by S. J. Watson
‘D’you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘No,’ I say. I don’t want Kate in the room. ‘It was just me.’
I look up, into his eyes. They’re wide; the expression of sincerity on his face is so perfect it can only be fake. I realize we’re sitting close. His hand is resting on his thigh, his knee still pressed against mine. It’s intensely sexual. The room seems to be tipping, off balance. Something is very wrong.
‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll just use the Ladies.’
I stand. I’m unsteady. It’s as if I really have been drinking, rather than just bringing it to my lips and putting it down again. In the bathroom I look at myself in the mirror, trying to reclaim the confidence I felt earlier, but I can’t. Julia is returning; she’s just wearing someone else’s clothes.
I take out my phone, dial Lukas; there’s no answer so I leave him a message. I splash water on my face, take a few deep breaths and gather myself.
When I return David is still sitting on the stool, still leaning against the bar. He watches me approach. He smiles. His legs are spread – to balance himself, I suppose, though I wonder if he’s also offering himself in some primitive, animal way. I take my seat.
He smiles, lowers his voice, leans forward. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me, but he says, ‘I thought we could take this upstairs. Somewhere more private?’
I can’t help it. There’s a tingle, an excitement. I realize I like the thought of Lukas being upset by me wanting someone else. Yet he doesn’t know, and fear is also flooding in. This isn’t what I came here for. This isn’t supposed to happen. This man looks strong. He’s not someone I could fend off, even if I had to. Plus, we’re in public and I don’t want to cause a scene. I play for time.
‘Here?’ I say. ‘In the hotel?’ He nods. I tell myself to concentrate. ‘I’m sorry,’ I begin, ‘but . . .’
I shrug, but he doesn’t stop smiling. I think of the girls at school, and what the boys called them when they didn’t go as far as they’d unwittingly promised. ‘Cock-teasers’, they said.
He doesn’t seem to get the message. He puts his hand on my knee, moves it a fraction up, towards my thigh. He leans forward. I can smell him, pepper and wood, leathery, like old books. He begins to stroke the inside of my wrist. I know he’s going to try and kiss me, that in a moment he’ll close his eyes and open his mouth, just slightly, and I’ll be expected to do the same.
I cough, and look towards the bar. He touches my arm. There’s another tiny crackle of static.
He whispers. ‘I know who you are,’ he says, as if he’s read my mind. He smiles, baring his teeth, as if he’s growling. He’s still stroking my skin.
I look at his lips, his dark skin, the faint shadow of stubble that he’s probably never quite without. ‘What—?’ I say, as panic begins to gather within me.
‘Kiss me.’
I begin to shake my head. I try to smile, to look confident, but I can’t, I’m not. I can’t believe what’s happening. Without thinking I reach for the glass of champagne.
Ride it out, ride it out, ride it out.
‘I—’ I begin, but he interrupts me again.
‘Kiss me.’
I turn my head away from him and wrest my hand from his. I start to speak, to protest. We’re in public, I want to say. Leave me alone; but my words tumble and fall. His mouth is inches away from mine; I can smell alcohol, and beneath it is something stale. Garlic, perhaps. Where’s Lukas? I think. I need him. I want him.
I look over my shoulder. The crowd has thinned out even further; the few guests that remain are engrossed in their own conversations. No one has noticed what’s going on, or else they’ve chosen to ignore it.
‘How much?’ he says. I gasp, a little grunt of horror, but he just shrugs. It’s as if the answer to his question concerns him as little as do my protests.
‘How much?’ he says again. ‘That’s all I’m asking. Name your price.’
My price? My mind races. This man thinks I’ll sell myself, we just have to negotiate a price.
‘You’ve got it wrong.’ My voice is unsteady now. Slurred not with alcohol but with dread.
‘Have I?’ He moves his hand further up my thigh; his thumb, his fingers, are underneath the hem of my skirt. Distantly, as if from a great height, I wonder why I haven’t moved away. I imagine the whole room watching; somehow everyone knows what he’s doing, can see that I’m not stopping him. I glance towards the nearest table: the couple sitting at it have halted their conversation to sip their drinks; the man behind them is speaking into his phone. No one has noticed us. No one is looking.
‘Stop it,’ I hiss.
‘I will. If you kiss me. If you promise to come upstairs and then let me fuck you.’ He licks his lips, as if he’s hungry. The action is deliberate, it carries a message; if it’d been Lukas I’d be flattered, excited, but from him it’s more like a threat. ‘Like I know you want me to. Little slag . . .’
I turn in on myself. There’s a rush, a swell of anger. Lukas is supposed to be here, not this man. I feel myself in balance, a perfect serenity that cannot last, and for a long moment I’m unsure what I’m going to do, which way I’m going to fall.
