Текст книги "Second Life"

Автор книги: S. J. Watson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

‘When’s your flight?’

He sighs. ‘Not till tonight. Eight o’clock, I think.’ He kisses me. I wonder dimly why he hasn’t checked out, then realize I’m the reason. ‘I have all afternoon.’ He kisses me again. Harder, this time. ‘Stay …’

I think of him getting on his flight, going back home. I think of never seeing him again. I remember when I’d thought the same thing about Marcus, when I believed that he’d meet someone else in Berlin, someone more interesting, and I would end up coming home, back to Kate and my father, my old life. But he hadn’t. Our love had deepened, intensified. In winter we would open the window of our apartment and crawl out on to the cold ledge. We’d wrap ourselves in a blanket and look at the Fernsehturm glowing in the bright blue sky, talking about our future, all the places we’d go and the things we’d see. Or else we’d take a bottle of cheap wine, or vodka, to Tiergarten, or hang out at Zoo Station. I had my camera; I took pictures of the rent boys, the dropouts and runaways. We met people, our lives expanded, opened out. I missed Kate dreadfully, but I didn’t regret leaving her behind.

But that was the old me. I can’t behave like that any more.

‘I’m sorry,’ I begin. I have the distinct impression that I’m slipping away, that Jayne – the me, the version of me, that is able to do what I’ve just done – is disappearing. Soon it will be replaced by Julia – mother, wife and, once upon a time, daughter. I’m not sure I want her to go.

‘I really have to—’

‘Please don’t.’ He’s fierce now, and for a moment he looks so desperate, so alive with desire, that I feel a sudden rush which takes me by surprise. It’s happiness, I think. I’d forgotten what it was like, this pure, uncomplicated happiness, more powerful than any drug. It’s not what I just did, what I realize I’m about to do again. It’s not that I’ve deceived my husband and got away with it. It’s me. I have something, now, something that’s mine. A private thing, a secret. I can keep it hidden, in a box, and take it out occasionally, like a treasure. I have something that belongs to no one else.

‘Stay,’ he says. ‘For a while at least.’ And I do.

Chapter Fifteen

I go home. When I open the door I find a handful of postcards pushed through the letterbox. I bend down to pick them up and with a gasp of shock see that they’re the postcards that prostitutes leave in phone boxes. On each there’s a picture of a woman, a different woman, wearing lingerie, or nothing at all, and posing next to a phone number. ‘Hot Young Slut’, says one, ‘Spanking fun’, reads another. Straight away my mind goes to the last thing Paddy had said to me – Fuck you – and straight away I tell myself they’re from him. He’s pushed them through the door in a fit of childish, spiteful anger.

I try to calm myself down. I’m being paranoid. They can’t be from him, surely. It’s as ridiculous as me thinking it was him standing outside my window. The simpler the explanation, the more likely it is to be true, and Paddy would’ve had to travel across town, on a day when he’s supposed to be at work, during a time when he knew I wouldn’t be in the house. It’s much more likely it was kids. Just kids, messing about.

Yet still I can taste fear in my mouth as I tear them into little pieces and put them in the bin. I ignore it. I won’t let it get to me. It’s nothing, nothing to worry about, a stupid prank. I must stop being paranoid.

I go upstairs and step out of my boots. I take off the make-up I’d put on earlier, then the clothes. It’s hard to imagine that just a few hours ago I was putting all this stuff on; it’s as if a film’s playing backwards, a life spooling in reverse. By the end it’s a different me standing here, in front of the mirror. Julia. Not better, not worse. Just different.

I put my jeans on, a shirt, then go back downstairs. My phone rings. It sounds alien, too loud. I’m annoyed; I’d wanted more time with my own thoughts before the real world crashed back in, but when I pick it up I see it’s Anna and am pleased. She’s someone I can talk to, someone I can be honest with.

‘How did it go? Did you find anything?’

‘He knows nothing. I’m certain of it.’

She hesitates, then says, ‘I’m sorry.’

Her voice is soft. She knows how much I need answers.

‘It’s okay.’

‘I really thought—’ she begins, but I’m gripped with an urge to tell the truth and she’s the one person who might understand.

‘We had sex.’

‘What?’

I say it again. I consider telling her I thought it might help, but I don’t. It’s not true, no matter how much I might want to believe it. We had sex because I wanted to.

‘Are you all right?’

