Sleight of Hand (12 page)

“Right … Do you want coffee?”

“No ta.”

“How can you not know what tests they did?”

“Oh, actually, if you're making it, I will have one after all.”

“Sure. So you must have some idea.”

“I was tired, Mark. I was out of it. I have to go back on Tuesday.”

“Maybe I should come with you.”

“Maybe you should.”

I sigh and busy myself with the coffee and wonder if she is being elusive or if it's really possible that she knows so little.

“Why did you get a taxi home?” I ask.

“I'm sorry?”

“You got a taxi all the way home. It cost like a hundred and forty quid. Were you just tired, or …”

“I'll get the money back to you.”

“It's not the money. But did something happen? In London?”

“No, nothing happened in London.”

“Right.”

“Tom's coming tomorrow by the way.”

“Ouch. You
are
mean today.”

“If you want to vanish somewhere for the day, I'd understand.”

“Would you
rather
I vanished?”

“Not really … but I'd understand.”

I place the cafetière on the table along with two mugs and the sugar bowl. “Just let it brew for a bit,” I say.

Jenny looks up at me. Her eyes are glistening.

“Oh, babe,” I say. “Is it your mum? It was bound to hit you at some point.”

“Jesus!” Jenny mutters, standing. “Can't you just leave me alone? I mean, it's questions, questions, questions. You're worse than bloody Sarah!”

I watch as she walks from the kitchen and heads back upstairs. “Your
coffee?”
I call after her, pulling a face.

I sit and wonder if my presence in the house is getting on her nerves. Maybe I should leave definitively. There are certainly places I'd rather be. With Tom coming tomorrow I can't think of many places I'd
less
rather be.

Sarah returns carrying her three dolls. “Mummy's grumpy today,” she says, thoughtfully.

And I realise that, for the moment, I
can't
really leave. “You're right,” I say. “She is,
really
grumpy.
Best just to let her sleep. So! Show me those. What's different about the one we bought today?”

On Sunday morning, when I get up, I have every intention of heading straight out and leaving Tom and Jenny to it. I have spent half the night imagining a cosy love-in with the pair of them and it's not an appetising prospect.

The second I enter the kitchen, though, Jenny stands. “Oh you're up,” she says. “I hardly slept, so if you could keep an eye on Madam, I'll head back up for a kip.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Is that OK?”

“I suppose … I was going to go out. What time's Tom arriving?”

“About twelve, I think.”

“And are you still cooking him Sunday lunch?”

Jenny shrugs. “I was going to try to con you into doing it, but if you're out for the day we can just order pizza. No worries.”

“Yeah. I didn't think … I mean, I thought it was better that way.”

“It's fine,” Jenny says, already climbing the stairs. “Really. Just let me get an hour's kip, and you can be gone before he even gets here.”

I poke my head into the lounge and see Sarah watching TV. “Move back a bit,” I tell her. “You'll hurt your eyes.” I pull a face at the realisation that I suddenly sound like my mother.

Sarah points at the TV. “That's Bumper,” she says, touching the screen where an image of a dirty rabbit is jumping up and down. “He's very naughty.”

I cross the room and drag her six feet back from the screen. “You're too close,” I say again.

“Are we going to Tesco's?”

“Tesco's?”

“Mummy said we have to go to Tesco's. For dinner.”

And with a smile and a sigh, that's exactly what I resign myself to doing.

My intention is simply to return with the shopping and run away quickly, but Sarah enthusiastically offers to help make dinner, “as a surprise for Mummy,” and so we start to peel potatoes and prepare brussels sprouts. And the truth is that with my little assistant, I rather enjoy it all.

Once the food is all ready to roll, I plop Sarah back in front of the cyber-nanny and Skype Ricardo on my iPhone but we have barely said, “hello,” when Tom rings the doorbell.