I steel myself. ‘Look.’ I’ve raised my voice, just slightly. I want to attract attention, though without yet causing alarm. I speak firmly, hoping my voice will have an authority I don’t feel. ‘I’m asking you, politely, just this once. Take your hands off me, right now, or else I’ll break your fucking arm.’
Even as I say it I’m not sure how he’ll react. Hurt perhaps, but surely he’ll get the message? I expect him to turn away, mutter something under his breath, but it’ll make no difference. I’ll stand up, walk out. I’ll hold my head up and walk away and I won’t look back.
But he doesn’t move. He’s perfectly still, then without warning he grabs my wrist. I recoil, try to get away, but his grip is powerful. He digs in tight, twisting as he does. ‘You want to go home? Is that it? Home to your faggot husband? Hasn’t had you in weeks? Is that what you want, Julia?’
I freeze. I know I should cry out, but I don’t. I can’t. I’m paralysed.
He used my real name.
‘What—?’ I begin, but then he speaks again.
‘What’s his name? Your husband? Hugh?’
Fear floods me. I haven’t mentioned being married, much less told him my husband’s name. How does he know? This can’t be right. The room begins to spin; for a moment I feel I might collapse, but then there’s a voice. ‘Is everything okay here?’ I turn and it’s him. Lukas. Relief rushes through me as instantly as if a tourniquet had been released. The sound of the bar rushes back, like blood cells closing in on a wound. I’m safe.
This other man, David, lets go of me. He holds up his hands, palms out, a gesture of submission aimed not at me but at Lukas. It’s as if he’s asking this other man for his forgiveness, saying he’s sorry for touching his property, and it enrages me. What? he seems to say. I was just having a bit of fun. No harm done. At the same time Lukas steps in, putting himself between me and David. I can see his broad back, his hair, curly and unkempt. Finally I understand; the rush of excitement and fear
I feel is so vertiginous that for a moment I think I might gasp aloud. I’d asked for this. A stranger, I’d said, during one of our chats. In a bar. Someone who won’t take no for an answer.
He’d planned it. After everything I’d said, he’d planned this.
We go upstairs. The door slams behind me. Vaguely I’m aware that I’m the one who slammed it. Lukas turns to face me. I have the sense I shouldn’t feel safe with him, yet somehow I still do and I realize that the feeling is familiar. It’s the exact same feeling I used to have about heroin; how can something that feels this good ever hurt me?
‘What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck—?’
‘Don’t be—’ he begins, but I interrupt again.
‘Where the hell were you? What the—?’
‘I was late—’ he begins, and I interrupt him, furious.
‘Late! Like you not being on time is the important thing we’re discussing here. Who was that guy? And how the hell do you know my husband’s name?’
‘What?’
‘That guy, he called him Hugh. I’ve never told you my husband’s called Hugh. Harvey. I’ve always called him Harvey . . .’
‘Yes, why did you do that?’
‘I’ve got every right to. But that’s not the point! How did you—?’
‘Relax. You slipped up. Just once. You called him Hugh. Weeks ago. You were upset, I guess. You called him Hugh, and I remembered.’
I try to think back, to remember, but it’s impossible. I want to believe him, though. I have to. Not to believe him about this might mean I have to not believe him about other things, too. And then everything would come crashing down.
‘Julia . . .’ He takes another step forward.
‘Don’t come near me!’ To my surprise he stays where he is. After a moment he turns, goes to the mini-bar.
‘More champagne?’
I snort with derision.
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Not with me. But you will with a stranger.’
I’m furious. ‘You ordered that bottle!’
‘And you drank it.’
I look away. I can’t be bothered to argue, there’s no point. I’ve been a fool. I don’t know him at all. I’ve rejected every warning, failed to see what was going on at every turn. He’s taken my deepest desires, the things I ought never to have told anyone, and turned them against me.
He opens a miniature – vodka, I think – and pours it into a glass. ‘You told me your fantasy was being rescued. Or one of them was, at least.’
‘You think that’s what I wanted?’
‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘So you told him – that man – to be aggressive? To . . . to make me think . . . to behave like that? You shared everything I’d told you?’
‘Not everything. Just enough. I kept some of it to myself.’
‘I said no more games, Lukas! No more. Remember?’
I sit in the chair. He sits on the bed. I realize he’s between me and the door; a fundamental mistake, Hugh would say, though I don’t know why he’s ever had to worry; his patients don’t tend to be the aggressive type. I stand up again.
‘I thought it’d be fun.’ He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Look, you told me. Your fantasy. Being in danger. Being rescued. You did say that?’
‘I said lots of things. That doesn’t mean I want them to happen. Not really. That’s why they’re called fantasies, Lukas.’
