Sottopassaggio Read online

  “Nick wanted a fitted Smallbone kitchen,” she says. “He just didn’t want to settle for anything less.”

  I have no idea what a Smallbone kitchen is, but I nod appreciatively.

  “So we had the whole bottom floor gutted before we moved in. I just couldn’t live in a building site. I’m too old for that stuff.”

  My mind drifts, and I find myself nodding fraudulently as I compare different aspects of old Jenny and new Jenny – the fun, irreverent Jenny of my youth, and this strange Surrey advertising rep.

  “Smeg,” she says, leaning towards me. “You know Smeg?”

  I snap back into the room. “Smug?” I ask.

  “No Smeg!” she laughs. “It’s a brand. Kitchen appliances. Anyway, whatever, it doesn’t matter. They’re very good and very expensive. But we thought, well, you only buy this stuff once, don’t you …”

  I try to remember a rude word lurking in my mind that sounds like Smeg but for the moment it escapes me.

  “So the oven and the fridge, washing machine, well, it’s all Smeg,” she is saying.

  I think about it and decide that I have never heard of Smeg. “Maybe they don’t have Smeg in France,” I think.

  But I know smug. Smug is universal.

  After an hour or so of uninspiring conversation we head out for a stroll along the seafront. I’ve been feeling bored and irritable but the wind and the sun blow the feeling away and I consciously decide to re-connect with my old friend.

  “So do they still call you Jenny Snog?” I interrupt her. “Or is that all over now you’re married.”

  Jenny freezes, and then laughs falsely.

  “Jenny Snog?” she says. “Gosh, I’d forgotten that completely!”

  I nod.

  “Yes you used to call me that!” she laughs. “God knows why.”

  I grin. “I know exactly why,” I say, deciding to push her, to force her to remember who she used to be. “It’s not exactly complicated,” I add.

  But Jenny now wants to talk about me, snapping a lid on the past.

  “So why are you back in England anyway?” she asks. “Don’t tell me you got sick of the Côte d’Azur!”

  I tell her very little.

  “I had a bit of a car accident,” I say. “I’m making the most of my time off work by having a holiday,” I explain.

  But I don’t tell her about Steve. I don’t tell her that my new boyfriend, the man with whom I was in the first throes of a love affair, was crushed and ripped out of this world. I don’t think she, or I for that matter, could deal with it, and even if we could, I just don’t have the words to sufficiently describe it.

  So we rest on the surface of things. We stick to cups of tea, and brands of skin-cream, to kitchen appliances and local politics.

  It reminds me of the conversations I used to have with my hairdresser Daniel. In the days when I had hair, that is.

  At 6pm Jenny heaves herself into the driver’s seat and with the briefest of waves, strains and turns the steering wheel as she pulls away.

  I guess I won’t be seeing her for a while, and I guess I’m quite relieved about that.

  As I climb the steps to the front door, I think, “Smegma. That’s the word.”

  I wish I had thought of it before she left.

  The Gift

  It’s just after seven as I walk into the Bulldog.

  I look around, half hoping, half afraid of seeing John and Jean but they aren’t here, in fact, virtually no one is here.

  Two couples, all four men in their fifties, are sitting at the bar, and a lone man occupies the raised platform at the far end.

  It’s been a bright bank holiday Monday, and the town has been teeming with male muscle. I’m surprised and disappointed by the lack of action. My walk along the seafront has left me feeling horny and energised.

  I order a beer and position myself against the central pillar where I can see the single guy at the far end.

  He has a pointy black beard and a pierced eyebrow. He’s cute, but apparently too engrossed in his reading to look up at me.

  After only a few minutes, I decide that the fun has to be elsewhere, so I cross the bar and ask Mr Pierced eyebrow for a copy of the local free magazine, Gscene.

  He reaches to his left, smiles briefly, and with a single stroke of his beard, returns to his reading.

  It was a good smile, but certainly not a conversation opener, but as I start to walk away, he speaks.

  “Legends,” he says.

