Second Life

Chapter Seventeen

My new camera arrives. It’s a Canon, a single-lens reflex, not quite top of the range but smaller and lighter than the one I’ve been using for the last few years. I researched it online and ordered it a few days ago. I don’t need it, it’s an extravagance, but I want to get out more, take more photographs on the street, like I used to. It was Hugh’s suggestion that he buy it for my birthday and he looked delighted with himself when he handed me the package on Saturday.

I opened it later that day, upstairs, and alone, and then took it out, on Upper Street, around Chapel Market and the Angel. I tried a few test shots, and as I brought it to my eye the action felt intuitive, instinctive. When I looked through the viewfinder it felt almost as if this is how I prefer to see the world. Framed.

I take it out again now, slung round my neck, with a zoom lens I ordered at the same time. It’s very different taking pictures on the move. I have to spot a potential shot among the chaos, and then wait for the perfect moment, all while trying to stay inconspicuous and unobserved. My shots on Saturday were poor; I was indiscriminate. I felt rusty, like a singer who’s spent years in enforced silence.

I tried not to be disappointed, though. I told myself that once I’d regained my confidence I’d find my subject; for now I just need to take photos and develop my eye. The joy of these shots is in their taking, less so in how they end up.

But then, that’s how it always was. I think back to the pictures I took in Berlin. It was easy, there. The friendships we forged were deep, people were drawn to us, our place quickly became a refuge for the rootless and abandoned. It was filled with artists and performers, with drag queens, junkies and prostitutes; they came for a few hours, or a few days, or months. I found I wanted to document them all. They fascinated me: they were people for whom identity was fluid, shifting, something they chose themselves, without being constrained by the expectations of others. At first some treated me with suspicion, but they soon realized that, far from trying to pin them down, I was attempting to understand and document their fluidity. They began to trust me. They became my family.

And always, in the centre, was Marcus. I photographed him obsessively. I took pictures of him as he slept, as he ate, as he sat in a bath full of cool water that ended up looking like sludge, as he worked at a canvas or sketched on the war-scarred streets of what used to be the East. We cooked dinners for everyone, huge pans filled with pasta, served with tomatoes and bread, and I took photos. We went to the Love Parade and took ecstasy and danced to techno with the other freaks, and still I took photos. All the time. It was as if I didn’t consider a life lived unless it was also documented.

Today I’ve come to the Millennium Bridge. It’s mid-afternoon and very hot – on the walk here the city steam seemed to rise from the streets – but at least here on the bridge there’s a breeze.

I crouch down to make myself as small as possible and set up my equipment. I drink some of the bottled water I picked up on the way here, then my hand goes back to my camera. I’m scanning faces, looking for the shot, waiting.

For what? A feeling of otherness, of the extraordinary that resides in the mundane. For a long time I see nothing that interests me. Half the people on the bridge are tourists wearing shorts and T-shirts, while the rest sweat in suits. I take a few shots anyway. I change position. And then I see someone interesting. A man, walking towards me. He’s in his late thirties, I guess, wearing a shirt, a jacket but no tie. At first he seems unremarkable, but then I pick up on something. It’s intangible, but unmistakable. I feel a tingle, my senses are heightened. This man is different from the others. It’s as if he has a gravity, is disturbing the air as he moves through it. I bring my camera to my eye, frame him in my viewfinder, zoom in close. I focus, wait, refocus as he comes towards me. He looks right at me, right down the lens, and although his expression doesn’t change, something seems to connect. It’s as if he both sees and doesn’t see me at the same time. I’m a ghost, shimmering and translucent. I squeeze the shutter release, then wait a second before squeezing it again, and then once more.

He doesn’t even notice. He looks away, over my shoulder towards Tower Bridge, and keeps on walking. A moment later he’s gone.

I stay for a while longer, but even without looking at the pictures I’ve taken I know it. I have my shot. It’s time to leave.

I go through the lobby and up to the room. Lukas comes to the door in a towel; as usual, he’s poured us both a drink – a beer for him, a sparkling water for me – and once we’ve kissed he hands me mine. I breathe him in, the deep, woody smell of his aftershave, the faint trace of the real him underneath, and smile. I put my camera down on the table. It’s the first time I’ve brought it with me.

‘You took my advice.’

‘I did. An early birthday present to myself,’ I lie.

‘It’s your birthday?’

‘Next week. Next Tuesday, in fact.’

He kisses me again. Tuesday. It’s become our day. We haven’t missed one yet, and in between we chat online. It’s almost as good, but not quite. We share each other’s lives. We describe the things we’d like to do to each other, with each other. We tell each other our most private fantasies. But Tuesday is the day we meet.

‘I should’ve known that. I should know when your birthday is.’

I smile. How could he? It’s something else I haven’t told him, something I’ve kept for myself, along with my husband’s real name, and the fact that I have a son.

But I have told him the truth about Kate.

I hadn’t intended to, but last week he was telling me how he’d known from the moment we first began chatting that he wanted to meet me. I felt guilty.

How could I reply? I only met you because I thought you might have some connection to my dead sister.

‘It’s not that simple,’ I said, instead. I decided to be honest, to tell him the truth. There’d been enough lies. ‘I have something to tell you. My sister, the one I told you about? She didn’t kill herself. She was murdered.’

That familiar look of shock. He reached out to touch me, then hesitated. ‘But…?’

I told him what had happened, that the only thing taken was an earring. I even described it to him. Gold drop, with a tiny dreamcatcher design with turquoise feathers. I told him about going to see Anna, the list of names I found in Kate’s things, the first time I’d logged on to the website. Encountrz.

‘And that’s why you came to meet me?’

‘I’m sorry. Yes.’

He held me close. ‘Jayne, I understand. Maybe I can help.’

‘Help? How?’

‘There are other sites. Your sister might have been on those, too. I could try to find her.’

It was tempting, but it felt futile, and I wasn’t sure I could go through it all again. I told him I’d think about it.

And now he’s here, in front of me. Talking about how he hadn’t known when my birthday was. ‘We’ll do something special,’ he says. He picks up my camera. ‘You’ve been taking photos?’

Special? I wonder what he means. Go out for a meal, take in a show? It sounds ridiculous.

‘I thought it was time. See if I’ve still got it.’

‘And do you?’

I shrug, though I’m being modest. Today, on the bridge, I’d felt like the old me, back when I was in Berlin and taking pictures all the time. I can already feel myself slipping back into my talent. It’s like going home.

He holds up the camera. ‘May I?’

I sip my drink. ‘If you like.’

He turns it on and flicks through the pictures, nodding as he does. ‘They’re good.’

‘I brought you some of my old shots. Like you asked?’

He puts the camera down and takes a step towards me.

‘Want to see them now?’

He kisses me. ‘Later,’ he says, then kisses me again. ‘God, I’ve missed you.’ He slips the towel from his waist and I glance down.

‘I’ve missed you, too.’ And even though it’s only been a week since the last time I was in a room like this – and we’ve talked online every day – I mean it.

We kiss again. I feel him stiffen between us and know that in a moment he’ll be on top of me, and then inside me, and then once again everything will be all right.

Afterwards, he stands at the window. A gust of wind lifts the curtains and I catch a glimpse of the street outside. We’re on the first floor; I see the sky, wisps of cloud, I hear the murmur of the street, the traffic, the voices. It’s hot in the room, sticky.

I let my eyes travel the curve of his body, his neck, his back, his behind. I notice his blemishes, the details I don’t see on the camera and forget every time we meet. The mole on his neck, the vaccination scar on his shoulder that matches Hugh’s, the red flush of a birthmark on his upper thigh. It’s been a month now, and these details still surprise me. I grab my camera; he turns as I click the shutter, and when he sees I’ve taken a picture of him his face breaks into the same half-smile I used to see on Marcus.

‘Come back to bed. Let’s look at these pictures.’

We lie, side by side. The envelope I’ve brought with me is between us, its contents spilled out. My work, my past. A pile of glossy ten-by-eights.

He holds up a picture of Marcus.

‘And this one?’

It’s Marcus in the Mirror, and I tell him the same story that I told Anna, more or less. ‘An ex. That was taken in the bathroom of the flat we lived in.’

‘Also in Berlin?’

‘Yes.’ I’ve told him about my time there. About what I used to be like, who I was before I became the person I am now.

‘You were happy there?’

I shrug. It’s not an answer.

‘Some of the time.’

‘Why did you leave?’

I sigh and turn on to my back. I look at the ceiling, at the curlicues in the plasterwork. When I don’t answer he puts the photo down and moves closer, so that he’s right next to me. I feel the warmth of his body. He must sense my struggle.

‘When did you leave?’

It’s an easier question, and I answer straight away. ‘I went over there in the mid-nineties, and stayed for three or four years.’

He laughs. ‘When I was at school…’

I laugh, too. ‘You were.’

He kisses me. My shoulder. ‘It’s a good job I love older women,’ he says.

And there’s that word again. Love. We haven’t used it. It’s something we’ve approached only obliquely. I love it when you… I love the way you…

We haven’t yet lost the verb, the qualifier. We haven’t gone as far as I love you.

‘So, I was hanging out, you know. Bars and clubs. Living in a squat.’

‘East Berlin?’

I shake my head. ‘Kreuzberg.’

He smiles. ‘Bowie… Iggy Pop.’

‘Yes, though that was years before. I was taking pictures. It started off small, but people liked my stuff. Y’know? I met this guy who ran a gallery. The picture editor at this magazine heard about me, wanted to use me for some pictures. From there it kind of went crazy. Exhibitions, even fashion shoots.’ I pause. I’m approaching it now, this thing I want to tell him, this thing he might not like. ‘This was the mid-nineties. Heroin chic.’

He says nothing.

‘And, well, there was a lot of it about.’

A beat.

‘Heroin?’

I want my silence to be answer enough, but it isn’t. I have to tell him.

‘Yes.’

‘You took heroin?’

I look at him. His expression is unreadable. Is it that hard to believe? A part of me wants to rise up, to defend myself. Plenty of people did, I want to say. Still do. What’s the big deal?

But I don’t. I force myself to take a deep breath. I want to respond, rather than react. ‘We all did.’ I turn back to face him. ‘I mean, I didn’t at first. I went over there with Marcus. He was an artist. A painter. Very good, very talented. A bit older than me. I met him when he was at art school. It was him who encouraged me to take up photography. When he moved to Berlin, I went with him.’ I nod towards the pictures between us. ‘We fell in with that group—’

Or they fell in with us.

‘A bad crowd?’

‘No.’ Again that urge to defend. ‘No. I wouldn’t say that. They were my friends. They looked after me.’ I’m thinking of Frosty, and the others. They weren’t junkies. Or even addicts, not in the way that he probably thinks of the word. ‘They weren’t a bad crowd. They were just… we were just… different, I guess. We didn’t fit in. We all just gravitated to each other.’

I hesitate. It’s easier than you think, I want to say. Taking heroin every weekend becomes every other day becomes every day. It’s frightening, going back there. Though not all of my memories are bad, it still feels raw. I’m being dragged back, and down. It’s not a place I can stay too long.

‘The drugs were only part of that.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘When I left?’

‘Yes. The other week, you said your husband “saved you”?’

‘It got too much.’ I’m being careful. I don’t want to tell him everything, yet I know I must not lie. ‘I needed to get out. Quickly.’ I hesitate, stumbling over the name I’ve given my husband. ‘Harvey was there for me.’

My mind goes back to that time. Me in the kitchen, with Frosty. She was making coffee for me, sipping red wine from a mug. I don’t think she’d been to bed, it was festival time; the day before we’d been marching with friends of Johan, partying in the bars, and then a group had come back here. Now the place was quiet; most people had left to carry on, or were asleep.

Marcus was upstairs, playing a guitar someone had left months ago. ‘There you go,’ said Frosty, handing me my drink. ‘We don’t have any milk.’ I was used to that. We never did.

‘Thanks.’

‘How’s Marky?’

‘He’s good,’ I said. ‘I think. Although his family are freaking out.’

‘Again?’

‘They want him to go home.’

Frosty gasped in mock-horror. ‘What? Away from all this? But why?’ She laughed. ‘I guess they don’t understand.’

I shook my head. ‘No. I guess they don’t.’

‘Have you met them?’

I put my coffee down.

‘No. Not yet. He thinks his dad might come over. He wants the three of us to go out. Says we should insist. He wants to show them he’s cleaned up.’

Frosty tilted her head. ‘Has he?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I was only telling half the truth. We’d kicked together, gone through cold turkey. It’d been a hell of sweating, of vomiting and diarrhoea and stomach cramps so severe we’d both moan with the pain. Our bones ached, and neither of us could find relief in sleep. I felt like I was burning up, nothing helped, and all the time the knowledge that just one more hit would make all the pain go away shone in front of us. But we were both strong, we helped each other when it threatened to get too much, and we’d been clean for a few weeks. Now Marcus’s father was on his way and Marcus had begged me for one last hit. Eventually I’d agreed. One, and then no more. Ever. We were going to do it later that day, or the following morning as the sun came up. A final farewell.

I didn’t tell Frosty all that, though.

‘We both have,’ I said. She said nothing, then smiled. ‘That’s good,’ she said, then changed the subject. We finished our drinks, talking about the partying we were planning for the weekend. ‘You’ll help me get ready?’ she said, and I said, yes, yes of course I would.

‘Good,’ she said, but then it happened. Something passed through Frosty; she looked as if she were somewhere else entirely. It lasted only for a moment, and then she looked up at me.

‘Honeybunch,’ she said. ‘Where’s Marky?’

I said nothing. The room was silent, and had been for a while. The guitar playing had stopped.

