Sottopassaggio (6 page)

I shake my head. “Doesn't anyone know? He's
dead
.”

Steve's telephone resurrection stays with me for a few days, haunting my sleep with tortured nightmares and making my days silent and thoughtful.

I battle along the windswept seafront and walk along the pier. Looking through the wooden slats at the murky depths below, I ponder his death and his unexpected continuing existence.

The more I think about it, the more absurd it seems that someone can simply cease to exist, and the stranger it seems that everything that defined them, everything that
defines
them, from the jobs they did, to the clothes that they chose, from the holiday snaps to friends and family, and above all our memories, our opinions of them, should continue obstinately to exist.

Within a few days I am feeling chronically lonely again but the call has been useful in at least one way. I'm now certain that I'm not ready to go back. I'm not ready to face the concerned glances, the sympathetic pats on the shoulder.

In fact the only people I can even envisage talking to are those who know nothing of this. That I realise, means meeting new people, or delving into the distant past.

Right now through the bay window, I can see a beautiful orange VW camper-van which I think could be Jenny's. Something tells me that only an old hippy like her could have enough respect for the iconic VW camper van to keep one in such perfect condition.

A woman climbs down from the driver's seat, and if it
is
Jenny she has put on a lot of weight. But even after 15 years, something about the way she holds herself, the way she pulls her windswept hair from her face tells me that it is indeed her. My old friend, my last ever girlfriend, my last ever abortive attempt at being straight.

I run outside to meet her and amid the salty gusts we hug awkwardly. I run my hand along the curved roof-panel of the van.

“I love the van!” I say.

She smiles. “Yeah, isn't it great?”

“It looks brand new.”

She laughs. “Believe it or not, it is. They still make them in Brazil.”

Then she grabs my arm and pulls me towards the house. “Enough of the car though, I've been sitting in the thing for nearly two hours. What I need is a cup of tea.”

Jenny does want tea, but it turns out that she doesn't mind talking about the van at all.

“They're very difficult to get,” she tells me. “Nick got this one imported specially from Brazil, cost nearly twenty thousand by the time we got our hands on it.”

I pour the boiling water over the teabags. “Worth it though,” I say. “The ultimate hippy statement.”

Jenny frowns. “I don't think that any twenty thousand pound car can be called a hippy statement,” she says. “But we looked at all the new ones, and they're all like ice cream vans, or disabled buses.”

“Well,” I say, handing her the tea. “You're definitely more Miss Hippy than Mr Whippy.”

She glares at me. “Mark,” she says. “It's
so
not a hippy van.”

I raise my palms in submission. “OK. Just joking.”

“Yes, well don't.” She says this without apparent irony.

As we sit and chat I realise that the last fifteen years have changed Jenny more than I would have thought possible. Or they have changed me so much I don't recognise her anymore.

In my memories, she was a witty, sarcastic, happy-go lucky kind of girl; a pot-smoking, hard-drinking, man-chasing wench. But I wonder if my memories are accurate. I wonder if I haven't somehow mixed Jenny up with a whole era of youth, a whole era of fun. Maybe none of us are those people now, maybe it's just the mind playing tricks on the past and we never really were.

I wonder when she will ask me why I am back in the UK, and I wonder how I will answer, what I will actually tell her. For the moment she is far too busy telling me about her house.

“Nick wanted a fitted
Smallbone
kitchen,” she says. “He just didn't want to settle for anything less.”

I have no idea what a
Smallbone
kitchen is, but I nod appreciatively.

“So we had the whole bottom floor gutted before we moved in. I just couldn't live in a building site. I'm too old for that stuff.”

My mind drifts, and I find myself nodding fraudulently as I compare different aspects of old Jenny and new Jenny – the fun, irreverent Jenny of my youth, and this strange Surrey advertising rep.

“Smeg,” she says, leaning towards me. “You know
Smeg
?”

I snap back into the room. “Smug?” I ask.

