Sleight of Hand (30 page)

Tom laughs.

“Shhh!” I say. “You'll wake Sarah. Are you stoned?”

“Of course,” he says, pulling a funny face and sinking to his knees. “Better put something in my mouth to keep me quiet.”

“Not here,” I say, suddenly aware of the expanse of glass behind me. I take his hand and pull him through to the kitchen.

I close the kitchen door and Tom pushes me back against it and kneels before me again. Just as before, my resistance melts at first contact.
“The power of sex. Never underestimate it,”
I think. “Oh yeah,” I say, as he flicks his tongue around the top of my dick.

“Uh, Umm,” Tom murmurs, pulling a condom from his pocket and holding it up for me to grasp.

He stands and his trousers crumple around his ankles – he's not wearing any underpants.

And then he turns to face the yellow formica counter top.

And there, in the windowless kitchen, still in his shirt and tie, but with his trousers around his ankles, I fuck him, and much as I would like to say otherwise, it feels heavenly. It feels as warm and intimate, as dirty and exciting, and as animal and sexy as it ever did.

We come together, me inside him, and Tom all over his brogues, and then, suddenly awkward, I'm wrapping the condom and stuffing it to the bottom of the bin, and Tom is mopping up with kitchen roll and straightening his tie.

Looking for all the world as if he has just sold me some insurance, he pecks me on the cheek and returns to the lounge for his overcoat.

I follow him through.

“Sorry, early start tomorrow,” he says, his hand already on the front door. “But I'll call you.”

Once he has gone, I sit and stare at the moonlit beach and shake my head in disbelief at what I have just done, and wonder what this now means.

I wish my emotions were more simplistic, more masculine. I wish I could just
fuck
instead of making love, but it's a separation I have never been able to manage.

And having
made love
with Tom, all I can do now that he has gone, is sit and stare at the view and wonder what to do with all this love that I have made.

Come Wednesday, Jenny travels back from London on the train alone. She insists that she has never felt better, and indeed, when Sarah and I pick her up at Eastbourne station she looks brighter-eyed than I have seen her in a while.

It's not until Sarah is in bed that evening, that we are able to discuss her treatment.

“So?” I ask her as she returns from the kitchen with two mugs of hot chocolate.

“So?” she repeats.

“The verdict from professor Twat?”

“Oh,” she says, wrinkling her nose and sliding into the seat opposite. “Well … you know I'm on two combined drugs?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, one of them is … nephrotoxic I think it's called. Or nephratotoxic maybe. Anyway, it attacks the kidneys. Some people more than others.”

“Right.”

“And I'm one of the unlucky ones. Apparently my kidneys had almost packed up, which is why they put me on dialysis. But they picked up again once they got a break, so …”

“So what now?”

“They've changed my drug regime. Two thirds the dose, but more often. They reckon some people tolerate it better that way.”

“And if you don't?”

“Then they drop it to half the dose, which is as low as they can go.”

“And if …”

“Look Mark, there's no point going there. Really.”

“No.”

“Let's just take it all one step at a time.”

“Sure.”

“But of course, the answer is that if it still isn't working for me then I drop out of the trial. That's pretty much the end of the line.”

“Right. Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit indeed,” she says. “And you have to help me drink masses of water. I have to drink a minimum of three litres a day. I hate water, that's the thing. Stupid but true.”

“Maybe get some cordials,” I say.

“Yeah, I suppose. Maybe a mint one. I used to like that when I was a kid.”

“Hey, can't they just give you the non-toxic drug? I mean, if they need to change something?”

“I asked that. But no. It already failed in a previous trial. Which is why they're combining it this time.”

“Right.”

“We just have to wait till next week and see how I do on two pills instead of three.”

“Sure.”

“Anyway, what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, presumably you have some news to share.”

“Do I?” I ask, frowning and wondering what Tom has told her.

“I presume you two
have
actually spoken to each other since.”

