And there is of course the question still lingering, still hanging over us. The great, unasked interrogation that needs to be answered before any of us can move on.
The thought makes me so angry, my vision tints red, so I squeeze it away by wondering what we can eat when we get home, and how nice it will be to see Jenny and Paloma. Strangely the thought of the cat is so emblematic that it makes me want to weep, so I push that thought away too, this time by trying to remember who was with me the last time I rode these bends. I squint against the sun setting in the rear-view mirror, and realise that the bends are going to become ever more treacherous with the end of daylight.
We’re nearing the top of the huge Col de Tende, the border within spitting distance when, his mouth mere inches from my ear, Tom suddenly says, “Jesus! Where the fuck are we?”
I jolt in surprise. “I thought you were asleep,” I say.
“Yeah,” Tom yawns, “I was.” He leans forward and peers out at the stretch of winding road lit by the van’s headlights. “So where are we?”
I turn and give him a cocky wink. “Wait,” I say. “Ten seconds, there’s a sign round the next bend. It’s a surprise.”
Tom rubs his eyes and leans still further forward. Even though he has towelled himself off there’s a fruity smell about him that’s not entirely pleasant. I wrinkle my nose, and watch for the signpost.
When it first comes into view, it’s a vague blue square, but as the van rounds the bend, as the headlamps fall upon it, it glows astonishingly bright, a beacon of hope in the deep dark night. The white lettering – France – is almost blinding, the sign – Département des Alpes Maritimes – almost tear-jerkingly beautiful.
“Oh,” Tom says.
I brace myself for an argument, or congratulations, but neither are forthcoming. Tom simply slumps back into the rear seat.
I frown to myself, my anger mounting. I shoot a puzzled glare back at him. “The mountain route,” I say, in case he hasn’t quite understood. “Home in about 2 hours.”
Tom stares at me, and shrugs. I can see his eyes, deep and glassy in the mirror, but still he says nothing, so I shrug and drive on, ever more furious.
A few minutes have passed before he finally manages to respond, and it’s only then that I realise that he has been too choked to reply.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice cracked and raw with emotion.
I nod slowly. “You’re welcome,” I say.
“I don’t deserve you,” he adds in a broken whisper.
I swallow hard, and chew the inside of my mouth. There, again is the great unspoken question. I wrench the wheel around another bend.
*
When I swing into the car park three full hours later, not a single word has been spoken.
Tom silently tucks the loose ends of his chains into his socks and the sleeves of his jacket and shambles from the van.
I’m having trouble looking him in the eye, scared of what I might find. But I needn’t worry, for, as I lock the doors and finally force myself to look at him, he averts his own gaze and stares at his feet.
The flat looks dead and alien, seemingly bearing little relationship to whoever we have become over the past few days.
I almost desperately want to see Paloma, but I don’t want to speak to Jenny yet, not till I know what I am saying. So the cat will have to stay upstairs for now.
While Tom clankingly showers I cook pasta, open a tin of tuna, serve up two portions, and wolf down my half. Then, while Tom eats, I shower. His chains – I note absent-mindedly – have scratched the bath.
We end up side by side, not touching, still not having spoken a word. It’s a bad sign, and it makes me hesitate as I wonder whether I’m really ready for the whole story.
“Goodnight,” I say, my courage momentarily deserting me.
“Goodnight,” Tom says.
We lie like this, side by side, suddenly strangers. I stare at the ceiling for a minute or two until I realise that there will be no sleep until it’s dealt with, and maybe no sleep even then. But just as I open my mouth to speak, it’s Tom that says my name.
“Mark?”
“Yes?”
“You will be able to get these off tomorrow, won’t you?”
Even though Tom can’t see me, I nod in the darkness. “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll get a grinder from Castorama tomorrow. It’ll be a bit scary, but it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Thanks,” Tom says. “Goodnight then.”
The bed bounces as he rolls away.
“Tom?” I say.
“Um?”
“I have to ask this. I’m sorry, but it won’t go away. I… I feel like I don’t know you anymore.”
“Umm?” Tom asks, his voice suddenly sleepy.
“Well…” I suddenly don’t know where to start.
I can hear Tom is holding his breath.
“The thing is…” I say. “I mean… Well…”
Tom makes a tutting noise and exhales. “What?” he asks. “What is it?”
His irritated tone spurs me on. “Okay,” I say. “How exactly did you come to be naked and chained to a radiator?”
“You know,” he mumbles. “Dante did it.”
“Sure,” I say. “But how did he do it? How did he get you into that position?”
“Tomorrow,” Tom says.
I frown and chew my bottom lip. Tom makes a vague snoring noise.
Then I cough and say, as gently as I can manage, “Feigning sleep won’t cut it you know.”
A moment passes, maybe a minute, maybe two. The bed jerks and wobbles beside me, and then Tom gulps and his voice quivers beside me, mumbling through tears. “I, erm,” he says. “I don’t know what to say.”
I raise a hand to cover my mouth and force my eyes closed against my own tears as he says, “I’m sorry; I’m really sorry.”
Part Two:
What It Takes To Forgive
I close the door quietly, and step into the lounge.
