Sottopassaggio (32 page)

“What?” I ask. “What is it?”

“It moved,” she says. “The baby, oh my God! It moved!”

I grin broadly. “Is that the first time?”

Jenny nods. “Yeah!” she says, wide eyed. “Wow, that's so weird. Gosh.” She pulls a face and bites her bottom lip. “It's a bit
freaky
actually. Like having an alien inside.”

I grimace. “Is it moving now? Is
she
moving,” I correct myself, anxious to banish the idea that it's an alien.

Jenny pauses then shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Just a one off.”

She laughs and nods. “Wow though!” she says.

“I expect there'll be lots more of that,” I say. “Did you think any more about names?”

Jenny shrugs. “I liked the Stevie idea, I mean, I liked the idea of the link, but the Nicks part kind of put me off. Depending how things work out, I may well want to try and forget that particular aspect of things.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I thought it was a bit dodgy.”

“I actually like Catherine,” Jenny says. “Or Sarah.”

“Catherine will become Kate I guess,” I say. “Kate bush, Kate Winslett, Katey Boyle…”

“And Sarah?”

I grimace and shrug. “Sarah Ferguson? Sarah… Sarah Lee's Black Forest Gateau?” I shrug. “Actually there's another Fleetwood Mac link there. On the same album we heard the other day there's a song called Sarah. It was
the
big hit as I recall.”

I glance at my watch. “But we better make a move,” I say. “The train will be here in a bit.”

Jenny pulls her bag towards her and stretches.

I nod towards the underpass. “Platform numéro quattro,” I say.

Jenny nods and stands, placing a hand on her belly. “Sottopassaggio,” she says, reading the sign above the underpass. “Isn't Italian beautiful?”

I nod. “It means exactly the same thing though,” I say. “Under-pass.”

Jenny takes my arm. “Yeah,” she says, starting to walk. “I know, and I expect Italians probably think
underpass
sounds more exotic, but I still prefer
Sottopassaggio
.”

As we descend into the tiled tunnel the temperature drops. Involuntarily I shiver. “It's cold down here,” I say, my voice echoing off the tiled walls.

Pools of sunlight illuminate the tunnel at each set of stairs. We wander arm in arm towards the far end, the bottles clinking in the carrier bag.

“Hey, here come the alcoholics!” I laugh, shaking the bag.

Jenny squeezes my arm. “Don't joke about that,” she says.

I pull a face. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“So how far away did you say Tom…” Jenny glances up the first flight of stairs and pauses. She looks like she's listening for some distant sound.

“The baby again?” I ask.

Jenny shakes her head but continues to peer up the stairwell. I follow her gaze. The aura of evening sunlight at the top is beautiful and I wish I had my camera. Thinking that Jenny has got the wrong platform, I tug on her arm.

“Our train's platform four,” I say nodding forwards. “Down the end.”

At the top, silhouetted against the evening sunlight, a figure has appeared.

“I know!” Jenny says, in an irritated tone. “Wait!”

I glance at her, and then back up at the figure, now heading towards us.

“Isn't that…?” Jenny says.

As the figure comes closer I see it's a man. He's carrying a bag over his shoulder. He continues down until only his spiky hair remains silhouetted against the orange sky.

I shudder.

Jenny says his name first. “
Tom
?”

He pauses, now only one step above us. I stare, mouth open, speechless.

Tom takes the final step down to our level. He looks pale and drawn, so washed-out in fact, that for a moment, I doubt that it
is
him.

His expression is wide-eyed but emotionless. He looks frowningly at Jenny, then at myself. He drops the heavy green army bag from his shoulder to the ground, and silently stands before us. Then he looks from Jenny's face to my own, and then back again over and over.

I put down my bottle-filled carrier bag and step towards him. I watch as his lips thin, his forehead wrinkles and his cheeks start to distort. A tear runs from the corner of his eye.

“Tom?” I say, moving forward and wrapping my
arms around him.

At first his body remains rigid, but then, with a jerk and a shudder, he stiffens, and then collapses against me.

“You?” he gasps, his body shuddering as he emits a sob. “How?” he breathes.