Now, I look at the picture on the bed – Marcus in the Mirror – and then up at Lukas. He’s shaking his head. I worry that he disapproves, that this conversation will mark the beginning of our disconnection, yet he deserves my honesty, in this at least. He takes my hand. ‘What happened?’

I don’t want to go back there; I can’t. Sometimes I think what I did that night was the catalyst for what happened to Kate. If I’d behaved differently she’d still be around. ‘I had a wake-up call, I guess. I left. I knew I had to. But I had nowhere to go. Not until Harvey rescued me.’

‘You knew him already?’

‘Yes. He was the son of my father’s best friend. The two of us met when I was still at school and we became friends. He was just about the only person who stayed in contact with me while I was in Berlin, and when it all came to an end it was him I called. I asked whether he’d speak to my father for me. You know, smooth the way…’

‘And he did?’

‘He paid for my ticket. He was waiting for me when I got off the plane. He said I could stay with him, for a few days, until I got myself sorted out…’

‘And you’re still there…’

I feel a momentary anger. ‘Yes, but you make it sound like an accident. I’m there because we fell in love.’

He nods, and I calm down. I’m glad when he doesn’t ask the next logical question: whether that’s still the case. The answer isn’t straightforward. Where once our love was deep and clear, now it’s more complex. We’ve shared good times, and bad. We’ve argued, I’ve been angry, I’ve hated him as well as loved him. We’re there for each other, but it’s not uncomplicated. Things settle, over the years. They become something else. I can’t summarize it with a simple Yes, I still love him, or No, I don’t.

‘And then you met me.’

I hold my breath. ‘Yes.’

The room is silent. From somewhere, way off, I hear the sounds of the hotel, the other guests, doors banging, laughter, and from outside comes the steady buzz of traffic. But inside all is still.

I turn on to my side. I face him. ‘Tell me about your wife.’

He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, then opens them again. ‘Her name was Kim. We met through work. She worked for a client. I loved her very much.’

‘How long were you married?’

‘She was diagnosed just before our first anniversary. They gave her a year to eighteen months. She died about seven months later.’

There’s a silence. There’s nothing to say. I tell him I’m sorry.

He looks at me. ‘Thank you.’ He reaches out to take my hand. ‘I miss her. It’s been years, but I miss her.’ He smiles, then kisses me. ‘She’d have liked you.’

I smile. I don’t know how that makes me feel. It’s meaningless, we’d never have met. If she’d still been around, Lukas wouldn’t be here with me now. For a long time I’m silent, and then I ask him.

‘You said you’d help me to find my sister online?’

‘Of course. Do you want me to?’

It’s been a week since his offer, but I’ve thought about it since. It might be painful, but it’s worth a try. And I won’t be on my own. ‘Yes. If you think you can.’

He says he’ll see what he can do. I give him her name, the name she’d used on encountrz, her date of birth, anything he might find useful. He taps them into his phone, then says he’ll do his best.

‘Leave it with me,’ he says. The room feels claustrophobic, full of ghosts. He must feel it, too; he suggests we go out. ‘We can get some lunch. Or a coffee.’

We get dressed and go downstairs, out of the hotel and down to the station. The concourse is busy but we find a table in one of the coffee shops. It’s near the window and I feel on display, yet somehow, right now, it doesn’t seem to matter. People’s gazes slide across me. I’m invisible. Lukas gets our drinks.

‘That’s better.’ He sits down. ‘Are you okay? With me talking about Kim back there, I mean?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

He smiles. ‘I’m glad we can talk about real things. Things that matter. I’ve never had that before.’

‘What do you normally do, then?’

‘With people I chat to online?’

I nod. He looks down and scratches his shoulder absentmindedly. He’s still smiling. I think of the fantasies we’ve been sharing.

‘The same thing we do?’

‘Yes. But nothing’s been as crazy as it is with you.’ He pauses. ‘How about you?’

He knows I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve already told him.

‘My husband and I…’ I begin, but then my sentence evaporates. ‘We’ve been married for a long time.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I guess I mean I love him. I want to be there for him. But…’

‘But it’s not always that exciting?’

I don’t answer. Is that what I mean?

I look at Lukas. It’s easier with you, I think. We want to impress, we save the best for each other. We don’t share the stresses of everyday life, not yet, even if we have shared our big losses. I haven’t had to sit with you as you vent your frustration at the family who’ve complained about you, as you’ve moaned that you’ve had to write a letter, a ‘grovelling apology’, even though you know damn well you’d warned them of the possible side effects of surgery. I haven’t had to try to support you, knowing that you won’t be supported, that there’s nothing I can say or do that will make any difference.

‘Not always,’ I say.

‘But you’ve always been faithful?’

I think of Paddy, in the summer house. ‘Pretty much.’

He grins. It’s lascivious.

‘It’s not that exciting, really.’

‘Tell me.’

‘There was this guy. Quite recently—’

He shifts forward in his seat and I pick up my coffee.

‘He’s a friend of my husband.’ I think back to the dinner party. I want to give Lukas a story. ‘His name’s Paddy. He’s been flirting with me for a while.’

‘Flirting? In what way?’

‘Oh, you know. When we get together he always laughs at my jokes, compliments me on my clothes. That sort of thing.’ He nods, and I hear myself say it. ‘I even thought he might be stalking me.’

‘Stalking you? How?’

‘There was this guy one night. As I was getting ready for bed.’

‘You told me.’

I did, I think. He told me he wished he could protect me.

‘You really think it’s him?’

Even though I know it was never Paddy out there on the street – was almost certainly no one at all, just my vivid imagination combining with a lack of sleep – I hear myself say it. ‘Yes.’

His eyes flash wide. He looks almost pleased. I think back to what he’d said. I’d never let anyone hurt you.

I’d felt protected. Safe.

Is that why I’ve told him I thought it was Paddy? Because I want to feel like that again?

‘Someone put some cards through the letterbox, too.’

‘What cards?’

I tell him. ‘The ones the prostitutes put up in phone boxes.’

He holds my gaze. Is this turning him on?

‘You think it’s him?’

My mind goes to Paddy and his clumsy attempt to kiss me. He’d hate to know the lies I’m telling about him. But he never will.

‘Maybe. He tried to kiss me, and—’

‘When?’

‘You remember the party? When you were at your wedding? He tried to kiss me. I told him I’d never sleep with him. I think it was his way of getting back at me.’

‘Did you kiss him back?’

I remember all the times we’ve been chatting online, talking about our fantasies. Isn’t this just the same?

‘No. I didn’t want to. He forced himself on me.’

‘Bastard. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I felt ashamed…’

‘Ashamed? Why?’

‘I could’ve said no.’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ I look at the table top. ‘I dunno. Maybe I could’ve fought harder.’

He takes my hand. ‘Tell me where he lives.’

‘Why?’

‘He shouldn’t get away with shit like that. No one should. I’ll have a word with him.’

‘And say what?’

‘I’ll think of something.’

I think of him, knocking on Paddy’s door, but then the vision shifts, like a dream that’s twisted back on itself and become horrific. I see him standing over Kate’s body.

‘No,’ I say. I try to clear the image, but it persists.

‘You’re scared.’

‘No. No. I’m fine.’

He lifts my hand to his lips, kisses it. ‘I want to protect you.’ He looks into my eyes. ‘I’ll look after you. If you’re scared.’

Something in the room clicks over. I think of the things I’ve told him. The things I’ve wanted to do and have never done. The things I’ve wanted to have done to me. The air thickens with desire.

‘I know.’

‘Are you scared?’

I look up at him. The cord between us tightens. The skin of his hand seems to hum with energy, his flesh melds into mine, and I realize I want him, and he wants me, and he wants me to be frightened and if it’s what he wants then it’s what I want, too.

‘Yes,’ I say. I’m whispering. He shifts still further forward in his seat. ‘I’m very frightened.’

He lowers his voice, too, even though there’s now only one other person in the café. A lone traveller, with a suitcase, reading.

‘This man. Paddy. What do you think he wants to do to you? If he could?’

My own arousal begins to pulse and grow. It’s within me, something physical, something I can touch, I can feel. Something begins to open.

I open my mouth to answer but I have no words. There’s only desire left. He pushes himself away from me, still holding my hand. ‘Come on.’

He pushes me into the cubicle and locks the door. He’s a blur of activity, kissing me, shoving me, holding me. I abandon myself to his will, to whatever is happening. He’s tearing at my clothes, our limbs flail, and I realize, as if from a distance, I’m tearing at his. There’s the smell of disinfectant, or soap, and beneath it urine.

‘Lukas…’ I say, but he silences me with his mouth, then twists me round, pushes me up against the wall. ‘What do you think he might do?’ he’s saying. ‘This?’

I try to nod my head. He has his arm around my throat; it’s not rough, he’s not holding tight, but it’s far from gentle. He pulls down my jeans. I help him. I can feel his cock pushing into me as he separates my legs with his knee. I arch my back, to let him. Somewhere a decision is made; I will let him do what he wants. Whatever he wants. To a point.

Is this what it was like for Kate? I think. Is this how it felt for my sister?

‘Tell me,’ he whispers. ‘You want me to teach him a lesson? Tell me how scared you are…’

Chapter Eighteen

I’m sore, when I wake up. I can still feel his fingers on me, his hands.

Yet it’s a pain that makes me feel alive. It’s something, at least, something better than that other pain, the pain that makes me want to die.

I get up to go to the bathroom. Outside Connor’s door I stop to listen. There’s the faint sound of music, his radio alarm. I’m about to knock when I decide against it. It’s early. He’s fine. We’re all fine.

In the bathroom, I think of Lukas. Something special, he’d said. For my birthday. I can hardly wait, yet it’s the delicious anticipation of pleasure deferred. I think of him as I look in the mirror. I examine my arms, my thighs. I turn round, try to look at my back. There are marks: one in the shape of a hand, another like a bird. They are red, and look angry. The skin on their periphery is purpling.

I’m beginning to bruise.

Six days pass. Almost a week. I catch up with Adrienne, Hugh and I go to the theatre, and then it’s Tuesday again, the day of my birthday. Thirty-seven. I sleep late and for once get up last. I go downstairs and my family is already there. There’s a pile of cards on the table, a wrapped present. It’s the school holidays; the atmosphere is unhurried. Hugh’s made a pot of coffee and there’s a plate of croissants I hadn’t seen him buy.

‘Darling!’ He hands me a huge bunch of flowers from the worktop, red and green, chrysanthemums and roses. He’s still in his dressing gown. It’s plain, slate grey. ‘Happy birthday!’

I sit down. Connor pushes a card over to me and I open it.

‘That’s lovely!’ It’s a picture of the three of us, printed out from a photo on his computer, glued to some card. On the inside he’s printed ‘Happy Birthday, Mum’. I kiss the top of his head. It smells of shampoo and for a moment I think of him as a little boy and feel a tug of guilt. I’m here, with my family, yet also thinking of later, of my visit to my lover.

I can call him that, now. I turn the word over in my head. Lover. I turn to Hugh.

‘Aren’t you going to be late for work?’

He’s grinning – it almost looks like an effort, as if he’s having to force himself to forget about the case at work; the family weren’t satisfied with the letter and are considering legal action – but Connor is sharing the joke. He hands me his gift.

‘Open this, first. Then we’ll talk.’

I take it; it’s wrapped beautifully. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

Some part of me knows what it is, even before I’ve opened it.

‘My favourite perfume! Fracas!’

My voice sounds overly enthusiastic, even to me. There’s an edge of insincerity. I hope he doesn’t think I’m ungrateful.

‘I noticed you’d run out.’

‘Yes. Nearly.’

It’s the perfume Lukas hates.

‘And I know it was Kate’s favourite, too.’

I smile. ‘That’s very thoughtful, darling.’

‘Put some on, why don’t you?’

‘I don’t want to waste it.’

‘Please.’ He looks disappointed. For an instant his face is lined with worry, but then he smiles again. ‘You smell so lovely when you wear it.’ He kisses me. ‘Wear it today…’

‘Hugh…’

‘You do still like it?’

‘Yes. I love it.’ I open the box, slide out the bottle. Pleasing one man, not pleasing another. Just a squirt, I think. I can wash it off before I meet Lukas. For a moment I feel his fingers tighten around my wrist. I smile to myself as I spray some behind each ear.

‘That’s not your real present, though.’

‘No?’

‘Dad’s taking you out!’ says Connor. His face lights up with glee. I can see they’ve hatched some plan together.

‘When?’

Hugh speaks. ‘Today. I’ve taken the day off.’

They both look at me, now. Expectant.

‘Great!’ I concentrate on not letting the panic show in my face. ‘What time?’

‘All day,’ says Connor. ‘And I’m going out with Dylan.’

‘Lovely!’ I’m really starting to worry now. I picture Lukas, sitting there, wondering where I am. He’ll think I’ve let him down. He’ll think I’ve lost interest and couldn’t even be bothered to tell him.

I’m not like that, and I don’t want him to think I am.

I think fast. ‘You’ve remembered it’s my therapy today?’

He winces; he had forgotten. ‘I didn’t, no.’ He waits for me to make a suggestion, but I say nothing. ‘It’s not ideal, but could you cancel it? Just this once?’

I feel myself tense, slipping into anger.

‘I don’t want to miss one. Martin thinks we’re making real progress.’

Martin. Is that the name I’ve used before? For a moment I can’t remember.

He looks to Connor, then back to me. I wonder if he’s looking for support, or thinks that we shouldn’t be having this conversation in front of our son.

‘I know—’ he begins.

‘I mean, I’m finally starting to feel better. You know?’

‘Yes. And I’m really glad. Of course I am. But can’t you reschedule?’

Connor puts his spoon down. He’s waiting for me to answer.

‘For later this week?’

No, I think. No, I can’t.

