Текст книги "Second Life"

Автор книги: S. J. Watson

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter Nine

I drive Hugh to the airport then return home. It’s Monday, the traffic is bad, the air thick with heat. I’ve been determined to keep busy during his absence – to get on with jobs, sort out Connor’s room, go through the files on the computer, make sure everything is charged and ready for the shoot on Wednesday – but by the time I get home it’s early afternoon and far too hot to do anything much at all.

I’m restless, unsettled. I change into a summer dress and decide I’ll sit in the garden. I go to the fridge to get a lemonade, but when I open the door I see the bottle of wine Hugh opened last night. Desire swells again, just as it had after the dinner party. I get the lemonade, then close the door, but there’s no point in pretending I’m not feeling it.

Rachel used to tell me that. ‘Take a step back and hold it up to the light,’ she said. ‘Consider it.’

I do just that. First, I’d like a glass. Second, I’m alone, Hugh’s away, Connor at school. There’s no logical reason I shouldn’t.

Except there is. There’s every reason.

This time the desire builds. I acknowledge it, feel it, yet it doesn’t go away. It’s growing, it starts to feel more powerful than me, it’s an animal, a ruthless predator, something with teeth, something that wants to destroy.

I won’t let it win. Not this time. I tell myself I’m strong, I’m bigger than this thing that wants to claim me. I ride it out, stare it down and eventually it begins to retreat. I put ice in my drink and find the novel I’m reading, pick up my laptop and go outside. I sit at the table on the patio. My heart beats hard, as if the fight had been physical, but once again I’m pleased with my vigilance.

I sip my lemonade, listening to the sounds of summer, the traffic, the planes overhead, a conversation in a distant garden. My book is in front of me but I ignore it. I know I won’t be able to concentrate; I’ll read the same page, over and over. It’s futile.

I open my laptop. I wonder whether the guy from yesterday – Harenglish – replied to Anna, or whether Eastdude, the one I’d been chatting to, has messaged me again.

I navigate to the messages page. He has. I open it. ‘What happened? I hope you’re all right.’

Anxiety courses through me. It’s electric. Anxiety, and also excitement; even though he thinks he’s talking to Kate, part of me is flattered at his disappointment.

I try to focus on what’s important. I have to be more methodical. I tell myself it’s unlikely he had anything to do with Kate’s death: assuming what he told me is true, the police have interviewed him as a suspect and eliminated him from their investigation. Plus, he lives in New York.

There’s no point in answering his message. I click delete. Part of me feels bad, but he’s a stranger, someone I’ll never meet. I don’t care what he thinks. I have more important things to do.

I navigate to Kate’s Friends and Favourites page and go down the list. I’m careful this time, I check each one, finding out where they live. They’re scattered all over. Not counting Eastdude, there are eleven people she used to chat with. Of those, only three live in France, and only one, the guy from yesterday – Harenglish, the one Anna messaged – is in Paris.

I hesitate. I open Skype but Anna isn’t online. I send her a note asking if she’s had a reply, yet at the same time know that she’d have told me if she had.

I remind myself that his silence doesn’t mean that Harenglish is the guy who killed Kate. Not at all. Maybe they hardly chatted, barely knew each other. Maybe he rarely logs on to his messages, or doesn’t respond to things straight away. There are a million reasons for his silence. It doesn’t have to be because he knows exactly where she ended up.

But I need to be sure. I sit, for a moment. I sip my drink. I think about my sister, and what I can do to help her. As I do, the idea that’s been forming all night is finally birthed.

I call Anna. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says.

‘Yes?’

‘About your suggestion. You know, chatting to that guy. It might not be such a bad idea.’

I tell her.

‘I’m thinking of setting up a profile of my own. I thought, if I can chat to people … if they think I’m someone new … they’re more likely to tell me things.’

