Текст книги "Second Life"

Автор книги: S. J. Watson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I have no choice. I go home.

It’s late; the house is quiet, in darkness. It ought to feel safe, a place of refuge, but it doesn’t. Hugh and Connor are upstairs, asleep. Completely unaware of what’s happening, of where I’ve been. I’m separate from my family. Separate and alone.

I go into the lounge and turn on a table lamp, then sit in its warm glow. I turn the memory stick over and over in my hands. It’s so small, fragile. I could destroy it easily, crush it under foot, melt it over the flame from my lighter. For a moment I think I will, but I know it’s futile. I put it down, pick it up again.

I fetch my computer, switch it on, slide the stick into the port. I know I shouldn’t look, but somehow I can’t help it. Once, maybe even just a few weeks ago, I’d have still been hoping it might all turn out to be a joke, that he’ll have loaded the device with one of those tacky e-cards I used to hate but now send routinely when I’ve forgotten someone’s birthday. I’d have half expected the file to be an animated cartoon. Dancing monkeys, my face superimposed, singing a song. Fooled you!

But not any more. I can’t even pretend to myself now.

There are a dozen or so files, some pictures, some videos. I make sure my machine is muted then choose one at random.

It’s a video. The two of us. On the bed, naked. I’m underneath him, but my face is in the frame. I’m recognizable.

My eyes are closed, my mouth open. I look faintly ridiculous. I can bear it only for a second or two. I feel a sort of detached horror; detached because I could easily believe the woman on the screen has nothing to do with me, horror because this most intimate of acts is here, recorded without my knowledge, preserved for ever.

Exhaustion wipes me. How did he film this? Did he set up his laptop, angle the inbuilt camera towards the bed? I would’ve noticed, surely?

Maybe it was something more sophisticated, then. A hidden camera, disguised as a drinks can, built into the cap of a ballpoint pen. I know they’re available, I’ve even seen them in the department stores – John Lewis, Selfridges – when I’ve been looking at cameras. At the time I wondered why anyone would want one. They were for professionals, surely, private investigators. They belonged in the realm of James Bond. I guess now I know.

I shiver. These videos and pictures go right back to the beginning of our affair; he must have been planning this, all along. A wave of nausea breaks. I breathe as deeply as I can, long, slow breaths that don’t help at all, then slam my machine closed before ripping the memory stick out of the port and throwing it across the room. It bounces off the wall and clatters to the floor at my feet.

I stand up. I can’t leave it here. I imagine Connor picking it up, taking a look. What would he say? What would he think? I find it and go upstairs. I put it in my drawer; tomorrow I’ll take it out, throw it in the canal or under the wheels of a bus. I want a drink, yet am aware it’s the last thing I ought to do. Once I start I might not be able to stop. I run a shower instead, as hot as I can bear it. Still my skin has never felt less alive. It’s only when the water is so hot it nearly scalds that I feel anything at all.

For the next two days I don’t sleep. I call Anna, over and over, but she doesn’t answer. I’m on edge. I startle at every noise, wondering if it’s Lukas. I dread every call or message, every package in the post. I’m not sure what to do. I call Adrienne, but I can’t tell her what’s wrong. I just say I’m not well, I have a virus, I’ll talk to her next week. She’s going to be away for a few days anyway, she says. Bob’s taking her to Florence.

I decide I’ll turn up for lunch with Anna, at her hotel as we arranged. He might be there, of course, or she might not want to speak to me, but I have no other option. In any case, I decide a severance might actually be better; I could go back to my own life, then, concentrate on Connor and Hugh.

Still I can’t settle. I want to leave the house but can think of nowhere to go. I want to switch my phone off, but daren’t in case I miss a call from Anna. By Thursday Hugh has noticed; he tells me I need to get out, to do something to take my mind off Kate. ‘You’ve just taken a step backwards,’ he says. He thinks the grief has returned, and in a way he’s right. There’s the grief he knows about, and also the grief he doesn’t.

