Текст книги "Second Life"

Автор книги: S. J. Watson

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

‘I’m sure they are. We’ve discussed it with them. They’ve interviewed all her friends, all the people she worked with. They’ve been through her phone records, they’ve taken the information off her computer. They’ve followed up every lead. But something like that? It can’t be easy. Random, unprovoked …’

‘You told them about the dating sites?’

‘Yes. I rang them as soon as you told me. But they already knew. Anna told them. They said Kate didn’t have a boyfriend …’

‘But they’re not just about dating. Anna implied she was using them for sex. Casual sex.’ He shakes his head but I go on. ‘You know. One-night stands. Anna says it wasn’t that often, but she did it. And she didn’t always tell her where she was going, or who she was meeting.’

A look of disapproval flashes on his face. I wonder for a moment whether he thinks she deserves what she got, and then instantly I dismiss the thought.

‘D’you think that’s who killed her?’

‘Who?’

‘Someone she went to meet. To have sex with, I mean. Or someone she was messaging, at least?’

‘I’m sure the police are looking into that—’

‘They haven’t told us they are.’

‘Look, we’ve been through all this, Julia. They’re looking into it. The truth is, I think she talked to a lot of people online but only met up with one or two.’

I hesitate. I need to push him; I’m almost certain he knows more than he’s telling me, that there might be a tiny fragment that’s been overlooked, a detail that will unlock the rest and make it all fit into place.

‘But—’

He interrupts me. ‘Julia, we’ve been through all this a thousand times. They’ve kept her laptop; they’re doing everything they can. But if she was doing that and keeping it secret then it would be almost impossible to find everyone she might have been in contact with. There might be sites she used that we don’t know about, any number of people she was talking to … What’s that?’

At first I don’t know what he means, but then I see that he’s looking at my screen.

‘It’s a photograph.’ He isn’t wearing his glasses and has to lean forward to get a better view. ‘It’s where Kate died.’

He puts his hand on my shoulder. It feels heavy, meant to reassure. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea to look at that, darling?’

‘No,’ I say. I’m not desperate, but I’d like him to approve.

But why would he? He thinks the police are doing their best and that’s the end of it.

‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea at all, but what else am I supposed to do?’

‘Come back to bed?’

‘Soon …’

‘Come on.’ He squeezes my shoulder then gently closes the lid of my machine. ‘Come and get some rest. You’ll feel better. I promise. Doctor’s orders.’

I stand up. I won’t feel better, I want to say, I never do. He turns to go back upstairs.

‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ I say. ‘I’m just going to make myself a cup of tea. I might read for a bit. Until I feel sleepy.’

‘Okay,’ he says. He knows I have no intention of following him. ‘You haven’t forgotten we’ve got people coming for supper? Have you?’

‘No,’ I say, even though I had.

‘Maria and Paddy …’

Of course. We’ve known the Renoufs for years, ever since Maria joined Hugh’s department as a registrar. Hugh tipped her for success even then, said she was going places, was someone he mustn’t let go. I like them both, but this is the first time he’s invited them – invited anyone, in fact – since Kate died. I suppose he thought cooking would do me good. Maybe he’s right. Following a recipe. Chopping, weighing, measuring. I used to enjoy it, before Kate. I went on courses, I was proud of the fact that I’d gone from someone who knew nothing about cooking to someone who could make their own pasta.

But, now? Now, I don’t want to see anyone.

‘Can’t we cancel?’

He comes over. ‘Darling. It’ll do you good, I promise.’ He kisses the top of my head. It’s a tender kiss, warm. For a moment I want to climb inside him, have him protect me. ‘We’ll have fun. We always do. Maria will talk endlessly about work and Paddy will flirt with you, and then when they’ve gone we’ll laugh about it. I promise.’

He’s right. I know he is. I can’t keep running.

‘I’ll go shopping this morning,’ I say.

He goes back upstairs. I sit in the chair. I leave my machine closed. I don’t want to log on to encountrz. I’m afraid of what I might see.

I make tea, I sit with my book. An hour passes, two. Hugh comes downstairs, showered now, ready for work, then a little while later, Connor.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he says. He’s dressed, wearing his uniform, the grey jumper, the white shirt with a maroon tie. I watch as he gets himself a bowl of cereal, pours himself some juice. He’s looking older every day, I think.

‘Are you all right, darling?’ I say, and he replies, ‘Yep,’ with a friendly shrug, as if there’s no reason at all he might not be.

Maybe he really is fine, but I doubt it. He’s stopped crying now, but if anything that’s more worrying. The only time he ever talks about Kate’s death is to ask if there’s ‘any news’, by which he means, ‘Have they got them yet?’ I’d felt angry at first – it’s all he can focus on – but now I see that it’s the only prism through which he can process his grief. After all, he’s just turned fourteen. How else is he supposed to respond?

