Sleight of Hand (32 page)

I honestly did work a lot that week babe. Esteban was off sick so I got no days off, and a bout of gastroenteritis had all the locals shitting in their frocks and me running around dishing out rehydration salts and Loperamide tablets. It was so bad, we even had a government guy come in to confirm that it wasn't another Cholera outbreak like the one in ninety-six. Anyway, to be honest I preferred to be busy because every time I stopped I got this strange nervous feeling.

Too tired to cook by the end of the day, I would stop off at Max's for a bite to eat, and that should tell you how tired I was Chupy, because Max too had succumbed to the exploding arse-hole bug, so eating there was a damned risky business. But I followed each meal with half a bottle of rum to kill the bugs, and that seemed to do the trick, it seemed to keep me safe. Safe from food-poisoning, anyway.

Every night I got home and saw your address on the back of an envelope, and realised that I still hadn't worked out what I could possibly send you that would reassure you. I thought of a ring maybe, but I never saw you wear jewellery. And I thought of a pendant, but they only had crosses, and I know how you feel about those … What I really wanted to send you was a plane ticket, but I knew you couldn't come because of Jenny, and if not because of Cristina, and I knew this prolonged separation was turning into a big big problem.

The following Tuesday, Esteban returned, looking tanned and relaxed – I suspect that he had
simply been on holiday with that coconut bimbo of his, but I didn't care, because, as I say, without my Chupy to play with, and with my worries about Cristina and Carlos just waiting to trouble me, I had been happy to be out of the house and dealing with other, more material, more literal shit.

But on Tuesday, there he was, tanned and relaxed, and ready to take over my diarrhoea rounds, and so I went home and sat on the balcony, and for the first time I let myself think about everything that had been going on.

Paloma, as ever, came and sat on me, and I stroked her and thought about the fact that there had been no news from Cristina, or Carlos, or anyone else, and that maybe, just maybe, that meant that this stupid, stupid business was now over.

But I couldn't convince myself babe. You know I'm a scientific kind of guy pumpkin. You know I'm no great believer in the metaphysical. But some part of me
knew
that this was far from over, and sure enough, as if my own doubts had summoned up daemons, Federico rang that very evening.

Federico, my man
, I said, thinking that maybe he was planning one of his rare weekend visits.

I need you out of the house
, he replied. That was his opening line Chupy.

I'm sorry
, I said,
you what?
and he said it again babe,
I need you out of my house
.

Hey, Cous'
I laughed,
what's up?
But of course, In a way, I already knew.

I'm really sorry Ricardo, but there are behaviours that just aren't … acceptable
, he said. He sounded like he was going to cry.

I told him that he was making no sense to me, that I had no idea what he was talking about, but
that just made him angry, and I could see why, so I just shut up then and let him talk.

I'm not going to discuss this with you Ricardo
, he said,
and I don't want to know who you have been fucking, or where you have been fucking, or how often, or since when, because frankly, I already know way more than I want to. But if you can't control where you stick your dick I need you out of my house
.

I told him I understood, but that it was over, and he told me that,
no
, it
wasn't over.

I'm really sorry, Ricardo, but I … I don't know how to help you
, he said.
Everyone up there knows about it. And that house was my mother's you know, and that house is made of wood. Do you hear what I'm saying?

I told him that I heard what he was saying, but that it might take me a while to organise things and he told me that the less time it took the better it was for all of us.

Once he had hung up, I returned to the balcony and stared out at the horizon. The phone rang twice but the number was hidden so I didn't pick up. I wasn't going to let anyone know that I was here, alone, waiting.

As the daylight faded I sat and tried to work out what I would do now, and felt really upset because I wanted to talk to you Chupa Chups. I wanted to ask you how to fix the stupid mess that I had made.

But I couldn't tell you and I couldn't work out what to do, and you wouldn't have had an answer anyway, because there was none. I couldn't decide where to go, or how to explain it to you and I got a huge lump in my throat which was part fear and part regret that I had fucked everything up so spectacularly.

