Better Than Easy (10 page)

Tom rolls his eyes. “You worry too much,” he says.

I shrug. “You're probably right.”

“Anyway, constructive for what?” Tom asks.

I shrug. “For us.”

“For us? It's not like we cheated on each other.”

I nod slowly. “I guess not,” I say. “But sober me doesn't think that random drunken sex with strangers in darkrooms is the strongest foundation for a long term relationship,” I say. “Plus I just feel slutty really.
Good old Christian guilt.”

Tom shrugs.

“You don't think that at all then?” I ask, a little jealous of his peace of mind.

“I thought it was fun,” he says. “But I guess I don't really believe in the whole constructing thing anyway so maybe it doesn't affect me so much.”

I frown and sip my coffee. “What do you mean you don't
believe
in it?”

“Well …
it's a hetty thing, isn't it?” he says. “All that stuff about building stability and lifelong partners – it's just about having kids really. It's like you say, a Christian thing. It doesn't seem to have much to do with
our
lives if you're honest.”

I rub a hand over my forehead, which feels clammy, and then over my eyes. I stare out of the window for a while. I watch a Muslim woman in a headscarf opposite, she's begging, her face racked with a theatrical demonstration of her suffering. The weeping-moaning-whining technique – it's supposed to provoke sympathy but it makes me just want to tell her to get a grip. Eventually I turn back to face Tom, wrinkle my nose and say, “I see what you're saying, but surely we're allowed to have long term relationships too, right?”

Tom tips his head sideways. “Look, I don't have a very romantic view of things, it's probably better not to
…
” His voice fades out.

I finish my coffee and wave at the waiter and then point at the cup. Through a couple of circular gestures I transmit the concept of
same again
and turn back to Tom. “No go on,” I say. “We never talk like this.”

Tom raises one shoulder in a half shrug and sighs. “It's just, you know, if you're honest, well, the probability that we'll be together in twenty years time, it's pretty low really, isn't it? Gay men don't really do that stuff. I mean there are no kids binding us together. Even ten years is pretty good going. Even
five.”

I nod slowly and scratch my head. “I see,” I say. I stare back out at the street. The beggar is shuffling on down the hill. I think of the words of a shrink – the first shrink I ever saw, before I came out. They were the words that had pushed me rebelliously into finally dealing with my sexuality.
“Homosexuals don't have loving relationships,”
she had said.
“They have sex; sex in bars, sex in back streets, sex in toilets.”

“It's like the Buddha said,” Tom continues. “The only thing that's permanent is impermanence, and the source of all suffering is trying to hang onto things as they are. You're better off just trying to have fun. And sex is fun. And it's supposed to be.”

I stare at Tom and blink slowly as I try to gather my thoughts.

“Well, he didn't say the last bit,” Tom adds. “That's more my take on things.”

I nod again. “Yeah,” I say vaguely. My brain feels grey and glutinous; analysis of Tom's mini speech seems challenging and complex. The idea that Tom and the shrink in some way agree depresses me. And it all seems too important, too critical even, for me to do the subject justice. Trying to think about it here, now, with a hangover, this far from home, strikes me as downright dangerous. So I let it slide into the grey swamp of my hangover.

“I'll tell you what,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Let's have this conversation another day. When my head isn't pounding like a steam hammer.”

Tom nods and smiles weakly. “Yeah,” he says, sounding relieved. “Or not at all. I don't know
what
I'm saying this morning.”

I turn my watch to face him. “Twelve-twenty. Right now what we need to do is get back to the hotel and get on our way,” I say.

Tom nods, smiles gently at me and reaches out for my hand. “I guess so,” he says. “And hey – thanks for a great birthday.”

I swallow and force a smile. “You're welcome,” I say, wondering what this particular birthday will come to mean. It seems that only time will tell.

The conversation with Tom festers deep within like an infected wound. I don't say anything, but as the days pass, as we wait for news of the gîte, I can't help but calculate the sum total of our recent conversations: that Tom is looking for work in the UK again, that Tom is staying with me, not
for
me, but for the gîte, and now seemingly, that Tom doesn't believe in long-term relationships
at all
.

Part of the problem of course – and I am aware of this – is that there's too much time to think about it. Nothing much else is happening. Chantal is as absent as her husband, and her lawyer seems to have taken a vow of silence. Jenny's never at home when I call, and this all conspires to leave Tom and me tiptoeing around each other, avoiding almost every subject worth discussing. I feel like I'm drowning in slow motion.

By Wednesday, I can't take it anymore, and so when Tom gets back from the pool, I'm waiting for him. “Hiya,” he says brightly as he pushes in the door. He looks red-faced and healthy after his swim.

I watch him hang his new parka up.

“Great coat, but actually a bit hot for Nice,” he says. “It'll be great for the mountains though.” He frowns at me. “Something up?”

I shake my head. “Nah,” I say. “Not really. But I do need to talk to you.”

Tom crinkles his lips comically and crosses the room to join me. “Have I done something
bad?”

I shake my head again and smile. “No,” I say. “Not at all. But, well
…
you know the conversation we had in Paris? Just before we came back? Well, it has been playing on my mind. I wondered if we could talk about it – in a constructive way. I don't want to
fight.”

Tom settles beside me and crosses his legs defensively. “Sure,” he says. “I knew that would be eating away at you, but I wasn't sure whether to bring it up.”

“I
…
” I start, but I'm not sure what to say.

“I didn't mean
…
I mean, it wasn't a death sentence or anything,” Tom says, stumbling. “For us. I just
…
if I think logically about relationships, any relationship, well, I suppose I don't believe that they last.”

“Except for heterosexuals?” I say. Tom frowns, so I continue, “That's what you said, wasn't it? That it's a
‘hetty thing.'
A
‘Christian thing.'”

