Sleight of Hand (20 page)

“She's fine,” I say. “She's at home. She's painting.”

Sarah's face relaxes and she takes my hand as before, but it's a rare indication that she is aware of her mother's illness. And so as we walk towards the shops, I wonder how much she understands and how often she thinks about it.

I wonder too if she realises that her Mum might disappear entirely in the same way her grandmother has, and what she thinks might happen to her if she does. Which raises, of course, the original question of what
does
happen to Sarah if Jenny dies?

It's not a subject Jenny or I have ever mentioned again. With our new agreed narrative that the treatment is “working” it has become almost a superstition on my part not to say anything that
suggests that any other outcome is possible. Perhaps faith is important, I think. Perhaps belief
does
become reality. And if that's the case then the last thing I want to do is sow seeds of doubt.

And it suits me not to discuss it too, because I still don't have the slightest idea how to resolve my own thoughts on the subject. Ricardo has mentioned it twice now by matter-of-factly asking me if I have told Jenny
yet
that we're prepared to look after Sarah. The implication is clear: he sees this answer as the only solution to the dilemma – he sees it as an evident truth, as a no-brainer. And yet it still seems like a complete impossibility to me. Though I can't see how I could refuse, and though I can't come up with any other solution, imagining such a future requires a series of images that my brain simply refuses to conjure up.

As we turn into the close, Franny appears breathlessly at Sarah's side and without introduction of any kind starts blathering on about school and birthday parties and fireworks on Monday. Something about this relationship between five-year olds and its independence from we superfluous adults makes me grin.

“Mum says you can come to our Guy-Fawkes night and sleep over if you want,” she tells Sarah, glancing behind.

I follow the line of her gaze and see Susan walking briskly to catch us up.

“Hello you,” she says when she reaches me. “No Jenny today then? Is she not well?”

“No she's fine,” I reply. “You two run ahead, we'll catch you up,” I tell the girls.

Once they are out of earshot, Susan says, “Sorry. I keep doing that, don't I?”

“It's OK. It's just that we try not to discuss it in front of her. It's not like it's a secret – Jenny has told her and everything, but … well, we try to control the flow of information. Because you can't tell what she understands and what she misunderstands. You know how it is.”

“Sure. I'm sorry. So how is she?”

“She's doing well. She's painting the hall actually.”

“God,” Susan says. “Are you sure that's wise?”

“It's not really up to me,” I say. “But I think it makes her feel better to be productive. And it puts her stamp on the house too.”

“Is she getting ready for viewings? Because she said she'd like to sell up. It can't be easy, it being her mum's place and all.”

“No, it's not. I think it's really hard for her to be honest. But no, she's not selling. Not yet.”

“I wouldn't want to stay, I don't think.”

“Well no. She'd love to get away, but we're kind of stuck here,” I say. I frown and start to think about that use of the word, ‘we.'

“I suppose moving would be too much upheaval,” Susan says.

“Well, selling and buying … it's stressful at the best of times,” I say. “I don't think that now is really the right time.”

“Do you want me to carry one of those?” Susan asks, gesturing at my carrier bags.

“Nah – they kind of balance each other out,” I say. “But thanks.”

“Well,” Susan says, sucking hard through her teeth. She seems to hesitate a long time before continuing, and I wonder what on earth she's going to say.

“You could always use our place I suppose. If you wanted to get away for a bit.”

“Your place?”

“Sorry. Yes. Not here … In Pevensey. We have a holiday house down in Pevensey Bay.”

“Pevensey near Eastbourne?”

“You know it?”

“Sure. I come from Eastbourne. Well, originally I do. I used to ride my bike along to Pevensey when I was a kid.”

“Right. I didn't know. So yes, we have a beachfront place. It's only small, and it's a bit of a mess. We only go there in summer really. Well, we used to. We thought we'd spend more time there when Ted retired but it hasn't really happened … We should sell it really but you know how it is.”

“It's not one of those places right down on the front is it?”

