The Sexopaths

by Beckham, Bruce

  ‘Monique – what’s wrong?’

  There’s no reply so he rises and crosses the hall to her study. She kneels amidst a torn pastiche of the past week’s mail, the accumulation of their time in China. Without looking up she extends to him a single-page letter. Quickly superseded by a suffusing guilt, his first reaction is one of relief – that it’s not something to do with Lucien or her European Board or Jasmin-Sharon or Xara. Instead he sees it’s headed ‘Breast Screening Programme’. He says:

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have to go back.’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s just for a check-up isn’t it?’

  ‘I have had the check-up – this is a recall.’

  Icy fingers seem to clutch at his heart.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She sounds scared.

  He scans the text, stoops down beside her, indicates a line. ‘Look – it says about ten percent of women are called back – and most of them are cleared after a second precautionary check.’

  ‘But I have missed the appointment. It was last Thursday while we were away.’

  ‘Monique – I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Perhaps they can rearrange – if you give me the letter I shall phone them.’

  He complies and she picks up her mobile from a lamp stand. He says:

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  He walks thoughtfully into the kitchen; Camille will be delivered home shortly, they have presents for her – toys, DVDs and clothes – now it has rather rained on their parade. While he makes coffee he can hear Monique speaking on the phone. After a minute or so she comes through, her face expressionless. He says:

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘The medical staff have all gone home, and the lady who books appointments is not in until eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Whom did you speak with just now?’

  ‘It was a secretary or assistant, I think.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Just that… they must have found something…’ Her voice breaks, a note of hysteria; she bursts into tears and launches herself into his arms. Now she sobs, ‘Adam, they have found something!’

  ‘Monique – she wouldn’t know – she’s a fucking receptionist not a consultant – she’s just saying that.’ (How extraordinarily thoughtless, he thinks.) ‘It means they just can’t clear everyone at the first stage – it’s far better if you get a second opinion – better in the long run. It means you’ll have had a more thorough check.’

  His words must sound hollow, her face is buried in his shoulder, she shakes her head disbelievingly. He takes hold of her, makes her look at him. ‘Monique – don’t worry – I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.’

  She smiles, but she must be thinking what can he do – if there really is something… what can he do?

  The doorbell rings and keeps ringing – it will be Camille, let off the leash by Laura. He watches as instinct takes over, autopilot resumes, and Monique wipes her face, visibly pulls herself together, strides to the front door. There’s a great noise of greeting, then Camille darts inside to seek him out, asking about her presents. The group migrates to the kitchen, where the kettle is topped up and switched on again. Adam excuses himself for a moment to fetch his Mac, to show Camille some of the strange sights they saw. He enters his study to see Monique, so stunning in her wedding dress: his screensaver, set to display at random his photo library after five minutes, has kicked in. He stares as the next image flips and enlarges, it’s Monique on their last summer holiday, bikini-clad, posing with a Hibiscus flower in her hair; the next, Monique, head tilted, winking mischievously, the Arc de Triomphe for a backdrop; the next, Monique svelte in her ski gear, about to tame Le Face; the next Monique, in a hospital bed, sweaty tresses plastered across her brow, tears of joy in her eyes, baby Camille in her arms… he can’t believe what he’s seeing, it seems shot after shot is of Monique, and there are four-and-a-half thousand to choose from in there… he sinks down on his knees, his own eyes welling up… silently he says a prayer, makes a pledge: let me take it, whatever it is… not Monique, not Camille’s maman, not my beautiful precious wife … give it to me.

  ***

  Adam wakes with fear in his heart. He recalls seeing the digital clock register most of its small hours, and wonders when he had time to fit in the dream. But dream there was, perhaps bridging periods of sleeplessness, and though forbidding, he believes it was a dream of hope: dark, shadowy, incomplete, an Under Milk Wood of a dream, where metaphors took shape and form yet never quite revealed themselves, elusive, ephemeral; in the depths of a deep sloe-black forest through which he travelled, unsure of his bearings, a winding path, yet no path, icy coldness, frozen leaves that crunched like cornflakes; and some contract, some new idea, some peculiar concept he must grasp that is known as Y but really should be X. This thing is the white path snaking through the twilight of the forest. He has to hold to the path and keep reminding himself it’s okay to be the wrong way round. He must stay on the path. But the path is like remnant frozen snow, breaking up at the edges. It twists and turns and narrows and crumbles and almost disappears in places. He must stay true to the path. It’s okay to be the wrong way round.

  Monique glides in deathly dreamless peace beside him, her calm repose belying the turmoil that, once her lids flicker, will surely carjack her consciousness and ram-raid her fragile sanctuary. How can she, so lovely, be host to such hideousness? Last evening they’d gone through the agonising motions of normality – what should have been a ‘nice night’, was planned to be such, became instead a kind of wake – after Camille had been folded protesting into bed, they’d eaten their meal in almost stunned silence, unable to laugh or smile or joke, or discuss the thousand things they’d seen in China, the future suddenly uncertain, the present on hold. His world had fallen in, just when it seemed as though clear skies beckoned. They’d gone to bed early, an unspoken concord, he’d sensed – the sooner comes sleep the sooner the morning will permit some action – with Monique curled against him, her trials wrapped up in his arms. He looks at her now, wonders again – how must it feel? What is hell for him… for her… he can’t begin to imagine. She opens her eyes. She smiles – beams optimism, bravery that brings a lump to his throat – leans across to kiss him, peeps over him at the clock, spins out of bed and pads out of the room. After a couple of seconds she returns, saying:

  ‘My darling – we’re late – Camille is still asleep. I’m just going to phone the clinic.’