She talks me through it. I work quickly, and it doesn’t take long. I hesitate when it asks me to select a username, but then settle on JayneB. It’s close enough to my own name, but not too close. The photo I choose is one that Hugh took a few years ago on holiday. In it, bright sun behind my head is throwing my face into partial shadow. I haven’t chosen randomly; Kate and I don’t look that similar generally, but in this photo we do. If someone had known Kate, they might mention a resemblance; it might give me a way in. I enter my details – date of birth, height, weight. Finally I press save.

‘I’m done,’ I say.

She tells me to be careful. I go back online. I’m excited, at last I’m doing something. The guy from yesterday – Harenglish – might talk to me, thinking I’m someone new. Maybe then I can find out who he is and how well he might’ve known my sister.

I message him. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘How you doing?’ I know he won’t reply straight away, if he replies at all, and so I go inside to refill my glass. I grab myself an apple from the bowl. I wonder what this guy might do when he sees my message. Whether he gets lots, or just a few. Whether he answers them all, or just the ones that take his fancy. I wonder what normally happens, if there’s such a thing as normally.

I go back outside. There’s a breeze, it’s getting cooler now. I have another sip of my drink then sit back down. I bite into my apple; it’s crisp but slightly sour. I put it on the table and, as I do, my computer pings.

I have another message, but it’s not from him. This one is from someone new. As I open it I get the strangest feeling. A plunging, a descent. A door has been nudged open. Something is coming.

PART TWO

Chapter Ten

I sat in the garden for hours that day, my laptop humming in front of me. I was exploring the site, clicking on profiles, opening photographs. It was as if I believed I could stumble on Kate’s killer accidentally, that somehow I’d just be drawn to him. The ice in my glass melted, the dregs of my lemonade began to attract flies. I was still there when Connor came home from school, though by now the battery on my computer had run down and I was just sitting, in silence, thinking about Kate, and who she might have been talking to, and what they might’ve said.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, and I closed my machine. I said hello and patted the chair next to me. ‘Just doing some editing,’ I said as he sat down. The lie slid off my tongue so easily I barely noticed it.

The following night, he’s due to go to Dylan’s party. His best friend, a nice enough lad, if a bit quiet. They spend a fair bit of time together, here mostly, playing on the computer or on Connor’s Xbox. I tend to stay out of their way, listening in from time to time. There’s usually a lot of laughter, or there certainly used to be, before Kate. Dylan will come in occasionally and ask me for more juice or a biscuit, terribly polite. Last Christmas I took them sledging on the Heath with another couple of boys from school I didn’t know. We had a good time; it was nice to see Connor with people his own age, to get a glimpse of what kind of man he’ll turn into. Still, I can’t think that he and Dylan discuss feelings. I can’t picture him as someone Connor goes to for support.

It’s Dylan’s birthday and he’s celebrating at his house; just pizzas and bottles of cola, some music, maybe karaoke. A few of them are staying over in a tent in his garden and I imagine late-night DVDs and a final snack before torches and sleeping bags are handed out. They’ll go out on to the lawn, spend the night laughing, chatting, playing video games on their phones, and the next day, when their parents pick them up, they’ll tell us nothing except that it’d been all right.

I drive him there. We pull up outside the house and I see the balloons tied to the gateposts, the cards in the lounge windows. Connor opens the car door and at the same time Dylan’s mother, Sally, comes out into the porch. She’s someone I know quite well, we’ve gone for coffee after school, though always with other people, and I haven’t seen her for a while. I wave, and she waves back. Behind her I can see streamers, the flash of children running upstairs. She raises her eyebrows and I smile in sympathy.

‘Have fun,’ I say to Connor.

‘I will.’

He lets me kiss him on the cheek then picks up his bag and races into the house.

When I get back home the place seems cavernously empty. Hugh is still in Geneva and has sent me a text message – the flight was okay, the hotel is nice, he’s heading for dinner soon and wonders how I’m feeling – and I tap out a reply. ‘I’m fine, thanks. Missing you.’

