S. Watson - Second Life

– If you’re busy that’s cool. I’ll leave you alone.

– No. I’m not busy.

– Okay. So I’m here, and you’re there. What’re you up for? What’re you into?

I try to imagine what Kate would’ve said.

I can’t.

– I’m not sure.

– Are you okay?

I decide it’s easier to tell the truth.

– I’ve never done this before.

– No problem. We can chat another time, if you’re uncomfortable?

– No. I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t want to disappoint you.

– You’re beautiful. How could you disappoint me?

Deep down, but unmistakably there, there’s a weak throb of excitement. A distant signal from the remotest star.

– Thank you.

A moment, then he replies:

– It’s a pleasure. You are beautiful. I’m enjoying talking to you.

– I’m enjoying talking to you, too.

– Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing this evening?

I stop to think. Soon I’ll cook our evening meal, then I might sit with a book. But I don’t want to tell him that.

– I might go out, with friends. Or maybe catch a film.

– Nice.

We talk for a little while longer. He asks me what movies I’ve seen recently, we talk about books and music. It turns out we both love Edward Hopper and have tried but failed to finish Finnegans Wake . It’s pleasurable, but I seem to be getting further and further from finding out whether he’s ever chatted to my sister, or was in Paris in February, or even who I remind him of. After a few more minutes he says:

– Well I’d better get ready, go for dinner.

– And then go on to your bar?

– Possibly. Though I’m not sure I can be bothered now.

– How come?

– I might just come back to the room and see if you’re still online.

There’s another tiny shock of pleasure.

– Would you like that?

– I might.

– I’d like to chat again.

I don’t reply.

– Would you?

I stare at the blinking cursor. For some reason I’m thinking of my time in Berlin, in the squat with Marcus and Frosty and the rest; the sensation of both wanting and not wanting something at the same time.

Again I remind myself who I’m doing this for.

– I would.

We end the conversation. I log off and call Anna.

‘How did it go?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Did it get sexual?’

‘Not really. No.’

‘It will,’ she says.

‘Listen, will you look at his profile online? Let me know if you recognize him?’

She hesitates. I hear her stand up; she’s moving around her apartment. ‘Of course. But I don’t recognize his name. I don’t think he can be one of the ones Kate met. I suppose it’s possible he’s someone she chatted to.’

‘I need to find out.’

‘Just don’t get your hopes up.’

I won’t, I tell her. We talk some more. After we’ve said goodbye I go back online. I can’t help it. I look at Lukas’s profile, at the photographs he’s uploaded. They look completely ordinary. He’s wearing a checked shirt, open at the neck, his face is broad and handsome, his eyes dark. Did he know my sister? Is it possible?

I read the rest of his profile. He describes himself as athletic, he’s a lover of fun, he enjoys reading, music, eating out. When I scroll down I see there’s a link to his Facebook page. I click on it.

He’s used the same picture there, but I hardly look at it. I navigate straight to his timeline and begin to scroll backwards. I go back as far as February. I have to be sure.

There’s a photo of him, standing in the desert next to a man. They have their arms round each other’s shoulders, in triumph. Uluru is in the background. ‘We finally made it!’ says the caption. When Kate was killed he was in Australia.

It doesn’t mean he didn’t know her, though. I think again of what he said. You remind me of someone .

I send a message to Anna: ‘Checked Facebook. He was in Australia.’

I go to bed. It’s later than I think; Hugh’s turned out the light and is already asleep. He’s left the curtains open for me to undress in the light from the street outside. Before I do I check if anyone’s there, but tonight the street is empty, other than a couple walking arm in arm, looking either drunk or in love, it’s hard to tell. I’m naked when I get into bed; I turn on to my side and look at Hugh, silhouetted in the half-light. My husband, I tell myself, as if I need to be reminded of the fact.

I kiss him gently, on his brow. The night is hot and sticky and I can taste the sweat that’s formed there. I turn on to my other side, away from him. My hand goes beneath the covers, between my legs. I can’t help it. It’s the talk, this afternoon. The chat with the guy online. Lukas. Something has been aroused, some desire that is complicated yet undeniable.

I let it come. I’m thinking of Lukas. I can’t help it, even if it does feel like a betrayal. You’re beautiful , he’d said, and the excitement I’d felt had been instant and pure. I imagine him now, he’s saying it over and over, You’re beautiful, you’re gorgeous, I want you , yet for some reason he changes, becomes Marcus. He’s leading me upstairs, we’re in the squat, we’re going to the room we shared, to the mattress on the floor, to the tangle of bedclothes unmade from the night before. I’ve spent the day here alone, he’s been out. But now he’s back, there’s only the two of us. He’s argued with his family, his mother is distraught, she wants him home. Even just for a few weeks, she’d said, but he knows she means for ever. I tell him I’ll support him, if he goes, if he decides he wants to, but I know he won’t. Not now he’s here, and happy. He kisses me. I imagine the smell of him, his smooth skin, the fuzz of hair on his chest. These details – things that I know are half remembrances and half imaginings, a mixture of fantasy and memory – come, and they lead me somewhere, somewhere where I am strong and in control and Kate is alive and everything will be all right.

My hand, my fingers, move in circles. I try to think of Hugh, a version of Hugh, an idealized Hugh who has never existed. I imagine the way he’d look at me, the way he used to look at me, his eyes leaving my face, travelling down, pausing first at my neck and then again at my breasts before flashing lower for just the briefest of moments before coming back to my face. His appraisal would take three seconds, maybe four. I imagine letting my eyes follow the same path his had taken, taking in his unshaven chin, the black hair that pokes from under his shirt, his chest, the buckle on his belt. I imagine him leaning in to speak to me, the smell of his aftershave, the faint scent of his breath, like chewed leather. I imagine him kissing me, this idealized Hugh, who is really Lukas, who is really Marcus.

My hand moves faster, my body lifts then falls away. I’m free. I’ve become lightness and air, nothing but energy.

I sit with a glass of sparkling water. Adrienne is late.

The restaurant is brand new. Even Bob had found it difficult to get us a table, according to Adrienne, and as someone who writes restaurant reviews he rarely struggles. I hadn’t been able to decide what to wear and in the end had gone for a simple sleeveless dress with a check print, plus the necklace Hugh bought me for Christmas and perfume from my favourite bottle. It’s been so long since I’ve been out for dinner it’d felt like getting ready for a date, and now I’m beginning to feel like I’ve been stood up.

Eventually I see her coming in. She waves then comes over to the table.

‘Darling!’ She kisses me on both cheeks then we sit down. She puts her bag under her chair. ‘Right…’ She grabs the menu, still talking as she reads. ‘Sorry I’m late. The tube was delayed. “Passenger action”, they call it.’ She looks up. ‘Some selfish prick who’d had enough and decided to ruin everyone else’s day.’ I smile. It’s a black humour that we can share; I know she doesn’t mean it. How can she, after what happened to Kate? ‘You don’t mind if I have a drink?’