“Huh,” she says mysteriously. “It is a surprise.”
She opens the door grinning broadly. I frown at her and then kiss her on the cheek. “What’s up with you then?” I ask.
“I found something on your doormat,” she says, nodding towards the lounge. “In there.”
Only then do I see him on the sofa. My bemused smile slips away. “Hugo?” I say.
Hugo has his hands clasped between his knees. He looks up at me and grins. “Grande surprise hein?” he says.
I nod. “Yeah…” I say vaguely. “Big surprise.”
Jenny nudges me forwards, and as I stumble into the lounge Hugo stands and moves around the coffee table to kiss me hello.
“So how come you never mentioned this one before,” Jenny murmurs saucily.
“I was passing through, so I thought I’d come say hi,” Hugo says. “For old time’s sake.”
“He was sitting on your doormat,” Jenny tells me. “I thought with the rain and stuff…”
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks, um…” I suck my teeth and frown. “I’m sorry Jenny,” I say. “But I need to um…” I start to lead Hugo towards the door. “I need to talk to Hugo alone really.”
Jenny winks at me as if she knows what I mean. “I bet you do,” she says.
Hugo, clearly embarrassed, waves at Jenny as I push him out onto the landing. “Oh… My bag,” he says.
I reach for the bag beside the door, and as I turn to leave, Jenny says, quietly, “He’s lovely.”
I laugh dryly. “Yeah,” I say. “Right.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, pushing the door to my apartment closed.
Hugo shrugs. “I said. I was passing through…”
Paloma stretches and screeches. Hugo strokes her comfortably, naturally, easily. It strikes me, perhaps unfairly, that the gesture is a claiming of territory; it’s as if he has never been away.
“How did you even get my address? I mean it’s been…” I push my lips out and shake my head.
“Three years?” Hugo says.
I nod. “Yeah, three years, without a word…”
Hugo frowns lopsidedly and steps forward, releasing the handle of his bag.
“Hey, slow down,” he says. “Relax.” He grabs my elbows. His hands are warm. The contact feels good.
I stand paralysed waiting for my brain to tell me how to react, but it’s as if I have done a Google search and it’s come up empty. Your search – “how to behave with an ex who dumped me for no reason and who is back and leaning towards me for a kiss,” – did not match any documents.
I shake my head jerkily. “This is just… unexpected,” I say.
Hugo’s thumbs are caressing my elbows. He leans in and hugs me. “Relax,” he says. “You don’t have to do anything, just let yourself be surprised. It’s a good surprise isn’t it?”
Hugo smells the same as he always did, and that smell, his sweet musky odour, is like a time machine, linking the distant past, the time we were together, with here and now.
He pulls back a little and stares deep into my eyes and grins, then leans forward and rubs the tip of his nose against mine, Eskimo style.
In my mind I say something Gloria-Gaynor-like, maybe, “Hey don’t get cute. Don’t think you can behave like a complete cunt and then waltz back in here. Just turn around and…” I hover between collapsing into anger or tears, and then, almost despite myself, what I actually do is kiss him. Hugo laughs lightly and kisses me back. My body goes limp.
Hugo helps me prepare dinner. It’s bizarre how naturally we slip back into our roles, into our easy navigation around each other. As I chop veg he leans into my back and slides his hands into my pockets. He nuzzles my neck.
We gulp down a couple of martini’s each – I think we both need it – and then open a bottle of dry white to drink with the meal. Halfway through the bottle we are chatting comfortably, easily avoiding the unspeakable subject of our break-up.
The second Hugo has finished eating he grabs the sleeve of my t-shirt and pulls me through to the bedroom.
An internal dialogue is accusing me of being easy, of being a walkover, of letting myself be screwed by the bastard that is, undoubtedly, Hugo. But another part of me is more powerful. I haven’t had sex for months and the contact with him is, as always, ecstatic. I want to get screwed here. It’s exactly what I want.
Rediscovering his dancer’s body is even better than the first time, and as I undress him my dick trembles and judders with anticipation. Everything about him is as I remember, from the soft down of his chest hair to his sticky out belly-button, to his porn-star dick.
