Текст книги "Second Life"

Автор книги: S. J. Watson

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter Thirteen

It’s three in the morning. It must be, maybe later. It’s too hot, my skin is heavy. I can hear the soft sound of summer rain against the window. I’m exhausted, yet sleep has never felt further away.

My mind will not be still. I can’t stop thinking about Paddy. What I should’ve done, and what I shouldn’t. And I can’t stop thinking about what my son might’ve seen. Or might not.

Hugh thought I’d had a drink. He asked me, on the way home. Casually, without looking in my direction. Hoping to ambush me, trick me into telling him the truth.

He spoke quietly. Connor was in the back, listening to his iPod. ‘Darling. Have you …?’

‘What?’

‘Did you have a drink?’

I was indignant. ‘No!’

It took him a moment to work out whether to believe me. How far to push things.

‘Okay. I just thought I saw Paddy take one for you.’

‘He did. But I didn’t drink any of it.’

I held my breath, but Hugh just shrugged. I looked over my shoulder; Connor was oblivious, a time bomb.

‘I’ve already told you I won’t drink again,’ I said, looking back to my husband. ‘I promise.’

Now, I throw back the covers. I go downstairs and pour myself a glass of water. My laptop’s where I left it this morning, on the island unit in the kitchen.

I ought to leave it alone. It’s the middle of the night; Lukas won’t be online. No one will. Plus, haven’t I done enough damage today? I rinse my glass and put it back on the drainer, then step over to the window. It’s dark outside. I look out, at the garden. My own reflection hovers above the patio.

He hasn’t been in touch since yesterday afternoon; he was drunk even then. Who knows what kind of state he’ll have been in by the time he went to bed? I imagine him, lying face down in his hotel room, half undressed, one shoe kicked off.

Or maybe he’s not alone. People pair off at weddings; romance is in the air, alcohol on tap, hotel rooms never very far away. What if some woman has attached herself to him? Or he to her? What if …

I stop myself. Why am I even thinking like this? It’s not as if I have any reason to be jealous.

I sit down. I can’t help myself.

He’s online. At first I think maybe he’s just left his computer switched on, but then he sends me a message.

– You’re there! Can’t sleep either?

I smile. It’s as if we’re connected somehow.

– No. Had a good time?

– I only got in about an hour ago. I didn’t want to go to bed.

– Why?

– Hoping I’d get the chance to speak to you, I suppose. I was going to ring, but didn’t want to wake you.

I feel a mix of emotions. I’m flattered, yet relieved. Hugh would have heard the call, and who knows what he might have thought?

It would have been an irresponsible thing to do, but then I remind myself that Lukas thinks I’m single. Available.

– I wasn’t asleep.

– I couldn’t stop thinking of you. All day today. I wished there was some way you could’ve been there. Some way I could show you off to people.

I smile to myself. Not for the first time I wonder how he always manages to say the right thing.

After a moment his next message arrives.

– I have a confession.

I try to keep it light.

– Sounds ominous! Good or bad?

– I don’t know.

Is this it, I think?

– Then you’d better tell me.

I wonder how I’d feel if he were to type, ‘I was in Paris in February and I did a terrible thing.’

I remember the Facebook page I’ve looked at. It’s not that.

– It’s good, I think. I didn’t tell you before because I wasn’t sure, but now I am.

There’s a pause.

– But I want to tell you face to face. I want to meet you.

Whatever is growing inside me swells further. I realize part of me wants that, too, but another part wants just to look him in the eye. To appraise him, weigh him up. To assess what he knows, or might have done.

I shake the image away. I’m getting too close to the edge. I’m married. He’s in Milan, I’m in London. I can’t see it happening. It’s a fantasy. That’s all. Preposterous. I’m only imagining it because I know it’s impossible. Lukas must exist in a box; there has to be a protective barrier between him and my real life.

Another message arrives.

– We can meet, he says. I didn’t want to tell you in case it freaked you out, but the wedding was in London.

I freeze.

– I’m here. Now.

