The Pretence

by Linus Peters

  “Brilliant. Well done,” said Frances. “You don’t mind if I go back to my work now, do you?”

  “No, no, you carry on,” I said, already absently clicking through the programs to set myself up for yet another game of Battleship.

  To be honest, e-mailing my articles to the office was not an option. Or only in the direst of emergencies. I like going in there, chatting to people, talking about the day’s events, lunch-time and after-work drinks. I’d miss that. However, I had learnt a new skill, a technological one, and I was pretty pleased with myself, I can tell you. My parents heard more from me in the next week than they had in the previous year. I was asking everyone for their email addresses. Luca even taught me how to ‘chat’, so that, if we had to discuss something but were feeling a little drained, we wouldn’t have to take that long strenuous walk down the corridor .

  Simon, did you take Charlie’s phone call this

  morning?

  Yes.

  How was he?

  Same as ever. What does this mean :)?

  It’s an inverted smiling face. I’m worried about him. Have you ever 1471ed his phone calls?

  Of course not.

  I have. Couple of times. They’re from a pay-

  phone.

  So? Oh yes, I get it, this is a sad one :(

  Simon!

  Sorry.

  Why isn’t he at homre?

  Maybe he goes out for a morning walk? Getting

  fit or something

  Charlie?

  Could be. Doctor’sorders.

  I don’t know. What about a drink later?

  Sorry. Frances is going to give me another lesson on the Internet.

  How very romantic!

  I think it’s gr8!

  Simon?

  Yes?

  Fuck off

  If you’d ever told me I’d end up spending my evenings at home with my partner, the two of us messing around with our his and her computers, I would never have believed you. Nor that she could actually persuade me to dig out the mobile my parents bought me and get it working (though I do admit, I frequently forget to turn it on). Really, it’s not so much what you do, as who you do it with. We can make an event out of anything: cooking a meal, having a bath, even the weekly shopping. Minutiae. The slow attendance of life and love. An endless devotion to detail.

  And Juliana? Well, yes, of course, she’s crossed my mind a few times. I wouldn’t be human if she hadn’t. I truly hope she’s okay, that she’s been able to pick up her life in Amsterdam, and I will always regret what I did. Not just to her, but to everyone. I mean, how did I create such an awful mess?

  On the other hand, do any of us know what we’re capable of if Life ever turns the screws? We float along, sealed in our little bubble of circumstantial strength – job, family, friends, status, whatever - but what happens when that bubble ever bursts? If your support structure goes down? How much of a mess do you think you might make?

  Anyway, that was how my relationship with Juliana got filed away. How I made my personal contribution towards the rewriting of history. It had merely been a brief period of grief induced madness that now I, not only regretted, but found it impossible to believe I’d ever participated in. Which, I guess, makes what happened next all the more surprising.

  One of Frances’s workmates had a birthday. Most of the office were going out for a meal, probably for drinks or a club after, and she thought, being as she was relatively new, it would probably be the right thing to accept their invitation to join them. Okay, she did kind of half moot the idea of me coming along, but I knew she didn’t mean it, that I was a consideration she’d rather not have to worry about. Anyway, I was quite looking forward to a night in on my own. No Puccini. Leonard Cohen without the ‘wrist-slashing’ jokes. Or maybe there was a match on? On the other hand, with my new found skills, I just might investigate the naughty phenomenon of Internet porn.

  Well, the football was crap, I wasn’t in the mood for ‘Leonardo’, and by half past eight or so I was already tentatively mounting my first wave to the distant erotic island of Pornography. Which, if I’m honest about it, was what I’d had in mind all along.

  If you’ve never looked at it, and I’m sure most people have, let me assure you, it doesn’t take long to become boring. I mean, what excites in the first ten minutes, titillates in the second, leaves you a little lukewarm in the third, then bores the hell out of you thereafter. The only problem for me was, I’d kind of worked myself up into a mood - all day I’d been smirking about the naughty evening I had planned – and now I felt a little frustrated, that I still wanted something. Or maybe it was that endless stream of sexy women, all lasering you with their let’s-get-gynaecological stares, that made me start thinking about Juliana.

  It was just idle speculation at first: when she’d left, where she’d gone, what she was doing? However, that then led onto the thought I’d been carefully avoiding ever since we’d split up finally finding its moment ... Had she gone back to being a prostitute?

  As much as it was over and Juliana confined to yesterday, it still made me feel sick. To think of her doing that, that anyone could have what I’d once thought was exclusively mine. Partly because I hated the idea of her having to (though, of course, in truth, she didn’t), and partly because I knew that I was now helpless to prevent it.

  From there on, I really don’t know what the thought process was. Maybe I wanted to ease my guilt, the thought that she had gone back to prostitution, and in some way I was responsible? All I do know is, and despite begging myself not to, the next thing I knew I was tapping at the keys of Charlie’s laptop.

  Dear Juliana,

  I know I shouldn’tbe doing

  this. Frances would kill me if she knew.

