Second Life

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.

Chapter Eleven

I sit with a glass of sparkling water. Adrienne is late.

The restaurant is brand new. Even Bob had found it difficult to get us a table, according to Adrienne, and as someone who writes restaurant reviews he rarely struggles. I hadn’t been able to decide what to wear and in the end had gone for a simple sleeveless dress with a check print, plus the necklace Hugh bought me for Christmas and perfume from my favourite bottle. It’s been so long since I’ve been out for dinner it’d felt like getting ready for a date, and now I’m beginning to feel like I’ve been stood up.

Eventually I see her coming in. She waves then comes over to the table.

‘Darling!’ She kisses me on both cheeks then we sit down. She puts her bag under her chair. ‘Right…’ She grabs the menu, still talking as she reads. ‘Sorry I’m late. The tube was delayed. “Passenger action”, they call it.’ She looks up. ‘Some selfish prick who’d had enough and decided to ruin everyone else’s day.’ I smile. It’s a black humour that we can share; I know she doesn’t mean it. How can she, after what happened to Kate? ‘You don’t mind if I have a drink?’

I shake my head and she orders a glass of Chablis, then tells me I ought to have the lobster. She’s always been a whirlwind, but tonight she seems almost in too much of a rush. I wonder if she’s trying to compensate for being late, or maybe she’s anxious about something.

‘Now,’ she says, once her drink has arrived. Her voice becomes relaxed and reassuring. ‘How are you?’ I shrug, but she holds up her hand. ‘And don’t give me any of that “I’m fine” crap. How are you really?’

‘I am fine. Honestly.’ She looks at me, an expression of exaggerated disappointment on her face. ‘Mostly,’ I add.

She pushes the bread that’s arrived towards me, but I ignore it. ‘How long has it been, now? It must be four months?’

For the first time I don’t know immediately, I have to work it out. I’ve stopped counting the days and weeks; perhaps it’s the first evidence of progress. I’m strangely pleased.

‘Almost five.’

She smiles sadly. I know she understands how I feel, more than most. A few years ago her stepfather died suddenly, a heart attack, while he was driving. They’d been close; the intensity of her grief had shocked her.

‘Are they any nearer to working out what happened?’ For a moment her expression seems to change; she looks almost hungry, unless I’m imagining it. I’ve seen it before, it’s the journalist in her; she can’t help herself. She wants the details.

‘You mean, who did it? Not yet. They’re not really telling us very much…’ I let the conversation evaporate. It feels like every week that goes by makes it less likely they’ll catch them, but I don’t want to put that into words.

‘How’s Hugh?’

‘He’s okay, you know?’ I think for a moment. I can be honest with her. ‘Actually, sometimes I think he’s almost glad.’

Do I? Or am I just saying that because sometimes I still worry that I am?

She tilts her head. ‘Glad?’

‘Oh, I don’t mean glad that she’s dead. It’s just… sometimes I think he just likes the fact that it makes things simpler, I guess. With Connor.’ I hesitate. ‘Maybe he’s right. They’ve certainly seemed much closer, recently.’

I look up at Adrienne. She knows that I’d been worried that if it ever went to the courts they’d uphold Connor’s right to choose.

‘I’ve known Hugh since for ever, Julia. He’s always liked things to be neat and tidy. But he’s not glad. Don’t be too hard on him.’

I feel empty, like I want to share everything with Adrienne, to offload it, to hand it over and find some peace.

‘He’s not even there most of the time.’

‘Darling, hasn’t he always been like that?’ She drinks some of her wine. A wave of desire hits me, the first for weeks. I tell myself to ride it out. She carries on speaking, but I have to struggle to concentrate. ‘They all are. We marry them because they’re successful, ambitious, whatever. Then that’s the very thing that takes them away from us. It was the same with Steve, and now it’s the same with Bob. I barely see him, he’s so busy…’

I centre myself. It’s different for her. She has a challenging career of her own. She can take herself away from her husband as easily as he takes himself away from her. But I don’t want to argue.

‘You’re seeing someone?’

I feel myself recoil. She knows, I think. About Lukas. Even though there’s nothing to know. We’re still chatting regularly, and though I try to tell myself there’s no reason to think so, I keep thinking he must’ve known Kate. I can’t work him out, and so I keep going back.