‘He’s pretty busy…’ I think fast. ‘He charges the full amount for cancellations.’

Hugh’s chin tilts downwards. He’s getting annoyed, I can tell. ‘I think we can afford it, darling. And, anyway, I’ve booked something for us. There’s a cancellation fee on that as well.’

‘What’ve you booked?’ I say.

‘It’s a surprise. An all-day thing. I thought we’d get there around eleven.’

‘Let me think.’ I stand up. I feel torn. My husband – my lover. I can’t have both, just like I could never drink and not drink, or both reach for the syringe and leave it alone. I have to choose one or the other.

Unless…

I pick up my phone.

‘I’ll just see if I can move my session earlier,’ I say to Hugh. ‘Then I can meet you at about eleven thirty?’

He begins to protest, but I silence him. ‘I don’t like being unreliable,’ I say. ‘And it’s important to me that I go.’ I’m trying to keep my voice even, reasonable, but I’ve raised it slightly. I smile. ‘I’m sure half an hour won’t make a difference?’ I step out of the room, into the hall and close the door behind me. I press call. A few moments later Lukas answers.

‘Hi,’ I say, and without thinking I add, ‘It’s me. Julia Plummer.’

‘Julia?’ he says. He’s confused; it’s the first time I’ve used my real name. ‘Jayne,’ he says quietly. ‘Is that you?’

I feel a sudden fear. I’m aware Hugh is just a few feet away, on the other side of the door. I try to keep myself calm. With my thumb I turn the volume down on my phone until I’m certain I’m the only one who can hear his replies.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say evenly. I wait a moment, then continue. ‘No, no…’ I laugh. ‘Not at all!’

‘You can’t talk.’

‘That’s right. Anyway, I was just wondering if we could meet an hour earlier today? It’s my birthday and my husband’s taking me out!’

I try to sound enthusiastic, for the sake of Hugh and Connor, yet I can’t. Lukas will think I mean it, that I’m genuinely excited to be seeing my husband rather than him. That would never do.

He’s silent for a moment. I can’t tell if he’s playing the game, or genuinely hasn’t worked out what’s going on.

Finally he speaks. ‘The usual place, but an hour earlier?’

He sounds odd. I’m not sure if it’s disappointment, or anger.

‘Yes, if that’s okay.’

‘That’s great.’ He laughs. ‘For an awful moment I thought you were ringing to cancel.’

‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you then.’

I end the call and go back in to Hugh. ‘There. Sorted.’

‘It was my present,’ I say. ‘From Harvey.’

He doesn’t like it. I can tell.

‘Did he make you wear it?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Does he make you do many things?’

‘Not like you do.’

He doesn’t smile. He hasn’t relaxed since I arrived a few minutes ago. Something is different.

‘It’s not that bad, is it?’

‘I suppose not.’

I smile. I’m trying to keep it light, make it sound unimportant. Which it is, as far as I’m concerned, at least. I kiss him again.

‘Sorry,’ I say. I try to withdraw from his embrace, but then he kisses me, pushing back against me as he does. It’s urgent, almost violent. His hand goes to my neck and for a moment I wonder if he’ll grip me around the throat, but then he cups the back of my head. He begins to push me towards the bed. ‘Please forgive me,’ I say. Though not real, my fear is somehow addictive. He lets me go, with a tiny shove, then raises his hand, as if to hit me.

‘Don’t punish me,’ I say. ‘Please?’ For a moment he looks genuinely enraged and I flinch and take a step backwards. Kate’s face flashes in front of me, wide-eyed and terrified. I try to fix on what I know: that he never had anything to do with my sister.

‘Don’t—’ I say, but he interrupts.

‘Why not?’ He starts laughing. His fist is still raised. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t. I told you not to wear that fucking perfume,’ he says, and for the briefest instant I’m walking in my sister’s shoes. A pure, genuine terror hits, and then his face relaxes. He lowers his hand, but takes hold of me.

‘You really are joking,’ I say.

‘You think?’

‘Aren’t you?’

He smiles, then kisses me, hard.

‘That depends.’

Afterwards, we lie on the floor together. I’m still half in and half out of my clothes. I’m worried my shirt is ripped – I’d heard a tear as he unbuttoned it furiously, and instantly thought about how I might explain it to Hugh – and I’ve hit my head on the corner of the bed.

He turns to me. ‘You’re bruised.’

‘I know.’

‘It was me?’

I smile. ‘Yes.’ I’m almost proud.

‘You know I’d never hurt you for real, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I know that.’

I wonder if I do. I wonder what I’m getting myself into, and how deep.

Yet I can’t deny it’s coming from me as much as him. Everything is reciprocated, every fantasy I share with him is encouraged, taken further. I can’t pretend I’m not enjoying it.

‘Yes. I trust you.’

‘Good.’ He kisses me, and it’s so tender, so slow, with none of the urgency of just a few moments ago, and none of the ordinariness, the practicality, the perfunctoriness, of Hugh.

‘So where’s he taking you?’

‘Who?’ I can’t work out if it’s jealousy I hear. ‘My husband? I don’t know.’

‘Where are you hoping?’

I sit up. It’s uncomfortable, this bringing of Hugh into the room. I’ve managed so far because I’ve been able to keep him out, just like I’ve been able to keep Connor out.

An image of him swims into view. He’ll be with Dylan, now. Playing on the computer, or maybe at the park.

I wonder why I’m still glad Lukas doesn’t know I have a son.

‘I don’t know. It’ll probably be for lunch, or to the theatre. A couple of years ago he bought me tickets to the opera, but then couldn’t come. I went with Adrienne.’

‘Who’s Adrienne?’

‘Just a friend. I’ve known her for years. Since I moved to London, pretty much.’

‘Will you and your husband have sex?’

I look at him. ‘That’s not fair.’

He knows I’m right. ‘You know, you sound like you don’t much care where your husband is taking you, or what you’re going to do.’

I stand up and begin to gather my clothes. It’s not true, quite, but we’re playing a game, and I know what I have to say. ‘I don’t, really. I’d much rather spend the day here, with you.’

‘That’s what I want, too.’

I take a deep breath. I’ve been putting it off, but I have to ask, before I leave.

‘Did you find anything out? About Kate?’

He stands up and begins to get dressed.

‘Not yet. I’m working on it.’

Are you? I think. For some reason I’m not sure I believe him.

‘I was thinking about the earring. The one you said was missing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you sure the police are looking into that? I mean, it’s looking like it might be a more fruitful lead than looking at her internet friends?’

‘Well, they say they are, but I’m not sure.’

He kisses me. ‘Leave it with me. I’m sure something will come up. We’ll just have to keep digging.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ He kisses me goodbye. ‘By the way, you haven’t had your present from me, yet.’

I smile.

‘You’ll get it later. It’s a surprise.’

I leave one hotel to go straight to another. My head is throbbing, there’s a rip in my shirt that I try to cover up by buttoning up my jacket. When I arrive, I see Hugh across the lobby. He’s sitting in an armchair; across the room from him there’s a piano, above hangs a huge chandelier. I go over to my husband and he stands as I approach. He looks tired, and I feel guilty.

‘Darling!’ he says. ‘How was it?’

I tell him it was fine. I see he’s got a beach bag with him, one of mine. It must’ve been the first one he found. We sit and he pours me a tea.

‘Here you go.’ I take it from him. I look around the room at the other guests: an older couple eating scones, two women having lunch and discussing something in hushed voices, a man with a newspaper. I wonder what kind of person stays in the hotel, whether it’s the kind of place Lukas might one day invite me.

‘It’s going well,’ says Hugh suddenly. ‘Your therapy, I mean. You seem much…’

‘Better?’

‘No. Relaxed? At peace? You seem to be much clearer about Kate’s death.’

He waits, as if I’m going to say more. When I don’t, he says, ‘You can talk to me, you know.’

‘I know that.’

‘We did our best, you know? To help her. To be there for her.’

I look away. I want to change the subject. ‘It’s just… well… it’s complicated.’

‘Connor, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘It wouldn’t have turned out better, you know. If he’d stayed with her. It would have been exactly the same… or worse. We had to get him out of there. It wasn’t a good place for him.’

I shrug, then say, ‘Maybe. D’you think he’s all right?’

‘I think so. I mean, he’s struggling a little. With the Kate thing. It must be very confusing for him.’

‘I guess,’ I say. ‘I’m going to take him out next week. We’re spending the day together. The cinema, or something. I’ll talk to him then.’

He nods. I feel guilty. I should’ve discussed this with him already. We should be united when it comes to Connor, as we always have been before.

‘Good idea,’ he says. ‘He’ll be fine, you know. He’s a good lad. He has his head screwed on.’

‘I hope so.’

‘You know, I think he has a girlfriend.’

He smiles. A pleasant complicity between a father and his son.

‘Really?’ I’m surprised, even though I shouldn’t be, and I feel the heat of jealousy. I always thought I’d be the one he came to, confided in.

‘Haven’t you noticed? He keeps mentioning this girl – Evie.’

I smile. I don’t know why I’m so relieved.

‘I think I’ve met her.’

‘Really?’

I think back to Carla’s party. The girl I’d seen Connor with; I’m sure that was her name.

‘Yes. She seems okay.’

‘That’s good.’ He drinks some of his tea. ‘He’s seeing a lot of Dylan, too. He’s popular. He’ll be fine.’

He pauses.

‘And tonight we have the house to ourselves. I thought we could get some dinner, and then…’

The sentence peters out. I think of the marks on my back, my thighs. For a week I’ve been going to bed early, undressing in the dark, grabbing my robe as soon as I wake up. I can’t let him see the bruises.

I commit myself to nothing. ‘That’d be lovely.’

He smiles.

‘So, what’re we doing here?’

He grins, then puts down his cup. He shifts forward in his seat, as if he’s about to stand, to make a presentation, or an announcement. ‘Well, I thought we needed to relax…’ He beams. He hands me my bag; inside it I can see the dark blue of my swimming costume, my shampoo and conditioner.

‘They have a spa here.’ He points to the sign by the lobby. ‘Now, I’ve booked you a pedicure, and we’re both having a massage. I had arranged that for midday, but it’s okay, they’ve moved it to the afternoon…’

‘A spa?’

‘Yes. We can spend all day here. They’ve got steam rooms and a sauna, and a pool…’

‘Great,’ I say. Anxiety begins to roll in my stomach, to swell into panic. My costume is cut low at the back.

‘Shall we go? Unless you’d like lunch here, first?’

I shake my head. I don’t know what I’m going to do. ‘It’s fine.’

‘This is your day…’

‘I know.’ I’m desperately trying to think of an excuse, a way out of it. But there isn’t one; we’re already heading back through the lobby, towards the spa. I think of when I got dressed, just an hour or so ago, in the room with Lukas. I’d looked over my shoulder at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The bruises were dark and purpling, unmistakable.

He’s sitting by the pool, where he said he’d be. He’s ordered a juice for both of us – it’s green, and looks organic – and is sipping his. He’s wearing his shorts, the pair I bought for him just before our last holiday, to Turkey. Dimly, beneath the layers of worry, I’m aware that he looks good. He’s lost weight.

I sit down next to him. I’ve wrapped my towel around my chest.

‘Fancy a swim?’

I lie back on the lounger. ‘In a while.’ He puts his paper down.

‘Come on.’ He stands up. ‘There’s a jacuzzi. I’m going in now.’

He holds out his hand and I have no option but to take it. I feel a sense of dread, of inexorable momentum. And also guilt; only a couple of hours ago it’d been another man holding his hand out to me.

We go over and sit in the pool. The water is warm and clear. Hugh activates the jacuzzi and it begins to bubble. I lie back, staring at the light dancing on the ceiling, reflected from the thrashing water. The bruises on my back sting, as if I’ve been branded.

For a moment I want to tell him everything. About Lukas, and what I’ve been doing. It wasn’t my fault, I want to say. Kate died and I went off the rails, and…

And what? And it doesn’t mean anything? I genuinely thought I was trying to find out who killed her, for me, for her son? I thought I was doing the right thing?

But who am I trying to kid?

‘Hugh—’ I say, but he cuts me dead.

‘I want to talk to you.’

I look at him. This is it, I think.

It hits me. Connor saw it all, in the summer house at Carla’s party. He’s finally told his father.

Or someone has seen me, on the street, in a hotel lobby, kissing someone who is not my husband.

‘What is it?’

He reaches out, under the water, and takes my hand.

‘It’s about your drinking.’

Relief mixes with confusion. ‘What? What drinking?’

‘Julia, I’m worried.’ He looks uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as he should. I find myself wishing this were difficult for him, a tricky subject, but it’s not. Not really. He’s in his professional mode.

‘Hugh, you’ve nothing to worry about. I haven’t touched a drop.’

‘Julia, please don’t insult my intelligence. You told me. When you came back from Paris.’

‘I know, but I was letting off steam. It wasn’t an easy trip.’

‘I know. But I think you should start going to your meetings again. It’s been a few months…’

I think about the visits to the clinic when I got back from Berlin, the seats in a circle, being back on the twelve-step programme. I think about the days and weeks of cramps and sickness and feeling like I had the worst hangover, the worst morning sickness, and nothing, nothing would ever make me feel better. I think about the months of begging Hugh to help me, when in fact he already was.

‘Look, if either of us is an expert on addiction, I’d have thought it would be me.’

He’s silent.

‘My sister died. In case you’ve forgotten?’

‘Of course I haven’t forgotten,’ he snaps. This isn’t going as well as he’d thought. ‘You ask me all the time how the investigation is going. How can I have forgotten?’

‘Bringing that up now is low, Hugh. I care, that’s all.’