I press send. I make some dinner, then sit in front of the television. I ought to call my friends, I know that. But it’s difficult, I don’t want to inflict myself upon them, and I can sense that when they hear my voice the energy drops as the shadow of Kate’s death falls on all of us.

I’m not me, any more, I realize. I carry something else now. The stigma of pain. And I don’t want it.

I think of Marcus. We’d been seeing each other for less than a year when he said he wanted to move. ‘Where?’ I asked, and he said, ‘Berlin.’

He seemed so certain, and so desperate. I thought he was trying to get away from me, even though until that moment we’d been happy. He could see it in my eyes. The flash of disappointment, suppressed a moment too late.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand. I want you to come with me.’

‘But—’

He shook his head. He was determined.

‘You have to. I want to go with you. I don’t want to go by myself.’

But you will, I thought. If I don’t come. You’ve already decided.

‘Please come. What’s keeping you here?’ I shook my head. ‘Is it the meetings? We’ve been clean for ages now. We don’t need to go any more.’

‘I know, but …’

‘Is it Kate?’

I nodded. ‘She’s only twelve.’

He stroked my arm, kissed me. ‘She’s in school now. You can’t look after her for ever.’

I thought of all the fun we’d had, Kate and I, despite how hard it’d been at times. We used to make popcorn and sit watching videos, or we’d play in the long grass at the bottom of our garden, pretending to be chased by dinosaurs. Dressing up in our mother’s clothes, wearing her shoes, spraying ourselves with her perfume.

‘How long have you been looking after her?’

‘Eight years.’

‘Exactly. And now it’s time your father started doing his bit. Besides, she’s nearly a teenager now. You have your own life to live.’

I told him I’d need to think about it, but really I already knew. Kate was nearly thirteen, older than I’d been when I started looking after her. She’d had enough years of my life. Kate would be fine.

Except she wasn’t. I open my eyes. I reach for my laptop.

Anna’s online. I message her.

‘Any luck?’ she asks.

I think of the few people who have messaged me. There’s been nothing interesting.

‘Not yet,’ I reply.

Hugh comes back from his conference. He takes the train from the airport, then a cab, and arrives carrying a huge bunch of flowers. He kisses me then hands them over. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ I say, and he shrugs. ‘Nothing. I love you, that’s all. I missed you.’ I find a vase. ‘I missed you, too,’ I say, a little too automatically.

I take the scissors out of the kitchen drawer and begin to trim the stems.

‘How’s Connor?’

‘Good, I think.’

‘And you?’

I tell him I’m fine. ‘I had a job,’ I say, thinking back to the day before. ‘A friend of Fatima’s. Her daughter wants to be a model and needed some pictures for her portfolio.’

‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘Have you seen Adrienne?’

‘No. But she called. She’s in York, with work. But we’ve arranged dinner.’

He smiles and says he thinks that will do me good. I didn’t tell him Adrienne has asked if I’d decided about going online and I’d said no, not yet.

Another lie. I’ve logged on a few times, and now it’s Friday night. Hugh’s upstairs, catching up with admin, and Connor is at a friend’s house working on a homework project. I’ve already edited the pictures I took on Wednesday, and now I’m half watching the television. It’s a drama. Undercover cops, a series of brutal murders, duct tape, revenge and rape. Every victim beautiful, of course, as if we wouldn’t care otherwise; plus, we’re supposed to envy them their lives right until the moment the blade slices into their flesh.

It’s no use, I can’t focus. I switch it off. I can’t help thinking of Kate. She was pretty, but not beautiful, and she wasn’t raped. Kate was killed because she happened to be walking down the wrong alleyway in the wrong part of town at the wrong time, or so Hugh and everybody else tells me. It’s as simple as that.

Except it isn’t. It can’t be.

I log back on to encountrz. I know I should leave it alone, do something else instead, but I can’t. My message to Harenglish is now a week old and he still hasn’t responded.

He isn’t online, but there is something in my inbox, something new.

