Better Than Easy (12 page)

He nods, sighs and swallows. “Yes, these things often are complicate,” he says.

“Complicat
ed!”
Jenny says.

“Complicated,” Ricardo repeats.

“To be honest, I don't think it's going to happen at all,” Tom says. “I think it's just a question of when we find that out.”

I turn my stare on Tom. He hasn't said
that
before. “Don't say that, Tom!” I protest.

“He's right,” Ricardo says ominously. “You should be careful what you believe. Things that
…
” He frowns then breaks into French.
“Si on dit assez souvent qu'une chose ne se fera pas, eh bien, ça ne se fait pas.”

“If you say something won't happen enough then it won't,” I translate.

“Sounds like something Dante would say,” Tom says. Another phrase which shocks me. The guilt over Dante has now finally faded enough for him to become the subject of dinner conversation it would seem.

“Dante?” Ricardo asks.

“You don't want to know,” Jenny says. “Believe me.”

I nod. “You really don't.”

“It is this bad?” Ricardo says.

“Anyway,” Jenny says with a cough. “I agree with Rick. We all know deep down what's going to happen. It's just a question of tuning in.”

Ricardo shakes his head. “No, I don't say that at all. I say that what we think
changes
what happen.”

“Huh, now you sound like Mark,” Tom says.

Ricardo slips into one of his winning smiles and winks at me. “I think I prefer,” he says.

The rest of the dinner party goes without hiccups. Tom talks about dogs and rhubarb and the gîte. I think he's trying to make amends for having expressed his doubts so clearly. Ricardo tells us about the constant rain in Bogotá, and makes us laugh by telling us about a hypochondriac woman who comes to his surgery every day. I wonder if telling us is breaching professional protocol and then I wonder if the surgery exists at all.

I sit and watch and enjoy his prettiness as one might take succour from a great work of art – it's a pleasure to look at him – but something about his double life, doctor/fireman, Rick/Ricardo, Jenny's boyfriend/what? I can't work out exactly why that shocks me, but it does.

At one point, Jenny and I find ourselves alone in the kitchen staring into a pan of custard. “Well?” she asks me quietly. “What do you think?”

I nod. “He's gorgeous,” I say. “Really sexy and fun. And cute too.”

She nods. “You don't think there's something
…
odd about him?”

I shrug. “Not really,” I say. “Like what?”

“I don't know. He's too smooth. He's too
…
he's just
too
.” She shrugs.

“Too good to be true?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

I shrug again. “Maybe it's like he says. Maybe you just have to believe for it to be so.”

“I guess,” she says, looking at the custard. “This looks done. There's a Coldplay song that says something like that, you know, that saying things makes you believe in them. I suppose it's not quite the same
…
but I do think that sometimes
…
you know if you can just stop being cynical and throw yourself at something
…
Anyway
…
” She nods thoughtfully as the custard starts to bubble. “Shall we?”

As I follow her back through to the dining room, I notice that her arse has developed a distinct catwalky wiggle.

I watch her lean and put the custard down on the trivet. “So
…
” I say. “What's with the heels hon?”

Jenny blushes and flicks her hair. “They're new,” she says. “I'm just breaking them in, that's all. A few minutes every day.”

I glance at Tom, who raises an eyebrow and shrugs, and we both snigger and look back at Jenny. It's a terrible thing, but though I could usually catalogue exactly what every man at a party looks like, I rarely even notice what the women around me are wearing. But I notice now, and Jenny is dressed up to the proverbial nines. On top of the new clumpy heels – which though absurdly noisy in her tiny tiled apartment, it has to be said, do give a certain
je ne sais quoi
to her posture – she's wearing a black skirt and cardigan. And the top is unbuttoned to show enough cleavage to make me think she has been shopping for accessories of the lift-and-separate variety.

“Leave me alone,” she mutters with a frown. She shoots a glance at Ricardo, who I realise of course, must remain blissfully unaware that Jenny generally wears jogging bottoms, slippers and a vast Arran jumper.