  I turn back with an amused frown. “Sorry?” I say.

  He places a finger on the page to mark his place, and looks up at me, a cheeky smile on his lips.

  “Everyone’s in Legends,” he says. “It’s happy hour till 9 tonight.”

  I nod and let out a bemused laugh. “Thanks,” I say.

  The man shrugs and returns to his reading.

  Intrigued as to how he managed to answer my unasked question, I cross the bar and return to my drink.

  Legends is packed. I fight my way to the bar, order a drink, and as I am squeezing my way back through the buzz cuts and leather jackets to a space I have spotted, someone calls my name.

  I look over at the crowd in the bay window and catch site of John’s grinning face, then Jean’s next to him.

  “Mark!” he repeats. The group opens, anemone-like, sucking me in.

  The couple kiss me hello on both cheeks, French-style, and John runs through a rapid-fire series of introductions.

  “Mark, this is Peter, Ben, Baz, Greg …”

  He peers behind me, then pushes me gently to one side, “and this is Tom,” he says.

  I turn to see Tom holding out a hand, grinning.

  “We meet again,” he says.

  I smile. “Yes,” I say.

  For some reason I blush.

  “You found Legends OK then,” he says.

  He turns to John and explains, “We just met in the Bully. I said this was where all the action would be.”

  The group is funny and masculine and drunk. I stand next to Tom and listen to a series of amusing anecdotes, mostly about the men’s various sexual encounters.

  As the temperature rises in the bar, the men remove their leather jackets revealing vests and tattoos.

  I glance at John and Jean and see that they are wearing their chaps again, only this time over jeans. The memory makes me blush.

  Tom, like me, stands at the edge of the group and says little. Occasionally we laugh at the same moment, and I catch him glancing sideways at me, a twinkle in his eye and a bemused smile on his lips. I wonder if his amusement is in some way linked to my presence.

  Whatever the reason, I realise that for some reason, his presence in the group is as marginal as my own.

  Around ten, John claps his hands. “So are we doing this party or not?” he asks.

  Enthusiasm ripples through the group.

  I move to John’s side. “Party?” I say.

  He slips an arm around my shoulders. “Yes, it’s Jean’s birthday tomorrow. We’re having a party for him. You should come along,” he says. “Join us.”

  I nod and glance back at Tom who breaks into an uncontrolled grin.

  “A party,” I say. “Sounds like fun.”

  Tom steps forward and leans towards my ear. “It will be fun,” he says. “But it’s not a hats and jelly party. You know that right?”

  I frown. “Well, no … I …”

  John swipes a leather cap off the table and flops it onto his head with flourish. “I have a hat!” he says.

  I frown at Tom. “I don’t …”

  Tom laughs. “Lots of gel,” he says. “No jelly.”

  “Gel,” I repeat. Suddenly it’s obvious and I feel stupidly slow.

  “Lots of rubbers, no balloons,” Tom giggles.

  I nod. “OK, OK! I get it!” I laugh. I bite my lip in embarrassment.

  John steps between us. “Who said there’s no balloons?” he says. “Don’t put the man off, just because you’re too
uptight to come yourself.”

  The group are pulling on their jackets and moving towards the door.

  “So?” John asks.

  I look at Tom who shrugs.

  “You’re not going then?” I ask.

  Tom shakes his head. “I don’t do sex parties,” he says raising an eyebrow.

  I turn to John. “No,” I say. “I’ll stay.”

  John nods and follows the group towards the exit.

  “Have a good one though,” I say.

  He glances over his shoulder. “Oh I will!” he laughs.

  I watch them disappear out of the door and turn back to Tom.

  “Drink?” he asks.

  I nod. “Sure,” I say. “Bitter please.”

  As he moves towards the bar I take a last fretful glance out of the window, just in time to see the birthday party disappear laughing down a side street.

  A tap on my shoulder makes me jump.

  “’Scuse me mate,” he says.

  I turn to face the man, a skinhead. He has a faded green Mohican, a chrome ring through his nose, and bleacher jeans disappearing into 18-hole Doctor Martins.