Fear ripples through me, but it’s mixed with something else. Excitement; my stomach knots and tips, I can taste the metallic kick of adrenalin on my tongue. My excuses have vanished. He’s here, we’re in the same city. It’s as if he’s standing right in front of me. The things I’d thought about, the things he’d described doing to me, could really happen. If I want them to. But, more importantly, I could meet him, on my terms, my own turf. I could find out what he knows. Whether he knew my sister.

I try to calm myself. I type.

– Why didn’t you tell me?

I’m relieved that he can’t see me, can’t see the anxiety written on my face.

– I don’t know. I wasn’t sure you’d want to meet me. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. But something happened today. I missed you, in a weird way. Maybe because I had your number. Anyway, I know it’s what I want. You’re what I want.

His words sit there, on the screen.

You’re what I want.

– Tell me you want to meet me, too.

Do I? Yes, I think. For Kate. If he knew her she might have told him about others, people she’d met. She might’ve told him all kinds of things, things she told no one else. He might be able to help me.

I think of what both Adrienne and Anna have both told me. Be careful.

I wish I’d told him about Hugh. I wish he knew I was married, that I have a son. That things are not as simple as they seem. I could be honest then. I could tell him how impossible it is for me to meet him, no matter how much I might want to. I wouldn’t have to invent an excuse.

– You do want to meet me, don’t you?

I hesitate. I should tell him I’m busy. I have something I can’t get out of. A meeting, I could say. An appointment. I could even tell him I’m about to take a flight, off on holiday. I could be vague. ‘Such a pity,’ I’d tell him. ‘Maybe next time.’

But he’d know what that means, really. Next time, meaning, never. And then I’d lose everything, all the progress I’ve already made. And for the rest of my life I would wonder if he might have held the key to unlocking what happened that cold February night in Paris, and I’d just let him slip through my fingers.

I think back to his first words to me. You remind me of someone.

I make my decision.

– Of course! How long are you here for?

– Until Tuesday evening. We could meet that day. Around lunchtime.

I know what Adrienne would say. She’s made it clear. Talk to Hugh. Give his details to the police and then walk away.

But I can’t do that. They’ll do nothing. My hands hover over the keyboard. It’s getting light outside; soon my husband will get up, then Connor. Another day will begin, another week. Everything will be exactly the same.

I have to do something.

Chapter Fourteen

Morning. Hugh and Connor have left, for work and school. I don’t know what to do with myself.

I call Anna. She doesn’t answer, but a minute later I get a text message. ‘Everything OK?’

I tell her it’s urgent and she says she’ll make an excuse. A few minutes later she rings back. Her voice echoes; I guess she is in one of the bathrooms at work.

‘Well, we didn’t see that coming!’ she says, once I’ve explained what happened last night. ‘You’ve told him you’ll meet him?’

I think back to my final message.

‘Yes.’

‘Okay …’

‘You think it’s a bad idea.’

‘No,’ she says. ‘No. It’s just … you really need to be careful. You’re sure he’s who he says he is?’

Yes, I think. I’m as sure as I can be about someone I’ve never met.

‘He could be anyone,’ she says.

I know what she’s trying to tell me but I want someone on my side. ‘You think I shouldn’t go.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I just have to know. One way or the other.’

‘But—’

‘For Connor, as much as for me.’

She doesn’t answer. I hear something in the background, running water, voices, a door closing, then she speaks.

She sounds anxious, yet somehow excited, too, as if she senses that we’re edging closer to the truth.

‘You’ll meet him somewhere in public?’

We’ve arranged to meet in his hotel, at St Pancras.

‘Of course.’

‘Promise me.’

‘I promise.’

‘Could you take a friend? Adrienne?’

‘He thinks we’re meeting for … well, he thinks it’s a date.’

‘So, she can sit in a corner. You don’t have to introduce her.’

She’s right. But I already know what Adrienne would say if I asked her, and there’s no one else I can go to.

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Ask her!’

‘Okay …’

I wish she weren’t so far away.

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘Just promise me you’ll be careful.’