I thought about my mother's place which still hadn't sold, but just down the road from Carlos and Cristina, it was hardly a better option.

I was still sitting there, albeit a bit drunk, when you phoned Chupy. I had decided that the best solution was just to sit and wait for them to come for me. It was stupid drunken self pitying rubbish of course, but that's what I had decided, for the simple reason that I felt paralysed by lack of other options. Luckily they didn't come that night.

I didn't pick up because I didn't know who was calling. I sat and listened as Federico's answer-phone clicked in and you uploaded your own batch of problems into the machine. And then I didn't pick up because I didn't know what to tell you babe.

Once you had given up and ended the call, I missed you so much, I missed that simple happiness that we had had for a while so powerfully that I actually did cry a bit, and lord knows you know I don't cry much. But I thought about you and Jenny, and all
your
problems and felt submerged by them all, because I couldn't fix my own let alone help you with yours and it seemed that everything – like the words in that song you kept playing when we met – truly was shit. And then, like a gust of air when the wind changes direction, something came over me, and I realised that you were an angel – that you Chupy, were my
guardian
angel and that your message was a message from God because it contained everything I needed: a plan of action, a reason to act, and an alibi to explain it all afterwards. I have never loved anyone more than I loved you at that precise moment for leaving that precise message.

The next morning when I wake up, I can't quite remember the full text of my answer-phone rant, but I do remember this: I remember asking Ricardo to phone me back, and I remember having said that we would both know what it meant if he chose not to. But as I lie here listening to Sarah drive what is apparently a two-stroke engined teddy across the back of the sofa, I don't know what it means at all. Or maybe I do. Maybe I just don't want to admit it.

Jenny doesn't get up at all this morning, so I bundle Sarah up against the cold and thinking that we both need a change of scene, I drive her to Eastbourne.

The temperature can't be much above freezing today, but the air is crisp and clean and the sky is an almost Mediterranean blue. The pebble beach and the sunshine make me think about my old life in Nice. It all feels like it happened centuries ago. It feels like everything was simpler back then, but I guess it wasn't really.

At the end of the pier, I sponsor numerous costly attempts by Sarah to win a furry blue dinosaur by manipulating a seriously flawed crane mechanism, but eventually even she realises that the machine is a con. “It doesn't work properly,” she declares, already looking around for the next distraction.

We buy a bag of chips and squeeze together in a weatherbeaten snug to share them.

“I'm sorry I shouted at you the other day,” I say.

She looks at me blankly, so I explain, “Do you remember? When you fell in the sea?”

She nods solemnly. “Mummy says I'm lucky I didn't get a smack,” she says. Then she offers me a chip and says, “Do you want this one? I don't like that brown stuff.”

“Mmm, brown sauce,” I say, taking the chip. “I love it. Yes, it was a bit naughty. Because the sea is very dangerous.”

“That's the sea, down there,” she says, pointing through a tiny gap in the planks below our feet.

“That's right,” I say. “It is.”

“If the floor breaks,” she says. “We'll fall in.”

“Yes, if it did, we would. But it's quite strong I think. I might teach you to swim when it gets warmer, though. In summer. That way you'd be safe if you ever fell in again.”

Sarah sucks the tomato ketchup off a chip and throws it to a seagull. “Can Mummy swim?”

“Yes,” I say. “Your Mum's a very good swimmer.”

“I never seed her swim.”

“I never
saw
her swim. Actually, you did. It's just you were very little so you don't remember.” I grab her hand to stop her throwing another chip. “Don't,” I say. “We'll end up with all the seagulls coming to ask for chips.”

“All the seagulls in the world?”

“Yes.”

“Every one?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“OK, maybe not all of them,” I say. “Anyway, I haven't finished eating yet. When we've finished, you can give the rest away.”