Largos86. I click on his profile and see that he’s younger than me – he claims to be thirty-one, though if anything he doesn’t even look as old as that – and is attractive, with curly hair, cut short. I imagine he could be a model, or an actor, though I remind myself he’ll have chosen one of the more flattering photos of himself. If he were in the drama I’ve just switched off he’d be playing a kindly doctor, or a lover. He’s too attractive to be the husband. I open his message.

‘Hi,’ it says. ‘I’d love to talk. You remind me of someone.’

I flinch; it’s like being punched. I remind you of someone. For an instant there’s only one thing, one person, he can mean. I’d deliberately chosen my profile photo to be one that looks like Kate, after all.

I have to know. Beneath his message is a link, an invitation to a private chat. Largos86 knows I’m online. I click on accept, then type.

– Hi. Who do I remind you of?

His reply comes almost instantaneously.

– Someone I liked a lot.

Liked, I think. Past tense. Someone who isn’t around any more, one way or another.

– But let’s not talk about her. How’re you?

No! It’s her I want to talk about.

– Good, I say.

A moment later he replies:

– I’m Lukas. Fancy a chat?

I stop. Since I’ve been going online I’ve learned it’s unusual for someone to give away their name so quickly. I wonder if he’s lying.

– I’m Jayne.

I pause.

– Where are you?

– In Milan. How about you?

I think of his first message. You remind me of someone.

I want to find out if he might’ve talked to Kate. I decide to tell a lie of my own.

– I’m in Paris.

– A beautiful place!

– How do you know the city?

– I work there. Occasionally.

My skin prickles with sweat. I try to take a breath but there’s no oxygen in the room.

Could he have chatted to my sister, even met her? Could it be him who killed her? It seems unlikely; he looks too innocent, too trustworthy. Yet I know I’m basing that impression on nothing, just a feeling, and feelings can be misleading.

What to do? I’m shaking, I can’t take in any air. I want to end the chat, but then I’ll never know.

– Really? I say. How often?

– Oh, not that often. A couple of times a year.

I want to ask if he was there in February, but I can’t risk it. I have to be careful. If he did know Kate and has something to hide then he might work out I’m on to him.

I have to keep this light, breezy. If things become sexual there’ll be no way of finding anything out, nothing I can do but end the conversation as quickly as possible. I want to look for clues, but I can’t let things tip over.

– Where do you stay when you’re over here?

I wait. A message flashes. I can’t decide whether I want him to tell me he has a flat in the nineteenth, or that his office put him up in a hotel near Ourcq Métro, or not. If they do and he does, then it’s him. I’m sure of it. Hugh and I can tell the police what I’ve found. I can move on.

But if he doesn’t? What then? I still won’t know.

His message arrives.

– I’m not there often. I tend to stay in hotels.

– Where?

– It varies. Usually pretty central. Or else I stay near Gare du Nord.

I don’t need to pull up a map of Paris to know that Gare du Nord is nowhere near the area Kate’s body was found. I’m curiously relieved.

– Why do you ask?

– No reason.

– You think maybe it’s near you?

He’s added a smiley face. I wonder if the flirting has moved to the next level. Part of me wants to end it, but another part of me doesn’t. He might be lying.

I hesitate for a moment, then type:

– I’m in the north-east. The nearest Métro is Ourcq.

It’s a risk. If it’s him he’ll know I’m linked to Kate. It can’t be a coincidence.

But what will he do? Just end the conversation, log off? Or would he stick around to try and find out exactly what I know? It occurs to me he might already have guessed who I am and why I’m chatting to him. He might’ve worked it out from the start.

I press send, then wait. Largos86 is typing. Time stretches; it seems to take for ever.

– Is it a nice area?

– It’s okay. You don’t know it?

– No. Should I?

– Not necessarily.

– So are you up to much? Have you had a good day today?

