Second Life (22 page)

‘I don’t want to miss one. Martin thinks we’re making real progress.’

Martin. Is that the name I’ve used before? For a moment I can’t remember.

He looks to Connor, then back to me. I wonder if he’s looking for support, or thinks
that we shouldn’t be having this conversation in front of our son.

‘I know—’ he begins.

‘I mean, I’m finally starting to feel better. You know?’

‘Yes. And I’m really glad. Of course I am. But can’t you reschedule?’

Connor puts his spoon down. He’s waiting for me to answer.

‘For later this week?’

No, I think. No, I can’t.

‘He’s pretty busy . . .’ I think fast. ‘He charges the full amount for cancellations.’

Hugh’s chin tilts downwards. He’s getting annoyed, I can tell. ‘I think we can afford
it, darling. And, anyway, I’ve booked something for us. There’s a cancellation fee
on that as well.’

‘What’ve you booked?’ I say.

‘It’s a surprise. An all-day thing. I thought we’d get there around eleven.’

‘Let me think.’ I stand up. I feel torn. My husband – my lover. I can’t have both,
just like I could never drink and not drink, or both reach for the syringe and leave
it alone. I have to choose one or the other.

Unless . . .

I pick up my phone.

‘I’ll just see if I can move my session earlier,’ I say to Hugh. ‘Then I can meet
you at about eleven thirty?’

He begins to protest, but I silence him. ‘I don’t like being unreliable,’ I say.
‘And it’s important to me that I go.’ I’m trying to keep my voice even, reasonable,
but I’ve raised it slightly. I smile. ‘I’m sure half an hour won’t make a difference?’
I step out of the room, into the hall and close the door behind me. I press call.
A few moments later Lukas answers.

‘Hi,’ I say, and without thinking I add, ‘It’s me. Julia Plummer.’

‘Julia?’ he says. He’s confused; it’s the first time I’ve used my real name. ‘Jayne,’
he says quietly. ‘Is that you?’

I feel a sudden fear. I’m aware Hugh is just a few feet away, on the other side of
the door. I try to keep myself calm. With my thumb I turn the volume down on my phone
until I’m certain I’m the only one who can hear his replies.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say evenly. I wait a moment, then continue. ‘No, no . . .’ I laugh.
‘Not at all!’

‘You can’t talk.’

‘That’s right. Anyway, I was just wondering if we could meet an hour earlier today?
It’s my birthday and my husband’s taking me out!’

I try to sound enthusiastic, for the sake of Hugh and Connor, yet I can’t. Lukas
will think I mean it, that I’m genuinely excited to be seeing my husband rather than
him. That would never do.

He’s silent for a moment. I can’t tell if he’s playing the game, or genuinely hasn’t
worked out what’s going on.

Finally he speaks. ‘The usual place, but an hour earlier?’

He sounds odd. I’m not sure if it’s disappointment, or anger.

‘Yes, if that’s okay.’

‘That’s great.’ He laughs. ‘For an awful moment I thought you were ringing to cancel.’

‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you then.’

I end the call and go back in to Hugh. ‘There. Sorted.’

‘It was my present,’ I say. ‘From Harvey.’

He doesn’t like it. I can tell.

‘Did he make you wear it?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Does he make you do many things?’

‘Not like you do.’

He doesn’t smile. He hasn’t relaxed since I arrived a few minutes ago. Something
is different.

‘It’s not that bad, is it?’

‘I suppose not.’

I smile. I’m trying to keep it light, make it sound unimportant. Which it is, as
far as I’m concerned, at least. I kiss him again.

‘Sorry,’ I say. I try to withdraw from his embrace, but then he kisses me, pushing
back against me as he does. It’s urgent, almost violent. His hand goes to my neck
and for a moment I wonder if he’ll grip me around the throat, but then he cups the
back of my head. He begins to push me towards the bed. ‘Please forgive me,’ I say.
Though not real, my fear is somehow addictive. He lets me go, with a tiny shove,
then raises his hand, as if to hit me.

‘Don’t punish me,’ I say. ‘Please?’ For a moment he looks genuinely enraged and I
flinch and take a step backwards. Kate’s face flashes in front of me, wide-eyed and
terrified. I try to fix on what I know: that he never had anything to do with my
sister.

‘Don’t—’ I say, but he interrupts.