‘What—?’ I say to Adrienne now, but she interrupts.

‘A therapist, I mean?’

Of course. My panic recedes. ‘Oh, right. No, I’m not.’

There’s a moment of silence. She doesn’t take her eyes off me; she’s appraising me, trying to work out why I’d reacted as I had.

‘Julia? If you don’t want to talk about it…’

I do, though. I do want to talk about it, and she’s my oldest friend.

‘You remember I said I might go online? To get the list of people Kate was talking to?’

‘Yes. You said you’d changed your mind.’

I’m silent.

‘Julia?’

‘There was someone I wasn’t sure about.’

She puts down her glass and raises her eyebrows. ‘Go on…’

‘He visits Paris. He messaged me. I convinced myself he might be someone Kate was talking to. Someone the police don’t know about.’

‘So you gave his details to the authorities?’

Still I say nothing.

‘Julia…?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Why?’

‘I need to be sure… I’m just talking to him. I’m trying to find out what he knows.’

‘Darling, are you sure that’s a good idea?’

‘What’s the alternative? Give his name to the police—?’

‘Yes! That’s exactly what you should do!’

‘I don’t want to frighten him off and, besides, they’d probably just ignore it.’

‘Of course they wouldn’t ignore it! Why would they do that, Julia? They have a duty to investigate it. He lives in Paris, it should be easy enough.’

I don’t tell her he lives in Milan. ‘I know what I’m doing. We’ve only chatted once or twice.’

It’s a lie, an understatement. I’m trying to backtrack. Things have developed. He turns his video on now and has asked me to turn mine on, though I haven’t, yet. He tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me he wishes there could be a way I could be there with him, and even though I feel guilty for lying to him, I tell him I wish that, too. Our conversations end with him telling me he’s loved talking to me, that he can’t wait until we can chat again. He tells me to look after myself, to be careful. And because it would be impolite not to, because I just can’t figure him out, I say the same things to him.

It feels cruel, sometimes. I don’t mean it, and yet he clearly likes me, or likes the person he thinks I am.

‘He knows where you live?’

I shake my head. The other day I made a mistake and mentioned the tube. I’d had to confess that I was in London, not Paris, but he knows no more than that.

‘No, of course not.’

There’s a long pause. ‘So, what do you talk about?’

I don’t reply, which is an answer in itself.

‘You are very vulnerable right now, Julia. You’re sure you know what you’re doing?’

I nod. ‘Of course.’ But she doesn’t look convinced.

‘You like him.’

I shake my head again. ‘No. It’s not like that. It’s just… there seems to be a connection there. And I wonder whether that connection has anything to do with Kate.’

‘In what way?’

‘You know how close we used to be. It felt almost psychic. And, well—’

‘You think if you feel a connection with this man then it must be relevant?’

I don’t answer. It’s exactly what I think. She has no idea what a difference it makes, this feeling that I’m at least doing something useful, something that might lead Connor and me to resolution and a place of safety.

‘Julia.’ She looks stern. ‘You look like a teenager who’s got a massive crush on a boy in the next year up.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ I mean it, but I don’t sound convincing, even to myself. Is it really how I feel? I can’t deny I’ve looked forward to Lukas’s messages.

Maybe it’s not about the investigation at all. Maybe it’s because now I know how Kate must have felt, chatting to those men; I can feel closer to her. I know her world.

‘You know,’ I say, ‘even if it is futile, a waste of time, so what? I’m just trying to do something to get over the death of my sister.’

‘So you told this guy about her?’

I say no, but I’m lying. The other day I’d had a bad morning after a sleepless night and I couldn’t stop thinking about Kate. He could tell something was wrong. He kept asking me if everything was all right, whether there was anything he could do. I couldn’t help myself. I told him.

He said he was so sorry to hear my sister had died, and asked me how. I was about to tell him the truth when I realized it would be a mistake. I told him it was suicide. There was a long moment when I wondered what he was going to say, and then he said again how sorry he was, and that he wished he could put his arms around me, be there for me.

He said he understood, and it’d felt good. For a moment I almost felt bad for wondering whether he might be somehow involved in my sister’s death. Almost.

‘Well, that’s something, at least. Are you having sex?’

‘Of course not!’ I say, but I’m thinking about how it makes me feel when he turns his camera on, when I can see him respond to my messages, smile at me, wave at me when he says goodbye. Do I want him?

