I look back at him. I feel more alive than I can remember. I don’t want it to stop. Not yet. It can’t be over.
I nod.
‘Yes.’
He’s kissing me, his hands are around my waist, he’s pulling me towards him and yet at the same time pushing me back, back, back towards the bed. I fall backwards on to it and then he’s on top of me and I’m pulling the shirt from his trousers, unbuttoning it blindly and with clumsy hands, and his hands are on my chest, and then his mouth, and it’s all sweat and fury and I don’t resist, because there’s no point, that line is already crossed, it was crossed when I walked up to him in the bar, crossed when I left the house to come here, crossed when I said, ‘Yes, yes, yes, I’ll come and meet you,’ and there’s no point in pretending otherwise. My betrayal has been gradual but inexorable, the sweep of the hand on a clock, and it’s led me here, to this afternoon. And right now, with his hands on my naked flesh, and mine on his, with his prick stiffening between my legs, I’m not sorry. I have no regrets at all. I realize how stupid I’ve been. All along, from the very beginning, this is what it’d been about.
When we finish we lie on our backs, side by side. The afterglow. But it’s awkward somehow; I understand now why it’s called the little death, but even if that’s true at least it means I was alive before.
He turns to face me. He props his head on his arm, and again I’m aware of the years between us, the fact that he’s Kate’s age, more or less. His skin is taut and firm, his muscles flex when he moves, visible, alive. As we made love I’d been shocked by this, and now I wonder if it’s something I ever had with Hugh. I can’t quite remember; it’s as if my memories of a younger him have somehow been overwritten by all that’s happened since.
I remind myself that being ten years younger than me makes Lukas twenty younger than my husband.
He reaches out to stroke my arm. ‘Thank you . . .’ I feel it should be me thanking him, but I don’t. We say nothing for a while. I look at his body, now that it’s still. I look at his stomach, which is firm, and at the hairs on his chest, none of which are grey. I examine his mouth, his lips, which are moist. I look into his eyes and see he’s looking at me in the same way.
He kisses me. ‘You hungry? Shall we get something to eat?’
‘In the restaurant?’
‘We could get something sent up.’
It must be nearly three, I think, possibly even later. Connor will be back soon. And even if he weren’t, even if I had all the time in the world, having lunch with this man seems somehow like a step too far. It would be a sharing of more than just our bodies, would imply a greater intimacy than what we’ve already done, which was just lust, and flesh.
I smile.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Nothing.’
I realize a part of me wants to get away. I need to be on my own, to find solitude and process what I’ve just done, and the reasons I did it. I didn’t mean to, when I came here, yet here I am. ‘I’d love some lunch, but I probably ought to get going. Soon.’
He strokes my shoulder. ‘Have you got to go?’
‘Yes.’ I search for an excuse. ‘I’m meeting someone. A friend.’
He nods his head. I realize I’d like him to ask me to stay, I’d like him to beg me to cancel my friend, I’d like to see disappointment when I tell him I can’t.
But I know he won’t ask. Spending the rest of the day together was never part of the deal he thought he’d struck with me; it’s against the terms of our engagement. And so the silence between us extends, becomes almost uncomfortable. The schizophrenia of lust; it’s hard to believe the intimacy we shared just a few moments ago can evaporate almost in an instant. I become aware of the details in the room, the clock on the TV that’s mounted on the wall opposite, the fireplace, the stack of old hardback books on the mantelpiece that surely no one reads. I hadn’t noticed them before.
‘When’s your flight?’
He sighs. ‘Not till tonight. Eight o’clock, I think.’ He kisses me. I wonder dimly why he hasn’t checked out, then realize I’m the reason. ‘I have all afternoon.’ He kisses me again. Harder, this time. ‘Stay . . .’
I think of him getting on his flight, going back home. I think of never seeing him again. I remember when I’d thought the same thing about Marcus, when I believed that he’d meet someone else in Berlin, someone more interesting, and I would end up coming home, back to Kate and my father, my old life. But he hadn’t. Our love had deepened, intensified. In winter we would open the window of our apartment and crawl out on to the cold ledge. We’d wrap ourselves in a blanket and look at the Fernsehturm glowing in the bright blue sky, talking about our future, all the places we’d go and the things we’d see. Or else we’d take a bottle of cheap wine, or vodka, to Tiergarten, or hang out at Zoo Station. I had my camera; I took pictures of the rent boys, the dropouts and runaways. We met people, our lives expanded, opened out. I missed Kate dreadfully, but I didn’t regret leaving her behind.
But that was the old me. I can’t behave like that any more.