‘I will.’

I get ready. I shower, moisturize. I shave my legs with a fresh razor, the same number of strokes on each leg. An absurd need for symmetry I haven’t experienced in years.

I talk to Hugh over breakfast. I toy with the idea of telling him the truth, but I know what he’ll think, what he’ll say. He’ll make me feel absurd. He’ll stop me from going through with it. And so I need an excuse, an alibi, in case he rings and I don’t answer, or comes home unexpectedly. ‘Darling,’ I say, as we sit down with our coffee. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

He looks so worried. I feel a sharp stab of guilt.

‘Oh, it’s nothing serious. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about your idea. About seeing someone. A counsellor. And I’ve decided you’re right.’

He takes my hand. ‘Julia,’ he says. ‘That’s great. I really don’t think you’ll regret it. I can ask a colleague, if you like, see if they can recommend someone—’

‘No,’ I say, a little too hurriedly. ‘No, it’s okay. I’ve found someone. I’m seeing them later.’

He nods. ‘Who? You know their name?’

‘Yes, of course.’

There’s a silence. He’s waiting.

‘Who is it?’

I hesitate. I don’t want to tell him, but I have no choice. And, really, it can’t hurt. He’ll observe the Hippocratic oath. He might look him up, but he’ll never try to contact him. ‘Martin Green.’

‘You’re sure he’s good? I know plenty of people who could recommend—’

‘Hugh, I’m not one of your patients. This is something I have to do, by myself. Okay?’ He begins to protest, but I silence him. ‘Hugh! It’s fine. Adrienne says he’s very good and, anyway, it’s just an initial consultation. Just to see how we get on. Trust me. Please?’

I see him relax. I smile, to show him any anger has vanished. He returns my smile, then kisses me. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he says. I feel guilt wash over me, but ride it out. ‘Well done.’

Now, I go over to my wardrobe. I must choose my clothes carefully. I have to convince Lukas I am who he thinks I am, that I want what he thinks I want.

I try my jeans with a white blouse, then a dress with tights and boots. I stand in front of the mirror. Better, I think. I choose a necklace and make up my face – not too much, it’s the middle of the day, after all – but enough for me not to feel like me any more.

Maybe that’s what I’m doing, really. Choosing the clothes that will turn me from Julia into that other person, the one Lukas has met online. Into Jayne.

I sit at the dressing table and spray my perfume, a squirt behind each ear, one more on each wrist. It smells buttery and sweet. It’s expensive, something Hugh bought me for Christmas a couple of years ago. Fracas. My mother used to wear it, and it was always Kate’s favourite, too. Its fragrance makes me feel closer to them both.

Finally, I’m ready. I look in the mirror. At my reflection. I think of my photo. Marcus in the Mirror. I remember that first time we had sex. I’ve never lacked confidence, but that night, even as he kissed me, I thought he might pull away. Even as he undressed me, I thought, this is the first time, and it will also be the last. Even as he entered me, I thought, I can’t possibly be good enough for this man.

And yet I was. We started seeing each other. We started missing meetings, now and again at first, then more often than not. And then we moved to Berlin. It was cold; I remember we slept rough that first night, and then hooked up with friends he had out there. A week of sleeping on floors turned into a month, and then we found a place of our own, and—

And I don’t want to think about it now. About how happy we were.

I stand up. I check my phone for messages. Part of me hopes he’s cancelled. I could undress then, take off the make-up, put on the jeans and shirt I was wearing when I said goodbye to Hugh this morning. I could make myself a cup of tea and sit in front of the television, or with a novel. This afternoon I could do some work, ring some people. Along with my relief I could nurse a quiet resentment, I could vow never to message him again and then go back to Hugh and spend the rest of my life wondering whether Lukas knew Kate, whether he might have led me to the man who killed her.

But there are no messages; he hasn’t changed his mind, and I’m not disappointed. For the first time in months I get the sense that something will happen, one way or another. I feel a kind of elasticity; the future is unknown, but it seems malleable, pliable. It has a softness, where before it’d felt as hard and unyielding as glass.