Jenny steps forward, and rests a hand on each of our backs. “Jesus Tom!” she says.

A train rumbles overhead –
our
train.

We lead Tom back though the underpass and order fresh cups of coffee at the café.

The Italian waiter laughs and says something I make no attempt at understanding, but take to mean, “Y
ou changed your minds then.”

Tom disappears to the bathroom and eventually reappears looking recomposed, but his eyes have an air of madness, a certain crazy stare that I have never seen before.

He sits opposite, alternately running a finger across his pierced eyebrow or stroking his beard.

“This is madness,” he says, shaking his head. “You know that this is mad, right?”

I sigh and nod at him. “It
is
pretty crazy,” I say.

Tom snorts and shakes his head. “You know the phrase,” he asks, his voice trembling a little again, “
A sight for sore eyes
?” He lifts a trembling hand to cover his mouth.

Jenny tuts sympathetically. “Oh
Tom
,” she says.

He shakes his head. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I've had such a bad few days, I don't know...” He swallows hard. “If I had thought this was possible… If I had believed I might bump into you here, today, right now, I would have prayed for it,” he says. “It's incredible.”

“But why are you here?” I say. “Where are you going?”

Tom shakes his head. “Why am
I
here?” he says.

I shrug. “We came over to Nice to get away from all that hassle,” I explain. “You know, Nick and
everything. And then, today, well, we just went to the market, here, in Vingtimiglia.”

Tom nods. “I'm going to Nice. I thought I'd try and get an early flight home.”

Jenny strokes Tom's arm. She glances at me and catches my eye. Her regard is profound and communicating. It says that she knows what I need to know, and she knows that I can't be the one to ask the question.

“And Antonio?” she says.

Tom shakes his head slowly. “He'll notice that I've gone in a few days,” he says sourly. He stares at the table for a while, then swallows and continues. “His parents turned up. It's was so…
Humiliating
,” he says.

I glance at Jenny; she shrugs discreetly.

Tom shakes his head again. He scrunches up his eyes, fighting back tears. “He made me stay in a hotel,” he says. “I barely saw him. I had no idea anyone could be so ashamed. I had no idea anyone could be so ashamed
of me.
”

“His parents don't know then,” I say.

Tom shakes his head. “I don't think Antonio
himself
knows,” he says. “I offered to be discreet you know? But he said I'm too gay… He said I'm an embarrassment.”

Tom's face crumples. A fresh set of tears runs down his cheeks. He shakes his head dolefully. “I've never been treated like that in my life,” he says.

I feel close to tears myself. I reach out and wipe Tom's cheek with the back of my hand.

Jenny pulls a tissue from her bag and hands it to him.

“I'm sorry,” he says taking a deep breath. “I'm a bit overwrought. I didn't sleep the last couple of nights. I kept waiting for him to realise, I kept thinking he'd come, that he'd say sorry or something, you know?”

Tom wipes his nose again, and then snorts sadly. “I thought we were going to fix the details of the move,” he says. “Not organise a break-up.”

Jenny rubs Tom's back again. “Well, you'll probably sort it all out,” she says. “Things are rarely as bad as they seem.”

Tom shakes his head slowly. “I may be a bit too gay, but I'm no drama queen,” he says. He swallows hard and looks up towards the roof, blinking back the last of the tears. Then he reaches out across the table and lays one hand on Jenny's and the other on mine.

“And now you two!” he says. “I mean, what on earth is
that
all about?”

On the journey back, the three of us slip into a stunned silence. I don't know what the others are thinking about, but I can guess. Tom looks pale and slightly crazed. I imagine he's still chewing over his last few days with Antonio. Jenny has a hand on her stomach and she's staring out of the window at the fading light. She'll be thinking about her baby, where to have it, how to organise things, what to do next.

Me? I'm trying to resist telling Tom how much I love him. Seeing him vulnerable, and hearing about how badly he's been treated, hearing the uncomprehending hurt in his voice has cracked my heart right open. Strangely, I'm also fixating on the sleeping arrangements. There are two beds in the apartment, so Tom is going to be sleeping with Jenny or with myself, and that thought, the relish that I feel about the simple idea of finally sharing my bed with Tom is inappropriate and selfish, but I feel it all the same.

