Better Than Easy (22 page)

“Sounds like you're speaking from experience,” I say. “You didn't by any chance meet Dutchy before you split up with
…
”

“Oh no,” she interrupts. “I would
never
have an affair.”

“But if you did you would never tell anyway.”

“Absolutely.”

“Even me?”

“Even you.”

I'm woken at eight a.m. by the sound of Jenny's washing machine – apparently off balance – in the room above. As I slowly come to (I have only slept for three hours) I decide that it's not the sound of a washing machine, but the builders repairing her bathroom. And then, with a sick feeling, it dawns on me that the noise is no other than Jenny having sex. It's the repeated thud of her bed banging against the wall.

The feelings that this generates – arousal at the thought of Ricardo pumping into her, jealousy that it's her not me, guilt that the last place his dick visited was myself – are so diverse, so unmanageable, I simply pull a pillow over my head to shut out the noise. But it doesn't work; so I eventually get up and put the radio on, repeatedly turning it up until I can no longer hear them.

I brew coffee and make toast, but just as I sit down to eat it, I realise that I can still hear banging. Marvelling at Ricardo's tenacity, I glance at the clock, calculating that they have been shagging for at least sixty minutes. Only then do I realise that the noise has changed in tone, nature and direction.

I frown and cross the room to the door. When I open it Ricardo glances behind him, and surreptitiously slips into the room. It all looks somehow very theatrical, very
résistance
, very
Allo Allo
. I grin at the thought.

“I was knocking for ages,” Ricardo says.

For some reason, probably because of the
Allo Allo
thought, I answer,
“Yees. So I ‘erd.”

He frowns at me, and I snap back to reality. “What are you doing here?” I say. “I thought we agreed.”

Ricardo shrugs at me, somehow self-importantly. “I wanted to see you,” he says. “I was upstairs.”

I nod pedantically. “Yes,” I repeat. “I
heard.”

Ricardo frowns again, and then blushes. “Oh,” he says. “Sorry.”

I shrug. “It's fine,” I say. “Really. But you shouldn't
be
here.”

He smiles and opens his arms and steps towards me. “I just wanted
…
” he says.

I take a step backwards. “Ricardo, are you crazy?”

He shrugs and half smiles. “What?” he says.

“What happened was mad, but this? This is
dangerous.”

“No,” he says. “Jenny is busy. She put Sarah in the bath.”

My mouth drops and I shake my head and let out a gasp of disbelief.

“I just wanted,” he says, stepping forward again. I notice that he looks very young today, halfway between sweet naivety and demanding child.

“This isn't right,” I say. “You can't go upstairs to Jenny and then
…
it's just not right.”

“I can't not,” he says, solemnly. “I can't just walk past your door.”

He's wearing a tightly cut brown suit and an open necked white shirt. I imagine his body behind the material. A mini porn movie runs through my mind involving me dropping to my knees, unzipping his trousers and fishing his dick from the silky folds, sliding my hands over his buttocks and pulling him towards me.

My dick starts to harden, and I almost start to weaken, but then he winks at me, and there's something in that wink – over confidence, maybe even arrogance – and instead I step around him and put my hand on the doorknob. “Sorry,” I say. “But I
can
say ‘no.' We had an agreement. You need to go.”

Ricardo's smile fades entirely. He shrugs and looks a little petulant. “Sorry,” he says. He rearranges his
dick to disguise his bulge, and when I open the door, he peers upstairs and steps back onto the landing. “You're right,” he says, then, again, “Sorry. I'm stupid.”

I close the door on him and return to bed, where, after running more slowly through the porn-film, I start to doze. As I edge towards sleep, I ponder that the moment just passed was a parting of the ways, each route leading to a different future. I could have sunk to my knees, and that would lead to one place. I could have dragged him into my bed and made him late for work, and that might have led somewhere slightly different. I could have told him I never wanted to see him again and that would have been the end. And at the instant I finally sink into sleep, I think that just saying, “No,” and putting an end to this craziness once and for all would be the only option which makes any sense. I wonder why I haven't already done that; and then I contemplate the fact that Isabelle may be right: maybe these things do have a life of their own. And if they do, can it be said that there is truly such a thing as freewill at all? Or am I just a bottle bobbing in the waves waiting to see which way the tide will go?