I think about the other night, in bed. Hugh and I had made love, for the first time in months, but it’d been Lukas I was thinking about.

Yet at the same time it wasn’t him. The man I was imagining, dreaming about, was a fantasy. My own construction, almost completely divorced from the Lukas I chat to, the one I see on camera.

‘He knows about Hugh?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want him to think I’m available. Otherwise, how will I find out whether he is who he says he is?’

‘Right.’ She looks at me, dead in the eye. ‘And what do you think Hugh would say? If he found out?’

It’s not the first time I’ve considered it, of course. ‘But I’m just trying to find out what happened. If nothing else, to help Connor.’

She looks properly exasperated, now. It’s as if she thinks I’m stupid. Possibly she does. Possibly I am.

Our food arrives. I’m grateful. There a diffusion of tension as we arrange our napkins and begin to eat. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘It’s not like there’re any feelings attached to any of this. It’s just words on a screen…’

She forks her salad. ‘I think you’re being naive. You’re getting sucked in.’

‘Can we change the subject?’

She puts her fork down. ‘You know I love you, and support you. But—’

Here we go, I think. ‘What?’

‘It’s just… it’s surprising what people give away online, without knowing it. How easily it can feel real.’

‘Adrienne. I’m not an idiot, you know.’

‘I just hope you know what you’re doing.’

We finish our meal and have coffee before we leave. It’s another warm night; couples meander through the city, arm in arm. The air is full of laughter, of possibility. I feel unsteady, almost as if I’ve had a drink. I decide to take the tube home.

‘It’s been great to see you.’

‘You, too.’ We kiss, but I’m disappointed. I thought she’d see my chats with Lukas for what they are, even give me support. But she hadn’t. She doesn’t. ‘You be careful,’ she says, and I tell her I will.

I reach the platform just as a train pulls in. It’s pretty full, but I sit down on one of the few remaining seats and, a moment too late, realize it’s sticky with spilled beer. I take my book out of my bag, but it’s a defence. I don’t open it.

At Holborn there’s a commotion. A group of lads get on, teenagers, or early twenties; they’re wearing shorts, T-shirts, carrying beers. One of them says something – I don’t hear what – and the others laugh. ‘Fuck!’ says one; another says, ‘What a cunt!’ It’s loud, they’re making no effort to tone it down; there are children around, despite the time. I catch the eye of the man sitting opposite me and he smiles and raises his eyebrows. For a moment we’re united in our disapproval. He has a long face, cropped hair, glasses. He holds a briefcase on his lap, in soft leather, but is wearing jeans and a shirt. The train pulls away. He smiles, then goes back to his paper and I open my book.

I can’t concentrate. I read the same paragraph, over and over. I can’t pretend I’m not hoping I’ll have a message from Lukas when I get home. I keep thinking about the man sitting opposite me.

I sigh, look up. He’s looking at me again, and now he smiles and holds my gaze for a long moment. This time it’s me who looks away first, to the advert above his head. I pretend to find it fascinating; it’s a poster for one of the universities. BE WHO YOU WANT TO BE, it says. A woman wears a mortar board, clutches a scroll, her grin wide. Next to it is a poster for a dating agency. WHAT IF YOU KNEW THAT EVERYONE IN THIS CARRIAGE YOU FANCY IS SINGLE? What if I did? I think. What would I do? Nothing, I don’t suppose. I’m married, I have a child. I glance down, just briefly, away from the poster; he’s reading his paper again. I find myself looking at his body, at his chest, which is broader than his narrow face would suggest, at his legs, his thighs. Although he looks nothing like him, I start to see him as Lukas. I picture him, looking up at me, smiling the way I’ve seen Lukas smile on Skype so many times over the last few days. I imagine kissing him, letting him kiss me. I imagine dragging him into one of the stairwells at the next station, unzipping his jeans, feeling him grow erect in my hand.

Suddenly I see myself as others see me. I’m shocked at what I’m thinking. It isn’t right. It isn’t me. I look down at my book and pretend to read.

Chapter Twelve

I think he’s there again. Standing not quite under the light. Watching my window.