‘I’m sorry,’ I begin. I have the distinct impression that I’m slipping away, that Jayne – the me, the version of me, that is able to do what I’ve just done – is disappearing. Soon it will be replaced by Julia – mother, wife and, once upon a time, daughter. I’m not sure I want her to go.
‘I really have to—’
‘Please don’t.’ He’s fierce now, and for a moment he looks so desperate, so alive with desire, that I feel a sudden rush which takes me by surprise. It’s happiness, I think. I’d forgotten what it was like, this pure, uncomplicated happiness, more powerful than any drug. It’s not what I just did, what I realize I’m about to do again. It’s not that I’ve deceived my husband and got away with it. It’s me. I have something, now, something that’s mine. A private thing, a secret. I can keep it hidden, in a box, and take it out occasionally, like a treasure. I have something that belongs to no one else.
‘Stay,’ he says. ‘For a while at least.’ And I do.
Chapter Fifteen
I go home. When I open the door I find a handful of postcards pushed through the letterbox. I bend down to pick them up and with a gasp of shock see that they’re the postcards that prostitutes leave in phone boxes. On each there’s a picture of a woman, a different woman, wearing lingerie, or nothing at all, and posing next to a phone number. ‘Hot Young Slut’, says one, ‘Spanking fun’, reads another. Straight away my mind goes to the last thing Paddy had said to me – Fuck you – and straight away I tell myself they’re from him. He’s pushed them through the door in a fit of childish, spiteful anger.
I try to calm myself down. I’m being paranoid. They can’t be from him, surely. It’s as ridiculous as me thinking it was him standing outside my window. The simpler the explanation, the more likely it is to be true, and Paddy would’ve had to travel across town, on a day when he’s supposed to be at work, during a time when he knew I wouldn’t be in the house. It’s much more likely it was kids. Just kids, messing about.
Yet still I can taste fear in my mouth as I tear them into little pieces and put them in the bin. I ignore it. I won’t let it get to me. It’s nothing, nothing to worry about, a stupid prank. I must stop being pa
ranoid.
I go upstairs and step out of my boots. I take off the make-up I’d put on earlier, then the clothes. It’s hard to imagine that just a few hours ago I was putting all this stuff on; it’s as if a film’s playing backwards, a life spooling in reverse. By the end it’s a different me standing here, in front of the mirror. Julia. Not better, not worse. Just different.
I put my jeans on, a shirt, then go back downstairs. My phone rings. It sounds alien, too loud. I’m annoyed; I’d wanted more time with my own thoughts before the real world crashed back in, but when I pick it up I see it’s Anna and am pleased. She’s someone I can talk to, someone I can be honest with.
‘How did it go? Did you find anything?’
‘He knows nothing. I’m certain of it.’
She hesitates, then says, ‘I’m sorry.’
Her voice is soft. She knows how much I need answers.
‘It’s okay.’
‘I really thought—’ she begins, but I’m gripped with an urge to tell the truth and she’s the one person who might understand.
‘We had sex.’
‘What?’
I say it again. I consider telling her I thought it might help, but I don’t. It’s not true, no matter how much I might want to believe it. We had sex because I wanted to.
‘Are you all right?’
I wonder if I’m supposed to feel bad. I don’t.
‘Yes. Fine. I enjoyed it.’
‘Is this because of Kate?’
Is it? I don’t know. Did I want to have sex with Lukas so that I could walk in her shoes?
Either way, I understand her better now.
‘Maybe.’
‘Will you see him again?’
Her question shocks me. I search for a hint of condemnation in it, but there’s none. I know she understands.
‘No. No, I won’t. In any case, he leaves tonight.’
‘You’re all right about that?’
‘I don’t have any choice,’ I say. ‘But yes, yes I am.’
I’m trying to sound light, unconcerned. I’m not sure she believes me. ‘If you’re sure,’ she says, and then I change the subject. We talk some more, about her, and her boyfriend, Ryan, and how well it’s going. She says I ought to come and visit her again, when I get the chance, and tells me that she’ll be over with work in the next few weeks but hasn’t been given the dates yet. ‘We could catch up then,’ she says. ‘Go for dinner, maybe. Have a bit of fun.’
Fun. I wonder what kind of fun she means. I remember she’s younger than me, but not by that much.
‘That’d be great,’ I say. I know I must sound distracted. I’m still thinking of Lukas, imagining meeting him again, wondering what it might be like to be able to introduce him to my friends one day, wondering if the reason I never will is what makes the thought so appealing.
I remind myself that this is my real life. Anna is my real friend. Not Lukas. ‘I’d like that a lot,’ I say.