  He nods and thinks what an easy option he has: Camille is going to be late for school – the tiresome rush to wash and brush and dress and eat – so insignificant. He hears Monique’s voice downstairs; shortly she calls up to him:

  ‘Adam – they can see me at ten o’clock.’

  He leans over the balcony. ‘That’s good – we can drop Camille and I’ll drive you there afterwards.’

  ‘Are you sure? I thought you had important things to catch up with at the office.’

  ‘I’ll take you – okay.’ It’s a statement and he senses her relief.

  ‘Okay, my darling.’

  He prays the clinic’s willingness to accommodate her so quickly reflects only an unexpected degree of efficiency.

  ***

  Adam checks the time on the console’s display: it’s almost three – Monique will be telephoning for the results about now; he’d wanted to be home while she made the call, but knows she won’t wait. He crosses his fingers on the steering wheel. The traffic is unusually heavy – though it’s not a regular time for him to be making the journey – he’s regretting his choice of route, rat-runs known by too many private-school mums, unseeing and distracted by the chatter of received pronunciation in their lumbering four-by-fours. He trembles minutely like he’s en route to an exam – but how dare he even make the comparison? What has he ever experienced that remotely approaches Monique’s quandary? The wait before venturing out on his
driving test? Getting padded up in the pavilion when the quicks are on and an ‘owzat?’ goes up? Last class of the day and knowing you have to fight outside the school gates? There is nothing that compares – whenever can one side of the binary outcome be so terrible, so devastating, so portentous of trauma and heartache to follow? What’s a fail or a duck or a bloody nose when cancer is disappearing off the end of the same scale? Since the opening of the letter yesterday he’s been unable to mention the word, incapable of saying to Monique that, should the result be bad, together they will battle it all the way, that these days – caught early – it’s often just an inconvenience, perhaps no more worth worrying about than a routine operation for a hernia or appendicitis or gall stones; instead, unprepared to entertain the prospect of his beloved friend being cut by the surgeon’s uncertain knife, of chances that may be less than one hundred percent, he’s simply repeated a naïve mantra: that he’s sure – no, that he knows – that everything will be okay… they are all going to be okay.

  Hadn’t the doctor intimated as much this morning? He’d been allowed to stay with Monique during an initial consultation and physical examination in an anteroom, before he’d been told it was time for him to retreat to reception, like the father-to-be in days gone by. He’d kissed Monique and hugged her, and had joined the other glum husbands and partners and relatives who sat round in silent rocking desperation, a union to which no one wanted to belong. The female consultant, a twinkling sprite in a wrinkled prune’s aged body, had been efficient yet encouraging, honest yet heartening: they take every precaution to enable them to act rapidly should it be required, but most calcifications do not ultimately give cause for concern. It was for such tiny spots of matter that Monique had been recalled: she was to undergo further, more focused mammography, and had also brought her last set of scans, dating from shortly after Camille’s birth, so the analysts could compare any changes. She’d emerged quite shortly afterwards, smiling even as she rounded the corner to face him; he’d wondered was this an act of selfless heroism for his benefit? And although she wasn’t able to tell him she was clear – they’d have to wait until three p.m. while two more experts checked over the x-rays independently – she’d seemed relieved, uplifted even, her customary gaiety reaching from beneath the still waters of the past hours, Excalibur brandished.

  He turns into their driveway and it’s three-twenty. Why hasn’t Monique phoned him? Has she had bad news… or maybe just not been able to get through to the clinic? He hurries indoors, his heart is in his mouth – hears voices: Monique’s… and another female; they’re laughing. He enters the kitchen… and there they are, Monique and Jasmin-Sharon, perched on barstools, drinking champagne! Recognising his confusion, Monique reaches out for him to kiss her; he questions her with eye-contact: she seems to reciprocate that all is okay; he kisses Jasmin-Sharon, more formally. Monique says:

  ‘My darling, Sharon has just come round by taxi especially to say goodbye – she is very happy so were are having a little drink to celebrate. Will you have a glass?’

  He hesitates. He wants to know for sure that she has been given the all-clear. But perhaps she doesn’t want to speak of it in front of Jasmin-Sharon. It would be just like Monique to put someone else before her own much greater need. He says:

  ‘I’d better wait until later – I thought I’d collect Camille a bit earlier – maybe we could take her out for a pizza as a treat, since we’ve been away?’

  ‘That is a nice idea, my darling. You could give Sharon a lift.’

  He turns to Jasmin-Sharon. ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘To Spain – I’m going back to live in Spain – I fly out tomorrow.’

  Adam had meant to where in town would she need a lift, but he picks up her thread. ‘Sounds good. Which part?’