We kiss and fumble and explore each other bodies. It’s pure rapture. Then he rolls on top of me and rubs his nose against mine, and I remember what comes next. As his dick slips between my legs I break into a grin.
“I want to fuck you,” he says.
“I know,” I whisper.
“Condom?” he says.
I blink slowly and reach behind me.
In the morning I awaken first. For the shortest time I think that the body beside me is Tom. Then I remember that it’s Hugo, and then doubt myself, and have to look and see that it really is.
I shuffle across the bed to his back. His skin is very different from Tom’s – softer, warmer; it feels as if it’s covered in talc.
I lie there in a moment of half sleep, simultaneously thrilled and mortified that this is Hugo, not Tom. It’s an astonishing moment, because as I awaken, it suddenly becomes clear to me just how much I fancy Hugo. And just how much I love Tom.
For most of my life those two concepts, sex and love, have been confused, even to the point where, through my lust for Hugo, I believed that I loved him; even thought he was the love of my life. Yes, my lust for Hugo’s body, for this contact with his skin is a whole different kind of pleasure to what I feel when I have sex with Tom. But it’s nothing to do with love at all; it’s something else entirely. Chemical, or biological, or hormonal, who knows?
Hugo stretches.
Hugo’s betrayal: his failure to mention his wife, his child, his other lover Antonio, well, it’s at least as profound as Tom’s, and yet here I am sleeping with him. And the reason that it doesn’t matter isn’t the passage of time. It’s simply that I don’t love Hugo. Maybe I never did.
I love Tom.
Hugo responds to my touch and yawns and stretches back towards me. “I didn’t know where I was for a minute,” he says.
I smile, a strange contented feeling enveloping me, and I roll onto my back. I feel as if I have just aged, as if in this particular moment I have become a different, older, wiser person. There are moments like that when you suddenly notice that you are different. And then the moment is forgotten, and you carry on with life, completely unaware of the change.
Hugo yawns and sits up. “What time is it?” he asks blearily.
I roll and reach for the alarm clock. “Nearly half nine,” I tell him.
“Merde!” Hugo exclaims, sliding to the side of the bed. “I have to go,” he says. “I have to be in Bordeaux by tonight.”
I smile. I don’t know quite why I’m smiling, whether it’s because I’m not surprised at his sudden, tactless departure, or at the fact that I don’t care.
“Shall I get up and make coffee or something,” I ask. I know the answer already, but never let it be said that I was the rude one.
“No,” Hugo says, hopping into his jeans. “No, I’m really sorry, but I have to go. I have so much to do.”
To hide my grin I feign a yawn and cover my mouth, and watch as Hugo pulls on his t-shirt.
I lie in bed, stroking Paloma and listening to the sound of Hugo’s mad rush around the apartment. Finally he pokes his head around the door.
“Sorry,” he says.
I shrug and shake my head. “It’s fine.”
“Thanks,” Hugo says with a snort. “You’ve been cool.”
I nod slowly. “Haven’t I?” I agree.
&nbs
p; “But I have to…” Hugo nods behind him towards the door.
I nod. “Get back to your wife?” I say.
Hugo pales. His features slip into a frown. He didn’t know that I knew about his massive deception.
I smile, “It’s fine,” I say. “Go!”
Hugo opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again. He shakes his head quickly and then raises the palm of his hand. I’m not sure if it’s a gesture of surrender or a goodbye wave.
“Ciao!” He says.
*
I get up late – just before 12. The sight of sunshine is such a relief after yesterday’s rain. I dress quickly.
As I lock the door to my flat, I hear Jenny upstairs, doing the same, so I wait until she reaches my landing.
“Hello!” I say. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Jenny grins at me and wiggles Sarah’s hand at me. “Say hello to Mark,” she urges. Sarah gurgles happily. “It’s fine,” Jenny tells me. “I understand entirely. He’s lovely.”
I snort. “Yeah, well,” I say, following her downstairs. “Not as lovely as you think. Not lovely at all in fact.”
