Second Life

‘No one. Why? Mum?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I’m almost shouting. ‘You must’ve told someone!’

‘Mum—?’

‘Molly, and Dylan? They knew, for a start! Who else was there with you?’

He looks at me. His expression is odd; almost fearful. ‘Dylan’s dad took us.’

‘When?’ The questions come thick and fast. ‘When did you arrange it? Who did you tell, Co

‘Jesus, Mum! Some of the guys. Y’know? We invited Sahil, and Rory, but they couldn’t come. Oh, and I guess Molly might’ve invited a few people. And I guess Dylan’s dad might’ve told Dylan’s mum. Just possibly …’

His voice has a new note, one I haven’t heard in him before. Sarcasm.

‘There’s no need for that attitude—’

He ignores me.

‘… and I probably told Evie, and I suppose I just might’ve posted it on Facebook, so there’s all the people who follow me there, and—’

I interrupt him. ‘Who follows you on Facebook?’

‘I du

Something begins to coalesce in my mind. All the way through, Lukas had always known more than I thought I’d let him know. I now know he was tracking my location, moment by moment, but I’ve never worked out how he knew the other details. The fact we were pla

And now I think I know. If he was following Co

An awful thought occurs. Could that be how he’d figured out Paddy’s last name, too? And where he lives? I can see how it might be. Co

‘Give me your phone.’

‘Mum—!’ he begins, but I silence him.

‘Give me your phone, Co

He passes it over and I tell him to unlock the screen, to open his Facebook profile. I can see he wants to fight, to protest, but he knows he’s not old enough to stand against me, yet. I hold my hand out for him to give me the phone back, but he tosses it on to the table.

I pick it up. I scan through his updates. Most days he’s posted several; there are too many to check, and many of them I don’t understand. Messages to his friends, in-jokes, gossip, chat about the football or things he’s watched on TV. I go back, rewinding through the year, to the summer, and I see what I’m looking for. ‘Off to Islington Vue,’ says one. ‘With my MOTHER.’ I scroll back further, to older messages, realizing as I do how used I am to reading things in backwards chronology. A few messages later I see, ‘Family trip to the cinema tomorrow. Planet of the Apes!’

‘Who are you friends with?’ I hand the phone back to him. ‘Show me.’

He begins to protest, but I interrupt. ‘Co

I hold the phone out to him. ‘Who’s this?’ I shout. ‘Who’s David Largos?’

‘I don’t know, Mum.’ He raises his voice. ‘Just somebody. Okay? That’s the way it works. I don’t know everybody who follows me. Yeah?’

I select the username and a picture appears. It’s a picture of a dog, wearing a baseball cap with the word ‘Vans’ written on it. There’s no other information, but it’s him.

That’s it, I think. That’s how he knew. That’s how he knew everything.

First A

‘Delete it.’ I give him his phone back. ‘Delete your profile.’ I’m shaking, but he doesn’t move.

‘No!’ He looks horrified, as if what I’ve asked him to do is utterly unreasonable. I wish I could tell him why it’s so important, but I can’t. I wish I could tell him how much his ridiculous and almost constant sense of being hard done by infuriates me, but I don’t.

‘I’m not joking, Co

I ignore him. ‘Co

‘This isn’t a game. I’m telling you. Delete your profile. Now. Or else I’ll take your phone off you and you can go back to using your old one …’

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Watch me.’

His jaw drops. He’s incredulous, it’s outrageous, he doesn’t believe I’d even consider such a thing. He stares at me, and I stare back.

I hold out my hand.

‘Your phone, Co

He snatches his phone out of my reach and stands up. At first I think he’s going to say sorry, or make some other plea to my better nature, but he looks furious and, sure enough, does no such thing. Instead he hisses at me, ‘Fuck you.’ A moment later he’s turned and is heading for the exit, leaving me open-mouthed with shock.

I stand up, too; my napkin slides to the floor. ‘Co

‘I’ll come back,’ I say to the waiter, who looks as though he’s seen this sort of thing before. I squeeze past the tables – people move their chairs out of the way, turning their faces away from me as they do, as if I’m best avoided – but by the time I get outside Co

Hugh’s waiting for me when I get in. He comes to the door as I open it. I’m flustered, fumbling with my keys. I drop them as I take them out of the door. He bends over and picks them up, then gives them to me.

‘What’s going on?’ I shrug off my coat.

‘He’s here?’

‘Yes.’

He must’ve doubled back, or gone through the backstreets.

‘Where is he?’ I say.

‘Upstairs. What’s going on, Julia?’ He’s raised his voice but appears largely unflustered.

I push past him. I’m furious. I’d had to go back to the restaurant; people had stared at me as I’d asked for the bill and paid it. A woman had tilted her head, half smiling, in a way that I suppose was meant to convey sympathy and understanding but in fact made me want to slap her. I’d then left in a hurry, forgotten the bag I’d stashed under my seat, had to go back for it.

‘He made me look an absolute bloody idiot.’

He tries to interrupt, but I don’t let him. I go upstairs, towards Co