Sleight of Hand (29 page)

I don't generally bother looking at my own, but when I do it's a sure fire sign that something serious is wrong and that I can't work out how to fix it – I use the dose of daily platitudes as a starting point to try to help me think about my problems rather than as any kind of answer to them.

On Monday, for example, my horoscope tells me to get “out and about” (it's pissing with rain), to “communicate with loved ones” (Ricardo isn't answering phones, sms or email), and it warns me that work colleagues will be demanding (when of course, I don't have any).

Now clearly, for most people, on most days, these are three nigh-on universal truths – universal truths that simply happen to have no bearing on my life, here, today.

These neutral horoscopes and the miserable reality continue all week. The rain continues to lash against the bay window; Jenny continues to feel sick and to sleep. Ricardo has either been unexpectedly murdered or is ignoring my calls, and without a nursery where I can take Sarah, or a TV in front of
which I can park her I am unable to work on my translations, or paint the spare room, or, in fact, do anything useful at all.

And so I sit and play games with Sarah and stare out at the rain and alternate between worrying about my relationship with Ricardo, and worrying about Ricardo himself.

On Friday Jenny's horoscope promises that “modern technology will bring good news,” and indeed the hospital phones to speak to her – a first.

I leave her bedroom door open but what I overhear doesn't sound very upbeat to me. Indeed, when the conversation is over I return upstairs and she hands me the handset saying, “So much for the good news.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and take her hand. A week of chemo has entirely undone my weeks of pancake-therapy and she looks grey and translucent.

“I wish you'd eat something,” I say, stroking her hand.

“Not hungry,” she says. “Apparently my creatine levels were all wrong.”

“Which means?”

She shrugs. “Something to do with my kidneys. I have to go back on Monday.”

“Right,” I say. “Why were you telling them you've been fine?”

“Were you spying on me?”

“Not really,” I lie, “But I overheard you saying how well you've been.”

“Well …” she says, “I'm OK really.”

“You're
OK?”

“Well … I suppose I don't want to be bumped off the trial,” she says.

“Right,” I say. “Of course. But I don't think you should lie to them. It might be dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, so might being bumped off the trial,” she points out.

“Yes,” I say. “Point taken. Well, it's up to you, I suppose.”

Downstairs, I attempt to phone Ricardo to ask him what creatine is, but he's still apparently filtering my calls and so I look it up on the internet instead and learn merely that it's a “reliable” measure of kidney function.

I slump onto the sofa beside Sarah. “I'm bored,” she says.

“Me too,” I agree. “Let's look up our stars again. Here, yours says …
the bad rain outside is a perfect opportunity to do some drawing.”

“OK,” she says, brightly. “What does yours say?”

“Mine says exactly the same,” I tell her, “so it looks like we have to do some drawing
together
. Go get the crayons.”

What my horoscope actually says is that all things must come to an end, and that if I look carefully I can already see the first signs of what the coming changes might be. Sadly, it doesn't tell me whether it's referring to Jenny's participation in the trial, my own continued presence in Pevensey Bay, or my relationship with Ricardo, but it does say that it's time to dream about what comes next.

Sarah draws a picture of Jenny smiling and surrounded by flowers, and I draw a picture of a beach-house with a cat and two men on the balcony, and as if in answer to my own dream, my phone finally beeps with an SMS from Ricardo.

“Sorry Chupy, V busy for a week. Will explain. Text me your new address if you want a surprise. Love you.”

‘Hum, that's more like it,” I say, tapping my reply. “Technology brings good news,” I murmur, already conveniently forgetting that that was Jenny's horoscope, not mine.

*

Because we have Sarah with us, Jenny goes to her consultation with Professor Batt alone whilst Sarah and I visit the Natural History museum. We discover here, that Sarah has a previously unrevealed passion for dinosaurs.

When we return to pick Jenny up two hours later she is nowhere to be seen, and it takes almost an hour of wandering around oncology before I manage to collar Professor Batt's secretary. She informs us that Jenny has been settled in a general ward.

“What's up sweetie?” I ask, when we finally track her down.