There, yet not there. When I look directly into the shadows I can convince myself it’s nothing, a trick of the light, an optical illusion. Just my brain, seeking order in chaos, trying to make sense of the random. Yet, as I look away, the figure seems about to come into focus. To declare itself as real.

This time, I don’t turn away. This time, I tell myself he’s real. I’m not imagining it. I stay where I am, watching him. Last time I’d told Hugh and he said it was nothing, a trick of the light, and so tonight I want to burn his image on to my retina, take it again to my husband, show him. Look, I want to say. This time, I’m not being absurd, I’m not imagining it. He was there.

The figure doesn’t move. It’s utterly still. I watch, and as I do it seems to recede somehow, into the shadows. There, yet not there.

I turn and wake my husband. ‘Hugh. Come here. Look. He’s here again.’

Reluctantly he gets up. The street is empty.

Maybe Hugh’s right. Maybe I am being paranoid.

‘Hugh thinks I’ve lost my mind,’ I tell Anna. We’re on Skype, I’ve finished adding some images to my website, tidying things up. Her face is in the window in the corner of my screen.

‘Could it just be someone walking their dog?’

‘There’s no dog.’ She begins to say something, but the video freezes and I don’t hear it. A moment or so later it resumes and I carry on. ‘He’s standing outside my house. It creeps me out. If I turn away, to fetch Hugh or whatever, he’s always disappeared when I turn back.’

‘It might just be some weirdo.’

‘It might, I guess.’

‘Have you talked to Adrienne?’

‘No,’ I say. I’d meant to the other night, but was worried she already thought I was crazy.

‘What are you going to do?’

I tell her I don’t know. ‘But it feels so real. I swear. I’m not crazy.’

‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘I didn’t think that for a second. Also, it’s a pretty logical response to what’s happened.’

I’m relieved. Even if Anna is humouring me, at least she’s doing that rather than trying to convince me I’m mistaken, or insane.

‘How’re things with that guy? The one you’ve been messaging. The one you think might have something to do with Kate.’

‘Lukas?’

Should I tell her? Or will she just tell me to give the information to the police and then walk away?

‘Not sure,’ I say. I give her some details. More than I gave Adrienne, but not everything. ‘We’re messaging occasionally. There’s something about him. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s probably nothing…’

Is it, though? He’s still pursuing me. Or I’m pursuing him; I can’t tell. Either way, I’ve turned my camera on, too, now. Last night. Just for a moment, less than a minute. But I’ve let him see me.

Yet I don’t tell her that.

‘Well, I heard back from that guy I messaged. The one from Kate’s list? Harenglish.’

‘You did?’

And you didn’t tell me? I think, I guess he must have had nothing to do with it.

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing much. But he said he isn’t looking to meet people, not in real life. He’s online for a bit of fun. Sexy chats, he said. But online only. He loves his wife too much to risk anything else.’

‘You believe him?’

‘Yes. Yes I do.’

It’s the day of Carla’s party. She lives miles away, halfway to Guildford. Hugh drives, Connor sits behind me, listening to music on his iPod, far too loud. Last year we’d all enjoyed the day; I’d taken a salad I’d made – grilled aubergines, a salmon with preserved lemons – and even bought a new dress. Connor had got on well with the neighbour’s children, Hugh had enjoyed relaxing with his colleagues. Now, I don’t want to be here; I’d had to be persuaded. ‘It’ll be fun,’ said Hugh. ‘Connor will get to see his friends, and it’ll be a chance for you to show him how well you’re coping.’

Am I coping, though? I think about Lukas. He’s at a wedding today, and last night I gave him my number, after we’d talked, after I’d told him about the man I thought I’d seen outside my window, after he’d given me his.

Now I wish I hadn’t. I feel bad enough about leading him on.

I turn to look at Hugh. Lukas had said he wished he could protect me, that he’d never let anyone hurt me. I’d felt safe. But my husband? He’s sitting forward, his eyes fixed on the road. It’s how I imagine he looks in theatre. Scalpel in hand, crouching over a body that’s been split like a gutted fish. Would he protect me? Of course not. He thinks I’m making it up.

Carla greets us with a flurry of smiles and kisses then takes us through the house to the patio. Hugh goes over to Carla’s husband, Connor towards a picnic blanket where the other kids are clustered. I spot Maria and Paddy standing with a few others and join them.