I take Connor out for supper. I choose a bun-free burger and a salad, though when I look over at Connor’s meal, all melting cheese and twice-fried chips, I wonder why I’m bothered. My life is falling apart, my affair about to be exposed in the worst possible way. Why do I care what I look like, what I eat?

Perhaps Kate had the right idea. Eat, drink, fuck who you like and never mind the consequences.

And then die.

I reach over and grab a couple of Connor’s fries. He looks up from his phone, his brow furrowed, his face a picture of mock-indignation. ‘Mum!’ he says, but he’s laughing. It’s a tiny moment of pleasure, seeing him happy. I wonder if it’s the first time since we told him they’d caught Kate’s killer.

I nod at his phone. ‘What’re you up to?’ I say.

He puts his phone back on the table. Within reach, face down. It buzzes almost straight away.

‘It’s just Facebook. And I’ve got a chess game going.’

‘With Dad?’

‘No. Hugh only likes to play in real life.’

‘Hugh?’ I’m shocked, momentarily.

‘He said I could call him that, if I wanted. He said he didn’t mind.’

It bothers me. He’s growing up, but also pushing away from us. The first is inevitable, but like every parent I’d hoped to avoid the second, for a little while longer at least.

But in a way it’s good to be upset by this. After the horrors of the last few days, the worry about Anna and the pictures Lukas has on his computer, this is something mundane and easily sorted. It feels normal. Family stuff.

‘Just don’t ask to call me Julia.’ I’m Mum, I want to add.

‘Okay.’

I smile. I want him to know I understand, that I remember being a teenager; that desperate hunger for adulthood and responsibility. I want him to know I’m part of his world, that I love him. He takes a huge bite of his burger; juice runs down his chin. He wipes it with the back of his hand and I pass him a napkin. I can’t help myself. He takes it from me but doesn’t use it. I pick at my salad, casting around for something to talk about.

‘How’s football?’

‘I was picked for the team again. I’m playing next Saturday.’

He pauses, then says, ‘Oh! Did I tell you?’

I put down my fork. The noise in the restaurant seems suddenly to increase. He’s looking at me, expectantly, his eyebrows raised, and I shake my head.

He takes another bite of his burger, a few fries.

‘Well …’ he begins. I’m about to tell him to please finish chewing before beginning to speak but something, some kind of premonition, stops me. ‘You remember when we went to see Planet of the Apes?’

I feel myself tense. ‘Uh-huh?’

He reaches for the mayonnaise. ‘Well, you remember the creepy guy? The guy who came in and sat right by us and then just left?’

I try to sound as though I’m struggling to recall. ‘Oh, yes,’ I hear myself say. I don’t recognize my own voice; it sounds filtered, distorted, as if it’s coming from some distance away. ‘I’d completely forgotten about him,’ I add. There’s a catch in my voice and it sounds false, even to me. Yet he doesn’t seem to notice. I watch, silently, bile rising to my throat, waiting for him to continue as he squirts mayonnaise on to his plate, then goes for the ketchup. As he speaks he mixes the two to a marbled pink mush. I want him to hurry up with whatever he’s got to tell me.

‘Last night I saw him again,’ he says. ‘You remember I went bowling? With Dylan and Molly and the others? Well, he was there. Over in the next alley.’ He picks up a handful of fries, dips them in the pink sauce. ‘I noticed him first of all ’cos it looked like he was there on his own. Y’know, no kids or anything. We thought he was waiting for someone, but nobody turned up. He just stood there bowling by himself. Then he left. Weird, eh? I mean, who does that? Molly thought he looked like a paedo.’

My head begins to spin. I flush, as if all the blood in my body were rushing to my head and neck, then a moment later everything – Connor, the rest of the restaurant – begins to recede, as if disappearing down a tunnel.

‘Mum?’ says Connor. ‘Are you okay?’

I reach for the glass of water in front of me. It’s cool to the touch; I bring it to my mouth. The movement is mechanical, I do it without thinking. I sip, and some spills from the overfull glass. I barely notice; it’s as if I’m watching myself from the other side of the room.

‘Mum?’ says Connor, more urgently. He looks worried, but I can do nothing to allay his fears.