I take a taxi. It’s sticky with the heat, even with the window open. The sweat trickles down my back. In the cab there’s the same advert I saw on my way home from dinner with Adrienne. BE WHO YOU WANT TO BE.

We reach St Pancras. The car sweeps up the cobbled drive, the door is opened for me. I feel a breeze on my neck as I get out and go into the hotel. The doors slide open and marble stairs lead into the relief of the air-conditioned interior. The roof above us is glass, with iron girders, part of the old station, I guess. It’s all elegance here, cut flowers, the smell of lemon and leather and wealth. I look around the lobby; two men sit side by side on a green sofa; a woman in a suit reads the paper. There are signs: RESTAURANT, SPA, MEETING ROOMS. Behind the reception desk all is busy and efficient; I look at my watch and see that I’m early.

I take out my phone. No messages.

I wait for my breathing to slow, my heart to stop its insistent alarm, its attempts to warn. I slip off my wedding ring and put it in my purse. My hand feels naked now, as does the rest of me, but without my ring what I’m about to do feels less of a betrayal, somehow.

At the reception desk I ask for the bar. The guy is young and impossibly good-looking. He points me in the right direction and wishes me a nice day. I thank him and step away. His eyes burn into me as I retreat, as if he knows why I’m here. I want to turn round and tell him it’s not what he thinks, I’m not going to go through with it.

I’m only pretending.

Lukas is sitting at the bar, his back to me. I’d worried I wouldn’t recognize him, but he’s unmistakable. He’s wearing a tailored suit, though as I get closer I see he hasn’t bothered with the tie. Some effort, but not too much. Like me, I guess. I’m surprised to see a glass of champagne in front of him, another in front of the empty seat at his side. I remind myself I’m here for Kate.

Her face floats in front of me. She’s a little girl, seven or eight. Our father has told us he’s sending us to boarding school, just for a couple of years, though we both know it’ll be until Kate leaves home. She looks terrified, and once again I’m telling her it’ll work out. ‘You’ll have me,’ I say, ‘and you’ll make loads of other friends. I promise!’

I didn’t know whether she would, back then. She had a temper, was developing a wild streak. She could take things to heart and get herself in trouble. But she did make friends, eventually. One of them must have been Anna, but there were others. Life was difficult for her, but she wasn’t unhappy, not always. And I looked after her. I did my best. Until …

No, I think. I can’t think of that now. I can’t bring Marcus into the room. And so I push the image away and walk over.

Lukas hasn’t seen me yet, and I’m glad. I want to arrive suddenly, to be there before he’s had the chance to appraise me from a distance. He’s ten years younger than me, and looks it. I’m nervous enough, I don’t want to risk seeing a flash of disappointment as he sees me approach.

‘Hi!’ I say, when I reach him.

He looks up. His eyes are deep blue, even more striking in real life. For the briefest of moments his face is expressionless, his gaze invading, as if he’s unpicking me, learning me from within. He looks as if he has no idea who I am, or why I’m there, but then he breaks into a broad smile and stands up.

‘Jayne!’ I don’t correct him. There’s a momentary flicker of surprise and I realize he thought I wouldn’t come.

‘You made it!’ He’s grinning with relief, which makes me feel relieved, too. I sense we’re both nervous, which means neither of us has all the power.

‘Of course I did!’ I say. There’s an awkward moment. Should we kiss? Shake hands? He pushes my drink towards me.

‘Well, I’m glad.’ There’s another pause. ‘I got you some champagne. I wasn’t sure what you’d want.’

‘Thanks. I might just get some sparkling water.’

I slide into my seat and he orders my drink. I look at him, at this unshaven, blue-eyed man, and again ask myself why I’m here. I’ve been telling myself it’s to find out whether he knew my sister, but there’s more, of course there is.

I wonder whether I’m being naive. Whether it might be him she was going to meet that night. The thought assaults me. It’s brutal. The man in front of me looks incapable of violence, but that means nothing. It’s not only those who have shaved their heads or inked their bodies that are capable of wielding weapons.

