Better Than Easy (15 page)

I run a hand across my beard and wonder if this is
true in any way. It certainly doesn't feel true. It sounds to me like pure paranoia, or an attempt at engineering a dispute. “Babe,” I say. “I'm on the phone with you right now. I'm
…
”

“But even now, you'd rather not be,” he says. “Even now, you'd rather be painting the ceiling. And you
hate
painting ceilings. You told me. I mean, if something's changed then you should tell me, that's all I'm saying. Because, I need to know where I'm at so that
…
I need to know, that's all.”

“Look Tom,” I say, starting to feel riled. “It sounds to me like you want to go shag around and you're trying to pin the blame for that
…
”

“How can you say that?” he interrupts. “You see what you're like? I mean, where did that come from?”

“You're going on about what you used to do when you were single,” I say. “What did you mean? Masturbation?”

“I meant going out clubbing and stuff.”

I shake my head. “And what's to stop you doing that?” I say. “Certainly not me.”

“Well if I do, I might meet someone,” he says. “I mean, that's why I used to go out in the first place.”

“I think you want me to authorise you having a shag, but I'm not going to. You chose to go back. You chose to be on your own for Christmas. You chose for me not to come with you.”

“I can't believe what I'm hearing,” Tom says. “I haven't even thought of having
a shag
, as you so beautifully put it.”

My mobile starts to vibrate and then chime.

“Is that your mobile?” Tom asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Who is it?”

“I don't know,” I answer pedantically. “I haven't
looked.”

“Why?” Tom asks. “Who
might
it be?”

I shake my head. “Tom,” I say. “What's got into you? Have you taken something? Have you smoked
some dodgy weed or something? Because you're sounding really weird, really paranoid.”

“Be my guest,” Tom says, ignoring the question. “Answer it. It's probably your lover.”

For a second I'm speechless. I'm just about to cry foul, just about to tell Tom that he's projecting his own guilty desires onto me, when he beats me to the punch by making the exact same accusation. “That's why the accusations are flying,” he says. “You're projecting your own desires onto me. It's you who wants to shag around.”

I cross the room shaking my head and glance at the screen of my mobile. “It was Ricardo,” I say. “Happy now?”

“Ricardo?” Tom says.

“Rick – Jenny's boyfriend.”

“Oh,” he says glumly.

I sit back down and spin the mobile on the coffee table. “I just don't know where all this has come from,” I say.

“You had better phone him back,” Tom says. “Say hi from me.”

“Right,” I say.

“OK, talk later,” Tom says.

I struggle to get past my anger, to find a soothing comment to end this conversation, something that will prepare the way for the
next
call, but before I can think of anything Tom hangs up. I put the paint-stained handset back on the stand, making a mental note to clean it quickly, and shake my head. “Jesus!” I say.

I finger the mobile, wondering whether to phone Ricardo back or wait till later, when there's an heavy rap on the door. “That'll be my lover,” I mutter, opening the door to reveal the
pompier
version of Ricardo, mobile in hand.
If only.

“I call, but
…
” he says, somehow smiling but looking worried at the same time.

I wave the mobile at him. “I was about to phone
you back,” I say. “I was on the phone to Tom.”

“He's OK?” he asks, still hovering on the doormat.

I nod and struggle to wipe away the slapped-arse expression I'm sure I have on my face. “Yeah, fine.” I say.

“You eat already?” Ricardo asks. “Only I just finished.” He makes an open palmed gesture here conveying that this is the reason he is dressed as he is, “and I think maybe you will have lunch with me.”

I sigh. “I'm actually painting, Ricardo,” I say, copying the gesture, to explain the paint-splashed outfit.

He grins. “I can see,” he says, reaching out and touching my nose. “You have on your face. Maybe I can help you and then we have lunch.”

I shrug. “No, I have loads of food in and I only have one roller, so
…
” I say.

“OK, maybe I make lunch and you finish the paint?” he says.

