Sottopassaggio (21 page)

“Your jaw?” I repeat.

Jenny nods. “Humm,” she says. “The pain seems to be moving down. I was wondering why it was getting worse.”

“Did you see a doctor?” I ask.

Jenny shrugs. “No. I'll go Monday if it's not better,” she says. “And what on earth happened to Tom's
mother
?” she asks. “Did you know about that?”

I shake my head. “I knew he didn't want to go back to Italy. But I didn't know why,” I say.

Jenny yawns. “God, I'm knackered,” she says. “And, he said it was his fault too,” she continues. “Imagine that. Feeling responsible for the death of a parent.”

I glance regretfully into the
Bulldog
as we walk past.

“Maybe that's why he was weird,” I say. “Maybe we shouldn't have mentioned it.”

We cross the path of a group of girls in their late teens walking down the hill. They are wearing school uniform, but have tied knots in their white blouses to reveal their belly buttons. They are soaked with rain, and drunkenly laughing.

“God!” I say when they are past. “You don't get that in France.”

Jenny frowns. “What?”

“Those sort of dolly-dog teenagers,” I say. “Drunk with their tits hanging out.”

Jenny laughs. “Blame Britney Spears,” she says. “Everyone else does.”

We walk for a while in silence. I listen to the sound of our feet on the pavement and to the whooshing of cars driving past on the wet road.

I think about Tom. “People often blame themselves though,” I say.

Jenny glances sideways at me. “Uh?” she says.

“I mean Tom, you know… saying it's his fault. People often say that sort of thing when someone dies,”
I explain.

Jenny sighs. “Yeah. You mean like, if only I had called her to see if she was OK, she might not have killed herself sort of thing.”

I nod.

“If only I hadn't left three hundred Paracetamol in the bathroom, she might not have swallowed them all.”

“Yeah,” I say, frowning at her.

“If only we hadn't left the rope in the garage, she couldn't have hung herself.”

I jerk Jenny's arm. “Enough!” I say.

As I glance sideways at her, a car approaches lighting us up with its headlights. In the white light, Jenny's face looks swollen and pale.
Ghoulish
would be the word. I pull her arm a little tighter.

“Are you OK?” I ask. “I mean, is everything gonna be OK with you?”

Jenny laughs and shrugs. “I don't even know what OK is really,” she says. “I can't even imagine what an OK outcome might look like,” she says. “Do you know what I mean?”

I sigh and nod. “It will though,” I say, turning right into Owen's street. “You know that, right?”

Jenny sighs.

“In the end, things always do sort themselves out,” I say. “One way or another.”

I wake up just after eight, and lie in bed listening to the sounds of the morning. Something has changed, and after a few sleepy minutes, I realise what it is. The rain has stopped.

I doze a little longer, and then roll out of bed and glance out of the window. Puffy clouds are moving steadily through a clear sky; the trees and bushes in the gardens are swaying gently from side to side.

I squint at the light and glance again at the alarm clock. I'm astonished to see that it is now 10:15.

I pull on a pair of jogging trousers and a sweatshirt and head downstairs. As I reach the ground floor, I pause, my hand on the end of the banister. Jenny's voice is leaking around the lounge door, which is ajar. She is clearly on the phone, and she sounds agitated.

I turn to return upstairs, but overcome by curiosity, I pause a moment and listen.

“For god's sake mother,” she is saying. “Just trust me for once in your life, I'm nearly forty.”

I grimace and start to quietly climb the stairs.

“I don't care what he says, OK? Just don't tell him,” Jenny says.

I frown and pause again.

“I know mum,” she says. “I will explain, but for now, please just don't tell him where I am, and don't give him the phone number.”

I pull a face and creep up the remaining stairs.

I shower and shave, then dress and head back down. As I reach the bottom stair, I hear her voice again. Only this time she is speaking softly, sweetly.

“You know I love you,” she is saying.