  But I’ve been thinking about you a lot

  tonight and there’s something I have to

  know. Have you gone back to prostitution?

  I hope to God not. Even after everything

  that’s happened, even though I’m now

  with Frances, just the thought maks me

  feel sick. You’re too good for that,

  Juliana. No-one should be able to buy that

  from you.

  The other thing I keep thinking about is the

  day I saw you in Knightsbridge with

  Frances. You looked so mucj back on top, so

  in control, it almost hurt me. Not that I

  want you to stay upset. Of course I don’t.

  But I guess it’s a bit like when Frances

  left me. It’s not until you let go of the

  pain that you know it’s finallly over. And

  as much as I realise what a terrible thing it

  is to say, it hurt me a little to see you’d

  let go of the pain.

  I’m sorry, you probably don’t even know what

  I’m talking about. I’m not sure I do either.

  I guess what I’m trying to say is, life

  isn’t always as straight-forward

  I couldn’t even bring myself to finish the sentence. I panicked and hit every key I could till the message finally disappeared. What the hell was I doing? I mean, okay, I had no intention of sending it. I didn’t even know Juliana’s email address. Maybe she doesn’t have one. But after everything that happened, the trouble the letters caused, that I should even go through the motions was inexplicable.

  Later, when Frances woke me, her cold body invading my warm unconsciousness like an iceberg looming up out of the dark, it was still sufficiently on my mind for me to instantly grab her and squeeze for all I could.

  “I missed you,” I told her.

  “I missed you, too,” she said, her breath heavy with alcohol.

  She began to kiss me passionately, no preamble, going straight for my flaccid penis, working it, wanting me inside her. I hesitated, not even sure I could, but I needed her as much as she needed me. Soon I was on top of her, aware that she was more drunk than I’d first thoug
ht, that as soon as we finished, she’d probably pass out.

  It didn’t happen very often, but the truth was, we weren’t making love together, we were doing it apart. I kept trying to coax her back, to remind her who we were to each other, but she was too far gone and I was left to my thoughts, which, God help me, again turned to Juliana.

  They weren’t sexual. Not at first. I was just going back over the evening, puzzled by my own behaviour, why I’d even dream of writing to anyone again. But then, when I remembered what had provoked it - thoughts of Juliana going back to prostitution – an old familiar door slightly opened down in the cellar, and I couldn’t resist peeping in.

  I mean, it was there, and if I’m honest about it, it’s always been there. A shameful ambiguity. A reluctant admission that, as sickened as I was by what Juliana did, there were moments when it turned me on. Times when we’d been making love and I’d thought about all those men – and, apparently, quite a few women – and become so excited, I’d felt guilty for days afterwards. Moments when I’d been so aroused, I could’ve easily begged her to tell me the details of each and every encounter. How it had come about, what they’d looked like, what they’d said, and most of all, what they’d done to her and she’d done to them.

  Afterwards, I’d been so conscience-stricken, I’d sworn it would never happen again. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was only an occasional thing. But I do have to admit, it was there. What came as a shock to me now, was the realisation that it could still be there; that I could still get turned on thinking about Juliana that way, even whilst making love to Frances.

  Time and time again I chased her out of that bed, out of the room, out of the flat, but she just kept coming back for more. I tell you, I hated myself for it, but I didn’t seem able to stop.

  Just as I’d anticipated, the moment we finished, Frances pulled away from me, falling asleep in seconds.

  “Hey,” I whispered to her in the dark. “Frances?”

  She made this kind of groaning sound, as if she was on her way somewhere and didn’t want to come back.

  I sighed, resigned to the fact that I was going to have to lie there with nothing but my guilt for company.

  Thinking of Juliana whilst making love to Frances! I could hardly believe it. And yet, what did it really mean? That I wanted to go back to her? That I’d made the wrong decision? Of course not. They were just ‘bedroom thoughts’. Everyone has those. They don’t mean a thing. Not measured against a whole relationship. It was just the once. And anyway, if we’re really honest about it, there’s not a person in this world who’d have a relationship with a genuine mind-reader.

  The following morning, just as I’d known it would be, everything was back to normal, Frances and I as impregnable as ever.

  “I’m sorry!” she said, returning from the shower, diving on the bed, jarring me from the dozing I’d been indulging in ever since she’d woken me earlier.

  “That’s okay,” I mumbled, sleepily pulling her towards me, her hair and body wrapped in damp towels. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Think so,” she replied. “Or someone who looked like me. Personally I disowned her after the sixth Margarita.”

  “Ooh, poor head.”

  “My head wasn’t there.”

  “Really?”

  “My voice was. As you will note from my somewhat ruptured vocal chords.”

  “Ah, the Black Diva,” I said, knowing her of old.

  “Tosca all the way through Soho,” she said, slightly wincing at the memory.

  I chuckled and gave her a hug. “Sorry I missed it.”

  “What about you? Who won the football?”