Back at the top of the ladder, as I listen to Ricardo clomping around my kitchen in his boots, and even occasionally breaking into song – in Spanish – I can't help but wonder whether his calm assured insistence is a sign of naivety or arrogance.

Personally, I'm always over-primed to take things as a sign that I'm
not
wanted, already on the verge of bowing out at the slightest hint that someone might
not
prefer my presence. And then I think about how easily, lazily generous Ricardo is. For all his good points, and though I can't think of them at this instant, I acknowledge to myself that he has many, Tom would never turn up with surprise pizzas, he would never offer to make lunch while you finish something. You can
ask
Tom to do just about anything, and if you start to do it he will watch and be ready to help, but he would never spontaneously offer, let alone insist. There's something infinitely
touching about Ricardo's gestures, and, I wonder, something maybe lacking in Tom's inability to ever act in the same way.

Ricardo makes two simple salads from the contents of the refrigerator, and for some unknown reason toasts
ten
slices of bread, and then we sit to eat, he in his navy blue
pompier
outfit, me in my paint splattered clothes. He's in a good mood, smiling and jovial (is he
always
like this I wonder?), and he tells me about his morning,
“So boring, I just wait for the phone to ring, but nothing. It's a terrible thing to hope for some catastrophe,”
and I explain about the insurance deal, and why I'm painting the ceiling myself, and when we finish, as if he lives here, he clears the table, dumps the plates in the dishwasher, kisses me on both cheeks and makes for the door. “I have to go change,” he says. “And then I have to go do some shopping.”

I hold the door open and smile at him. “Thanks,” I say. “That was a good surprise. Again!”

He nods. “Oh, yes. And tomorrow – I want to ask you what you are doing tomorrow?”

I shrug. “Tomorrow?” I repeat.

“Christmas!” he laughs, all white teeth and smile lines.
“La Réveillon!”

“Ah shit, yeah,” I say. “Christmas Eve. I forgot. I've been
trying
to forget I think.”

“Jenny say you should come have dinner at home. She say, says?”

I nod. “Says,” I repeat.

“She says you don't like to be alone. So you should have dinner with me.”

I shrug and grin. “Well, if Jenny says,” I say. “Who would
dare
defy her?”

Ricardo frowns. “You will come?”

I nod. “Sure,” I say. “That would be great. I'll bring wine, and what, maybe a dessert?”

“Bring champagne,” Ricardo says. “It's Christmas. Again!”

I work my way, incredibly slowly it seems, through the day. As I apply a second coat of paint, note that the stain is already seeping through, and head off to the DIY store for fresh advice, it strikes me that the three hundred euro deal maybe isn't so generous after all. I think vaguely about Christmas dinner with Ricardo, and what I should wear, and what I should take, but mainly it's the conversation with Tom that plays over and over in my mind, tying my stomach in knots as my mood swings from concern to anger and back again.

I decide to wait for him to call me once he's feeling more rational. Trying to talk before he reaches that point can, it seems, only make things worse. But at midnight, fearing that even the noxious paint fumes won't get me to sleep, I cave in and phone first his landline, and then his mobile. This only makes my sleep problems worse because he doesn't answer either.

At three a.m. and then again at six, I awaken and have to peer bleary-eyed at my email just in case it bears news, so by ten a.m. on Christmas Eve, by the time I finally get up, I feel like I have barely slept at all.

While the coffee brews, I try Tom's numbers again, but there's still no answer, so I call Jenny and ask her to intervene, mentioning the spectre of Tom's mini breakdown to justify my concern.

She seemingly relishes our little drama. “To be honest,” she tells me, “I'm going out of my mind with Christmas TV and sunflower seeds. And it's not even Christmas yet. It'll be a pleasure.”

“Sunflower seeds?” I say.

“Don't ask,” Jenny says.

“But what
…
”

“Really,”
Jenny says. “Don't ask.”

We agree that if she manages to speak to him at all she'll call me back, which she fails to do, and as
evening approaches, I start to realise that the last thing I feel like is a celebratory dinner with Ricardo. When I phone him however to test the idea of cancelling, he not only declares that everything is ready for the,
“best English Christmas dinner ever,”
but that he has just spoken to Jenny and that she has instructed him not to let me back-out.