I remind myself of what I’ve seen. Of where he was in February. I begin to calm down as my water arrives.

‘There you go. You’re not drinking?’

‘No. I don’t.’

I see the familiar readjustment that people make when I tell them. I know they’re trying to figure out whether I’m a puritan, possibly religious, or an addict.

As usual, I say nothing. I don’t need to make excuses. Instead I look around the bar. It used to be the ticket office; people would queue here before boarding their train, and many of the old features – the wood panelling, the huge clock on the wall above us – have been retained. It’s busy; people sit with their suitcases, or newspapers. They’re eating lunch, or afternoon tea. They’re in transit, or else staying in the hotel above. For a moment I wish I were one of them. I wish the reason I find myself here could be that uncomplicated.

As if for the first time, I realize Lukas has a room, just a few floors above. The reason he thinks I’m here swims into focus.

‘Are you okay?’ he says. There’s a tension in the air; we’re hesitant. I remind myself that he thinks we’re both single and that even if his path has crossed with Kate’s there’s still no reason I should be finding this difficult.

‘Fine. Thanks.’ I pick up the glass as if to prove it. ‘Cheers!’

We chink our glasses. I try to imagine him with my sister. I can’t.

I wonder what would usually happen now. I imagine Kate, or Anna – I know she’s done this kind of thing, too. I see kissing, tearing at each other’s clothes. I see people being pushed on to a bed in fevered lust. I see naked bodies, flesh.

I sip my water. When I put my glass down there’s lipstick on the rim and I’m shocked, momentarily, by its colour. It seems bright, as if it’s in Technicolor, plus it’s not what I wear, not in the middle of the day. It’s not me. Which was the point of wearing it, of course.

I feel lost. I’d thought this would be easy. I’d thought I’d meet him and the answers would spill out, the path to the truth about what happened to Kate instantly become clear. But it’s never felt more muddied, and I don’t know what to do.

‘You look beautiful,’ he says. I grin and thank him. I look at him. He looks solid, more solid than anything has looked for a long time. I can hardly believe he’s here, that with almost no effort at all I could reach out and touch his flesh.

He smiles. I hold his gaze, but still, somehow, it’s me that feels naked. I look away. I think of Hugh, at work, a body under the sheets in front of him, flesh parted, wet and glistening. I think of Connor in the classroom, his head bent over his desk at the end of another school year, the long holidays in front of him. And then Lukas smiles and I put these feelings back, lock them away. He puts down his glass and my eyes catch on something glinting on his left hand.

I’m almost relieved. It’s a shock, but the awkwardness that has built between us is broken.

‘You’re married.’

‘I’m not.’

‘But your ring …’

He looks at his own hand, as if to check what I’ve seen, then at me. ‘I never told you?’

I shake my head. I remind myself that I can’t accuse him of deception, with the lies I’ve told.

‘I was married …’ He takes a deep breath, then sighs heavily. ‘Cancer. Four years ago.’

‘Oh.’ I’m shocked. It’s brutal. I search his eyes and see only pain. Pain, and innocence. I reach out my hand as if to take his. I do it automatically, without thinking. A moment later he reaches and takes hold of mine. There’s no crackle of electricity, no spark of energy jumping from one to the other. Even so, I’m dimly aware that this is the first time we’ve touched, and the moment therefore has significance no matter what happens next.

‘I’m so sorry.’ It feels inadequate, as it always does.

‘Thank you. I loved her very much. But life goes on. It’s a cliché, but it’s true.’ He smiles. He’s still holding my hand. Our eyes lock. I blink, slowly, but I don’t look away. I feel something, something I’ve not felt for a long time, so long I can’t quite work out what it is.

Desire? Power? A mixture of both? I can’t tell.

Once again I try to visualize him with Kate. I’d know, surely? All through our childhood I’d known what she was thinking, when she was in trouble. If this man had anything to do with her death then wouldn’t I just know?

‘I can’t bear this any more. Shall we go upstairs?’