  ‘Marbella. A friend has asked me to go and look after some apartments – manage them for holiday visitors – so I’ll get free accommodation.’

  ‘Hey – maybe we’ll come and visit; it is so cold already it feels like there is a long winter ahead.’

  ‘I’ll give you special rates.’

  ‘We know all about your special rates!’

  ***

  ‘So that’s great news about Monique.’

  ‘Yeah… thankfully.’ She must have told Jasmin-Sharon about her scare. Scare – that’s what it was, that’s what he can call it now, a false alarm, a figment of their collective imagination. A scare. A wave of relief suffuses his veins; he grips the steering wheel momentarily harder. He wants to whoop.

  ‘You don’t exactly sound excited.’ Jasmin-Sharon’s tone is playfully reprimanding.

  ‘I feel it’s more a case of being fortunate – when you see others who are probably not so lucky.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She nods thoughtfully.

  He doesn’t want to discuss it with Jasmin-Sharon, he doesn’t want to hear the account second hand. He says:

  ‘Spain, then… what’s the story?’

  ‘You guessed?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Xara – it’s one of Xara’s properties, she’s got this block of six apartments on a golf course.’

  He hadn’t guessed. Xara. And Jasmin-Sharon evidently hasn’t shared this particular detail with Monique. ‘So you didn’t completely fall out?’

  ‘Hablo Espanol.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I have my uses – I speak Spanish.’

  ‘Another of your hidden talents.’

  She puts a hand on his thigh. ‘I’ll miss you and Monique. I’m really sorry I never made it that night.’

  Adam glances across at her. He’s tempted to ask ‘How is your Grandfather?’ but discretion gets the better of him. He says:

  ‘Monique will miss you – she’s liked having you as a friend.’

  ‘Whereas you…’

  ‘I like you, too… Sharon.’

  ‘You’ll like me better in Spain… out of your hair.’ She squeezes his thigh. ‘It’s okay – I understand.’

  He doesn’t deny it. They drive on in silence. He wonders if he can ask her whether she and Monique got together, whether she led Monique further astray, but there’s something that stops him from broaching the subject. In any event, she probably wouldn’t tell him. After a couple of minutes, she asks him if he minds if she smokes. He says no. She lowers the window. After a second deep drag, charged, she slides lower in her seat, as though bracing herself for an impact. She says:

  ‘There’s some other news – something you’ll probably be glad about…’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Xara’s gone.’

  ‘What do you mean, gone?’

  ‘She’s left the country – gone to Brazil.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Why would I joke?’

  ‘Hence your Spanish… opportunity?’

  ‘Correct. I’ve also got the keys to apartment number seven… in fact, if you could drop me there. It’s up for sale. I need to collect a couple of things.’

  An eerie sensation has crept over Adam’s skin – he feels his hairs standing on end – is it premonition, previously unrecognised, almost fulfilled? Within, his emotions are numbed, his thoughts confused, paralysed; he’s unable to process how he feels or how he ought to feel. His voice sounds disembodied as he asks:

  ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘Two weeks ago.’

  ‘She had a flight…’

  He trails off into silence. Jasmin-Sharon casts an interrogative glance his way. She says:

  ‘I shouldn’t worry – she’s been planning it for ages… for years.’

  He wonders if Jasmin-Sharon has known all along, or whether only recently has she been enlightened. He says:

  ‘A retirement plan?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it retirement.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She’s pregnant.’

  Adam sees flashes of the girl before his eyes, a tawny Madonna with child; they’re both naked, the boy paler. He hears himsel
f ask:

  ‘Was that part of the plan?’

  She inhales on the cigarette, exhales slowly as if weighing up her answer. She speaks quietly:

  ‘With Xara… you never can say.’

  Now she’s watching him closely, as though anticipating his reaction, waiting for confirmation. But time descends upon them: he pulls the car into the kerb, halts on a double-yellow line. He swallows and says:

  ‘We’re here.’

  She drops what remains of the cigarette into the gutter, smoothes her short skirt over her black-stockinged thighs. She says:

  ‘You could park in that supermarket.’

  She parts her legs and reaches down into the footwell for her handbag. She extracts a hairbrush, affects a couple of cursory tugs and then draws her locks round onto her right shoulder. He decodes the symbolism. A desire to see the inside of the apartment sweeps over him. He says:

  ‘And are you really going to be the manager… manageress – in Marbella?’

  She stiffens a little, as if she senses a rejection. She says:

  ‘Sooner or later I have to lead a normal life.’

  He leans forward and takes his wallet from his back pocket. He strips it of notes; a substantial sum. He says:

  ‘When you get there… the first time you think of… you know? Keep this – maybe it’ll help.’

  She takes the money and leans around to plant a kiss on his mouth, prolonged, the fingers of her left hand sliding into his crotch.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to park?’

  ‘I need to collect Camille.’

  She nods, levers herself out of the car, then totters around to his window, braving the traffic. She bends to speak:

  ‘You know that time you mentioned – you said, just the two of us – at Xara’s place?’

  Adam nods.

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ***

  ‘Daddy, can I have a plaster?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Esme Paige kicked me on the leg.’