S. Watson: Second Life

‘He’s fine,’ I say. ‘So far…’

‘He gets on well with his dad?’

‘Very.’ I don’t tell her that it’s how well he gets on with me that I worry about. I try to be as good a mother as I can, yet sometimes it doesn’t come easily. Certainly not in the same way that fatherhood comes to Hugh.

I remember I talked to Adrienne about it once. Hugh was busy with work, and Connor and I were on holiday with her twins. She had been amazing, all day, with all three children. They were much younger, there were tantrums, Connor was whining about everything and refusing to eat. I hadn’t been able to cope, and felt bad. ‘I worry it’s because he’s not mine,’ I said, once the children had gone to bed and she was sitting with a glass of wine, me with a soda. ‘You know?’ She told me I was being hard on myself. ‘He is yours. You’re his mum. And you’re a good one. You have to remember that everyone’s different, and your mother wasn’t around to set an example. No one finds it easy.’

‘Maybe,’ I said. I couldn’t help wondering what Kate would have said.

‘That’s good,’ says Anna now, and I smile. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We’re very lucky to have him.’ We carry on looking at the flowers. We make small talk, avoiding the subject of Kate. After a few minutes we walk back out, towards the car park. Adrienne is waving to me, and I tell Anna I’d better go over.

‘It’s been good to meet you,’ I say.

She turns to me and takes my hands in hers. Her grief has broken through again, she’s begun to cry. ‘I miss her,’ she says simply.

I hold her hands. I want to cry, too, but I don’t. The numbness pervades everything. It’s a defence, Hugh has said. I’m blocking everything. Adrienne agrees: ‘There’s no right way of grieving Kate,’ she says. I haven’t told any of my other friends how I feel in case they think I’m unconcerned about my sister’s murder. I feel bad.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I miss her, too.’

She looks up at me. She wants to say something. The words tumble out. ‘Can we stay in touch? I mean, I’d like that. If you would? You could come and visit me in Paris, or I could come and see you. I mean, only if you want to, I guess you’re very busy—’

‘Anna, please.’ I put my hand on her arm to silence her. Busy doing what? I think. I had a few jobs in my diary – a couple wanted pictures of them with their eight-week-old baby, the mother of a friend of Connor’s wanted the family and their Labrador – but I’ve cancelled those. Right now I’m doing nothing except existing, thinking of Kate, wondering whether it can really be coincidence that the day I went to look at the picture of Marcus is also the day that claimed her.

I manage to smile. I don’t want to seem rude. ‘I’d like that very much.’

Hugh is eating breakfast. Muesli. I watch as he pours milk into his coffee and adds half a spoonful of sugar.

‘Are you sure it’s not too soon?’

But that’s precisely why I want to go, I think. Because it’s been two months and, according to my husband, I’m still in denial. I need to make it real.

‘I want to go there. I want to meet up with Anna. I want to talk to her.’

As I say it I realize how much it means to me. Anna and I are getting on. She seems warm, funny. Understanding. She doesn’t seem to judge. And it was Anna who was closer to Kate than all of us – closer than me, closer than Hugh, or Adrienne – so it’s Anna who can help me, in a way that my other friends can’t. And perhaps I can help her, too.

‘I think it’ll do me good.’

‘But what are you hoping to achieve?’

I pause. Perhaps part of me also wants to be sure she doesn’t think badly of me and Hugh, for taking Connor. ‘I don’t know. It just feels like something I want to do.’

He’s silent. It’s been nine weeks, I think. Nine weeks, and I still haven’t cried. Not properly. Again I think of the postcard that’s still in my bag, where I put it the day Kate died. Marcus in the Mirror .

‘Kate died. I have to face it.’ Whatever it is.

He finishes his drink. ‘I’m not convinced, but…’ His voice softens. ‘If you’re sure, then you should go.’

I’m nervous as I step off the train, but Anna’s waiting for me at the end of the platform. She’s wearing a dress in pale lemon and standing in the sunlight that arcs in from the high windows. She looks younger than I remember, and she has a quiet, simple prettiness I hadn’t noticed at the funeral. Her face is one I’d have once wanted to photograph; it’s warm and open. She smiles when she sees me, and I wonder if she’s already shedding her grief, while mine is only just beginning to grip.

She waves as I approach. ‘Julia!’ She runs forward to greet me. We kiss on both cheeks then hold each other for a few moments. ‘Thanks so much for coming! It’s so good to see you…’

‘You too,’ I say.

‘You must be exhausted! Let’s get a drink.’

We go to a café, not far from the station. She orders us both a coffee. ‘Any news?’

I sigh. What’s there to say? She knows most of it already. The police have made little progress; Kate had been drinking in a bar on the night she was attacked, apparently alone. A few people remember seeing her; she seemed in good spirits, was chatting to the barman. Her phone records haven’t helped, and she was definitely by herself when she left. It’s irrational, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m responsible for what happened.

‘Not really.’

‘I’m sorry. How’re you doing?’

‘I just keep thinking of her. Of Kate. Sometimes it’s like nothing’s happened at all. I just think I could pick up the phone and call her and everything would be all right.’

‘You’re in denial. That’s normal. After all, it hasn’t been that long.’

I sigh. I don’t want to tell her how Kate has been haunting me, that I’ve been dialling her number over and over again only to hear a pre-recorded voice, speaking in French, informing me that her number hasn’t been recognized. I don’t want her to know I bought Kate a card, that I wrote out a message and sealed the envelope, then hid it in the bureau underneath a pile of paperwork. I don’t want to admit that the worst thing, the hardest thing, is that some small part of me, a part of me I hate but can’t deny, is glad she’s gone, because at least now she’s not ringing me up in the middle of the night to demand I return her son.

‘Two months,’ I say. ‘Hugh says that’s hardly any time at all.’

She smiles sadly, but says nothing. In a way I’m relieved; there’s nothing anyone can say that might help, everything is irrelevant. Sometimes silence is better and I admire her for braving it.

‘How about you?’ I say.

‘Oh, you know. I’m really busy with work, which helps.’ I remember that she’s a lawyer, working in compliance for a big pharmaceutical company, though she hasn’t told me which one. I wait for her to say more but she doesn’t.

‘How’s Connor?’ she asks. She seems genuinely concerned; I can’t believe it had once crossed my mind that it’d been her trying to help my sister to get him back.

‘He’s all right. I suppose…’

Our coffees arrive. Two espressos, sachets of sugar in each saucer, a single foil-wrapped chocolate.

‘Actually, I’m not sure he is. All right, I mean. He seems angry all the time, slamming doors for no reason, and I know he’s crying a lot. I hear him, but he denies it.’

She doesn’t respond. Part of me wants to tell her I’m worried I’m losing my son. For so many years we’ve been so close, more like friends than mother and child. I’ve encouraged him in his art, taken him out sketching. He’s always turned to me when he’s been upset, as much as he has to Hugh. He’s always told me everything. So why does he now feel that he has to suffer alone?