I hesitate. Last time, at this point, I was being asked what I was wearing, or whether I’d like fantasy role play or straight cyber. It’s a relief that this conversation is unthreatening.

– Not bad, I say.

I wonder why I’m relieved. Is it that in these few brief moments I’m not in mourning?

– Tell me what you’ve been up to.

– You don’t want to hear about me.

– I do. Tell me everything!

– Why don’t you tell me something about you, first?

– Okay, let me think.

He’s added a cartoon, another face. This one looks puzzled. A few moments later his next message arrives.

– Okay. You ready?

– Yes.

– I really adore dogs. And cheesy love songs. The cheesier the better. And I’m really scared of spiders.

I smile. I can’t help it. I look back at his photo. I try to imagine what Kate might’ve thought, looking at him. He’s certainly attractive, and around her age.

His next message arrives.

– Your turn. You owe me two facts.

I run through a list of what I might tell him. I’m looking for something that will draw him out, some fact that might lead him to tell me whether he was in Paris in February, or might have chatted to Kate.

I lean forward and begin to type.

– Okay. My favourite season is winter. I love Paris, in February especially.

I press send and a moment later he replies.

– That’s fact number one.

– And – I begin, but then I freeze. There’s a sound, a key in the lock. The real world is intruding, too loud. It’s Connor, coming home. As he opens the door I’m still adjusting, to the living room in which I’m sitting, to my own home. I switch on the television and the credits roll silently. Connor comes in.

‘Oh, I didn’t know you were in here.’

I close my machine and put it to one side. My heart thuds, as if I’ve been caught taking drugs. He’s wearing a baseball cap I haven’t seen before and a black sweatshirt; he’s chewing gum.

‘What’ve you been up to?’

‘Just studying.’

I force a smile. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Okay. What’re you up to?’

I feel dizzy. It’s as if domesticity is crashing in around me in an inrush of banality, of making meals, of ferrying to school and back, of worrying about what to cook for dinner and whether the surfaces in the kitchen are clean.

I adjust my necklace. ‘Just reading emails.’

He asks for a snack. I make one for him, then he goes upstairs and I go back to my machine. Largos86 is no longer online, so I message Anna.

– He says he’s called Lukas.

– And?

What to say? I have a feeling, a suspicion. Based on what?

– I don’t know. There’s something about him. He seems really keen.

I hesitate, but continue.

– I just wonder if he knew Kate.

– It’s unlikely, don’t you think?

I agree.

– But yes, it is possible he talked to her.

– You think?

– Well, there aren’t that many people who use that site.

– So you think it might be worth talking to him some more?

– Well, don’t get your hopes up. But maybe. We might be able to find out who else Kate was talking to. Or at least prove one way or the other whether he knew her.

The next day I take my laptop into my studio. The same guy is online. Largos86.

– You disappeared, he says. I wondered what I’d done.

It’s his fourth or fifth message. At first I wasn’t sure I’d reply, but they keep coming.

I can’t forget what he’d said. You remind me of someone. Someone I liked a lot.

– I’m sorry, I say.

I resist the urge to make an excuse. I can’t tell him about Connor coming home. It wouldn’t be right. It would take the conversation in the wrong direction. I wonder who’s watching whom. I wonder who’s the cat, and who’s the mouse?

– Are you alone?

I hesitate. Connor’s in the house, doing his homework, he said, and Hugh’s out at a concert with a friend, so I might as well be. I certainly feel alone.

Plus, I’ve realized I’m going to have to give something if I’m going to get something back.

– Yes. Yes I am.

A moment later his message appears:

– I enjoyed chatting to you yesterday …

I wonder if there’s going to be a but …

– Thanks.

– But we never really got on to talking about you.

– What d’you want to know?

– Everything! But maybe start by telling me what it is you do.

I decide I don’t want to tell the truth.

– I’m in the arts. I curate exhibitions.

– Wow! Sounds interesting.

– It can be. So how about you? I know you travel.

– Oh, let’s not talk about me. It’s boring.