He hesitates. Why don’t you go to some meetings of your own, I want to say. To Al-Anon. Sort your own stuff out before you start on mine.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says eventually. ‘It’s just, I’m not sure it’s healthy for you. I wish you’d just trust me to handle it.’

‘I do,’ I say. ‘I will.’ I consider telling him it’s not just me who can’t find peace, who won’t rest until the person who killed Kate is caught. It’s Connor, too.

‘I just worry, that’s all.’

‘I haven’t had anything since then. Not a drop.’

He squeezes my hand. I’d forgotten he was holding it.

‘At Carla’s party…’

‘That was Paddy! He brought me a drink but I didn’t touch it. And then we were chatting, he spilled his drink on me.’

I look at him. Does he believe me?

His voice softens. ‘I just don’t want to see you go back there. I can’t. I won’t.’

‘I’m not going back anywhere—’

‘Then please tell me the truth.’

‘What?’

‘Did you fall?’

‘Sorry? Fall where?’

‘Did you have a fall? Did you have a drink with Adrienne?’

‘Hugh, what on earth are you—?’

‘Those bruises. I noticed them the other day. I saw how you were trying to cover them up today, too. So, what happened?’

The relief is almost overwhelming. He thinks a few too many glasses of wine is all he has to worry about.

‘Drunk, were you?’

‘Hugh,’ I say. ‘I fell. I wasn’t drunk.’ I see a way out. He’s seen the bruises, I can’t deny their existence. But I can explain why I’ve been hiding them.

I sigh. ‘I’d had a glass of wine. That’s all. I guess it doesn’t take much.’ I hesitate, then say, ‘I slipped on the escalator in the tube station.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

I try to smile. ‘No. It was bloody mortifying, if you must know.’ Another pause. ‘Ask Adrienne, if you don’t believe me…’

Even as I say it I know it’s a mistake. There’s a chance he will. I’m trying too hard, adding extra details.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m embarrassed. I made a mistake.’

‘Another mistake.’

Fury rises within me. ‘Yes. Another mistake. Look, I feel bad enough as it is. I’ve said sorry. Can we just forget it?’

‘It’s not me you need to apologize to.’

‘Then who?’

‘Like I said, I think you should start going to your meetings.’

No, I think. No. I won’t. I’m not ready.

I shake my head.

‘Promise me you’ll at least think about it.’

No. I can’t stand the thought. I’d have to confess everything, all over again. I’d have to admit I’m back where I started.

‘I can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘I just…’

‘Just tell me you’ll think about it?’

I sigh. ‘Okay. I’ll think about it.’

‘Or at least talk to your therapist about it?’

‘I will…’

The anger melts from his face. He lets go of my hand and pats my thigh. ‘Darling, I just don’t want to see you go through it again…’

‘I won’t. And, anyway, that was a long time ago. I know better, now. And besides,’ I say lightly, ‘I’ve got you. Keeping me safe.’

I look him straight in the eye. I hold his gaze; it’s easier than I think, yet still I hate myself for doing it. It reminds me of the years I spent convincing people I didn’t have a problem, but the difference is, this time I don’t. I’m just pretending to.

‘I know,’ he says. His hand is still on my thigh. ‘I know.’ He’s quiet for a moment and I begin to relax. I realize I’m going to have to do something. Next time I might not be so lucky, and whatever is happening between me and Lukas, I can’t let it destroy what I have with Hugh.

I tip my head back, close my eyes. Am I being naive in thinking I can keep Lukas separate from my family? Do secrets always come out in the end?

We’re both silent for a while, and then, without warning, Hugh speaks.

‘Oh, God,’ he says. ‘I haven’t told you about Paddy.’

My eyes flick open. The name is unexpected and it jolts me. I hope it doesn’t show.

‘Maria rang me yesterday. I completely forgot to tell you. He’s been mugged.’

I hear myself echo him. It sounds like my own voice, but coming from a long way away.

‘Mugged?’

It’s too hot in here, suddenly. I’m sweating. The water is oily and viscous.

‘Yes. Over the weekend. I think Maria said it was Friday.’

‘Where? By who? Is he all right?’

An awful thought is forming. Last week I told Lukas what Paddy had done. I’d let him think it was worse than it was. Much worse.

He’d said he wanted to protect me.

‘He’s bruised and battered, and his nose is broken, but he’ll be fine. It happened right near where they live, apparently. He was coming home late. He can’t remember much…’

I think of Lukas. He said I’d be getting my present later. Is this what he meant?

My mind goes to Kate. I see her, lying there in her own blood, her nose broken, her eyes swollen shut.

I look over at my husband. It’s as if I know what he’s going to say next.

‘Funny thing is, they didn’t take anything.’

Something within me begins to collapse. I find myself standing up, though I don’t know why, or where I’m going. The water slides off me and for a moment I think it’s blood. ‘Like Kate,’ I’m saying. ‘Just like Kate.’

Hugh stands, too. ‘Julia? Julia, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. I wasn’t thinking. Julia, sit down. Please?’

It can’t be, I tell myself. It can’t be him.

Tell me you want me to teach him a lesson, he’d said, when we were right in the middle. And I think I said yes. Had I said yes?

But he hadn’t meant anything. Surely? He hadn’t taken me seriously? It’s just a coincidence, it must be. It must be, it has to be.

I think of his hands on me, the bruises, the things he’d done. The things he’s told me he’d like to do.

‘I’m an idiot,’ says Hugh. ‘Julia, I’m sorry.’

I turn round. I shiver, I’m freezing, yet the sweat is pouring off me. I run out, into the changing rooms. I make it as far as the bathroom, just.

Chapter Nineteen

Connor arrives home late the next morning. Dylan’s with him and the two of them crash in, talking non-stop. I’m waiting for the kettle to boil when they land in the kitchen.

My son. I’ve missed him; he’s all I’d wanted when I got in last night, the only thing in my life I still think I have a chance of getting right.

‘Hi, Mum!’ he says. He seems surprised that I’m there, and for a moment I think he’s going to ask me if I’m okay. I’m not sure what I’ll say if he does. Dylan stands behind him, and when I smile at him says, ‘Hi, Mrs Wilding.’

‘We might go upstairs?’ says Connor.

I force a smile. ‘Okay. Did you have fun?’

‘Yeah.’ He doesn’t elaborate.

‘Want anything to eat?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Dylan?’

The other boy shakes his head and mumbles something. He’s even skinnier than I remember.

‘We had something earlier,’ says Connor. ‘Can we watch a DVD?’

‘Sure. Let me know if you want anything,’ I say as they disappear upstairs. I turn back to the kettle and make my drink.

I know what I have to do. I’ve been putting it off all morning. I sit down at the table and phone Lukas.

‘Morning, beautiful. I was just thinking about you, too.’

Normally that comment would thrill me, but today I barely notice it. I’m too wound up, too anxious. I’ve run out of energy. I’ve spent all night thinking about him and Paddy, about what he might’ve done. What I might have done. I’m exhausted.

‘Lukas. We need to talk.’

I sense him shift a gear. I imagine him lying in bed, then abruptly sitting upright. I try to picture it, but fail. I’ve never seen his bedroom, never seen his house. It’s nice, he’s told me, semi-detached, with three bedrooms. ‘Modern, but with some character.’ He’s always sounded proud of it, so why haven’t I been there?

I wonder if he keeps it tidy. A man, living alone; I wonder if he even makes his bed. Connor wouldn’t, if I didn’t insist.

‘What is it? Is everything okay?’

I feel a sudden rush. I want to shout, scream. I want to tell him, No, no, it isn’t!

I take a deep breath and try to calm myself.

‘Paddy was attacked.’

Even saying the words hurts. It reminds me too much of Kate.

‘Who?’

‘Paddy.’ I’m annoyed, and at the same time frightened. Has he forgotten? Or is this all part of some game? ‘The person I told you about. The friend I told you had kissed me.’ I hesitate. My voice wavers. ‘He’s been beaten up.’

‘Jesus…’ He sounds concerned. It’s genuine, I think, but how do I know? I don’t know anything. ‘Are you all right, Julia?’

I don’t want to ask the question, but it’s a weight, pressing down on me, and I have no choice. It’s the reason I called him, after all.

‘Did you have anything to do with it?’

There’s silence. Saying it out loud has made it seem real. The suspicion has become a certainty.

I picture him, shaking his head in disbelief. Every muscle in my body is tensed, then he speaks.

‘Me? What on earth—?’

I interrupt. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. I say it again, louder this time. ‘Did you have anything to do with it?’

His reply comes more quickly this time. He’s rushing to his own defence.

‘No, of course I didn’t.’ I can’t decide whether he sounds angry or just emphatic. ‘Is he going to be all right?’

The words rush out, tumbling over each other. ‘It just seems a coincidence, that’s all. I mean, I tell you last week, and then this week—’

‘Listen. Calm down—’

‘—this week,’ I continue, ‘this week, this happens.’

I stop speaking. My body is suddenly alive. I can feel his hands on me, my skin sings with the rough urgency of the sex in the toilet cubicle, my wrists carry a dull ache where he’d gripped them. I think back to what he’d said.

‘You asked me if I wanted you to teach him a lesson.’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘And, if you remember, you said yes.’

I collapse inwards. I’m almost breathless, with panic, and rage.

‘I didn’t mean it, though! We were just messing around. It was play-acting!’

‘Was it?’ His voice has taken on an edge; he sounds different. Not like him at all. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘you have to be careful what you wish for, Julia. Very careful…’

Fear hits me. Terror. It’s real, physical. I’m on fire, my phone is alive, dangerous. I want to hurl it across the room. I wish I’d never met him. I don’t know who he is, this man, this person I’ve let into my life. I want everything to go back to how it was before.

‘Lukas!’ My voice is pleading, I’m almost shouting, only vaguely aware that Connor is upstairs. Right now I’d sacrifice anything to be certain that what happened to Paddy had nothing to do with Lukas. Almost anything. ‘Please…’

I stop. He’s making a noise; at first I can’t tell what it is, but then I realize. He’s laughing, almost to himself. I’m flooded with light, with air.

‘Lukas?’

‘Relax. I’m joking…’

‘Joking? What’s so funny?’

‘Julia, I think you need to calm down. Think about it. Aren’t you being a little paranoid here? I mean, you only told me about this guy last week. Do you think I marched straight round there and beat him up? How could I? You didn’t tell me where he lives. You didn’t even tell me his full name. For God’s sake, I only found out your real name yesterday.’

He’s right. It can’t have been him. But can it really be coincidence?

‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry, too. For laughing. For not taking it seriously.’ There’s a pause. He sounds contrite. ‘When did it happen?’

‘On Friday night, I think.’

‘I was in Cambridge on Friday. Out with a bunch of mates.’ He hesitates. ‘You can check on Facebook, if you like. Ade has put shitloads of pictures up.’

My computer’s in front of me. I open it up.

‘Julia, this man, you’re sure he’s going to be okay?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think so.’ I open Facebook and navigate to his timeline. Friday night. It’s true. There are photos of him.

I feel awful. Guilty. Filled with an overwhelming desire to make everything better. ‘I’ve been really stupid. I’m sorry.’

‘You do trust me, don’t you?’ His voice is calm, now. Kind. Soothing. The voice I’m used to. Yet from nowhere I flash on a vision. Him saying exactly the same thing, but to Kate.

‘Julia? Are you there?’

I realize I haven’t answered him.

‘Yes. I’m sorry. I just panicked, that’s all.’ Relief floods my veins as I realize the truth of what I’m saying. A brightness returns to the world, one I hadn’t noticed had disappeared. I go on. ‘I’m sorry. All this fantasy talk, I suppose I was worried…’

‘It’s okay…’

‘I should never have accused you.’ Pleasure floods my veins. The pleasure of tension released. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘It’s okay. Calm down, Julia. It’s all going to be okay.’

Is it? I want it to be. I think of all the good times we’ve had, all the support he’s given me over Kate. I get the sense that if anyone can make it okay, then it’s him.

It’s his voice. He does that. He makes me feel better, calmer.

‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I might’ve found out something. About Kate.’

My heart surges. ‘What? What is it?’

His answer seems to take for ever.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What? What is it?’

‘It’s probably nothing.’

‘What have you found?’

Again I hear him hesitate. He doesn’t want to raise my hopes.

‘There’s a site—’

‘What site?’

‘I don’t remember. But I found someone on there. She’s using the name Julia.’

‘Julia?’

‘Yes. It’s why I looked twice. There’s no photo, but she’s about twenty-eight or twenty-nine. She lives in Paris. And…’

‘And?’

‘Well, the thing is, she hasn’t logged on since the end of January.’

‘What’s the name of the site?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to try the login details that worked with encountrz. I want to know if it’s her.’

‘Why don’t you leave it to me?’

Because I want to know.

‘Please, Lukas. Just tell me what it’s called. I’ll take a look…’

He sighs, loudly. I can almost hear him try to decide what’s for the best.

‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea,’ he begins. ‘You’ll just get upset, and—’

‘Lukas!’

‘Hear me out. Here’s what I think we should do. I’ll send this person a message. If they reply we’ll know it’s not Kate.’

‘But they haven’t even logged on since January…’

‘Okay. Well, why don’t you give me Kate’s login details? I’ll try them for you.’

So this is it, I think. I have to decide now. Do I trust him, or not?

What choice do I have, really? I give him the password. Jasper1234.

‘It’s the name of our dog, growing up. Promise me you’ll try it.’

He calls me back an hour later. I haven’t been able to settle. I’ve just been pacing, sitting at my computer, trying to work, failing. When my phone rings I snatch at it.

‘Hello?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You didn’t get in.’

‘No—’

‘She might have used a different password—’

‘Julia, wait. This woman responded to my message. I asked her for a picture and she sent me one. It’s not Kate.’

