Second Life

by S. J. Watson

  There’s a pause, then:

  – I need to see you again. Say you want to see me, too.

  Yes, I think. I do. Funny how much less ambiguous my desires are now that they can’t be fulfilled.

  – Of course I do.

  – I’m imagining you. Naked. It’s all I can think about . . .

  I’m sitting on the stool. I can feel the metal footrest under my feet, the hard acrylic of the seat beneath my buttocks. I close my eyes. I can see him, here in the room with me. He seems real. More real than anything else.

  I don’t reply for a moment. I see my family, in the kitchen, Connor puzzled, Hugh helping him, sipping his coffee, but I push it down and instead imagine what Lukas is describing. I imagine what he wants to do.

  I begin to type. I picture him as I write. He’s standing behind me. I can smell his aftershave, the faint aroma of his sweat.

  – I want to be naked for you.

  – I want you so badly.

  I think of his urgency this afternoon, his desperate need. The shock of his desire. I let it course through my body. I feel alive.

  – I want you, too.

  – I’m imagining it. I’m reaching over to you. Running my hand through your hair.

  Again I flash on my husband, my son. This is wrong, I think. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should protest. But I can feel his hands on my scalp, both rough and gentle at the same time. Lukas is drawing it out of me, bit by bit he’s making me feel safe, moment by moment encouraging abandonment. He coaxes out my fantasies and they’re unfurling in front of him.

  – Tell me what you want.

  My hand goes to my throat. I imagine it’s him, touching me.

  – Tell me your desires.

  I turn round. I slide the bolt that locks the door from the inside. I take a deep breath. Can I do this? I never have before.

  – Tell me your fantasies.

  There are lots of things I’ve never done before. I undo a button on my shirt.

  I begin to type.

  – I’m alone. In a bar. There’s a stranger.

  – Go on . . .

  I let the images come.

  – I can’t take my eyes off him.

  – He’s dangerous . . .

  – Someone I won’t be able to say no to.

  – Won’t be able to say no to? Or who won’t take no for an answer?

  I hesitate, briefly. I know what he wants. I know what I want, too.

  It’s words on a screen, I tell myself. That’s all.

  – Who won’t take no for an answer.

  – What happens?

  I breathe in deeply. I fill myself with possibility. I undo another button on my shirt. I’m hurting no one.

  – Tell me, he says, and I do.

  When we finish I’m not embarrassed. Not quite. I haven’t described rape – it’d been more complicated than that, more nuanced – yet still I’m uneasy, as if I’ve somehow betrayed my sex.

  It’d been a fantasy, I tell myself, and not an uncommon one, from what I’ve read. But not something I’d wish on anyone. Not in real life.

  He sends me a message.

  – Wow! You really are something.

  Am I? I think. I don’t feel it. In this moment, now it’s over, I want to tell him everything. I want to explain about Hugh, the husband he doesn’t know I have. I want to tell him about my gentle, caring, solicitous Hugh.

  I also want to tell him that sometimes Hugh isn’t enough. My need is raw and animal, and yes, yes, very occasionally I just want to feel used, like I’m nothing, just sex, just pure light and air.

  And I want to explain that one person can’t be everything, not all the time.

  But how can I, when he doesn’t even know Hugh exists?

  – You, too, I say.

  I look at the time. It’s almost nine; I’ve been in here for nearly forty-five minutes.

  – I have to go, I say, but then I hear the quiet roar of a plane flying overhead and something strikes me.

  – Shouldn’t you be in the air, now?

  – I should.

  – You missed your flight?

  – Not missed. I cancelled it. I thought I’d have one more day in London.

  – Why? I say. I’m hoping I already know the answer.

  – To see you.

  I’m not sure what to feel. I’m excited, yes, but underneath it is something else. At the moment I can almost convince myself I haven’t been unfaithful, haven’t betrayed my husband. But if I see him again?

  I tell myself I wouldn’t have to sleep with him.

  Another message arrives. It’s not quite what I’m expecting.

  – The truth is, he says, I have something I need to tell you.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We arrange to meet back at the hotel the following day. I arrive early; I want time to collect myself, to calm down. I’m nervous, I can’t work out what this thing is he wants to tell me. It can’t be something good, otherwise surely he’d have told me yesterday, as we lay in bed together, or last night as we chatted online. It’s hard to prepare yourself for the worst, when you don’t know what the worst will look like.

  I’m distracted enough as it is. This morning Hugh has finally told me what was on his mind. He’d had a letter, a complaint. It had been copied to the head of the surgical directorate and the chief executive. ‘A complaint?’ I said. ‘What happened?’