Maria embraces me, then her husband does. They’re talking about work; Maria mentions the conference in Geneva. She begins to describe the work she presented – she mentions anterior descending arteries, calcification, ischaemia – and the others either nod or look confused. There’s an older man standing next to Paddy and I remember him from last year, a barrister, from Dunfermline, and when Maria finishes he says, ‘Sounds utterly impenetrable!’ and everyone laughs. A moment later he turns to me.

‘And how do you fit in? Do you butcher people for a living, too?’

There’s a moment of silence. Kate hadn’t been butchered, but still the word stings. An image of my sister comes and I can’t shake it away. I open my mouth to answer but no words come.

Paddy tries to rescue me.

‘Julia’s a photographer.’ He smiles and turns to me. ‘Very talented.’

I try to smile, but I can’t. I’m still looking at Kate, her flesh torn, exposed, dying. The man I’m being introduced to has his hand out, he’s smiling.

‘Will you excuse me?’ I say. ‘I’m just going to the bathroom.’

I lock the door behind me and lean against it. I inhale deeply then step forward. The window is open; laughter drifts up from the patio below.

I shouldn’t have come here, I should’ve made an excuse. I’m sick of pretending everything’s normal, when it isn’t. I take out my phone. It’s automatic, instinctive, I’m not sure why I do it, but I’m glad. I’ve had a message from Lukas.

‘The wedding’s fun. I’m drunk already. Thinking of you.’

Despite the blackness I’m feeling, joy rushes in, as if to disinfect a wound. It’s not because the message is from him, I tell myself. It’s the simple thrill of being wanted.

By now I know how Kate would’ve replied. ‘I’m at a dreadful party,’ I type. ‘Wish you were here…’

I press send. I rinse my hands in cold water then splash some on my face and my neck. It trickles down, under my dress to the small of my back, lighting up my skin. I look out of the window.

Connor is outside. He’s sitting on the grass with another boy and a girl. They’re laughing at something; he seems particularly close to the girl. I realize it won’t be long until he’s dating, then having sex, and then part of him will be lost to me for ever. It’s necessary, but it fills me with sadness.

He lifts his hand to wave at his father. It strikes me how much he looks like Kate, when she was his age. They have the same slight roundness to their face, the same half-grin that can disappear and reappear in an instant.

He looks like his mother. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Yet it is, and it hurts.

I rejoin the group, but I can’t tune into the conversation. Why had I been so excited to get Lukas’s message? Why had I replied to him? The questions circle and after a minute or two I excuse myself and go to say hello to Connor. He’s with his friends, I’m interrupting him, and I feel bad. I move on, to the summer house tucked away at the side of the garden, between the house and the gate that leads to where the cars are parked. It’s octagonal and painted mint green, filled with cushions. When I get there I see that the doors are open, and that it’s empty.

I sit down and lean back against the wood. The babble of conversation continues. I close my eyes. The smell is of recently varnished wood; it reminds me of the only childhood holiday I can remember from when my mother was alive, a chalet we rented in the Forest of Dean. I can picture her, standing at the stove, boiling water for my father’s coffee while I fed Kate. She’s singing along to a radio, humming to herself, and Kate is giggling at something. We were all alive, then, and mostly happy. But that was before the slow process of dislocation that ended only when my sister’s death left me totally alone.

I want a drink. Right now. I want a drink and, worse, more dangerous, I think I deserve one.

A shadow falls across my face. I open my eyes; there’s a figure in the doorway in front of me, silhouetted against the afternoon light. It takes me only a moment to realize it’s Paddy.

‘Hi!’ He sounds bright but his enthusiasm is slightly forced. ‘May I join you?’

‘Of course.’ He steps forward. He stumbles on the low step. He’s drunker than I’d thought.

‘How’s it going?’ He holds out one of the two glasses of wine he’s brought from the house. ‘I thought you might want this.’

I do, I think. I do.

But I know I have to ignore it.

He puts the glass on the floor, where I can reach it. Ride it out, I tell myself. Ride it out. He sits down on the bench. He’s right next to me, so close we’re touching.

‘They’re still talking shop. Do they ever stop?’

I shrug. I don’t want to be drawn into this. Us versus them. The surgeons and their spouses, who are almost always wives.

‘It’s their job.’

‘Why do we do it?’

‘Do what?’