It's lunchtime when I reawaken, and the sun outside looks glorious so I shower and dress quickly before heading to the beach. On the way I stop and buy a
pan-bagnat,
the local sandwich – a Niçois salad in a bun.

Being a weekday, the beach is much quieter, just a few office workers incongruously dressed and eating their lunch.

Two beary gay guys are sunning their hairy chests at the edge of Castel Plage, the larger guy's head resting on the rounded stomach of his boyfriend, and I feel a pang of jealousy that Tom isn't here with me. Or Ricardo. I force the image back to Tom. I'm pretty sure anyway that Ricardo would never be able
to do that. Not with a guy anyway.

I cross the pebbles to where a small bowl has formed, and position myself so that I'm tilted towards the sun. I select Patti Smith
– Twelve
on my iPhone and eat my sandwich. And then feeling vaguely naughty for my laziness, I fall asleep again.

When I wake up the album has ended and I can hear a child's voice nearby.

I sit up and blink at the brightness. I pull my sunglasses down over my eyes and realise that Jenny and Sarah are sitting just in front of me. They're putting stones into a bucket.

“Sleeping Beauty wakes up,” Jenny says, turning to face me.

“Bonjour,” Sarah says brightly.

I blink at them. “French,” I say. “She's speaking French.”

Jenny nods. “Yeah. She'll be teaching me at this rate. Have a nice kip?”

I link my hands above my head and stretch. “Yeah,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

Jenny shrugs. “We were walking along the beach and we found you.”

I clear my throat.

“I was worried about someone nicking your iPhone to be honest.”

“Yeah,” I say, glancing down at it. “I had it in my hand, but then I fell asleep.”

Jenny creases her brow at me. “Well,” she says. “You want to at least keep it out of sight.”

I yawn and stretch again. “God I'm knackered today,” I tell her. “I couldn't sleep last night.”

“No,” Jenny says. Something sharp in her tone of voice makes me study her features for clues. “Nor me,” she adds.

“Really?” I say. “Maybe the moon or something. I phoned Isabelle in Toronto. She's having a great time.”

Jenny nods at me. “I know,” she says.

“You spoke to her?” I ask.

Jenny shakes her head. “I mean, I heard,” she says. “You were talking for hours.”

I feel myself pale. “You
heard?”
I say.

Jenny nods. “That's why
I
couldn't sleep,” she says.

“Erm, how
much
could you hear?” I say trying to sound relaxed.

“Oh everything,” Jenny says solemnly.

I swallow hard. “I
…
” I say.

“Joke!” Jenny says. “No, but seriously, it
was
noisy. And it went on and on. You sounded like you were reading a book to her or something. What the hell were you talking about?”

I take a deep breath and force a neutral expression. “Oh nothing in particular. Everything. Tom, the gîte, you, Ricardo.”

Jenny nods. “Well, next time, sit in the bedroom would you? Your lounge is right under my bed. It did my head in.”

“You should have banged or something,” I say.

“Oh I couldn't,” Jenny says. “I'd think I was turning into my mother. She's always banging on walls. So she's OK? Isabelle?”

“Who's Isabelle?” Sarah asks.

“She's the lady who used to baby-sit, do you remember?”

Sarah nods thoughtfully, and says, “Yes.” Then she turns conscientiously back to her task, which apparently is to fill her bucket with
white
stones.

“Mark's best friend,” Jenny continues.

I frown at the remark. It sounds like a challenge, and I almost rise to it. I nearly say, “No,
you're
my
best
friend.” But I don't. It's just too hypocritical.

I say instead, “Not sure about
best
friend. But she's a very
good
friend. That's for sure.”