  He poured the tea he’d made. ‘Nothing, really. I did a bypass on a patient a few weeks ago. Pretty standard. Nothing unusual. He’s fine, but has pumphead.’

  I waited, but he didn’t go on. He does this a lot. I’m expected to know.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Postperfusion syndrome. Poor attention, impaired fine motor skills, some short-term-memory problems. It’s pretty common. Usually it gets better.’

  ‘So why the complaint?’

  He put his cup down. ‘The family are claiming I didn’t warn them it was a possibility pre-operatively. They’re claiming it might’ve affected their decision if they’d known.’

  ‘Did you?’

  He looked at me. I couldn’t tell if he was angry. ‘Of course. I always do.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I pulled the notes from my consultation yesterday and went through them. I didn’t make a note specifying that I’d warned the family that this was a possibility.’ He sighed. ‘And, apparently, if I didn’t write it down then, legally, I might as well have said nothing. The fact that I always tell every patient makes no difference.’

  I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Will it go further?’

  ‘Well, the complaint is official.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s pathetic. I mean, what would they have done, anyway? No one ever turns round and says they won’t go through with a bypass because there’s the danger they’ll forget what’s on their bloody shopping list for a few weeks! I mean . . .’


  I watched as he fought to get his anger under control. He’s grumbled to me before – about how unreasonable some patients can be, how determined they are to find something to complain about, however trivial – but this time he looks furious.

  ‘There’ll have to be an investigation. I’ll write a letter of apology, I guess. But I know the type. They’re after compensation. I didn’t do anything wrong, but they’ll take it as far as they can.’

  ‘Oh, darling—’

  ‘And right now that’s the last thing I bloody need.’

  I felt guilty. I’ve been wrapped up in Kate’s death, forgetting that he’s had a job, a life to continue, too. I told him we were in it together, we’d be fine. I almost forgot about Lukas.

  Now, though, he’s all I’m thinking about. I go through the station, up the stairs, on to the concourse by the platforms. I think of yesterday, and of the time I was here on my way to see Anna, to visit her in Paris. Back then, the only thing I’d been able to think about was Kate.

  Lukas is waiting for me. Although we’d arranged to meet in the hotel lobby, he’s just outside the bar, standing underneath the huge statue that sits at the end of the platforms – a man and a woman, embracing, he with his hands around her waist, she with hers held to his face and neck – holding a bunch of flowers. As I approach, I notice he hasn’t seen me arrive. He’s shuffling from foot to foot, nervous, but when he sees me he breaks into a grin. We kiss. To anyone watching it must look like we’re trying to replicate the bronze statue that towers above us.

  ‘It’s called The Meeting Place,’ he says, when we’ve separated. ‘I thought I’d wait here, instead. Seemed appropriate.’

  I smile. He’s holding the flowers out to me. They’re roses, deep lilac and very beautiful. ‘These are for you.’

  I take them from him. He leans in and kisses me again, but my hand goes to his shoulder as if to push him away. I feel so exposed; it’s as if the whole world is in the station, watching us. I’m nervous, I seem to want everything at once: for him to get to the point quickly and leave, for him to invite me to stay for lunch, for him to tell me yesterday was a mistake, for him to confess to having no regrets at all.

  But at first he’s silent as we walk through the darkened bar towards the brightness of the lobby. ‘It is you,’ he says, once we’ve emerged into the light. I ask him what he means.

  ‘That perfume. You were wearing it yesterday . . .’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  He shakes his head. He laughs. ‘Not really.’

  There’s a momentary shock of disappointment. He must see it. He apologizes. ‘It’s fine. Just a bit too strong. For me, at least . . .’

  I smile, and briefly look away. His comment hurts, just for an instant, but I tell myself it doesn’t matter. There are more important things to worry about.

  ‘I guess it is a bit overpowering. For the middle of the day.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’ He opens the door and stands aside for me to go through.

  ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a little while. Let’s get a drink?’

  We sit, then order coffees. I put the flowers on top of the bag at my feet. It’s as if I’m trying to hide them, and I hope he doesn’t notice.

  I ask him again why we’re here. He sighs, then runs his fingers through his hair. I don’t think it’s nerves. He looks lost. And scared.

  ‘Don’t be mad, but I lied to you.’

  ‘Okay.’ It’s the wife, I think. She’s alive, and believes he’s still out here because he missed his flight. ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘I know we started this only as an internet fling, but the thing is, I really want to see you again.’

