Sottopassaggio (27 page)

I laugh and shake my head with a snort. “How amazing is that,” I say.

Jenny frowns. “You're not saying…”

I nod. “While you were shagging in your camper van, a few miles up the road, they were cutting me out of the wreckage.”

Jenny sinks to her knees and takes my hand.

“And your friend died,” she says flatly.

I nod.

She reaches behind my shoulder and pulls me towards her. “God, I'm sorry,” she says.

I sigh.

Jenny shakes her head. “That's crazy, though,” she says. “Isn't that crazy?”

A strong sea breeze is whipping the white tops of the waves.

I sit on the pebbles and stare into the deep sludgy green of the sea and think about the shocking coincidence.

“Surely it must mean something,” I think. “Surely something that profound, that unlikely must mean something.”

But what
can
it mean?

“Thousands of people were caught in that traffic jam,”
I tell myself. Hundreds were injured; tens actually lost their lives. But how many conceived? More to the point, how many of my
ex-girlfriends
conceived?

The most shocking thing is a recurrent mental image, which I struggle to push from my mind.

I was unconscious, so it's something I never actually saw; but I have imagined it hundreds of times. Steve,
dead, trapped next to me in the wreckage; the
pompiers
, sawing through the metal of the car to free my legs. And now, it has the addition of Jenny and Nick, a few miles down the carriageway, shagging.

I sit and stare at the sea until the sun starts to fade.

Then I shrug. There doesn't seem to be a lot else I can do.

By the time I return, Jenny is up from her afternoon snooze.

“Here,” I say thrusting a sugary bag towards her. “I got you two, one each.”

Jenny's eyes widen. “Doughnuts,” she says. “For my diet.”

“Well,” I say, reaching out. “If you don't want…”

Jenny snatches at the bag. “I do,” she says. “Oh, and the phone rang by the way.”

I nod.

“I didn't pick up,” she says.

I throw myself on the sofa and lift the phone. I punch 1571 and lift it to my ear then wince. Benoit's shrieking is so loud it hurts.

“I saw JJ today,” he spits. “Je suis vraiment dégouté!”

I grimace.

“That you think evil thoughts about me is one thing…”

His voice is strident, on the edge of a scream.

I pull a face.

“But that you go telling the whole of Brighton I stole your wallet, it's, it's, it's,
c'est inimaginable
!”

Jenny looks concernedly at me. “Bad news?” she says.

I nod.

“So you phone them you
prick
. You phone JJ and you tell them that you are a liar!”

I wrinkle my brow and blow through my lips.

“But don't call me,” he finishes. “Don't you
dare
call me ever again.”

I slump back on the sofa and stare at the ceiling.

“Serious?” Jenny says.

I shake my head woefully and sigh.

“I've upset someone,” I say. “I've
really
upset someone.”

The next day Jenny and I go shopping. The excursion has a strange feel to it, as though something isn't quite right, something that I can't quite put my finger on. I ponder that it's simply shopping with a woman, entering clothes shops, looking at make up… But that's not it.

It's only when we enter
Top Shop
and the security guard at the door says, “Hi there,” that I realise what's happening. People are being nice,
overly
nice.

As I traipse along behind Jenny, buying exfoliating skin washes from the
Body Shop
, and jeans from the
Levis Store
, I confirm my suspicion.

Wandering the streets with a pregnant woman, the world is an uncannily friendly place. The only time I can ever remember having been smiled at this much was when I carried a friend's baby across town.

I linger near the cash-till of
Top Shop
with the other men while Jenny fingers lacy lingerie in the far corner of the store. I remember another occasion when the world felt this good – the week I looked after a friend's bulldog.

Apparently dogs, babies and pregnant women give you bonus points in this game called charm. It's too weird for words.

Shopping with Jenny has another advantage too. The bored men that the women drag around the stores are, without exception, incredibly cute and amazingly friendly. As the men show their joint solidarity before the momentous chore that is a shopping trip with the wife, winks and eye-rolls abound.

