by S. J. Watson
My mind goes back to that time. Me in the kitchen, with Frosty. She was making coffee for me, sipping red wine from a mug. I don’t think she’d been to bed, it was festival time; the day before we’d been marching with friends of Johan, partying in the bars, and then a group had come back here. Now the place was quiet; most people had left to carry on, or were asleep.
Marcus was upstairs, playing a guitar someone had left months ago. ‘There you go,’ said Frosty, handing me my drink. ‘We don’t have any milk.’ I was used to that. We never did.
‘Thanks.’
‘How’s Marky?’
‘He’s good,’ I said. ‘I think. Although his family are freaking out.’
‘Again?’
‘They want him to go home.’
Frosty gasped in mock-horror. ‘What? Away from all this? But why?’ She laughed. ‘I guess they don’t understand.’
I shook my head. ‘No. I guess they don’t.’
‘Have you met them?’
I put my coffee down.
‘No. Not yet. He thinks his dad might come over. He wants the three of us to go out. Says we should insist. He wants to show them he’s cleaned up.’
Frosty tilted her head. ‘Has he?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I was only telling half the truth. We’d kicked together, gone through cold turkey. It’d been a hell of sweating, of vomiting and diarrhoea and stomach cramps so severe we’d both moan with the pain. Our bones ached, and neither of us could find relief in sleep. I felt like I was burning up, nothing helped, and all the time the knowledge that just one more hit would make all the pain go away shone in front of us. But we were both strong, we helped each other when it threatened to get too much, and we’d been clean for a few weeks. Now Marcus’s father was on his way and Marcus had begged me for one last hit. Eventually I’d agreed. One, and then no more. Ever. We were going to do it later that day, or the following morning as the sun came up. A final farewell.
I didn’t tell Frosty all that, though.
‘We both have,’ I said. She said nothing, then smiled. ‘That’s good,’ she said, then changed the subject. We finished our drinks, talking about the partying we were planning for the weekend. ‘You’ll help me get ready?’ she said, and I said, yes, yes of course I would.
‘Good,’ she said, but then it happened. Something passed through Frosty; she looked as if she were somewhere else entirely. It lasted only for a moment, and then she looked up at me.
‘Honeybunch,’ she said. ‘Where’s Marky?’
I said nothing. The room was silent, and had been for a while. The guitar playing had stopped.
Now, I look at the picture on the bed – Marcus in the Mirror – and then up at Lukas. He’s shaking his head. I worry that he disapproves, that this conversation will mark the beginning of our disconnection, yet he deserves my honesty, in this at least. He takes my hand. ‘What happened?’
I don’t want to go back there; I can’t. Sometimes I think what I did that night was the catalyst for what happened to Kate. If I’d behaved differently she’d still be around. ‘I had a wake-up call, I guess. I left. I knew I had to. But I had nowhere to go. Not until Harvey rescued me.’
‘You knew him already?’
‘Yes. He was the son of my father’s best friend. The two of us met when I was still at school and we became friends. He was just about the only person who stayed in contact with me while I was in Berlin, and when it all came to an end it was him I called. I asked whether he’d speak to my father for me. You know, smooth the way . . .’
‘And he did?’
‘He paid for my ticket. He was waiting for me when I got off the plane. He said I could stay with him, for a few days, until I got myself sorted out . . .’
‘And you’re still there . . .’
I feel a momentary anger. ‘Yes, but you make it sound like an accident. I’m there because we fell in love.’
He nods, and I calm down. I’m glad when he doesn’t ask the next logical question: whether that’s still the case. The answer isn’t straightforward. Where once our love was deep and clear, now it’s more complex. We’ve shared good times, and bad. We’ve argued, I’ve been angry, I’ve hated him as well as loved him. We’re there for each other, but it’s not uncomplicated. Things settle, over the years. They become something else. I can’t summarize it with a simple Yes, I still love him, or No, I don’t.
‘And then you met me.’
I hold my breath. ‘Yes.’
The room is silent. From somewhere, way off, I hear the sounds of the hotel, the other guests, doors banging, laughter, and from outside comes the steady buzz of traffic. But inside all is still.
I turn on to my side. I face him. ‘Tell me about your wife.’
He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, then opens them again. ‘Her name was Kim. We met through work. She worked for a client. I loved her very much.’
‘How long were you married?’
‘She was diagnosed just before our first anniversary. They gave her a year to eighteen months. She died about seven months later.’
There’s a silence. There’s nothing to say. I tell him I’m sorry.
He looks at me. ‘Thank you.’ He reaches out to take my hand. ‘I miss her. It’s been years, but I miss her.’ He smiles, then kisses me. ‘She’d have liked you.’