“No
Smeg
!” she laughs. “It's a brand. Kitchen appliances. Anyway, whatever, it doesn't matter. They're very good and
very
expensive. But we thought, well, you only buy this stuff once, don't you …”

I try to remember a rude word lurking in my mind that sounds like
Smeg
but for the moment it escapes me.

“So the oven and the fridge, washing machine, well, it's all
Smeg
,” she is saying.

I think about it and decide that I have never heard of
Smeg
. “
Maybe they don't have Smeg in Fra
nce,” I think.

But I know smug. Smug is universal.

After an hour or so of uninspiring conversation we head out for a stroll along the seafront. I've been feeling bored and irritable but the wind and the sun blow the feeling away and I consciously decide to re-connect with my old friend.

“So do they still call you Jenny Snog?” I interrupt her. “Or is that all over now you're married.”

Jenny freezes, and then laughs falsely.

“Jenny Snog?” she says. “Gosh, I'd forgotten that completely!”

I nod.

“Yes you used to call me that!” she laughs. “God knows why.”

I grin. “I know exactly why,” I say, deciding to push her, to force her to remember who she used to be. “It's not exactly complicated,” I add.

But Jenny now wants to talk about me, snapping a lid on the past.

“So why are you back in England anyway?” she
asks. “Don't tell me you got sick of the Côte d'Azur!”

I tell her very little.

“I had a bit of a car accident,” I say. “I'm making the most of my time off work by having a holiday,” I explain.

But I don't tell her about Steve. I don't tell her that my new boyfriend, the man with whom I was in the first throes of a love affair, was crushed and ripped out of this world. I don't think she, or I for that matter, could deal with it, and even if we could, I just don't have the words to sufficiently describe it.

So we rest on the surface of things. We stick to cups of tea, and brands of skin-cream, to kitchen appliances and local politics.

It reminds me of the conversations I used to have with my hairdresser Daniel. In the days when I had hair, that is.

At 6pm Jenny heaves herself into the driver's seat and with the briefest of waves, strains and turns the steering wheel as she pulls away.

I guess I won't be seeing her for a while, and I guess I'm quite relieved about that.

As I climb the steps to the front door, I think, “
Smegma
.
That's the word
.”

I wish I had thought of it before she left.

It's just after seven as I walk into the
Bulldog
.

I look around, half hoping, half afraid of seeing John and Jean but they aren't here, in fact, virtually
no one
is here.

Two couples, all four men in their fifties, are sitting at the bar, and a lone man occupies the raised platform at the far end.

It's been a bright bank holiday Monday, and the town has been teeming with male muscle. I'm surprised and disappointed by the lack of action. My walk along the seafront has left me feeling horny and energised.

I order a beer and position myself against the central pillar where I can see the single guy at the far end.

He has a pointy black beard and a pierced eyebrow. He's cute, but apparently too engrossed in his reading to look up at me.

After only a few minutes, I decide that the fun has to be elsewhere, so I cross the bar and ask Mr Pierced eyebrow for a copy of the local free magazine,
Gscene
.

He reaches to his left, smiles briefly, and with a single stroke of his beard, returns to his reading.

It was a good smile, but certainly not a conversation opener, but as I start to walk away, he speaks.

“Legends,” he says.

I turn back with an amused frown. “Sorry?” I say.

He places a finger on the page to mark his place, and looks up at me, a cheeky smile on his lips.

“Everyone's in Legends,” he says. “It's happy hour till 9 tonight.”

I nod and let out a bemused laugh. “Thanks,” I say.

The man shrugs and returns to his reading.

Intrigued as to how he managed to answer my unasked question, I cross the bar and return to my drink.

Legends
is packed. I fight my way to the bar, order a drink, and as I am squeezing my way back through the buzz cuts and leather jackets to a space I have spotted, someone calls my name.

I look over at the crowd in the bay window and catch site of John's grinning face, then Jean's next to him.

“Mark!” he repeats. The group opens, anemone-like, sucking me in.