Maybe it is, but I’m trying to find out why he’s so keen to chat to me again tonight.

– No. I’m sure it’s not. Go on.

– I’m in the media. I buy advertising space for big campaigns.

– So what are you doing in Milan? Are you on holiday?

– No, he says. I’m living out here, temporarily. Doing some work. Staying in a hotel. I’m thinking about going out for dinner, then maybe to a bar. But it’s no fun on your own …

The ellipsis suggests he’s inviting a compliment. I remind myself I still need to find out if he meets people he chats to, and what he does with them if so.

I try to imagine how Jayne might reply. At the very least she’d have to make a reference to what he’d said.

– I bet you wouldn’t be lonely for long, I say.

– Thanks, he replies, and then another message comes through.

– Can I ask what you’re wearing?

So polite, I think. It’s not what I might’ve expected.

But then what did I expect? This is the way it goes, apparently. What are you wearing? Describe it to me. I want to take it off, tell me how it feels. But much sooner, within a few messages, not over a couple of days.

– Why do you want to know?

I wonder if I ought to add a winking face. Is that what Kate would’ve done?

– I just want to be able to picture you.

I feel myself tense. I’m not sure I want him to picture me. It leaves an unpleasant taste. I remind myself I’m doing this for Kate’s sake, and for Connor’s. For all of us.

– If you must know, I type, I’m wearing jeans. And a shirt. Your turn.

– Well, I’m just lying here on the bed.

I look again at his photo and picture him. I see the hotel room, bland and corporate. I wonder if he’s taken his clothes off. I imagine he has a good body, strong and muscular. He’ll have got himself a drink; for some reason I picture him with a beer, drinking straight from the bottle. Something within me begins to open up, but I don’t know what it is. Is it because finally I might be getting somewhere, unlocking the riddle of my sister’s murder? Or because a good-looking man has chosen to send a message to me?

– If you’re busy that’s cool. I’ll leave you alone.

– No. I’m not busy.

– Okay. So I’m here, and you’re there. What’re you up for? What’re you into?

I try to imagine what Kate would’ve said.

I can’t.

– I’m not sure.

– Are you okay?

I decide it’s easier to tell the truth.

– I’ve never done this before.

– No problem. We can chat another time, if you’re uncomfortable?

– No. I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t want to disappoint you.

– You’re beautiful. How could you disappoint me?

Deep down, but unmistakably there, there’s a weak throb of excitement. A distant signal from the remotest star.

– Thank you.

A moment, then he replies:

– It’s a pleasure. You are beautiful. I’m enjoying talking to you.

– I’m enjoying talking to you, too.

– Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing this evening?

I stop to think. Soon I’ll cook our evening meal, then I might sit with a book. But I don’t want to tell him that.

– I might go out, with friends. Or maybe catch a film.

– Nice.

We talk for a little while longer. He asks me what movies I’ve seen recently, we talk about books and music. It turns out we both love Edward Hopper and have tried but failed to finish Finnegans Wake. It’s pleasurable, but I seem to be getting further and further from finding out whether he’s ever chatted to my sister, or was in Paris in February, or even who I remind him of. After a few more minutes he says:

– Well I’d better get ready, go for dinner.

– And then go on to your bar?

– Possibly. Though I’m not sure I can be bothered now.

– How come?

– I might just come back to the room and see if you’re still online.

There’s another tiny shock of pleasure.

– Would you like that?

– I might.

– I’d like to chat again.

I don’t reply.

– Would you?

I stare at the blinking cursor. For some reason I’m thinking of my time in Berlin, in the squat with Marcus and Frosty and the rest; the sensation of both wanting and not wanting something at the same time.

Again I remind myself who I’m doing this for.

– I would.

We end the conversation. I log off and call Anna.

‘How did it go?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Did it get sexual?’

‘Not really. No.’

‘It will,’ she says.

‘Listen, will you look at his profile online? Let me know if you recognize him?’