“Yeah that's it. Two stories, two bedrooms. Pebbles in the front garden.”

“That must be amazing.”

“Well, it's pretty great in summer.”

“I bet the view's fab though, isn't it?”

“Well, it's a view of the sea, so I suppose if you like the sea – when you can see it that is. I always seem to spend the whole time cleaning salt off the windows. And you'd have to keep an eye on Sarah. Keep her away from the water. Anyway, if you wanted a weekend away, well, it's nice down there. And Eastbourne's not far away. And Brighton's just down the coast.”

I glance at her to check her expression. The words seem to have been said with meaning. I almost expect her to continue and explain that there are lots of “my type” in Brighton. But she doesn't, and her expression reveals nothing. And I think that
were Tom not there, Brighton would definitely be an attraction.

“Well thanks. I'll mention it to Jenny. If you're sure?” I say.

As we near the house I hear Jenny scream from within the open door. “You stupid little shit!” she shouts. “How could you?”

Susan looks shocked.

“Oh God,” I say. “That sounds bad.”

“Yes, it does,” she says, opening her own front door and pushing Franny inside, “good luck.”

Inside Jenny's hallway I see the cause of the outburst. Sarah is squashed against one wall, her face swelling, tears, if not a full-blown tantrum, clearly on the way.

Jenny is frozen at the bottom of the stairs looking red and outraged. “Look!” she says. “Just look.”

From the upturned tin, a vast pool of white paint is gloopily spreading across the hall carpet.

Because of the gloss-paint nightmare – a crisis we spend most of the evening trying to resolve before simply untacking and rolling up the hall carpet – I forget to mention Susan's offer.

Only once Jenny has gone to bed do I remember it. I sit and think about how nice a weekend at the seaside would be. And I sit and think how awful what would inevitably become a weekend with Tom would be as well.

In the morning, I mention it as soon as Jenny gets up but she seems fairly unenthusiastic about the offer, saying simply, “Oh, how sweet of Susan to offer. But I don't really know her that well.”

As breakfast progresses, however, Jenny's pace speeds up.

I can see the idea taking hold and energising her until she whizzes through her own breakfast even refusing her usually “essential” second cup of coffee. She showers and dresses with unusual efficacy and by nine she is back from Susan's with a big smile and a bunch of keys.

It's the first time I have seen her really grin since I got here. I suddenly notice how much weight she has lost and am shocked to the core. It's something to do with the way her teeth protrude from her face when she smiles this broadly.

“So what about it?” she asks, jingling them at me.

“Well, I'm just about to take Sarah to nursery,” I say, now checking her waist and seeing that her jeans are scrunched up by the big belt holding them in place.

“You don't want to go to nursery
do you?”
Jenny asks Sarah.

Sarah frowns. Clearly she
does
.

“Wouldn't you rather go to the seaside and make sandcastles?”

“Today?” I ask, a little incredulous at the sudden change of plan. But one look at their two faces is all that is needed. I have never seen mother and daughter look more alike. And I have never seen them look so excited.

“You really do want to go
today?”
I say.

Jenny shrugs. “Sunshine, seaside, sand, out of this house … what's not to want?”

“It's pebbles,” I say, wrinkling my brow. I'm sure that there's a good reason not to go today, but she just isn't giving me time to think of it.

“Oh, come on! Where's your sense of adventure?”

“OK …” I say vaguely. “If that's what the ladies want.”

“It is,” Jenny says. “You pack your stuff and sheets for all of us. I'll do Sarah's and a big box of food. We could be there for lunchtime if we get a move on.”

I laugh, starting to get swept up in the wave of excitement. “Jen, I get that you're keen, but let's not rush this. Let's pack and have lunch and then leave this afternoon.”

“No way!” Jenny says. “I want fish and chips on the beach. That's the lunch I want.”

“Fish an ships,” Sarah shrieks, wiggling up and down as if she needs the toilet or perhaps is attempting the twist for the first time ever.

By ten our bags are packed.