I vaguely consider returning upstairs, but it seems a little ridiculous, so rather than walk in on her I decide to
nip over to Mr Patel's for a newspaper and milk. That way she'll hear me and realise that she only has a few minutes remaining privacy.

“You know I'd never let anyone hurt you,” she says.

I open the front door and head out into the gusty street. As I descend the front steps, I glance back at the lounge.

Through the bay window I see Jenny and the sight makes me pause and then frown. Her face is tear streaked, and she is still speaking. But she's not holding a phone at all. Instead her arms are wrapped around her own body, encircling her belly. She catches sight of me and turns back into the room.

I pause and stare at the window, slowly working it out.

By the time I return, Jenny has washed and recomposed her face into an expression of sarcastic indifference.

“So you finally got up,” she says as I drop
The Guardian
into her lap.

I nod. “It was weird, I awoke at eight, and then I slept for what seemed like five minutes and,
tada
! It was ten,” I say.

Jenny unfolds the newspaper crisply. “So what's happening in the world?” she asks.

I fill the kettle and take a seat opposite her.

“So what's happening in
your
world?” I say.

Jenny shrugs disinterestedly. “God, they're still going on about school dinners… I mean; it's like such a shock. No one
knew
they were shite?”

I frown at her.

“Did these people never
go
to school? Did they never
have
boiled cabbage and semolina pudding?”

In an attempt to enter her field of vision I lean low over the table.

“Jenny,” I say solemnly.

Without moving the angle of her head, she swivels her eyes and looks up at me. “Mark,” she says.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

She says nothing. She looks back at the newspaper.

“What's happening?” I say. “I saw you in the window. You looked upset.”

Jenny sighs and folds the newspaper. Then she sits back in her chair and stares at me.

“I'm good,” she says.

I say nothing. I simply wait for her to continue.

“I've got a lot on my plate,” she continues. “But I'm good,” she forces a weak smile, and then lifts her eyes to meet mine. “Really,” she says. Her eyes glisten. “Thanks though,” she adds.

I rub my chin and nod.

“I've made decisions today,” she says. “I've decided to keep the baby. I don't care what Nick does, or says. I'm having it.”

I reach across the table and touch her wrist.

“And what
will
Nick say?” I ask.

Jenny laughs. “I think I need to leave Nick behind on this one,” she says.

I nod gravely.

She swallows hard. “I
do
love him,” she says. “But he's a shit.”

Jenny thinks about this and then nods in apparent agreement with herself.

“Do you want tea?” I ask.

Jenny gives a little laugh. “Yep,” she says. “See how decisive I am today?”

We eat a hearty cooked breakfast and then head out to the van.

“Thanks Mark,” she says as we hug. “I did mean to stay longer, but I suddenly want to go back and sort all this out,” she says. “Before I lose my resolve.”

She climbs up into the driver's seat, and opens the window.

“See you next weekend maybe?” she asks.

I smile. “You're welcome anytime, you know that,” I say.

She swings the orange VW out towards the street,
then winks at me unconvincingly and accelerates towards the seafront.

I try and relax with the newspaper, but my mind keeps trawling over my limited understanding of Jenny's situation, of her options. I wish I had asked more questions.

After an hour of staring at the page I am feeling almost sick with stress, so I pull on my running shoes and head down towards the pier.

The clouds have thinned and are blowing rapidly across the sky, casting dark shadows over the sea. One could almost imagine that the dark forms are monsters or submarines lurking beneath the surface.

I jog to the pier, walk to the end and back, and then jog back home, but even after exercising, even after showering, Jenny is still on my mind.

I slump onto the sofa and finger the telephone, then shrug, and saying, “Oh, what the hell,” I dial her mobile.

“Huh!” she says, answering almost immediately. “I'm not even home yet and you're missing me already,”

“Something like that,” I say.

“Did I leave something behind?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Look… I'm worried about you. Are you sure you're going to be OK?”

“Huh!” Jenny laughs. “Of course I am. Now, I'd love to chat to you about my life Mark, but I'm driving along the M25 and it's totally illegal.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Can you call me, when you get back?”