‘Can I see the picture? It might be someone impersonating her…’

‘It’s not,’ he says. ‘This woman’s black.’

I feel utterly flat. It’s not worth it, this false raising of my hopes, when it leads only to crushing disappointment. Anything feels better. Even emptiness.

‘I’ll keep looking. If you want me to?’

I tell him. ‘I’m just disappointed.’

‘Try not to be. Will I see you next week? Tuesday?’

I hesitate. Everything is too bright, too intense. I want normality, stability. I think back to the visceral love I feel for my son, the way in which I missed him last night after finding out about Paddy’s attack. As if for the first time, I realize this love isn’t compatible with what I’m doing.

I remind myself why I chatted to Lukas in the first place, why I first met him. To find my sister’s killer, for the sake of Connor, for the family.

But that’s got me nowhere, and now Connor needs something else from me. A trip to the cinema. A burger. Mother and son. I make my decision.

‘I can’t. Not Tuesday. I’m busy.’

I have the sense of a grip suddenly relaxed. I’m relieved. It’s a good feeling. I’ve been selfish; now, I’m doing the right thing.

‘Busy?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

I realize I’m holding my breath. Part of me wants him to argue, to protest, the rest hopes he’ll just suggest another day. I want to make sure I can last a week without seeing him.

Silence. I need an excuse. ‘It’s just that I have a friend. Anna. She wants me to help her look for a wedding dress.’

‘She can’t do a different day?’

‘No. I’m sorry…’

‘Okay.’ I want him to argue some more. I want him to try and persuade me, to ask me who’s more important, him or Anna.

But he doesn’t. He’s saying goodbye and a moment later the call is over.

Chapter Twenty

Tuesday comes. It’s Connor’s day, and I decide we’ll do whatever he wants. I owe it to him; he deserves it. He seems more cheerful, is talking more now, more like his old self.

At the weekend we went to see Paddy. Hugh’s idea. He didn’t look as bad as I was expecting. His eyes were swollen and bruised, there was a graze on his cheek. He couldn’t tell how many people had attacked him, or even if it was more than one. They took nothing, just knocked him out. He didn’t look at me once the whole time we were there.

I get up early. I haven’t slept well; last night I’d seen the figure again, outside my window. It looked more real this time, it had more substance. I even thought I saw the glow of a cigarette, but once again, once I’d looked away to talk to Hugh then gone back, he’d gone. If he’d ever been there at all.

I’m blurry eyed as I go downstairs. I find my phone and see I missed another call from Adrienne last night. I feel guilty. She’s been travelling; she wants to know if I got my present, a silver necklace I admired months ago when we were out shopping. ‘Just let me know,’ she’d said, in her last message. ‘And let’s meet up. I’m busy, as ever, but dying to see you! Call me back.’

I haven’t done so, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because she knows me too well; she’d see straight through me if I tried to hide anything from her. Plus, there’s the lie I told Hugh, about me falling on the escalator. I need to put a bit of distance between us. It’s easier to avoid her, just for a little while.

Connor and I have breakfast in front of the television. When we finish I ask him what he wants to do today, and he says maybe we could go and see a film. ‘Sure!’ I say. I tell him to choose one. ‘Whatever you like.’ He picks the new Planet of the Apes film. I’m disappointed, but I’m careful not to let it show.

We walk to the cinema, across Islington Green. I realize it’s been a long time since we did this, just the two of us. I’ve missed it, and wonder whether he has, too. From nowhere I’m filled with a deep sense of love, and of guilt. It hits me that now Kate’s gone Connor is the only blood relation I have, the only person with whom I share DNA. I realize Kate was the link, to all of us. Our mother and father, me, her, and now Connor. She was the centre of it all.

I have to say something. The need is overpowering. ‘You know I love you,’ I say. ‘Don’t you?’ He looks at me; his expression is inscrutable, as if he’s slightly embarrassed. For a moment I see the vulnerable little boy inside him, the one trying to cope with the adult world in which he’s finding himself more enmeshed with each passing day. But then it passes and something else flashes briefly on his face. It’s pain, I think, followed a moment later by the resolve to conquer it.

‘Connor? Is everything all right?’

He nods, raising his eyebrows as he does. It’s a familiar gesture, meant to be reassuring but now too automatic for it really to mean anything at all. ‘I’m good.’ We cross the road, then on the other side we stop, both at the same time, as if we’d rehearsed it. ‘Honestly.’

I put my arms on his shoulders; sometimes he doesn’t like to be hugged, and I guess that standing in the middle of Upper Street might be one of those times. ‘You can talk to me, Con.’ I remember how long it’s been since I used to call him that. Did he ask me to stop, or did it just fade away? Perhaps that’s what always happens between mothers and sons. ‘Please remember that. I’m here for you. Always.’

I feel guilty as I say it. Am I there for him? I haven’t been, recently.

‘I know.’

‘The last few weeks… months…’ I begin, but I don’t know where I’m going. I’m trying to build the connection between us, one that I should never have put in jeopardy. ‘…they’ve not been easy. I know that. For any of us.’ He looks at me. I want him to forgive me, to tell me I’ve been there for him, that he’s all right. ‘I know they’ve been really shit for you, too, Connor. I want you to know that. I do understand.’

He shrugs, as I knew he would. He’s silent, but he looks at me with an expression of gratitude, and something passes between us. Something good.

In the cinema Connor goes to the bathroom while I buy our tickets at the machine then queue for the popcorn I’ve promised him. When he returns we make our way to the screen. I’d thought it would be busy, but it’s less than half full. People are dotted around – mostly couples – and I suggest that we head for an almost empty row about halfway back. Connor agrees and we settle ourselves. The film hasn’t yet started and the room is filled with the symphony of bottles being opened, drinks being slurped through straws, bags of sweets or crisps being torn into. I pass our popcorn to Connor. ‘Have you got everything you want?’ I whisper, and he says he has. He’s checking his phone and looks up guiltily. A message from his girlfriend, I suppose. Evie. He mentions her occasionally; he’s said she wasn’t at Carla’s party, but he’s evasive, still at that age where discussing a girlfriend with his parents is embarrassing. Without thinking, and to reassure him it’s fine, I pick up my bag and check mine.

I have a message, from Lukas. I’m relieved; our last few conversations have been frosty, and since I last saw him I’ve thrown an accusation at him and told him I didn’t want to see him today. I thought maybe he’d taken the decision to end things before I did, and to do it with silence. ‘How’s the shopping?’

I type my reply quickly.

‘Boring. But thanks for caring…’

I press send. Part of me is hoping he won’t respond, yet still I keep my phone in my hand in case he does. Sure enough, a moment later, there’s a reply.

‘I wish I was there with you.’

I smile to myself. He’s no longer angry with me, if he ever was. I was being ridiculous.

‘So do I.’ Once again I press send then I switch off my phone.

The film begins. It’s not my kind of thing at all, but I remind myself I’m here for Connor and when I look across at him I can see that he’s enjoying it. I try to settle. I try to stop thinking about Lukas, try to ignore the temptation to fish my phone out of my bag and check whether he’s replied. I concentrate on the movie.

A minute or so later Connor shifts his legs. Someone is pushing past him, murmuring, ‘Sorry,’ as he does so. It’s odd, I think. This new arrival is alone, there are plenty of seats. Why does he choose our row? I move out of the way, too, and he says sorry to me, though he’s looking at the screen while he does it. I’m even more surprised when he sits in the seat right next to me. I consider pointing out that there are plenty further along, but then think, really, what’s the harm? I go back to the film.

A few moments later I begin to feel a pressure on my leg. I’m not certain at first, but then it becomes definite. The newcomer is pressing his leg against mine; it feels deliberate, though I can’t be sure. I look down – his leg is bare; he’s wearing board shorts – then move my leg away, just an inch or so. It might’ve been accidental; I don’t want to make any kind of fuss. I pretend to be engrossed in the screen, but then the man’s leg moves to connect with mine again, more urgently this time, too deliberate for it to be coincidence.

I look over. The action on the screen is dark and I can’t see much. I make out thick-rimmed glasses and a baseball cap, one of the ones that’s rigid and sits tall on the front of the head. The man’s staring at the screen, rubbing the lower half of his face with his right hand, as if in deep contemplation.

I move my leg again and take a deep breath, readying myself to say something, to tell him to pack it in or get lost; I’m not sure which. At the same time the stranger drops his hand from his face and turns to me, and as he does the action on the screen moves overground, to a scene of lit brilliance, bathing the theatre with light. It’s then I see that the man sitting next to me is no stranger. It’s Lukas. He’s smiling.

I gasp, yet at the same time my stomach tips with desire. An abyss of fear opens in front of me and I begin to spiral towards it. What’s he doing here, in this cinema? What the fuck is going on? It can’t be a coincidence; it would be ridiculous. Yet how can it be anything else? He doesn’t know where I live: I’ve never told him, I know that. I’ve been careful all the way through.

Yet here he is. He’s looking back at the screen now. He’s moved his leg away, as if he’s now trying to avoid contact with me. I turn back to the movie, then a moment later glance at Connor, sitting on my other side. He’s noticed nothing.

My heart is beating too fast; I don’t know what to do. This is too far, I want to say. You’ve gone too far. Yet…

Yet he’s pressing his leg against mine once again, and this time I haven’t shifted away. His skin on mine is charged, I can feel every tiny hair, the warmth of his muscles. Even though my son is just inches away, I find I like it.

I close my eyes. My mind whirls in confusion. Just a few minutes ago he’d sent me a message, about the shopping I’d told him I was doing. He must have already known that was a lie, but how can he have known I was here?

I look over at Connor again. He’s engrossed in the film, his hand dipping occasionally into the bucket of popcorn on his lap. After a moment I turn to look at Lukas, who appears to be fixated, too. He must sense my gaze. Slowly he turns to me, so that he’s looking directly at me, as if he wants to make sure I know it’s him. I look into his eyes and ask the question wordlessly, and he begins to smile. There’s no warmth, and I feel a sick disappointment. I look back at the screen, then after a few moments at him again. This time he winks, still without warmth, then looks ahead once more, and after a few moments stands to leave. As he does he says, ‘Excuse me,’ and he pushes past my son with a ‘Hey, dude…’

And then, as if he’d never been here, he’s gone.

I sit. My mind won’t be still, I can’t concentrate on the film. I’m thinking of Lukas, I can’t work out what he’d wanted, why he’d turned up.

Or how he’d known where I’d be.

My hand goes to the seat in which he’d been sitting, as if I might feel him there. It’s still warm, I haven’t imagined it. I begin to tremble. My mouth is dry and I take a sip of water from the bottle I’d bought with Connor’s popcorn. Nausea rises within me. I must calm down. I take a deep breath, but the air is syrupy with the smell of half-eaten hot dogs and belched ketchup. I feel sick. I close my eyes. I see Lukas.

I have to get out. I have to get some air.

‘Come on.’

‘What?’

‘We’re leaving.’

‘But Mum!’

‘This is rubbish,’ I say.

‘Well, I’m enjoying it.’ I’m aware we’re making a lot of noise; from somewhere behind, someone tuts.

I stand up. I need to keep moving. ‘Okay, stay here, then. I’ll be back in a minute.’

I go to the toilet. I’m nervous as I push the door open; he might be in here, I think, and straight away my mind goes to the time we had sex in the toilet cubicle near his hotel. But he isn’t. Just some girls, Connor’s age or a little older, fixing make-up, gossiping. Someone was fucking unbelievable; someone else was apparently gonna make him pay. I ignore them and go into one of the cubicles. I lock the door and take out my phone. Nothing, just a message from Hugh. We’ve run out of milk. Can I pick some up?

I sit for a while, willing my phone to ring, or for there to be a message. A smiley face, a wink. Anything to reassure me that Lukas was just having a bit of fun. But there’s nothing. I don’t know what to think.

I call him. His phone goes straight to voicemail. I try again, and again, and again. And then, because there’s nothing else I can do, I give up. I put my phone in my bag and rejoin my son.

Chapter Twenty-One

We get home. I’m numb, I can’t think. I’d hoped Connor hadn’t noticed Lukas, but as we walked home he said, ‘Didn’t you think that guy was weird?’

I was looking left and right, waiting to cross the road, but also looking out for Lukas. He was nowhere to be seen.

‘Sorry?’

‘That guy. The one who came in and sat right by us in a half-empty room?’

‘Oh, him?’ I tried to sound natural, but had no idea whether I was succeeding. ‘People are odd.’

‘And then he leaves, before the film’s even over. What a freak!’

I wondered if that was it, part of the game. I wondered whether I was supposed to make an excuse to my son, follow Lukas, have him fuck me in the toilets. I wondered if, deep down, I’d really wanted to do just that.

Now, my mind spins. I don’t understand how he’s done this, much less why. Every time a possibility comes, a solution, I’m forced to reject it. If it was a coincidence, then why didn’t he say hello? If it was a game, then why didn’t he at least smile, let me know we were playing?

I keep returning to the same few thoughts. This shouldn’t have been possible. He doesn’t know where I live. He thought I was out shopping with Anna.

‘You all right, Mum?’ says Connor. I realize I’m still standing in the middle of the kitchen.

I force a smile. ‘I think I’m getting a migraine.’ Another wave of panic crashes in. I look at my son. He knows about you, now, I think. You’re no longer safe. I feel myself begin to suffocate.

‘Shall I get you some water?’ he says. He goes to the sink and picks two tumblers off the drainer.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’ I take the glass from him and sip; it’s lukewarm.

‘I think I’ll go and have a lie down.’

I go upstairs. Lukas still isn’t answering his phone, and there are no messages on mine. I open my computer and see he’s online. My fury is doubled.