Dread hits. I remember the other things I’ve told him I fantasized about. Being taken by force, not quite against my will, but almost. Being tied to the bed, handcuffs, rope. Is he also planning that?
I try to backtrack. ‘Half of the things I said I wanted I only said to please you.’
‘Really? Like how Paddy had forced himself on you?’
He’s sneering. He looks as if he doesn’t care about me at all. I mean nothing to him.
‘Poor Paddy. Accused of all those things he didn’t do. And look where it got him.’
I back away. Every part of me wants to reject what he’s telling me is true. ‘It was you!’
‘It’s what you wanted—’
‘It was you!’ My heart hammers. I tense, as if for escape. ‘It was you, all along!’
‘And the mysterious figure outside your window . . .’
‘What?’
‘It’s what you want, isn’t it? To be scared?’
I try to work it out. The first time I’d thought I’d seen someone watching me was before I even met Lukas. But the other night? It’d seemed more real, then. Could that have been him?
No. No, he doesn’t know where I live. He’s using my paranoia against me.
‘You’re crazy.’
He looks at me and I return his gaze. Something slips within me, like a lever that’s been thrown. Somehow I see myself through him, reflected in his eyes. I see the clothes I’m wearing, the shoes, even the way I smell. I realize, as if for the first time, the place I’m in and how deep I’ve got.
I’ve been here before. In thrall to something that’s destroying me. Unable to escape. I think of Marcus, and of Frosty.
I force myself to say it.
‘I’m leaving now. This is over.’
The room is still. The words have escaped. I can’t unsay them now, even if I wanted to. He closes his eyes then opens them again. His face breaks, he smiles. He doesn’t believe me.
‘You’re not.’ His voice is low and heavy; it sounds like it belongs to someone else. All his pretence has gone, leaving in its place nothing but a heavy malevolence.
My eyes flick to the door. If he wants to stop me there’s no way I can overcome him.
I draw breath, summon as much strength as I can.
‘Get out of my way.’
‘I thought we were having fun?’
‘We were. But we aren’t now. Not any more.’
His mouth hangs, half open, then he speaks.
‘But I love you.’
It’s the last thing I expect him to say. I freeze. I’m disarmed, utterly shocked. My mouth opens, but I have no words.
‘I love you,’ he says again. I want him to stop, yet at the same time I don’t. I want to believe him, yet don’t think I can.
‘What?’
‘You heard me. I thought I was making you happy. All this’ – he gestures around the room – ‘was for you. I thought it’s what you wanted.’
I shake my head. It’s another game. I know it is. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Lukas, no—’
‘Tell me you love me, too?’
I look at him. His eyes are wide, imploring. I want to believe him. Just this once, I want to know he’s telling me the truth.
‘Lukas—’
He reaches out to me. ‘Julia. Tell me, please.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Yes. Yes—’
I freeze. His hands have dropped. He smiles, then starts to laugh.
‘It’s just another one of your fantasies, isn’t it? Me loving you?’
Suddenly I’m empty. Defeated. It’s as if everything has flooded out of me and, right now, I hate him.
‘Fuck you.’
‘Oh, Julia, come on. What’s the big deal? Today? David? You want to be rescued, I want to rescue you. I wanted you to think you really were in danger.’ He looks at me. He’s trying to see if I’m softening, if the anger is burning off. It’s not. Not really. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘All I said was he should try and pick you up. That you might be keen, you might not. Either way, he shouldn’t take no for an answer. Like you wanted.’
I take a step back. ‘You’re crazy.’ I whisper it. To myself as much as to him, but he ignores me.
‘Shall I tell you what I think? I think you’re getting cold feet just as it’s starting to get interesting.’ He pretends to reconsider. ‘Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe you’re enjoying yourself a little too much.’ I begin to speak, but he continues. ‘You’re worried that you don’t deserve it.’ He finishes his drink, pours another. ‘Look. It’s a game. You know that. And yet you can’t quite think of it like that. You still think of games as something that children play. Something you’ve outgrown.’
‘No,’ I say. My voice sounds cracked. I draw breath and say it again. ‘No. You’re wrong. It’s not a game.’
He laughs. ‘What is it, then?’ I want to get out. I can think only of escape. ‘Your problem,’ he says, ‘is that you’re still too attached to the old you. You can slip away to hotels, you can dress up in all the gear, but you’re still the little housewife, married to Hugh. You’re still the person that does his shopping and cooks his food and laughs at his jokes, even though you’ve heard them a million times before. You used to despise people whose only ambition in life was a nice rich husband and an adoring son and a house in Islington with a patio and a garden. Yet that’s exactly what you’ve turned into. You’re still someone who thinks there’s only one way to be married, only one way to have an affair.’