Jenny peeks her head out of the kitchenette and nods me towards the dining room.
“She’s just gone down,” she murmurs. “Dinner’s ready, so sit down and I’ll bring it through.”
I sit on the sofa bed and wince at the creak of the springs. I look around the room at the slow changes – the African rugs, the plants, the books – which are slowly turning this anonymous flat into Jenny’s place, and now – with the addition of teddy bears and rattles – into Jenny and Sarah’s.
Jenny appears in the doorway, a steaming saucepan of cheesy pasta in one hand and a serving fork in the other. “It’s pretty basic I’m afraid,” she says, plonking the pan on the coffee table and pulling up a pouf.
She shuffles closer to the table, and then closes her eyes and sighs, visibly trying to relax. When she opens them again, she looks at me as if she has just seen me for the first time and smiles. “Open that wine would you?” she says. “I’m gasping.”
I slide the bottle of Bordeaux towards me and reach for the corkscrew. “So is this motherhood lark wearing you out?” I ask. The cork pops from the bottle as Jenny drops the first ladleful of pasta onto my plate.
“Not really,” she replies, then more thoughtfully, “In a way, I suppose.”
I smile vaguely and fill our glasses. “Make up your mind,” I say lightly.
Jenny shrugs and shakes her head. “It’s fine really,” she says. “It doesn’t take a lot of brainpower, bringing up a baby. Or even much physical effort really…”
I raise my glass and Jenny pulls a face and blows through her lips and we clink our glasses together. “It’s just sort of…” her voice fades away and she shakes her head dreamily.
“Relentless?” I say.
She nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Relentless covers it. You’re just, you know, occupied all the time… in a sort of droning low level way. It’s numbing really, that’s all.”
I frown and taste the pasta for the first time. It’s overcooked but the sauce is rich with cheese and c
ream. “No regrets though?” I ask in a concerned tone.
Jenny laughs and shakes her head. “No!” she laughs. “She’s the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me,” then, “I guess that sounds contradictory.” She rolls tagliatelli around her fork and raises it to her mouth, but pauses and adds, “Anyway, enough of me; how are you?”
I swallow my food and shrug. “I’m Okay I guess,” I say.
She shakes her head. “You’re so not!” she laughs.
I snort dismissively and smile at her. “Don’t ask then,” I say. “If you know the answer.”
“Have you at least spoken to him yet?” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Tom?” I ask.
Jenny rolls her eyes at me. “I don’t believe you sometimes,” she says.
I stare at my wineglass for a moment, running my finger through the mist that has formed. “It’s not my fault,” I say eventually. “I mean – I’m not the one that fucked it all up.”
“Yeah, but you are the one that’s not forgiving,” Jenny says.
I shrug. “Forgiving what though?” I say. “Forgiving who? I mean, I’m not sure I know who Tom is anymore.”
Jenny shrugs and sighs.
“You know he never even told me what happened. He just packed his bags and ran away.”
“He was ashamed,” Jenny says. “When we were cutting those things off, well, he couldn’t even look me in the eye.”
I nod. “I know that,” I say with a sigh. “I understand that. But it’s hard you know. When you don’t even know what you’re supposed to be forgiving. Or how it happened.”
Jenny nods slowly. “I guess,” she says. “But if it’s making you unhappy, well… Maybe you need to get it all clear, even if it’s just for yourself.”
I nod and swallow hard. “And there’s the question of trust,” I say. “I mean, when I think about talking to Tom and sorting things out I kind of think, you know – what’s the point? I think it would be hard to trust him again… After that.”
Jenny sighs and looks me in the eye. Her eyes are deep pools of sympathy.
“Hey,” I say with forced cheer. “Can we talk about you again? It’s much more fun…”
It’s only just eleven when I get back to my flat – Jenny goes to bed early these days. I sit and think about Tom. Again. As if by sitting and thinking some mysterious key will appear, spontaneously, in my mind; something that would make me understand – and maybe love – this man again. But, as always, the magical key eludes me.
It’s true, of course, what Jenny says. I haven’t smiled properly since Tom left. And sooner or later he and I will have to talk. The story between us clearly isn’t finished yet.
Maybe it does just need a phone call to finish everything once and for all. Maybe that really is all I need to do so that I can move on. Maybe that’s exactly why I’m not phoning.
I glance at the phone. Tom’s number is still programmed into quick-dial #1. I lift the receiver and sigh. I run a fingernail along the crack where the plastic joins.
Maybe I should phone him. I could say… But it’s been nearly three months. What could I say?
I lay the receiver back on the base, and – feeling slightly sick – I head for the bathroom and bed.
*
August is a dead month in France. It’s too hot to breathe down here in the south, and half the country is on holiday whilst the other half stays behind to man the phones. They don’t ring much, of course, so I have time to think about Tom. Too much time really.
Every few hours an email appears in the list before me, and I lazily click on it and answer a question or send back a price list.
It’s dull as ditchwater, but to be honest it’s about all my brain can handle. It’s been hard going back to work after such a long break, and my guess – that it would be a gentle way of easing myself back into the world of work – has turned out to be right
It’s hard to believe that this repetitive, eventless unfolding of each day can fit into the same life as the mad adventures of the last few months, but… I look across the room. Through the door I can see the secretary playing solitaire on her computer. My eyes tell me that this truly is all that is happening.
