I hesitate, briefly. I know what he wants. I know what I want, too.
It’s words on a screen, I tell myself. That’s all.
– Who won’t take no for an answer.
– What happens?
I breathe in deeply. I fill myself with possibility. I undo another button on my shirt. I’m hurting no one.
– Tell me, he says, and I do.
When we finish I’m not embarrassed. Not quite. I haven’t described rape – it’d been more complicated than that, more nuanced – yet still I’m uneasy, as if I’ve somehow betrayed my sex.
It’d been a fantasy, I tell myself, and not an uncommon one, from what I’ve read. But not something I’d wish on anyone. Not in real life.
He sends me a message.
– Wow! You really are something.
Am I? I think. I don’t feel it. In this moment, now it’s over, I want to tell him everything. I want to explain about Hugh, the husband he doesn’t know I have. I want to tell him about my gentle, caring, solicitous Hugh.
I also want to tell him that sometimes Hugh isn’t enough. My need is raw and animal, and yes, yes, very occasionally I just want to feel used, like I’m nothing, just sex, just pure light and air.
And I want to explain that one person can’t be everything, not all the time.
But how can I, when he doesn’t even know Hugh exists?
– You, too, I say.
I look at the time. It’s almost nine; I’ve been in here for nearly forty-five minutes.
– I have to go, I say, but then I hear the quiet roar of a plane flying overhead and something strikes me.
– Shouldn’t you be in the air, now?
– I should.
– You missed your flight?
– Not missed. I cancelled it. I thought I’d have one more day in London.
– Why? I say. I’m hoping I already know the answer.
– To see you.
I’m not sure what to feel. I’m excited, yes, but underneath it is something else. At the moment I can almost convince myself I haven’t been unfaithful, haven’t betrayed my husband. But if I see him again?
I tell myself I wouldn’t have to sleep with him.
Another message arrives. It’s not quite what I’m expecting.
– The truth is, he says, I have something I need to tell you.
Chapter Sixteen
We arrange to meet back at the hotel the following day. I arrive early; I want time to collect myself, to calm down. I’m nervous, I can’t work out what this thing is he wants to tell me. It can’t be something good, otherwise surely he’d have told me yesterday, as we lay in bed together, or last night as we chatted online. It’s hard to prepare yourself for the worst, when you don’t know what the worst will look like.
I’m distracted enough as it is. This morning Hugh has finally told me what was on his mind. He’d had a letter, a complaint. It had been copied to the head of the surgical directorate and the chief executive. ‘A complaint?’ I said. ‘What happened?’
He poured the tea he’d made. ‘Nothing, really. I did a bypass on a patient a few weeks ago. Pretty standard. Nothing unusual. He’s fine, but has pumphead.’
I waited, but he didn’t go on. He does this a lot. I’m expected to know.
‘Which is?’
‘Postperfusion syndrome. Poor attention, impaired fine motor skills, some short-term-memory problems. It’s pretty common. Usually it gets better.’
‘So why the complaint?’
He put his cup down. ‘The family are claiming I didn’t warn them it was a possibility pre-operatively. They’re claiming it might’ve affected their decision if they’d known.’
‘Did you?’
He looked at me. I couldn’t tell if he was angry. ‘Of course. I always do.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I pulled the notes from my consultation yesterday and went through them. I didn’t make a note specifying that I’d warned the family that this was a possibility.’ He sighed. ‘And, apparently, if I didn’t write it down then, legally, I might as well have said nothing. The fact that I always tell every patient makes no difference.’
I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Will it go further?’
‘Well, the complaint is official.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s pathetic. I mean, what would they have done, anyway? No one ever turns round and says they won’t go through with a bypass because there’s the danger they’ll forget what’s on their bloody shopping list for a few weeks! I mean…’
I watched as he fought to get his anger under control. He’s grumbled to me before – about how unreasonable some patients can be, how determined they are to find something to complain about, however trivial – but this time he looks furious.
‘There’ll have to be an investigation. I’ll write a letter of apology, I guess. But I know the type. They’re after compensation. I didn’t do anything wrong, but they’ll take it as far as they can.’
‘Oh, darling—’
‘And right now that’s the last thing I bloody need.’
I felt guilty. I’ve been wrapped up in Kate’s death, for-getting that he’s had a job, a life to continue, too. I told him we were in it together, we’d be fine. I almost forgot about Lukas.
Now, though, he’s all I’m thinking about. I go through the station, up the stairs, on to the concourse by the platforms. I think of yesterday, and of the time I was here on my way to see Anna, to visit her in Paris. Back then, the only thing I’d been able to think about was Kate.
Lukas is waiting for me. Although we’d arranged to meet in the hotel lobby, he’s just outside the bar, standing underneath the huge statue that sits at the end of the platforms – a man and a woman, embracing, he with his hands around her waist, she with hers held to his face and neck – holding a bunch of flowers. As I approach, I notice he hasn’t seen me arrive. He’s shuffling from foot to foot, nervous, but when he sees me he breaks into a grin. We kiss. To anyone watching it must look like we’re trying to replicate the bronze statue that towers above us.
‘It’s called The Meeting Place,’ he says, when we’ve separated. ‘I thought I’d wait here, instead. Seemed appropriate.’
I smile. He’s holding the flowers out to me. They’re roses, deep lilac and very beautiful. ‘These are for you.’
I take them from him. He leans in and kisses me again, but my hand goes to his shoulder as if to push him away. I feel so exposed; it’s as if the whole world is in the station, watching us. I’m nervous, I seem to want everything at once: for him to get to the point quickly and leave, for him to invite me to stay for lunch, for him to tell me yesterday was a mistake, for him to confess to having no regrets at all.
But at first he’s silent as we walk through the darkened bar towards the brightness of the lobby. ‘It is you,’ he says, once we’ve emerged into the light. I ask him what he means.
‘That perfume. You were wearing it yesterday…’
‘You don’t like it?’
He shakes his head. He laughs. ‘Not really.’
There’s a momentary shock of disappointment. He must see it. He apologizes. ‘It’s fine. Just a bit too strong. For me, at least…’
I smile, and briefly look away. His comment hurts, just for an instant, but I tell myself it doesn’t matter. There are more important things to worry about.
‘I guess it is a bit overpowering. For the middle of the day.’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’ He opens the door and stands aside for me to go through.
‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’