‘Why not?’ He starts laughing. His fist is still raised. ‘Give me one good reason
why I shouldn’t. I told you not to wear that fucking perfume,’ he says, and for the
briefest instant
I’m walking in my sister’s shoes. A pure, genuine terror hits, and
then his face relaxes. He lowers his hand, but takes hold of me.

‘You really are joking,’ I say.

‘You think?’

‘Aren’t you?’

He smiles, then kisses me, hard.

‘That depends.’

Afterwards, we lie on the floor together. I’m still half in and half out of my clothes.
I’m worried my shirt is ripped – I’d heard a tear as he unbuttoned it furiously,
and instantly thought about how I might explain it to Hugh – and I’ve hit my head
on the corner of the bed.

He turns to me. ‘You’re bruised.’

‘I know.’

‘It was me?’

I smile. ‘Yes.’ I’m almost proud.

‘You know I’d never hurt you for real, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I know that.’

I wonder if I do. I wonder what I’m getting myself into, and how deep.

Yet I can’t deny it’s coming from me as much as him. Everything is reciprocated,
every fantasy I share with him is encouraged, taken further. I can’t pretend I’m
not enjoying it.

‘Yes. I trust you.’

‘Good.’ He kisses me, and it’s so tender, so slow, with none of the urgency of just
a few moments ago, and none of the ordinariness, the practicality, the perfunctoriness,
of Hugh.

‘So where’s he taking you?’

‘Who?’ I can’t work out if it’s jealousy I hear. ‘My husband? I don’t know.’

‘Where are you hoping?’

I sit up. It’s uncomfortable, this bringing of Hugh into the room. I’ve managed so
far because I’ve been able to keep him out, just like I’ve been able to keep Connor
out.

An image of him swims into view. He’ll be with Dylan, now. Playing on the computer,
or maybe at the park.

I wonder why I’m still glad Lukas doesn’t know I have a son.

‘I don’t know. It’ll probably be for lunch, or to the theatre. A couple of years
ago he bought me tickets to the opera, but then couldn’t come. I went with Adrienne.’

‘Who’s Adrienne?’

‘Just a friend. I’ve known her for years. Since I moved to London, pretty much.’

‘Will you and your husband have sex?’

I look at him. ‘That’s not fair.’

He knows I’m right. ‘You know, you sound like you don’t much care where your husband
is taking you, or what you’re going to do.’

I stand up and begin to gather my clothes. It’s not true, quite, but we’re playing
a game, and I know what I have to say. ‘I don’t, really. I’d much rather spend the
day here, with you.’

‘That’s what I want, too.’

I take a deep breath. I’ve been putting it off, but I have to ask, before I leave.

‘Did you find anything out? About Kate?’

He stands up and begins to get dressed.

‘Not yet. I’m working on it.’

Are you? I think. For some reason I’m not sure I believe him.

‘I was thinking about the earring. The one you said was missing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you sure the police are looking into that? I mean, it’s
looking like it might
be a more fruitful lead than looking at her internet friends?’

‘Well, they say they are, but I’m not sure.’

He kisses me. ‘Leave it with me. I’m sure something will come up. We’ll just have
to keep digging.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ He kisses me goodbye. ‘By the way, you haven’t had your present
from me, yet.’

I smile.

‘You’ll get it later. It’s a surprise.’

I leave one hotel to go straight to another. My head is throbbing, there’s a rip
in my shirt that I try to cover up by buttoning up my jacket. When I arrive, I see
Hugh across the lobby. He’s sitting in an armchair; across the room from him there’s
a piano, above hangs a huge chandelier. I go over to my husband and he stands as
I approach. He looks tired, and I feel guilty.

‘Darling!’ he says. ‘How was it?’

I tell him it was fine. I see he’s got a beach bag with him, one of mine. It must’ve
been the first one he found. We sit and he pours me a tea.

‘Here you go.’ I take it from him. I look around the room at the other guests: an
older couple eating scones, two women having lunch and discussing something in hushed
voices, a man with a newspaper. I wonder what kind of person stays in the hotel,
whether it’s the kind of place Lukas might one day invite me.

‘It’s going well,’ says Hugh suddenly. ‘Your therapy, I mean. You seem much . . .’

‘Better?’

‘No. Relaxed? At peace? You seem to be much clearer about Kate’s death.’

He waits, as if I’m going to say more. When I don’t, he says, ‘You can talk to me,
you know.’

‘I know that.’

‘We did our best, you know? To help her. To be there for her.’