My head spins with images of Lukas. I should’ve known. I should have protected my son. I’ve let him down, just like Kate and Anna. I force myself back to the present.

‘Yes?’ I realize water is dripping down my chin. I wipe it. ‘I’m fine. Sorry? Go on …’

‘Well, that’s it. He just turned up and bowled and—’

Another rush of panic hits. ‘How did you know it was him?’

‘Oh, y’know?’ He picks up another couple of fries. I grab his hand.

‘Connor. How did you … are you sure?’

He looks at my hand on his arm, then up to my face. ‘Yes, Mum. I recognized him. He was wearing the same cap. Remember? The Vans trucker? It was a classic patch—’

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I must look puzzled; he seems to be about to describe it to me when he changes his mind. ‘Anyway. He had the same cap on.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes!’

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘Not really …’

Anger begins to displace the panic. Anger with myself, with Lukas, with Connor. ‘Not really? Is that not really yes, or not really no? Which is it, Connor?’

My voice has risen, in both pitch and volume. I fight to control it.

‘He just said sorry.’ Already he sounds resentful, sulky. He’s looking at me as if I’ve gone crazy. I can see he wishes he hadn’t mentioned it. ‘He spilled his beer over me. That’s all. It was an accident. Anyway …’

It’s clear he wants to change the subject, but I ignore him. ‘So what did this guy say?’

He sighs. ‘He said, “Hey, dude, I’m sorry.” That was it. That’s one of the ways I knew it was the same bloke, ’cos that’s what he’d called me in the cinema. Dude. No one says it any more.’ He sips his milkshake. ‘Can you let go of my arm?’

I hadn’t realized I was still clutching him.

I release him and sit back. Anger is burning within me now, a rage. Yet it has nowhere to go, nothing to burn, and so it sits, deep and poisonous. I’m trying to keep my face neutral, my features calm. I’m failing. I tense, I’m chewing my bottom lip.

A question comes to me, with an awful, sickening lurch: I now know Lukas has been following me on the iPhone app, but how did he know where my son would be? How did he get to Connor?

I sit forward. ‘Who knew you were going bowling?’ I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. ‘Who did you tell?’

‘No one. Why? Mum?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I’m almost shouting. ‘You must’ve told someone!’

‘Mum—?’

‘Molly, and Dylan? They knew, for a start! Who else was there with you?’

He looks at me. His expression is odd; almost fearful. ‘Dylan’s dad took us.’

‘When?’ The questions come thick and fast. ‘When did you arrange it? Who did you tell, Connor? Who knew you were going?’

‘Jesus, Mum! Some of the guys. Y’know? We invited Sahil, and Rory, but they couldn’t come. Oh, and I guess Molly might’ve invited a few people. And I guess Dylan’s dad might’ve told Dylan’s mum. Just possibly …’

His voice has a new note, one I haven’t heard in him before. Sarcasm.

‘There’s no need for that attitude—’

He ignores me.

‘… and I probably told Evie, and I suppose I just might’ve posted it on Facebook, so there’s all the people who follow me there, and—’

I interrupt him. ‘Who follows you on Facebook?’

‘I dunno. Friends. Friends of my friends. People like that.’

Something begins to coalesce in my mind. All the way through, Lukas had always known more than I thought I’d let him know. I now know he was tracking my location, moment by moment, but I’ve never worked out how he knew the other details. The fact we were planning on going to a cinema at all, what film we were going to see. Hugh’s name, when I’d only ever called him Harvey.

And now I think I know. If he was following Connor’s posts, and Connor was posting everything …

An awful thought occurs. Could that be how he’d figured out Paddy’s last name, too? And where he lives? I can see how it might be. Connor might’ve mentioned our guests by name, and from there a quick search – Maria, Hugh, surgeon – would lead to a surname. He could then easily look at Paddy’s Facebook page, or LinkedIn, or whatever else he might use.

‘Give me your phone.’

‘Mum—!’ he begins, but I silence him.

‘Give me your phone, Connor. Now.’