  “Sorry mate,” he says, grasping my shoulder, “but was that a gift party?”

  I frown at him. His eyes are a little wild; his stare is a little too intense. “Drugs,” I think.

  I sigh. “It’s a birthday party,” I say, lowering my shoulder in the hope that his hand will slip off.

  I glance at the bar and see Tom waving a bank note at the barman.

  “Yeah, but is it a gift party?” the guy insists.

  His breath is dreadful and I instinctively step backwards. I note that he has a swastika on his lapel as well as a biohazard badge. I wonder if the hazard is his breath.

  I shrug and move sideways. His hand falls away.

  “I’m sorry, I have no idea what kind of party it is,” I say. “Except that it’s a birthday party.”

  The skinhead grimaces revealing yellow teeth. “So they’re not barebackers? It’s not a gifting party, a bareback party?”

  I shake my head and glance nervously back at the bar and take another step backwards.

  “Bareback?” I say. “No. I doubt it. I would hope not.”

  “Oh,” the skinhead says, clearly disappointed. “Shame.”

  I wrinkle my nose at him. “Shame?” I repeat.

  He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Cos I have it … The gift.”

  He steps towards me again, and I try and move further backwards but bump into the table. I peer over his shoulder hoping that Tom will appear to save me.

  “Oh,” I mumble. “Well, um, good.”

  The skinhead touches my arm again and wiggles an eyebrow. “Good?” he says.

  I nod. “Umm, yes. It’s good that you’re so positive about it … So to speak.”

  He squeezes my arm and grins at me. I can smell his breath again.

  “I don’t though,” I say, grimacing.

  He smiles. “Don’t have it? Or don’t want it?”

  I cough and glance around, checking out my surroundings in case I need help, but everyone is engrossed in their conversations.

  “Both,” I say.

  At this second, Tom surfaces next to him. He’s holding two pints of beer and smiling at me.

  “Let me show you something,” the skinhead says reaching into his pocket.

  Tom frowns at him, then at me. “Who’s this?” he asks.

  I shrug and stare at him trying to convey my displeasure without words.

  “I am the gifter,” the man says, tugging at a photo in his tight denim pocket.

  Tom puts the two pints down on the next table, preparing himself, I guess, to intervene if necessary.

  “The gift is inevitable,” the man says. “It’s only a matter of time; accepting the gift is seizing your destiny.”

  I glance back at Tom and see he is stooping pulling his coat from a chair.

  “Tom!” I say. “Wait!”

  Tom straightens up and glares at me. He shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

  The skinhead thrusts the trembling photo in front of my face. I lean back over the table in an attempt to distance myself from him enough to focus on it.

  “It’s the final solution,” he says. “It’s what was always meant to happen.”

  “Jesus!” I exclaim.

  I push sideways and knock over a chair, then force my way clumsily out through a sea of surprised faces.

  I glance behind and see the skinhead turning to follow, so I duck out of sight and push out through a side door.

  My heart is racing. I need to tell Tom about the photo.

  I check both ways and then run to the front of the bar but Tom is nowhere to be seen.

  Different Days

  I sift through Owen’s record collection. He’s taken his CDs to Australia long ago, but the vinyl remains, and with it the essence of much of my youth. I slide Soul-to-Soul Volume One on the turntable and lie back on the floor cushion, instantly transported back to Cambridge, to the big bouncy bed in the sunshine.

  In one of those events that some call telepathy and others insist are the mere workings of chance, the phone rings, and when I answer it is Jenny, the only woman ever to have shared that big bouncy bed.

  She is animated and friendly in a clipped advertising kind of way.

  “Gosh, it was so good seeing you!” she gushes. “I suppose just being able to pick up fifteen years later is the sign of a good friendship,” she says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.”

  I frown at the phone. It seems as if something strange happened during her visit; it seems as if we did different days.

  I do my best to ooze lack of enthusiasm. “Not to worry, it was fine really,” I say. “As you say, it has been fifteen years.”