I wonder if I’m supposed to feel bad. I don’t.

‘Yes. Fine. I enjoyed it.’

‘Is this because of Kate?’

Is it? I don’t know. Did I want to have sex with Lukas so that I could walk in her shoes?

Either way, I understand her better now.

‘Maybe.’

‘Will you see him again?’

Her question shocks me. I search for a hint of condemnation in it, but there’s none. I know she understands.

‘No. No, I won’t. In any case, he leaves tonight.’

‘You’re all right about that?’

‘I don’t have any choice,’ I say. ‘But yes, yes I am.’

I’m trying to sound light, unconcerned. I’m not sure she believes me. ‘If you’re sure,’ she says, and then I change the subject. We talk some more, about her, and her boyfriend, Ryan, and how well it’s going. She says I ought to come and visit her again, when I get the chance, and tells me that she’ll be over with work in the next few weeks but hasn’t been given the dates yet. ‘We could catch up then,’ she says. ‘Go for dinner, maybe. Have a bit of fun.’

Fun. I wonder what kind of fun she means. I remember she’s younger than me, but not by that much.

‘That’d be great,’ I say. I know I must sound distracted. I’m still thinking of Lukas, imagining meeting him again, wondering what it might be like to be able to introduce him to my friends one day, wondering if the reason I never will is what makes the thought so appealing.

I remind myself that this is my real life. Anna is my real friend. Not Lukas. ‘I’d like that a lot,’ I say.

Connor gets in. I make him a sandwich and tell him to make sure he remembers to put his PE kit in the laundry, then a while later I hear Hugh’s key in the lock. He comes into the kitchen as I’m cooking dinner. I kiss him, as usual, and watch as he gets a drink, then takes off his tie and hangs his jacket carefully over the back of the chair. The guilt I feel is predictable, but surprisingly short-lived. What I did this afternoon has nothing to do with the love I feel for my husband. Lukas in one box, Hugh in another.

‘How was your day?’ I say.

He doesn’t answer, which I know means not good. He asks how my session of therapy went.

‘Okay.’ I’m aware I sound unconvincing. ‘Good, I think.’

He comes over, puts a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t give up on it. It takes time. I know you’re doing the right thing.’

I smile, then go back to the dinner. Hugh says he’s going up to his office, and I’m glad, but as he turns to leave I can’t bear it any more. He’s not himself. His voice is flat, he’s moving as if the air is thick. Something is wrong.

‘Darling?’

He turns round.

‘What is it?’

‘Bad day,’ he says. ‘That’s all.’

I put down the knife I’d been using to chop vegetables. ‘Want to talk about it?’

He shakes his head. The disappointment slices into me and I realize how much I want to feel connected with my husband. Right now, after what happened this afternoon – after what I did – I need him to confide in me. His reticence feels like a rejection.

‘Hugh?’

‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘Honestly. We’ll talk later.’

We eat our dinner, the three of us, then sit at the table in the kitchen. Connor is opposite me, his computer open in front of him, a notepad and a stack of biology textbooks next to it. He’s studying the valves of the heart, his father’s subject, and leans into the screen, clicking his trackpad regularly. He has a look of intense concentration. Hugh sits next to him with a paper, making notes of his own, occasionally glancing at Connor’s work, making a comment when he’s asked a question. He seems back to normal now; whatever was bothering him earlier is forgotten, or pushed below the surface. It was probably nothing. Just my imagination.

My phone buzzes as another message arrives.

– I wish I’d bought you flowers this afternoon. You deserve a little romance.

I put my phone back, face down. I look up at my family. They haven’t noticed, and couldn’t possibly see what it says, yet still I feel guilty. I shouldn’t be doing this, not here, not now.

But I’m not doing anything. Not really. It buzzes again.

– You’re amazing. In a weird way it feels like I’ve known you for ages.

This time I have to reply.

– Really? You think so?

– Yes.

His reply is instant. I picture him, at his keyboard, waiting for my next response.

– You’re not so bad yourself.

I press send, then type another message.

– And you did buy me champagne.

– Which you didn’t drink.

– But you bought it for me. That’s the main thing.

– It’s the least you deserve.

Hugh coughs and I look up. He’s looking at me, at the phone in my hand. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh, yes.’ I’m trying to keep my voice steady. ‘It’s just Anna. She’s thinking of coming over.’