This isn’t right. This isn’t why I came.

‘I’m sorry. Can we just talk, for a while?’

He smiles and says, ‘Of course.’ He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair, then takes my hand once again. I let him. We speak for a while, but it’s small talk, we’re avoiding things, though what we’re avoiding is different for each of us. For me it’s Kate, but for him? The fact he wants to take me upstairs, I guess. After a few minutes there’s a moment of decision. He’s finished his drink, mine is gone already. We can get more and carry on talking, or we can leave. There’s a hesitation, a drawing in, then he says, ‘I’m sorry. For not telling you I was married, I mean.’ I don’t reply. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why did you say you were in Paris? When we first talked, I mean.’

We’re skirting the edges now, circling in.

‘I was. I was on holiday out there.’

‘Alone?’

I think of Anna. ‘With a friend.’ I see my chance. ‘Why? When were you last there?’

He thinks for a moment. ‘September last year, I think it was.’

‘Not since?’

His head tilts. ‘No, why?’

‘No reason.’ I try a different tack.

‘You have friends there?’

‘Not really. No.’

‘No one?’

He laughs. ‘Not that I can think of!’

I pretend to look wistful. ‘I’ve always wanted to be there in winter. February. Valentine’s day in Paris, you know?’ I smile, as if dreaming. ‘Must be beautiful.’

‘So romantic.’

I sigh. ‘I guess. You’ve never been in winter?’

He shakes his head. ‘It’s funny, I can’t imagine it snowing there. I guess I associate it with the summer. You’re right, though. It must be beautiful.’

I look at my glass. Why would he lie? He doesn’t know who I am. Why would he tell me he’d never been to Paris in winter if he had?

‘So who’s your friend over there?’

I look puzzled.

‘The one you were visiting?’

‘Oh, just a friend.’ I hesitate, but I’ve already decided what I have to do. ‘I thought you might know her actually.’

‘Know her?’

‘She sometimes uses encountrz.’

He smiles. ‘I don’t know many people off that site, believe it or not.’

I force myself to laugh. ‘No?’

‘No. You’re the first person I’ve met.’

‘Really?’

‘I swear.’

I realize I believe him. He never talked to Kate. Disappointment begins to build.

‘But you talk to people on there?’

‘A few. Not that many.’

I know what I have to do. I take out my phone and unlock the screen. I’m smiling, trying to keep it light. ‘Wouldn’t it be funny …’ I’m saying ‘… such a coincidence … She’d love it if …’

I hold my phone out to him. I’ve opened a picture of Kate. I force myself to speak.

‘This is her. My friend.’

Silence. I look straight at him as he takes my phone in his hand.

‘Have you chatted to her?’

His face is expressionless. I’m aware that the next emotion that flashes in his eyes will tell me the truth. I’ve sprung the photo on him, he’s unprepared. If he’s ever seen Kate before he’ll give himself away. He has to.

There’s a long moment, then his face breaks into a grin. He looks at me. He’s shaking his head, laughing. ‘Never seen her online, no. But she looks like fun.’

I can see that he’s telling the truth. I’m certain of it. More disappointment slides in, yet it’s muted, and mixed with relief. ‘She is!’ I say. I force myself to smile and put my phone away. I begin to babble. ‘To be honest, she doesn’t go online that much. Not any more … in fact, I’m not sure she ever did, really …’

Lukas is laughing. I worry that he can tell something’s wrong. ‘It would have been quite a coincidence! Shall we get another drink?’

I say no. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

I try to calm down.

‘So how about you? Do you meet up with many people you speak to online?’

‘No, not really. No.’

‘But you met with me.’

‘Yes. Yes I did.’

He takes my hand again. He’s looking me in the eye.

I can hardly breathe. He didn’t know my sister. He never met her.

‘Why?’

I should stand up. I know that. I should walk away, tell him I’m going to the bathroom, never come back. It’d be easy enough; he doesn’t know where I live.

I will, I tell myself. Soon.

‘I like you, I guess.’

