Sottopassaggio (20 page)

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” I say.

To calm my nerves, and because anything else I might do requires cash, I go for a jog along the seafront. As I leave, the sun is still out, but a wall of grey is approaching from the east.

By the time I get back, the sky is black and ominous, and the first drops of rain are falling.

As the rain trickles down the windows, I assemble the various piles of coins from around the house. I have the princely sum of six pounds and twenty-two pence.

I phone my bank. They tell me that it will be “up to ten days” before my new Visa-card arrives, that is, before it arrives at my
French
address! Six pounds clearly will not suffice.

After considering all the options, I call Jenny. She can afford a
Smeg
, I figure, she can lend me some cash.

It rains all week. Constantly. Endlessly.

Some days it drizzles, and some days it pours, and some days it
excitingly
drifts from one to the other, but at no point does it stop.

I sit and stare outside. Then I stare at the contents of the freezer and concoct previously unimaginable meals from the limited contents.

I phone Tom twice, but get the answer-phone both times. He doesn't call back.

I toy with the idea of calling Benoit; imagine the conversation, testing various techniques in my mind. Apologising, accusing, phoning for a neutral chat… But in my dry runs they all end in disaster. I may be wrong about the wallet. And I may be wrong about his HIV status. But somehow, it just doesn't seem that likely I am wrong about both. I feel hard and cynical about it,
but I just can't face trying to sort any of it out.

On Friday evening when I hear the sixties' chugging of Jenny's twenty grand camper-van, I am desperate, not only for company and conversation but for cash.

The freezer contains three fish fingers and I have twenty pence left.

Jenny pulls her coat from her head. “Jesus! The rain!” she exclaims.

“I know,” I say closing the door. “It hasn't stopped all week.”

I smile at her, and then break into a frown. Jenny pauses, mimicking my expression.

“You look weird,” I say. “Your makeup or something?”

Jenny shrugs. “Thanks,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say. But as I lean in to kiss her cheek she pulls away.

“No, it's me,” she says. “I bashed my cheek. I covered it up, but…”

I stand back and look at her cheek. I can see it is swollen, and it has a vague blue tint, peeking through the caked foundation.

“Jees,” I say. “How did you do that?”

Jenny rolls her eyes, and turns into the lounge. “It's too dumb for words,” she says. “I walked into the clothes line.”

Wrinkling my nose, I follow her into the lounge. “The clothes line?” I repeat doubtfully.

Jenny slumps heavily in a chair. “Well, the pole actually. We've got one of those rotary ones?”

I nod.

“It span around in the wind,” she says. “And whacked me.”

I make a face. “Ouch,” I say. “Strange but true.”

Jenny nods and makes a twilight zone sound. “My life. Where fact is stranger than fiction,” she says. “Does it look
that
bad?”

I shrug. “Nah, it shows, but…”

“I look a bit like coco the clown, right?” she asks.

I shrug. “You just look a bit… Overdone, I guess.”

Jenny sighs. “Oh well, so, do I get a cup of tea or not?” she asks.

I grimace. “If you've got some cash for milk you do,” I laugh.

“Oh yeah! I almost forgot,” Jenny grins. She grimaces and touches her cheek. “It hurts when I smile,” she says. “

She reaches into her jean pocket and produces a wad of banknotes.

“I got two hundred. Will that be enough? To tide you over?”

I take the money. “Thanks,” I say. “I'm really sorry.”

Jenny shakes her head. “Don't be. Nick thinks you're my gigolo now, but,” she shrugs. “Frankly, who
gives
a damn?”

I stuff the money into a vase and keep a single ten-pound note.

“Now,” Jenny says. “Tea please. With milk.”

On Jenny's advice, I reluctantly phone Tom again, but again I get his voicemail. “See,” I tell her, waving the phone. “He doesn't talk to me anymore.”

Jenny frowns and sips her tea. “But I wanted to see him,” she says.

“Me too,” I laugh. “I think Antonio's told him to stay away from me.”

Jenny bites a fingernail. “Why would he do that?”

I roll my eyes. “Um…
Hello
?” I say.