‘To stay here?’ says Connor, looking up expectantly. I wonder if he’s thinking about Kate, about what he might find out about his mother from her oldest friend.

‘No. No, I don’t think so. She’s coming for work. I imagine they’d put her up in a hotel.’

He says nothing. It crosses my mind that it might do him good, to get to know Anna a little better. I tell myself I’ll make sure they meet, when she comes.

I look back at my phone. Another message.

– What are you up to?

The question is undeniably sexual. Yet when he’s asked me that before, back when we were first chatting, the same words had been entirely innocent.

Or maybe I’d just chosen not to see them for what they were.

Hugh stands up. ‘I’ll make a coffee,’ he says. ‘Julia?’

I tell him I don’t want one. He goes over to the machine and switches it on before filling its tank from the tap behind me. I hold my phone closer to my chest. Just slightly.

‘How is she?’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I think.’

‘I hadn’t realized you were still in touch.’

I’m surprised. He must know we’ve been talking. It crosses my mind that he suspects, somehow, that I’m lying.

‘Oh, yes.’

He doesn’t answer. As he sits back down my phone buzzes once more.

– Are you there?

Hugh notices. He looks annoyed, or upset. I can’t tell.

‘Sorry, darling.’

‘It’s fine.’ He picks up his pen, as if he’s about to go back to his paper. His annoyance has lasted only for a moment. ‘Message your friend. We’ll talk later.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I switch my phone off, but Connor has already started asking his father something about arteries and in a moment Hugh will be busy with an explanation. I’m hurting no one.

‘I’m just going to go and do some work,’ I say.

I cross the garden and go into the shed that is my office. I put my phone down and open my laptop.

– Sorry, I type. I was out. I’m at home now.

– Doing?

– Nothing.

– Wearing?

– What do you think?

There’s a pause, then:

– I need to see you again. Say you want to see me, too.

Yes, I think. I do. Funny how much less ambiguous my desires are now that they can’t be fulfilled.

– Of course I do.

– I’m imagining you. Naked. It’s all I can think about …

I’m sitting on the stool. I can feel the metal footrest under my feet, the hard acrylic of the seat beneath my buttocks. I close my eyes. I can see him, here in the room with me. He seems real. More real than anything else.

I don’t reply for a moment. I see my family, in the kitchen, Connor puzzled, Hugh helping him, sipping his coffee, but I push it down and instead imagine what Lukas is describing. I imagine what he wants to do.

I begin to type. I picture him as I write. He’s standing behind me. I can smell his aftershave, the faint aroma of his sweat.

– I want to be naked for you.

– I want you so badly.

I think of his urgency this afternoon, his desperate need. The shock of his desire. I let it course through my body. I feel alive.

– I want you, too.

– I’m imagining it. I’m reaching over to you. Running my hand through your hair.

Again I flash on my husband, my son. This is wrong, I think. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should protest. But I can feel his hands on my scalp, both rough and gentle at the same time. Lukas is drawing it out of me, bit by bit he’s making me feel safe, moment by moment encouraging abandonment. He coaxes out my fantasies and they’re unfurling in front of him.

– Tell me what you want.

My hand goes to my throat. I imagine it’s him, touching me.

– Tell me your desires.

I turn round. I slide the bolt that locks the door from the inside. I take a deep breath. Can I do this? I never have before.

– Tell me your fantasies.

There are lots of things I’ve never done before. I undo a button on my shirt.

I begin to type.

– I’m alone. In a bar. There’s a stranger.

– Go on …

I let the images come.

– I can’t take my eyes off him.

– He’s dangerous …

– Someone I won’t be able to say no to.

– Won’t be able to say no to? Or who won’t take no for an answer?

I hesitate, briefly. I know what he wants. I know what I want, too.

It’s words on a screen, I tell myself. That’s all.

– Who won’t take no for an answer.

– What happens?

I breathe in deeply. I fill myself with possibility. I undo another button on my shirt. I’m hurting no one.

– Tell me, he says, and I do.

When we finish I’m not embarrassed. Not quite. I haven’t described rape – it’d been more complicated than that, more nuanced – yet still I’m uneasy, as if I’ve somehow betrayed my sex.

It’d been a fantasy, I tell myself, and not an uncommon one, from what I’ve read. But not something I’d wish on anyone. Not in real life.

He sends me a message.

– Wow! You really are something.

