The Sexopaths (38 page)

Monique glides in deathly
dreamless peace beside him, her calm repose belying the turmoil that, once her
lids flicker, will surely carjack her consciousness and ram-raid her fragile
sanctuary.  How can she, so lovely, be host to such hideousness?  Last
evening they’d gone through the agonising motions of normality – what
should have been a ‘nice night’, was planned to be such, became instead a kind
of wake – after Camille had been folded protesting into bed, they’d eaten
their meal in almost stunned silence, unable to laugh or smile or joke, or
discuss the thousand things they’d seen in China, the future suddenly
uncertain, the present on hold.  His world had fallen in, just when it
seemed as though clear skies beckoned.  They’d gone to bed early, an unspoken
concord, he’d sensed – the sooner comes sleep the sooner the morning will
permit some action – with Monique curled against him, her trials wrapped
up in his arms.  He looks at her now, wonders again – how must it
feel?  What is hell for him… for her… he can’t begin to imagine.  She
opens her eyes.  She smiles – beams optimism, bravery that brings a
lump to his throat – leans across to kiss him, peeps over him at the
clock, spins out of bed and pads out of the room.  After a couple of
seconds she returns, saying:

‘My darling – we’re late
– Camille is still asleep.  I’m just going to phone the clinic.’

He nods and thinks what an easy
option he has: Camille is going to be late for school – the tiresome rush
to wash and brush and dress and eat – so insignificant.  He hears
Monique’s voice downstairs; shortly she calls up to him:

‘Adam – they can see me at
ten o’clock.’

He leans over the balcony. 
‘That’s good – we can drop Camille and I’ll drive you there afterwards.’

‘Are you sure?  I thought you
had important things to catch up with at the office.’

‘I’ll take you –
okay
.’ 
It’s a statement and he senses her relief.

‘Okay, my darling.’

He prays the clinic’s willingness
to accommodate her so quickly reflects only an unexpected degree of efficiency.

***

Adam checks the time on the
console’s display: it’s almost three – Monique will be telephoning for
the results about now; he’d wanted to be home while she made the call, but
knows she won’t wait.  He crosses his fingers on the steering wheel. 
The traffic is unusually heavy – though it’s not a regular time for him
to be making the journey – he’s regretting his choice of route, rat-runs
known by too many private-school mums, unseeing and distracted by the chatter
of received pronunciation in their lumbering four-by-fours.  He trembles
minutely like he’s en route to an exam – but how dare he even make the
comparison?  What has he ever experienced that remotely approaches
Monique’s quandary?  The wait before venturing out on his driving
test?  Getting padded up in the pavilion when the quicks are on and an
‘owzat?’
goes up?  Last class of the day and knowing you have to fight outside the
school gates?  There is nothing that compares – whenever can one
side of the binary outcome be so terrible, so devastating, so portentous of
trauma and heartache to follow?  What’s a fail or a duck or a bloody nose
when cancer is disappearing off the end of the same scale?  Since the
opening of the letter yesterday he’s been unable to mention the word, incapable
of saying to Monique that, should the result be bad, together they will battle
it all the way, that these days – caught early – it’s often just an
inconvenience, perhaps no more worth worrying about than a routine operation
for a hernia or appendicitis or gall stones; instead, unprepared to entertain
the prospect of his beloved friend being cut by the surgeon’s uncertain knife,
of chances that may be less than one hundred percent, he’s simply repeated a
naïve mantra: that he’s sure – no, that he knows – that everything
will be okay… they are all going to be okay.

Hadn’t the doctor intimated as
much this morning?  He’d been allowed to stay with Monique during an
initial consultation and physical examination in an anteroom, before he’d been
told it was time for him to retreat to reception, like the father-to-be in days
gone by.  He’d kissed Monique and hugged her, and had joined the other
glum husbands and partners and relatives who sat round in silent rocking
desperation, a union to which no one wanted to belong.  The female
consultant, a twinkling sprite in a wrinkled prune’s aged body, had been
efficient yet encouraging, honest yet heartening: they take every precaution to
enable them to act rapidly should it be required, but most calcifications do
not ultimately give cause for concern.  It was for such tiny spots of
matter that Monique had been recalled: she was to undergo further, more focused
mammography, and had also brought her last set of scans, dating from shortly
after Camille’s birth, so the analysts could compare any changes.  She’d
emerged quite shortly afterwards, smiling even as she rounded the corner to
face him; he’d wondered was this an act of selfless heroism for his
benefit?  And although she wasn’t able to tell him she was clear –
they’d have to wait until three p.m. while two more experts checked over the
x-rays independently – she’d seemed relieved, uplifted even, her
customary gaiety reaching from beneath the still waters of the past hours,
Excalibur
brandished.

