Sleight of Hand (4 page)

Slightly watery eyed, I reply, telling him that I miss him too, that my phone isn't working and that I'll send him a new number as soon as I have organised a UK sim card. And then I Skype Jenny's home number but of course, she's still not there. Hearing the ghostly voice of her mother on the answer-phone is unsettling.

I phone Saint Paul's church too, and the vicar confirms that the funeral is tomorrow at 2pm. And then I look down at my breakfast and think,
“Twenty four hours in London. What do I want to do?”

I raise another mouthful of “egg” towards my mouth and then let it drop back onto the tray. One thing I don't want to do, it seems, is eat grey, rubbery, McDonald's egg.

I spend a nice enough day in London. The good weather holds and the place feels familiar and pleasant as I head for Oxford Street to buy a sim card for my phone, as I browse the books in Prowler Soho, as I head out to the Tate Modern to spend a few hours wandering, wondering,
“But is it art?”

But ultimately the main thing I notice about London is that Ricardo isn't here. Everything I see that impresses me, I want to show to Ricardo. Everything that shocks or amuses me, I want to discuss with Ricardo. Amazingly, after little more than a year together, I'm realising that, without him, I feel like half a person.

In the evening, I head, for familiarity's sake, back to Soho. There's a great atmosphere in Compton's – the place is buzzing with the after-work crowd. I even get chatted up by a cute beary red-head who tells me that he's, “in media.”

But even Compton's feels flat without Ricardo: the only reason I ever used to hang around in gay
bars was because they held the possibility of finding love. And now I don't need the product I once hoped they would provide, they seem about as much use to me as a plumbing supplies store. Further, without that all-consuming hunt for love to occupy me, I'm at a loss to know how to spend even a single evening in London.

After two pints and a lonely veggie buffet down the road, I head for an Internet café. In the end, the only thing I can think of that I really want this evening is a full-sized keyboard so that I can send Ricardo a proper email telling him how much I miss him. I can't decide whether this is pathetic or rather beautiful.

Oh my beloved Chupa Chups. What would you say if you knew? I think you would leave me in an instant. I think that our time together and our time to come would be in the trash can before I could finish the first sentence.

Because the truth, pumpkin, is that I thought about cheating on you the moment that you booked that flight. Actually,
thought
, is probably overstating it, I didn't
think
about it, and I honestly didn't begin to scheme how I might make it happen, but my horizons definitely broadened to include the possibility at that moment.

If I had thought about it – which, again, I promise, I didn't – I don't suppose I would have bet on a suitable opportunity presenting itself anyway, but when she smiled at me at the graveside, when she squeezed under my umbrella for protection from the Bogotá rain, I became aware of what might now happen.

Her name was Cristina, and she was the kind of dark, curvaceous beauty I have always gone for. She smelt of shampoo and Angel, a chocolatey aroma that instantly whisked me back to my first flat in La Candelaria, to a long lost summer of youth with the hysterical Esperanza – poor Esperanza, she killed herself, you know. Ironically, Esperanza had no hope, you see.

So it was like being offered time-travel, and I thought,
Now how would that be?
Because though I had occasionally cheated on my girlfriends with guys, I had never done it the other way around. I had never
cheated on you Chupy – where would I have found the time? But with you now so far away, it was hardly going to hurt you, now was it?

After the funeral we sat side by side at the meal, she the only single woman, and I the only single guy, and then Cristina asked me where I was staying, and I said that I was going back to my mother's place, and she leant into my ear and asked,
Are you sure you want to be alone this evening?

I said that I wasn't – I wasn't sure at all. That's all I did, that's all it took. Would you hate me for such a small thing? Probably.

In the end we went back to hers instead, which I realised was a relief because, despite my bravado, I hadn't been looking forward to a night alone at my mother's flat.

When I saw all the guy-stuff in her apartment, when I realised that she didn't usually live alone, it all felt safer. I thought it would be all the more containable, because after all, we were both cheats now. Her husband was away on business and she was lonely and sad from the funeral and she needed a good screw. It suited her fine.

She was soft and warm and she wanted to baby the little boy who had lost his mama, and what can I say? That suited me fine too. I know that you would rather I had denied myself the pleasure; I know you would rather I had chosen to remain sad and alone, and she horny as hell on the other side of town, but that's not the way I'm made, babe and I think deep down you always knew that.

I wasn't feeling devastated, I can't hold that up as an excuse, but I wasn't feeling on top of the world either. You were on the other side of the Atlantic, and I couldn't even phone you. I was missing you, and being held, being reassured that I was sexy,
being reminded that I was still a good lay, seeing that I still had what it takes to send rivulets of sweat running down her sleek, smooth back – it was life affirming. Isn't everyone's reaction to death a desire for sex?

Whatever … As you would say, it was just what the doctor had ordered. Of course you wouldn't say that at all, you would call me selfish. At best.

But I have always known what you need better than you know it yourself. I had seen from your time with Tom how toxic honesty can be and I had seen from the beginning that you needed a perfect monogamous relationship. Or failing that, the
illusion
of one.

And I had decided from the moment we got together that if I couldn't give you the first, I would give you the second, because I love you Chupy. I really do.

And one way or another I decided to make sure that we would both get exactly what we wanted out of our life together. And if at times our needs weren't compatible, if from time to time, a little sleight-of-hand was required, then so be it.

I determined, by whatever means, to make sure that we were both happier than we had ever been before. Which despite what you would think, never struck me as selfish at all.

