S. Watson - Second Life

‘D’you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘No,’ I say. I don’t want Kate in the room. ‘It was just me.’

I look up, into his eyes. They’re wide; the expression of sincerity on his face is so perfect it can only be fake. I realize we’re sitting close. His hand is resting on his thigh, his knee still pressed against mine. It’s intensely sexual. The room seems to be tipping, off balance. Something is very wrong.

‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll just use the Ladies.’

I stand. I’m unsteady. It’s as if I really have been drinking, rather than just bringing it to my lips and putting it down again. In the bathroom I look at myself in the mirror, trying to reclaim the confidence I felt earlier, but I can’t. Julia is returning; she’s just wearing someone else’s clothes.

I take out my phone, dial Lukas; there’s no answer so I leave him a message. I splash water on my face, take a few deep breaths and gather myself.

When I return David is still sitting on the stool, still leaning against the bar. He watches me approach. He smiles. His legs are spread – to balance himself, I suppose, though I wonder if he’s also offering himself in some primitive, animal way. I take my seat.

He smiles, lowers his voice, leans forward. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me, but he says, ‘I thought we could take this upstairs. Somewhere more private?’

I can’t help it. There’s a tingle, an excitement. I realize I like the thought of Lukas being upset by me wanting someone else. Yet he doesn’t know, and fear is also flooding in. This isn’t what I came here for. This isn’t supposed to happen. This man looks strong. He’s not someone I could fend off, even if I had to. Plus, we’re in public and I don’t want to cause a scene. I play for time.

‘Here?’ I say. ‘In the hotel?’ He nods. I tell myself to concentrate. ‘I’m sorry,’ I begin, ‘but…’

I shrug, but he doesn’t stop smiling. I think of the girls at school, and what the boys called them when they didn’t go as far as they’d unwittingly promised. ‘Cock-teasers’, they said.

He doesn’t seem to get the message. He puts his hand on my knee, moves it a fraction up, towards my thigh. He leans forward. I can smell him, pepper and wood, leathery, like old books. He begins to stroke the inside of my wrist. I know he’s going to try and kiss me, that in a moment he’ll close his eyes and open his mouth, just slightly, and I’ll be expected to do the same.

I cough, and look towards the bar. He touches my arm. There’s another tiny crackle of static.

He whispers. ‘I know who you are,’ he says, as if he’s read my mind. He smiles, baring his teeth, as if he’s growling. He’s still stroking my skin.

I look at his lips, his dark skin, the faint shadow of stubble that he’s probably never quite without. ‘What—?’ I say, as panic begins to gather within me.

‘Kiss me.’

I begin to shake my head. I try to smile, to look confident, but I can’t, I’m not. I can’t believe what’s happening. Without thinking I reach for the glass of champagne.

Ride it out, ride it out, ride it out.

‘I—’ I begin, but he interrupts me again.

‘Kiss me.’

I turn my head away from him and wrest my hand from his. I start to speak, to protest. We’re in public, I want to say. Leave me alone; but my words tumble and fall. His mouth is inches away from mine; I can smell alcohol, and beneath it is something stale. Garlic, perhaps. Where’s Lukas? I think. I need him. I want him.

I look over my shoulder. The crowd has thinned out even further; the few guests that remain are engrossed in their own conversations. No one has noticed what’s going on, or else they’ve chosen to ignore it.

‘How much?’ he says. I gasp, a little grunt of horror, but he just shrugs. It’s as if the answer to his question concerns him as little as do my protests.

‘How much?’ he says again. ‘That’s all I’m asking. Name your price.’

My price? My mind races. This man thinks I’ll sell myself, we just have to negotiate a price.

‘You’ve got it wrong.’ My voice is unsteady now. Slurred not with alcohol but with dread.

‘Have I?’ He moves his hand further up my thigh; his thumb, his fingers, are underneath the hem of my skirt. Distantly, as if from a great height, I wonder why I haven’t moved away. I imagine the whole room watching; somehow everyone knows what he’s doing, can see that I’m not stopping him. I glance towards the nearest table: the couple sitting at it have halted their conversation to sip their drinks; the man behind them is speaking into his phone. No one has noticed us. No one is looking.

‘Stop it,’ I hiss.

‘I will. If you kiss me. If you promise to come upstairs and then let me fuck you.’ He licks his lips, as if he’s hungry. The action is deliberate, it carries a message; if it’d been Lukas I’d be flattered, excited, but from him it’s more like a threat. ‘Like I know you want me to. Little slag…’

I turn in on myself. There’s a rush, a swell of anger. Lukas is supposed to be here, not this man. I feel myself in balance, a perfect serenity that cannot last, and for a long moment I’m unsure what I’m going to do, which way I’m going to fall.

I steel myself. ‘Look.’ I’ve raised my voice, just slightly. I want to attract attention, though without yet causing alarm. I speak firmly, hoping my voice will have an authority I don’t feel. ‘I’m asking you, politely, just this once. Take your hands off me, right now, or else I’ll break your fucking arm.’

Even as I say it I’m not sure how he’ll react. Hurt perhaps, but surely he’ll get the message? I expect him to turn away, mutter something under his breath, but it’ll make no difference. I’ll stand up, walk out. I’ll hold my head up and walk away and I won’t look back.

But he doesn’t move. He’s perfectly still, then without warning he grabs my wrist. I recoil, try to get away, but his grip is powerful. He digs in tight, twisting as he does. ‘You want to go home? Is that it? Home to your faggot husband? Hasn’t had you in weeks? Is that what you want, Julia?’

I freeze. I know I should cry out, but I don’t. I can’t. I’m paralysed.

He used my real name.

‘What—?’ I begin, but then he speaks again.

‘What’s his name? Your husband? Hugh? ’

Fear floods me. I haven’t mentioned being married, much less told him my husband’s name. How does he know? This can’t be right. The room begins to spin; for a moment I feel I might collapse, but then there’s a voice. ‘Is everything okay here?’ I turn and it’s him. Lukas. Relief rushes through me as instantly as if a tourniquet had been released. The sound of the bar rushes back, like blood cells closing in on a wound. I’m safe.

This other man, David, lets go of me. He holds up his hands, palms out, a gesture of submission aimed not at me but at Lukas. It’s as if he’s asking this other man for his forgiveness, saying he’s sorry for touching his property, and it enrages me. What? he seems to say. I was just having a bit of fun. No harm done. At the same time Lukas steps in, putting himself between me and David. I can see his broad back, his hair, curly and unkempt. Finally I understand; the rush of excitement and fear I feel is so vertiginous that for a moment I think I might gasp aloud. I’d asked for this. A stranger , I’d said, during one of our chats. In a bar. Someone who won’t take no for an answer .

He’d planned it. After everything I’d said, he’d planned this.

We go upstairs. The door slams behind me. Vaguely I’m aware that I’m the one who slammed it. Lukas turns to face me. I have the sense I shouldn’t feel safe with him, yet somehow I still do and I realize that the feeling is familiar. It’s the exact same feeling I used to have about heroin; how can something that feels this good ever hurt me?