THE TUBE IS packed and too hot, even at eleven in the morning on a weekday. We’ve been standing for more than fifteen minutes now, and every time the train pulls into a station it lurches and almost knocks me off my feet. I keep trying to remind myself to hold on to the rail, but the message doesn’t seem to be making it through. I can’t focus on anything for more than a few seconds. The strangers around me are fuzzy, sliding off the edges of my vision and seeping away into bright blurs of nothing. Next to me, Francis fiddles unconcernedly with his headphones, turning the music up.
At least, underground, I can’t check my email for a few minutes. I’d forgotten how it felt – the sick, compulsive need to look at my phone every five seconds, a needle scratching over and over again in the same groove. I’ve already convinced myself several times that I’ve imagined the whole thing. But then I think about that folder, and the password printed inside it, and I’m right back there in the kitchen, holding it tightly in my shaking hands and feeling as if I’m falling a thousand feet, with no way of stopping. I can’t prove it, but I know the person who created that password is you. And if that’s true, then you’re in my house. Looking at my things, touching them. Sleeping in my bed. You’ve put yourself back in my life.
The thought brings a complex surge of emotions. Confusion, sick excitement, even fear. I don’t understand why you would do it this way. I can’t reconcile it with the you I knew – unapologetically frank, direct to the point of bluntness. If you wanted to see me, why wouldn’t you just send a text? An email? Even as the thought lands, something about it doesn’t feel quite right, and I realize that you’re not seeing me; quite the opposite. You’re seeing the way I live, without me there. But why would you want to do that?
‘Come on.’ Francis nudges me, indicating the sliding doors ahead. I push my way automatically through the crowds of people and tumble out on to the platform. We must be at South Kensington already.
I try to gather my thoughts, concentrate on the day ahead. We’d agreed last night to take a trip to the Science Museum, a half-ironic nostalgia mission. I glance at Francis, smiling amiably at nothing as he wanders up the platform beside me, and a shiver passes up the length of my spine. I love him, I remind myself. Things are very different between us now from the way they were two years ago. If I really believe what I’m thinking, then even by typing that one question into an email I’ve crossed a line that is unacceptable. I owe it to both of us to push it aside, for now, at least.
Without realizing it, I’ve walked the length of the tunnel that leads from the Tube station to the museum entrances. Glancing back at the way I’ve come, I feel a stab of uncertainty at the thought of those lost minutes. I remember this, too. The way I used to lose time to you when you weren’t even there, so sucked up in my thoughts that reality might as well have disappeared into a black hole. I don’t like it. It’s like my hands are being taken smoothly and firmly from the controls by some unseen force.
‘Where do you want to go first?’ Francis asks, when we enter the museum. He is already striding ahead into the dimly lit ground-floor hall. Above our heads, lights whizz and swoop through coloured tubes. There’s a faint humming in the air, like static electricity.
‘I don’t mind,’ I say distractedly, staring at the maze of corridors around us. Francis has come to a halt in front of what looks like a huge replica of part of the solar system: starred spotlights dotted on three-dimensional models of planets and craters, lines and patterns etched redly into their surface. I stare at it. I have no real idea what I’m looking at.
‘Read that,’ Francis says, pointing at the small, dark plaque next to the display. ‘That’s amazing, isn’t it?’ His face is rapt and engaged, shining with enthusiasm. It’s something I always associated with him in the early days, this ability to find genuine interest in almost every aspect of the world, and yet, for a long time, I thought I’d never see it again.
‘Yes. Amazing,’ I echo. The plaque says something about the formation of stars. Molecular clouds. Regional collapse. I can’t wholly take it in, but I can’t help but be touched by his eagerness. Reaching out for his hand, I link his fingers through mine. The contact is warm and solid, and my fingers curl automatically tighter. ‘Is there anything you especially want to see?’ I ask.
‘Well, there’s a gallery on the second floor,’ he says. ‘I think it’s about maths and stuff.’
‘OK …’ I make a doubtful face, and he laughs and rolls his eyes.
‘It’s interesting,’ he says. ‘Trust me.’ The words fall easily from his lips and he’s smiling at me, and I feel my heart lift, as if it believes that maybe it can be this easy and we can live in this little bubble together and I can pretend that the message I sent you means nothing.
I follow him up to a secluded wing surrounded by walls of curved, reflective blue glass. The floor is smoothly polished, glinting in the coloured light, the muted sound of my footsteps across it echoing like falling rain.
We wander towards what looks like a huge, elaborately carved clock face hanging on the far wall. ‘It’s an astrolabe. It was used to help astronomers measure the position of the stars and planets in the sky,’ Francis recites learnedly, shooting me a sly look to make sure I’m paying attention.
I nod. ‘Kind of like a sundial.’
‘Well, yes …’ He half nods. ‘Except, you know. At night.’
A beat, and then for some reason we’re both laughing – quietly, complicit. We swing away from the astrolabe and move towards the next display, and I’m not even really thinking about it as my hand goes reflexively to my pocket and I pull out my phone again and check the screen. But this time there’s a little envelope flashing at the top. A new email.
I swipe across and it’s there. S. Kennedy. Six words.
The room lurches and, even though I have never fainted before in my life, I am filled with absolute certainty that I will do so now unless I sit down. I lean back against one of the cool glass walls and slide down against it, bending my head to the floor and listening to the sound of blood rushing through my head.
‘Caroline? Caro, are you all right? What’s wrong?’ Francis is kneeling down beside me, his hand on my arm, trying to see into my face. ‘Do you feel sick or something?’
I shake my head, although I am briefly flooded with nausea. I press my curled fists to my eyes, pressing in hard so that when I release them the blue light around me explodes in bursts of colour, making me dizzy again. I try to breathe in deeply, but my chest is so constricted I can barely take in the air. My phone feels hard and heavy in my pocket. I want to look at the email again. I want never to have seen it.
Suddenly, I realize that I’m alone. People are wandering up and down the hall, occasionally shooting me covert looks of concern, but Francis has gone. I leap to my feet, ignoring the whirling in my head, and stare wildly around the gallery. He’s nowhere to be seen. The back of my top is slick with sweat, the pulse pounding through my veins.
At last, I spot him, weaving his way laboriously back towards me, but I don’t feel relief – just an inexplicable swell of anger and panic. ‘Where did you go?’ I ask tightly, when he is close enough to hear. ‘What were you doing?’
Concern ripples his face. He holds up a bottle of water. ‘I was just getting you this,’ he says, ‘from the café. I thought you might need it, if you were feeling faint.’
‘Thanks,’ I force out, taking the water. ‘I’m OK.’
Francis steps forward, his face still creased with anxiety. ‘You don’t look OK,’ he says. ‘You look very pale, and you’re shaking. Maybe you should sit down again …’
His hands are on my shoulders, gently pushing me downwards, and all at once I can’t bear it, this closeness, this solicitousness – it’s too much, it’s suffocating me. ‘Don’t!’ I snap. ‘Don’t touch me.’ I can hear how it sounds, but I can’t take it back.