She nods. “Yeah, you're right,” she says. “But I don't think Tom's the type to be bossed around. Do you?”

I shrug.

“He'd be right though,” she says.

“Who? Antonio?”

Jenny nods. “Yeah. I mean; this won't work at all if you can't get to see him?”

I smile at her. “
What
won't work?”

Jenny raises her eyebrows and nods. “Our strategy,” she says.

I cross my eyes. “
Your
strategy,” I say.

Jenny nods. “OK. My strategy,” she says. “But it won't work.” She sips her tea again and stares out at the rain then she takes a deep breath.

“OK,” she says, pulling her phone from her pocket. “Time to play dirty.”

I frown at her.

“He's being difficult,” she says. “Playing hard to get. Gimme the number,” she says.

I frown.

Jenny nods earnestly. “Give me Tom's number.”

“But, why?” I ask.

“Give!” she insists.

Tom answers
Jenny's
call immediately. I rest my chin on one hand and listen in annoyance.

“Tom!” Jenny says. “Jenny here. Mark's friend.”

“…”

“Yes, that's right. In Brighton.”

“…”

“I'm at Mark's, that's right.”

“…”

“Yeah, I know, he's opposite. I expect he's wondering why you take
my
calls and not his.”

I bite my lip and smile.

“…”

Jenny laughs. “Only joking, I
know
you were going to call him back.” She winks at me.

“…”

“Yes, he's taking us both to dinner tonight,” she says.

“…”

“Yes, that's right. Me too.”

“…”

“Well, I think he
tried
to tell you.”

“…”

“Yes Tom. I'll be there as well.”

“…”

“I don't know, hang on.” Jenny holds the phone to
her chest and shrugs. “Where are you taking us?” she asks me.

I open my hand and shrug. “What do
I
know?” I say.

She lifts the phone to her ear. “Did you hear that?”

“…”

“Yeah, Mark doesn't know. You're the local boy after all,” she says. “
Food For Friends
?” she raises an eyebrow at me.

I nod.

“7pm?”

I nod again.

“OK, great. See you later,” she says.

Jenny clicks her phone shut. “See,” she says. “Easy.”

I laugh. “Very clever,” I say. “No one could deny your efficiency.”

Jenny laughs. “We use it at work a lot. Swapping phones to get in touch with difficult clients.”

I nod. “But it doesn't answer the real question though,” I say. “Why he didn't answer
my
calls.”

Jenny nods in agreement. “He made sure I was going to be there. He asked, like, three times.”

I nod. “Yeah, I heard.”

“So, either he's in love with
me
,” she says. “It is
possible
, after all…”

I wrinkle my nose and shake my head.

“But unlikely I agree,” she says.

“Unlikely,” I repeat.

“Or he's scared of being alone with
you
.” She nods melodramatically.

I snort. “Me being so scary and all,” I say.

Jenny pushes out her lips, and looks at me craftily from the corner of her eye.

“But if you ask me,” she says thoughtfully, closing one eye. “The most
likely
explanation…”

I nod.

“Is that he's scared of himself.”

I wrinkle my brow.

Jenny nods again. “He's scared of what he might do
if he's
alone
with you.”

I laugh and shake my head. “You're too much,” I say.

Jenny shrugs. “Why?”

“Oh, you just overestimate my powers of seduction.”

Jenny shakes her head. “Nah,” she says. “I don't think you have any powers of seduction at all.”

“Oh,” I laugh. “Thanks.”

“But for some reason, Tom does,” she says. “There's no accounting for taste.”

Food for friends is all stripped pine and born-again-vegan smiles. But it does what it says on the box, and the atmosphere – of the restaurant at least – is relaxed and friendly.

Tom is already seated by the time we arrive and as we enter, we actually catch him fiddling with his hair, using a black and white framed photograph beside him as a mirror.

He turns and blushes slightly. “I'm having a bad hair day I think,” he says.

We pull out chairs and sit.

“Wow!” Tom says, frowning at Jenny's cheek. “What happened to you?”

Jenny touches her jaw gently and turns to me. “Is it looking worse?” she asks. “Do I need to redo my makeup?”

