Second Life

‘He’s okay,’ I say. ‘I think.’

We’ve reached the south-west wall of the crematorium, the wreaths, the white chrysanthemums and pink roses, the sprays of white lilies pi

‘I bet he’s quite a handful,’ says A

‘He’s fine,’ I say. ‘So far …’

‘He gets on well with his dad?’

‘Very.’ I don’t tell her that it’s how well he gets on with me that I worry about. I try to be as good a mother as I can, yet sometimes it doesn’t come easily. Certainly not in the same way that fatherhood comes to Hugh.

I remember I talked to Adrie

‘Maybe,’ I said. I couldn’t help wondering what Kate would have said.

‘That’s good,’ says A

‘It’s been good to meet you,’ I say.

She turns to me and takes my hands in hers. Her grief has broken through again, she’s begun to cry. ‘I miss her,’ she says simply.

I hold her hands. I want to cry, too, but I don’t. The numbness pervades everything. It’s a defence, Hugh has said. I’m blocking everything. Adrie

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I miss her, too.’

She looks up at me. She wants to say something. The words tumble out. ‘Can we stay in touch? I mean, I’d like that. If you would? You could come and visit me in Paris, or I could come and see you. I mean, only if you want to, I guess you’re very busy—’

‘A

I manage to smile. I don’t want to seem rude. ‘I’d like that very much.’

Chapter Three

Hugh is eating breakfast. Muesli. I watch as he pours milk into his coffee and adds half a spoonful of sugar.

‘Are you sure it’s not too soon?’

But that’s precisely why I want to go, I think. Because it’s been two months and, according to my husband, I’m still in denial. I need to make it real.

‘I want to go there. I want to meet up with A

As I say it I realize how much it means to me. A

‘I think it’ll do me good.’

‘But what are you hoping to achieve?’

I pause. Perhaps part of me also wants to be sure she doesn’t think badly of me and Hugh, for taking Co

He’s silent. It’s been nine weeks, I think. Nine weeks, and I still haven’t cried. Not properly. Again I think of the postcard that’s still in my bag, where I put it the day Kate died. Marcus in the Mirror.

‘Kate died. I have to face it.’ Whatever it is.

He finishes his drink. ‘I’m not convinced, but …’ His voice softens. ‘If you’re sure, then you should go.’

I’m nervous as I step off the train, but A

She waves as I approach. ‘Julia!’ She runs forward to greet me. We kiss on both cheeks then hold each other for a few moments. ‘Thanks so much for coming! It’s so good to see you …’

‘You too,’ I say.

‘You must be exhausted! Let’s get a drink.’

We go to a café, not far from the station. She orders us both a coffee. ‘Any news?’

I sigh. What’s there to say? She knows most of it already. The police have made little progress; Kate had been drinking in a bar on the night she was attacked, apparently alone. A few people remember seeing her; she seemed in good spirits, was chatting to the barman. Her phone records haven’t helped, and she was definitely by herself when she left. It’s irrational, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m responsible for what happened.

‘Not really.’

‘I’m sorry. How’re you doing?’

‘I just keep thinking of her. Of Kate. Sometimes it’s like nothing’s happened at all. I just think I could pick up the phone and call her and everything would be all right.’

‘You’re in denial. That’s normal. After all, it hasn’t been that long.’

I sigh. I don’t want to tell her how Kate has been haunting me, that I’ve been dialling her number over and over again only to hear a pre-recorded voice, speaking in French, informing me that her number hasn’t been recognized. I don’t want her to know I bought Kate a card, that I wrote out a message and sealed the envelope, then hid it in the bureau underneath a pile of paperwork. I don’t want to admit that the worst thing, the hardest thing, is that some small part of me, a part of me I hate but can’t deny, is glad she’s gone, because at least now she’s not ringing me up in the middle of the night to demand I return her son.

‘Two months,’ I say. ‘Hugh says that’s hardly any time at all.’

She smiles sadly, but says nothing. In a way I’m relieved; there’s nothing anyone can say that might help, everything is irrelevant. Sometimes silence is better and I admire her for braving it.

‘How about you?’ I say.

‘Oh, you know. I’m really busy with work, which helps.’ I remember that she’s a lawyer, working in compliance for a big pharmaceutical company, though she hasn’t told me which one. I wait for her to say more but she doesn’t.

‘How’s Co

‘He’s all right. I suppose …’

Our coffees arrive. Two espressos, sachets of sugar in each saucer, a single foil-wrapped chocolate.

‘Actually, I’m not sure he is. All right, I mean. He seems angry all the time, slamming doors for no reason, and I know he’s crying a lot. I hear him, but he denies it.’