He lifts his hand to wave at his father. It strikes me how much he looks like Kate, when she was his age. They have the same slight roundness to their face, the same half-grin that can disappear and reappear in an instant.
He looks like his mother. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Yet it is, and it hurts.
I rejoin the group, but I can’t tune into the conversation. Why had I been so excited to get Lukas’s message? Why had I replied to him? The questions circle and after a minute or two I excuse myself and go to say hello to Connor. He’s with his friends, I’m interrupting him, and I feel bad. I move on, to the summer house tucked away at the side of the garden, between the house and the gate that leads to where the cars are parked. It’s octagonal and painted mint green, filled with cushions. When I get there I see that the doors are open, and that it’s empty.
I sit down and lean back against the wood. The babble of conversation continues. I close my eyes. The smell is of recently varnished wood; it reminds me of the only childhood holiday I can remember from when my mother was alive, a chalet we rented in the Forest of Dean. I can picture her, standing at the stove, boiling water for my father’s coffee while I fed Kate. She’s singing along to a radio, humming to herself, and Kate is giggling at something. We were all alive, then, and mostly happy. But that was before the slow process of dislocation that ended only when my sister’s death left me totally alone.
I want a drink. Right now. I want a drink and, worse, more dangerous, I think I deserve one.
A shadow falls across my face. I open my eyes; there’s a figure in the doorway in front of me, silhouetted against the afternoon light. It takes me only a moment to realize it’s Paddy.
‘Hi!’ He sounds bright but his enthusiasm is slightly forced. ‘May I join you?’
‘Of course.’ He steps forward. He stumbles on the low step. He’s drunker than I’d thought.
‘How’s it going?’ He holds out one of the two glasses of wine he’s brought from the house. ‘I thought you might want this.’
I do, I think. I do.
But I know I have to ignore it.
He puts the glass on the floor, where I can reach it. Ride it out, I tell myself. Ride it out. He sits down on the bench. He’s right next to me, so close we’re touching.
‘They’re still talking shop. Do they ever stop?’
I shrug. I don’t want to be drawn into this. Us versus them. The surgeons and their spouses, who are almost always wives.
‘It’s their job.’
‘Why do we do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘These parties? D’you enjoy them?’
I decide to be honest. ‘Not altogether. I don’t like being around drunk people. Not with my addiction.’
He looks surprised, yet he must know. We’ve talked about the fact I don’t drink, albeit obliquely. ‘Your addiction?’
‘Alcohol.’
‘I didn’t know.’
We’re silent for a while, then he slides his hand into the pocket of his jeans, his movements slow and uncoordinated. ‘Smoke?’
I reach to take a cigarette from him. ‘Thanks.’ The air between us feels solid. Loaded. Something has to happen, or something will break. A resolve, or a defence. One of us has to speak.
‘Listen—’ I begin, but at the exact same moment he speaks, too. I don’t catch what he says and ask him to repeat it.
‘It’s just…’ he begins. His head lowers, he falters again.
‘What? What is it?’ I realize I know what he’s about to say. ‘It’s just… what?’
From nowhere, I see Lukas. I imagine him kissing me. I think of my fantasy, I want it to be lust, pure lust, that threatens to crack my head against the wall behind me. I want his hands on me, desperate, pushing up my dress. I want to feel the desire to give in, to let him do what he likes.
I want to feel longing so strong that it turns into need, unstoppable need.
‘Paddy—?’ I begin, but he interrupts me.
‘I just wanted to say I think you’re very beautiful.’ He takes my hand quickly, and I let him. I’m both shocked and not shocked at the same time. Part of me had known he’d say this to me, sooner or later.
Again I think of Lukas. His words, in someone else’s mouth. It occurs that if Paddy were to look up, take the back of my neck with his hand, kiss me, I wouldn’t stop him. Not if he does it now. This is the moment when I’m weak enough, but it won’t last.
An absurd thought comes. It’s you, I think. You standing outside my bedroom window, both there and not there…
And then he does it. He kisses me. There’s no groping, no urgent pushing into my clothes. It’s almost juvenile. It lasts for a few moments, and then we separate. I look at him. The world is still, the chatter from the party a distant murmur. This is the moment when we will either kiss again – this time with more urgency, more passion – or else one of us will look away and the moment will be over, lost for ever.
His eyes narrow. Something’s wrong. He was looking at me, but now he’s not. He’s looking over my shoulder.
I turn round to follow his gaze. Someone’s there.
Connor.
I stand up. The glass of wine that Paddy had been holding spills, soaking my dress, but I barely notice it. ‘Stay here!’ I hiss, forcing the door open. I begin to run. Paddy calls after me, but I ignore him, too.
‘Connor!’ I shout, once I’m outside. He’s walking away, back towards his father. ‘Connor!’
He stops, then turns to face me. His face is inscrutable. ‘Mum! You’re there! I couldn’t find you.’
I catch up with him. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, or whether I’m imagining it.
‘What’s up?’
‘Dad sent me to look for you. He’s making a speech or something.’
‘Right.’ I feel terrible, worse than if he’d just come out and said it. I saw you kissing that guy. I’m telling Dad you’re cheating on him. At least then I’d know.
But he says nothing. He’s impassive and unreadable. This is it, I think. I’ve screwed up. One indiscretion, in all this time, and my son has to be there to see it. It seems unfair, yet at the same time I deserve it.
‘I’ll be there in a second,’ I say.
Once he’s gone I go back to Paddy. ‘Fuck!’
‘Did he see us?’
I don’t answer. I need to think.
‘Did he say anything?’
‘No. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t see us.’ I run my fingers through my hair. ‘Shit…!’
He moves towards me. I’m not sure what he’s going to do, but then he takes my hand. ‘It’ll be fine.’ His hand goes to my face, as if to stroke it.
‘Paddy, no!’
‘What’s the problem…?’
The problem? I want to say. My husband. My son. My dead sister.
‘I like you. You like me. Come on…’
I remind myself he’s drunk.
‘No.’
‘Julia—’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Paddy, I’ll never sleep with you. Ever.’
He looks wounded, as though I’ve slapped him.
‘Paddy—’ I begin, but he interrupts me.
‘You really think you’re something special, don’t you?’
I try to stay calm.
‘Paddy. You’ve had a lot to drink. Let’s just go back and forget all about this. Okay?’
He looks at me. His eyes are cold.
‘Fuck you,’ he says.
Chapter Thirteen
It’s three in the morning. It must be, maybe later. It’s too hot, my skin is heavy. I can hear the soft sound of summer rain against the window. I’m exhausted, yet sleep has never felt further away.