As I follow them down, Sarah peers at me over Jenny’s shoulder, her head bobbing in rhythm with the steps. “Where are you off to?” Jenny asks.
“Just out for coffee,” I say. “Making the most of the sun while it lasts.”
Sarah makes an exclamatory, “Goo!” sound.
“Me too,” Jenny says. “So you can tell me all about the lovely Hugo.”
The daylight outside is stunningly bright. The atmosphere has been purged by the storms, and the UV rays – finding nothing in their path – shine piercingly down, prickling my skin. We settle in a nearby café on Place Rosetti and order two coffees before Jenny says, “So?”
I laugh. “I thought I’d got away with it,” I say.
She shakes her head. “You’re joking.”
“You’re turning into a real fag hag you know,” I tell her.
She shrugs cutely, and repeats. “So?”
I laugh. “I got a nice shag.”
Jenny nods as if she’s moderately impressed.
“And then he left,” I say, pulling an, oh well expression.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Back to his wife and child I expect.”
Jenny’s smile slips away. “Oh,” she says again.
“He was already married when we dated. Only he never told me,” I explain.
Jenny nods. “A real bisexual then?”
I shrug. “That’s the big question isn’t it?”
Jenny frowns so I continue, “Bisexuals are like UFOs,” I say. “Well, do they exist or don’t they?”
She tips her head sideways and sighs. “If he has a kid… Well, I take it you know how people make babies. Right?”
I laugh. “I guess,” I say. “Just about.”
Jenny wrinkles her nose. “Shame though,” she says. “For you I mean.” She turns to Sarah who is starting to writhe and fidget. “Do you want to sit with Mark, honey?” But as she lifts Sarah towards me she starts to scream – a short, sharp warning shot. Jenny pulls a face, and snuggles her back against her chest. “Sorry,” she says.
“I have that effect on kids,” I say. “And men apparently.”
Sarah breaks into a smile and says, “Angen.”
“She’s almost speaking,” I say.
Jenny nods. “Yeah,” she says. “She says mum, and gat.”
I frown. “Gat?”
Jenny rolls her eyes. “Cat!” she says. “Doh! She loves Paloma though.”
“Shame Paloma doesn’t like her so much,” I say. “She thinks Sarah is too shrieky by half.”
The waiter brings coffee, and as he walks away Jenny sighs. I glance back at him and frown. “That’s a big sigh,” I say. “You in love with the cutey waiter or something?”
Jenny laughs. “Nah, I’m just disappointed for you,” she says. “You deserve better luck. I thought maybe, well, you know…”
I wrinkle my nose. “I used to think I was in love with Hugo,” I say. “I even used to think he was the love of my life.”
Jenny strokes Sarah’s hair and nods for me to continue.
“Turns out it was just sex,” I say with a wry smile and a shrug.
Jenny laughs. “Funny how it takes so long to work these things out,” she says. “I only just worked out that I really did love Nick.”
I take a deep breath and look serious. “Don’t you even think about…”
Jenny laughs and interrupts me. “Don’t be daft,” she says. “I’d never go back to him. I’m not that much of a masochist. I suppose I can identify the thing about him that I loved now though. It always seemed a bit of a mystery to me.”
“As someone once pointed out to me, there’s plenty of people we love, family, exes… But we can’t live with them all,” I say.
Jenny nods. “Yeah… And Tom?” she asks. “Talking of exes.”
I blink slowly and cock my head to one side. “I expect I’ll always love Tom,” I say. “In one way or another.”
Jenny nods and sips at her coffee. “In one way or another,” she repeats.
“Well, I’ll always love the Tom I knew. But maybe that was just a myth of Tom. Maybe the real Tom is the one who…” I shrug. “I really don’t know.”
“Do you think you’ll see him again?”
I shrug. “I doubt it, he’s had months to make a move; if he wanted to. My mythical Tom would have.”
“I thought he phoned you,” Jenny says.
I frown. I can’t be sure but I don’t remember telling Jenny about that. She shrugs and looks away – a little guiltily it strikes me.
“I thought that was what you said, anyway,” Jenny says vaguely.
