Sleight of Hand (5 page)

“Right.”

“Maybe I shouldn't think this, or say it … How is Jenny?”

“She didn't look brilliant. She's lost loads of weight.”

“Well, that's maybe a good thing.”

“She's looking a bit skinny actually. And tired. She's smoking again.”

“Well, you can look after her a bit now.”

“I'm not sure she wants me to.”

“No, of course. Well, be extra nice to Sarah.”

“Of course.”

“It will help.”

“Help?”

“It's psychology, Chupy. If you're nice to her kid, it will make things easier. It's the way women work.”

“Sure. Well, I
was
going to kick her and spit on her, but now you mention it, I think I'll buy her an ice cream instead.”

“It's probably better. Is it ice-cream weather over there?”

“Yes. It's lovely actually. I'm sitting on a bench in the church garden in the sun.”

“It's raining here.”

“It's
always
raining there. Do you miss me a bit?”

“I miss you so much pumpkin, you have no idea. The worse is sleeping alone. The bed so cold. But I know you'll be back soon.”

“Two weeks seems like too long now.”

“Yes. But it'll be fine. You'll see.”

“This call must be costing a fortune.”

“Yes. It's a mobile, so a fortune. Where are you staying tonight?”

“I don't know yet. I have my stuff with me, so probably at a hotel nearby.”

A sparrow lands on the furthest arm of the bench and looks at me quizzically. I wish I could show Ricardo.

“If you have a normal phone, text me the number and I can call you,” Ricardo says.

“OK. And if I have wifi I can Skype you. Are you at your mum's place?”

“No Chupy. I'm staying with friends. I didn't want to stay in the flat on my own.”

“Oh good. I'm glad you're not on your own.”

“Just text me the number and I'll call you.”

“OK. Love you.”

“You too, mi amor. You too. Good luck with Jenny and Tom.”

“Thanks. I'll need it.”

“Ciao.”

“Ciao.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

“I'm hanging now.”

“OK. It's hanging
up
though.”

“Sorry?”

“You have to say,
hanging up
. Hanging is something different.”

“OK. Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Are you still there Chupy?”

“Yes.”

“OK, here goes. I'm really hanging
up
now.”

“Bye.”

I sigh and smile at the phone and slip it back in my pocket.

“He's gone now,” I say to the sparrow. “Now, what do
you
want?”

Being spoken to apparently is not what the sparrow wants. It hops and flutters away.

And then, feeling a hundred times happier than before the call, I head off in search of a cup of coffee and a sandwich.

Wakes are always strange affairs. Sometimes everyone is shell-shocked and miserable – people who really just want to be alone with their grief. But just as often everyone ends up drunk and full of inappropriate laughter.

Jenny's mother's sendoff is in a class of its own though. It feels like a subdued, unpopular village fête. Three old ladies are serving cucumber sandwiches and pouring tea, mainly, it would seem, for themselves.

The single man, a dapper, grey haired chap, is smoking his pipe, respectfully blowing his fumes through a cracked window. At the bottom of the garden, beneath an apple tree, I can see Tom and Jenny sitting on a floral swing-chair. They are holding glistening tumblers with slices of lemon and ice cubes. I see that Tom alone spots me peering out at them. And I see that he pretends not to notice.

I tuck my bag in a cupboard under the stairs and, refusing a cup of tea, head for the kitchen. If I have to face Tom again, I need a drink first.

I find a bottle of Bombay Sapphire in the fridge, and pour myself a stiff gin and tonic.

“There's vodka in the freezer if you prefer,” a voice says behind me. I turn to see the man with the pipe, now extinguished, winking at me. “That's what the other youngsters are drinking,” he explains, nodding towards the garden.

“More of a gin man, myself,” I say, realising as I say it that I have for some reason copied his clipped major's accent.

“Mother's ruin,” he says.

“So they say. Can I serve you one?”

“No, strictly tea here I'm afraid,” he says. “Driving and all.”

