‘This Evie,’ I say.
‘The girlfriend?’
‘You know he’s never met her? Hugh? Doesn’t that bother you?’
‘It’s just what they do. Isn’t it?’
‘Do we even know she is who she says she is?’
‘What?’
‘You hear stories, these days.’ I’m treading carefully. This is a story he can’t know I’m part of. ‘All kinds of things,’ I say. ‘There are horror stories. Adrienne’s told me. Kids being groomed…’
‘Well, Adrienne can be a bit melodramatic at times. He’s a sensible boy.’
‘It happens, though.’
I picture Lukas, sitting at a computer, talking to my son.
‘We don’t even know she’s a girl.’
‘You’re the last person I’d have thought would have been bothered about that!’
I realize what he means. ‘No, I’m not talking about him being gay.’ I could cope with that, I think. That would be easy, compared to this, at least. ‘I mean, do we even know this Evie is the person Connor thinks she is. She might be older, a bloke, anything.’
I realize I’m closer than I thought to telling him. It’d be easy, now. I could just say it. I think I know who it is. I think it’s this guy. I’m sorry, Hugh, but…
‘Well…’ He draws breath. ‘I’ve spoken to her…’
A mixture of emotions hits at once. Relief, first, that Connor is safe, but also annoyance. Hugh has been allowed into a part of our son’s life to which I’ve been denied access.
‘What? When?’
‘I can’t remember. She called. The night you went out with Adrienne, I think. She wanted to speak to Connor.’
‘And…?’
‘And what you’re asking is if she’s a girl? Yes. She is.’
‘How old?’
‘I don’t know! I didn’t ask. She sounds about – I don’t know – seventeen?’
‘What did she say?’
He laughs. He tries to sound flippant. He’s trying to reassure me. ‘She said she’d tried his mobile, it was just ringing out, he must have it on silent or something. She asked if he was there. I said yes, we were halfway through a game of chess—’
‘I bet he loved that…’
‘What d’you mean?’
I shrug. I don’t want Hugh to know that none of Connor’s friends knows he plays chess with his father. ‘Carry on. What happened?’
‘Nothing. I gave the phone to him, he took it into his room.’
I’m angry, yet relieved.
‘You should’ve told me.’
‘You’ve been very distracted,’ he replies. ‘There never seems to be a moment to talk. Anyway, he’s growing up. It’s really important that we allow him his privacy. He’s had a really tough time. We should be proud of him, and we must tell him that.’
I say nothing. Silence hangs between us, sticky and viscous, yet familiar and not altogether uncomfortable.
‘Julia. What’s wrong?’
If only I could say. Life is spiralling. I see danger everywhere, I’m paranoid, hysterical.
I don’t speak. A single tear forms.
‘Julia?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Nothing. I…’
I let the sentence disappear. Again I wish I could tell him, but how can I? All this has happened because I tried to take more than I was owed. More than I deserved. I had my second chance, my second life, and it wasn’t enough. I wanted more.
And now, if I tell my husband, I’ll lose my son.
I go upstairs. There’s a message on my phone, one that I suppose I’ve been expecting.
It’s from Lukas. My heart leaps, though now my response is Pavlovian, meaningless, and as soon as it forms it disappears and turns to terror.
You’ve won, I think. Okay, you’ve won.
I want to delete it unread, but I can’t. I’m compelled, driven. I marvel at Lukas’s timing, almost as if he knows exactly when I’m most vulnerable. I wonder if Connor’s somehow back on Facebook already, broadcasting to the world.
I click on the message.
There’s a map. ‘Meet me here.’ It’s just like the old days, except this time the message continues.
‘Noon. Tomorrow.’
I hate him, yet I look at the map. It’s Vauxhall, a place I don’t know well.
I type quickly.
– No, I say. Not there. Forget it.
I wait, then a message appears.
– Yes.
I feel hate, nothing but hate. It’s the first time my feelings for him have been wholly, unambiguously, negative. Far from giving me strength, for the briefest of moments it saddens me.
A moment later an image appears. Me, on my hands and knees, in front of him.
Bastard, I think. I delete it.
– What d’you want from me?
– Meet me tomorrow, he replies. And you’ll find out.
There’s a pause, and then:
– Oh, and surely you don’t need me to tell you to come alone?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I don’t sleep. Morning comes, my family eats breakfast. I claim a headache and more or less leave Hugh to make sure Connor gets ready for school. I feel nothing. I’m numb with fear. Unable to think of anything other than what I have to do today.
I take the tube. I’m thinking back to Lukas’s last message. Who would I bring, anyway? Does he think I know someone who could be trusted with this? Anna still isn’t answering my calls, and even if I felt I could confide in Adrienne, she’s away until next week. I realize again how grief has overwhelmed me, has taken everything, and in its place there’s nothing but emptiness. And so I’m here, facing Lukas, alone.
I emerge from the tube station into the clear light of a sunny day. There are people everywhere, on their way to lunch, pushing prams, smoking on office steps and outside the station. Ahead of me there are blocks of flats, silver and glistening after a misting of rain, and beyond them the river. I follow the map on my phone and walk through a tunnel, lit with neon, as trains roll overhead, and emerge to traffic and more noise. There are alleyways, graffiti, refuse bins everywhere, but the area has a strange beauty. It’s rough, it has edges. It’s real. In different circumstances I would have wished I’d remembered my camera; as it is, I couldn’t care less.
I check my phone again. I’m here, more or less, the corner of Kennington Lane and Goding Street. The Royal Vauxhall Tavern stands alone; beyond it is a park. I wonder if that’s where Lukas intends us to go. I tell myself I’ll refuse, if so. It’s too dangerous.
I light a cigarette, my third of the day. I guess this means I’ve started smoking again. I inhale. Hold. Exhale. Its rhythms calm me, even in these desperate circumstances; I can’t believe how much I’ve missed it. I look at my watch.
I’m late. He’s even later, I think, but then I feel his gaze burning into me and I know. He’s here, out of sight, watching me.
Suddenly I see him approach. He’s in front of me, wearing a blue parka jacket. He’s walking slowly, his head up. I’m aware my hands are shaking. Instinctively I put my hand in my pocket, feel for my phone, just as I’ve been practising. By the time he’s level with me I’m ready, composed. For a long moment we stare at each other, then he speaks.
‘Hello, Julia.’ He glances at what I’m wearing: jeans, a sweater, my Converse trainers. I tell myself not to react. I mustn’t let him make me angry. I’m here to find out exactly what he wants, to make him stop.
I notice the red mark on his cheek. I open my mouth to speak when he lunges for me. He grabs my arm, I yelp.
‘What the—?’ I begin, but he silences me. His grip is strong, and then he kisses me on the cheek. It’s rough, unpleasant, yet brief. Even so, every part of my body reacts powerfully, reflexively. I pull away.