Second Life

‘What is it?’ I’m excited, too, and intrigued, though already I wonder if I’ve guessed. I’ve seen the same expression before; I’ve even worn it myself.

She laughs.

‘Tell me!’

She grins and holds up her left hand. A moment later I see it: a ring on her finger, catching in the light from the windows above.

‘He asked me …’

I grin, but for the briefest moment all I feel is jealousy. I see her life, and it’s one of excitement, of exploration and passion.

I hug her again. ‘That’s wonderful. Truly wonderful!’ I mean it – my initial reaction had been unkind, but short-lived – and I look at the ring. It’s a single round diamond in a gold setting; it looks expensive. She begins talking. He asked her just last week. ‘He had the ring, he didn’t quite go down on one knee, but …’ She hesitates, clearly remembering. ‘I wanted you to be one of the first to know—’

I force a smile. I’m jealous on Kate’s behalf. It’s as if her death has somehow set A

I take her hand. ‘Yes. Yes, I agree. I guess sometimes it’s not so much about how long you’ve known someone, but about what you’ve been through together.’ She looks relieved: we really are friends. I let go of her hand and pick up her bag before linking my arm in hers. ‘So,’ I say, as we begin to walk towards the car. ‘Tell me what happened! How did he ask you?’

She seems to jump to attention, her mind was wandering, back into the memories, I guess. ‘We went to the Sacré-Coeur,’ she says. ‘I thought we were just going for a stroll, to look at the view, you know, or maybe get some lunch.’ The words tumble out of her mouth, all exclamations and half-sentences. As they do I’m swept up in her enthusiasm and I feel bad about my earlier reaction. I wonder if it hadn’t been jealousy but simple sadness. Sadness that this joy had been visited on her, and not Kate.

As she talks I think back to Hugh’s proposal to me: we were in a restaurant – our favourite, in Piccadilly – and he’d asked me between the main course and dessert. ‘Julia,’ he said, and I remember thinking how serious he looked, how nervous. This is it, I’d thought, for the briefest of instants. He’s brought me here to end it, to tell me he’s met someone, or that now I’m better, now I’m cured, it’s time for me to move on. But at the same time I thought it couldn’t possibly be that; we’d been so happy, over the previous few months, so much in love.

‘What?’ I’d said. ‘What is it?’

‘You know I love you. Don’t you?’

‘And I love you …’ He smiled, but didn’t look particularly relieved. I think that’s when I first realized what he was about to say.

‘Darling,’ he began. He took my hand across the table. ‘Julia, I—’

‘What, Hugh? What is it?’

‘Will you marry me?’

The happiness was instant, overwhelming. There was no romantic gesture, no going down on one knee or standing up to a

Almost everything, anyway. And the things he didn’t know were the things I’d never tell anyone.

‘Of course!’ I said back then, yet still some part of me hesitated, the part that felt I didn’t deserve what Hugh was offering, what he’d already given me – this second life. But the relief that flooded his face told me I was making the right – the only – decision.

I realize A

‘He sounds perfect!’

‘Yes. You know, I think he is!’

‘And he’s from Paris?’

‘No. He’s based there. His family’s from somewhere down in Devon.’ She grins. ‘This visit is a bit too rushed. I’m meeting them in a few weeks.’

We get to the car and I put her bag in the boot. Once we’re buckled up and I’ve started driving she tells me again the story of how they met. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I told you about the di

‘You know when something doesn’t feel sensible, but just feels right?’ she says.

‘I do,’ I say, turning the wheel. I sigh. ‘I do.’ She thinks I’m talking about Hugh, but I’m not. I’m thinking of Lukas. I’ve been trying to pretend to myself that I don’t miss him, but I do. Or rather, I miss what I’d thought we could have had.

I believed he knew me; it felt like he’d cracked me open and seen through to who I really am. I’d convinced myself he was the only person who could still do that.

‘… so we think we’ll carry on living in Paris for a bit,’ says A

‘Good idea. So, remind me when you met?’

‘When? Oh, it was just after Christmas. It was a few weeks before Kate …’ She stumbles, corrects herself, but the damage is done. ‘… Just before I met you.’ I smile, but she can see I’m upset. I can talk about Kate, now. I can think about her. But such an explicit reference to her death, coming from nowhere, still throws me. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Me and my big mouth …’

‘It’s okay.’ I don’t want to dwell on it, and neither do I want her to feel guilty. A

‘Oh! Yes, you’re right! But no, I’m totally sure! We both are,’ she adds. ‘He says the same. Neither of us thought there was any point in hanging around, when we’re so certain.’

She’s silent for a moment. I can feel her looking at me as I drive, no doubt weighing up what to say, wondering how much happiness I can stand. ‘You know, I think in a weird way it’s all co

‘No,’ I say. It’s a cliché, but only because it’s true. ‘No, it isn’t.’

‘I think that’s what Kate’s death taught me.’

‘Really? I feel it’s taught me nothing.’

It comes from nowhere. I wish I could unsay it, but it’s impossible.

‘Don’t say that.’

‘It’s true. All I’ve done is try to escape it.’

And look where it led me. I spent the summer obsessed with Lukas, a man ten years younger than me, falling in a love that I was stupid enough to think might be reciprocated.

I’d ended up ru

‘I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Ryan sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to meet him.’

‘You will! He might be coming over, this week. He’s not sure. You might even meet him on Monday.’

‘I didn’t know he was in town. He must come to di

‘Oh, no. He’s not here yet. He had to stay behind to finish some work. I don’t know when he’ll be arriving, and … well, I’ll ask him, anyway, if you’re sure you don’t mind?’

I shake my head. ‘Of course not.’

‘How’re you and Co

‘Much better.’ She nods. ‘He seems to have got himself a girlfriend.’

‘A girlfriend?’

I feel a flash of pride. ‘Uh-huh.’ I pull up at some traffic lights. In the wing mirror I see a cyclist weaving through the traffic, coming up too close. ‘Though he won’t talk to me about it, of course,’ I add. ‘He barely even admits that she exists to me, though he seems to talk to Hugh.’

‘Is that usual?’ She sounds genuinely interested. ‘For him, I mean?’