I smile. I don’t know how that makes me feel. It’s meaningless, we’d never have met. If she’d still been around, Lukas wouldn’t be here with me now. For a long time I’m silent, and then I ask him.
‘You said you’d help me to find my sister online?’
‘Of course. Do you want me to?’
It’s been a week since his offer, but I’ve thought about it since. It might be painful, but it’s worth a try. And I won’t be on my own. ‘Yes. If you think you can.’
He says he’ll see what he can do. I give him her name, the name she’d used on encountrz, her date of birth, anything he might find useful. He taps them into his phone, then says he’ll do his best.
‘Leave it with me,’ he says. The room feels claustrophobic, full of ghosts. He must feel it, too; he suggests we go out. ‘We can get some lunch. Or a coffee.’
We get dressed and go downstairs, out of the hotel and down to the station. The concourse is busy but we find a table in one of the coffee shops. It’s near the window and I feel on display, yet somehow, right now, it doesn’t seem to matter. People’s gazes slide across me. I’m invisible. Lukas gets our drinks.
‘That’s better.’ He sits down. ‘Are you okay? With me talking about Kim back there, I mean?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
He smiles. ‘I’m glad we can talk about real things. Things that matter. I’ve never had that before.’
‘What do you normally do, then?’
‘With people I chat to online?’
I nod. He looks down and scratches his shoulder absentmindedly. He’s still smiling. I think of the fantasies we’ve been sharing.
‘The same thing we do?’
‘Yes. B
ut nothing’s been as crazy as it is with you.’ He pauses. ‘How about you?’
He knows I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve already told him.
‘My husband and I . . .’ I begin, but then my sentence evaporates. ‘We’ve been married for a long time.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I guess I mean I love him. I want to be there for him. But . . .’
‘But it’s not always that exciting?’
I don’t answer. Is that what I mean?
I look at Lukas. It’s easier with you, I think. We want to impress, we save the best for each other. We don’t share the stresses of everyday life, not yet, even if we have shared our big losses. I haven’t had to sit with you as you vent your frustration at the family who’ve complained about you, as you’ve moaned that you’ve had to write a letter, a ‘grovelling apology’, even though you know damn well you’d warned them of the possible side effects of surgery. I haven’t had to try to support you, knowing that you won’t be supported, that there’s nothing I can say or do that will make any difference.
‘Not always,’ I say.
‘But you’ve always been faithful?’
I think of Paddy, in the summer house. ‘Pretty much.’
He grins. It’s lascivious.
‘It’s not that exciting, really.’
‘Tell me.’
‘There was this guy. Quite recently—’
He shifts forward in his seat and I pick up my coffee.
‘He’s a friend of my husband.’ I think back to the dinner party. I want to give Lukas a story. ‘His name’s Paddy. He’s been flirting with me for a while.’
‘Flirting? In what way?’
‘Oh, you know. When we get together he always laughs at my jokes, compliments me on my clothes. That sort of thing.’ He nods, and I hear myself say it. ‘I even thought he might be stalking me.’
‘Stalking you? How?’
‘There was this guy one night. As I was getting ready for bed.’
‘You told me.’
I did, I think. He told me he wished he could protect me.
‘You really think it’s him?’
Even though I know it was never Paddy out there on the street – was almost certainly no one at all, just my vivid imagination combining with a lack of sleep – I hear myself say it. ‘Yes.’
His eyes flash wide. He looks almost pleased. I think back to what he’d said. I’d never let anyone hurt you.
I’d felt protected. Safe.
Is that why I’ve told him I thought it was Paddy? Because I want to feel like that again?
‘Someone put some cards through the letterbox, too.’
‘What cards?’
I tell him. ‘The ones the prostitutes put up in phone boxes.’
He holds my gaze. Is this turning him on?
‘You think it’s him?’
My mind goes to Paddy and his clumsy attempt to kiss me. He’d hate to know the lies I’m telling about him. But he never will.
‘Maybe. He tried to kiss me, and—’
‘When?’
‘You remember the party? When you were at your wedding? He tried to kiss me. I told him I’d never sleep with him. I think it was his way of getting back at me.’
‘Did you kiss him back?’
I remember all the times we’ve been chatting online, talking about our fantasies. Isn’t this just the same?
‘No. I didn’t want to. He forced himself on me.’
‘Bastard. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I felt ashamed . . .’
‘Ashamed? Why?’
‘I could’ve said no.’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ I look at the table top. ‘I dunno. Maybe I could’ve fought harder.’
He takes my hand. ‘Tell me where he lives.’
‘Why?’