He passes it over and I tell him to unlock the screen, to open his Facebook profile. I can see he wants to fight, to protest, but he knows he’s not old enough to stand against me, yet. I hold my hand out for him to give me the phone back, but he tosses it on to the table.

I pick it up. I scan through his updates. Most days he’s posted several; there are too many to check, and many of them I don’t understand. Messages to his friends, in-jokes, gossip, chat about the football or things he’s watched on TV. I go back, rewinding through the year, to the summer, and I see what I’m looking for. ‘Off to Islington Vue,’ says one. ‘With my MOTHER.’ I scroll back further, to older messages, realizing as I do how used I am to reading things in backwards chronology. A few messages later I see, ‘Family trip to the cinema tomorrow. Planet of the Apes!’

‘Who are you friends with?’ I hand the phone back to him. ‘Show me.’

He begins to protest, but I interrupt. ‘Connor! Show me, now!’ He hands back the phone. There are hundreds of people following his updates, some whose names I recognize, but many I don’t. I scan them quickly, and after a moment I see it. David Largos. Without warning I flash back on my first conversation with Lukas, back when things had felt simple, manageable. The surname is the same as his username back then. Whatever hope I’d had – that I was mistaken, that I was wrong – collapses.

I hold the phone out to him. ‘Who’s this?’ I shout. ‘Who’s David Largos?’

‘I don’t know, Mum.’ He raises his voice. ‘Just somebody. Okay? That’s the way it works. I don’t know everybody who follows me. Yeah?’

I select the username and a picture appears. It’s a picture of a dog, wearing a baseball cap with the word ‘Vans’ written on it. There’s no other information, but it’s him.

That’s it, I think. That’s how he knew. That’s how he knew everything.

First Anna, then me. And now I know it. Connor is involved as well.

‘Delete it.’ I give him his phone back. ‘Delete your profile.’ I’m shaking, but he doesn’t move.

‘No!’ He looks horrified, as if what I’ve asked him to do is utterly unreasonable. I wish I could tell him why it’s so important, but I can’t. I wish I could tell him how much his ridiculous and almost constant sense of being hard done by infuriates me, but I don’t.

‘I’m not joking, Connor. You have to delete your profile.’ He begins to argue, a barrage of buts and can’ts and won’ts.

I ignore him. ‘Connor!’ I’ve shouted. There’s a momentary hush – a stillness – in the restaurant and I know that if I were to look around I’d see people staring at us. There’s a young couple on the table next to us, he, wearing tracksuit trousers and a hooded top, she, in a mini-dress, and on the other side a woman with someone I imagine is her daughter, a pram parked between them. I don’t want to be their entertainment for the evening, but neither do I want them to know I’m embarrassed. I lower my voice but keep my eyes fixed on my son.

‘This isn’t a game. I’m telling you. Delete your profile. Now. Or else I’ll take your phone off you and you can go back to using your old one …’

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Watch me.’

His jaw drops. He’s incredulous, it’s outrageous, he doesn’t believe I’d even consider such a thing. He stares at me, and I stare back.

I hold out my hand.

‘Your phone, Connor. Give it to me. Now.’

He snatches his phone out of my reach and stands up. At first I think he’s going to say sorry, or make some other plea to my better nature, but he looks furious and, sure enough, does no such thing. Instead he hisses at me, ‘Fuck you.’ A moment later he’s turned and is heading for the exit, leaving me open-mouthed with shock.

I stand up, too; my napkin slides to the floor. ‘Connor!’ I say, as firmly as I can, but he ignores me. ‘Get back here!’ People stare, there’s a hush. I’m losing control, everything’s receding. It’s as if I’m hurtling down a tunnel, trying to get back to a reality that’s slipping away from me as quickly as I am from it. I try to follow Connor as he shoulders past people at the door and goes outside. I have to catch up with him, and I force myself back to reality.

‘I’ll come back,’ I say to the waiter, who looks as though he’s seen this sort of thing before. I squeeze past the tables – people move their chairs out of the way, turning their faces away from me as they do, as if I’m best avoided – but by the time I get outside Connor has gone. I glimpse him in the distance, running along Upper Street in the opposite direction from home, and without thinking any further I begin to give chase.

