S. Watson - Second Life

‘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. But 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…’

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, something 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.