“Don't worry,” Jenny says, reaching out with her free hand to ruffle Sarah's hair. “It's not as bad as it looks.”

But Sarah
isn't
worried. “Mummy we saw dinosaurs. We saw a tyrosauris rex and a diplodogpuss …” she burbles.

“A Ty-rann-o-saurus Rex,” I enunciate. “And a Dip-lo-do-cus.”

“They're like monsters,” Sarah tells her wide eyed.

“So what's all this?” I ask her. “It took us ages to track you down. Your phone off?”

“Yeah, they're not allowed in here. Didn't you get my text?”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“Oh, sorry. I sent one anyway.”

“So what's with
that
monster?” I ask nodding at the machine.

“It's dialysis,” she says.

“Dialysis?”

“Yeah. Nothing serious. But they reckon my kidneys need a holiday. Especially because that's how Dad, you know …” She nods at Sarah.

“Family precedent,” I say.

“Exactly.”

Frustratedly unable to judge how much of Jenny's upbeat attitude is theatre for Sarah's benefit and how serious this new development really is, I ask, “And the trial?”

“Um, should be OK,” Jenny says, catching my eye. “Probably OK.”

“Probably.”

“Yeah … Anyway …” she says, swallowing and licking her lips.

“And how long does this machine have to whirr for?” I ask, nodding at the dialysis machine.

“Oh, I have to stay in. Till Wednesday.”

“Ah! So you were right.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Good job I packed that bag.”

“Shall I go and get it?”

“I guess,” she says, then to Sarah, “Are you staying here with me? Or …”

“Yes,” Sarah says, definitely.

“OK. But only until Mark gets back with my bag. Then you have to go with him, OK? Mummy has to stay here for two days.”

“OK,” Sarah says, with almost insulting ease. “What are those tubes?”

“They go to that machine,” Jenny explains as I start to walk away. “They take the blood out of my body and that machine gives it a good scrub and then puts it back.”

“Is it dirty?”

“Apparently, yes. Apparently it is.”

When I return, someone has pulled the curtains around her bed, so they don't see me approach.

Inside, I can hear Jenny saying, “OK, you like them all but who do you like best?”

“Um, Tom,” Sarah replies definitely.

“Tom?”

“No Mark,” she says.

“So Mark?”

“No Tom!” Sarah giggles.

Jenny laughs. “OK, you like them both,” she says.

“Mark plays games better,” Sarah says.

“So Mark?”

“But Tom gets those special cakes.”

I stick my head through the curtain and Jenny averts her gaze and blushes.

“What's with the curtains?” I ask.

“Oh, it's just this one mucking around,” Jenny says. “Can you open them for me?”

“No!” Sarah shouts.

“Hey Missy, you're coming with me now. So we have to open these, otherwise Mummy gets into trouble.”

I open one side, and then, as I open the other, Sarah closes it again.

“Is she on a sugar rush?” Jenny asks.

“Nope,” I say. “Just dinosaurs.”

“Just leave them closed,” Jenny says. “The nurse can do it once you've gone.”

But now that she is authorised to leave them closed, Sarah decides to open them after all. Once she has done so, I grab her hand.

“OK then. We need to get going,” I tell her. “We have to get food for tea on the way home.”

I wink at Jenny and say, “I'll call you tomorrow,” and she winks back.

As I lead Sarah away, she asks me, “Where's the new book?”

“The dinosaur one? In the car.”

“Can I look at it?”

“Sure.”

As we reach the doorway, I glance back at Jenny and see her watching us. She looks profoundly sad, and I suddenly realise that though it's reassuring to see her daughter more preoccupied with dinosaurs than her mother's illness, a bit of affection clearly wouldn't go amiss.

“Blow mummy a kiss,” I whisper, “and tell her you love her.”

And, bless her, that's exactly what Sarah does.

Out in the car-park, thinking,
Anything Tom can do, I can do better
, I ask, “Shall we buy some cakes too. For after tea?”

“Yess!” Sarah says.

“What's your favourite?”

“Choklit.”