The meal goes perfectly until about one a.m. when something happens between Jenny and Ricardo. I'm chatting to Tom and they are in the kitchen, so I miss it entirely. Simply, all of a sudden they are back and the atmosphere has turned distinctly un-festive. Within half an hour, claiming an early start the next day, Ricardo stands to leave.

Jenny, who has been knocking back glass after glass of wine, frigidly accepts a peck. She and Tom are deep in discussion in hushed voices, not easy to do at a small dining table, and impossible to do without being rude, so I show Ricardo to the door
myself.

He uses the opportunity to slip a business card into my hand. “Appelle-moi,” he murmurs. “Trop de petits mensonges. Il faut qu'on parle.”
– “Call me. Too many little lies. We have to talk.”

He kisses me on both cheeks, winks again and leaves. I can't help but notice that he shook Tom's hand. I can't help but notice that I'm getting a damned erection again. I stand and look at the card for a moment, then return to the lounge. With Ricardo's departure, the cloud has already lifted.

“What was that all about?” I ask.

They both look at me blankly. “All what?” Tom says.

I frown at them. “What do you mean,
all what?”

Jenny tuts. “It's just a lover's tiff,” she says, symbolically pulling off the torture-shoes and casting them into a corner with a sigh of relief. “Anyway, let's talk about something else, can we? It is Christmas – Christmas dinner at any rate.”

But it doesn't really matter to me what we talk about. With the card sitting in my pocket, I'm unable to concentrate on anything they are saying anyway. Instead I sit and wonder what
exactly
Ricardo and I have to talk about.

Something wakes me from my dream – from my very
sexy
dream. I try to grasp it, to keep hold of it, but as another drip lands on my cheek, the same thing which woke me in the first place I now realise, the dream slips from my grasp once and for all. I slide a hand to my cheek. Another drip. I force my eyes open, and roll across the cold, damp bed and sit and peer up at the ceiling. A beige stain is spreading from the ceiling fan. Drips are gathering in three, four, five different places and falling directly on the bed.

“Oh, no!” I groan, forcing my still-sleepy legs to stand and carry me to the bathroom. I grab the first clothes I find – my jogging trousers and the t-shirt Tom was wearing yesterday, pull them hastily on and jog barefoot to the door of the flat. With a final glance down to check that my morning glory has faded to invisibility, I head up to Jenny's.

Two suitcases are propping the door open and Jenny is kneeling just beyond the threshold buttoning Sarah's coat. “Mark!” she squeals as she sees me.

“Hello,” Jenny says, glancing over her shoulder. “You're just in time to see us off.”

“There's a leak,” I say, surprisingly breathless after the flight of stairs. “A big leak. And it's coming from your flat.”

“Leak?” Sarah asks.

“It's water darling. Drips, dripping,” Jenny explains, turning to face me.

“Drips, dripping,” Sarah repeats seriously.

Vaguely irritated by Jenny's lack of urgency, I push past her into the flat. “It must be the
…
bathroom,” I say, as I enter it. “Nope. The kitchen then.”

Jenny meets me in the kitchen. “There's nothing dripping here,” she says.

“Well it's pouring in our bedroom, and that's there,” I say pointing at the floor.

“I don't think it's from here, Mark; anyway, we're just off to the airport.”

I turn on her. “It
is
from here. It has to be. And no, you
can't
go. I've got Niagara Falls in the bedroom.”

“Really?” Jenny says vaguely whilst checking her watch. “Is it bad?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Very.”

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

“What am
I
going to do?” I say.

Jenny grabs my arm and leans her head slightly to one side so she can look into my eyes. “Mark,” she says earnestly. “I love you dearly. I'm most concerned about your drips dripping. But we're
going
. The flight's at twelve, my mum is already driving to the airport to pick us up. We have to
leave.”

“But you can't,” I protest. As I say it, I realise that I'm feeling anxious about her leaving, especially because Tom is also leaving this evening. I wonder for a second if he hasn't already left – he's certainly not around – but I remember the flight was definitely an evening one.