Jenny locks the house and I throw mine and Sarah's bags into the tiny boot of the Nissan. I'm about to start the engine when I see Jenny heave her own bag onto the rear seat beside Sarah.

“You're sure this is for the weekend?” I laugh.

“Sure,” Jenny says. “Why?”

“Well that's one big bag.”

“Well we don't know what the weather will be like, do we?”

“You're
sure
I don't need my laptop?”

“You won't work, not at the seaside. You know you won't.”

“And we'll be back Monday?” I ask.

“Well yes, of course.”

I wrinkle my nose, unconvinced.

“Come on,” Jenny says, sounding almost hysterical now. “Let's go.”

I start the engine and then turn it off again. “You know what,” I say, releasing my seatbelt and
reaching for the door-handle. “I'm gonna take it anyway.”

As we wait for a gap in the traffic at the exit of the close, Jenny says, “God, I'll have to phone Tom,” and starts to fumble in a bag at her feet. “It'll be so much easier for him, won't it? Brighton's how far away?”

“About forty minutes I think,” I reply, looking, then frowning at a local taxi waiting to turn into the close.

Because Jenny is bent double looking for her phone she doesn't see what I see, and I make an on-the-spot, and thoroughly dishonest decision
not
to tell her.

As I accelerate away, Jenny straightens and laughs, “God, from not being keen, someone's in a hurry to get to the seaside.”

“I am,” I say, wondering if he recognised me, and wondering if the taxi is right now turning around to follow us. “I can't wait.”

Compared with a visit from fisty-Nick, the seaside, even
with
Tom, suddenly does seem extremely appealing.

As Camberley fades into the distance, I start to accept that we're not being followed. In fact, by the time we join the motorway, I am doubting that I saw Nick at all. From such a fleeting glance, it's hard to remain sure – the image of his face is already fading from my mind's eye.

Sarah is as good as gold in the back, playing i-spy, asking endless questions about the beach and what we will do there, and whether there will be ice creams, and if we can buy a bucket and a spade …

I listen to the chatter and try to work out why I'm feeling increasingly peeved. It's obvious that a trip to Pevensey is preferable to yet another day in Camberley, so what's with the bad mood, I wonder.

For a while I think it's to do with Nick, but Nick, if he ever
was
there, is now way behind us.

Perhaps it's because of Tom's proximity to Pevensey and his inevitable omni-presence at the house this weekend (Jenny has already invited him for dinner this evening.) But after thinking about this for a bit, I have to admit that this is not the cause either. I'm getting quite used to Tom's sarky irritation, almost learning to enjoy our regular sparring sessions.

“I hope someone has wifi for the internet junky,” Jenny says, pulling me momentarily from my thoughts.

“Yeah, me too,” I say, thinking that without broadband and without a fixed phone line, I won't be able to chat to Ricardo at all. The thought makes
me feel truly angry, and this in turn enables me to zoom directly in on the cause of the bad mood.

Because though going to Pevensey is nicer than staying in Camberley, I didn't choose it … and it's
not
what I would have chosen. What
I
want is to go home – to
my
home. I want my bed and my boyfriend and my cat upon my knees. Fuck Pevensey Bay.

I think about my use of the word “we” yesterday, and feel even worse. For what has happened here is that my life has been hijacked. I have become the de-facto husband of a possibly dying woman, and the de-facto father of a possibly-to-be-orphaned little girl, and here I am driving my new de-facto family to the fucking de-facto beach. And as much as I love them both – and I
do
– none of it has anything to do with what
I
want
at all
.

As I join the M23, Jenny touches my arm but I instinctively pull it away. It strikes me as yet another brick in the new family edifice. Today, right now, it strikes me as a bloody liberty.

“Are you OK?” she asks. “You seem really quiet.”

“I'm just driving,” I say in the warmest tone I can manage, which isn't, it has to be said, very warm.

“Is it me? Have I upset you?” she asks.

“No,” I answer. I think it's a lie, but I certainly couldn't identify anything Jenny has done to annoy me; I certainly couldn't explain.