– What was that all about? I type. I hesitate before pressing send. I ought to walk away, I want to walk away. But I can’t. There’s no way out, now. Everywhere I turn, he’s there.

His reply comes after only a moment.

– Did you enjoy it?

I gasp. He has no idea how I feel, what he’s done.

– How did you know where I’d be?

There’s no reply. For a long time, nothing. Damn you, I think. Damn you. And then, finally:

– I thought it would be a nice surprise.

A nice surprise? I’d laugh if my whole body wasn’t humming with fear.

– How did you know?

– I had to get creative.

– Meaning?

There’s an even longer pause.

– Don’t panic. I was in Islington. There’s an antiques shop there I go to occasionally. I saw you across the street. I followed you.

Antiques, I think. Since when has he been into antiques? I don’t know anything about this man.

– I thought it’d be fun.

– Fun? You scared me!

I read his messages again. I want to believe him, but I can’t. He happened to be shopping in Islington? Some coincidence. And even if it were true, then surely he’d have just messaged me?

Instead, he’d followed me, sat next to me, winked at me in the dark. He’d spoken only to my son, not to me, and his expression wasn’t that of someone giving someone else a nice surprise. It was the expression of someone who thinks they’ve found something out.

– Scared you? Why? What did you think I was going to do?

– I don’t know.

Suddenly I realize. It’s a moment of absolute clarity, when everything that had felt muddled and grey is as clear and colourless as ice-cold water. I’d become involved with him for the sake of my son, but now it was my son who was at risk. I have no choice. I’m going to have to end it.

I try to fix on the thought, but even as I do another, stronger, part of me is trying to push it away. Lukas sends me another message.

– What did you want me to do?

– What?

– In the cinema. Tell me.

I feel like screaming. How can I make him see this isn’t a game? There are things at stake here, things that might be lost for ever.

– Not now, Lukas. OK?

I press send. I sit back. I want him to understand what he’s done, how much it’d scared me. I want him to know there are lines we mustn’t cross.

His reply comes a few seconds later.

– Tell me how you wanted me to touch you, it says. Tell me you were imagining it, right there in front of all those people.

– No, I say.

– What’s wrong?

I don’t answer. There’s no avoiding it, and I don’t want to have this conversation online. I can’t make him understand what he’s done, not here, not now. I don’t want to see him again, but I have no choice.

– I want to see you. It’s important.

– Whatever you like.

There’s a long moment, then he sends another message.

– By the way, who’s the kid?

‘He’s my son.’ He’s sitting opposite me, we’re having lunch. My choice, even though now I’m here I wish I’d suggested somewhere more secluded. He’d wanted to meet in a hotel, but I knew that wouldn’t be a good idea. We’ve come to a restaurant just near the river. We’re sitting outside, under an umbrella. Commuters stream past on their way to the station.

I haven’t even asked about his hunt for more of Kate’s online profiles. I suspect he’s given up. I doubt he was ever looking very hard.

‘Your son?’ he says. For a moment I think he doesn’t believe me. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘No,’ I sigh. I have to be honest. It’s time for that, at least. ‘I wanted to keep him out of it.’

And I failed. Lukas knows everything, now, and it’s too much. What had seemed manageable is now out of control, what had been in a box has now broken free.

I look at this man. It’s almost as if he owns me, and I must claim myself back.

‘What’s his name?’

I flinch. It’s a protective instinct; I’m angrier than I thought.

I look away. On the other side of the road a guy in Lycra remonstrates with a driver who must’ve almost knocked him off his bike.

‘No.’ I turn back. ‘Like I said, I want to keep him out of it.’

‘You don’t trust me.’

‘Lukas. It’s not as simple as that. What we had, I wanted to keep it separate from my real life. I wanted to keep it apart. I didn’t want to have to think about my husband, and certainly not my son.’

‘What we had.’ It’s a statement, not a question.

‘Sorry?’

‘You said, “What we had.” Past tense. So I’m guessing it’s over?’

I don’t answer; my choice of words had been uncalculated, my mistake Freudian. But it’s made, and now a single word is all it would take. I could say yes, then stand up. I could walk away, change my phone number, never log on to those websites, then all this would be in the past. A mistake, but one that’s easily undone. He’s never been to my house, never even seen it; nor I to his. We’re entangled, but not so much that one single decisive action wouldn’t separate us, cleanly and for ever.

But is that what I want? On the way here I’d thought it was, but now I can’t be sure. Sitting here now, I’m in two minds. Would he really hurt anyone? He seems so gentle, so loving. I think of the long nights of loneliness. I think of going back to the days when a new message on my phone would be nothing more exciting than Hugh telling me he’ll be late again or Connor asking whether he can stay out longer.

‘Look.’ He shifts his weight, opens his arms to shrug his shoulders. I’m struck again by his presence, his flesh, right in front of me. It glows; it’s in three dimensions, where everything else seems in two. ‘I fucked up. In the cinema. I’m sorry. I really thought you’d like it.’

‘I didn’t.’ I glance briefly over his shoulder at the argument that’s only now beginning to lose momentum, then look back at him.

‘It was a coincidence, that’s all. I was in Islington. I didn’t even know you lived round there.’

‘Lukas…’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘What were you doing in Islington?’

He hesitates. It’s just a fraction of a second, but long enough for it to sound like a lie. ‘I told you. Shopping. I go quite often, when I’m in town.’

‘So why were you in town?’

‘I come in every Tuesday, if you hadn’t noticed. Usually it’s to see you. It was force of habit, I suppose.’ He sighs. ‘I missed you. My day felt kind of wasted without you, so I thought I’d come up to town anyway.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘I was upset, I guess. I wanted to see you. It was our day. You cancelled on me.’

‘So you were in Islington, completely randomly, where I was taking my son to the cinema?’

‘Coincidences do happen, you know.’

I find myself beginning to wish I could believe him.

‘You think I’ve been following you? You really are paranoid.’

‘That’s an unkind thing to say.’

‘I’m sorry. Listen, I saw you. Honestly. Crossing the street. And I’d thought of nothing else but you for a whole week, so I followed you. Maybe it was a mistake—’

‘It was.’

‘But I’m going crazy. You’re all I think about.’

‘Lukas—’

‘Tell me you’ve been thinking of me.’

‘Of course I have. But—’

‘So, what’s the problem?’

‘I don’t know. I just… it freaked me out. It was… risky.’

‘I thought you liked risk? I thought you liked danger?’

‘Not like that—’

‘It’s what you’ve been telling me.’

I raise my voice. ‘Not like that. Not when it involves Connor.’

Shit, I think. I’ve told him my son’s name. It’s too late now.

He says nothing. We’re both silent for a moment. Neither of us has started to eat the food in front of us. A sandwich for him, a salad for me. It occurs to me we’ve never had a meal together, not properly. We never will.

‘How did you know what film we were going to see? Or were you looking over my shoulder as I bought the tickets?’

He still doesn’t answer.

‘I want to trust you, Lukas.’

‘Then trust me. I’ve never lied to you. I made a mistake, that’s all. I’m not stalking you. I didn’t attack your friend. I mean, after what you’ve been through?’

He looks angry, but also deeply hurt. It’s this that comes closest to convincing me. Yet still I’m not certain. Not quite.

I came here wanting to end it between us, to get out, but now I’m not sure I can. Not yet.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You have to trust me, Julia,’ he says.

I look down at my plate. ‘I find it difficult to do that with anyone, I suppose.’

He reaches out to take my hand. ‘Connor,’ he says, as if he’s trying the name out for size, seeing how it feels, how it sounds. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had a son?’

I look at the wedding ring he’s wearing. You didn’t tell me you had a wife, I want to say. Things start to add up. The ring, first, plus the fact he’s never – not once – suggested we go to Cambridge, even though it isn’t far away.

‘You’re married, aren’t you?’ I speak softly, quietly, as if I don’t really want him to hear.

‘I was. You know that.’

‘I mean, you still are. Admit it.’

‘No!’ He looks angry. Shocked. How could I suggest such a thing?

‘I told you the truth. I wouldn’t lie about that. Ever.’

I watch as his anger turns to pain. It’s visceral, unmistakable. The pain of loss, something I know only too well, and for a moment I feel guilty, and desperately sorry for him. I can’t help it. I wish I’d let him in. I wish I’d told him about my son, right from the beginning.

‘Promise me.’

He takes my hand between his. ‘I promise.’

I realize I believe him.

‘Look, my son – Connor – has been through a lot. I wanted to protect him—’

‘You think I’d hurt him?’

‘No. But it’s not so much people I’m trying to protect him from, but situations. He needs stability.’ I take a deep breath. ‘It’s complicated. Connor’s adopted. He… his mother was my sister.’

I wait while he absorbs what I’ve told him.

‘The sister who was killed?’

‘Yes.’

A long moment.

‘When did you adopt him?’

‘When he was very little. My sister couldn’t cope, so we took care of him.’

‘He knows?’

I nod. He’s silent for a moment, then says, ‘I’m sorry.’

He looks at me. I have nothing else to say. I’m spent, empty. I begin to pick at my salad. After a minute or two he says, ‘So, is this it, then?’

‘Is what it?’

‘That use of the past tense back there. This conversation. The fact you didn’t want to go to a hotel. You want me to leave you alone.’

The answer should be yes, but I hesitate. I don’t know why. I’ll miss feeling desire; I’ll miss having it reciprocated. I’ll miss being able to talk to him about things I can tell no one else.

I want to keep hold of all that, even for just a few more minutes.

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s all right. I had a feeling this was going to be one of those “I’m sorry, but…” conversations. You know. “I can’t do this any more.” That kind of thing.’

Have you had many of those? I think fleetingly. And, if so, how recently, and from which side? Dumping, or being dumped?

I look away. I think back, to everything that’s happened. I realize the dark place my grief has taken me. I’ve become fragile. Paranoid. I see danger everywhere. There’s a man standing outside my window, my lover has attacked someone when he doesn’t even know their full name, much less where he lives. If I’m not careful I will push away everything that is good in my life.

I make my decision.

‘I don’t want this to be over. But what you did the other day… Don’t do it again. Okay? I won’t have Connor brought into this.’

‘Okay.’

‘I mean it. I’ll just walk away.’

‘Okay.’ He looks anxious, and as I see this I start to relax. The balance of power has shifted, yet it’s more than that.

I realize this is what I wanted, all along. I wanted to see him bothered, I wanted to know that he understood what was at stake, I wanted to see him frightened that he might lose me. I wanted to see my own insecurities reflected in him.

I soften my voice. ‘No more games. Okay? All that stuff we’ve been talking about’ – I lower my voice – ‘the playacting, the rough sex. It has to stop.’

‘Okay.’

‘I can’t have you turning up unannounced. I can’t go back home covered in bruises…’

‘Whatever you say, as long as it isn’t over.’

I reach across and take his hand. ‘How can it be over?’

‘What happens now?’

‘Now? I go home.’

‘Will I see you on Tuesday?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

He looks relieved.

‘I’m sorry. About the games, and stuff. I guess I’m not so good at romance.’ He pauses. ‘We’ll do something. Next time. Something lovely. Leave it with me.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

A week passes. Connor goes back to school, a year nearer to his exams, to adulthood and whatever comes with it, a year nearer to moving away from me. I’ve had his blazer dry-cleaned and taken him shopping for shirts and a new pair of shoes. He’s not enthusiastic about going back, but I know that will only last a day or so. He’ll be reunited with his friends, with his routine. He’ll remember how he enjoys his studies. Hugh’s right when he says he’s a good kid.

On his first day back I go to the window and watch him walk down the street; by the time he’s gone a few feet, barely past the end of the drive, he’s loosened his tie, and just at the corner he waits for a moment. One of his friends arrives, they clap each other on the shoulder, then set off together. He’s becoming a man.

I turn away from the window. I have another job tomorrow – the woman whose family I photographed a few weeks ago has recommended me to a friend – and another next week. The hole in my soul is closing, yet part of me still feels empty. Kate’s death still haunts everything I do. When Connor goes, I don’t know how I’ll cope.

I try not to think about it. Today’s Tuesday. I’m meeting Lukas. I have the morning to myself, hours to get ready. It’s like the first time we met, all those weeks and months ago, back when I thought it would be a one-off, nothing more than an opportunity to find out what happened to my sister.

How that has changed.

Yet I know it has to end. Sometimes I think about that moment, when we separate, finally and for ever, and wonder if it’ll be something I’ll be able to survive. Yet separate we must; my relationship with Lukas has no happy ending. I’m married. I’m a mother. I love my husband, and my son, and I can’t have everything.

When I leave the house Adrienne is pulling up in a car. It’s a surprise, not like her at all. I wave and she opens the car door. Her face is grave, set in a hard line, and I’m nervous.

‘New car?’

‘Whatever. Darling, can I come in?’

‘What is it? You’re scaring me.’

‘I thought I’d ask you the same question.’ She points back the way I’d just come. ‘Shall we?’

I stay where I am.

‘Adrienne? What is it?’

‘You’re ignoring me. Why?’

‘Darling, I’m—’

‘Julia. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days.’

‘Sorry. I’ve not been well.’

Another lie. I feel wretched.

‘Is something going on? Dee says you’re not returning her calls either. And Ali said she invited you to a party and you didn’t even reply.’

Did she? I can’t even remember. I feel something give, as if something in my head has slipped, some kind of defence. My mind begins to flood. Yes, I want to say. Something’s going on. I want to tell her everything, I want it all to come out.

But I know what she’ll say.

‘Going on? Like what?’

She shakes her head. ‘Oh, darling…’

‘What?’

‘Bob’s seen you.’

I flinch. It’s not the enveloping fog of guilt, or shame. This is something else, razor sharp, a scalpel on my skin.

‘Seen what?’

‘You with some guy. He said you were having lunch.’

