‘Well, we didn’t see that coming!’ she says, once I’ve explained what happened last night. ‘You’ve told him you’ll meet him?’
I think back to my final message.
‘Yes.’
‘Okay…’
‘You think it’s a bad idea.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘No. It’s just… you really need to be careful. You’re sure he’s who he says he is?’
Yes, I think. I’m as sure as I can be about someone I’ve never met.
‘He could be anyone,’ she says.
I know what she’s trying to tell me but I want someone on my side. ‘You think I shouldn’t go.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘I just have to know. One way or the other.’
‘But—’
‘For Connor, as much as for me.’
She doesn’t answer. I hear something in the background, running water, voices, a door closing, then she speaks.
She sounds anxious, yet somehow excited, too, as if she senses that we’re edging closer to the truth.
‘You’ll meet him somewhere in public?’
We’ve arranged to meet in his hotel, at St Pancras.
‘Of course.’
‘Promise me.’
‘I promise.’
‘Could you take a friend? Adrienne?’
‘He thinks we’re meeting for… well, he thinks it’s a date.’
‘So, she can sit in a corner. You don’t have to introduce her.’
She’s right. But I already know what Adrienne would say if I asked her, and there’s no one else I can go to.
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Ask her!’
‘Okay…’
I wish she weren’t so far away.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘Just promise me you’ll be careful.’
‘I will.’
I get ready. I shower, moisturize. I shave my legs with a fresh razor, the same number of strokes on each leg. An absurd need for symmetry I haven’t experienced in years.
I talk to Hugh over breakfast. I toy with the idea of telling him the truth, but I know what he’ll think, what he’ll say. He’ll make me feel absurd. He’ll stop me from going through with it. And so I need an excuse, an alibi, in case he rings and I don’t answer, or comes home unexpectedly. ‘Darling,’ I say, as we sit down with our coffee. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
He looks so worried. I feel a sharp stab of guilt.
‘Oh, it’s nothing serious. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about your idea. About seeing someone. A counsellor. And I’ve decided you’re right.’
He takes my hand. ‘Julia,’ he says. ‘That’s great. I really don’t think you’ll regret it. I can ask a colleague, if you like, see if they can recommend someone—’
‘No,’ I say, a little too hurriedly. ‘No, it’s okay. I’ve found someone. I’m seeing them later.’
He nods. ‘Who? You know their name?’
‘Yes, of course.’
There’s a silence. He’s waiting.
‘Who is it?’
I hesitate. I don’t want to tell him, but I have no choice. And, really, it can’t hurt. He’ll observe the Hippocratic oath. He might look him up, but he’ll never try to contact him. ‘Martin Green.’
‘You’re sure he’s good? I know plenty of people who could recommend—’
‘Hugh, I’m not one of your patients. This is something I have to do, by myself. Okay?’ He begins to protest, but I silence him. ‘Hugh! It’s fine. Adrienne says he’s very good and, anyway, it’s just an initial consultation. Just to see how we get on. Trust me. Please?’
I see him relax. I smile, to show him any anger has vanished. He returns my smile, then kisses me. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he says. I feel guilt wash over me, but ride it out. ‘Well done.’
Now, I go over to my wardrobe. I must choose my clothes carefully. I have to convince Lukas I am who he thinks I am, that I want what he thinks I want.
I try my jeans with a white blouse, then a dress with tights and boots. I stand in front of the mirror. Better, I think. I choose a necklace and make up my face – not too much, it’s the middle of the day, after all – but enough for me not to feel like me any more.
Maybe that’s what I’m doing, really. Choosing the clothes that will turn me from Julia into that other person, the one Lukas has met online. Into Jayne.
I sit at the dressing table and spray my perfume, a squirt behind each ear, one more on each wrist. It smells buttery and sweet. It’s expensive, something Hugh bought me for Christmas a couple of years ago. Fracas. My mother used to wear it, and it was always Kate’s favourite, too. Its fragrance makes me feel closer to them both.
Finally, I’m ready. I look in the mirror. At my reflection. I think of my photo. Marcus in the Mirror. I remember that first time we had sex. I’ve never lacked confidence, but that night, even as he kissed me, I thought he might pull away. Even as he undressed me, I thought, this is the first time, and it will also be the last. Even as he entered me, I thought, I can’t possibly be good enough for this man.
And yet I was. We started seeing each other. We started missing meetings, now and again at first, then more often than not. And then we moved to Berlin. It was cold; I remember we slept rough that first night, and then hooked up with friends he had out there. A week of sleeping on floors turned into a month, and then we found a place of our own, and—
And I don’t want to think about it now. About how happy we were.
I stand up. I check my phone for messages. Part of me hopes he’s cancelled. I could undress then, take off the make-up, put on the jeans and shirt I was wearing when I said goodbye to Hugh this morning. I could make myself a cup of tea and sit in front of the television, or with a novel. This afternoon I could do some work, ring some people. Along with my relief I could nurse a quiet resentment, I could vow never to message him again and then go back to Hugh and spend the rest of my life wondering whether Lukas knew Kate, whether he might have led me to the man who killed her.
But there are no messages; he hasn’t changed his mind, and I’m not disappointed. For the first time in months I get the sense that something will happen, one way or another. I feel a kind of elasticity; the future is unknown, but it seems malleable, pliable. It has a softness, where before it’d felt as hard and unyielding as glass.
I take a taxi. It’s sticky with the heat, even with the window open. The sweat trickles down my back. In the cab there’s the same advert I saw on my way home from dinner with Adrienne. BE WHO YOU WANT TO BE.
We reach St Pancras. The car sweeps up the cobbled drive, the door is opened for me. I feel a breeze on my neck as I get out and go into the hotel. The doors slide open and marble stairs lead into the relief of the air-conditioned interior. The roof above us is glass, with iron girders, part of the old station, I guess. It’s all elegance here, cut flowers, the smell of lemon and leather and wealth. I look around the lobby; two men sit side by side on a green sofa; a woman in a suit reads the paper. There are signs: RESTAURANT, SPA, MEETING ROOMS. Behind the reception desk all is busy and efficient; I look at my watch and see that I’m early.
I take out my phone. No messages.
I wait for my breathing to slow, my heart to stop its insistent alarm, its attempts to warn. I slip off my wedding ring and put it in my purse. My hand feels naked now, as does the rest of me, but without my ring what I’m about to do feels less of a betrayal, somehow.
At the reception desk I ask for the bar. The guy is young and impossibly good-looking. He points me in the right direction and wishes me a nice day. I thank him and step away. His eyes burn into me as I retreat, as if he knows why I’m here. I want to turn round and tell him it’s not what he thinks, I’m not going to go through with it.