by S. J. Watson
I think about the other night, in bed. Hugh and I had made love, for the first time in months, but it’d been Lukas I was thinking about.
Yet at the same time it wasn’t him. The man I was imagining, dreaming about, was a fantasy. My own construction, almost completely divorced from the Lukas I chat to, the one I see on camera.
‘He knows about Hugh?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want him to think I’m available. Otherwise, how will I find out whether he is who he says he is?’
‘Right.’ She looks at me, dead in the eye. ‘And what do you think Hugh would say? If he found out?’
It’s not the first time I’ve considered it, of course. ‘But I’m just trying to find out what happened. If nothing else, to help Connor.’
She looks properly exasperated, now. It’s as if she thinks I’m stupid. Possibly she does. Possibly I am.
Our food arrives. I’m grateful. There a diffusion of tension as we arrange our napkins and begin to eat. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘It’s not like there’re any feelings attached to any of this. It’s just words on a screen . . .’
She forks her salad. ‘I think you’re being naive. You’re getting sucked in.’
‘Can we change the subject?’
She puts her fork down. ‘You know I love you, and support you. But—’
Here we go, I think. ‘What?’
‘It’s just . . . it’s surprising what people give away online, without knowing it. How easily it can feel real.’
‘Adrienne. I’m not an idiot, you know.’
‘I just hope you know what you’re doing.’
We finish our meal and have coffee before we leave. It’s another warm night; couples meander through the city, arm in arm. The air is full of laughter, of possibility. I feel unsteady, almost as if I’ve had a drink. I decide to take the tube home.
‘It’s been great to see you.’
‘You, too.’ We kiss, but I’m disappointed. I thought she’d see my chats with Lukas for what they are, even give me support. But she hadn’t. She doesn’t. ‘You be careful,’ she says, and I tell her I will.
I reach the platform just as a train pulls in. It’s pretty full, but I sit down on one of the few remaining seats and, a moment too late, realize it’s sticky with spilled beer. I take my book out of my bag, but it’s a defence. I don’t open it.
At Holborn there’s a commotion. A group of lads get on, teenagers, or early twenties; they’re wearing shorts, T-shirts, carrying beers. One of them says something – I don’t hear what – and the others laugh. ‘Fuck!’ says one; another says, ‘What a cunt!’ It’s loud, they’re making no effort to tone it down; there are children around, despite the time. I catch the eye of the man sitting opposite me and he smiles and raises his eyebrows. For a moment we’re united in our disapproval. He has a long face, cropped hair, glasses. He holds a briefcase on his lap, in soft leather, but is wearing jeans and a shirt. The train pulls away. He smiles, then goes back to his paper and I open my book.
I can’t concentrate. I read the same paragraph, over and over. I can’t pretend I’m not hoping I’ll have a message from Lukas when I get home. I keep thinking about the man sitting opposite me.
I sigh, look up. He’s looking at me again, and now he smiles and holds my gaze for a long moment. This time it’s me who looks away first, to the advert above his head. I pretend to find it fascinating; it’s a poster for one of the universities. BE WHO YOU WANT TO BE, it says. A woman wears a mortar board, clutches a scroll, her grin wide. Next to it is a poster for a dating agency. WHAT IF YOU KNEW THAT EVERYONE IN THIS CARRIAGE YOU FANCY IS SINGLE? What if I did? I think. What would I do? Nothing, I don’t suppose. I’m married, I have a child. I glance down, just briefly, away from the poster; he’s reading his paper again. I find myself looking at his body, at his chest, which is broader than his narrow face would suggest, at his legs, his thighs. Although he looks nothing like him, I start to see him as Lukas. I picture him, looking up at me, smiling the way I’ve seen Lukas smile on Skype so many times over the last few days. I imagine kissing him, letting him kiss me. I imagine dragging him into one of the stairwells at the next station, unzipping his jeans, feeling him grow erect in my hand.
Suddenly I see myself as others see me. I’m shocked at what I’m thinking. It isn’t right. It isn’t me. I look down at my book and pretend to read.
Chapter Twelve
I think he’s there again. Standing not quite under the light. Watching my window.
There, yet not there. When I look directly into the shadows I can convince myself it’s nothing, a trick of the light, an optical illusion. Just my brain, seeking order in chaos, trying to make sense of the random. Yet, as I look away, the figure seems about to come into focus. To declare itself as real.
This time, I don’t turn away. This time, I tell myself he’s real. I’m not imagining it. I stay where I am, watching him. Last time I’d told Hugh and he said it was nothing, a trick of the light, and so tonight I want to burn his image on to my retina, take it again to my husband, show him. Look, I want to say. This time, I’m not being absurd, I’m not imagining it. He was there.
The figure doesn’t move. It’s utterly still. I watch, and as I do it seems to recede somehow, into the shadows. There, yet not there.