“Um … no, not really,” I say, trying to stifle my mounting anger.
“Sven, whoever he is, is sooo going to hear about this,”
I think.

“You haven't talked about it at all. But that's like, a week isn't it?”

“Oh!”
I say. “Oh, Ricardo, right. Um, well, no … Yes, I mean. He texted me. And we spoke briefly yesterday.”

Jenny frowns at me. “What did you think I meant?”

“Nothing,” I say.

She shakes her head in confusion and stands. “OK, well, I'm going to go for a quick walk along the beach.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. I've been in bed for three days. I missed it actually. Plus the forecast is for rain.”

“I thought I might paint the spare room tomorrow,” I say.

“Yes,” she says mockingly scolding me, “well, I thought it would be done by now, Mark.”

“Huh!” I exclaim. “I've been a slave to your daughter.”

“Sure. Well, we can do it together.”

“I think it'd be easier if one person looks after Sarah whilst the other one paints. You remember the pot of gloss paint and the hall carpet, right?”

“Sure. We can take it in turns. And any news from the other one?”

“The other one?”

“Yeah, the stealer of kisses.”

“Oh, Tom? No,” I say, wincing at the unconvincing sound of my own voice.

“I wonder if they're still coming on Saturday,” she says.

“Saturday?”

“Yeah. Tom phoned and said he was bringing the mythical Sven to dinner again, though to be
honest I'm doubting that he really exists. What are these?” she asks, picking up a pile of photos.

“They're my seascapes. I bought a photo printer in Tesco the other day. It was only forty quid.”

“They're lovely,” she says, leafing through. “A bit boring, but lovely.”

“I thought I'd take the same photo every day, and then make a huge picture out of them all. Like a mosaic.”

“Right,” she says, doubtfully.

“Just imagine a whole wall filled with them. All the same, but every one different.”

“You'd need a lot to fill a wall,” she says.

“Yep. Hundreds.”

“Well, hopefully you won't have to stay here for that long,” she says. And then she wrinkles her nose and puts the pile of photos down. “Maybe I hope that you
will
have to be here that long …” she says, thoughtfully. “Anyway …”

She slides open the bay window, and then smiles weakly at me from the other side. As I watch her head off across the beach, slowly becoming cloaked by the night, I realise that there are only two ways out of this for either of us. Jenny either gets better or she dies. And either of those could take a very long time.

It's stupid of me, I know, but it really hadn't dawned on me until now that this situation could actually take years to resolve itself. Which means that my relationship with Ricardo is, to all intents and purposes over. This is the end of the line for us as well, despite our pretence otherwise.

I stare unblinkingly at the window and let this new thought take over my mind. I wonder if Ricardo has already realised this. I wonder which of us will be the first to say it out loud.
Jesus!

I fully intend to be out by the time Tom and Sven arrive on Friday night, but the final coat of paint in my bedroom-to-be takes longer than I imagined and getting the paint out of my hair and fingernails takes even longer.

When I come downstairs I can see by the fading light that it's later than I intended. I glance at my phone to check the time just as I hear Jenny say, “Anyway, do come through,” and realise that they have already arrived.

Jenny appears from the kitchen carrying a tray of nibbles, followed by Sarah who is shyly hanging onto a corner of her mother's cardigan.

Behind her follow Tom and Sven.

Jenny must notice me gaping at Sven, because she mutters, “Don't stare now,” as she passes.

Tom pauses and kisses me on the cheek, and I shake hands with Sven, who doesn't appear to recognise me.

“Anyway, I'm off now, so have a lovely evening,” I say.

“Oh please stay,” Tom says. “You don't have to run off just because …”

“Honestly,” I interrupt. “I've been within these four walls all week. I'm looking forward to my night on the town.”

“Just have a drink,” Jenny says. “Just, you know, to be polite.”

“Yes, just a drink,” Sven says, in a thick Swedish accent. “I heard so many things about you.”

“Did you?” I ask, catching Tom's eye.

“Oh yes,” he says, saucily.

