Sleight of Hand (39 page)

“Of course. But, well, I wouldn't.”

Ricardo nods and swallows. “Yes, I knew it was a lie.”

“I'm sorry?”

“What Tom said. Yesterday.”

“You heard that?”

Ricardo nods. “Yes. But it's OK because it's not true.”

I frown at him. It sounds like a statement rather than a question.

“I mean, why would you sleep with Tom?” Ricardo says. “You already go there and decide you don't like it so much. It makes no sense.”

I nod. “Well yes. Of course.”

“So it's a lie.”

I take a deep breath and sigh.

Ricardo laughs lightly.

“What?”

“This is where you say, yes Ricardo. Tom tell a lie,” he says.

It feels like Ricardo is dictating a script to me, a script I have no choice but to follow to the letter. I feel the blood drain from my face. “Yes. He lied,” I say.

“Good,” Ricardo says smiling broadly and opening his arms. “Come here.”

I move across the sofa and lay back against his chest and he folds his arms around me.

Luckily he can't see my confused expression.

“You're so lovely,” I say after a while.

“Not
all
bad eh?” Ricardo says.

“You're so trusting.”

Ricardo snorts. “If I choose not to believe my Chupy, there is only unhappiness,” he says, tightening his arms around me. “What other choice?”

We lie like this and stare out at the shadowy beach and I try to work out what just happened. I can't work out whether Ricardo did believe me or
whether he actually doesn't care. It feels like we have just agreed on the only narrative that can get us through this. We have re-written history.

Sometimes, in the past, I have exaggerated a story or changed an ending to make the tale funnier or more dramatic, only to find, years later, that I'm not sure what really happened anymore. I wonder if that is what will happen here. If we just keep up the pretence that I didn't cheat on Ricardo will that ultimately become the remembered truth? I hope so, because, as Ricardo says, the reality brings no good to anyone.

Ricardo fidgets behind me and then nuzzles my hair and squeezes me in his arms again and I think again about how readily he has accepted the idea of bringing Sarah up, and how easily he has chosen to ignore Tom's words. I think about him appearing here at the very moment I needed him most, having given up his job and his country to join me here in the middle of this maelstrom. I think about his constant, unfailing projection of our future together, about his unique ability to narrow his field of vision to the point where he simply refuses to see anything that could spoil that future.

And I decide that I really am dating an exceptional man here. It's probably time that I started acting like I appreciate that fact.

The next morning, I wake up snuggled tightly to Ricardo's back. Apparently my subconscious is as loved-up as my waking mind. “God I'm glad you exist,” I say, kissing his neck and breathing in his odour.

“Mmm,” Ricardo groans, pushing back against me.

“It's nine thirty,” I say.

“I hear Jenny downstairs.”

“She's doing the early shift then. She must be feeling better.”

“Yes, she's good now, huh?”

“As soon as she comes off the chemo, it's hard to remember she's ill.”

“If she's good today, maybe you and me can go out for lunch together,” Ricardo says. “I want to see more of this place.”

I lift the curtain and peer out. “Sunny,” I say. “I might take you to Beachy Head. Or Cuckmere Haven.”

“Cockmere what?” Ricardo laughs.

“Cuckmere. There's an amazing river there. A natural oxbow. You'll see.”

As soon as we get up, Jenny heads back upstairs for a sleep, so Ricardo and I take Sarah for a walk along the beach.

We each take one of her tiny hands and swing her along the beach. It's only the second time the three of us have done anything together, and I can't
help but wonder if this is how things are going to be from now on. It actually feels rather lovely.

It's a beautiful December day and the wind has dropped. In the sunshine it feels almost warm. I glance at a tree in a neighbour's window and realise that Christmas is almost upon us. “Is it the fifteenth today?” I ask.

“Seventeen,” Ricardo says. “No, sixteen. No, sorry seventeen. Definitely.”

“You realise Christmas is in a week's time?” I point out.

“I know. So quick.”

“It's not having TV,” I say. “The world just slips on by. We need to get a tree.”