“OK,” she says, looking between the remaining chips and my face as if she doesn't believe that there
will be any. She's probably right. “Can
Mummy
teach me to swim then?” she asks.

“Sure. Don't you want
me
to?”

“No,” she says, quite definitely, making me laugh.

And then it crosses my mind that Jenny might not be here come summer to teach her daughter anything. Which leads me back to wondering what happens to Sarah. And on to Ricardo. And onto that whole chain of thoughts.

But today, things take a different route, which is a surprise. Today, I realise that,
of course
I can take Sarah without Ricardo by my side, and in a way, I am already doing this. And I think that if my relationship with Ricardo is ending and there is no need for me to return to Colombia (other than to get my stuff and my cat back) then nothing could be more logical than to stay here and look after Sarah.

It's an unexpected turnaround in my thinking because today I honestly can't work out what I have been worrying about. If Ricardo and I stay together, then it's fine, because he has repeatedly said that we should take her. And if we don't then I don't need anyone else's approval or commitment anyway.

“Now you can throw them,” I tell her, sacrificing the final eight chips.

Of course, living with Sarah would mean lots of sacrifices. It would mean the end of internet dates, and the end of trips around the world. It would be the end of my nights on the town, and of one night stands. But in a way this has already happened. And in a way, none of these “losses” matter, because they're all about trying to find someone to love, trying to find a reason to be, and strange as it may sound, Sarah is all of those things. Times ten.

“Do you
love
Mummy?” Sarah asks, and I wonder momentarily if I have been thinking out loud.

“Of course I do,” I say.

“Me too,” she says. “Look. No more chips.”

“Come on then,” I say standing, and lifting her onto my shoulders. “Gosh you're getting heavy. It must be all those chips.”

When we get home, Jenny is still sleeping and there are no visible signs that she has been up. In fact, it's not until I have put Sarah to bed that she finally appears at the bottom of the stairs in her dressing gown.

“You're a bit out of kilter, aren't you?” I ask, looking up from one of Susan's dreadful Mills and Boon romance novels.

“Yeah,” she says, sleepily rubbing her eyes. “My sleep patterns are all skewed. It's like jet lag. It's the pills I think … I can't do anything much but sleep once I've taken them. And then this is the only time of the day I feel normal.”

“Could you take them at night?”

“And spend all night vomiting?” she says, crossing the room and slumping beside me.

“No, I suppose not,” I say.

“Have you been out?” she asks. “Sarah's hair smells of the sea.”

“Wow,” I say. “Very good Sherlock. Yes, we went along the pier. Could you smell the chips she ate too?”

“No, just sort of salty. Was she good?”

“Perfect as ever. Have you eaten?”

She wrinkles her nose.

“You must eat
something.”

“Maybe some toast. And a cuppa.”

“Breakfast then,” I say, standing.

“Breakfast,” she laughs. “Thanks, you're a sweetheart.”

When I return with a plate of toast and two mugs of tea, Jenny says, “A weird thing happened today. I almost forgot. It's almost like I dreamt it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, taking her mug. “Guess who phoned?”

“Oh, thank God!” I exclaim. “What time?”

Jenny frowns at me. “I don't know. About three. It was Susan though.”

“Susan?” I say, trying to disguise my disappointment.

“Yeah.”

“Why is that weird?”

“Well, we had a long talk and you'll never guess what?”

I take a mouth of toast and a mixture of butter and Marmite dribbles down my chin. “So?” I ask, wiping it off with a finger.

“Well Franny's adopted.”

“Adopted?”

“Yes. And their own daughter – the one in the picture …”

“She drowned,” I say.

“Exactly. God, how did you know that?”

“Bizarre,” I say. “I don't know … I just sort of did.”

“Yeah,” Jenny says, nodding slowly. “I kind of did too. It's peculiar. I mean, I
didn't
, but it didn't surprise me at all. She fell off the breakwater, just like Sarah.”