I turn and wake my husband. ‘Hugh. Come here. Look. He’s here again.’
Reluctantly he gets up. The street is empty.
Maybe Hugh’s right. Maybe I am being paranoid.
‘Hugh thinks I’ve lost my mind,’ I tell Anna. We’re on Skype, I’ve finished adding some images to my website, tidying things up. Her face is in the window in the corner of my screen.
‘Could it just be someone walking their dog?’
‘There’s no dog.’ She begins to say something, but the video freezes and I don’t hear it. A moment or so later it resumes and I carry on. ‘He’s standing outside my house. It creeps me out. If I turn away, to fetch Hugh or whatever, he’s always disappeared when I turn back.’
‘It might just be some weirdo.’
‘It might, I guess.’
‘Have you talked to Adrienne?’
‘No,’ I say. I’d meant to the other night, but was worried she already thought I was crazy.
‘What are you going to do?’
I tell her I don’t know. ‘But it feels so real. I swear. I’m not crazy.’
‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘I didn’t think that for a second. Also, it’s a pretty logical response to what’s happened.’
I’m relieved. Even if Anna is humouring me, at least she’s doing that rather than trying to convince me I’m mistaken, or insane.
‘How’re things with that guy? The one you’ve been messaging. The one you think might have something to do with Kate.’
‘Lukas?’
Should I tell her? Or will she just tell me to give the information to the police and then walk away?
‘Not sure,’ I say. I give her some details. More than I gave Adrienne, but not everything. ‘We’re messaging occasi
onally. There’s something about him. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s probably nothing . . .’
Is it, though? He’s still pursuing me. Or I’m pursuing him; I can’t tell. Either way, I’ve turned my camera on, too, now. Last night. Just for a moment, less than a minute. But I’ve let him see me.
Yet I don’t tell her that.
‘Well, I heard back from that guy I messaged. The one from Kate’s list? Harenglish.’
‘You did?’
And you didn’t tell me? I think, I guess he must have had nothing to do with it.
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing much. But he said he isn’t looking to meet people, not in real life. He’s online for a bit of fun. Sexy chats, he said. But online only. He loves his wife too much to risk anything else.’
‘You believe him?’
‘Yes. Yes I do.’
It’s the day of Carla’s party. She lives miles away, halfway to Guildford. Hugh drives, Connor sits behind me, listening to music on his iPod, far too loud. Last year we’d all enjoyed the day; I’d taken a salad I’d made – grilled aubergines, a salmon with preserved lemons – and even bought a new dress. Connor had got on well with the neighbour’s children, Hugh had enjoyed relaxing with his colleagues. Now, I don’t want to be here; I’d had to be persuaded. ‘It’ll be fun,’ said Hugh. ‘Connor will get to see his friends, and it’ll be a chance for you to show him how well you’re coping.’
Am I coping, though? I think about Lukas. He’s at a wedding today, and last night I gave him my number, after we’d talked, after I’d told him about the man I thought I’d seen outside my window, after he’d given me his.
Now I wish I hadn’t. I feel bad enough about leading him on.
I turn to look at Hugh. Lukas had said he wished he could protect me, that he’d never let anyone hurt me. I’d felt safe. But my husband? He’s sitting forward, his eyes fixed on the road. It’s how I imagine he looks in theatre. Scalpel in hand, crouching over a body that’s been split like a gutted fish. Would he protect me? Of course not. He thinks I’m making it up.
Carla greets us with a flurry of smiles and kisses then takes us through the house to the patio. Hugh goes over to Carla’s husband, Connor towards a picnic blanket where the other kids are clustered. I spot Maria and Paddy standing with a few others and join them.
Maria embraces me, then her husband does. They’re talking about work; Maria mentions the conference in Geneva. She begins to describe the work she presented – she mentions anterior descending arteries, calcification, ischaemia – and the others either nod or look confused. There’s an older man standing next to Paddy and I remember him from last year, a barrister, from Dunfermline, and when Maria finishes he says, ‘Sounds utterly impenetrable!’ and everyone laughs. A moment later he turns to me.
‘And how do you fit in? Do you butcher people for a living, too?’
There’s a moment of silence. Kate hadn’t been butchered, but still the word stings. An image of my sister comes and I can’t shake it away. I open my mouth to answer but no words come.
Paddy tries to rescue me.
‘Julia’s a photographer.’ He smiles and turns to me. ‘Very talented.’
I try to smile, but I can’t. I’m still looking at Kate, her flesh torn, exposed, dying. The man I’m being introduced to has his hand out, he’s smiling.
‘Will you excuse me?’ I say. ‘I’m just going to the bathroom.’
I lock the door behind me and lean against it. I inhale deeply then step forward. The window is open; laughter drifts up from the patio below.