I shake my head.

‘By the river?’

I tense. I’m flooded with adrenalin. I can’t let her see. ‘Last week?’ I say. ‘Yes, I was having lunch with a friend. Why didn’t he say hello?’

‘He was in a taxi. A friend? He said he didn’t recognize him.’

I try to laugh. ‘Bob doesn’t know all my friends, you know!’

I see her begin to soften. ‘A man friend. He said it looked pretty intimate. Who was it?’

‘Just someone I met. I took a photograph of him and his wife.’ I take a risk. ‘She was with us.’

‘He said it was just the two of you.’

‘She must’ve been in the loo. What’s this about? You think I’m having an affair?’

She looks right at me. ‘Are you?’

‘No!’

I hold her gaze.

‘Adrienne, I’m telling the truth.’

‘I hope so,’ she says.

I don’t look away. I am, I want to say. I want to plead my innocence.

But is that because I want it to be true, or because I want to wriggle off the hook?

‘I’m really sorry, but I have to go. I have a shoot.’

I’m carrying no equipment. I see her notice.

‘Later, I mean. I have to get some things first. Some shopping.’

She sighs. ‘Okay. But call me. We’ll talk properly.’

I tell her I will.

‘Where are you off to? Do you want a lift?’

I tell her, ‘No, no I’m fine.’

‘Promise you’ll call me,’ she says, and then she’s gone.

Now I’m in a taxi. I feel jumpy, anxious. Bob has seen me and Lukas. A lucky escape, I think, but next time? Next time it might be Adrienne herself, or even Hugh.

I’ve been neglecting him. I know that. I have to give Lukas up.

Either that or I have to start being more careful. I’m not sure which I want more.

I pull up to the St Pancras hotel and go into the lobby. It reminds me of the first time I came here. There’s the same sense of danger, and excitement. The same notion that everything might be about to change.

I go to the reception desk and give my name. The woman behind the desk nods. ‘For Mr Lukas?’ she says.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

She smiles. ‘There’s a package for you.’ She reaches under the desk, then hands me a parcel. It’s a little bigger than a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper, sealed with packing tape. My name is scrawled on the front in black marker pen. ‘And Mr Lukas asked me to give you a message,’ she says. She hands me a slip of paper. ‘Running late,’ it says. ‘There’s champagne on ice behind the bar. Hope you like the gift.’

I thank her. I wonder why he’s bought us champagne when he knows I don’t drink. I begin to turn away. ‘Oh,’ I say, turning back, ‘do you have some scissors?’

‘Of course.’ She hands over a pair. I stand at the desk and slit through the tape. I think of Hugh as I do so; I imagine myself touching a scalpel to yellow-stained flesh, watching as the skin yields then gives with a swell of red. I hand the scissors back to her then take the box to one of the chairs nearby. I want to be alone when I open my gift.

I take a deep breath and fold back the flaps. A smell hits me – not unpleasant, stale air, a faint, floral trace of perfume. Inside, there’s tissue, a sealed envelope. It’s this I open first.

There’s a postcard inside. It’s plain, creamy white. I think back to the cards that were put through my letterbox, the ones I’d told him might have been from Paddy, but there’s no woman in lingerie, no breasts, no pouting girl who looks not quite old enough to be holding the pose she’s holding, wearing the expression she has on her face.

I flip the card over. On one side is a message.

‘A little gift,’ it says. ‘See you soon. Wear this. Lukas.’

I put the note to one side. If he’s crammed an outfit into the box, there can’t be much to it. I lift out the bundle and tear through the tissue paper it’s wrapped in.

It’s a dress. Bright red. A mini-dress, short, with long sleeves and a low-cut back. I can already see how tight it’s going to be, how it will hug my body, hiding nothing, only accentuating the curves of my flesh. I check and find he’s picked the right size, but it’s not the kind of thing I’d wear at all, which must be why he’s chosen it. Beneath it there’s a pair of shoes. They’re black, high-heeled, almost four inches I guess, much higher than I’m comfortable in, with a tiny bow on the toe. I take them out; they’re beautiful. They look expensive.

At the bottom of the box is one more thing. A padded jewellery case in soft red leather. My heart beats with childish excitement as I flip it open. Inside there’s a pair of earrings. Gold drop with a four-leaf-clover design and, unlike the shoes, they look inexpensive.

I react instinctively. My heart thuds, I snap the box closed. They’re similar to the ones Kate was wearing. It’s coincidence, I think. It has to be. He’s forgotten. It’s like when Hugh casually mentioned that Paddy had been mugged but nothing had been taken. I’m over-sensitive. I have to pull myself together.

I find the bathroom. I’m nervous, unmoored. Something doesn’t feel right. It’s the dress, the shoes. The earrings. They’re beautiful, but they’re not gifts one buys for someone they care about. They’re a costume. A disguise. This time he’s making explicit what until now has been implied: this is unreal, a fantasy. I must become other. I must take off my wedding ring, even though he knows I’m married. I must pretend to be someone I’m not. This is a game, a masquerade. It’s exactly what I’d told him I don’t want.

So why am I getting changed? Why am I wearing the dress? I can’t say; it’s almost as though there’s no other option. What’s happening has its own momentum, a pull too powerful to resist. I’m heading into the unknowable, the foreign. I’m light, being drawn into the blackness.

I take the furthest cubicle from the door and lock it behind me. I take off the clothes I’m wearing then hold the dress up in front of me. It unfurls itself, a curtain of red, and I slip it over my head before shimmying the zip closed. I put the heels on the floor then step into them. The height lifts me into another space, a place where I am strong. I take off my earrings and replace them with the ones he’s given me. The transformation is complete. I am other. Julia is no longer here.

I step out of the cubicle and go over to the mirror. My perspective has shifted; everything is different. I no longer know who I am, and I’m glad.

I smile at my reflection and a stranger returns my gaze. She’s beautiful, and utterly confident. She looks a little bit like Kate, though thinner, and older. The bathroom door closes behind me with a sigh.

At the bar I begin to relax. My heart slows to its normal pace, my breathing becomes deeper. Before I can stop him, the waiter has poured some of the champagne Lukas has left, but I ask for water as well. I look around. The bar isn’t busy, just a few people dotted around. I put down my glass. I want to look comfortable when Lukas arrives. Composed. As in something that’s made up, created. Something that’s a fiction.

I drink the water slowly, yet still Lukas hasn’t arrived by the time I finish the first glass. I pour myself another as I look again at the clock on my phone. He’s very late now, and there’re still no messages. I sip my drink and rearrange my dress. I wonder what’s holding him up. I wish I were wearing my own clothes.

A moment later I realize there’s somebody behind me, leaning on the bar. I can’t see him but I know it’s a man – there’s a solidity to him, the space he occupies he does so confidently. Lukas, I think. I begin to smile as I turn, but I’m disappointed. It’s not him. This man is larger than Lukas; he’s wearing a grey suit, holding a glass of beer. He’s alone, or appears to be. He turns and smiles at me. It’s obvious, unsubtle and I’m not used to it. Yet it’s flattering. He’s young, attractive, with a beard, a strong jaw, a nose that’s been broken. I smile back, because it would be rude not to, and look away.

He must take my smile as an invitation. He turns his body to face me, says, ‘How’re you?’

‘I’m fine.’ I think of Lukas, resist the temptation to tell him I’m waiting for someone. ‘Thanks.’

His face opens. He grins, says, ‘D’you mind?’ He’s indicating the empty seat between us but before I can tell him I’m saving it for someone he’s already sitting down. I’m irritated, but only mildly so.

‘I’m David.’ He shakes my hand. His palms have a roughness not suggested by his clothes. I see his eyes sweep my body, travel from my neck, to my arms, to my ringless finger. It’s only when they come to rest once again on my face that I realize he’s still holding my hand.

I’m impatient. It’s Lukas I want to be holding. His flesh, not this man’s.

But he isn’t here, and I’m annoyed, even if I don’t want to admit it.

‘I’m Jayne,’ I say.

‘You’re alone?’

A breeze caresses the back of my neck. I think of Hugh first, and then Lukas.

‘For now,’ I say.

‘Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Jayne,’ he says. He holds my gaze. He’s reaching inside me. It’s an offer, a proposition. I’m under no illusions, I know it’s because of the clothes I’m wearing. I might not have even noticed it a few months ago; Lukas has sensitized me to it.

But I don’t feel the same thrill that I did when I met Lukas – the thrill of being desired but also of feeling desire. This time it’s slightly uncomfortable. Again I think of telling him I’m waiting for someone, or that I’m married, but for some reason I don’t. That would be hiding behind a man. You can’t have me, because I’m promised to another. It would make me weak. He shifts his weight on the stool so that his right knee is close enough to brush against my left and I get a sudden thrill, so intense it shocks me.

‘Likewise,’ I say. He asks me whether I’m staying in the hotel, whether I’m here on business. I say no. I don’t want to lead him on.

‘How about you?’ I say.

‘Oh, I’m in finance,’ he says. ‘It’s very boring.’

‘Travelling?’

‘Yes. I live in Washington DC.’

‘Really?’ I say.

He nods. ‘What’re you having?’

‘I have a drink already,’ I say. There’s a look of mock-disappointment on his face. I smile, then glance at the time on my phone. Lukas is late and hasn’t sent a further message.

‘Then I’ll have the same.’

There’s a swell and fizz as the drink is poured. We chink glasses, but I don’t drink. Dimly, I’m aware of how this will look when Lukas arrives, which surely can’t be long now. It pleases me. I’d rather this than he sees me alone, desperate, waiting for him.

Yet at the same time I wonder how easy this guy – David – will be to get rid of.

‘So,’ he says, ‘tell me about you. Where are you from?’

‘Me? Nowhere, in particular.’ He looks confused, and I smile. I won’t tell him the truth, but neither do I want to make anything up. ‘I moved around a lot as a child.’

‘D’you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘No,’ I say. I don’t want Kate in the room. ‘It was just me.’

I look up, into his eyes. They’re wide; the expression of sincerity on his face is so perfect it can only be fake. I realize we’re sitting close. His hand is resting on his thigh, his knee still pressed against mine. It’s intensely sexual. The room seems to be tipping, off balance. Something is very wrong.

‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll just use the Ladies.’

I stand. I’m unsteady. It’s as if I really have been drinking, rather than just bringing it to my lips and putting it down again. In the bathroom I look at myself in the mirror, trying to reclaim the confidence I felt earlier, but I can’t. Julia is returning; she’s just wearing someone else’s clothes.

I take out my phone, dial Lukas; there’s no answer so I leave him a message. I splash water on my face, take a few deep breaths and gather myself.

When I return David is still sitting on the stool, still leaning against the bar. He watches me approach. He smiles. His legs are spread – to balance himself, I suppose, though I wonder if he’s also offering himself in some primitive, animal way. I take my seat.

He smiles, lowers his voice, leans forward. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me, but he says, ‘I thought we could take this upstairs. Somewhere more private?’

I can’t help it. There’s a tingle, an excitement. I realize I like the thought of Lukas being upset by me wanting someone else. Yet he doesn’t know, and fear is also flooding in. This isn’t what I came here for. This isn’t supposed to happen. This man looks strong. He’s not someone I could fend off, even if I had to. Plus, we’re in public and I don’t want to cause a scene. I play for time.

‘Here?’ I say. ‘In the hotel?’ He nods. I tell myself to concentrate. ‘I’m sorry,’ I begin, ‘but…’

I shrug, but he doesn’t stop smiling. I think of the girls at school, and what the boys called them when they didn’t go as far as they’d unwittingly promised. ‘Cock-teasers’, they said.

He doesn’t seem to get the message. He puts his hand on my knee, moves it a fraction up, towards my thigh. He leans forward. I can smell him, pepper and wood, leathery, like old books. He begins to stroke the inside of my wrist. I know he’s going to try and kiss me, that in a moment he’ll close his eyes and open his mouth, just slightly, and I’ll be expected to do the same.

I cough, and look towards the bar. He touches my arm. There’s another tiny crackle of static.

He whispers. ‘I know who you are,’ he says, as if he’s read my mind. He smiles, baring his teeth, as if he’s growling. He’s still stroking my skin.

I look at his lips, his dark skin, the faint shadow of stubble that he’s probably never quite without. ‘What—?’ I say, as panic begins to gather within me.

‘Kiss me.’

I begin to shake my head. I try to smile, to look confident, but I can’t, I’m not. I can’t believe what’s happening. Without thinking I reach for the glass of champagne.

Ride it out, ride it out, ride it out.

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

‘Kiss me.’

I turn my head away from him and wrest my hand from his. I start to speak, to protest. We’re in public, I want to say. Leave me alone; but my words tumble and fall. His mouth is inches away from mine; I can smell alcohol, and beneath it is something stale. Garlic, perhaps. Where’s Lukas? I think. I need him. I want him.

I look over my shoulder. The crowd has thinned out even further; the few guests that remain are engrossed in their own conversations. No one has noticed what’s going on, or else they’ve chosen to ignore it.

‘How much?’ he says. I gasp, a little grunt of horror, but he just shrugs. It’s as if the answer to his question concerns him as little as do my protests.

‘How much?’ he says again. ‘That’s all I’m asking. Name your price.’

My price? My mind races. This man thinks I’ll sell myself, we just have to negotiate a price.

‘You’ve got it wrong.’ My voice is unsteady now. Slurred not with alcohol but with dread.

‘Have I?’ He moves his hand further up my thigh; his thumb, his fingers, are underneath the hem of my skirt. Distantly, as if from a great height, I wonder why I haven’t moved away. I imagine the whole room watching; somehow everyone knows what he’s doing, can see that I’m not stopping him. I glance towards the nearest table: the couple sitting at it have halted their conversation to sip their drinks; the man behind them is speaking into his phone. No one has noticed us. No one is looking.

