, he’s been out. But now he’s back, there’s only the two of us.
He’s argued with his family, his mother is distraught, she wants him home. Even just
for a few weeks, she’d said, but he knows she means for ever. I tell him I’ll support
him, if he goes, if he decides he wants to, but I know he won’t. Not now he’s here,
and happy. He kisses me. I imagine the smell of him, his smooth skin, the fuzz of
hair on his chest. These details – things that I know are half remembrances and half
imaginings, a mixture of fantasy and memory – come, and they lead me somewhere, somewhere
where I am strong and in control and Kate is alive and everything will be all right.
My hand, my fingers, move in circles. I try to think of Hugh, a version of Hugh,
an idealized Hugh who has never existed. I imagine the way he’d look at me, the way
he used to look at me, his eyes leaving my face, travelling down, pausing first at
my neck and then again at my breasts before flashing lower for just the briefest
of moments before coming back to my face. His appraisal would take three seconds,
maybe four. I imagine letting my eyes follow the same path
his had taken, taking
in his unshaven chin, the black hair that pokes from under his shirt, his chest,
the buckle on his belt. I imagine him leaning in to speak to me, the smell of his
aftershave, the faint scent of his breath, like chewed leather. I imagine him kissing
me, this idealized Hugh, who is really Lukas, who is really Marcus.
My hand moves faster, my body lifts then falls away. I’m free. I’ve become lightness
and air, nothing but energy.
I sit with a glass of sparkling water. Adrienne is late.
The restaurant is brand new. Even Bob had found it difficult to get us a table, according
to Adrienne, and as someone who writes restaurant reviews he rarely struggles. I
hadn’t been able to decide what to wear and in the end had gone for a simple sleeveless
dress with a check print, plus the necklace Hugh bought me for Christmas and perfume
from my favourite bottle. It’s been so long since I’ve been out for dinner it’d felt
like getting ready for a date, and now I’m beginning to feel like I’ve been stood
up.
Eventually I see her coming in. She waves then comes over to the table.
‘Darling!’ She kisses me on both cheeks then we sit down. She puts her bag under
her chair. ‘Right . . .’ She grabs the menu, still talking as she reads. ‘Sorry I’m
late. The tube was delayed. “Passenger action”, they call it.’ She looks up. ‘Some
selfish prick who’d had enough and decided to ruin everyone else’s day.’ I smile.
It’s a black humour that we can share; I know she doesn’t mean it. How can she, after
what happened to Kate? ‘You don’t mind if I have a drink?’
I shake my head and she orders a glass of Chablis, then tells me I ought to have
the lobster. She’s always been a whirlwind, but tonight she seems almost in too
much of a rush. I
wonder if she’s trying to compensate for being late, or maybe she’s
anxious about something.
‘Now,’ she says, once her drink has arrived. Her voice becomes relaxed and reassuring.
‘How are you?’ I shrug, but she holds up her hand. ‘And don’t give me any of that
“I’m fine” crap. How are you really?’
‘I
am
fine. Honestly.’ She looks at me, an expression of exaggerated disappointment
on her face. ‘Mostly,’ I add.
She pushes the bread that’s arrived towards me, but I ignore it. ‘How long has it
been, now? It must be four months?’