  I smile. I don’t know what to think. I’m flattered, relieved, but I don’t understand why there’s been a build-up. Something I need to tell you. Don’t be mad. There must be a but . . .

  ‘Do you want to see me again?’ He sounds hopeful, unsure.

  I hesitate. I don’t know what I want. I still can’t quite shake the thought that he might help me find the answers I need.

  Yet that’s not the whole story. There’s part of me that wants to see him again for reasons that have nothing to do with Kate at all.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I do. But it’s not that easy. You’re going home today, and I live here, and—’

  ‘I’m not going home today. Or not back to Italy, at least.’

  ‘Okay . . .’ Now we’re getting to the point. My mind races ahead. Where then? I want to say. Where? But instead I just nod. Part of me already knows what he’s going to say.

  ‘I live here.’

  The reaction is instant. My skin crawls; I’m hyper-sensitized. I can feel the sun on my shoulder, the roughness of the fabric of the seat, the weight of the wristwatch on my arm. It’s as if everything that has been out of focus has snapped sharp.

  ‘Here?’

  He nods.

  ‘In London?’

  ‘No. But, not far away. I live just outside Cambridge.’

  So that’s why we’re meeting here. At the station.

  ‘Okay . . .’ I’m still processing what he’s told me. It’s too intimate, too close. Perversely, the news makes me want to get away from him, so that I can sit with it for a moment and work out how I feel.

  ‘You seem very . . . quiet.’

  ‘It’s nothing. It’s just a surprise. You told me you lived in Milan.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. You’re not angry with me?’ Suddenly he sounds so young, so naive. Somehow he reminds me of myself, when I was eighteen, nineteen, back when I was falling in love with Marcus.

  He goes on. ‘For lying, I mean. It was just one of those things you say when you think you’re just chatting online and it’s not going to lead anywhere. You know how it is—’

  ‘I’m married.’ It comes out abruptly, as if I weren’t expecting it myself, and as soon as I’ve spoken I look away, over his shoulder. I don’t know what his reaction will be, but whether it’s anger, or disappointment, or something else entirely, I don’t want to see it.

  For a long moment he says nothing, but then he speaks.

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry I never told you. I thought it didn’t matter. I thought this was just an internet thing. Just like you.’

  He sighs. ‘I thought so.’

  ‘You did?’

  He nods towards my hand. ‘Your ring. It leaves a mark.’

  I look down at my hand. It’s true. Around my finger there’s an indentation, the inverse of the ring I normally wear, its negative.

  He smiles but is clearly upset.

  ‘What’s he called?’

  ‘Harvey.’ The lie trips off my tongue easily, as if I’d known all along I’d have to tell it.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He works in a hospital.’

  ‘A doctor?’

  I hesitate. I don�
��t want to tell the truth. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  The question surprises me, but my answer comes instantly.

  ‘Yes. I can’t imagine life without him.’

  ‘Sometimes that’s just a lack of imagination, though . . .’

  I smile. I could choose to be offended, but I don’t. As it turns out, we’ve each had our lies. ‘Maybe . . .’ Our coffees arrive: a cappuccino for me, an espresso for him. I wait while he adds sugar, then say, ‘But not for me and Harvey. I don’t think it’s a lack of imagination.’

  I stir my coffee. Maybe he’s right, and it is. Perhaps I can’t imagine a life without Hugh because it’s been so long since I’ve had one. Maybe he’s become like a limb, something I take for granted, until it’s missing. Or maybe he’s like a scar. Part of me, no longer something I even notice, yet nevertheless indelible.

  ‘So is this it, then?’ His face is flushed; he looks childishly defiant. I look away, over to the desk. A couple are checking in; they’re older, excited. They’re American, asking lots of questions. Their first trip to Europe, I guess.

  I realize that, while I might not know what Lukas and I have, I don’t want it to be over. I’ve felt better, these last few days and weeks, and now I know it wasn’t all to do with trying to find the person who murdered Kate.

  ‘I don’t want it to be. But my husband, he’s the—’ I stop myself. The father of my son, I was going to say, yet not only is that something I don’t want to tell him, it’s another lie. He looks at me expectantly. I need to say something.

  ‘He’s the person that saved me.’

  ‘Saved you? From what?’

  I pick up my coffee then put it down. I really want a drink.

  Ride it out. Ride it out.

  ‘Another time, perhaps.’

  ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ he says. There’s an urgency to his voice, as if he wants to finish his sentence before I can say no. ‘I still have a room.’