“Would you like a Christmas tree, like that one?” I ask Sarah. “Fuck!”

“Chupy?”

“On a zappé son anniversaire,” I say. –
We've missed her birthday
.

“Qui?” –
Who?

“Sarah. On a oublié son anniversaire.” –
Sarah. We've forgotten her birthday
.

“Non!”

“Si.”

“Can we have a silver one?” she asks.

“Uh? Um … no. Not
exactly
like that one. A real one. A big green one.”

“With pressies under it?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“OK then. Can we have a sparkly one like that?”

“No. They're horrible.”

Sarah pushes her bottom lip out making me laugh.

“Girls!” I comment.

When we get back Jenny still isn't up from her morning nap, so I wake her with a mug of tea.

“Hi sweetie,” I say.

“Morning,” she says, rubbing her eyes and sitting up.

“The neighbours have got a tree in the window.”

“A tree?”

“A Christmas tree.”

“God,
Christmas!”
Jenny says.

“It's in a week's time.”

“Ugh. I've been trying not to think about it.”

“You know what we forgot last week?” I ask.

Jenny frowns and shakes her head as she sips her tea.

“Your daughter's birthday,” I whisper.

Jenny spits her tea out. “Oh my God,” she says.

“I know.”

“God … that's … It was her fifth as well,” Jenny says shaking her head. “What a terrible mother.”

“Well you were pretty ill. And we
all
forgot.”

“I know, but …”

“Shall we do it late? Do you want me to buy a cake and balloons and shit?”

Jenny sighs and thinks for a moment. Then she pulls a face. “I think it's best to just skip it this year. She won't even notice now. She'll get all excited about Christmas next, so …”

“Ricardo and I are off out, so shall we get a tree while we're out or do you want to go on a special tree-hunting trip?”

“Just get one,” Jenny says. “God, I can't believe that I forgot!”

“I want to come,” Sarah protests from the doorway.

I lean in close to Jenny and say quietly, “She didn't hear did she?”

Jenny looks over at Sarah and frowns. “Nah,” she says.

“OK,” I say loudly. “As a special treat, we'll come back and get you, and we three can go and choose a tree together. How does that sound?”

“How long will you be?” Jenny asks.

“It's just for lunch, so …” I say, feeling guilty for not offering to take them with us. But the idea of spending a couple of hours alone with Ricardo is truly irresistible this morning.

“Can you get some cereal while you're out?” Jenny asks. “And bread?”

I drive Ricardo over the downs and on to Cuckmore Haven.

“Gosh, incredible,” Ricardo says as the vast green panorama of the valley comes into view. “And the river.”

“I know, it's great, isn't it?” I say, glancing over at the sunlit sparkle of the water. “It's called an ox-bow. The river carves the sides away and it becomes more and more rounded. The pub is lovely too,” I say.

I park the car and then as we pass through the entrance arch and up the stairs to the Golden Galleon, Ricardo laughs, “So English, Chupy!”

Despite the sunshine, it's too cold to sit outside so we push into the warm interior of the pub. “Look,” I say, nodding to the left. “A real fire.”

“But so quiet,” Ricardo says, following me to the bar. Only one other client is in the room, sipping a pint over in the far corner.

“It's Wednesday,” the barman says. “And the week before Christmas. Everyone is spent out on Christmas.”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding at Ricardo. “We still have to do all of the Christmas shopping.”

We order food and then retire with our drinks to a table near the fireplace.

Ricardo sips his pint of IPA – ordered on my advice – and pulls a face. “Funny beer,” he says.

“Don't you like it?”

“I think it's a bit old,” he says. “It has lost its …
bulles.”

“English beer isn't fizzy,” I tell him.

He wrinkles his nose and sips it again. “It tastes OK, but I think I like it fizzy.”

“I love pubs like this,” I say looking around. “They're the one thing I really missed in France.”

Ricardo nods. “Yes. So cosy.”