Hugh’s waiting for me when I get in. He comes to the door as I open it. I’m flustered, fumbling with my keys. I drop them as I take them out of the door. He bends over and picks them up, then gives them to me.

‘What’s going on?’ I shrug off my coat.

‘He’s here?’

‘Yes.’

He must’ve doubled back, or gone through the backstreets.

‘Where is he?’ I say.

‘Upstairs. What’s going on, Julia?’ He’s raised his voice but appears largely unflustered.

I push past him. I’m furious. I’d had to go back to the restaurant; people had stared at me as I’d asked for the bill and paid it. A woman had tilted her head, half smiling, in a way that I suppose was meant to convey sympathy and understanding but in fact made me want to slap her. I’d then left in a hurry, forgotten the bag I’d stashed under my seat, had to go back for it.

‘He made me look an absolute bloody idiot.’

He tries to interrupt, but I don’t let him. I go upstairs, towards Connor’s room. What I can’t let him see is that I’m scared, as well as furious. Lukas has got to my son, as well as to me, as well as to my friend. He’s stalking him now, and I don’t know why. I can only hope it’s to intimidate me, to let me know he has the power to do that. I can only hope that he’s made his point now, and that’s all it is.

But maybe he’s got a taste for it. For scaring me, for proving just how deeply he’s infiltrated my life. I realize that I’m going to have to see him again, somehow confront him. I can’t let him get away with it.

I’m at the top of the stairs when Hugh calls me back. ‘Julia! What the hell is going on?’

I turn to face him. ‘What’s he told you?’

‘Some argument about his phone. The internet? He said you were being totally unreasonable.’

I could tell Hugh, I think. I could tell him everything. Lukas would have no power over me then.

But it would end our marriage. And Connor wouldn’t be able to cope with that, not on top of his mother’s death. I might lose him, too, if it all came out.

I have to protect him. I promised Kate I’d put him first, always. I told her that he was the world to me, when we first had him, and then again and again when she was trying to take him back. To let him down now would be the final betrayal, the ultimate failure.

‘He’s grounded.’ It’s a punishment – for leaving me in the restaurant, for using Facebook to tell the whole world about my life – but then I realize it would also be a protection. If he can’t go out, Lukas can’t get to him.

‘I mean it.’

Hugh stands still. He shrugs, as if to say it’s up to me, but then says, ‘Is it really that important?’ It enrages me even further. He thinks he’s protecting Connor, but he doesn’t understand. I turn to go into Connor’s room; by now my fury is stoked, throbbing. Dimly, I’m aware that it’s an anger that would be better directed at Lukas, but that’s not possible, and it must be discharged somewhere. And so, here we are. ‘And I’m taking his phone,’ I say, adding, ‘That’s all there is to it,’ as if he were about to argue.

Connor has closed his door, of course. I knock, but it’s perfunctory; I’m opening the door before I’ve even finished telling him I’m coming in. I don’t know what I expect to see – him lying face down on his unmade bed perhaps, wearing headphones, or lying back to stare grimly at the ceiling – but what I do see surprises me. The room is even more untidy than usual, and he’s standing at his bed, frantically stuffing the contents of his chest of drawers into the sports bag he has open in front of him.

‘Connor!’ He looks up, his face grim, but says nothing. I ask him what he thinks he’s doing.

‘What the fuck does it look like?’

‘Don’t you use language like that with me!’ I’m aware of Hugh arriving at my side, though he hangs back slightly; this is my argument, and he won’t take sides until he’s sure which one he should be on. The room is silent for a moment, thick with venom and animosity.

Connor mutters something. Again it sounds like ‘Fuck you’, though that might be my imagination finally refusing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

‘What did you just say?’ I’m shouting, now. I can feel my heart in my chest, too fast. Preparation for the fight.

‘Julia—’ begins Hugh at the doorway, but I silence him.

‘Connor Wilding! Stop what you’re doing right now!’

He ignores me. I go over, snatch the bag off the bed and toss it to the floor behind me. He raises his hand, as if he’s about to strike me, and I look in his eyes and see that he’d like to. I grab his wrist. For a moment I think about Lukas grabbing mine, and I’d like to twist my son’s in the same way, hurt him in the same way. Instantly, I’m ashamed. Distantly, I get the impression I’d never think this with a son of my own, one I’d given birth to; the thought of causing him pain wouldn’t cross my mind, not even fleetingly. Yet I’ll never know, and in any case I don’t get the chance. He wrenches his arm out of my grip; I’m surprised at his strength.

‘You stupid little boy!’ I can’t help it. I can feel Hugh bristle behind me; he takes a step forward, is about to speak. I get in ahead of him. ‘Where d’you think you’re going to go? Running away? At your age? Don’t be so ridiculous.’

He looks wounded.

‘You think you’d last more than five minutes?’

‘I’m going to see Evie!’ he yells, his face inches from mine. His spittle falls on my lips.

‘Evie?’ I start to laugh. I’m regretting it already, but somehow powerless to stop speaking. ‘Your girlfriend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your girlfriend who you only talk to online?’

His face falls. I can see I’m right.

His voice cracks. ‘So?’ I experience a moment of triumph then feel utterly wretched.

‘Are you even sure she’s who she says she is?’

I mean it to be a genuine question, yet it comes out as a sneering accusation.

‘Julia …’ Hugh’s taken another step forward, is by my side now. I can feel his heat, the faint aroma of his body after a day in the office. ‘Enough,’ he says. He puts his hand on my arm and I shrug it off.

There’s a long silence. Connor stares at me with a look of absolute hatred in his eyes, then he says, ‘For fuck’s sake, of course she’s who she says she is!’

‘That’s enough of your language,’ says Hugh. He’s picked his team. ‘Both of you, just calm down—’

I ignore him. ‘You’ve spoken to her? Have you? Or are you just Facebook friends?’

My tone is supremely condescending, as if I find him pathetic. I don’t. It’s me I’m really talking to. I did exactly that, fell for someone on the internet. It’s myself I’m furious with, not him.

I try to calm down, but I can’t. My anger is unstoppable.

‘Of course I’ve spoken to her. She’s my girlfriend.’ He stares right at me. ‘Whether you like it or not, Mum.’ He pauses, and I know what he’s going to say next. ‘She loves me.’

‘Love?’ I want to laugh out loud, yet manage to stop myself. ‘As if you –’

‘Julia!’ says Hugh. His voice is loud. It’s an attempt to shock me into silence, but I won’t be silenced.

‘– as if you have any idea about love. You’re fourteen years old, Connor. Fourteen. How old is she?’

He doesn’t answer.

‘How old, Connor?’

‘What does it matter?’

Hugh speaks again. ‘Connor! Your mother asked you a question.’

He turns to his father. Go on, I think. I dare you. Say ‘Fuck you’ to him.

He won’t, of course. ‘Eighteen,’ he says. He’s lying, I know it. I snort. It’s through nerves, through fear, but I can’t help it.

‘Eighteen?’ I say. ‘No, Connor. No way can you go and see her. No way—’

‘You can’t stop me.’

He’s right. If he were determined enough, then there’d be nothing I could do.

‘Where does she live?’

He says nothing.

‘Connor,’ I say again. ‘Where does she live?’

He remains silent. I can see that he won’t tell me. ‘I’m guessing from the bag that it’s not up the road,’ I say. ‘So how’re you going to get there? Eh?’

Connor knows he’s beaten. He can’t survive without me, not yet.

‘I want to go and see her!’ His voice rises, it takes on a pleading edge, and I’m taken back to when he was a child, to when he wanted an ice cream or another bag of sweets, to stay up late to watch some show on TV. ‘Everything else this year’s been shit!’ he says. ‘Except for her! And you know why, Mum!’ It’s an accusation, hurled; it hurts because it’s true, and he knows it. It crosses my mind he did see the kiss I shared with Paddy after all; he’s been storing it up, it’s now when he’ll tell his father. I shake my head. I want him to cry, to turn back into the child I know how to comfort, but he remains resolute. He’s determined.

