Second Life (37 page)
‘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 playing 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.
There’s a pause, and then:
– Oh, and surely you don’t need me to tell you to come alone?
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.
I light a cigarette, my third of the day. I guess this means I’ve started smoking
again. I inhale. Hold. Exhale. Its rhythms calm me, even in these desperate circumstances;
I can’t believe how much I’ve missed it. I look at my watch.
I’m late. He’s even later, I think, but then I feel his gaze burning into me and
I know. He’s here, out of sight, watching me.
Suddenly I see him approach. He’s in front of me, wearing a blue parka jacket. He’s
walking slowly, his head up. I’m aware my hands are shaking. Instinctively I put
my hand in my pocket, feel for my phone, just as I’ve been practising. By the time
he’s level with me I’m ready, composed. For a long moment we stare at each other,
then he speaks.
‘Hello, Julia.’ He glances at what I’m wearing: jeans, a sweater, my Converse trainers.
I tell myself not to react. I mustn’t let him make me angry. I’m here to find out
exactly what he wants, to make him stop.
I notice the red mark on his cheek. I open my mouth to speak when he lunges for me.
He grabs my arm, I yelp.
‘What the—?’ I begin, but he silences me. His grip is strong, and then he kisses
me on the cheek. It’s rough, unpleasant, yet brief. Even so, every part of my body
reacts powerfully, reflexively. I pull away.
‘For old time’s sake. Come on.’
He tries to direct me down Goding Street, towards the arches under the railway. A
street of bike shops and storerooms, the shuttered rear entrances of the bars and
clubs of
the Albert Embankment. I resist. ‘What’s down there?’ I say, my voice high
and anxious. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Somewhere quiet,’ he says.
I have visions of being found, my neck broken, bleeding, gutted like one of Hugh’s
patients. I have to remind myself again that he didn’t kill Kate, that I mustn’t
let him see my fear. Whatever else he did, he didn’t do that. I repeat it like a
mantra.
I shake my arm free. I could run, I think. Into the pub, though its shuttered windows
suggest it might not be open.
‘Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘Just stay away from me.’ I’m shaking with fear, my voice is unsteady. ‘We can talk
here—’
‘You want
me
to stay away from
you
?’ He looks incredulous. ‘I want
you
to stay away
from
me
, and from Anna.’ I begin to protest, but he continues. ‘You’re the one who’s
messaging me non-stop, who’s ringing me up day and fucking night, over and over.
I had to change my fucking number, just to get rid of you.’
I stare at him. We’re both totally still, as if locked in stalemate, then I speak.
‘No,’ I say. ‘No.’
‘So, you’re the one who won’t leave me alone.’ He points to his cheek. ‘I mean, look
at this. Crazy. You’re crazy.’
The wound has healed, more or less. It’s superficial. Soon it won’t be visible at
all.
‘You did that.’
He laughs. ‘Are you mad? I brought the knife down with me to protect myself, not
so that I could stab myself! I didn’t know you were going to lose it and try to grab
it out of my hand . . .’
‘No. No, no . . .’ I take a step back. I remind myself why I’m here. To protect Connor.
‘You’re stalking my son!’
‘What?’
‘The bowling alley. He told me.’
He laughs. ‘You’re crazier than I thought! So keep away from me, okay? Or else—’
‘Or else what?’
‘Haven’t you worked it out yet? I can do anything. Anything at all . . . Hugh? Anna?
I can destroy them both. Unless there’s a way you could make it worth my while not
to . . .’
‘You’re wrong.’ I try to keep my voice steady. I want it to have a strength I don’t
feel. I want him to think I’m telling the truth. ‘You think I care, but I don’t.
Hugh and I are only staying together because of Connor. I’ve already told him all
about you. He understands. So,’ – I shrug – ‘what you’re trying won’t work. Show
those photos to anyone you like . . .’
‘Anyone?’
I nod.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘How about Connor?’
I try not to recoil, but I can’t help it. He sees it.
‘Connor’s grounded. You won’t get near him again. Coincidentally or not.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. Me and Connor? We have history now. We’re virtually friends.’
I feel a chill. What does he mean? Is there something else, something I don’t know
about? Again the fear comes, that he’s got something to do with Evie. I have to remind
myself that Hugh’s spoken to her, in real life. He’s heard her voice. It can’t be
Lukas. I have to remember that.
‘You don’t scare me.’
‘Don’t you get it? You and me? It was fun while it lasted. But now I just want what’s
owed to me. You have to back
off. I’m having my fun with someone else. You have to
get it into your stupid head that it’s over.’
I’m shocked. ‘Anna? Anna? You make her sound like an object, but you asked her to
marry
you!’