Connor gets in. I make him a sandwich and tell him to make sure he remembers to put his PE kit in the laundry, then a while later I hear Hugh’s key in the lock. He comes into the kitchen as I’m cooking dinner. I kiss him, as usual, and watch as he gets a drink, then takes off his tie and hangs his jacket carefully over the back of the chair. The guilt I feel is predictable, but surprisingly short-lived. What I did this afternoon has nothing to do with the love I feel for my husband. Lukas in one box, Hugh in another.
‘How was your day?’ I say.
He doesn’t answer, which I know means not good. He asks how my session of therapy went.
‘Okay.’ I’m aware I sound unconvincing. ‘Good, I think.’
He comes over, puts a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t give up on it. It takes time. I know you’re doing the right thing.’
I smile, then go back to the dinner. Hugh says he’s going up to his office, and I’m glad, but as he turns to leave I can’t bear it any more. He’s not himself. His voice is flat, he’s moving as if the air is thick. Something is wrong.
‘Darling?’
He turns round.
‘What is it?’
‘Bad day,’ he says. ‘That’s all.’
I put down the knife I’d been using to chop vegetables. ‘Want to talk about it?’
He shakes his head. The disappointment slices into me and I realize how much I want to feel connected with my husband. Right now, after what happened this afternoon – after what I did – I need him to confide in me. His reticence feels like a rejection.
‘Hugh?’
‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘Honestly. We’ll talk later.’
We eat our dinner, the three of us, then sit at the table in the kitchen. Connor is opposite me, his computer open in front of him, a notepad and a stack of biology textbooks next to it. He’s studying the valves of the heart, his father’s subject, and leans into the screen, clicking his trackpad regularly. He has a look of intense concentration. Hugh sits next to him with a paper, making notes of his own, occasionally glancing at Connor’s work, making a comment when he’s asked a question. He seems back to normal now; whatever was bothering him earlier is forgotten, or pushed below the surface. It was probably nothing. Just my imagination.
My phone buzzes as another message arrives.
– I wish I’d bought you flowers this afternoon. You deserve a little romance.
I put my phone back, face down. I look up at my family. They haven’t noticed, and couldn’t possibly see what it says, yet still I feel guilty. I shouldn’t be doing this, not here, not now.
But I’m not doing anything. Not really. It buzzes again.
– You’re amazing. In a weird way it feels like I’ve known you for ages.
This time I have to reply.
– Really? You think so?
– Yes.
His reply is instant. I picture him, at his keyboard, waiting for my next response.
– You’re not so bad yourself.
I press send, then type another message.
– And you did buy me champagne.
– Which you didn’t drink.
– But you bought it for me. That’s the main thing.
– It’s the least you deserve.
Hugh coughs and I look up. He’s looking at me, at the phone in my hand. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Oh, yes.’ I’m trying to keep my voice steady. ‘It’s just Anna. She’s thinking of coming over.’
‘To stay here?’ says Connor, looking up expectantly. I wonder if he’s thinking about Kate, about what he might find out about his mother from her oldest friend.
‘No. No, I don’t think so. She’s coming for work. I imagine they’d put her up in a hotel.’
He says nothing. It crosses my mind that it might do him good, to get to know Anna a little better. I tell myself I’ll make sure they meet, when she comes.
I look back at my phone. Another message.
– What are you
up to?
The question is undeniably sexual. Yet when he’s asked me that before, back when we were first chatting, the same words had been entirely innocent.
Or maybe I’d just chosen not to see them for what they were.
Hugh stands up. ‘I’ll make a coffee,’ he says. ‘Julia?’
I tell him I don’t want one. He goes over to the machine and switches it on before filling its tank from the tap behind me. I hold my phone closer to my chest. Just slightly.
‘How is she?’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I think.’
‘I hadn’t realized you were still in touch.’
I’m surprised. He must know we’ve been talking. It crosses my mind that he suspects, somehow, that I’m lying.
‘Oh, yes.’
He doesn’t answer. As he sits back down my phone buzzes once more.
– Are you there?
Hugh notices. He looks annoyed, or upset. I can’t tell.
‘Sorry, darling.’
‘It’s fine.’ He picks up his pen, as if he’s about to go back to his paper. His annoyance has lasted only for a moment. ‘Message your friend. We’ll talk later.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I switch my phone off, but Connor has already started asking his father something about arteries and in a moment Hugh will be busy with an explanation. I’m hurting no one.
‘I’m just going to go and do some work,’ I say.
I cross the garden and go into the shed that is my office. I put my phone down and open my laptop.
– Sorry, I type. I was out. I’m at home now.
– Doing?
– Nothing.
– Wearing?
– What do you think?