I hold out a hand and we shake. “Mark,” I say.

“Mark also,” he says. “A friend of Jenny's, is it?”

The
“is it,”
amuses me, because, with his accent he sounds like Armstrong and Miller.

I resist the urge to reply,
“Isn't it, though?”

“Yes,” I say, “a friend.” I wonder if that's a lie.

“I knew Marge way back when she used to come to dos at the Rotary club. Didn't know her well, of course. Not a great socialite, our Marge. And she stopped coming when Frank died, but I heard the turnout was low, so …”

“That's sweet of you,” I say.

“The ladies are from the church.”

“Right,” I say. “Was Marge religious?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. Too pragmatic for that I should think. C of E. You know, weddings and funerals.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, you go talk to Jenny,” he says, opening the back door for me. “I'm sure that's why you're here.”

I force a smile, take a deep breath, and step into the back garden. “See you in a bit,” I say as the door swings shut behind me.

The sun is moving behind a neighbour's bush and the temperature is dropping fast. Tom is already striding towards me, his jacket flapping as he walks.

“Tom!”
Jenny protests behind him, and then she sighs and simply looks the other way.

“I can't believe you're here,” he says.

“I can't believe your stress levels,” I retort.

“Funny guy. Can't you just leave us alone?”

“Can't you just chill, Tom?”

“Chill? Jesus, you've got a nerve. Do you think Jenny wants to see you? Do you think I do?” His eyes are flaming. A vein on his forehead is pulsing like a beacon, and I can't help but notice that there is something rather magnificent about him when angry.

“Today isn't really about you, Tom,” I say in a tone as warm as I can muster. “It's about Jenny.”

“And you think that what Jenny needs today is to see you?” Tom says. “You really think that the one thing Jenny needs right now is
your
sorry arse turning up?”

“Tom, I get that you hate my guts,” I say. “And I understand that. And I'm sorry about that. Really. But …” I see that Jenny is now standing and crossing the lawn towards us.

“This isn't about me,” Tom says. “And I don't hate your guts. I don't give a fuck about you. But really. Her
mother
has just died. And the last thing she needs right now …”

“I invited him, Tom,” Jenny says, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder.

“But he's a cunt,” Tom says.

“Maybe, but I
invited
him,” Jenny says again.

I would have preferred it had Jenny disagreed, but such is life. If you don't want people to describe you as a cunt, you have to avoid acting like one, and as I have discovered, that isn't always easy. Karma.

Tom works his mouth, his cheeks are turning blotchy. He glances at me, and then turns away to face Jenny. “I'm sorry Jen, but … I really don't think I can do this,” he says. He pushes past me into the house and slams the kitchen door behind him.

“I'm sorry,” I tell her. “I had no idea that it would be so difficult.”

Jenny thinks about this for a while, and then, unexpectedly she laughs – a genuine, honest, cackle of a laugh. “You didn't?” she asks, tears in her eyes.

I frown at her.

“Oh Mark,” she says, her mirth fading to bitterness as she speaks. “You've really no idea, have you?” She hands me her glass and heads back towards the swing chair. “Get me a refill. Vodka and tonic, ice, lemon. I need to get
spectacularly
drunk.”

When I re-enter the kitchen, Tom continues our game of musical chairs by immediately returning outside. “Glad to see we're being grown-up about this,” I mutter as I fish the vodka from the freezer.

I wait a little while before returning outside. I watch Tom, his back to me, his arms flapping, as he protests to Jenny. It strikes me that he looks a bit like a penguin.

I think, “
Of course, this is
exactly
what Jenny needs.”

Jenny sighs and rolls her eyes, and looks away, and then finally shrugs and says what looks like,
“Well what do you want me to do?”
at which Tom stomps off to the front of the house. I take this as my cue and push back outside.

When I hand Jenny her drink, she says, “He's still angry, that's the thing.”

I nod and raise an eyebrow. “Yes, I kind of picked up on that,” I say.