Still holding the phone to my ear, I open the front door. “Two seconds,” I say to Ricardo. “Hey Tom,” I say, keeping my tone as neutral as possible. “Jenny's gone back to bed, but go make yourself a cuppa and I'm sure she'll be up in a bit.”

Tom doesn't take the hint. Instead, he follows me into the lounge and sits next to Sarah, but facing the other way. He sits and stares at me.

“Nice phone,” he eventually says. “Where did you get that?”

“Is that Tom?” Ricardo asks.

“Yeah. He just got here. But I'm going out.”

“Is that still the phone
I
gave you?” Tom asks.

“Tom!”
I protest.

“Only asking.”

“It is, and I'm talking to someone on it.”

“Why
someone?”
Ricardo asks. “Why don't you say it's me?”

“Is that Ricardo on the line?” Tom asks.

“Yes. Yes, it's Ricardo.”

“Ooh
. Give him my love,” Tom says.

“Put him on,” Ricardo says.

“No, I don't think so,” I say, looking at Tom's curled lip.

“Are you going to sleep with him?” Ricardo asks.

“Ricardo!”
I say, glaring at Tom and heading through to the kitchen.

“Sorry.”

“Well, where did
that
come from?”

“He makes me jealous.”

“Well, he shouldn't.”

“No, sorry. Hey Chupy, I have to go. My mobile ring.”

“But Ric …”

I frown at the phone, and then look up to see Tom watching me. “Problems in paradise?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Everything's fine. He had to go. His mobile rang. Work I expect.”

“He still in Colombia?”

“Well yes.”

“It's a long way.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Well, you know what they say.”

“I have a feeling you're going to tell me.”

“While the cat's away and all that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” Tom says. He opens the oven and peers inside. “Ooh, roast dinner. Missy has been busy.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just stick the oven on when Jenny gets up. And put the veg on twenty minutes before.”

“You're not staying?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

His voice is just neutral enough for me to be unsure if this final comment was sarcasm or regret. Which is just as well, as I'm a hair's breadth away from rearranging his features.

I stomp angrily into town and sit in the window of Pizza Express and in a vague attempt at cheering myself up, I order my favourite pizza Florentine. I watch as the sky darkens and as spots of rain appear on the plate glass window and try not to think about Tom, which is entirely impossible of course. Tom was hardly a bastion of monogamous virtue and his self-righteous attacks are so unfair, so gallingly inappropriate that I'm torn between feeling relieved that I left and wishing I had stayed long enough to punch him.

And I try not to think about what he said about Ricardo. Tom knows nothing about my relationship with Ricardo, but he does know just enough to press my buttons. Like a heat-seeking missile his comments have gone straight to the only existing chink in our armour – the fact that my relationship with Ricardo was born from mutual cheating. Neither of us could claim to be unaware of what the other is capable.

But Ricardo wouldn't cheat on me any more than I would, and if he did, I'm not even sure if I would care. I think about this for a bit and then strike it. I almost certainly
would
care. But the point is that we're
in love
. And I
believe
that people who are
in love
don't cheat. But
beliefs
… How many times in the history of this planet did a man come to the realisation that
they
were wrong?

I make lunch last as long as I can, and then head to the nine-screen cinema complex where Ratatouille brings a dose of welcome relief. I just wish that I had brought Sarah with me. She would have loved this.

When I get back to the close, Tom's Beetle is still outside. I would turn around and head back to the cinema, but it's starting to rain quite heavily now, so I quietly let myself in and begin to creep upstairs to my room.

As I reach the landing, the toilet flushes and the bathroom door opens. No escape.

“Oh, you're back,” Tom says, buttoning his fly. “I'm just leaving so …”

He looks unusually sombre. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks, in fact, as if he has been crying.

“Right,” I say.

I pass him and head for my room, but Tom grabs the sleeve of my sweatshirt and stops me in my tracks. “Mark?” he says.