By sundown, I am actively wishing for Tom's return. Without Ricardo the gaps left in my life by Tom's absence are becoming all too clear – I feel lonely and horny. And I
need
to see him too – it seems that only when I set eyes on him will everything become clear: the depth of my feelings for him, the future of our relationship, what to tell and what not to tell.

Of course when Tom finally does return, the world does not clarify instantly into a black and white tableau of obvious choices. He arrives tired and grumpy after a delayed flight next to an overweight woman and her screaming baby, and so he rants on about heterosexuals and children, and weight allowances for baggage but not fat or babies, and I listen and wait for something comprehensible to emerge from the muddy pit of my thoughts.

I serve him a strong drink and finish cooking the special meal I have planned – caramelised endives and flash fried scallops – and the sight of it on the table finally does the trick of shifting him out of his journey and into the here and now of arrival. “Wow!” he exclaims. “This looks posh! We need candles for this.”

While I uncork the wine Tom fetches then lights candles, and so it is that we sit down for a romantic looking homecoming dinner.

Tom forks a scallop and groans through his full mouth. “God, this is gorgeous! What's the sauce?”

“Honey and balsamic vinegar,” I tell him. “Actually, the recipe was on the packet the scallops came in, so
…
”

“Well it's orgasmic,” Tom says. “God you could serve this in the gîte and everyone would think we had a cordon bleu chef.” He swigs at his wine and
then sighs deeply. “Sorry,” he says. “I've been ranting, haven't I?”

I shrug. “It's OK,” I say. “Travel is stressful.”

“I swear it gets worse every time,” he says. “The airports are packed. Everything's late. I'm sure the leg-room gets a bit less on every trip.”

I look into his eyes for the first time in weeks, and this eye-to-eye contact makes me smile and I think,
“We might be all right after all.”

Tom smiles back. “Sorry. Time to forget it,” he says.

“Don't waste a sunny day crying about rain,” I say, grimacing inwardly as I realise where the phrase comes from.

“Yeah,” Tom says. “Exactly. Is that a French proverb?”

I shrug. “Not sure where I heard it to be honest. I think so though.
Ne pas gâcher le soleil en pensant à la pluie.”

“Have you seen much of Jenny and Ricky boy?” Tom asks, as if tuning in to the real origin of the phrase rather than my invention.

“Not much,” I say. “Well, I saw Jenny when she got back last night. She was complaining because her mum had her eating macrobiotic all over Christmas. She lost another kilo though.”

Tom pushes his bottom lip out and nods, impressed. “Losing weight over Christmas. Sounds impressive.”

“No fun though,” I say.

“No,” Tom says. “I can imagine.”

“And I bumped into her briefly at the beach today as well. She seems fine. Tell me about
your
Christmas,” I say. The second I say it, I realise that I have forgotten, again, to buy Tom a Christmas gift.

I think of the iPhone sitting in the other room and I think about who I have been calling with it. The guilt I feel at having been so wrapped up in my fling with Ricardo that I have forgotten to buy him
anything at all is such that I actually break out in a sweat. I wonder if he will remember – if he will now ask me for the gift I promised him was waiting. I wipe my forehead.

“Are you OK?” Tom asks.

I nod and cough. “Yeah, fine,” I say. “Just suddenly overheating. Hot flashes. Must be the menopause or something. So how was work?”

He frowns at me as if I'm being particularly strange, which I suppose I am, and then to my relief starts to tell me of the interminable hours in the foreign exchange office. I sit and half-listen and wonder if it's now too late to get him something without drawing attention to the fact that I have forgotten – it clearly is. Plus, after my Christmas with Ricardo, any such gesture would be laced with more hypocrisy than I think I could bear – almost certainly the reason I forgot in the first place.

There were, Tom is telling me, about ten clients a day. His uncle, who is also in foreign exchange, dropped by to chat a few times.

“It was quite weird talking to him over the counter,” he says, still looking at me enquiringly. “But it made the time go better. He told me all about his love affair with Mum, which to be honest, I didn't want to hear. He feels guilty that he never told Dad about it, but at the time I convinced him not to. I just thought it would hurt everyone concerned really. I still think it's better that he never knew.”