He sits down with his breakfast and I watch as he begins to eat.

The counsellor we’ve taken him to says all this is normal. He’s doing as well as can be expected, working through his grief in his own way, and we should try not to worry. But how can I not? He won’t talk to me. He’s slipping away. Now, I need him to know how much I love him, that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him, but it’s almost as if he’s decided he no longer cares.

I clear my throat. ‘It’s okay, if you want to talk.’

‘I’m fine.’ He eats his cereal quickly as I make myself a coffee. For a moment I’m back with Kate, it’s her getting ready for school, not her son, but then a moment later Connor is standing, gathering his things. Don’t go, I want to say. Sit with me. Talk to me. But of course I can’t. ‘See you later!’ I say, and before I know it he’s almost out of the door. From nowhere comes an almost overwhelming urge to hug him.

I would have done, once, yet now I don’t. These days he’s as likely as not to respond to a hug with indifference, as if what I’m doing is of no concern to him, and today I couldn’t bear that. ‘Love you!’ I shout instead, and he says, ‘Bye, Mum!’ as he leaves. It’s almost enough.

He’s growing up. I know that. He’s becoming a man; it would be a tough time even if he didn’t have Kate’s death to wrestle with. I have to remember that, no matter what happens, how hard it gets, how distant he becomes, he’s in pain. I might feel like I’ve already failed him a million times but still I have to look after him, to protect him, like I looked after and protected his mother when she was a child.

I turn away from the window. I’m photographing a family next week – a colleague of Adrienne’s, her husband, her two little girls – and I need to think about that. It’s the first time I’ve felt able to work since Kate died and I want it to go well. Plus, I have a dinner party to prepare. Things must get done.

Chapter Seven

I call Adrienne to get her friend’s details. I want to make arrangements. I have my studio at the bottom of the garden in which I keep my tripods and lights, a couple of backdrops I can suspend from the ceiling. I have a desk there, though usually I do my editing on my laptop in the house, at the kitchen table, or in the living room. ‘It would be good if they could come to me,’ I say. ‘It’ll make it easier.’

She can hear the lack of enthusiasm in my voice.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You can tell.’

‘Of course. Talk to me.’

I don’t want to, but I can’t work out why. Is it because I’m worried she’ll just tell me to leave things alone, to stop meddling, to stop worrying?

‘I looked through Kate’s things. The stuff Anna gave to me.’

‘Darling—’

‘I found her login details. For the website she was using.’

‘For what?’

‘Meeting men. There was a list of names. Of people she was talking to – or meeting, I guess.’

‘Have you given them to the police?’

‘Hugh said they already had them.’

‘Good. Then there’s nothing more you can do.’

But there is, though.

‘I could log on. As her, I mean. I have her password. I could find out if there was anyone else.’

For a long time she’s silent.

‘Adrienne?’

‘Wouldn’t the police have done that?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe they don’t realize what encountrz.com is? Or that Jasper1234 is her password? I thought I could go online and just look at her chat history. See if there are any other names on there.’

‘I don’t know … it sounds risky.’

Her reservation strengthens my resolve.

‘I’m just talking about getting a list of names.’

There’s a long pause, as if she’s trying to weigh something up. The wisdom of me having something to do, perhaps, versus the chance, the likelihood, it will just lead to more disappointment.

After all, she’s right. In all probability the police have done all this already.

‘I suppose it can’t hurt,’ she says. ‘As long as you’re only talking about getting the list. But why not double-check with them first?’

Suddenly I’m not sure it’s a good idea at all. A list of names. What would the police even do with it?

‘I probably won’t even bother.’

She sighs. ‘Just be careful, Julia. Whatever you do. And keep in touch.’

I spend the afternoon shopping, cooking. For a while I lose myself in the rhythm of the recipe. Just for a moment. But the evening gets off to a bad start. Connor announces that he’s doing homework and wants to eat in his room, which means that Hugh and I bicker about whether we should let him. Tensions fester, and things don’t pick up until our guests arrive.

After that the evening follows its usual pattern, yet the atmosphere is undeniably different. Kate’s death casts its now-familiar shadow – Paddy mentions it almost as soon as they arrive, and they both say how sorry they are – but it’s more than that. I’m detached, I can’t engage. They talk a lot about Geneva, where Hugh’s been invited to deliver a keynote speech at a conference next week. Maria’s going to present her work, too, and even though I’ve been there I don’t contribute. I feel outside of it all, observing from a great distance. I watch as Hugh pours wine and nod as they all sip it appreciatively, I eat the beef Wellington I’ve cooked and accept their compliments graciously, but it’s an act, I’m pretending to be a normal person. It’s not me.

When we’ve finished Paddy says he’d like to pop outside for a cigarette. ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ I say.