  “I know!” Jenny enthuses. “There’s so much to catch up on. That’s why I wondered if I mightn’t come down for a whole weekend, Nick’s working and …”

  “Oh really Jenny,” I interject. “There’s no hurry, I mean we have loads of time ahead …”

  “Exactly,” she laughs. “I mean, you’re not busy and I’m not working at the moment; so the question is, do I need to bring bedding or do you have some?”

  “Bedding? No, look …”

  I am trying to think of a lie, a previous engagement that means she simply can’t come.

  “Unless you have something planned for the weekend, do you?”

  She has started to understand that I’m not keen, and the realisation that I’m about to hurt her feelings softens my resolve. Plus, I think about the coming weekend. The idea of spending it alone tips the balance.

  “Not really,” I say. “I guess that’ll be fine.”

  “Great, well, I’ll just bring me then; see you Friday evening, about 6pm I expect. You can take me out on the town.”

  I sigh. “Look, can you make that Saturday?”

  Jenny pauses. “OK. Saturday it is,” she says.

  Defrosting

  I’m walking towards Safeway, resigned to buying extra food for my weekend guest, when I see Tom heading towards me. He is partially obscured by the crowds of Saturday shoppers.

  As he nears I see he’s carrying a big box under his arm and whistling.

  I choose an expression, relaxed, surprised, happy, and fix it. I add a touch of optimistic bounce to my step and head towards my destiny. Only seconds before the encounter however, Tom ducks left into a coffee bar.

  I freeze on the pavement and shake my head.

  “Did what I think just happened actually happen?” I wonder. “Did he see me? Did he ignore me? Did he just hide from me?”

  A woman bashes my ankle with her pushchair and, ignoring my shriek she thrusts on through the crowds.

  “For fucks sake,” I exclaim. I turn into Safeway.

  I choose the empty checkout. Of course there’s a reason the seasoned shoppers aren’t fighting to be served by Kelly; she isn’t the fastest of checkout swi
pers.

  Kelly has some kind of disability; her trembling stuttering swiping is painfully slow, so I smile at her charitably. She glares back.

  I look at my watch wondering if Tom is still next-door, wondering if I should confront him, wondering if Kelly will ever speed up. But Kelly doesn’t do speedy, and Kelly doesn’t do “smile”.

  When she finally hands me my ticket, I stride outside, walk three yards and duck determinedly into Red Roaster.

  I spot Tom immediately, and he spots me too, shifting in his seat, leaning over his book and actually shading his forehead by leaning on his hand. It’s such a theatrical gesture it almost makes me laugh.

  I walk over, dump my shopping bags, and pull out the chair opposite.

  Tom lifts his hand just enough to peer out at me.

  “Hello,” I say. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

  Tom closes his novel and sits heavily back in his chair. He folds his arms and looks at me coldly.

  “You are sitting there,” he says.

  “Body language doesn’t come much clearer than that,” I say, folding my arms to mimic him.

  He pulls at his beard and then reaches for a hooded grey sweatshirt on the back of his chair. He’s clearly making to leave.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, “I think you’re being very strange.”

  “Strange?” he says. “Me?”

  He grunts. Tom actually grunts at me. I know we’re not friends, but surely simple social decency prohibits grunting at people?

  “What?” I ask.

  He laughs sourly. “There’s really no point,” he says.

  I frown at him. “Oh for god’s sake,” I say. “What’s wrong?”

  Tom stands and lifts his book from the table.

  “Look,” he says. “Let’s just say I didn’t really enjoy the other night very much.”

  “You didn’t enjoy it!” I struggle to contain a shriek. “Hey, at least I didn’t run off and leave you with the psycho Nazi bare-backer!”

  People around us are looking.

  “Yeah, well,” Tom shakes his head. He glances around, then pauses, frowns and slowly breaks into a wry grin.

  “But, I thought …” he says. He grips the edge of the table and leans towards me. “Didn’t you know him at all?” he asks.