Second Life (5 page)

She’s being serious. I put my hand on her arm. ‘Absolutely not. Besides, she left
the rest to Connor. It came to quite a lot.’ A lot more than she left to you, I think,
though again I don’t say it. ‘I’m his trustee, though I’m not giving it to him until
I’m sure he won’t spend it all on computer games and new trainers.’

She says nothing. She looks unconvinced.

‘Kate clearly wanted you to have that money. Enjoy it . . .’

Her face breaks into a smile of relief. She thanks me, and a moment later the waiter
comes over and for a minute we’re lost in the choosing and ordering of our food.
Once he’s retreated, there’s silence. The sun pours its golden light over the river.
People stroll, arm in arm. The veil of my grief lifts,
briefly, and I glimpse peace.
I feel myself almost capable of relaxing.

‘This is so lovely,’ I say. ‘I can see why Kate came to Paris.’

Anna smiles. I think how things might’ve been, if my sister and I had somehow managed
to reconcile our differences and found a way back to the closeness we’d shared until
the last few years. Perhaps then I could’ve visited them both. It might’ve been the
three of us sitting here, chatting, gossiping, having fun. Were we really that different,
Kate and I?

I turn to Anna. For the first time I feel able to ask her. ‘I wish I knew what happened,’
I say quietly. ‘That night . . .’

She sips her wine then pours herself more.

‘Normally we’d have gone out together,’ she says. Something in her tone makes me
think I’m not the only one who feels guilty. ‘But I was busy that day. She was on
her own.’

I sigh. I don’t want to imagine it.

‘Is it a bad area? Where she was found?’

‘No. Not particularly.’

‘What happened, Anna?’

‘What’ve the police said? Do you talk to them?’

‘Yes. Not as much as Hugh. The Foreign Office said they’d prefer to liaise with just
one of us. It keeps it simple, I suppose, and he volunteered. But I speak to them,
too.’

‘And you discuss what they say?’

‘Oh, he tells me everything. But none of it’s very helpful.’

‘Really?’

‘No. It’s all dead ends. There’s no motive. They said they’d talked to her friends,
but—’

‘But none of us knew anything . . .’

‘No. So they just keep drawing blanks. The only thing they’re puzzled about is her
earring.’

I close my eyes. This is hard. I can’t help but visualize my sister’s body. She was
found wearing one earring. It looked as though the other had been torn off.

‘They asked me about that.’

‘You don’t remember anything?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. Was it expensive?’

‘It was cheap. Costume jewellery. Cheap gold, I think. A funny kind of dreamcatcher
design with turquoise feathers. I suppose in the dark it might’ve looked expensive,
but why take only one? And, as far as they can tell, nothing else was missing. She
still had her phone, her purse.’ I hesitate. ‘I think that’s why I find it so hard.
It seems so senseless. Hugh keeps suggesting I have some therapy.’

‘And do you think you should?’

I pick up my glass. ‘I’m just not sure what good it would do. It’s typical of Hugh,
though. He’s a wonderful man, but he’s a surgeon. If something’s broken he just wants
to fix it and then move on. Sometimes I think he’s secretly angry that I’m not getting
back to normal quickly enough. You know? He thinks I’m over-obsessing about knowing
who killed her.’

‘And are you?’

‘Of course not. I know it won’t bring her back. It’s just . . . we used to be as
close as two people can be, you know? We used to finish each other’s sentences. How
could I have not known when she was in trouble?’

‘You’re not to blame—’ she begins, but I interrupt her.

‘You knew her, Anna. What was she even doing there, in that bar, alone?’

She takes a deep breath. ‘I’m not sure.’ She looks out, towards the river. The coaches
on the bridge are silvered in the last of the evening sun, the buildings on the right
bank glisten.

‘What? What is it? Anna?’

‘I think she might’ve been seeing someone . . .’

‘A boyfriend?’

‘Kind of . . .’

I feel a surge of energy. A Pavlovian response to the promise of progress.

‘What d’you mean? Who was she seeing? Did the police know?’

‘It’s not that simple.’ She looks uncomfortable. ‘She . . . she had boyfriends. Boyfriends,
plural.’

I take a deep breath and put down my fork. ‘You mean more than one at the same time?’

She nods.

