The French House

by Nick Alexander

  ‘That really is lovely, though,’ I say, reaching out to stroke the lapel between finger and thumb. ‘Is that Paul Smith?’

  George laughs. ‘It is. How did you know?’

  ‘I have no idea. I must have seen that check pattern somewhere.’

  ‘Anyway,’ George says, rather proudly fiddling with his tie, and then, becoming aware of his own gesture, loosening it instead. ‘What’s been going on here?’

  ‘Nothin’,’ SJ says a little too quickly. ‘Nothing at all, right, CC?’ Her tone of voice is so unconvincing, it makes me cringe.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ I agree.

  George fixes me with his blue eyes, so I shrug and gently shake my head. He snorts and stands and crosses to the refrigerator. ‘Drink, anyone?’ he asks.

  We both decline.

  While he fishes in the fridge for a beer, SJ mouths at me, Tell him! then, You know I can’t lie!

  When George sits back down, he grins at us both falsely, then sips his beer. ‘I don’t believe you at all, of course,’ he says. ‘You . . .’ he looks at me, ‘have eyes like a panda, and you . . .’ he turns to SJ, ‘look as smug as I have seen you since you found out you were pregnant.’

  I dab at the corner of my eye, and seeing that my finger indeed comes back covered with smudged mascara, I realise that this isn’t going to work at all. I nod at SJ, indicating that she can tell George after all.

  ‘CC has some news,’ she says. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ I say.

  George smirks at me and takes another sip of beer.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ I say.

  ‘Ha!’ George says. ‘I knew it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Your—’ he says, glancing briefly at my chest. ‘Never mind.’

  I cross my arms protectively across my boobs.

  ‘Anyway,’ George says hurriedly. ‘That’s brilliant news, isn’t it? I bet Victor’s . . .’ His voice fades away, and I turn to catch SJ shaking her head vigorously.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I just assumed,’ George says, getting entirely the wrong end of the stick. ‘So who is the fa—–’ He pulls a face, then turns to his wife. ‘Can I ask that?’ he says. ‘I can’t, can I? Help me out here.’

  ‘Of course Victor’s the father,’ I say.

  ‘They’ve had a barney,’ Sarah-Jane explains.

  ‘Oh!’ George says. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m sure there’ll be plenty more of those!’

  ‘I’m going to make tea!’ SJ says brightly, clearly keen to have something to do.

  When she brings the two steaming mugs over, we chink them against George’s can of Kronenbourg and pretend for a while that we’re celebrating.

  ‘To CC,’ George says, ‘and all who sail in her.’

  ‘George!’ SJ protests. ‘You make her sound like she’s full of seamen.’

  This produces a brief moment of hilarity, and George spits some beer out through his nose. But though I make my best effort to look celebratory, my emotions are still so mixed up that the truth is that I can’t work out how I feel. It seems as if I won’t be able to work that one out until I have spoken to Victor, and there is, it strikes me, a certain logic to that. This news, this event, this miracle, is, after all, half his, half mine. So perhaps it needs both of us present in order to form any kind of cohesive emotional response. But after another fruitless phone call, it seems Victor still isn’t playing ball.

  OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS

  When I get back to Iain’s house, Mark is so down that even my smudged make-up fails to break through his personal bubble of misery.

  He’s drinking gin and tonic, and offers to make me one too.

  ‘Not tonight, thanks,’ I say, thinking, And not for another eight months, either.

  When even this refusal fails to intrigue him, I become concerned enough about him to put on hold my own drama.

  ‘Mark?’ I ask. ‘What’s up, babe?’

  He shakes his head sullenly.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Out with it.’

  ‘He’s out,’ he says. ‘For the evening.’ He pushes his phone towards me, so I pull up a chair and take a look. The screen is showing an SMS from Iain.

  Sorry babe. Someone made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Have a nice evening. Laters. x

  ‘Oh, darlin’.’ I tut. I lay one hand over his. ‘That’s no good. You can’t be putting up with that. You’ll have to talk to him.’

  ‘I’ve tried,’ Mark says quietly. He clears his throat before continuing. ‘It doesn’t do any good, though. He just says that I knew what he was like when I met him, and that if I’m not happy, then maybe I need to find a different kind of guy.’