‘And I like you.’

He leans towards me. He sighs. I can feel his breath on my cheek.

‘I like you a great deal.’

I can feel the warmth of his skin, I can smell his aftershave, mingled with sweat. He’s opened me. Something I’ve been holding in check for weeks, months, years, is flooding me.

‘Let’s go upstairs.’

‘No. No, I’m sorry—’

‘Jayne …’ He’s almost whispering. ‘Beautiful Jayne … I’ll be gone tomorrow. This is our one chance. You want it, don’t you? You want me?’

I look back at him. I feel more alive than I can remember. I don’t want it to stop. Not yet. It can’t be over.

I nod.

‘Yes.’

He’s kissing me, his hands are around my waist, he’s pulling me towards him and yet at the same time pushing me back, back, back towards the bed. I fall backwards on to it and then he’s on top of me and I’m pulling the shirt from his trousers, unbuttoning it blindly and with clumsy hands, and his hands are on my chest, and then his mouth, and it’s all sweat and fury and I don’t resist, because there’s no point, that line is already crossed, it was crossed when I walked up to him in the bar, crossed when I left the house to come here, crossed when I said, ‘Yes, yes, yes, I’ll come and meet you,’ and there’s no point in pretending otherwise. My betrayal has been gradual but inexorable, the sweep of the hand on a clock, and it’s led me here, to this afternoon. And right now, with his hands on my naked flesh, and mine on his, with his prick stiffening between my legs, I’m not sorry. I have no regrets at all. I realize how stupid I’ve been. All along, from the very beginning, this is what it’d been about.

When we finish we lie on our backs, side by side. The afterglow. But it’s awkward somehow; I understand now why it’s called the little death, but even if that’s true at least it means I was alive before.

He turns to face me. He props his head on his arm, and again I’m aware of the years between us, the fact that he’s Kate’s age, more or less. His skin is taut and firm, his muscles flex when he moves, visible, alive. As we made love I’d been shocked by this, and now I wonder if it’s something I ever had with Hugh. I can’t quite remember; it’s as if my memories of a younger him have somehow been overwritten by all that’s happened since.

I remind myself that being ten years younger than me makes Lukas twenty younger than my husband.

He reaches out to stroke my arm. ‘Thank you …’ I feel it should be me thanking him, but I don’t. We say nothing for a while. I look at his body, now that it’s still. I look at his stomach, which is firm, and at the hairs on his chest, none of which are grey. I examine his mouth, his lips, which are moist. I look into his eyes and see he’s looking at me in the same way.

He kisses me. ‘You hungry? Shall we get something to eat?’

‘In the restaurant?’

‘We could get something sent up.’

It must be nearly three, I think, possibly even later. Connor will be back soon. And even if he weren’t, even if I had all the time in the world, having lunch with this man seems somehow like a step too far. It would be a sharing of more than just our bodies, would imply a greater intimacy than what we’ve already done, which was just lust, and flesh.

I smile.

‘What’s funny?’

‘Nothing.’

I realize a part of me wants to get away. I need to be on my own, to find solitude and process what I’ve just done, and the reasons I did it. I didn’t mean to, when I came here, yet here I am. ‘I’d love some lunch, but I probably ought to get going. Soon.’

He strokes my shoulder. ‘Have you got to go?’

‘Yes.’ I search for an excuse. ‘I’m meeting someone. A friend.’

He nods his head. I realize I’d like him to ask me to stay, I’d like him to beg me to cancel my friend, I’d like to see disappointment when I tell him I can’t.

But I know he won’t ask. Spending the rest of the day together was never part of the deal he thought he’d struck with me; it’s against the terms of our engagement. And so the silence between us extends, becomes almost uncomfortable. The schizophrenia of lust; it’s hard to believe the intimacy we shared just a few moments ago can evaporate almost in an instant. I become aware of the details in the room, the clock on the TV that’s mounted on the wall opposite, the fireplace, the stack of old hardback books on the mantelpiece that surely no one reads. I hadn’t noticed them before.