“Chocolate eclairs? The ones with the cream in the middle?”

“Yess!” she says.

“Those are my favourite too.”

“Oh,” she says, suddenly frowning. “Maybe we should get two then.”

Sarah's strange excitable mood continues during the drive home, throughout Tesco, and long into the evening.

For only the second time ever, I have to re-read her bedtime book because she hasn't yet fallen asleep. Only when, amidst much protest, I switch from the far-too-exciting dinosaur book back to
Derek the Sleepy Dormouse
, does she finally calm down and drift off.

As I creep downstairs, I check the time on my phone and see that it's nearly ten. The lounge is in darkness, and the beach beyond the bay-window looks eerily luminous.

I cross the room and look out at the full moon. It's almost as bright as daylight out there and I wonder if this is why Sarah has been so hyper.

I stand in the darkness and think about Ricardo. I wonder if I'll be able to call him tomorrow. I wonder why he's so busy. I wonder how long the post will take to deliver whatever it is that he is sending me.

Just as I start to turn back into the room, a figure appears on the other side of the glass, literally inches away. The shock makes me gasp in surprise.

And then he waves at me in an old familiar way and I realise who it is, and reach out to release the window catch. “What the hell are
you
doing here?” I ask.

Tom shrugs, grins, and steps into the lounge. “This,” he says, grabbing my head with both hands and kissing me.

“Jesus Tom!” I splutter, pulling away. “What's got into you?”

He looks around the darkened room. “Jenny's in hospo right?”

“Well yeah.”

“So no one needs to know.”

“Yeah, but … Well, Sarah's upstairs.”

“Asleep.”

“Well yes, but …”

Tom steps towards me forcing me further back into the room. “Tom!” I protest. “What on Earth?”

I back up again, but my shins make contact with the couch, and as I glance behind me, Tom takes advantage and pushes me so that I end up losing my balance and sitting. But as he fumbles with his big duffle coat, I slip out sideways and return to the open window which I close before turning back to face him.

“Tom, this is crazy,” I say as he throws the coat onto a chair, and fiddles with his cuffs Prince-Charles-style.

He's wearing a grey checked suit, brogues, and a big turquoise tie. Fetishes are absurd I know, and who could ever explain where any of them come from? But absurd or not, I never could resist Tom in a suit. I take in his rigid cutaway collar, the bulge forming in front his silky trousers, the shiny blue knot of his tie, and my mouth starts to water, and my own dick hardens.

Tom sees all of this and grins smugly as he unbuttons his jacket and smooths his tie against his chest, and I decide that he probably changed into these clothes specifically for the purpose of seducing me. And it's working, damn him.

“Fuck you look good in a suit,” I say, shaking my head.

Tom winks. “It's new,” he says, crossing the room. “Hugo Boss.”

He slides his hands around my waist, and kisses me tenderly on the lips. “It's a virgin suit,” he says. “Sven doesn't get the whole suit thing.”

“No?”

“No,” he says, kissing me again.

“Shit Tom,” I say. “You have a boyfriend. I have a boyfriend. This is crazy.”

“Exes don't count,” he says.

“You keep saying that,” I mutter, pulling him against me and looking over his shoulder, in fact to avoid kissing him.

But the hug feels great too. He nuzzles my neck with his beard making me sigh, and as he pulls me tighter I can sense his dick against mine. I can feel his buttocks through the suit trousers.

I push him away just far enough to look into his eyes. “Sacré Tom!” I say.

He shrugs. “It's just a hug,” he says.

“Only it isn't, is it?”

“Oh for fuck's sake,” he says. “When will you just relax about sex?”

I shake my head and look into his eyes.

“You want it, and I want it, and no one ever needs to know,” he says. “So where's the problem?”

“Hum …” I say, doubtfully.

“If I tell anyone, you can tell Sven,” he says.

“Only I don't know Sven.”

“Well no. That's better isn't it? You don't need to feel guilty.”

“Maybe,” I say. My dick is doing its best to convince me to cave in here. “It still doesn't seem right,” I say weakly.