“I can give you five minutes,” Jenny says. “Tell me what you need. But from there you'll have to deal with it. I'm sorry.”

I shake my head and gasp in frustration.

“Mark!” Jenny says.

“OK,” I say wearily. “Your keys.”

“They're in the door. You can hang onto them. I've got a spare in my purse.”

“And the stopcock; we have to shut the water off.”

“I think it's that big tap there,” Jenny says pointing at the corner of the room next to the entrance. “But I never touched it, so
…
”

I crouch down and turn the tap off. “Yeah, that should be it,” I say. “And I need the phone number
of
…
”

“The owner, of course.” She rifles through a pile of bills next to the phone and gives me the rent demand. “There,” she says.

I nod. “OK,” I say. “I suppose that's it. I wish you wouldn't
…
”

“I'm sorry. Bad timing. But we really
…
”

I nod. “Just go,” I say, shaking my head.

“I'll call you,” she says. “As soon as we get in.”

“Sure,” I say. “Whatever.”

“I'm sorry,” she says again, turning and reaching for Sarah's hand.

“Shit!” I say. “The bed.” I push past them and run back down, taking the stairs two at a time.

When I reach the bedroom, Tom is standing in the doorway. “What's all this then?” he asks, also surprisingly calm.

“A water leak,”
I say, pushing him gently to one side and squeezing past. “Where were you?”

“From Jenny's?” he asks, then, “Swimming. At the pool.”

“You could have done that here,” I say.

“You need to shut her water off before she leaves,” Tom says. “She's flying out today.”

“It's done,” I say.

Tom raises an eyebrow and looks at the ceiling. “It doesn't look like it,” he says doubtfully.

“Well, no,” I agree. “I expect it will take a few minutes.”

As I grasp the corner of the mattress, Tom says, “You should have moved the mattress out of the way really.”

“What do you think I'm
doing
Tom?” I say, my irritation shifting from the leak to him.

“Before
, I mean,” he says.

I strain to lift the corner of the mattress but it's too heavy. It's solid at the best of times, but waterlogged it's impossible.

“Why didn't
you
move it?”

“I wasn't here,” Tom says.

“Well help me then!” I exclaim. “Stop just standing there criticising!”

“Jees!” Tom says, removing his backpack and crossing the room. “I think that's called shutting the door after the horse has bolted.”

“So what, we just leave it here?” I say. “Is that your idea?”

Tom shrugs. “I thought it was yours,” he mutters.

“And lift!” I instruct.

With difficulty we manoeuvre the soggy mattress against the wall, but in truth, the mattress
is
already soaked, the dripping is slowing, and it is all pretty pointless. Plus as soon as we move it we simply have to find other receptacles to catch the drips.

Tom immediately busies himself with packing, leaving me to catch the drips, mop the floor, phone Jenny's landlord, the building company, and half of the emergency plumbers in the phone-book. When my anger – mainly from having to move
around
him – finally gets the better of me and I make a snide comment, he retorts, “What do you want
me
to do? You have everything under control anyway, Mister Efficiency.”

This annoys me so much that my mood shifts from dreading his departure, to being unable even to look him in the eye.

Just after three p.m. the dripping stops completely. Tom points this out as he leaves – a little early it strikes me – for the airport. “It's stopped,” he says, then adding, as if this is maybe something he predicted, or something he caused to happen,
“You see.”
He pecks me on the cheek, and says, “I'll call you.”

“Thanks!” I say, still trying to decode what the, “
You see,”
implies.

I sink into the sofa – which I realise is likely to be my bed as well – and watch as he pulls the front door closed behind him. I let out a sigh and glance at the
clock again and wonder when the plumber will turn up. I'm feeling angry and upset, a bit over-dramatic about the whole thing I guess, and actually, I now realise, a bit tearful. I'm feeling abandoned. Abandoned for Christmas on a wet day in a wet flat, in a big wet world.