  “Don’t know. Lost interest. Mucked about on the computer most of the evening,” I said, immediately feeling guilty.

  “Oh?”

  “Games mostly.”

  She sighed and got up, looking out her clothes for the day. “God, you’re hopeless. That’s like someone lending you a plane and all you do is sit on the ground listening to the radio.”

  “Get some good programmes on the radio.”

  “You can get to some wonderful places in a plane,” she reminded me, taking off her towel slightly modestly, as if, no matter how many times I’d seen her naked at night, that didn’t count first thing in the morning.

  I averted my gaze, not out of embarrassment, but just an understanding.

  “Oh, you’ll be pleased to know that from now on you’ll be getting one night’s peace every week,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “They’re running an Advanced French class at the tech. I think I might enrol.”

  I stared at her. God help me, the thought immediately presenting itself that I didn’t want to be left alone with that silky little technological temptress in the corner.

  “Ohh!” I rather whined.

  “What?”

  “Well...”

  “It’s only one evening.”

  “I know but ..”

  “Do you good to miss me.”

  You look for these things, a way of excusing yourself; you see a pattern and call it Fate. I mean, I immediately saw the danger. Even though I’d dismissed it out of hand, even though I’d said I’d never do it again. Thirteen weeks, thirteen nights, on my own, was a long time.

  I arranged to play squash with Luca every Monday evening, but he’s not a man to tie himself down to a routine, and when he stopped after a few weeks, and I was left to my own devices, you’d be amazed how quickly I succumbed.

  I mean, it was crazy, but it didn’t do any harm. What was it? Instant words, instant dismissal. I wrote letters that I immediately deleted. In fact, if I’d had to put them down on paper, if it had required me to destroy the evidence, to burn them or flush them away, I never would have done it. Which maybe reinforces my views on the nature of email.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Strange how now you’re the one that’s

  gone missing. As if everyhting in life

  is just a cycle, and all of us take our

  turn at each point of the process.

  I guess you’re back in Amstrdam but I

  can’t be sure. Some days I still wonder

  if I might bump into you here. If, even

  now, there’s still a little of this

  story left to unfold

  Again I found myself alarmed at seeing my thoughts given form, aborting in mid-sentence, jettisoning my words into deepest cyber space. What was I doing? It was so stupid. Never ... ever again. But in my heart I knew I was just posturing, that actually, I was getting dragged further into this dark and dirty little secret. I mean, forget all about pornography. Forget the idea that, come Monday nights, when Frances was out advancing her French, I’d be settled down with a few cans of beer and a box of tissues. I had a much more guilty secret than that.

  The question I couldn’t answer was why? I wasn’t missing Juliana. I really couldn’t care less if I never saw her again. But for some reason I just couldn’t stop myself writing.

  It was only when I inserted the final component of the game that I began to understand, not only what the attraction was, but also that the ‘relationship’ I’d shared with Juliana had left me as damaged as anyone.

  Yet again I wrote to her, but this time, instead of deleting it, I did, what I suspect I’d been intending to do all along: I invented an email address and sent it off.

  Now everything became clear. I was at it again: laying off my life, stringing my dirty washing across the ether. The first few times I just thought of a name and tagged ‘hotmail.com’ after it, like Juliana@hotmail.com or Julianamsterdam@hotmail.com. There was no risk, not as far as I could see. I’ve never even heard of anyone getting an incorrectly addressed email. Have you? But I still admit, the first time I did it, sitting there with my finger hovering over the key, finally descending to press ‘send’, I got a real rush, as if I was back to riding some rapidly accelerating addiction.

  And the more I did it, the more I played with t
he situation, the more I found myself being pushed into saying things that I didn’t really mean:

  That much I willgive you. I have

  never known,and probably never will know,

  a body like yours. Nor anyone who can use

  it the way you do. Going to bed with you

  was like segmenting my life. Stopping it

  and starting it again. Flying and

  falling, flying and falking. An angel

  one moment, the devil the next. So

  many times I wish I tok photos. And

  yet you’re still here. Locked in my head.

  No matter what my situation, I can touch

  you whenever I wish. Stroke your

  tanned skin, feel the curves of your

  body. Oh, God, Juliana.

  Kick. Kick. Kick. Not talking about sex with my ex-girlfriend, but sending it out to the universe, not knowing where it would end up, like a message in a bottle.

  It was only when I received several ‘undelivered mail’ notifications that I realised that, if I was being told when mail wasn’t getting through, then presumably some was. It gave me a real jolt. So somewhere in this world people were being made privy to my life again. Just as they had before. Soon I started to get the odd reply. Some quite normal, telling me I had the wrong address, others more disturbing. You’d be amazed what people will say when they’re utterly anonymous, when they’re just the hundredth ghost in the millionth room. But it was still a thrill. You should try it. It’s like the lottery, only creepier. Choose your letters, your numbers, and then submit your bet. And first prize, of course, is finding someone who wants to play your game. Just in the same way Juliana did.