I glare at Tom, mockingly rebuking him. “Nah,” I say. “It's fine.”

Jenny turns back to Tom. “I bumped my cheek,” she says. “At home.”

Tom purses his lips and nods. “Walk into a door again?” he says earnestly. “Shall we call you Luka?”

I pick up the Suzanne Vega reference, but Jenny just frowns at him.

“Look, if he's been slapping you, you can tell me,” Tom says with mock concern.

Jenny gives a little shake of her head as if to shake off an insect. “He hasn't!” she says. “I told you. I bumped it.”

Tom raises his hands. “Just joking,” he says. “It's just, with Mark's reputation for domestic violence,” he laughs.

Jenny bites her lip and exhales. “Sorry,” she says. “I though you were insinuating that... Never mind.”

Tom shakes his head and grimaces. “Nah, never mind,” he says. “So! Other than your cheek, how are you?”

Jenny smiles thinly. “Fine Tom,” she says. “How are you?”

I chew the inside of my mouth and frown at them both.

Tom shrugs. “Me? I'm OK I guess,” he says. “Missing Antonio a bit more than I'd like.”

Jenny nods. “So when do you next see him?” she asks.

Tom shrugs. “Beginning of August, over a month.”

Jenny nods. “And do you ever go
there
?” she asks. “I
love
Italy. Nick and I drove to Tuscany at Easter. It was great.”

Tom nods. “Yeah, It's nice,” he says. “I used to go quite a lot, but I haven't been back since March.”

“So why don't you go?” Jenny asks. “Can't you just get a cheap flight and go? I mean, if you miss him.”

Tom nods his head from side to side. “I could I suppose,” he shrugs. “It's just, well, I haven't wanted to go much lately.”

We both frown at him, so he coughs and continues.

“I've been too upset really,” he says. “Since my mother died.”

Jenny frowns. “Gosh, I'm sorry,” she says. “I didn't know.”

Tom nods. “It was kind of my fault,” he says, his voice dry and quiet. “I haven't been able to face going back since.”

Jenny nods and puts a hand on his shoulder. “God, she was with you when…” she says.

Tom nods solemnly and coughs. “Anyway,” he says. “Can we talk about something else?”

I nod warmly at him. “Sure,” I say.

“Oh!” Tom exclaims, turning to me. “Did you find your wallet by the way?”

I shake my head.

“Bummer!” he says. “I actually cleaned the
whole
hous
e looking for it.”

I shrug. “It's a mystery. Anyway, I cancelled my cards, ordered a new driving licence.”

Tom grimaces. “That's the worst bit really, isn't it? All that paperwork.”

I nod.

“Well, that and the housework!” he laughs.

A waitress with an orange flattop and dungarees appears.

“Hello,” she says smiling beatifically and handing us menus. “I'll come back and take your order in a minute, OK?”

Though Tom insists that it is usually fabulous, the food is mediocre and the conversation is false and forced giving the evening a strange, strained feeling.

Listening to Jenny and Tom is like following a poor play with bad actors and dreadful dialogue. It may just be in my own brain, but each sentence seems a slightly inappropriate response to whatever went before.

When I myself speak to either of them, it's like talking to someone who's watching TV. They either ask me to repeat myself, or reply inappropriately. A couple of times they both ignore me completely.

In the end, we all seem to just give up and eat our food in silence.

Just after 9:30, Tom makes his excuses and scurries off into the wet darkness. As we head back across town, Jenny links her arm through mine and we squash together beneath her small umbrella.

“That was nice,” she says.

I laugh. “Was it?” I say. “Can't say as I noticed.”

Jenny huffs. “Yeah, you're right actually,” she says. “It was dreadful. Tom seemed strange, distracted… You know?”

I laugh. “You both seemed weird to me,” I say.

We run across the road in the path of an advancing bus. As it swishes past it sends water from the gutter onto the pavement, narrowly missing my feet.

Jenny pulls my arm tighter. “Sorry,” she says. “Actually my jaw was hurting. It was really hard to eat. I was wishing I had ordered soup.”