Am I? I think. I don’t feel it. In this moment, now it’s over, I want to tell him everything. I want to explain about Hugh, the husband he doesn’t know I have. I want to tell him about my gentle, caring, solicitous Hugh.

I also want to tell him that sometimes Hugh isn’t enough. My need is raw and animal, and yes, yes, very occasionally I just want to feel used, like I’m nothing, just sex, just pure light and air.

And I want to explain that one person can’t be everything, not all the time.

But how can I, when he doesn’t even know Hugh exists?

– You, too, I say.

I look at the time. It’s almost nine; I’ve been in here for nearly forty-five minutes.

– I have to go, I say, but then I hear the quiet roar of a plane flying overhead and something strikes me.

– Shouldn’t you be in the air, now?

– I should.

– You missed your flight?

– Not missed. I cancelled it. I thought I’d have one more day in London.

– Why? I say. I’m hoping I already know the answer.

– To see you.

I’m not sure what to feel. I’m excited, yes, but underneath it is something else. At the moment I can almost convince myself I haven’t been unfaithful, haven’t betrayed my husband. But if I see him again?

I tell myself I wouldn’t have to sleep with him.

Another message arrives. It’s not quite what I’m expecting.

– The truth is, he says, I have something I need to tell you.

Chapter Sixteen

We arrange to meet back at the hotel the following day. I arrive early; I want time to collect myself, to calm down. I’m nervous, I can’t work out what this thing is he wants to tell me. It can’t be something good, otherwise surely he’d have told me yesterday, as we lay in bed together, or last night as we chatted online. It’s hard to prepare yourself for the worst, when you don’t know what the worst will look like.

I’m distracted enough as it is. This morning Hugh has finally told me what was on his mind. He’d had a letter, a complaint. It had been copied to the head of the surgical directorate and the chief executive. ‘A complaint?’ I said. ‘What happened?’

He poured the tea he’d made. ‘Nothing, really. I did a bypass on a patient a few weeks ago. Pretty standard. Nothing unusual. He’s fine, but has pumphead.’

I waited, but he didn’t go on. He does this a lot. I’m expected to know.

‘Which is?’

‘Postperfusion syndrome. Poor attention, impaired fine motor skills, some short-term-memory problems. It’s pretty common. Usually it gets better.’

‘So why the complaint?’

He put his cup down. ‘The family are claiming I didn’t warn them it was a possibility pre-operatively. They’re claiming it might’ve affected their decision if they’d known.’

‘Did you?’

He looked at me. I couldn’t tell if he was angry. ‘Of course. I always do.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘I pulled the notes from my consultation yesterday and went through them. I didn’t make a note specifying that I’d warned the family that this was a possibility.’ He sighed. ‘And, apparently, if I didn’t write it down then, legally, I might as well have said nothing. The fact that I always tell every patient makes no difference.’

I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Will it go further?’

‘Well, the complaint is official.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s pathetic. I mean, what would they have done, anyway? No one ever turns round and says they won’t go through with a bypass because there’s the danger they’ll forget what’s on their bloody shopping list for a few weeks! I mean …’

I watched as he fought to get his anger under control. He’s grumbled to me before – about how unreasonable some patients can be, how determined they are to find something to complain about, however trivial – but this time he looks furious.

‘There’ll have to be an investigation. I’ll write a letter of apology, I guess. But I know the type. They’re after compensation. I didn’t do anything wrong, but they’ll take it as far as they can.’

‘Oh, darling—’

‘And right now that’s the last thing I bloody need.’

I felt guilty. I’ve been wrapped up in Kate’s death, for-getting that he’s had a job, a life to continue, too. I told him we were in it together, we’d be fine. I almost forgot about Lukas.

Now, though, he’s all I’m thinking about. I go through the station, up the stairs, on to the concourse by the platforms. I think of yesterday, and of the time I was here on my way to see Anna, to visit her in Paris. Back then, the only thing I’d been able to think about was Kate.

Lukas is waiting for me. Although we’d arranged to meet in the hotel lobby, he’s just outside the bar, standing underneath the huge statue that sits at the end of the platforms – a man and a woman, embracing, he with his hands around her waist, she with hers held to his face and neck – holding a bunch of flowers. As I approach, I notice he hasn’t seen me arrive. He’s shuffling from foot to foot, nervous, but when he sees me he breaks into a grin. We kiss. To anyone watching it must look like we’re trying to replicate the bronze statue that towers above us.