‘Stop it,’ I hiss.

‘I will. If you kiss me. If you promise to come upstairs and then let me fuck you.’ He licks his lips, as if he’s hungry. The action is deliberate, it carries a message; if it’d been Lukas I’d be flattered, excited, but from him it’s more like a threat. ‘Like I know you want me to. Little slag…’

I turn in on myself. There’s a rush, a swell of anger. Lukas is supposed to be here, not this man. I feel myself in balance, a perfect serenity that cannot last, and for a long moment I’m unsure what I’m going to do, which way I’m going to fall.

I steel myself. ‘Look.’ I’ve raised my voice, just slightly. I want to attract attention, though without yet causing alarm. I speak firmly, hoping my voice will have an authority I don’t feel. ‘I’m asking you, politely, just this once. Take your hands off me, right now, or else I’ll break your fucking arm.’

Even as I say it I’m not sure how he’ll react. Hurt perhaps, but surely he’ll get the message? I expect him to turn away, mutter something under his breath, but it’ll make no difference. I’ll stand up, walk out. I’ll hold my head up and walk away and I won’t look back.

But he doesn’t move. He’s perfectly still, then without warning he grabs my wrist. I recoil, try to get away, but his grip is powerful. He digs in tight, twisting as he does. ‘You want to go home? Is that it? Home to your faggot husband? Hasn’t had you in weeks? Is that what you want, Julia?’

I freeze. I know I should cry out, but I don’t. I can’t. I’m paralysed.

He used my real name.

‘What—?’ I begin, but then he speaks again.

‘What’s his name? Your husband? Hugh?’

Fear floods me. I haven’t mentioned being married, much less told him my husband’s name. How does he know? This can’t be right. The room begins to spin; for a moment I feel I might collapse, but then there’s a voice. ‘Is everything okay here?’ I turn and it’s him. Lukas. Relief rushes through me as instantly as if a tourniquet had been released. The sound of the bar rushes back, like blood cells closing in on a wound. I’m safe.

This other man, David, lets go of me. He holds up his hands, palms out, a gesture of submission aimed not at me but at Lukas. It’s as if he’s asking this other man for his forgiveness, saying he’s sorry for touching his property, and it enrages me. What? he seems to say. I was just having a bit of fun. No harm done. At the same time Lukas steps in, putting himself between me and David. I can see his broad back, his hair, curly and unkempt. Finally I understand; the rush of excitement and fear I feel is so vertiginous that for a moment I think I might gasp aloud. I’d asked for this. A stranger, I’d said, during one of our chats. In a bar. Someone who won’t take no for an answer.

He’d planned it. After everything I’d said, he’d planned this.

We go upstairs. The door slams behind me. Vaguely I’m aware that I’m the one who slammed it. Lukas turns to face me. I have the sense I shouldn’t feel safe with him, yet somehow I still do and I realize that the feeling is familiar. It’s the exact same feeling I used to have about heroin; how can something that feels this good ever hurt me?

‘What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck—?’

‘Don’t be—’ he begins, but I interrupt again.

‘Where the hell were you? What the—?’

‘I was late—’ he begins, and I interrupt him, furious.

‘Late! Like you not being on time is the important thing we’re discussing here. Who was that guy? And how the hell do you know my husband’s name?’

‘What?’

‘That guy, he called him Hugh. I’ve never told you my husband’s called Hugh. Harvey. I’ve always called him Harvey…’

‘Yes, why did you do that?’

‘I’ve got every right to. But that’s not the point! How did you—?’

‘Relax. You slipped up. Just once. You called him Hugh. Weeks ago. You were upset, I guess. You called him Hugh, and I remembered.’

I try to think back, to remember, but it’s impossible. I want to believe him, though. I have to. Not to believe him about this might mean I have to not believe him about other things, too. And then everything would come crashing down.

‘Julia…’ He takes another step forward.

‘Don’t come near me!’ To my surprise he stays where he is. After a moment he turns, goes to the mini-bar.

‘More champagne?’

I snort with derision.

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Not with me. But you will with a stranger.’

I’m furious. ‘You ordered that bottle!’

‘And you drank it.’

I look away. I can’t be bothered to argue, there’s no point. I’ve been a fool. I don’t know him at all. I’ve rejected every warning, failed to see what was going on at every turn. He’s taken my deepest desires, the things I ought never to have told anyone, and turned them against me.

He opens a miniature – vodka, I think – and pours it into a glass. ‘You told me your fantasy was being rescued. Or one of them was, at least.’

‘You think that’s what I wanted?’

‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’

‘So you told him – that man – to be aggressive? To… to make me think… to behave like that? You shared everything I’d told you?’

‘Not everything. Just enough. I kept some of it to myself.’

‘I said no more games, Lukas! No more. Remember?’

I sit in the chair. He sits on the bed. I realize he’s between me and the door; a fundamental mistake, Hugh would say, though I don’t know why he’s ever had to worry; his patients don’t tend to be the aggressive type. I stand up again.

‘I thought it’d be fun.’ He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Look, you told me. Your fantasy. Being in danger. Being rescued. You did say that?’

‘I said lots of things. That doesn’t mean I want them to happen. Not really. That’s why they’re called fantasies, Lukas.’

Dread hits. I remember the other things I’ve told him I fantasized about. Being taken by force, not quite against my will, but almost. Being tied to the bed, handcuffs, rope. Is he also planning that?

I try to backtrack. ‘Half of the things I said I wanted I only said to please you.’

‘Really? Like how Paddy had forced himself on you?’

He’s sneering. He looks as if he doesn’t care about me at all. I mean nothing to him.

‘Poor Paddy. Accused of all those things he didn’t do. And look where it got him.’

I back away. Every part of me wants to reject what he’s telling me is true. ‘It was you!’

‘It’s what you wanted—’

‘It was you!’ My heart hammers. I tense, as if for escape. ‘It was you, all along!’

‘And the mysterious figure outside your window…’

‘What?’

‘It’s what you want, isn’t it? To be scared?’

I try to work it out. The first time I’d thought I’d seen someone watching me was before I even met Lukas. But the other night? It’d seemed more real, then. Could that have been him?

No. No, he doesn’t know where I live. He’s using my paranoia against me.

‘You’re crazy.’

He looks at me and I return his gaze. Something slips within me, like a lever that’s been thrown. Somehow I see myself through him, reflected in his eyes. I see the clothes I’m wearing, the shoes, even the way I smell. I realize, as if for the first time, the place I’m in and how deep I’ve got.

I’ve been here before. In thrall to something that’s destroying me. Unable to escape. I think of Marcus, and of Frosty.

I force myself to say it.

‘I’m leaving now. This is over.’

The room is still. The words have escaped. I can’t unsay them now, even if I wanted to. He closes his eyes then opens them again. His face breaks, he smiles. He doesn’t believe me.

‘You’re not.’ His voice is low and heavy; it sounds like it belongs to someone else. All his pretence has gone, leaving in its place nothing but a heavy malevolence.

My eyes flick to the door. If he wants to stop me there’s no way I can overcome him.

I draw breath, summon as much strength as I can.

‘Get out of my way.’

‘I thought we were having fun?’

‘We were. But we aren’t now. Not any more.’

His mouth hangs, half open, then he speaks.

‘But I love you.’

It’s the last thing I expect him to say. I freeze. I’m disarmed, utterly shocked. My mouth opens, but I have no words.

‘I love you,’ he says again. I want him to stop, yet at the same time I don’t. I want to believe him, yet don’t think I can.

‘What?’

‘You heard me. I thought I was making you happy. All this’ – he gestures around the room – ‘was for you. I thought it’s what you wanted.’

I shake my head. It’s another game. I know it is. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Lukas, no—’

‘Tell me you love me, too?’

I look at him. His eyes are wide, imploring. I want to believe him. Just this once, I want to know he’s telling me the truth.

‘Lukas—’

He reaches out to me. ‘Julia. Tell me, please.’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Yes. Yes—’

I freeze. His hands have dropped. He smiles, then starts to laugh.

‘It’s just another one of your fantasies, isn’t it? Me loving you?’

Suddenly I’m empty. Defeated. It’s as if everything has flooded out of me and, right now, I hate him.

‘Fuck you.’

‘Oh, Julia, come on. What’s the big deal? Today? David? You want to be rescued, I want to rescue you. I wanted you to think you really were in danger.’ He looks at me. He’s trying to see if I’m softening, if the anger is burning off. It’s not. Not really. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘All I said was he should try and pick you up. That you might be keen, you might not. Either way, he shouldn’t take no for an answer. Like you wanted.’

I take a step back. ‘You’re crazy.’ I whisper it. To myself as much as to him, but he ignores me.

‘Shall I tell you what I think? I think you’re getting cold feet just as it’s starting to get interesting.’ He pretends to reconsider. ‘Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe you’re enjoying yourself a little too much.’ I begin to speak, but he continues. ‘You’re worried that you don’t deserve it.’ He finishes his drink, pours another. ‘Look. It’s a game. You know that. And yet you can’t quite think of it like that. You still think of games as something that children play. Something you’ve outgrown.’

‘No,’ I say. My voice sounds cracked. I draw breath and say it again. ‘No. You’re wrong. It’s not a game.’

He laughs. ‘What is it, then?’ I want to get out. I can think only of escape. ‘Your problem,’ he says, ‘is that you’re still too attached to the old you. You can slip away to hotels, you can dress up in all the gear, but you’re still the little housewife, married to Hugh. You’re still the person that does his shopping and cooks his food and laughs at his jokes, even though you’ve heard them a million times before. You used to despise people whose only ambition in life was a nice rich husband and an adoring son and a house in Islington with a patio and a garden. Yet that’s exactly what you’ve turned into. You’re still someone who thinks there’s only one way to be married, only one way to have an affair.’

I’m enraged, now. Ripped open. I want to scream at him. I want to hurt him. It’s as if he’s seen inside me, then emptied me out.

‘How does it feel to hate yourself?’

‘Get out of my way!’

He moves. He’s between me and the door.

‘You know, I was watching the whole time,’ he says. ‘Today. In the bar.’ He hesitates, then lowers his voice. ‘And you loved it. Didn’t you? The attention.’

He’s right. I know it, deep down. He’s right, and I’m ashamed. I despise him.

‘Please, just let me leave.’

‘Or else…?’

‘Lukas…’ I say. I try to push past him, but he blocks me.

I step back again. I look at him, this almost-stranger. He lowers his voice still further. He’s threatening now. He has the power; he wants me to know it.

‘You enjoyed it. Didn’t you? You liked knowing he wanted you. A stranger.’ He takes another step; this time I stay where I am. ‘No strings… nothing to worry about…’

I try a different tack.

‘So what if I did? What about if I’d decided I liked him? I was going to have him? This David? What then?’

‘Then things might have turned out differently,’ he says. ‘Were you tempted?’

I don’t hesitate. I want to see him hurt. More than anything, I want to see him feel some of the pain that he’s inflicting on me.

‘Maybe.’

He doesn’t move. I don’t know what he’s going to do.

‘Before he started to threaten you? Or after?’

‘Hard to say.’ I don’t move.

‘The fear added something. Admit it. That’s what turned you on.’ He’s whispering now, murmuring. When I’m silent he moves forward, towards me. His mouth is inches from my ear. His hand goes to my waist, I feel it on me. I pull away, but he’s strong. His flesh touches mine. ‘Would you have gone upstairs with him?’ He pulls me to him, I feel the warmth of his body, his hands on me, searching for my skin, moving firmly, grasping, kneading. It triggers something, a muscle memory, and without me wanting it to my body begins to respond. ‘Alone? Or with me?’

I don’t reply. Somewhere, deep within me, I know I should be crying out. I should be fighting, kicking. I should be screaming for help.

But I’m not. I don’t do any of those things. It’s as if my body has mutinied. It will no longer react to anything but his touch.

‘Please,’ I say. ‘Lukas…’

He tries to kiss me. I begin to respond, my body’s final betrayal. I gather my energy and force myself to speak.

‘Stop! Lukas. This has to stop.’

He does nothing. He continues to push himself against me. Harder now. ‘Stop me, if you want. If you really want.’

I feel his hands. They’re everywhere. At the back of my neck, in my hair, at my crotch. He’s pushing and grabbing, with more and more urgency. He tries to push me backwards, or turn me round. I flash on the time we’d had sex, in the cubicle, his hands around my neck; it’d been a game then, but it isn’t now. I have to get away from him.

I lash out, aiming at his face, his eyes. It’s only a glancing blow, but my nails draw blood. He wipes his hand across his face, wide-eyed and furious. He looks like he’s about to hit me and I try to step away.

We square up against each other. I open my mouth to speak but just then I hear the sound of the lock sliding open. Relief floods me. It’ll be a maid, perhaps, someone with room service. They’ll see what’s going on, Lukas will have to stop. I can dust myself down, make an excuse, leave. He won’t follow me. I won’t let him.

We both look to the door. Too late I see that Lukas is smiling. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I thought you’d got lost.’

Fear hits me, full in the gut. It’s David.

I grab my bag. I run. I slam past David, out into the corridor. Tears are coming, I close my eyes, crash into the walls as I run towards the stairs, but I carry on running. I see myself as if from a great height. It looks like me, but it isn’t me. She’s not wearing the clothes I wear. She’s not doing the things I do.

I run and run and run, and all at once I’m back in Berlin. I’m shivering, at an airport, not knowing how I’m going to get home. I’m phoning Hugh from a phone box in the departure lounge, then I’m waiting. Waiting to be rescued by the man I’ll soon marry while the one I’d thought was my whole life lies dead in a squat on the other side of the city.