As we roll out of Menton, Jenny turns from the window and smiles at Tom.

“Are you OK Tom?” she says.

Tom nods. “A bit in shock I guess,” he says. “I feel a bit like my brain is overloaded. Like it has just sort of shut down.”

“Do you want to talk about it all or…”

Tom shakes his head. “Nah, not really,” he says. “There's not so much to say… I mean, sometimes you're trying to work out what happened. But
this time
?” he shrugs. “This is one of those occasions where you feel like you already knew, but just didn't let yourself realise.”

I frown at him. “Really?” I say. “I'm surprised. I thought you and Antonio were quite solid.”

Tom shrugs. “I'm good at ignoring stuff,” he says.
He shakes his head. “Too good. It's dumb, but I always do it. I always stick my head in the sand. I never realise what's happening till after it's over.”

Jenny leans over and touches his knee. “We all do that Tom,” she says. “Don't give yourself a hard time about it.”

Tom shrugs. “Yeah, it's just that, well, ever since…” he looks at me. “Actually ever since that conversation we had together about his supposedly straight ex… you know, that Hugo bloke, well I knew that there was a problem we needed to deal with. But I just ignored it.”

A train passes in the other direction causing a stunning whack as its slipstream hits ours.

I wait until the quiet returns, and then say, “But you can't fix other people; believe me, I've tried.”

Tom nods. “Yeah, I could have tried to address it though, instead of just being surprised when it all falls apart.”

Jenny smiles sadly. “Italians,” she says, nodding at me meaningfully.

“Yeah,” I say. “We were talking about just this just an hour ago.”

“Maybe if I could have got him away,” Tom says. “Maybe if I could have got him out of Italy, like we planned.”

I nod. “With time, and patience maybe. But you know, he was in England, he was in Brighton when he was telling us how straight his ex was.”

Tom nods. “He was so proud of that. Anyway, he wasn't ever going to move,” he says. “I was actually considering moving to Italy instead.”

A ticket inspector slides the door open. “Vos Billets s'il vous plait,” he says.

We hold up our tickets to be clipped and watch as he inspects, clips them and moves on.

“New wallet,” Tom says. “With a chain this time!”

I nod and smile as I slip it back into my rear pocket. “Yeah,” I say. “I bought it in Ventimiglia today. The old one caused that much anguish.”

Jenny nods meaningfully. “Especially for Benoit.”

I shoot her a glare. I've never told Tom about my relationship with Benoit, and now is not the moment. She pulls a grimace showing she understands this.

Tom frowns. “Benoit? John and Jean's mad photographer friend?”

I nod. “Yeah… It's a long story,” I say.

Tom shrugs and looks out of the window but just as he turns, we enter a tunnel. He sighs heavily and looks back at me.

Suddenly what he just said registers. “
Mad
?” I say.

Tom grimaces. “Not very PC of me, sorry,” he says. “I used to quite fancy him actually. He's lovely as long as he takes his meds.”

I frown. “I'm sorry, I don't…”

Tom shrugs. “Sorry, I thought… Never mind. It's not for me to say really.”

I shake my head. “No,” I say. “Please, Tom. I know Benoit quite well and I knew there was something, but... What's actually wrong with him?”

Tom grimaces. “Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. He's, you know, what do they call it? Manic depressive? Only there's another term for it nowadays.”

Jenny nods. “Bipolar disorder.”

“Yeah,” Tom says. “That's it. He's lovely most of the time, but well, when he's manic he's a handful; he goes quite wild. Plus he'll shag anything that moves.”

I bite my lip and avoid looking at Jenny. “And when he's depressed?”

Tom shrugs. “You don't see him at all when he's down. Sometimes for months.”

“Right,” I say.

Another story that becomes clear only after it's over. “Why don't people ever tell you this stuff whilst it's happening,” I wonder.

“I didn't know you were friends with him,” Tom says. “I'm sorry, please don't tell him I said…”