“I'm not exactly … whatever the opposite of angry is … myself,” she says, sipping at her drink.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I really am. But there's not much more I can say.”

“No,” Jenny says, avoiding eye contact. “Well … just keep saying it then. Maybe if you say it enough. Maybe it's like anti-wrinkle cream.”

“Anti wrinkle cream?”

“The more you use it, the better it works.”

“Right. Where's Sarah?” I ask, thinking that a subject change might do us good here.

“At nursery,” Jenny says. “I decided she's too young for funerals.”

“Sure,” I say. “Will I see her?”

“In a bit,” Jenny says. “I have to go and get her at five. Actually what time is it?”

“Fourish,” I say. I check my phone. “Ten to actually.”

“Look … I'm sorry, but …” Jenny glances to the side of the house and then pulls a face.

“Yes?”

“Tom is leaving at half four. He has a taxi booked. Would it be too much to ask for you to … you know … go for a wander say. Just till half four?”

I smile sadly and shake my head. “Of course not. Do you need anything? Any shopping or anything?”

“No. Only vodka.”

“There's a bottle and a half in the freezer. And masses of tonic too.”

Jenny shrugs. “Then no … nothing.”

“OK, I'll see you in a bit.”

“Thanks,” she says.

At the front of the house, Tom is sitting on the wall. “I'm off, Tom,” I tell him. “She's all yours.”

“She told you where to go then,” he says.

I nod calmly at him and head off across the close. I feel a desire, of all things, to hug him – to walk over and hold him until he weeps. In his current state, of course, he would probably punch me first.

As I walk to the main road, as I retrace my steps to the greasy cafe, I think about all the years Tom and I spent together. All the places we have been.
All the adventures we had. And it just breaks my heart that it has all come to this.

If he could see inside my head, he would understand of course. He would realise that none of it was meant, that I never did anything with malicious intent. But of course he can't see inside my head. He has decided, instead, to lock me out. And like an autistic child in therapy, I want more than anything else to sit and hold him until he breaks.

It's nearly five when I get back to the house and a lone church-lady is finishing the dishes in the now-spotless kitchen.

“Hello. I'm Penny,” she says. “You were here before, weren't you? Jenny's outside. I think she's had a bit too much to drink.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Are you hanging around for a bit? Because I didn't want to leave her on her own.”

“I'm not sure,” I say. “Probably. Hopefully.”

She purses her lips at me.

“It's complicated,” I say.

“The course of true love never did run true,” she says. “You go talk to her. She needs her friends right now and there don't seem to be many of you around.”

I peer out at Jenny swinging alone on the love seat, and then return to the hallway for a coat before crossing the garden to join her. “Put this on,” I tell her. “You'll catch your death of cold.”

Jenny looks up at me and wobbles her head in a drunken gesture of acquiescence. I drape the coat over her shoulders.

“What happened to your finger?” I ask, noting a fresh, bloody plaster.

“Shlicing frozen lemons,” she says. “With the ham slicer.” She sounds plastered.

I pull a face as I imagine the scene.

“I'm sorry about Tom,” she says. “He's just a baby really.”

I nod and take a seat next to her. “Yes, I know.”

“You broke his heart though,” she says.

“Yeah. Well … he didn't do much for mine,” I reply.

Jenny raises an eyebrow and stares me in the eye for the first time today. “Don't go there,” she says. “Really. Not with me. Don't dare.”

“No,” I say. “Sorry.”

“That was an awful thing you … Really.”

“I'm sorry. It wasn't meant, if that makes any difference.”

“What does that mean?” she asks. “It wasn't
meant?”

I shrug. “Sorry, even I don't know.”

“No,” she says, thoughtfully. “It
is
cold,” she says, standing, and then reaching out to steady herself on the arm of the chair. “I didn't notice really.”

“How many of those have you had?”

“Three. Four, maybe. This tastes disgusting though,” she says, emptying the drink on the grass. “What did you put in it?”

“Nothing. Vodka. Tonic. Have you eaten anything?”