So I have lots of time to think. Plenty of time to wonder who Dante really is; what he and Paolo really get up to. I have time to wonder how Tom is doing, to tell myself that I don’t care anymore, and even enough time to realise that that’s not true. By 7 PM when I get home, this single Monday in August seems to have lasted longer than the whole of June.
I throw my bag onto the sofa; stroke Paloma who stretches and screeches in a unique way that lets me know she’s not keen on me going out to work all day either.
The red light on my answer phone is winking at me, so I hit play and sit, strangely unsurprised, as Tom’s voice hesitantly stumbles from the tinny speaker. Then I pour a stiff whisky and call him back. He answers immediately.
The brightness in his voice, the feigned surprise at my call makes me think that this isn’t going to be the easy, honest communication I was hoping for. I close my eyes.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” Tom says.
I nod slowly and bite my bottom lip.
“Mark?” he says.
I swallow and clear my throat, which seems, suddenly, to be coated with phlegm. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s been a long time.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Tom says.
“I roll my head from side to side and stretch my neck muscles. “You called eventually,” I say. “Well done for that… at least.”
“Yeah…” Tom says thoughtfully. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to speak to me.”
“Do I?” I wonder. Pressure is building behind my eyes. All of the hurt of the last three months is resurfacing, not only because of what happened in Italy, but the hurt of his leaving, and now the hurt of it taking three months for him to call me.
“So why now?” I croak.
There’s a pause before Tom answers. “I don’t really know,” he says.
We sit in silence for a moment. I nod thoughtfully, breathing with difficulty.
Tom coughs at the other end of the line. “I haven’t seen you online,” he says after a while.
“My computer crashed,” I say. “I lost all my contacts.” It’s a lie of course. I have a Mac – it never crashes. I deleted Tom from my MSN the day he left.
“Oh,” he says.
I shake my head as if to dislodge the feeling of fuzziness building in my brain. “So did you want something specific?” I say, realising that someone is going to have to force something to happen, and then, that this sounded harsh.
“Yeah…” Tom says vaguely. “I really just wanted to hear your voice.”
I nod. “Okay,” I say.
“And I had some good news. I thought I should tell you,” he adds.
I nod. I was thinking apologies more than good news. “Yeah?” I say.
“I got my, erm, results,” Tom says. “My test results.”
I frown. “Your results,” I repeat.
“Yeah,” Tom laughs falsely. “I’m still negative thank god.”
I stop breathing. I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“I thought you should know,” he continues. “I had to wait three months to be sure.”
I can’t think of a reply. I sit silently, my mouth open; I consider hanging up.
“You still there?” Tom asks.
I exhale hard. “Yeah,” I say. “Just about.”
“Just about?” Tom says.
“I didn’t know,” I say. “I didn’t know that you needed to do a test.”
“No…” Tom says. “Well… I was worried. I didn’t know his status, and, well, especially after his comments about Aids not really existing and all that,” Tom says.
“His status…” I repeat weakly.
“Dante’s,” Tom says.
I swallow and scrunch my eyes against the tears. “I didn’t know what you did,” I say. “I still don’t know w
hat you did. You never said.”
“Well, you imagined though,” Tom says defensively.
“I didn’t know you had sex though,” I say. “I didn’t know you let that… I didn’t know you let him fuck you without a condom.”
Tom sighs unhappily. “I really miss you,” he says, his voice wobbling.
I screw up my eyes. “That’s not really good enough,” I say. “You can’t just phone me and tell me… You can’t just tell me stuff like that and expect …”
“I didn’t let him do anything,” Tom breathes. “You know that much at least.”
I shake my head. My tears are fading, the hurt is turning to anger. “I know what you tell me,” I say, my voice measured. “And it’s not much.”
“I know.”
“But even that’s too much.”
Tom says nothing.
“And you did let him do something,” I say. “As I understand it, you let Dante undress you and handcuff you.”
Silence.
“When did you actually say ‘no’ Tom?”
Tom sighs again. “Do we really have to go through all that?” he asks.
I shake my head. “This is pointless,” I think.
The phone sounds muffled, and I can hear that Tom is crying. I rub a hand through my hair. “No Tom,” I say. “We don’t have to go through anything. We don’t have to go through anything at all.” I wait for a moment, and then add, “I think I’m going to hang up Tom. I can’t really see the point…”
I wait for him to reply but the line clicks dead instead.
*
I cover my head with my suit jacket but the outrageously heavy October rain soaks it immediately, dripping through the fabric and running down my neck, lashing horizontally at my legs, soaking my feet. I run in from the deluge and squelch up the stairs where I push into my apartment with a gasp, slamming the door behind me.
I pull off my shirt and grab a towel from the bathroom to dry my hair, but even before I do that my phone rings – it’s Jenny.
“You should come upstairs,” she says. “I have something for you.”
“I’ll just change,” I tell her. “I’m soaked. What is it anyway?”
Good Thing Bad Thing Page 10
