S. Watson - Second Life

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, for-getting 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 hypersensitized. 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.