S. Watson - Second Life

I look at this man. It’s almost as if he owns me, and I must claim myself back.

‘What’s his name?’

I flinch. It’s a protective instinct; I’m angrier than I thought.

I look away. On the other side of the road a guy in Lycra remonstrates with a driver who must’ve almost knocked him off his bike.

‘No.’ I turn back. ‘Like I said, I want to keep him out of it.’

‘You don’t trust me.’

‘Lukas. It’s not as simple as that. What we had, I wanted to keep it separate from my real life. I wanted to keep it apart. I didn’t want to have to think about my husband, and certainly not my son.’

‘What we had.’ It’s a statement, not a question.

‘Sorry?’

‘You said, “What we had.” Past tense. So I’m guessing it’s over?’

I don’t answer; my choice of words had been uncalculated, my mistake Freudian. But it’s made, and now a single word is all it would take. I could say yes, then stand up. I could walk away, change my phone number, never log on to those websites, then all this would be in the past. A mistake, but one that’s easily undone. He’s never been to my house, never even seen it; nor I to his. We’re entangled, but not so much that one single decisive action wouldn’t separate us, cleanly and for ever.

But is that what I want? On the way here I’d thought it was, but now I can’t be sure. Sitting here now, I’m in two minds. Would he really hurt anyone? He seems so gentle, so loving. I think of the long nights of loneliness. I think of going back to the days when a new message on my phone would be nothing more exciting than Hugh telling me he’ll be late again or Connor asking whether he can stay out longer.

‘Look.’ He shifts his weight, opens his arms to shrug his shoulders. I’m struck again by his presence, his flesh, right in front of me. It glows; it’s in three dimensions, where everything else seems in two. ‘I fucked up. In the cinema. I’m sorry. I really thought you’d like it.’

‘I didn’t.’ I glance briefly over his shoulder at the argument that’s only now beginning to lose momentum, then look back at him.

‘It was a coincidence, that’s all. I was in Islington. I didn’t even know you lived round there.’

‘Lukas…’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘What were you doing in Islington?’

He hesitates. It’s just a fraction of a second, but long enough for it to sound like a lie. ‘I told you. Shopping. I go quite often, when I’m in town.’

‘So why were you in town?’

‘I come in every Tuesday, if you hadn’t noticed. Usually it’s to see you. It was force of habit, I suppose.’ He sighs. ‘I missed you. My day felt kind of wasted without you, so I thought I’d come up to town anyway.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘I was upset, I guess. I wanted to see you. It was our day. You cancelled on me.’

‘So you were in Islington, completely randomly, where I was taking my son to the cinema?’

‘Coincidences do happen, you know.’

I find myself beginning to wish I could believe him.

‘You think I’ve been following you? You really are paranoid.’

‘That’s an unkind thing to say.’

‘I’m sorry. Listen, I saw you. Honestly. Crossing the street. And I’d thought of nothing else but you for a whole week, so I followed you. Maybe it was a mistake—’

‘It was.’

‘But I’m going crazy. You’re all I think about.’

‘Lukas—’

‘Tell me you’ve been thinking of me.’

‘Of course I have. But—’

‘So, what’s the problem?’

‘I don’t know. I just… it freaked me out. It was… risky.’

‘I thought you liked risk? I thought you liked danger?’

‘Not like that—’

‘It’s what you’ve been telling me.’

I raise my voice. ‘Not like that. Not when it involves Connor.’

Shit, I think. I’ve told him my son’s name. It’s too late now.

He says nothing. We’re both silent for a moment. Neither of us has started to eat the food in front of us. A sandwich for him, a salad for me. It occurs to me we’ve never had a meal together, not properly. We never will.

‘How did you know what film we were going to see? Or were you looking over my shoulder as I bought the tickets?’

He still doesn’t answer.

‘I want to trust you, Lukas.’

‘Then trust me. I’ve never lied to you. I made a mistake, that’s all. I’m not stalking you. I didn’t attack your friend. I mean, after what you’ve been through?’

He looks angry, but also deeply hurt. It’s this that comes closest to convincing me. Yet still I’m not certain. Not quite.

I came here wanting to end it between us, to get out, but now I’m not sure I can. Not yet.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You have to trust me, Julia,’ he says.

I look down at my plate. ‘I find it difficult to do that with anyone, I suppose.’

He reaches out to take my hand. ‘Connor,’ he says, as if he’s trying the name out for size, seeing how it feels, how it sounds. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had a son?’

I look at the wedding ring he’s wearing. You didn’t tell me you had a wife, I want to say. Things start to add up. The ring, first, plus the fact he’s never – not once – suggested we go to Cambridge, even though it isn’t far away.

‘You’re married, aren’t you?’ I speak softly, quietly, as if I don’t really want him to hear.

‘I was. You know that.’

‘I mean, you still are. Admit it.’

‘No!’ He looks angry. Shocked. How could I suggest such a thing?

‘I told you the truth. I wouldn’t lie about that. Ever.’

I watch as his anger turns to pain. It’s visceral, unmistakable. The pain of loss, something I know only too well, and for a moment I feel guilty, and desperately sorry for him. I can’t help it. I wish I’d let him in. I wish I’d told him about my son, right from the beginning.

‘Promise me.’

He takes my hand between his. ‘I promise.’

I realize I believe him.

‘Look, my son – Connor – has been through a lot. I wanted to protect him—’

‘You think I’d hurt him?’

‘No. But it’s not so much people I’m trying to protect him from, but situations. He needs stability.’ I take a deep breath. ‘It’s complicated. Connor’s adopted. He… his mother was my sister.’

I wait while he absorbs what I’ve told him.

‘The sister who was killed?’

‘Yes.’

A long moment.

‘When did you adopt him?’

‘When he was very little. My sister couldn’t cope, so we took care of him.’

‘He knows?’

I nod. He’s silent for a moment, then says, ‘I’m sorry.’

He looks at me. I have nothing else to say. I’m spent, empty. I begin to pick at my salad. After a minute or two he says, ‘So, is this it, then?’

‘Is what it?’

‘That use of the past tense back there. This conversation. The fact you didn’t want to go to a hotel. You want me to leave you alone.’

The answer should be yes, but I hesitate. I don’t know why. I’ll miss feeling desire; I’ll miss having it reciprocated. I’ll miss being able to talk to him about things I can tell no one else.

I want to keep hold of all that, even for just a few more minutes.

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s all right. I had a feeling this was going to be one of those “I’m sorry, but…” conversations. You know. “I can’t do this any more.” That kind of thing.’

Have you had many of those? I think fleetingly. And, if so, how recently, and from which side? Dumping, or being dumped?

I look away. I think back, to everything that’s happened. I realize the dark place my grief has taken me. I’ve become fragile. Paranoid. I see danger everywhere. There’s a man standing outside my window, my lover has attacked someone when he doesn’t even know their full name, much less where he lives. If I’m not careful I will push away everything that is good in my life.