“Yeah,” I say, still frowning at her in an accusatory fashion. “But if he wanted to patch things up, well, he hasn’t exactly given it his best shot.”
Jenny looks back at me and laughs lightly. “Is there really anything he could do?” she asks. “I mean, be honest.”
I shrug. “People do. People explain. People write letters. People send flowers, People drop in… People drop to their knees and grovel,” I say with a cynical laugh.
Jenny shrugs.
“You know what I mean though?” I say.
“Pretty hard for Tom to drop by,” Jenny points out.
I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “And really fucking hard to write a letter and apologise.”
Jenny looks away again. “Maybe he thinks…”
But I can’t hear her voice. I touch her arm. “I’m over here,” I remind her.
“Sorry,” she says, turning back. “I said, maybe he thinks it’s pointless. Maybe he doesn’t realise that you still care about him.”
We stare each other out for a moment. Jenny raises an eyebrow. There’s almost something confrontational about it. Then she shrugs. “I know how he feels about you, how he felt about you,” she says. “That’s all.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “He loved me sooo much – he decided to cheat on me, shag without a condom and run away. Oh and he thought it best never to actually explain himself or apologise. Nice one. Good strategy.”
Jenny shrugs and jigs Sarah up and down. “Can you change your tone of voice a bit,” she asks. “You’re worrying her.”
I look from Jenny to Sarah and see that her tiny brow is indeed furrowed, so I lean towards her and pull a face. “Hello you!” I say in a kiddie voice. “Everything’s just fine, isn’t it!” The frown slips away and her mouth slips into a tiny spittle-filled grin.
“Have you spoken to him?” I ask, as casually as I can.
Jenny frowns. “To Tom?”
I blink exaggeratedly. “Erm, yeah. To Tom.”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head vigorously. “Of course not,” she says. “I don’t even have his number.”
“So you wouldn’t really know what he thinks, any more than I do,” I point out raising an eyebrow. “Right?”
*
/> The postcard arrives on Wednesday. It’s postmarked Monday morning. It says, “Hello from Brighton.” It says, “I’m really sorry I fucked up,” and it says, “I miss you.” It could be a coincidence I figure. Just about.
The flowers arrive at work on Tuesday – a boxed bunch of wilting roses. Tom doesn’t even know where I work, so there’s definitely a mole in the house. I start to feel angry. It’s not so much Jenny’s breach of my trust, more Tom’s lack of originality. I feel disingenuous for thinking it, but it seems to me that following Mark’s three-step plan to forgiveness accurately transmitted by Jenny means absolutely nothing. It even seems to preclude any kind of genuine original gesture that Tom might have come up with himself.
I avoid Jenny all week – I really can’t face rowing with her.
But the following Saturday when she knocks on my door, I’m ready for her. I set my jaw and grab the door handle. I must look pretty fierce because Tom’s eyes widen. He bows his head and looks at his feet instead.
“Jesus!” I exclaim, covering my mouth with my hand.
Tom glances up at me worriedly and tries a weak smile. “No, just me,” he says, then, stroking his beard, “though I understand the confusion.”
I’m speechless. I shake my head. Upstairs I hear Jenny’s door creak as she quietly closes it and realise that Tom has been there first.
Tom glances behind me and I step aside so he can enter. He drags his backpack over the threshold without looking me in the eye. My eyes are bulging and I can feel a muscle in the corner of my mouth twitching bizarrely.
“So?” I say, closing the door behind him.
Tom clears his throat. “Oh,” he says. “So you’re not gonna make this easy then.”
I shrug and swallow hard. “Should I?” I say. “Do you think I should? Make it easy?”
Tom shakes his head and licks his lips.
“I thought you had it all worked out anyway,” I say.
Tom frowns at me.
“Step three,” I say.
Tom frowns and I realise he truly doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “Step one, write a letter – well, a postcard. Step two, send flowers,” I explain. “I kind of presumed you and Jenny had step three all worked out too.”
Tom looks around the room. He looks like a cornered animal checking for escape routes. His eyes are watering. “That’s not really fair,” he says.
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