‘He shouldn’t get away with shit like that. No one should. I’ll have a word with him.’
‘And say what?’
‘I’ll think of something.’
I think of him, knocking on Paddy’s door, but then the vision shifts, like a dream that’s twisted back on itself and become horrific. I see him standing over Kate’s body.
‘No,’ I say. I try to clear the image, but it persists.
‘You’re scared.’
‘No. No. I’m fine.’
He lifts my hand to his lips, kisses it. ‘I want to protect you.’ He looks into my eyes. ‘I’ll look after you. If you’re scared.’
Something in the room clicks over. I think of the things I’ve told him. The things I’ve wanted to do and have never done. The things I’ve wanted to have done to me. The air thickens with desire.
‘I know.’
‘Are you scared?’
I look up at him. The cord between us tightens. The skin of his hand seems to hum with energy, his flesh melds into mine, and I realize I want him, and he wants me, and he wants me to be frightened and if it’s what he wants then it’s what I want, too.
‘Yes,’ I say. I’m whispering. He shifts still further forward in his seat. ‘I’m very frightened.’
He lowers his voice, too, even though there’s now only one other person in the café. A lone traveller, with a suitcase, reading.
‘This man. Paddy. What do you think he wants to do to you? If he could?’
My own arousal begins to pulse and grow. It’s within me, something physical, something I can touch, I can feel. Something begins to open.
I open my mouth to answer but I have no words. There’s only desire left. He pushes himself away from me, still holding my hand. ‘Come on.’
He pushes me into the cubicle and locks the door. He’s a blur of activity, kissing me, shoving me, holding me. I abandon myself to his will, to whatever is happening. He’s tearing at my clothes, our limbs flail, and I realize, as if from a distance, I’m tearing at his. There’s the smell of disinfectant, or soap, and beneath it urine.
‘Lukas . . .’ I say, but he silences me with his mouth, then twists me round, pushes me up against the wall. ‘What do you think he might do?’ he’s saying. ‘This?’
I try to nod my head. He has his arm around my throat; it’s not rough, he’s not holding tight, but it’s far from gentle. He pulls down my jeans. I help him. I can feel his cock pushing into me as he separates my legs with his knee. I arch my back, to let him. Somewhere a decision is made; I will let him do what he wants. Whatever he wants. To a point.
Is this what it was like for Kate? I think. Is this how it felt for my sister?
‘Tell me,’ he whispers. ‘You want me to teach him a lesson? Tell me how scared you are . . .’
Chapter Eighteen
I’m sore, when I wake up. I can still feel his fingers on me, his hands.
Yet it’s a pain that makes me feel alive. It’s something, at least, someth
ing better than that other pain, the pain that makes me want to die.
I get up to go to the bathroom. Outside Connor’s door I stop to listen. There’s the faint sound of music, his radio alarm. I’m about to knock when I decide against it. It’s early. He’s fine. We’re all fine.
In the bathroom, I think of Lukas. Something special, he’d said. For my birthday. I can hardly wait, yet it’s the delicious anticipation of pleasure deferred. I think of him as I look in the mirror. I examine my arms, my thighs. I turn round, try to look at my back. There are marks: one in the shape of a hand, another like a bird. They are red, and look angry. The skin on their periphery is purpling.
I’m beginning to bruise.
Six days pass. Almost a week. I catch up with Adrienne, Hugh and I go to the theatre, and then it’s Tuesday again, the day of my birthday. Thirty-seven. I sleep late and for once get up last. I go downstairs and my family is already there. There’s a pile of cards on the table, a wrapped present. It’s the school holidays; the atmosphere is unhurried. Hugh’s made a pot of coffee and there’s a plate of croissants I hadn’t seen him buy.
‘Darling!’ He hands me a huge bunch of flowers from the worktop, red and green, chrysanthemums and roses. He’s still in his dressing gown. It’s plain, slate grey. ‘Happy birthday!’
I sit down. Connor pushes a card over to me and I open it.
‘That’s lovely!’ It’s a picture of the three of us, printed out from a photo on his computer, glued to some card. On the inside he’s printed ‘Happy Birthday, Mum’. I kiss the top of his head. It smells of shampoo and for a moment I think of him as a little boy and feel a tug of guilt. I’m here, with my family, yet also thinking of later, of my visit to my lover.
I can call him that, now. I turn the word over in my head. Lover. I turn to Hugh.
‘Aren’t you going to be late for work?’
He’s grinning – it almost looks like an effort, as if he’s having to force himself to forget about the case at work; the family weren’t satisfied with the letter and are considering legal action – but Connor is sharing the joke. He hands me his gift.