I turn to face him, and for a moment I think he is going to hug me. And then I see him look at my lips and I decide that he is going to kiss me. And in that instant, bizarrely, I remember how that
felt
. I remember the exact feeling of Tom's lips on mine, and in spite of myself, lick my lips.

But Tom doesn't move. He swallows. I see his Adam's apple bob. And then he says,
“Look
…”

“Yes?”

“I think you're a prick.”

I wonder if he
wants
me to punch him. I snort. “I'm thinking less and less of you as it happens Tom.”

“But …”

“But?”

“Well, thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“For looking after Jenny for me. I can't be here, and, well, thanks.”

The idea that Tom is somehow thanking me makes me sweat with anger before I even know why.

I frown at him and say, “Goodbye Tom. Have a good journey home.”

But as I close my bedroom door in his face, I realise why it's so very, very irritating. The fact of his thanks implies that I am somehow doing this
for him
. In fact, he even said that. “Thanks for looking after her
for me.”
I sit on the edge of the bed and wrestle with my desire to leave – to throw my things in my bag and walk out the door right now.

After five minutes Sarah knocks on my door and pokes a Polly Pocket through the gap. In a silly squeaky voice which is presumably the voice of Polly herself, she says, “Mummy says there's tea and choklit cake downstairs if you want some.”

“Is Tom still here?” I ask.

Sarah pushes the door wide open and shakes her head gravely. “He left.”

“Right,” I say.

“Do you like Tom?” she asks.

I frown. “Sure. Why do you ask?”

“He made Mummy cry,” she tells me. “And now she's all sad.”

Downstairs Jenny smiles up at me unconvincingly. She too looks like a train wreck. Certainly something has been playing havoc with her mascara.

“Tom brought all these cakes,” she says. “We saved you the eclairs.”

“My favourite,” I say, sitting down.

“Yes. Tom said so,” she says. “Sorry about all that. And thanks for lunch. It was lovely. I'm sorry you felt you had to leave.”

“Everything OK between you two?” I ask.

“Sure,” Jenny says. “Why?”

“Dunno,” I say. “A strange atmosphere. You look like you've been crying, too.”

“Nope,” Jenny says, swiping at her eyes. “Anyway, why would we argue?”

I shrug. “I don't know. About me perhaps?”

Jenny laughs. “No,” she says.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Well, why would we argue
about you?”
Jenny says.

Which though I can't work out why, feels like another slap.

Which feels like one slap too many.

“I'm leaving tomorrow,” I say. The words have left my lips before I even know that I'm going to say them.

I'm not sure quite how I expect Jenny to react, but it certainly isn't the way she
does
react. “What time?” she asks.

Initially, I was happy to have the interruption of course. I could hear Tom in the background just waiting to pounce on you, only you couldn't see it Chupy, and he was bound to bad-mouth me too; I could imagine exactly the kind of thing that he and Jenny would be saying about me. Of course I should have thought about that when you decided to go to England in the first place, but I didn't.

Anyway when my mobile rang, I was glad to end the call, but then the voice on the other end sent a shiver right down my spine babe because I couldn't see any possible way she could have got my correct number.

For a moment I was speechless. I just listened to her voice, saying,
Hello? Ricardo? Hello?

Cristina?
I asked, and she replied,
Hola, guapo
, –
Hello beautiful, God it's good to hear your voice
, and of course I couldn't even ask her how she had got the number because that would involve admitting that I had given her a bad number in the first place, so I just said,
Oh hello
, and tried to pretend that everything was normal.

She told me that she missed me and I had to fight the urge to say the same thing back, not because I
did
miss her (I honestly hadn't thought about her once since I got home) but it's just what you say when someone says they miss you, isn't it? You say,
I miss you too
. Only I didn't. I hoped she would notice that.

To remind her that she had a husband, and that I knew this, I asked her instead if Carlos was back, and
she said that, yes, he was but that
he's an asshole
, and that she couldn't stand him touching her anymore and I thought,
Oh Jesus – problem
.