I glance to my left as a biker in black one-piece leathers puts his crash helmet on the floor and leans back against the railings. He has a shaved head, a goatee beard and big motocross boots.

“When did straight men start wearing boots with chromed heels?” I wonder.

He catches my eye and winks at me. “Fun huh?” he says, offering me a chewing gum.

I gasp and stutter, “Um, no thanks…”

Jenny appears to save me. “Come on darling,” she says, linking her arm through mine. “Time to move on.”

The guy shrugs at me and gives me a smile so cute I could swear…

“When did straight men start to dress like that?” I ask, as we push out into the street.

“Straight?” Jenny laughs, handing me a bag to carry. “He looked like one of the Village People to me.”

“So you agree!” I laugh. “Straight men should not be wearing black leather SM outfits.”

Jenny laughs. “If he's straight then I'm…” She shrugs. “Anyway, he looked like he was hitting on you.”

I shrug. “I wish,” I say. “But last time I heard,
Top Shop
wasn't on the list of Brighton's main cruising zones, well, not the lingerie department anyway.”

Back at the house, Jenny disappears to change while I make my pizza base. Having left it to rise, I sit and ponder the Benoit conundrum.

I clearly owe him an apology, and Jenny, who I explained the situation to over coffee, says I definitely need to let him know what I really said to John. But I'm actually afraid of his anger.

“I was thinking,” Jenny says entering the room behind me. “Maybe you could write him a letter.”

I nod. “Yeah, coward's way out. I thought that too.”

She shrugs. “Could be quite touching if you do it properly,” she says.

I nod. “Except I don't have his address,” I say. “So I'd have to go round there.”

“I could deliver it for you,” Jenny says.

I nod. “Hey you look fresh,” I say. She's wearing a white men's-style shirt and new blue jeans.

“Yeah, it feels good,” she says. “I was so sick of those clothes.” She sticks a thumb into the waistband and pulls. “A bit big though, but I thought, well, I won't be getting smaller any time soon.”

I smile warmly at her. “I'm glad to hear it,” I say.

“You fancy some wine with this pizza?” Jenny asks. “I thought I might nip round to
Threshers
and get a bottle or two.”

I smile. “Yeah,” I say. “That would be great.”

A sense of relief has settled over the house.

I feel optimistic, as if in some way things are sorting themselves out.

Jenny apparently feels the same. As well as the bottle of red she went for, she returns with a bottle of champagne.

“I don't know why,” she says. “But I just felt like celebrating.”

The pizza is sublimely successful. Owen's oven is apparently very hot, and within a few minutes the crust has risen to a series of crispy domes; the cheese is bubbling deliciously.

Jenny pops the champagne and giggles as it foams into the glasses. “God I haven't had champagne since… God knows when,” she says.

I place the pizza in the middle of the table and raise my glass.

Jenny shakes her head in amazement. “God it looks like a cookbook pizza,” she says. “It's a shame Tom isn't here to see it. You could have impressed him.”

I shrug. “I did call him, but his mobile's off.”

Jenny smiles and raises her glass. “Well, his loss. All the more for us,” she says, clinking her glass against mine.

I sip the champagne; it tastes horrible. In truth I've never liked the stuff, but I smile my appreciation anyway and cut into the steaming pizza.

“Despite the circumstances,” I say. “I'm really glad you're here.”

Jenny smiles and nods at me. “It was nice today, wasn't it?” she says, screwing up her eyes a little.

I smile. “Better than the day before yesterday anyway,” I say.

“Shut up and cut the pizza,” Jenny says. “I think the cheese is about to spell Pizza Hut.”

I frown at her and cut through the pastry. “Humm, crispy,” I say. “Pizza Hut?”

Jenny shrugs. “It was an ad campaign we ran a long time ago. The stringy cheese spelt Pizza Hut.”

“Fair enough,” I say, putting the slice onto her plate.

I slide the knife under a second slice, but just as I start to raise my hand the phone rings.

“Tom maybe?” Jenny says hopefully.

I wink at her and grab the phone. “Hello?”

“Mark?” The voice is unrecognisable. I frown.