“Mark, I'm sorry, but I doubt that that would be a good idea. Nick gets jealous and I really don't want, shit Mark, there's a police car. Gotta go.”

I sit in silence fingering the telephone. Her relationship with Nick strikes me as incomprehensible as ever. She can spend every weekend here, but she can't phone me.
I don't get it.

I spin the telephone around on the table, and then cast it aside.

“Nothing I can do,” I say out loud. “You're on your own girl.”

Though the weather improves day by day, the week drags by depressingly slowly so I try and set projects to occupy myself.

On Tuesday I cycle to Newhaven and picnic at the end of the sombre stone jetty, but it's windy and as soon as I take my sandwich from the lunchbox it blows away and drops into the sea.

On Wednesday I actually try and swim. There are enough kids thrashing around in the shallows for it to seem feasible, but within minutes my extremities are numb, and within half an hour I am at home shivering beneath a hot shower.

On Thursday morning I phone Tom to see if he's going to be around this weekend, but he pointedly tells me he's waiting for a call from Antonio, and promises, then fails, to call me back.

Suddenly, I am hating being in Brighton. I seem to have lost Benoit, and I am realising that I never really
had
Tom. I don't even dare call Jenny for fear of upsetting her jealous arsehole husband, and though her situation is dreadful, I feel powerless to help.

It all seems to have gone frustratingly wrong, and Thursday evening, as I take my pint and move to one of the Amsterdam's window seats, I realise that I'm sitting here not to survey the cute guys arriving, but in order to be forewarned in case Benoit or for that matter the Nazi skinhead turn up.

Yes, I'm sitting here in case one of the few people I actually know in this town turns up, so that I can slip out the back door
before
they see me. The thought sends me over the edge.

I sip my beer and look around the bar and think of Nice in July. I'd be eating a pizza on a terrace somewhere right now. The temperature would be
nearing 30 degrees. The sea would be in the twenties.

I sip my beer and nod to myself. “
Maybe,”
I think, with a nod.
“Maybe the time has come.”

I awaken early on Friday morning, and am lying in bed, sleepily trying to find a reason to get up when the phone rings. Unable to find the upstairs handset, I bound, naked, downstairs. I swipe the phone from the base.

“Oh… Mark,” Jenny says. She sounds disappointed. “I thought it was going to be the answer-phone,” she says. “I thought you'd still be in bed.”

I stifle a yawn. “I was,” I say, “but awake… Couldn't find the phone.”

“Look, Mark,” she says, speaking softly. “I'm not going to be able to come actually. This weekend that is.” Her voice is very faint, almost a whisper.

“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “Why? What's up?”

Jenny clears her throat. “Well, Nick's got the weekend off, so I thought I'd stay. We have a lot to work through.”

I realise that she actually
is
whispering. I frown.

“Are you still splitting up?” I say.

Jenny clears her throat again. “Nah,” she says. “I don't think so. I think we're going to be OK.”

“Why are you whispering?” I ask. “Are you sure you're all right?”

Jenny gives a quiet laugh. “Of course I am. Nick's fast asleep. I just don't want to wake him.”

I open my mouth to speak, then pause and start again. “So is he OK now? About the baby and stuff?”

Jenny sighs. “Look Mark, I can't really talk now, so…”

I hear a distant voice call her name.

“Shit,” she mutters.

“Jenny, Are you sure….”

“JENNY!” the voice bellows.

“Gotta go,” she says.
Click
.

I rub my forehead and sink onto the sofa. For a
while I stare at the long shadows on the facade opposite, then I worriedly shake my head and return upstairs to bed.

I am walking along the seafront. It is a perfect bank holiday Monday, and the promenade is sparklingly clean, filled with smiling, almost grotesquely happy heterosexual families.

Children hold their parents' hands and skip in blue shorts and pink dresses, or contentedly lick candyfloss or toffee apples on sticks.

I feel different to these people, alone and separate in this peculiar Stepford heaven.