  I cover my mouth with one hand to stop anything unhelpful escaping. Because what I want to say is that Iain is behaving like a callous, greedy slut.

  After a moment, I do decide to allow the words, ‘You deserve better than this,’ to escape my lips. ‘Have you thought that maybe he’s right?’

  ‘Right?’ Mark says, shooting me a glare.

  ‘In that, yes, maybe you do need a different guy,’ I say softly. ‘Someone who can be faithful.’

  Mark sighs, then lays his head against my shoulder. ‘It’s not like cars,’ he says. ‘You can’t just pop in somewhere and change for a better model.’

  ‘I know that,’ I say. ‘But surely . . .’

  ‘You know how long I was single for before Iain.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And I didn’t meet anyone better, did I? Not in ten years.’

  ‘No,’ I say, wondering momentarily if I have already lost Victor. Because despite his faults, neither did I.

  ‘But I can’t stand all this,’ Mark says, his voice trembling. He starts to push his phone around the table with one finger like a toy car. ‘And I love the fucker,’ he adds, starting to cry properly now.

  ‘Oh, babe,’ I say, pulling him closer as a set of tears, primed by my own predicament, but released by his, plop from the corners of my eyes.

  Though I don’t have any answers for Mark, we both eventually stop crying. We wash our faces and reheat a meal before snuggling together in front of the TV.

  Iain returns at 10.45 p.m.

  ‘Aw, how sweet,’ he says, when he sees us together on the sofa.

  I smile weakly.

  ‘Shh!’ Mark admonishes. ‘It’s almost the end.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure!’ Iain says, pulling a face and retreating to the kitchen.

  I give Mark another squeeze, and we continue to watch the film until the final ad-break, when he drags himself from the sofa and follows Iain through to the kitchen.

  ‘So, you have a nice time?’ I hear him ask.

  ‘Yeah,’ Iain replies. ‘He was hot.’

  Despite a nauseating advert, I turn the TV up, but even the singing idiot from Go Compare can’t quite drown them out.

  ‘Hot?’

  ‘Yeah. Sexy. Hung. Built. Dirty. Busy in bed. Hot.’

  ‘Hotter than me, you mean?’ Mark asks.

  At this point, I realise that I can’t sit here and pretend not to hear their conversation – it’s just too personal.

  ‘Hey, guys, I’m off to bed,’ I call out. Neither of them reply.

  ‘No, not hotter than you,’ Iain is saying, his Scottish accent suddenly stronger now that he is angry.

  ‘So why go?’ Mark asks, just before I close the bedroom door. ‘Why do that to me?’

  The closed door muffles their voices enough that I can’t understand the content of their argument. But the gist, communicated by raised voices and slamming doors, is clear enough, and I start to feel so angry on Mark’s behalf that a few times I consider getting up and going out there to help him out. But it never was a good idea to get involved in other people’s business. No couple ever welcomed outside interference in this kind of thing, so I restrain myself. Just about.

  At 4 a.m. I have to get up to go to the bat
hroom, and as I cross the darkened lounge, I see that Mark is camped out on the sofa. ‘Do you want my bed?’ I ask in a whisper.

  ‘Nope,’ he says angrily, clearly awake.

  ‘OK,’ I whisper back.

  The next morning, I wait until I think that both Mark and Iain have gone to work before leaving the sanctuary of the guest room. But no sooner do I switch on the kettle than Iain appears from the bathroom.

  ‘Hi, CC,’ he says, leaning in the doorway. ‘Make me one of those, would yee?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, surprised at his chirpy tone. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please. White, no sugar.’

  I make the drinks and carry them through to the living area.

  ‘Sunshine!’ Iain says, nodding at the window as I hand him his cup. ‘About time too.’

  ‘You not working today?’ I ask.

  ‘I worked Saturday, so I get the day off,’ Iain says. ‘I’m gonna go see the Seager exhibition at the Tate.’

  ‘Cool,’ I say. ‘And Mark, he’s at work?’

  ‘I expect so,’ Iain says. ‘Who knows. He’s being a dick at the moment. As you no doubt heard last night.’