“Go get Mark a glass will you?” Jenny asks Sarah. “They're on the drainer. But walk back with it, don't run.”

“So you got rid of the smell,” Tom says, removing his jumper to reveal a peace-symbol t-shirt, and sitting down on the sofa. “Now it just stinks of paint.”

“Yes, we finished it,” Jenny says. “I did the first coat and Mark did the rest.”

“Maybe
, finished,” I say, hesitating about whether or not to sit next to Tom – he hasn't left much space. “I think the stain is seeping through again,” I add.

“Well, it's certainly better than it was,” Jenny says.

“I think you had better show me,” Tom says, jumping back up. Something in the way he maintains eye contact me makes me think that there's a reason for this – that he needs to tell me something, and thinking that it might be about Sven, I lead the way, saying, “It's only white really, but …”

Behind us I hear Jenny ask Sven, “So, what are you doing here in England Sven?”

Upstairs in the spare room, Tom closes the door with his arse and reveals that his hidden agenda is simply to kiss me.

“Tom!” I laugh, “Stop.”

He releases my head from between his hands and shrugs.

“Honestly,” I say. “Not with Sven downstairs. Actually, not
at all.”

“I find it pretty exciting myself,” he says.

“Yeah, well. I don't.”

“So this is the room,” Tom says. “Jenny got the better deal.”

“Yeah. The front bedroom is amazing, but … still, at least it doesn't stink now.”

“Sure,” he says. “We'll be needing a bed though.”

“Yeah …” I agree, before I realise. “Tom!”

He laughs and reaches for my arse, but I pull away and head out onto the landing and then, on the spur of the moment, I say, “I need to pee,” and take refuge in the bathroom. The door safely locked, I stand and try to work out what is happening here. Tom seems to be assuming that he now just
can
. Does that mean that he thinks we're now back together? And if so,
are we?
It's too much to process. It's too much, too fast. And I can't help but think that it's probably all some dreadful mistake. And yet, my heart is pounding.

Once I hear Tom return downstairs, I rearrange my arousal-indicator so that it can't be seen and head back down.

“Mark's right,” Tom is saying through a mouthful of peanuts. “It does still show.” It takes a few seconds before I realise that he's talking about the wall.

“I think it needs a final coat of some kind of special paint …” Jenny says.

As the conversation continues, I attempt to steal glances at Sven to make sure, but I'm certain, he is definitely the guy I saw in Schwartz, the “boy” who was led past me on the end of a dog lead.

After half an hour or so, Jenny heads through to the kitchen to check on her pie, and Tom follows her, so I am left with Sven.

“Anyway,” I say, standing. “I suppose I'd better get a move on.”

“It is closed,” Sven says. He pronounces closed,
clo-said
.

“What's that?”

“Scwartz,” he says. “They clo-said it for renovation.”

“Right,” I say, crossing the lounge for my jacket. “Well, I wasn't actually going there anyway, so.”

Sven snorts so I turn to look at him. “What?” I ask.

“He thinks you are such a good boy,” he says.

“Um, why don't you go see if you can carry something for Mummy,” I tell Sarah who is watching this exchange a little too acutely for my comfort.

Once she has left the room, I say, “I'm sorry Sven?”

“Tom, he thinks you are so nice. Such a
good
boy.”

“Well, that's just a joke,” I say. “Tom knows me pretty well.”

“No,” Sven says, lightly. “No, no joke. He thinks you are like the Mother Teresa.”

I shrug and force a smile, but Sven isn't smiling back.

“Maybe I tell him,” he says. “Maybe I tell him about the real Mark.”

“Well, you can if you want,” I say flatly. “But you know, people who live in glass houses …”

“I'm sorry. What? Grass houses?”

“No, it just means … look, I don't mind
what
you tell Tom, we're not together anymore. But if you do, you'll have to tell him you were in Schwarz too.”

“Oh Tom don't care about me!” Sven says. “He only worry about little Mark.”

“He
knows
you go to Schwarz with that guy?”