He turns into their driveway and it’s
three-twenty.  Why hasn’t Monique phoned him?  Has she had bad news…
or maybe just not been able to get through to the clinic?  He hurries
indoors, his heart is in his mouth – hears voices: Monique’s… and another
female; they’re laughing.  He enters the kitchen… and there they are,
Monique and Jasmin-Sharon, perched on barstools, drinking champagne! 
Recognising his confusion, Monique reaches out for him to kiss her; he
questions her with eye-contact: she seems to reciprocate that all is okay; he
kisses Jasmin-Sharon, more formally.  Monique says:

‘My darling, Sharon has just come
round by taxi especially to say goodbye – she is very happy so were are
having a little drink to celebrate.  Will you have a glass?’

He hesitates.  He wants to
know for sure that she has been given the all-clear.  But perhaps she
doesn’t want to speak of it in front of Jasmin-Sharon.  It would be just
like Monique to put someone else before her own much greater need.  He
says:

‘I’d better wait until later
– I thought I’d collect Camille a bit earlier – maybe we could take
her out for a pizza as a treat, since we’ve been away?’

‘That is a nice idea, my
darling.  You could give Sharon a lift.’

He turns to Jasmin-Sharon. 
‘Where are you headed?’

‘To Spain – I’m going back
to live in Spain – I fly out tomorrow.’

Adam had meant
to where in
town
would she need a lift, but he picks up her thread.  ‘Sounds
good.  Which part?’

‘Marbella.  A friend has
asked me to go and look after some apartments – manage them for holiday
visitors – so I’ll get free accommodation.’

‘Hey – maybe we’ll come and
visit; it is so cold already it feels like there is a long winter ahead.’

‘I’ll give you special rates.’

‘We know all about your special
rates!’

***

‘So that’s great news about
Monique.’

‘Yeah… thankfully.’  She
must have told Jasmin-Sharon about her scare. 
Scare
– that’s
what it was, that’s what he can call it now, a false alarm, a figment of their
collective imagination.  A scare.  A wave of relief suffuses his
veins; he grips the steering wheel momentarily harder.  He wants to whoop.

‘You don’t exactly sound
excited.’  Jasmin-Sharon’s tone is playfully reprimanding.

‘I feel it’s more a case of being
fortunate – when you see others who are probably not so lucky.’

‘I suppose so.’  She nods thoughtfully.

He doesn’t want to discuss it
with Jasmin-Sharon, he doesn’t want to hear the account second hand.  He
says:

‘Spain, then… what’s the story?’

‘You guessed?’

‘Did I?’

‘Xara – it’s one of Xara’s
properties, she’s got this block of six apartments on a golf course.’

He hadn’t guessed. 
Xara.  And Jasmin-Sharon evidently hasn’t shared this particular detail
with Monique.  ‘So you didn’t completely fall out?’

‘Hablo Espanol.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I have my uses – I speak
Spanish.’

‘Another of your hidden talents.’

She puts a hand on his
thigh.  ‘I’ll miss you and Monique.  I’m really sorry I never made it
that night.’

Adam glances across at her. 
He’s tempted to ask ‘How is your Grandfather?’ but discretion gets the better
of him.  He says:

‘Monique will miss you –
she’s liked having you as a friend.’

‘Whereas you…’

‘I like you, too…
Sharon
.’

‘You’ll like me better in Spain…
out of your hair.’  She squeezes his thigh.  ‘It’s okay – I
understand.’

He doesn’t deny it.  They
drive on in silence.  He wonders if he can ask her whether she and Monique
got together, whether she led Monique further astray, but there’s something
that stops him from broaching the subject.  In any event, she probably
wouldn’t tell him.  After a couple of minutes, she asks him if he minds if
she smokes.  He says no.  She lowers the window.  After a second
deep drag, charged, she slides lower in her seat, as though bracing herself for
an impact.  She says:

‘There’s some other news –
something you’ll probably be glad about…’

‘Oh?’