‘I hate you. I wish you’d never taken me. I wish you’d left me with my real mother!’

It breaks. Whatever I’d been holding in check, it finally breaks. I slap him, hard, across the face.

‘You ungrateful little shit.’ I hate myself as soon as it’s out of my mouth, but it’s too late. His eyes are smarting, but he’s smiling. He knows he’s won. I’ve lost my temper. He’s become the adult and I’m the child.

I hold out my hand. ‘Give me your phone.’

‘No.’

‘Connor.’ Still he doesn’t move. ‘Your phone.’

‘No!’

I look round, at Hugh. My head is tilted, imploring. I hate having to make this request for him to step in, but this is a battle I can’t afford to lose. He hesitates; there’s a long moment when I’m not sure what he’s going to say or do, then he speaks.

‘Give your mother your phone, Connor. You’re grounded for a week.’

Hugh and I sit on the sofa. Together, but separate. We’re not touching. Connor is upstairs. Sulking. He’s surrendered his phone, dug out his old model from one of his drawers, which we’ve told him he can keep. It has no internet connection; he can make calls, receive texts, take pictures. But that’s it. No Facebook. No Twitter. We’ve left his computer in his room, but I’ve told him he has to delete every friend he doesn’t know in real life. He complained, but I told him it was that or I’d take away his computer altogether. He’s behaving as if we’ve cut off a limb.

‘So …’ I begin. Hugh looks at me with something like pity. There’s a calmness in the room, despite the music Connor has insisted on playing loudly upstairs. In an odd way it’s refreshing that Hugh and I are united on something.

‘It’ll blow over. I promise you.’

Shall I tell him? I think. I could, even though it would end it all. My marriage, this life I’ve built, my relationship with Connor. All of it would go.

Yet still I imagine it. I’d take his hand, look him in the eye. ‘Hugh,’ I’d say. ‘There’s something you need to know.’ He’d know, of course, that something was wrong, that it was something bad. I wonder what he’d think: I’m ill, I’m leaving him, I want to move out of London? I wonder what his deepest fears are, where his mind would race. ‘Darling,’ he’d say, ‘what is it?’ And then I suppose I’d say something about how I love him and always have and that hasn’t changed. He’d nod, waiting for the blow, and then, eventually, once I’ve prepared the ground, I’d tell him. ‘I met someone. I met someone and we’ve been having sex, but it’s over. And it turns out that he was already engaged, to Anna of all people, and he has pictures and now he’s trying to blackmail me.’

What would he do? We’d row. Of course we would. Things might be thrown. He’d blame the fact that I’d had a drink, I guess. And my duty would be to let him explode, to let him be angry and accuse me of whatever he wanted, to duck the crockery and to remain silent while he blows off his rage and Connor hears it all.

And then, if I’m lucky, we might be able to figure out what to do, how to stay together. Or – just as likely, if not more so – that would be it. I’ve betrayed him. I know what he’d say. He’d tell me I could have let him help me cope with Kate’s death, but instead I’d run. First, in Paris, I ran to the bottle, back here I ran to the internet, then to bed with a stranger. I’ve no doubt he’d help me to sort out whatever mess I’m in, help Anna, but that would be it. Our relationship would be over.

And he’d want to take Connor, and Connor would want to go with him, and I’d be powerless to stop them. My life would be over. Everything gone. Even the thought of it is utterly unbearable.

‘This Evie,’ I say.

‘The girlfriend?’

‘You know he’s never met her? Hugh? Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘It’s just what they do. Isn’t it?’

‘Do we even know she is who she says she is?’

‘What?’

‘You hear stories, these days.’ I’m treading carefully. This is a story he can’t know I’m part of. ‘All kinds of things,’ I say. ‘There are horror stories. Adrienne’s told me. Kids being groomed …’

‘Well, Adrienne can be a bit melodramatic at times. He’s a sensible boy.’

‘It happens, though.’

I picture Lukas, sitting at a computer, talking to my son.

‘We don’t even know she’s a girl.’