“It's weird,” I say. “Because in England you go to any village and there's a cosy pub with a real fire. And in France it's always a freezing bar with formica and strip-lights.”

“Yes. The French don't do cosy so well. How do you say cosy in French?”

I shrug. “Chaleureux maybe.”

“Warm,”
Ricardo says.

“Yeah. It's not
quite
cosy … I don't think they have a word for it either.”

“Maybe that's why they don't do it so well. Because they don't have a word.”

“Maybe.”

“But you know, it's not so cold outside in France. Maybe that's why.”

“It's pretty cold in the middle of France in winter,” I point out. “I think it's just cultural.”

“Like English food being terrible,” Ricardo says.

At that instant, the barman arrives with said food. A veggie chilli for me and a pork chop for Ricardo. “It looks OK,” I say, once he has gone.

“Yes,” Ricardo says lasciviously licking his lips. “Not haute-cuisine, but it looks tasty.”

“You're such a carnivore,” I laugh.

“Hey, I don't eat meat since Colombia,” he says. “Well, since Madrid.”

“Do you miss it?” I ask tasting my chilli. “Mmm, this is good actually.”

“Not at all. But I'm happy to eat this little piggy,” he says, raising a cube of pork to his lips.

The pub cat, up until now asleep on a bench seat, smells Ricardo's pork and stretches to cross the room.

“The cat knows what is good,” Ricardo says.

“Yeah. I wonder how poor Paloma is doing,” I say.

“She'll be fine.”

“I think I'll give Maria a call when we get back.”

“It will be too late. She'll be at work,” Ricardo says. “So, we have to find a tree then. Where do you buy trees in England?”

“Yeah … Actually,” I say, ignoring him and nodding at a
Free Wifi
sticker, “I can Skype her from here. I'll do it in a minute.”

“I'm sure she'll already be out,” Ricardo says.

“Well, it doesn't hurt to try,” I say.

“Better to call her in the evening.”

“Don't you
want
me to call her?” I ask.

Ricardo frowns at me and half-smiles. “Not at all babe. I just say it's better to call her in the evenings. She rush around a lot in the morning.”

“OK,” I say. “I'll call her tomorrow when I get up.”

We eat our meal in silence to the vague sound of Culture Club drifting from the bar speakers and the occasional chirruping of a slot machine.

I finish before Ricardo and pull my phone from my pocket to check my email.

“Don't Chupy,” Ricardo says, sounding annoyed. “She won't be in.”

I wrinkle my nose and stare at him. “I wasn't going to actually. But why don't you want me to call?”

“I'm just saying that she won't be in,” he says, through a mouthful of potato.

“OK then,” I say. “Well if she isn't, it doesn't matter, does it? Let's see.”

I connect to the wifi successfully and, aware that something is going on here – Ricardo is watching me like a hawk – I select Skype.

“OK,” Ricardo says, suddenly dropping his fork. “I'm sorry. I should have told you.”

I lower the phone and look up at him, noting the grave tone his voice has suddenly taken on.
“What
should you have told me?”

“I didn't want you to worry,” he says.

“About?”

“Paloma. She isn't with Maria.”

“She's still at the beach-house?”

“No. She run away babe.”

I stare at him in horror. “She
what?”

“Paloma run away.”

“Ran
away.”

“Yes.”

“Paloma ran away?” I ask again in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“When? How?”

“After you left. A month maybe.”

“But … but you told me she was fine. You said she was getting fat. You told me she was on your lap.”

“I know. I don't want you to worry. You have so many things to worry about here.”

“But
how?
She wouldn't even go outside the house. Did you look for her?”

“Every night babe. You remember how I was never in when you call. Well, it's because I walk around calling Paloma, Paloma, Paloma.”

“But she was scared of the sand,” I say. “She wouldn't set foot on it.”

“I know.”

“God. My baby Paloma,” I say, aware that I'm sounding a bit naff. “You should have told me.”

“I know. I'm sorry,” Ricardo says reaching for my hand across the table.

But I pull my hand away. “How? I mean, when did you last see her?”