‘Filthy habit,’ he says, ‘but …’ He shrugs his shoulders. I tell him we’re happy for him to smoke in the house near one of the open windows but Maria protests.

‘No way! Make him go outside!’

He pretends to be upset, but it’s good-natured, humorous. He takes his cigarettes out of his jacket and looks at me. ‘Keep me company?’

I say I will. Hugh looks at me but says nothing. We go outside, closing the patio door behind us. It’s almost dark, still warm. We sit on the wall, at the edge of the pool of light that shines from the kitchen; behind us sits my studio. He holds a cigarette out to me. ‘You don’t, do you?’

I take it. ‘Very occasionally,’ I say. He lights his cigarette and hands me the lighter. I inhale deeply, feeling the draw of the smoke, the instant hit. We sit in silence for a moment, then he asks me how I’m coping.

‘Really, I mean.’

I swallow hard. ‘It’s tough. You know …’

‘I do. My brother died. Years ago. Cancer. He was older than me …’

‘Oh, God,’ I say. ‘I had no idea.’

‘No reason you should.’ There’s silence. A beat. ‘The end wasn’t unexpected, but it was still awful. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.’

We sit for a few moments.

‘How’s Connor?’ he says.

I sigh. There’s nothing to say, yet still I’m glad he’s bothered to ask. ‘He’s all right, I think. He’s not really talked about it. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, though …’

‘He will, I guess. When he’s ready.’

‘I suppose so. I just wish I knew what he was thinking. What was going on in his mind. He spends hours in his room, though that’s nothing new, I suppose. It’s as if he’s avoiding me.’

‘He’s at that age, I suppose. Plus, he’s a boy.’

I look at him, at his profile, silhouetted against the light in the house. Is it as simple as that? I lost my mother when I was young; I have no idea what’s normal. Maybe he’s right, it’s just the fact that he’s a boy, and I’m a woman, and that’s why he’s slipping away from me. I find the thought curiously reassuring. Maybe it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m not his birth mother.

‘Have you and Maria ever thought about children?’

He looks over at his wife, visible in the kitchen, helping my husband to prepare the dessert. Connor has joined them, they’re laughing at something.

‘Not really,’ says Paddy, looking back to me. ‘Maria’s career … you know? And I’m not that bothered. I’m from a big family. We have a lot of nieces and nephews …’

He sounds disappointed, but I don’t know him well enough to probe further. Not really.

‘That’s good,’ I say. I grind my cigarette out.

‘Shall we go back in?’

‘Sure!’ He wipes his hands on his jeans, then stands up and holds out his hand for me to take. ‘Are you going to Carla’s party?’

I’d completely forgotten. Another colleague of Hugh’s, with a big house in Surrey, a large garden, a gas-fired barbecue. She throws a party every July and invites everyone. Last year had been fun, but now I’m not looking forward to it at all. I’m trapped, though; she sends the invites out in April. There’s no way we can get out of going.

‘I guess,’ I say, standing up. He smiles, and says he’s glad. It’s a fraction of a second before he lets go of my hand, not long enough to be sure it means anything at all. I’m not certain whether I’m holding on to him, or him to me.

They leave. Hugh goes into the kitchen, without saying a word. I follow him. He begins to tidy up, scraping each plate before rinsing it and putting it in the sink. He doesn’t smile, or even look at me as I speak.

‘What’s up with you?’

Still no eye contact. A plate clunks into the sink. Is this because I went outside to sit with Paddy?

‘It’s Connor,’ he says.

‘Connor?’ I pick up a cloth and begin to wipe down the worktop. ‘What about him? Are we still arguing because I said he could eat in his room?’

‘Among other things.’

I choose to ignore him. If he wants to bring anything else into this, then he’ll have to talk about it rather than make me guess.

‘He’s been really upset recently,’ I say instead. ‘I don’t think we should force him to do something he doesn’t want to do. I think we need to cut him some slack.’

He puts down the plate he’s holding and turns to face me. ‘Yes, well, I think we’ve been cutting him far too much slack lately. We shouldn’t indulge him. It’s really important we keep things normal, Julia.’

‘Meaning?’

He turns his palms upwards. ‘The grief counsellor said we mustn’t make too many allowances. He has to realize that life goes on.’

Life goes on? My anger ratchets up another notch. Life didn’t go on for Kate, did it? I take a deep breath. ‘I’m just worried about him.’

‘And I’m not? He comes in, smelling of cigarettes—’

‘Cigarettes?’

‘Hadn’t you noticed? On his clothes …’

I shake my head. I haven’t noticed any such thing. Either I’ve become neglectful, or Hugh is imagining things, and I suspect it’s the latter. ‘Maybe his friends smoke? Have you thought about that?’

His eyes narrow in accusation.

‘What next? Drinking?’

