S. Watson - Second Life

‘Why not?’ He starts laughing. His fist is still raised. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t. I told you not to wear that fucking perfume,’ he says, and for the briefest instant I’m walking in my sister’s shoes. A pure, genuine terror hits, and then his face relaxes. He lowers his hand, but takes hold of me.

‘You really are joking,’ I say.

‘You think?’

‘Aren’t you?’

He smiles, then kisses me, hard.

‘That depends.’

Afterwards, we lie on the floor together. I’m still half in and half out of my clothes. I’m worried my shirt is ripped – I’d heard a tear as he unbuttoned it furiously, and instantly thought about how I might explain it to Hugh – and I’ve hit my head on the corner of the bed.

He turns to me. ‘You’re bruised.’

‘I know.’

‘It was me?’

I smile. ‘Yes.’ I’m almost proud.

‘You know I’d never hurt you for real, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I know that.’

I wonder if I do. I wonder what I’m getting myself into, and how deep.

Yet I can’t deny it’s coming from me as much as him. Everything is reciprocated, every fantasy I share with him is encouraged, taken further. I can’t pretend I’m not enjoying it.

‘Yes. I trust you.’

‘Good.’ He kisses me, and it’s so tender, so slow, with none of the urgency of just a few moments ago, and none of the ordinariness, the practicality, the perfunctoriness, of Hugh.

‘So where’s he taking you?’

‘Who?’ I can’t work out if it’s jealousy I hear. ‘My husband? I don’t know.’

‘Where are you hoping?’

I sit up. It’s uncomfortable, this bringing of Hugh into the room. I’ve managed so far because I’ve been able to keep him out, just like I’ve been able to keep Connor out.

An image of him swims into view. He’ll be with Dylan, now. Playing on the computer, or maybe at the park.

I wonder why I’m still glad Lukas doesn’t know I have a son.

‘I don’t know. It’ll probably be for lunch, or to the theatre. A couple of years ago he bought me tickets to the opera, but then couldn’t come. I went with Adrienne.’

‘Who’s Adrienne?’

‘Just a friend. I’ve known her for years. Since I moved to London, pretty much.’

‘Will you and your husband have sex?’

I look at him. ‘That’s not fair.’

He knows I’m right. ‘You know, you sound like you don’t much care where your husband is taking you, or what you’re going to do.’

I stand up and begin to gather my clothes. It’s not true, quite, but we’re playing a game, and I know what I have to say. ‘I don’t, really. I’d much rather spend the day here, with you.’

‘That’s what I want, too.’

I take a deep breath. I’ve been putting it off, but I have to ask, before I leave.

‘Did you find anything out? About Kate?’

He stands up and begins to get dressed.

‘Not yet. I’m working on it.’

Are you? I think. For some reason I’m not sure I believe him.

‘I was thinking about the earring. The one you said was missing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you sure the police are looking into that? I mean, it’s looking like it might be a more fruitful lead than looking at her internet friends?’

‘Well, they say they are, but I’m not sure.’

He kisses me. ‘Leave it with me. I’m sure something will come up. We’ll just have to keep digging.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ He kisses me goodbye. ‘By the way, you haven’t had your present from me, yet.’

I smile.

‘You’ll get it later. It’s a surprise.’

I leave one hotel to go straight to another. My head is throbbing, there’s a rip in my shirt that I try to cover up by buttoning up my jacket. When I arrive, I see Hugh across the lobby. He’s sitting in an armchair; across the room from him there’s a piano, above hangs a huge chandelier. I go over to my husband and he stands as I approach. He looks tired, and I feel guilty.

‘Darling!’ he says. ‘How was it?’

I tell him it was fine. I see he’s got a beach bag with him, one of mine. It must’ve been the first one he found. We sit and he pours me a tea.

‘Here you go.’ I take it from him. I look around the room at the other guests: an older couple eating scones, two women having lunch and discussing something in hushed voices, a man with a newspaper. I wonder what kind of person stays in the hotel, whether it’s the kind of place Lukas might one day invite me.

‘It’s going well,’ says Hugh suddenly. ‘Your therapy, I mean. You seem much…’

‘Better?’

‘No. Relaxed? At peace? You seem to be much clearer about Kate’s death.’

He waits, as if I’m going to say more. When I don’t, he says, ‘You can talk to me, you know.’

‘I know that.’

‘We did our best, you know? To help her. To be there for her.’

I look away. I want to change the subject. ‘It’s just… well… it’s complicated.’

‘Connor, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘It wouldn’t have turned out better, you know. If he’d stayed with her. It would have been exactly the same… or worse. We had to get him out of there. It wasn’t a good place for him.’

I shrug, then say, ‘Maybe. D’you think he’s all right?’

‘I think so. I mean, he’s struggling a little. With the Kate thing. It must be very confusing for him.’

‘I guess,’ I say. ‘I’m going to take him out next week. We’re spending the day together. The cinema, or something. I’ll talk to him then.’

He nods. I feel guilty. I should’ve discussed this with him already. We should be united when it comes to Connor, as we always have been before.

‘Good idea,’ he says. ‘He’ll be fine, you know. He’s a good lad. He has his head screwed on.’

‘I hope so.’

‘You know, I think he has a girlfriend.’

He smiles. A pleasant complicity between a father and his son.

‘Really?’ I’m surprised, even though I shouldn’t be, and I feel the heat of jealousy. I always thought I’d be the one he came to, confided in.

‘Haven’t you noticed? He keeps mentioning this girl – Evie.’

I smile. I don’t know why I’m so relieved.

‘I think I’ve met her.’

‘Really?’

I think back to Carla’s party. The girl I’d seen Connor with; I’m sure that was her name.

‘Yes. She seems okay.’

‘That’s good.’ He drinks some of his tea. ‘He’s seeing a lot of Dylan, too. He’s popular. He’ll be fine.’

He pauses.

‘And tonight we have the house to ourselves. I thought we could get some dinner, and then…’

The sentence peters out. I think of the marks on my back, my thighs. For a week I’ve been going to bed early, undressing in the dark, grabbing my robe as soon as I wake up. I can’t let him see the bruises.

I commit myself to nothing. ‘That’d be lovely.’

He smiles.

‘So, what’re we doing here?’

He grins, then puts down his cup. He shifts forward in his seat, as if he’s about to stand, to make a presentation, or an announcement. ‘Well, I thought we needed to relax…’ He beams. He hands me my bag; inside it I can see the dark blue of my swimming costume, my shampoo and conditioner.

‘They have a spa here.’ He points to the sign by the lobby. ‘Now, I’ve booked you a pedicure, and we’re both having a massage. I had arranged that for midday, but it’s okay, they’ve moved it to the afternoon…’

‘A spa?’

‘Yes. We can spend all day here. They’ve got steam rooms and a sauna, and a pool…’

‘Great,’ I say. Anxiety begins to roll in my stomach, to swell into panic. My costume is cut low at the back.