Better Than Easy (11 page)

“Yeah,” I say vaguely. I sigh. “I guess that's all anyone can do.”

Tom looks relieved as if he just got released from a job interview. “On a more practical note,”
he says. “Shall we go and get some food in?”

I nod sadly and stand. “Yeah,” I say. “Let's do that.”

I can't believe you're both abandoning me,” I say, taking the knives and forks from Jenny's grasp.

Tom's shouts his contribution from the next room. “You see what I have to put up with?” he whines.

Jenny smiles at me good-naturedly. “We're hardly
abandoning
you,” she says.

“Abandoning,”
Tom wails mockingly.

“We'll both be back for New Year's Eve,” Jenny continues as she searches for five identical spoons, “but it's just, well, my mum
needs
me around at Christmas.” She holds out the spoons. “I
have
to go home, at least for Christmas.”

I move to the other room and start to distribute the cutlery around the table. “You're such a hypocrite,” Tom says, his eyes following me around the room, his lazy smile revealing that he's only half joking.

“How?” I say, glancing up at him. “Why a hypocrite?”

“Only yesterday you were complaining that France is supposed to be secular – but that the secular rules only apply to religions
other
than Catholicism.

Jenny enters the room with glasses and napkins. She puts them on the table and ruffles Sarah's hair. “How does
that
work?” she says.

“I
…
” I start to explain.

“Oh he was going on about how, you know, Muslim girls aren't allowed to wear headscarves to school, but crosses are still everywhere, and all the public holidays like Ascension and Easter are all still Catholic holidays – and how all the the Pope needs to do is fart and French TV covers it immediately in HD stereo.”

Jenny nods and pushes her bottom lip out. “Well, that's true,” she says. “They even tell you which saint's day it is at the end of the weather forecast for God's sake.”

I raise an eyebrow and nod at Tom in a,
you see
, kind of way.

“Oh yeah, it's true all right, but
…
”

“Not
what you said yesterday,” I mutter.

“But
…
” Tom pauses pedantically, before continuing, “You can't then start having a go at me because I'm not going to be here for Jesus' birthday.”

“I was talking about the French state banning Muslim stuff in the name of secularity but not
…
Anyway, it's not
about
Jesus' birthday.”

“Well, it
is
actually,” Jenny says, laughing.

“I know, but I mean, for
me
it's not about that at all. It's simply the one day a year when you're supposed to spend the day eating and drinking and cuddling up with your loved one. Christmas isn't a day you're supposed to spend on your own looking at the cat.”

“Christmas,” Sarah repeats.

Jenny shoots her a smile. “Yes,” she says. “Christmas,” then to me, “I suppose you think I'm indoctrinating her.”

I frown. “Not at all. As long as you're not telling her that she was born in sin or any of that mediaeval rubbish.”

Sarah frowns at the opaque turn the conversation has taken again and concentrates on her remote control puppy, which waddles straight into the wall.

“She's made a list for Father Christmas, haven't you,” Jenny says.

Sarah glances up and nods wide-eyed at me.

“Maybe I should make one,” I say.

“What would you put on it?” Jenny says. “I haven't got you anything yet, so
…
”

“A boyfriend to have Christmas dinner with,” I say.

Tom lets out a theatrical groan. “That's why we're having Christmas dinner tonight,” he says.

“Maybe you should go with him,” Jenny says, methodically folding napkins and putting them in the wineglasses. “If it's that important to you.”

“He doesn't want me to go,” I say. “He hasn't suggested it once.”

“And Mark doesn't really care,” Tom says, moving to my side. “He's just being pissy.” He nudges my side and winks at me. “Aren't you?” he adds.

I sigh and, noting that the table seems finished, I pull out a chair and sit. I don't bother arguing because a) the sparring is starting to tire me, and b) he's perfectly right – the truth is that my flat is too small for both of us, and in secret I'm looking forward to a TV-free, dope-free, yes, Tom-free break. My complaints have more to do with my own guilt about that than anything else.