The couple kiss me hello on both cheeks, French-style, and John runs through a rapid-fire series of introductions.

“Mark, this is Peter, Ben, Baz, Greg …”

He peers behind me, then pushes me gently to one side, “and this is Tom,” he says.

I turn to see Tom holding out a hand, grinning.

“We meet again,” he says.

I smile. “Yes,” I say.

For some reason I blush.

“You found
Legends
OK then,” he says.

He turns to John and explains, “We just met in the Bully. I said this was where all the action would be.”

The group is funny and masculine and drunk. I stand
next to Tom and listen to a series of amusing anecdotes, mostly about the men's various sexual encounters.

As the temperature rises in the bar, the men remove their leather jackets revealing vests and tattoos.

I glance at John and Jean and see that they are wearing their chaps again, only this time over jeans. The memory makes me blush.

Tom, like me, stands at the edge of the group and says little. Occasionally we laugh at the same moment, and I catch him glancing sideways at me, a twinkle in his eye and a bemused smile on his lips. I wonder if his amusement is in some way linked to my presence.

Whatever the reason, I realise that for some reason, his presence in the group is as marginal as my own.

Around ten, John claps his hands. “So are we doing this party or not?” he asks.

Enthusiasm ripples through the group.

I move to John's side. “Party?” I say.

He slips an arm around my shoulders. “Yes, it's Jean's birthday tomorrow. We're having a party for him. You should come along,” he says. “Join us.”

I nod and glance back at Tom who breaks into an uncontrolled grin.

“A party,” I say. “Sounds like fun.”

Tom steps forward and leans towards my ear. “It will be fun,” he says. “But it's not a hats and jelly party. You know that right?”

I frown. “Well, no … I …”

John swipes a leather cap off the table and flops it onto his head with flourish. “I have a hat!” he says.

I frown at Tom. “I don't …”

Tom laughs. “Lots of gel,” he says. “No jelly.”

“Gel,” I repeat. Suddenly it's obvious and I feel stupidly slow.

“Lots of rubbers, no balloons,” Tom giggles.

I nod. “OK, OK! I get it!” I laugh. I bite my lip in embarrassment.

John steps between us. “Who said there's no balloons?” he says. “Don't put the man off, just because you're too uptight to come yourself.”

The group are pulling on their jackets and moving towards the door.

“So?” John asks.

I look at Tom who shrugs.

“You're not going then?” I ask.

Tom shakes his head. “I don't do sex parties,” he says raising an eyebrow.

I turn to John. “No,” I say. “I'll stay.”

John nods and follows the group towards the exit.

“Have a good one though,” I say.

He glances over his shoulder. “Oh I will!” he laughs.

I watch them disappear out of the door and turn back to Tom.

“Drink?” he asks.

I nod. “Sure,” I say. “Bitter please.”

As he moves towards the bar I take a last fretful glance out of the window, just in time to see the birthday party disappear laughing down a side street.

A tap on my shoulder makes me jump.

“'Scuse me mate,” he says.

I turn to face the man, a skinhead. He has a faded green Mohican, a chrome ring through his nose, and bleacher jeans disappearing into 18-hole
Doctor
Martins
.

“Sorry mate,” he says, grasping my shoulder, “but was that a gift party?”

I frown at him. His eyes are a little wild; his stare is a little too intense. “
Drugs
,” I think.

I sigh. “It's a birthday party,” I say, lowering my shoulder in the hope that his hand will slip off.

I glance at the bar and see Tom waving a bank note at the barman.

“Yeah, but is it a
gift
party?” the guy insists.

His breath is dreadful and I instinctively step backwards. I note that he has a swastika on his lapel as well as a biohazard badge. I wonder if the hazard is his breath.

I shrug and move sideways. His hand falls away.

“I'm sorry, I have no idea what kind of party it is,” I say. “Except that it's a birthday party.”

The skinhead grimaces revealing yellow teeth. “So they're not barebackers? It's not a gifting party, a bareback party?”