I shouldn’t have come here, I should’ve made an excuse. I’m sick of pretending everything’s normal, when it isn’t. I take out my phone. It’s automatic, instinctive, I’m not sure why I do it, but I’m glad. I’ve had a message from Lukas.
‘The wedding’s fun. I’m drunk already. Thinking of you.’
Despite the blackness I’m feeling, joy rushes in, as if to disinfect a wound. It’s not because the message is from him, I tell myself. It’s the simple thrill of being wanted.
By now I know how Kate would’ve replied. ‘I’m at a dreadful party,’ I type. ‘Wish you were here . . .’
I press send. I rinse my hands in cold water then splash some on my face and my neck. It trickles down, under my dress to the small of my back, lighting up my skin. I look out of the window.
Connor is outside. He’s sitting on the grass with another boy and a girl. They’re laughing at something; he seems particularly close to the girl. I realize it won’t be long until he’s dating, then having sex, and then part of him will be lost to me for ever. It’s necessary, but it fills me with sadness.
He lifts his hand to wave at his father. It strikes me how much he looks like Kate, when she was his age. They have the same slight roundness to their face, the same half-grin that can disappear and reappear in an instant.
He looks like his mother. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Yet it is, and it hurts.
I rejoin the group, but I can’t tune into the conversation. Why had I been so excited to get Lukas’s message? Why had I replied to him? The questions circle and after a minute or two I excuse myself and go to say hello to Connor. He’s with his friends, I’m interrupting him, and I feel bad. I move on, to the summer house tucked away at the side of the garden, between the house and the gate that leads to where the cars are parked. It’s octagonal and painted mint green, filled with cushions. When I get there I see that the doors are open, and that it’s empty.
I sit down and lean back against the wood. The babble of conversation continues. I close my eyes. The smell is of recently varnished wood; it reminds me of the only childhood holiday I can remember from when my mother was alive, a chalet we rented in the Forest of Dean. I can picture her, standing at the stove, boiling water for my father’s coffee while I fed Kate. She’s singing along to a radio, humming to herself, and Kate is giggling at something. We were all alive, then, and mostly happy. But that was before the slow process of dislocation that ended only when my sister’s death left me totally alone.
I want a drink. Right now. I want a drink and, worse, more dangerous, I think I deserve one.
A shadow falls across my face. I open my eyes; there’s a figure in the doorway in front of me, silhouetted against the afternoon light. It takes me only a moment to realize it’s Paddy.
‘Hi!’ He sounds bright but his enthusiasm is slightly forced. ‘May I join you?’
‘Of course.’ He steps forward. He stumbles on the low step. He’s drunker than I’d thought.
‘How’s it going?’ He holds out one of the two glasses of wine he’s brought from the house. ‘I thought you might want this.’
I do, I think. I do.
But I know I have to ignore it.
He puts the glass on the floor, where I can reach it. Ride it out, I tell myself. Ride it out. He sits down on the bench. He’s right next to me, so close we’re touching.
‘They’re still talking shop. Do they ever stop?’
I shrug. I don’t want to be drawn into this. Us versus them. The surgeons and their spouses, who are almost always wives.
‘Why do we do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘These parties? D’you enjoy them?’
I decide to be honest. ‘Not altogether. I don’t like being around drunk people. Not with my addiction.’
He looks surprised, yet he must know. We’ve talked about the fact I don’t drink, albeit obliquely. ‘Your addiction?’
‘Alcohol.’
‘I didn’t know.’
We’re silent for a while, then he slides his hand into the pocket of his jeans, his movements slow and uncoordinated. ‘Smoke?’
I reach to take a cigarette from him. ‘Thanks.’ The air between us feels solid. Loaded. Something has to happen, or something will break. A resolve, or a defence. One of us has to speak.
‘Listen—’ I begin, but at the exact same moment he speaks, too. I don’t catch what he says and ask him to repeat it.
‘It’s just . . .’ he begins. His head lowers, he falters again.
‘What? What is it?’ I realize I know what he’s about to say. ‘It’s just . . . what?’
From nowhere, I see Lukas. I imagine him kissing me. I think of my fantasy, I want it to be lust, pure lust, that threatens to crack my head against the wall behind me. I want his hands on me, desperate, pushing up my dress. I want to feel the desire to give in, to let him do what he likes.
I want to feel longing so strong that it turns into need, unstoppable need.
‘Paddy—?’ I begin, but he interrupts me.
‘I just wanted to say I think you’re very beautiful.’ He takes my hand quickly, and I let him. I’m both shocked and not shocked at the same time. Part of me had known he’d say this to me, sooner or later.
Again I think of Lukas. His words, in someone else’s mouth. It occurs that if Paddy were to look up, take the back of my neck with his hand, kiss me, I wouldn’t stop him. Not if he does it now. This is the moment when I’m weak enough, but it won’t last.