‘These parties? D’you enjoy them?’

I decide to be honest. ‘Not altogether. I don’t like being around drunk people. Not with my addiction.’

He looks surprised, yet he must know. We’ve talked about the fact I don’t drink, albeit obliquely. ‘Your addiction?’

‘Alcohol.’

‘I didn’t know.’

We’re silent for a while, then he slides his hand into the pocket of his jeans, his movements slow and uncoordinated. ‘Smoke?’

I reach to take a cigarette from him. ‘Thanks.’ The air between us feels solid. Loaded. Something has to happen, or something will break. A resolve, or a defence. One of us has to speak.

‘Listen—’ I begin, but at the exact same moment he speaks, too. I don’t catch what he says and ask him to repeat it.

‘It’s just…’ he begins. His head lowers, he falters again.

‘What? What is it?’ I realize I know what he’s about to say. ‘It’s just… what?’

From nowhere, I see Lukas. I imagine him kissing me. I think of my fantasy, I want it to be lust, pure lust, that threatens to crack my head against the wall behind me. I want his hands on me, desperate, pushing up my dress. I want to feel the desire to give in, to let him do what he likes.

I want to feel longing so strong that it turns into need, unstoppable need.

‘Paddy—?’ I begin, but he interrupts me.

‘I just wanted to say I think you’re very beautiful.’ He takes my hand quickly, and I let him. I’m both shocked and not shocked at the same time. Part of me had known he’d say this to me, sooner or later.

Again I think of Lukas. His words, in someone else’s mouth. It occurs that if Paddy were to look up, take the back of my neck with his hand, kiss me, I wouldn’t stop him. Not if he does it now. This is the moment when I’m weak enough, but it won’t last.

An absurd thought comes. It’s you, I think. You standing outside my bedroom window, both there and not there…

And then he does it. He kisses me. There’s no groping, no urgent pushing into my clothes. It’s almost juvenile. It lasts for a few moments, and then we separate. I look at him. The world is still, the chatter from the party a distant murmur. This is the moment when we will either kiss again – this time with more urgency, more passion – or else one of us will look away and the moment will be over, lost for ever.

His eyes narrow. Something’s wrong. He was looking at me, but now he’s not. He’s looking over my shoulder.

I turn round to follow his gaze. Someone’s there.

Connor.

I stand up. The glass of wine that Paddy had been holding spills, soaking my dress, but I barely notice it. ‘Stay here!’ I hiss, forcing the door open. I begin to run. Paddy calls after me, but I ignore him, too.

‘Connor!’ I shout, once I’m outside. He’s walking away, back towards his father. ‘Connor!’

He stops, then turns to face me. His face is inscrutable. ‘Mum! You’re there! I couldn’t find you.’

I catch up with him. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, or whether I’m imagining it.

‘What’s up?’

‘Dad sent me to look for you. He’s making a speech or something.’

‘Right.’ I feel terrible, worse than if he’d just come out and said it. I saw you kissing that guy. I’m telling Dad you’re cheating on him. At least then I’d know.

But he says nothing. He’s impassive and unreadable. This is it, I think. I’ve screwed up. One indiscretion, in all this time, and my son has to be there to see it. It seems unfair, yet at the same time I deserve it.

‘I’ll be there in a second,’ I say.

Once he’s gone I go back to Paddy. ‘Fuck!’

‘Did he see us?’

I don’t answer. I need to think.

‘Did he say anything?’

‘No. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t see us.’ I run my fingers through my hair. ‘Shit…!’

He moves towards me. I’m not sure what he’s going to do, but then he takes my hand. ‘It’ll be fine.’ His hand goes to my face, as if to stroke it.

‘Paddy, no!’

‘What’s the problem…?’

The problem? I want to say. My husband. My son. My dead sister.

‘I like you. You like me. Come on…’

I remind myself he’s drunk.

‘No.’

‘Julia—’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Paddy, I’ll never sleep with you. Ever.’

He looks wounded, as though I’ve slapped him.

‘Paddy—’ I begin, but he interrupts me.

‘You really think you’re something special, don’t you?’

I try to stay calm.

‘Paddy. You’ve had a lot to drink. Let’s just go back and forget all about this. Okay?’

He looks at me. His eyes are cold.

‘Fuck you,’ he says.

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.

‘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.’