“There,” Jenny says, surveying the table. “That's better.”

Tom stands beside her, hands on hips. “Very festive,” he says. “Shall I light the candles?”

“Crackers?” Jenny inquires, looking from Tom to myself.

I shake my head.

“I left them downstairs,” Tom says. “I'll go get them.”

“So are you angry with Tom?” Jenny asks, once he has left. “About Christmas.”

I wrinkle my nose and tip my head to one side. “A bit,” I say. “More about the whole going home to work than Christmas itself. But I could do with a break too. We've been so on top of each other since I stopped work.”

She nods thoughtfully and smiles blankly, revealing that her mind is really elsewhere. “Well that's OK then,” she says.

“So what did you ask Father Christmas for?” I ask Sarah.

She turns her moon-face at me. She has a serious nature for a little girl, an often-blank expression and glassy eyes. She's a pretty girl but she somehow looks a bit too serious for her age – like she might be about to cry, or that deep down she might be crying already,
silently
. Of course she isn't, it's just something about her features, her lack of expression.

“A wee,” she declares forcefully.

I frown and look to Jenny for translation.

Jenny shrugs. “That's what it's called. It's a computer game. It's W-I-I – Wii. But I'm not sure Father Christmas will be able to run to a Wii this year lovey. And I'm not sure he agrees that it's appropriate for a wee young thing like yourself.”

Sarah looks again like she might cry but actually smiles in a mechanical kind of way that leaves the rest of her features intact. She turns back to the puppy. “A Wii,” she repeats quietly – her passing shot at obstinacy.

“So are we to be blessed with the presence of Doctor Love?” I ask.

I hear Tom bound back up the stairs, and turn to take the box of Christmas crackers from his hands. But the person standing behind me isn't Tom. I'm so shocked to see who
is
there that my heart stops beating completely for a second or so. When it resumes normal function it beats double to make up for lost time.

I let my mouth drop and stare at him. My brow slowly wrinkles.
“How on Earth can he be standing here?”
I think. I actually blink, just in case this is a trick of the mind and he will mysteriously morph back into Tom. But it is still Ricardo's face that stares back at me, his expression identical to my own. I cock my head to one side and work my mouth but nothing comes out.

Jenny moves into view from my right. “Mark, Ricky, Ricky, Mark.”

I swallow hard and let out a prolonged,
“Oh!”
My
mouth starts to form the shape for the ‘W' of “We've met,” but Ricardo beats me to it. His face clicks and shifts into action forcing a blank expression and then a winning smile as if he is responding to a
meet new person
button on Sarah's remote control.

“Mark!” he says. “I'm so happy to meet you. Jenny has tell me so much about you.”

“Told,”
Jenny corrects him, then as an aside to me she adds, “Rick is learning English.”

I swallow my forming sentence, swallow again, and then take a deep breath and form an unconvincing copy of his expression. “Great! Well. Jenny
told
me almost nothing about you!” I joke acerbically. “Except that you're a
…
What is it you do again? A
doctor?
Is that right?”

Ricardo nods. “Yes, that's right.” He turns to Jenny, kisses her on the lips and hands her a bottle of Champagne. “Here. Because it's Christmas,” he says.

Jenny looks from Rick to myself and back again, frowning as she picks up on the weird atmosphere. My brain is racing as I try to work out all of the implications of Ricardo being Rick, and Rick being Jenny's boyfriend; his pretending to be a doctor when he's really a fireman. I'm also trying to work out why we're pretending we haven't met before, and why – if my allegiance is to Tom and Jenny, as it clearly should be – I am playing along with his little game, whatever that is. I'm also trying to work out what exactly will happen if I
stop
playing along – if I say,
“Surely, we have met, haven't we?”

Tom bounds into the room holding the absurdly sized box of Christmas crackers, and his presence, the fact that he knows Rick already, somehow complicates the dynamic even further and, overloaded with questions, my brain slides into numb submission and gives up any attempt at processing.

“Rick! Hi!” Tom says. “Good to see you again. Spivvy as ever, I see!”

Ricardo frowns. “Spivvy?”

“It just means well dressed,” Jenny says, starting to ease off his coat which is glistening from the rain.

Ricardo is indeed looking spivvy – he's wearing a brown suit with a vague orange check, a striped shirt and a pink tie. The result looks like something from
The Apprentice
.

“Tom expects everyone to dress like a crusty,” Jenny adds. “Just because he does.”

“Hey! I used to wear suits,” Tom says. “For work.”

“Yes, I come from work,” Ricardo says.

“Came,”
Jenny corrects – a little savagely it strikes me.

“So, Rick,” I say. “Is that Richard or
…
”

“Ricardo,” he confirms. “But Jenny likes Rick better.”

“Actually I like Ricky best of all but he doesn't like it,” she laughs. “Did you know he's Colombian?”

I nod. “Y
…
No,” I say, struggling to work out what I'm supposed to know and what I'm not.

Ricardo nods. “Franco-Colombian,” he says, then with a wink. “Like Ingrid Betancourt. You know her?”

“Anyway,” Tom says. “Shall we sit? There's not really room for all this standing around.”

“Please,” Ricardo says, waving a hand above the dining table. “I go help Jenny with the aperitifs.”

“What's up with
you?”
Tom asks me once Ricardo has swept Sarah from the floor and followed Jenny into the kitchen.

“What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if I can brazen it out, or indeed if I should.

“Do you fancy him or something?” Tom asks. “You're acting all weird.”

I shake my head. “Am I?” I say. “No, it's just
…
”

“Huh, now I
know
you're being weird,” Tom says. “You
don't
fancy him?”

I frown. “Yeah, no, I mean, he's cute. But that's not
…
” I glance at the door wondering if they will reappear to save me, to give me some more thinking time, but I can hear Jenny laughing and Sarah shrieking over her in a bid for Ricardo's attention.

“Well?” Tom asks.

I shrug. “He reminds me of someone,” I say. “He reminds me of someone I met on a bike run so much it's uncanny.”

“Are we talking about one of your many conquests?” Tom asks mockingly.

“No, I
…
”

Jenny clumps back into the room carrying a tray with assorted bottles of alcohol and dishes of nuts
and olives. Ricardo, Sarah and the pink puppy follow behind. I glance down at Jenny's feet and notice that they are suddenly, unusually, squashed into shiny black high heels.

So what'll it be?” Jenny asks putting the tray down.

“Whisky!” I say.

“Me too!” Ricardo says flashing the whites of his eyes at me. “I need a drink after that.”

“Hard day?” Tom asks.

“Shocking,” Ricardo says, with meaning.

I'm so lost in my thoughts, so analytical of everything everyone says, that I don't say much myself for the first hour. Sarah sits on my lap and I use her as a cover for my strange mood.

Jenny serves prawn cocktails, declaring, “And yes I
know
it's a cliché – that's why I'm serving it.”

She follows this with an excellent nut roast and trimmings. In my silence I manage to avoid putting my foot in it or lying any further, but when Tom says, “Just think! This time next year we might all be living up at the gîte!” I realise that there are multiple deceptions taking place.

Jenny half chokes on her food and then has to swill it down with some wine, more, I guess, for thinking time than anything else.

“The gîte?” asks Ricardo.

“Yeah,” I explain. “Tom and I are buying a gîte up in the hills.”

“I know,” Ricardo replies. “You
…
” Here, he realises his error and swivels to face Jenny. “You told me. But I didn't know you were going to live there as well.”

Jenny swallows and frowns. “I didn't
…
I don't think so. I mean, I don't
think
I mentioned it.”

“Oh,” Ricardo says. He turns to Tom. “Maybe it was Tom.”

Tom frowns, then thankfully shrugs. “Maybe,” he
says.

“Anyway, the only reason I didn't mention it,” Jenny continues, “is because, well, it's not certain yet. And even if it does happen it won't be for ages.”

“We're having problems with the sale,” I tell Ricardo.