I get to Saint Paul's fifteen minutes before the service. It's a warm September day, and the stress of facing Jenny and perhaps Tom, plus the black roll-neck jumper I am wearing – it's all combining to make me sweat. I spot them even before I have passed through the gate to the grounds, standing with their backs to me, both smoking, which is a surprise, because the last time I looked they had both quit.

I walk slowly along the path hoping that they will turn around, and then, when they don't, I pause a few feet from their backs. I swallow hard. I lick my lips and cough. “Hello,” I say, simply.

They both turn to face me, Tom quickly, Jenny more slowly. Tom's eyes widen, and Jenny's expression remains entirely blank as if I am a foreign language film that she doesn't quite understand.

Her hair has grown much longer since we last met, and they both look thinner than I remember, but that's perhaps the effect of all the black. Or maybe the cigarettes. Tom, who always did look good in a suit, looks stunning. But angry.

“What the f …” he says. “Sorry, but what are you doing here?” Then to Jenny, he adds softly, “You didn't tell me
he
was coming. How could you not tell me?”

Jenny drags on her cigarette and then whilst blankly staring me in the eye, she says, flatly, “I didn't know.”

I step forward to shake Tom's hand but he moves away making it impossible.

“OK,” I say. “Fair enough. Look, I'm sorry Tom, but do you think I could have a quick word with Jenny?”

I reach out and touch her arm. She doesn't flinch. “Would that be OK?” I ask her.

Jenny glances at Tom and shrugs one shoulder, then starts to move towards the side of the church.

“Tell him,” Tom says as we move away. “Just tell him to go, Jenny.”

Once we are out of earshot, I say, “Look, Jenny, I wanted to come today, maybe I was wrong. If you, you know, you do want me to go …”

Jenny nods slowly.

“I would understand,” I say.

She continues to nod and sighs deeply. “Well, good,” she says.

“You wrote and told me,” I say. “You sent me that email and I thought that might mean that you wanted me here … but it doesn't matter.”

“You should have warned me,” she says. “I haven't had time to think.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I wrote, email … and I phoned your … I phoned the house. And I went there too. But you weren't there.”

“We've been in a hotel,” she says. “The house has death in it.”

I nod. “I see,” I say. “Look I'm so sorry Jenny.”

She nods. “About?”

“Your mum.”

She nods again. “Right.”

“About everything,” I say. “Of course I am.”

She nods. “Everything,” she says, and I mentally add it all up and realise the enormity of everything I have been hoping she might cope with today. Her mother is dead and here's her ex-best-friend Mark
who cheated on her other best friend Tom before running off to Colombia with the first boyfriend she had had in years.

“I'm sorry. This was stupid,” I say.

Tom appears at the corner of the church. “Jenny, the service is about to begin,” he says.

Jenny nods at him, then says to me, “I'm sorry. I don't know what to say … It's … It's all so hard anyway,” she says. “Without you and Tom and … It wrecked so much. But you know that. I'm not sure if now is the time. I don't want to be … But I'm not sure if there will
ever
be a time.”

I nod. “I know. I'm sorry. I'll just go. Really, it's fine. This was a stupid idea.” I feel a sudden need to vomit, and have to swallow actual bile rising in my throat.

Jenny nods. “I'm sorry,” she says, touching my arm very lightly, and then starting towards Tom.

I remain immobile and nod slowly as I think, “
Wow, what now?”

After two steps though, Jenny hesitates and looks back. “Did you come for this?” she asks me quietly.

“I'm sorry?”

“Did you come all the way for this? For the funeral. Or were you already here?”

I shrug. “No, I … I really just came to see you.”

She nods robotically. “I see,” she says.

“Anyway, bye,” I say, nodding towards Tom. “You should go.”

“Come to the house,” she says.

“The house?”

“Yes. Tom can't stay long anyway. So come to the house afterwards. Have something to eat. Say hello to Sarah.
Then
go.”

A chink in destiny. Sometimes that's all you need. I blink back tears. “Are you sure?”

She pulls a face. “Honestly? No. But come anyway.”

As they vanish into the church, I head for a sunny bench on the far side of the grounds.
In memory of Fred Rawlins who was loved by one and all
.

I'm feeling a bit shaky, and am grateful to Fred for his sunny bench. I check my phone, newly resuscitated by an O2 sim card. There's a text from Ricardo in response to mine. “
OK NEW NUMBER TELL ME WHEN TO CALL,”
it says.

I answer, “Now?” and it rings almost immediately.

“Chupa Chups!” he shouts, hurting my ear.

“Hello. God it's good to hear your voice.”

“And yours. Where are you?”

“In Camberley. Outside the church.”

“The church?”

“Jenny and Tom and the others are inside. They're having the service for Jenny's mum. Right now.”

“I can call back later.”

“No, it's fine. It was a bit difficult, with Jenny and Tom. So I stayed outside.”

“Difficult?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?
What do you mean,
why?”

“OK. Sorry. Stupid … Are you OK?”

“Yes. I miss you.”

“But you're not sad you go to England?”

“No. I don't know yet really. I only saw Jenny for a few seconds. We'll see how it goes afterwards.”

“And London? Did you have fun?”

“I told you, I missed you so much, I couldn't enjoy it much.”

“But you must. I miss you too, but you have to enjoy your trip.”

“Are
you
OK?”

“Yes. I'm good.”

“You still in Bogotá?”

“Yes. Tomorrow I'll go back.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“But you must be feeling sad?”

“It feels strange. That she's gone.”

“I'm sure.”

“But we knew, didn't we? She was old. And ill. It's kind of relief too.”