Tom glances at the laptop's screen saver and then back at me. “I meant
…
Sorry, I'm trying to choose words carefully here.” He sighs. “I meant, that the moral
… imperative …
to build a lifelong marriage – well, it's more of a Christian ideal; a Christian heterosexual ideal. I've got nothing against it
per se …
as an option – amongst many – but it hardly seems designed for us, for our lifestyle. That's all. Do you see what I'm getting at?”

I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “But I find it depressing – the idea that I can't have that with you. That we can't even
aim
for it simply because we aren't straight. Because, for whatever reason – and I admit that it may be because I grew up in a mainly Christian, mainly hetero environment – but for whatever reason, it's the model I always wanted, the thing I always dreamt of.”

Tom frowns thoughtfully.

“Do you see what
I
mean?” I say. “Why
can't
we choose that, just because we're gay?”

Tom sighs and says, “Can I make a cup of tea? I'm not running away or anything, I want to continue, but can I?”

I nod. “Sure,” I say, happy to have some thinking time. “I'll have one too.”

When he returns with the tea he hands one mug to me, then sits back next to me on the sofa and turns as far as he can to face me. “We're nearly out of milk,” he says. “Sorry.”

I glance at the semi-transparent contents of the cup and shake my head. “It's fine,” I say.

“I was thinking,” Tom says, “about what you said. But it's not really a gay thing at all. I don't think
any
relationships last these days. Straight
or
gay.”

I raise an eyebrow at the statement.

“Well, look at your parents – they split up. And Jenny and Nick. And my cousin and that asshole Pete.”

“Your
parents didn't,” I point out.

Tom wrinkles his nose and nods, vaguely conceding the point. “Yeah, but they should have. Actually I think they
would
have, if Mum hadn't
…
if she hadn't had the accident. She spent her whole life in love with my uncle, my dad's brother. He came back from Australia just before she
…
I think she would have left Dad if she had had the chance. So even when they do stay together for thirty years, like my parents did, well, that doesn't stop it being a sham. Most of the time they'd rather be doing something else. Most lifelong couples would
rather
split up, but they don't because of the kids.”

I wrinkle my brow to show that while I accept his logic, I'm not happy with the outcome.

“Do you see what I mean?” Tom says. “I don't see staying together forever,
what
ever, as a dream at all. It always looks like a prison sentence to me.”

I nod slowly. “But it's just so depressing,” I say.

Tom shrugs. “It's only depressing if you think that's what you
have
to have, that that's how it
should
be. If you just give up on the idea and take each day as it comes, if you just assume that everything is transitory, then it's fine. Fun even.”

I nod vaguely and reach out to stroke Tom's leg. “I
do
see what you're saying,” I say. “But
…
I don't
know. It doesn't
work
for me.”

Paloma leaps onto Tom's lap and starts to turn round and around in an attempt at getting comfortable. Tom uncrosses his legs to help her. “Dizzy cat,” he says.

“What you say makes sense, Tom, especially coming from where you're coming from. Your parents, my parents, Jenny, Nick
…
I mean, I can't fault the logic, but I don't see how you can
live
like that. How can you plan for anything, build anything? How can you do anything other than live day-to-day if it's all going to end?”

“That's the idea I think,” Tom says. “To live day-to-day.”

“So, what about, say, the gîte? There are things that take planning, things that take more than a day. Things you can only do with the assumption that you'll still be here tomorrow.”

“It's like life,” Tom says. “We all know we die at the end; we all know it's ultimately pointless, but we do it anyway.”

I swallow hard and nod slowly. “Except that that isn't how I live,” I say. “What you say is true, but it's not how I live. I don't think about the fact that I'm gonna die all the time; that it's all
pointless
– if I did I wouldn't get out of bed in the morning. It's how humans live – we pretend we
aren't
going to die. And it may not be logical or scientific, or right even, but it can still be a better, happier way to live. And I do pretend that we'll be together forever – or at least that we'll
maybe
be together forever. Because the alternative – believing, as you do, that it's all destined to dust anyway – makes me want to just not bother, not make any effort; it makes me want to give up at the first hurdle.”

Tom grits his teeth and pulls his bottom lip down into a cartoon grimace. “That bad huh?” he says.

“But beyond the
…
” I shrug.
“Emotional?
side of things
…
I think that even in practical terms, well, I
think that we
make
our own destiny. Through what we choose to believe.”

“We
do
all die though,” Tom says. “Whether we believe it or not.”

I nod. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “But not all
relationships
are doomed. Some
do
last a lifetime. But practically speaking, it kind of seems to me that if you don't believe that it can, if you don't even entertain that possibility, well, then it
is
doomed.”

“Doomed,”
Tom says in a Scottish accent. “We're all
doomed.”

I frown at him.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling a guilty face.

“Don't mock me,” I say.

“It's just all getting a bit dramatic,” Tom says gently. “A bit metaphysical.”

“I know. But it
is
metaphysical,” I say. “There's a bit of me that thinks that what you choose to believe is important. And if you believe that something can happen, then maybe it can, and if you believe that it can't, then, well, it really can't.”

“So if I believe in UFO's
…
” Tom says.

“No. But if you believe our relationship
might
last forever then it
might,”
I say. “And if you
don't
, then, well, it just won't.”

Tom nods. “I just think, take it a day at a time and see what happens,” he says, tipping his head sideways.

And though I'm not quite sure why, I can sense that the communication is lost for now. That there's no common ground, no meeting of the paths, and nowhere, following my or Tom's logic, for us to go here. If we push this to the end of either road there's only one conclusion. We are
doomed
. And I don't want to go there. I'm not ready for it. I still want to believe.