‘Xara’s gone.’

‘What do you mean,
gone?
’

‘She’s left the country –
gone to Brazil.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Why would I joke?’

‘Hence your Spanish…
opportunity?’

‘Correct.  I’ve also got the
keys to apartment number seven… in fact, if you could drop me there.  It’s
up for sale.  I need to collect a couple of things.’

An eerie sensation has crept over
Adam’s skin – he feels his hairs standing on end – is it
premonition, previously unrecognised, almost fulfilled?  Within, his
emotions are numbed, his thoughts confused, paralysed; he’s unable to process
how he feels or how he ought to feel.  His voice sounds disembodied as he
asks:

‘When did she leave?’

‘Two weeks ago.’

‘She had a flight…’

He trails off into silence. 
Jasmin-Sharon casts an interrogative glance his way.  She says:

‘I shouldn’t worry – she’s
been planning it for ages… for years.’

He wonders if Jasmin-Sharon has
known all along, or whether only recently has she been enlightened.  He
says:

‘A retirement plan?’

‘I wouldn’t call it retirement.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s pregnant.’

Adam sees flashes of the girl
before his eyes, a tawny Madonna with child; they’re both naked, the boy
paler.  He hears himself ask:

‘Was that part of the plan?’

She inhales on the cigarette,
exhales slowly as if weighing up her answer.  She speaks quietly:

‘With Xara… you never can say.’

Now she’s watching him closely,
as though anticipating his reaction, waiting for confirmation.  But time
descends upon them: he pulls the car into the kerb, halts on a double-yellow
line.  He swallows and says:

‘We’re here.’

She drops what remains of the
cigarette into the gutter, smoothes her short skirt over her black-stockinged
thighs.  She says:

‘You could park in that
supermarket.’

She parts her legs and reaches
down into the footwell for her handbag.  She extracts a hairbrush, affects
a couple of cursory tugs and then draws her locks round onto her right
shoulder.  He decodes the symbolism.  A desire to see the inside of
the apartment sweeps over him.  He says:

‘And are you really going to be
the manager… manageress – in Marbella?’

She stiffens a little, as if she
senses a rejection.  She says:

‘Sooner or later I have to lead a
normal life.’

He leans forward and takes his
wallet from his back pocket.  He strips it of notes; a substantial
sum.  He says:

‘When you get there… the first
time you think of… you know?  Keep this – maybe it’ll help.’

She takes the money and leans
around to plant a kiss on his mouth, prolonged, the fingers of her left hand
sliding into his crotch.

‘Sure you don’t want to park?’

‘I need to collect Camille.’

She nods, levers herself out of
the car, then totters around to his window, braving the traffic.  She
bends to speak:

‘You know that time you mentioned
– you said, just the two of us – at Xara’s place?’

Adam nods.

‘It wasn’t me.’

***

‘Daddy, can I have a plaster?’

‘What for?’

‘Esme Paige kicked me on the
leg.’

‘On purpose?’  Adam is
indignant.

‘No.  She was trying to kick
Sophie Grainger under the table.’

‘Hmm.  Are you okay?’

‘There’s no blood.’

‘Maybe you don’t need a plaster.’

‘I
want
a plaster.’

‘Look – I’ll see when we
get home.  You might need
Arnica
.’

‘Who’s Arnica?’

Adam can’t repress a half-laugh,
but does his best to morph it into a poor imitation of a cough.  Camille,
as ever sharp as a tack, complains:

‘It’s not funny, Daddy!’

‘I know – you just say some
good things.  You make me remember that what one person says isn’t always
what the other person hears.’

‘Like not telling the truth?’

‘Well… not exactly.  Lies
are on purpose.’

‘Miss McGregor says it’s okay to
tell a lie so you don’t hurt someone’s feelings.  Is that right, Daddy?’

Adam stares down the line of red
tail-lights ahead.  Camille’s question, like a well-aimed Springer
Spaniel, unleashed, flushes out all manner of flustered game from the dense
cover of his mind.  With typical impatience, she persists: