Death, deportation. A murdered wife, a mother hanging by a ligature from the end of a bunk in a prison cell.
‘Are you all right?’ Edgar says, leaning forward and putting his hand on hers. ‘You look very pale.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What a waste,’ he says. ‘But time moves on. We adapt. Look at you. If you keep going like you are, you could really be someone. Make a difference.’
She looks at him, her eyes bright with tears.
‘I remarried,’ Edgar says, ‘I’ve made a new life for myself.’
Lucy looks at him. His expression is blank despite the positivity in his words. ‘Is it one that you’re happy with?’ she asks.
He takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders. ‘Can I be totally honest with you?’
She nods.
‘I’ve told you so much already, I may as well tell you this, too.’ Another deep breath. ‘No, I’m not happy. Not like I used to be . . .’
He stares into space. Struck by sudden decision, Lucy doesn’t wait for him to finish the sentence. If she could make a difference, then what could they achieve together? She leans forward, puts a finger to his lips to hush him, then moves closer still, taking his face in her hands and pulling him in to kiss him, any thought of those around them completely out of her mind.
He kisses her back, but only for a moment before pulling his head away. She blanches, drenched in shame.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I thought . . .’
Leaning forward, he takes her hand in his. ‘Not here. Not like this.’
She’s still frozen. However kindly he’s putting it, it’s a rejection. She tries to pull her hand away. His grip tightens.
‘Let’s go to the hotel. Have some privacy. We don’t need an audience for this.’
Without waiting for her reply, he signals to the waiter, pays the bill with a tap of his phone. Then he pulls her to her feet and leads her out behind him.
Maybe it’s the darkness, the full moon shining bright above, but Edgar gives up on any idea of caution the moment they leave the restaurant. He kisses her in the street, in the lobby, halfway up the stairs to his room. Forget any audience, she’s half naked by the time he opens the door to his room, her top somewhere round her waist. Only a few steps to the bed and then she’s under him, the weight of him hard on top of her, all thinking stopped, only a mass of sensations flowing through her mind.
It’s only when Edgar’s phone buzzes with a message that the spell is broken. He gets up, rummages among the discarded clothes on the floor before sitting back down with it. Lucy’s hit by reality again, a cold wave slapping her in the face. It’s his wife, she must have guessed, worked out what Edgar’s doing. Given him an ultimatum. Faceless, wordless, the wronged woman is in the room with them.
Edgar sighs, slams his phone down on the bed. ‘Now, where were we?’ he says. Lucy raises her face to his.
The phone buzzes again.
‘Fuck. I told her I was working tonight.’
He’s not talking to Lucy. He’s talking to the ceiling above him, his eyes cast upwards impatiently.
‘Everything all right?’
‘It’s fine. Just my wife.’
‘Shouldn’t you talk to her?’
‘She knows I’m away. It’s fine.’
Lucy stays silent. The curtain’s been pulled back a little, light harsh on the cracks in the veneer.
‘I will explain another time,’ Edgar says. ‘But I don’t want to spoil this. Let’s focus on us.’
Despite herself, there’s nothing Lucy would like more. She’s about to kiss him again when the phone buzzes for the third time. Edgar sighs again, looks at his phone. Slams it down even harder than before.