‘You think one of them found out about the others? Did you tell the police?’

‘I told them as much as I knew. I presume they looked into it, I think they still
are looking into it. The thing is . . . it wasn’t as straightforward as that.’ She
hesitates but doesn’t lower her voice, even though there are people at the surrounding
tables. ‘They weren’t really boyfriends as such. Kate had fun. You know? She liked
meeting guys and having a good time. We both did, occasionally.’

‘In bars?’

‘No. Online.’

‘Okay . . .’ I say. ‘So she dated people off the internet?’

‘Not just dating.’

‘She was meeting men for sex.’

She looks defensive. ‘It happens! But, anyway, I know she didn’t meet them all. She
was more into it than me, but still a lot of it was just sex talk, you know? Fantasy.’

I try to picture Kate, alone in her room, in front of her laptop. For some reason
I think of Connor sitting at his computer, his face illuminated by the screen, then
of Hugh doing the same thing.

I dismiss the thought. Hugh isn’t that sort of person.

‘We both used to go online together. This is before I met my boyfriend, of course.
We’d chat to people, compare notes, sometimes go on dates. You know?’

‘But the police said she left alone.’

‘Maybe she’d been stood up?’

‘Promise me the police know this? They didn’t say anything . . . She might have
put herself in real danger.’

‘Oh, yes. I told them. They questioned me for hours. They asked about everything.
Her friends. People she knew. Even you and Hugh.’ She looks at me then down at the
table. Anger prickles. Have we been investigated? Do they think I’m capable of hurting
my sister? ‘They took away her computer, her phone. I guess they didn’t find anything
. . .’

‘Maybe they didn’t look hard enough?’

She smiles sadly. ‘Well, I suppose we have to trust that they know what they’re doing.
Surely?’ She pauses. ‘I’m sorry. If I’ve upset you.’

I look out over the city. It’s dark now, the sky is lit, Notre Dame sits in front
of us, owning its own ghostly history. I’m overwhelmed with sadness. All these questions
that lead nowhere.

I begin to cry again. It’s as if it’s a new skill; now I’ve started, I can’t stop.
‘How can someone do this to my sister – to anyone – and get away with it?’

‘I know. I know.’ She hands me a tissue from her bag then puts her hand on mine.
‘You need closure.’

I shut my eyes. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But everything I try to do just opens it all up
further. It’s like a cut that won’t heal.’

In my mind I see Kate as a toddler: we’re ready to go to a party, she’s wearing a
dress in lemon that had once been mine and a band in her hair with a yellow bow.
She’s just pulled herself up on a chair but has let go. She wobbles then looks
at
me. She’s hesitant, determined, and after a couple of false starts she lifts one
foot, then the other. She takes a few steps, her arms out wide, then begins to fall.
I remember I’d caught her, swooped her up – already she was giggling – and carried
her through to where our mother stood, putting on her gloves. ‘She walked,’ I said.
‘Katie walked!’ And our mother hugged us both to her, all three of us laughing, delighted.

The weight of my grief presses down and I blink the image away. She puts down her
wine. ‘Might it help to go there?’

‘Where?’

‘To the place it happened.’ I shake my head, but she goes on. ‘I went. The other
week. I had to see it for myself.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘It’s just an alleyway.
Nothing special. Next to a train line.’

I don’t speak. I can’t tell her how many times I’ve seen it, how many times I’ve
imagined my sister there.

‘I left some flowers there. I think it helped.’

Still I say nothing. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to stare Kate’s death in the face.
I’m not strong enough.

‘You just need more time . . .’

Time. The thing I have plenty of, the thing Kate ran out of.

‘Come with me?’

I close my eyes. Kate is there, I want to say. Her ghost. She’s trapped there, screaming.
She can’t escape, and I can’t help her.

‘No. No. I can’t.’

Something snaps. I feel it give, then there’s a release. I reach for the carafe.
The gesture is automatic, I’m barely aware I’ve moved. I’m thinking of Kate, of her
sitting at her computer, chatting to strangers, telling them her secrets. I’m thinking
of Anna. I’m thinking of Hugh, and of Connor, and of Frosty and Marcus, and before
I know what I’m doing my
glass is in my hand, and it’s full of wine, and I’m thinking,
It can’t hurt now, surely? and, Haven’t I waited long enough?