  I attempt to freeze my features into a neutral state, because I understand how very dangerous it would be, as a guest, to get involved in this. I must somehow fail, though, because Iain says, ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I didn’t say a word.’

  Iain laughs. ‘I can just imagine what Mark told you.’

  I nod and sip my tea, praying that the subject will go away of its own accord.

  ‘I don’t suppose for a minute that he told you the whole story,’ Iain says.

  ‘Iain,’ I protest. ‘It’s really none of my business.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘But you will lose him,’ I say, wincing internally that I have lost control of my tongue for a few crucial seconds.

  ‘You reckon?’ Iain asks, sounding both interested and relaxed about the prospect.

  ‘He’s a lovely guy. I have known him for years, and if I were you, I would want to hang onto him. That’s all I can really say on the subject.’

  ‘Sure,’ Iain says, sifting through a pile of letters on the chair-arm, and then ripping one open. ‘But he needs to grow up.’

  I nod slowly and lick my lips as I deliberate whether to say more. Because though I clearly shouldn’t get involved, I’m not sure I can sit here and let him trash my friend either.

  ‘Does he?’ I ask, the decision apparently taken. ‘Or do you?’

  Iain frowns at what looks like a bank statement and then turns the frown upon me. ‘Beg pardon?’ he says.

  ‘Well, you’re the one who wants to have his cake and eat it,’ I point out. ‘Mark’s in love with you. All he wants is a bit of commitment. So I’m not so sure that he’s the one who needs to grow up.’

  Iain looks at me coldly. ‘As you said, it’s really none of your business.’

  ‘Fine!’ I say, standing and heading through to the kitchen for some breakfast.

  As soon as I return with my bowl of cereal, Iain says, ‘What Mark hasn’t told you is that we agreed all of this before he moved in. We agreed to have an open relationship.’

  ‘You said it was none of my business, so . . .’ I say.

  ‘So whinging on now about what we already agreed is just childish,’ he continues.

  I clench my teeth, but it’s no use, I can’t help myself. ‘God, you’re a hard man,’ I say. ‘I thought you were supposed to be Buddhist.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So where’s the love and respect in that?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He loves you, stupid. And your actions are hurting him. So why do it?’

  ‘Stupid, am I?’ Iain says with a caustic laugh.

  ‘I think you’re being stupid in this situation,’ I say.

  ‘As a Buddhist, I get that the search for constancy is the source of all suffering,’ Iain says. ‘But I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’

  I wrinkle my nose. ‘What?’

  ‘The Dalai Lama said . . . Have ya even heard of him?’ he asks, rolling the ‘r’ in heard.

  ‘There’s no need to be rude, Iain.’

  ‘Well, he said . . . oh, never mind. Anyway, the point is, Mark wants everything to stay the same. He just needs to wise up. No one else can cause our suffering, and the only thing causing Mark’s is his own wee mind.’

  I laugh sourly.

  ‘And don’t laugh at it. I will nee have you in my house laughing at my beliefs,’ Iain says.

  I think, Ah, here we go. Who would have thought that we would get to whose house I’m staying in so quickly?

  ‘Well, I won’t let you pretend that your medieval belief system is the reason you have to hurt my friend,’ I say.

  ‘Medieval, eh?’ Iain says. ‘And that, coming from a Catholic.’

  ‘Only I’m not Catholic,’ I retort. ‘Sorry to disappoint.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Iain says. ‘You don’t get it. That’s all that counts.’

  ‘Get what? That Mark—’

  ‘That we agreed on an open relationship. We agreed not to emulate hetero norms of binary coupledom. So if Mark gets a wee bit upset, it’s something he has to deal with on his own.’

  ‘Sounds like a cop-out to me,’ I say.

  ‘You Christians bang on about treating others the way you want to be treated yourselves, but we’re all different. In fact, you have to treat people the way they want to be treated. And Mark needs to treat me the way I want to be treated. And I need freedom.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘But where do your actions come into all of that? Where’s your responsibility to treat Mark the way he wants to be treated?’

  ‘But I do. Totally. What I do with other people has nothin’ to do with Mark.’