“Yeah?” I say suspiciously.

“I wanna speak to Jenny,” he says.

I let go of the knife, and lower the phone to my chest.

“It's for you,” I say with a grimace. “Someone pissed.”

Jenny's smile vanishes. She shakes her head and sighs. Then rolling her eyes, she says, “Oh, give it here.”

In order to leave her in peace, I go upstairs to the toilet. I sit on the closed toilet lid and listen to Jenny's voice floating up the stairs, at first, calm, then upset, then finally angry.

When all is quiet, I flush the toilet, just for effect, and return downstairs. Jenny is ashen faced. The phone is still in her hand.

“So?” I say.

She stares at me blankly.

“Well?” I prompt.

She blinks slowly and exhales hard. For some reason I shiver.

“Nick,” I say.

Jenny nods.

“Your mum gave him the number?”

Jenny nods again. “He says he's coming,” she says. “I'm sorry…”

I frown. “But he doesn't have the address, you said your mum didn't have…”

Jenny interrupts. “Apparently he does,” she says. “
He
must have got it from the number.”

I slump in my chair and rest my head on my hands.

“He's on a bender,” she says nodding slowly.

“What, a piss up?”

Jenny nods.

I shrug. “Then he can't drive from Farnham to Brighton, can he?”

Jenny laughs. “Honestly? I don't think he gives a damn.”

“About you?”

Jenny snorts. “About driving here pissed.”

I reach across the table for her hand, but she pulls away.

“Maybe I should leave,” she says. “You've had enough…”

I shake my head and interrupt her. “There's no way Jenny,” I say.

“I could stay in a hotel. Just tonight.”

I nod. “And I'll just say, sorry Nick, she's not here, and he'll, like, just go away?”

Jenny wrinkles her brow. “We could
both
stay in a hotel?” she offers.

I nod and briefly consider it. “And tomorrow?” I say.

Jenny shrugs. I glance at my watch. 7:20pm.

“How long does it take?” I ask. “From Farnham.”

Jenny shrugs. “In the van it took me two hours.”

I nod.

“The speed Nick drives? Maybe an hour and a half, maybe less.”

I scratch my chin and taking a deep breath I stand. I walk over and stare out at the evening light.

“I'm really sorry Mark,” Jenny says.

I nod. “I know,” I say. It's not reasonable, but I actually feel furious with her for bringing this disorder to my life. I close my eyes and blow through my lips in an attempt to calm myself.

“Jenny,” I say, turning towards her. “Is there
any
chance that this will be, well, peaceful?”

Jenny has her hands clasped across her nose. She peers up at me and shrugs. But her eyes say it all.

“So he's gonna be crazy again,” I say.

Jenny shrugs. “He's been drinking,” she says. “That's the problem.”

I nod. “So I'm right to be feeling scared here,” I say.

Jenny shrugs.

“Are you?” I ask.

Jenny shrugs again, then nods dolefully.

I raise a hand to my forehead. “Great!” I exclaim. “Excellent.”

We remain like this for a few minutes, maybe five.

Jenny is white and motionless at the table. I alternate between looking out at the street, and back at Jenny. I'm trying to hide my anger at being forced into this situation, but I'm sure it shows through. Jenny looks afraid of
me
.

“OK,” I finally say, moving into disaster limitation mode. “We have to call the police.”

Jenny shrugs. “And tell them what?”

I shake my head. “I don't know,” I say. “That your mad, violent, metal bar carrying husband is on his way here and that we're scared?” I suggest.

Jenny shakes her head. “I don't think that's a good idea,” she says.

I wrinkle my nose at her and cross the room. I swipe the phone from the table. “Maybe I don't care,” I say.

It takes an incredible ten minutes to get through to the local police station, and another ten to explain our predicament to the officer on the other end of the line.

He listens sympathetically, and I'm hopeful that he's going to find a way to help us, hopeful, that is, until he sums up.

“So if I've got this right,” he says. “You have another bloke's pregnant wife staying with you, and you're scared he's coming to take her home.”