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.
&nbs
p; 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 m
et 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.’