  ‘You can’t possibly believe that. He loves you and your cheating hurts him. So it’s your responsibility as a loving human being not to do it any more.’

  ‘Except that we agreed to this,’ Iain says. ‘If he now can’t cope with it, that’s his problem, not mine.’

  ‘Only it is your problem,’ I point out. ‘Because he’ll leave you.’

  ‘Well, if that’s what he says he wants, then good for him. He has his own destiny to live out.’

  ‘He didn’t say that.’

  ‘But that’s his option,’ Iain says. ‘Now I’d love to hear more of your wisdom, but I need to get dressed.’

  I sit and stare at the sunlit courtyard and think about Mark and Iain. It feels like a kind of respite to be thinking about someone else’s problems. It’s certainly easier to see things clearly.

  When Iain eventually reappears – clearly dressed to kill – he says, ‘Still here, then?’

  ‘Yep,’ I reply evenly, thinking, You want war then, huh?

  ‘Actually, how long are you staying?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know. Why, do you want me out?’

  ‘Not this second,’ Iain says. ‘But . . .’

  ‘I’ll be gone today. Don’t worry,’ I tell him.

  ‘You don’t have to go today,’ he says. ‘It’s just . . .’

  I think, So that’s what passive aggressive means. I force a smile, wink, and nod my head sideways, in a way-to-go kind of gesture.

  ‘What?’ Iain asks.

  ‘I just love it when people don’t say what they mean,’ I tell him.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I’ll take a few more minutes out of my busy schedule to be more explicit for you, if you like. I don’t think I want you siding with my partner and turning him against me and, if that’s the path you have chosen, then I would rather you leave.’

  I laugh. ‘I thought you people believed in karma,’ I say.

  ‘We people, as you put it, do. Your point being?’

  ‘Well hadn’t you better start being nice to people at some point? If you don’t want to be reincarnated as a worm or something?’

  ‘Nice? Like you, you mean?’ Iain
asks.

  ‘No. I don’t have to,’ I say. ‘Because I don’t believe in karma, or reincarnation. And I don’t have to live with you.’

  ‘I thought you were living with me,’ Iain says, gesturing at the room.

  ‘Not for long, believe me,’ I say flatly. ‘But I wish you’d be nicer to my friend. To the man you claim to love.’

  ‘As I said, CC, if Mark chooses to get all bent out of shape over where I stick my dick, that’s his own responsibility.’

  ‘Nice,’ I say. ‘So presumably you’d rather he didn’t give a damn?’

  Iain shrugs.

  ‘Think about it,’ I say. ‘Would you really rather he didn’t care what you do or who you see?’

  ‘I don’t want to discuss this with you any more,’ Iain says.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But the answer is yes,’ Iain says. ‘I would rather he didn’t care and left me to follow my own path without judgement.’

  ‘Then you know what? Find someone who doesn’t love you,’ I tell him. ‘Because that’s the way it works. Caring goes hand in hand with loving.’

  ‘I’m going out now,’ Iain says, pulling his jacket from the chair-back. ‘Will you be gone by the time I get back, or . . .?’

  ‘I will, Iain,’ I say. ‘But I have one last gem of wisdom for you.’

  He rolls his eyes and starts to pull the jacket on. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Think about what I’ve said. If you carry on like this then Mark will leave you. I know him. And he loves you. But he can’t cope with this. If you ever find someone who can cope with this kind of relationship, it will be with someone who doesn’t give a damn. And if that’s what you prefer then my guess is that you’re too scared to let yourself be loved.’

  ‘Thanks, Doctor Freud,’ Iain says. ‘Got it.’

  ‘I haven’t finished.’

  ‘I feared as much.’

  ‘If you don’t want to be with someone who is indifferent . . . I mean, if you do like the fact that Mark loves you and still you carry on doing what you’re doing, then what that means is that you like hurting him more than you like loving him back. And either way, as far as I can see, you’re the one who needs to grow up.’

  Iain reddens slightly, then says, ‘Thanks, CC. You can just drop the keys in the letterbox. I’ll pick them up when I get back.’ And then he turns, opens the door and leaves. When the door closes, it slams so hard that the entire house shakes.