‘It’s called The Meeting Place,’ he says, when we’ve separated. ‘I thought I’d wait here, instead. Seemed appropriate.’

I smile. He’s holding the flowers out to me. They’re roses, deep lilac and very beautiful. ‘These are for you.’

I take them from him. He leans in and kisses me again, but my hand goes to his shoulder as if to push him away. I feel so exposed; it’s as if the whole world is in the station, watching us. I’m nervous, I seem to want everything at once: for him to get to the point quickly and leave, for him to invite me to stay for lunch, for him to tell me yesterday was a mistake, for him to confess to having no regrets at all.

But at first he’s silent as we walk through the darkened bar towards the brightness of the lobby. ‘It is you,’ he says, once we’ve emerged into the light. I ask him what he means.

‘That perfume. You were wearing it yesterday …’

‘You don’t like it?’

He shakes his head. He laughs. ‘Not really.’

There’s a momentary shock of disappointment. He must see it. He apologizes. ‘It’s fine. Just a bit too strong. For me, at least …’

I smile, and briefly look away. His comment hurts, just for an instant, but I tell myself it doesn’t matter. There are more important things to worry about.

‘I guess it is a bit overpowering. For the middle of the day.’

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’ He opens the door and stands aside for me to go through.

‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

‘I’ll tell you in a little while. Let’s get a drink?’

We sit, then order coffees. I put the flowers on top of the bag at my feet. It’s as if I’m trying to hide them, and I hope he doesn’t notice.

I ask him again why we’re here. He sighs, then runs his fingers through his hair. I don’t think it’s nerves. He looks lost. And scared.

‘Don’t be mad, but I lied to you.’

‘Okay.’ It’s the wife, I think. She’s alive, and believes he’s still out here because he missed his flight. ‘Go on …’

‘I know we started this only as an internet fling, but the thing is, I really want to see you again.’

I smile. I don’t know what to think. I’m flattered, relieved, but I don’t understand why there’s been a build-up. Something I need to tell you. Don’t be mad. There must be a but …

‘Do you want to see me again?’ He sounds hopeful, unsure.

I hesitate. I don’t know what I want. I still can’t quite shake the thought that he might help me find the answers I need.

Yet that’s not the whole story. There’s part of me that wants to see him again for reasons that have nothing to do with Kate at all.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I do. But it’s not that easy. You’re going home today, and I live here, and—’

‘I’m not going home today. Or not back to Italy, at least.’

‘Okay …’ Now we’re getting to the point. My mind races ahead. Where then? I want to say. Where? But instead I just nod. Part of me already knows what he’s going to say.

‘I live here.’

The reaction is instant. My skin crawls; I’m hypersensitized. I can feel the sun on my shoulder, the roughness of the fabric of the seat, the weight of the wristwatch on my arm. It’s as if everything that has been out of focus has snapped sharp.

‘Here?’

He nods.

‘In London?’

‘No. But, not far away. I live just outside Cambridge.’

So that’s why we’re meeting here. At the station.

‘Okay …’ I’m still processing what he’s told me. It’s too intimate, too close. Perversely, the news makes me want to get away from him, so that I can sit with it for a moment and work out how I feel.

‘You seem very … quiet.’

‘It’s nothing. It’s just a surprise. You told me you lived in Milan.’

‘I know, I’m sorry. You’re not angry with me?’ Suddenly he sounds so young, so naive. Somehow he reminds me of myself, when I was eighteen, nineteen, back when I was falling in love with Marcus.

He goes on. ‘For lying, I mean. It was just one of those things you say when you think you’re just chatting online and it’s not going to lead anywhere. You know how it is—’

‘I’m married.’ It comes out abruptly, as if I weren’t expecting it myself, and as soon as I’ve spoken I look away, over his shoulder. I don’t know what his reaction will be, but whether it’s anger, or disappointment, or something else entirely, I don’t want to see it.

For a long moment he says nothing, but then he speaks.

‘Married?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry I never told you. I thought it didn’t matter. I thought this was just an internet thing. Just like you.’

He sighs. ‘I thought so.’

‘You did?’

He nods towards my hand. ‘Your ring. It leaves a mark.’

I look down at my hand. It’s true. Around my finger there’s an indentation, the inverse of the ring I normally wear, its negative.