‘Hugh—’

‘Fighting at school—’

‘What?’

‘He told me. He got involved in some scrap.’

‘He told you?’

‘Yes. He was upset. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but it’s not like him, Julia. He’s never fought at school before.’

He’s never lost his mother before, I think, but I don’t say it.

‘Maybe we need to let him make his own mistakes? He has to grow up. He has to let off steam, especially given what’s happened.’

‘I just think we need to keep a closer eye on him.’

‘Me, you mean. You think I should be keeping a closer eye on him. You know, it seems to me that you’re a perfect father whenever it just involves playing chess or ordering takeaways when I go away. Yet whenever he needs some kind of discipline that’s suddenly my job?’ He ignores me. ‘Well?’

‘I don’t mean that. Look, I’m just not sure you’re—’

‘I’m what?’

I know exactly what he means. Setting a good example. This is about what happened in Paris.

‘I’m not sure you’re there for Connor at the moment like he might need you to be.’

I can’t help but laugh, but it’s a reflex. At some level he might be right.

‘Meaning what, exactly?’

He lowers his voice. ‘Julia, please calm down. Be reasonable.’

I go back to the table, to finish clearing it, to turn my back on him. It’s then that it happens. In front of me is the glass I’d been drinking from and as I pick it up a sudden and almost irresistible urge bubbles up from nowhere. I imagine filling it from the bottle of red wine they hadn’t quite finished, drinking it down. I can feel it, heavy in my mouth. I can taste it, peppery and warm. I want it, more than anything.

I hold the glass in my hand. I tell myself this is the first time since Paris, the first time I’ve even been tempted. It isn’t a relapse. It only means what I let it mean.

‘Julia?’

I ignore him. Ride it out, I tell myself. Ride it out. The desire will crest like an ocean wave and then subside. I just have to wait. Hugh is here, anyway, and whatever happens I won’t drink in front of him.

Yet I managed to drink in Paris, and that was weeks ago. I haven’t even been tempted since. Even if I were to drink now it wouldn’t have to signify the beginning of the end.

I think back to the programme. The first step. This isn’t something I can control; the fact I’ve gone for weeks without being tempted again doesn’t mean I’m over it. All control is an illusion.

I think of my sponsor, Rachel. ‘Addiction is a patient disease,’ she said to me, once. ‘It’ll wait for your whole life, if it has to. Never forget that.’

I haven’t, I tell myself. I won’t.

‘Julia?’ says Hugh. He sounds annoyed. I’ve missed something; he’s been talking to me.

I turn round. ‘Yes?’

‘I know he’s upset about his mother’s death—’

His choice of words stings, but my anger forces the desire to drink to slip down another notch.

‘He’s never thought of Kate as his mother.’

‘You know what I mean. Kate’s death is bound to bother him, but—’

‘But what?’

‘But he’s still not really talking about it, and I find that worrying. He should be, by now.’

His comment enrages me. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that it’s a process? There isn’t a timetable. Not everyone can deal with Kate’s death in the same way that you have.’

‘Meaning?’

‘It’s going to take Connor a good deal longer to get over Kate’s death than it’s taken you, that’s all.’

I think of what Adrienne has told me. ‘Don’t ever think Hugh doesn’t care. It’s just his prissiness. Grief is messy, and he doesn’t like mess. Plus, don’t forget he has to deal with life and death at work. All the time. It must harden you, a little bit.’

He looks shocked. ‘I’m not over her death. Kate and I were close once. I miss her, too. What makes you say that? It’s hurtful.’

‘Are you still talking to the Foreign Office? Or are you leaving it all to me—?’

‘I talk to them all the time, Julia—’

‘You don’t think I should go online and look at the place she was killed—’

‘I just think you’re in a bad enough state as it is. You need to concentrate on Connor, on your work. On the future, not the past.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

He opens his mouth to speak, but then seems to think better of it. A moment later he turns and throws down the tea towel that he’d hooked over his shoulder.

‘Julia, I’m really worried about you.’

‘About me?’

‘Yes, believe it or not. I think you need to go and see somebody. You’re not coping. I’m going to Geneva on Monday and you’ll be here on your own—’

‘Oh, I’ll be fine,’ I say, but he’s still talking, he doesn’t seem to have heard me.

‘—and I just wish you’d at least consider going to see someone—’

My fury surges, doubled in strength. Something breaks. I can’t take it any more. ‘Oh, just piss off, Hugh.’ The glass I hadn’t realized I was still holding smashes on the floor. I don’t remember throwing it.

He takes a step towards me, then seems to think better of it and turns as if to leave. He’s finally angry, and so am I, and it almost feels better. It’s something other than numbness, or pain.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out. I’m going for a walk. I need to cool off.’

He leaves. The whole house shudders, then falls silent, and I’m alone.