The answers will come, if I’m not quick. I raise the glass to my lips, I push all
thought away, and then, for the first time in fifteen years, I’m drinking, and drinking,
and drinking.

Chapter Five

I sit on the train. I’m thirsty, my lips are dry, but my head is remarkably clear.
I remember hangovers, and this isn’t one. I didn’t drink that much. I can’t have
done, or I’d know it.

I think back to last night. The drink slid down my throat as if it were something
that belonged, a key in a lock, something that completed me, and as I swallowed I
felt myself relax, the unclenching of muscles I didn’t know I’d been tensing. It
felt a little too much like coming home.

This isn’t good. I know that, I tell myself that, over and over. Unless I’m careful
I’ll forget that there are no halfway houses, I’ll convince myself that I can handle
one drink, here and there, or that I’m fine as long as I only drink wine, or don’t
drink before the evening, or drink only with a meal. One excuse will bleed into another.

I know I have to do something. I know I have to do it now.

When I get home I call Adrienne. She’s the person I always ring, when I need help.
She understands, though she’s never been in the programme. Her addiction is to work,
if it’s to anything. She answers straight away.

‘Darling, you’re home. How was it?’

I’m silent. I don’t know what to say. So many years of
vigilance, all wasted, all
gone in one night. I should confess everything, yet part of me doesn’t want to.

‘I just . . .’

‘What is it?’

‘Can I talk to you about something?’

‘Of course.’

I can’t say it. Not yet.

‘Did you know Kate was using websites? To meet men, I mean?’

‘Well, I know she used dating sites. Like everyone else. Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes. But she wasn’t just dating. Anna said she was having fantasy sex.’

‘Cybersex?’

‘Yes. And she’d meet up with people, apparently.’

I hesitate. I’m aware this isn’t why I called her, this isn’t the reason I wanted
to speak to her. But it seems easier. It’s a build-up, a preparation. Adrienne says
nothing.

‘Did you know?’

‘Yes. She told me.’

Jealousy prickles my skin.

‘She never told
me
.’

Adrienne sighs. ‘Darling, she was having fun. It wasn’t a big thing, just something
she did occasionally. And, anyway, you hadn’t really been talking for a while.’

She’s right. Not about anything that really mattered, I guess. There’s another wave
of nausea.

‘What if the man who killed her was someone she met online?’

‘The police know what she was doing. I’m sure they’re looking into it.’

Are they? I think. I can’t focus on it, now. I close my eyes.
I take a deep breath.
I open my mouth to speak, but the words still won’t come.

‘Darling, are you all right?’

She knows, I think. She’s my oldest friend and she can just tell. I lower my voice,
even though the house is empty.

‘Julia, what is it?’

‘I had a drink.’

I hear her sigh. I can’t bear her disapproval, but I hear her sigh.

‘I didn’t mean to. I mean, I wasn’t going to, but . . .’

I stop myself. I’m making excuses. Not taking responsibility. Not admitting that
I’m powerless over alcohol. Basic stuff.

I take a deep breath. I say it again.

‘I had a drink.’

‘Okay. Just one?’

‘No.’

Please don’t tell me it’s a slippery slope. I know that. Please don’t make me feel
worse than I already do.

‘Oh, darling,’ she says.

‘I feel pretty bad. Awful, in fact.’

Another pause. Please don’t tell me it’s nothing and I ought to forget it.

‘Adrienne?’

‘You’re going through a lot,’ she says. ‘It happened. It’s a slip, a relapse, but
you need to forgive yourself . . . Have you thought about what we talked about?’

She means therapy. She agrees with Hugh, and like everyone in therapy she thinks
I should go too, or see a counsellor. She’s even recommended someone. Martin Somebody-or-other.

But the truth is, I don’t want it. Not now, not yet. Not
while I’m like this. I think
it would fail, and then it would no longer be something I can have in reserve.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Okay, well, I won’t say any more, but I wish you would. Think about it at least.’

I tell her I have, and I will. But I’m beginning to wonder if I deserve this pain,
if somehow I owe it to my sister to live through it. I couldn’t save her. I took
her son.

‘Have you told Hugh?’

I don’t answer.

‘About having a drink. Have you told him?’

I close my eyes. I don’t want to. I can’t.