She hesitates. I hear her stand up; she’s moving around her apartment. ‘Of course. But I don’t recognize his name. I don’t think he can be one of the ones Kate met. I suppose it’s possible he’s someone she chatted to.’

‘I need to find out.’

‘Just don’t get your hopes up.’

I won’t, I tell her. We talk some more. After we’ve said goodbye I go back online. I can’t help it. I look at Lukas’s profile, at the photographs he’s uploaded. They look completely ordinary. He’s wearing a checked shirt, open at the neck, his face is broad and handsome, his eyes dark. Did he know my sister? Is it possible?

I read the rest of his profile. He describes himself as athletic, he’s a lover of fun, he enjoys reading, music, eating out. When I scroll down I see there’s a link to his Facebook page. I click on it.

He’s used the same picture there, but I hardly look at it. I navigate straight to his timeline and begin to scroll backwards. I go back as far as February. I have to be sure.

There’s a photo of him, standing in the desert next to a man. They have their arms round each other’s shoulders, in triumph. Uluru is in the background. ‘We finally made it!’ says the caption. When Kate was killed he was in Australia.

It doesn’t mean he didn’t know her, though. I think again of what he said. You remind me of someone.

I send a message to Anna: ‘Checked Facebook. He was in Australia.’

I go to bed. It’s later than I think; Hugh’s turned out the light and is already asleep. He’s left the curtains open for me to undress in the light from the street outside. Before I do I check if anyone’s there, but tonight the street is empty, other than a couple walking arm in arm, looking either drunk or in love, it’s hard to tell. I’m naked when I get into bed; I turn on to my side and look at Hugh, silhouetted in the half-light. My husband, I tell myself, as if I need to be reminded of the fact.

I kiss him gently, on his brow. The night is hot and sticky and I can taste the sweat that’s formed there. I turn on to my other side, away from him. My hand goes beneath the covers, between my legs. I can’t help it. It’s the talk, this afternoon. The chat with the guy online. Lukas. Something has been aroused, some desire that is complicated yet undeniable.

I let it come. I’m thinking of Lukas. I can’t help it, even if it does feel like a betrayal. You’re beautiful, he’d said, and the excitement I’d felt had been instant and pure. I imagine him now, he’s saying it over and over, You’re beautiful, you’re gorgeous, I want you, yet for some reason he changes, becomes Marcus. He’s leading me upstairs, we’re in the squat, we’re going to the room we shared, to the mattress on the floor, to the tangle of bedclothes unmade from the night before. I’ve spent the day here alone, he’s been out. But now he’s back, there’s only the two of us. He’s argued with his family, his mother is distraught, she wants him home. Even just for a few weeks, she’d said, but he knows she means for ever. I tell him I’ll support him, if he goes, if he decides he wants to, but I know he won’t. Not now he’s here, and happy. He kisses me. I imagine the smell of him, his smooth skin, the fuzz of hair on his chest. These details – things that I know are half remembrances and half imaginings, a mixture of fantasy and memory – come, and they lead me somewhere, somewhere where I am strong and in control and Kate is alive and everything will be all right.

My hand, my fingers, move in circles. I try to think of Hugh, a version of Hugh, an idealized Hugh who has never existed. I imagine the way he’d look at me, the way he used to look at me, his eyes leaving my face, travelling down, pausing first at my neck and then again at my breasts before flashing lower for just the briefest of moments before coming back to my face. His appraisal would take three seconds, maybe four. I imagine letting my eyes follow the same path his had taken, taking in his unshaven chin, the black hair that pokes from under his shirt, his chest, the buckle on his belt. I imagine him leaning in to speak to me, the smell of his aftershave, the faint scent of his breath, like chewed leather. I imagine him kissing me, this idealized Hugh, who is really Lukas, who is really Marcus.

My hand moves faster, my body lifts then falls away. I’m free. I’ve become lightness and air, nothing but energy.