Ricardo's flat, overlooking the port, is in a typical Niçois building – the staircase is all blown light bulbs and flaky paintwork. But when he opens the door, I find myself in something that looks like an Ikea demonstrator: how to fit everything into twenty square meters –
gorgeously
.

The lounge, which has two French windows overlooking the harbour, has a parquet floor, a shaggy woollen rug and a velvety designer-sag sofa bed. The lighting is provided by six small spot-lamps highlighting tasteful paintings on the rough whitewashed walls. I smile at him and hand him my dripping brolly, which he props up in the shower.

I look around approvingly. It's all a bit too tidy – he could turn out to be a bit of a maniac which could end up being a challenge for Jenny – but it has to be said, the tiny flat is really quite beautifully arranged.

“Come!” he says, beckoning me to follow. “I cook!”

Ricardo welcomes me into his space like an old friend, pointing me towards the bar and leaving me to serve drinks while he battles in the tiny kitchen. I feel at home; I feel like an old friend, but this all leaves me feeling a little confused, because, of course, I'm neither. I serve two glasses of whisky on ice and we clink glasses and Ricardo resumes beating his Yorkshire pudding batter. “Jenny gave me,” he says, nodding at the recipe. “She says it is
essential
for Christmas dinner.”

I sip my whisky and watch Ricardo, and the drink works its magic and the edge fades from my mood, leaving only the relaxed at-home feeling. It crosses my mind that everything looks, in this instant, even more like a page from a brochure, all good use of
space, low lighting and easy smiles. But it feels good – it feels a damned sight better than wherever my head has been for the last forty-eight hours; I can feel the muscles in my neck relaxing one by one as Ricardo babbles on.

He has made a huge effort to make me an
English
Christmas dinner, as he keeps emphasising, and I start to salivate as he finishes trimming the Brussels sprouts, and as the smell of roast potatoes begins to waft from the oven.

“This I do last, I think?” he asks, pointing the plastic jug of batter at me.

I shrug. “Sorry, I never made Yorkshire pudding,” I say.

“But is
essential
Ricky,” he says, apparently mocking Jenny.

I nod and smile. “Yes, it is. But I don't know how to do them.”

Ricardo shrugs and nods to himself. “I think when the turkey is nearly done.”

I grit my teeth. “Turkey?” I say.

Ricardo nods. “Traditional also,” he declares.

I nod. “I'm a vegetarian. You know that, right?”

He nods. “Yes. I know,” he says happily. “No meat. Only turkey.” He glances up and catches my eye and begins to frown with realisation.

Amazingly, my principles desert me. After twenty years of vegetarianism, I just can't bring myself to tell him that vegetarians don't eat turkey. I force a grin. “Oh, that's good then,” I say. “As long as there's no meat.”

Ricardo smiles again, and that smile in that instant, strikes me as far more important than the poor bird's life. I wonder what has come over me. He nods towards the doorway. “Shall we go,” he asks, “to the bedroom?”

I laugh and lead the way. “The
living
room,” I correct him.

“Ah,” he says, cheekily. “But is also the
bedroom.”

I cross to the French windows and stare out at the lights on the jetty.

“Cool, huh?” he says, sounding, for an instant, pure American.

I nod. “I used to live here – well, a bit further down that way.” I point to the right. “It's a great view. Noisy in summer though.”

“Yes,” he says, moving to my side. “The
… livraison …
”

“The concrete deliveries,” I say. “All that grey powder. Awful!”

“Yes,” he agrees. “And so early in the morning.”

We stand in silence for a minute and I become aware, first of the sound of his breathing next to me, and then of the heat of his body reaching across the gap between us and warming my arm through my shirt-sleeve. It feels peculiarly romantic, almost like a date – almost like that moment when you wonder when the first kiss will come.

“So what happen with Tom?” he asks, thankfully breaking the silence.