I look away. I want to change the subject. ‘It’s just . . . well . . . it’s complicated.’

‘Connor, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘It wouldn’t have turned out better, you know. If he’d stayed with her. It would
have been exactly the same . . . or worse. We had to get him out of there. It wasn’t
a good place for him.’

I shrug, then say, ‘Maybe. D’you think he’s all right?’

‘I think so. I mean, he’s struggling a little. With the Kate thing. It must be very
confusing for him.’

‘I guess,’ I say. ‘I’m going to take him out next week. We’re spending the day together.
The cinema, or something. I’ll talk to him then.’

He nods. I feel guilty. I should’ve discussed this with him already. We should be
united when it comes to Connor, as we always have been before.

‘Good idea,’ he says. ‘He’ll be fine, you know. He’s a good lad. He has his head
screwed on.’

‘I hope so.’

‘You know, I think he has a girlfriend.’

He smiles. A pleasant complicity between a father and his son.

‘Really?’ I’m surprised, even though I shouldn’t be, and I feel the heat of jealousy.
I always thought I’d be the one he came to, confided in.

‘Haven’t you noticed? He keeps mentioning this girl – Evie.’

I smile. I don’t know why I’m so relieved.

‘I think I’ve met her.’

‘Really?’

I think back to Carla’s party. The girl I’d seen Connor with; I’m sure that was her
name.

‘Yes. She seems okay.’

‘That’s good.’ He drinks some of his tea. ‘He’s seeing a lot of Dylan, too. He’s
popular. He’ll be fine.’

He pauses.

‘And tonight we have the house to ourselves. I thought we could get some dinner,
and then . . .’

The sentence peters out. I think of the marks on my back, my thighs. For a week I’ve
been going to bed early, undressing in the dark, grabbing my robe as soon as I wake
up. I can’t let him see the bruises.

I commit myself to nothing. ‘That’d be lovely.’

He smiles.

‘So, what’re we doing here?’

He grins, then puts down his cup. He shifts forward in his seat, as if he’s about
to stand, to make a presentation, or an announcement. ‘Well, I thought we needed
to relax . . .’ He beams. He hands me my bag; inside it I can see the dark blue of
my swimming costume, my shampoo and conditioner.

‘They have a spa here.’ He points to the sign by the lobby. ‘Now, I’ve booked you
a pedicure, and we’re both having a massage. I had arranged that for midday, but
it’s okay, they’ve moved it to the afternoon . . .’

‘A spa?’

‘Yes. We can spend all day here. They’ve got steam rooms and a sauna, and a pool
. . .’

‘Great,’ I say. Anxiety begins to roll in my stomach, to swell into panic. My costume
is cut low at the back.

‘Shall we go? Unless you’d like lunch here, first?’

I shake my head. I don’t know what I’m going to do. ‘It’s fine.’

‘This is your day . . .’

‘I know.’ I’m desperately trying to think of an excuse, a way out of it. But there
isn’t one; we’re already heading back through the lobby, towards the spa. I think
of when I got dressed, just an hour or so ago, in the room with Lukas. I’d looked
over my shoulder at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The bruises were dark
and purpling, unmistakable.

He’s sitting by the pool, where he said he’d be. He’s ordered a juice for both of
us – it’s green, and looks organic – and is sipping his. He’s wearing his shorts,
the pair I bought for him just before our last holiday, to Turkey. Dimly, beneath
the layers of worry, I’m aware that he looks good. He’s lost weight.

I sit down next to him. I’ve wrapped my towel around my chest.

‘Fancy a swim?’

I lie back on the lounger. ‘In a while.’ He puts his paper down.

‘Come on.’ He stands up. ‘There’s a jacuzzi. I’m going in now.’

He holds out his hand and I have no option but to take it. I feel a sense of dread,
of inexorable momentum. And also guilt; only a couple of hours ago it’d been another
man holding his hand out to me.

We go over and sit in the pool. The water is warm and clear. Hugh activates the jacuzzi
and it begins to bubble. I lie back, staring at the light dancing on the ceiling,
reflected from the thrashing water. The bruises on my back sting, as if I’ve been
branded.

For a moment I want to tell him everything. About Lukas,
and what I’ve been doing.
It wasn’t my fault, I want to say. Kate died and I went off the rails, and . . .

And what? And it doesn’t mean anything? I genuinely thought I was trying to find
out who killed her, for me, for her son? I thought I was doing the right thing?

But who am I trying to kid?