He smiles but is clearly upset.

‘What’s he called?’

‘Harvey.’ The lie trips off my tongue easily, as if I’d known all along I’d have to tell it.

‘What does he do?’

‘He works in a hospital.’

‘A doctor?’

I hesitate. I don’t want to tell the truth. ‘Sort of.’

‘Do you love him?’

The question surprises me, but my answer comes instantly.

‘Yes. I can’t imagine life without him.’

‘Sometimes that’s just a lack of imagination, though …’

I smile. I could choose to be offended, but I don’t. As it turns out, we’ve each had our lies. ‘Maybe …’ Our coffees arrive: a cappuccino for me, an espresso for him. I wait while he adds sugar, then say, ‘But not for me and Harvey. I don’t think it’s a lack of imagination.’

I stir my coffee. Maybe he’s right, and it is. Perhaps I can’t imagine a life without Hugh because it’s been so long since I’ve had one. Maybe he’s become like a limb, something I take for granted, until it’s missing. Or maybe he’s like a scar. Part of me, no longer something I even notice, yet nevertheless indelible.

‘So is this it, then?’ His face is flushed; he looks childishly defiant. I look away, over to the desk. A couple are checking in; they’re older, excited. They’re American, asking lots of questions. Their first trip to Europe, I guess.

I realize that, while I might not know what Lukas and I have, I don’t want it to be over. I’ve felt better, these last few days and weeks, and now I know it wasn’t all to do with trying to find the person who murdered Kate.

‘I don’t want it to be. But my husband, he’s the—’ I stop myself. The father of my son, I was going to say, yet not only is that something I don’t want to tell him, it’s another lie. He looks at me expectantly. I need to say something.

‘He’s the person that saved me.’

‘Saved you? From what?’

I pick up my coffee then put it down. I really want a drink.

Ride it out. Ride it out.

‘Another time, perhaps.’

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ he says. There’s an urgency to his voice, as if he wants to finish his sentence before I can say no. ‘I still have a room.’

I shake my head, even though I want to. I want to so much, but I know I mustn’t. Not now. Now I know what might be possible. Ride it out, I tell myself again. Ride it out.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t.’

He puts his hand on the table between us. I can’t help myself. I put mine on top of it. ‘I’m sorry.’

He looks up, into my eyes. He seems nervous, hesitant. ‘Jayne. I get that we hardly know each other, but meeting you feels like the best thing that’s happened since my wife died. I can’t just let you go.’

‘I’m afraid …’

‘Are you saying yesterday was a mistake?’

‘No. No, not at all. It’s just …’

It’s just more complicated than that, I want to say. It’s not just about me, and Hugh. There’s Connor, too, and what’s happening in our lives. Kate’s death. Hugh’s case. It’s not an easy time. Nothing is straightforward.

I find I want to tell him the truth about Kate. Maybe he can be there for me. Impartial. Supportive. He’s lost his wife, after all. He might understand in a way that Hugh, that Anna and Adrienne and the others can’t.

‘Just what?’

Something stops me.

‘I don’t want to jeopardize my marriage.’

‘I’m not asking you to leave your husband. I’m asking you to come upstairs. Just one more time.’

I close my eyes. How do I know it’ll be one more time? I remember telling myself that once before, as the needle bit into my flesh for the second time, and then again when it did for the third.

‘No.’ And yet, even as I say it, I’m thinking of afterwards, as we lie together, the two of us wrapped in the sheets. I can picture the room, the high ceiling, the gentle draught of the air conditioning. I can see Lukas, sleeping. There’s the tiniest sound as his chest rises and then falls. For some reason, despite the path that’s brought me to him, I realize I feel safe.

Soon I will go home – back to my real life, back to Hugh and to Connor, back to Adrienne and Anna, back to a life without my sister – but perhaps if I do this first it’ll be different. The pain of her death will not have faded, but it will be blunted. I won’t care quite so much that the person who took her life is still free. Instead I’ll be thinking about this moment, when everything feels so alive and uncomplicated, when all my pain and sorrow have shrunk down, condensed and transformed to this one thing, this one need, this one desire. Me and him, him and me. If I sleep with him again there’ll at least be one more brief moment when there’s no past and no future and nothing else exists in the world except for us, and it will be a tiny moment of peace.

He takes my hand. He speaks softly.

‘Come on. Come upstairs.’