Better Than Easy (24 page)

“Can we stop this?” Tom says, suddenly, urgently. “I don't think I can stand it.”

I click on a random link on the screen and murmur, “Uh?” as if I'm too busy to have heard him. But I instantly relent and close the laptop and look up at him. “Sorry,” I say. “That was
…
” I roll my eyes.

Tom nods. “Thanks,” he says. “Can we? Stop this? New Year's Eve is tomorrow and I just don't think I can stand to spend it like this.”

I shrug. “I don't know how,” I say sadly. “I'm not sure if I can.”

“Do you want me to go?” Tom asks. “Because, you know, that's OK. But I need to know. And I need to know if I should just go for a while, or if, I mean
…
well if it's all over, then tell me, and, I'll sort things out.”

I shake my head then shrug. “I don't know,” I say. “I haven't even started to work it out.”

“If there was something I could say,” Tom says.

I nod.
“Sorry
would be a start,” I say coldly.

Tom coughs, seemingly at the mere thought of uttering that dreaded word. “I actually
did
say sorry,” he says.

“You remember
how
you said it?” I say.

Tom frowns at me.

“Look Tom,” I say. “You dumped a load of shit on my doorstep, and still managed to have a go at me. It's not on and I'm still pretty angry.”

Tom nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Look. I
am
sorry. That I needed to go elsewhere.” That he defines it as a need doesn't go unnoticed. Of course honouring needs is so much more respectable than mere wants. “And I'm sorry if I was an arsehole about it,” he continues.

I nod. “OK,” I say.

“Do you?” Tom says. “Want me to go that is? Because really, if
…
”

“I'm sorry Tom. Don't ask me, because I don't know.”

Tom runs a single finger across his forehead. “OK,” he says.

“Do
you
want to go?” I ask.

Tom shakes his head vaguely. “No,” he says. “I don't think so.”

“OK,” I say with a sigh. “Well, let's give it a couple of days, eh? See how we feel once the dust has settled.”

“OK,” Tom says, starting slowly to stand again. “That's a plan.”

“Oh, Tom,” I say. “I know it's stupid. But could
you
…
” I nod at the plate.

He blinks slowly at me and pulls the plate towards the edge of the table ready to pick it up. “Sure,” he says. As he turns to leave, he pauses. “Oh, by the way. Jenny wants to go for a picnic tomorrow lunchtime – if it's sunny – to Cap D'Ail. Says she has some news, and she's spending the evening with Ricky so we thought we could sort of celebrate New Year at lunchtime too. If you want to come
…
”

I smile weakly at him. “Thanks,” I say. “Maybe. Who's going?”

Tom lifts one shoulder. “Us,” he says. “Me, Jenny, Sarah. And you if you come.”

I nod slowly. “OK, thanks,” I say, then, “News?”

Tom shrugs. “Something to celebrate she says. At least someone's got some good news eh?”

I nod. “Yeah,” I say pensively.

Tom nods. “Jenny would like it if you came,” Tom says. “So would I actually.”

I nod. “OK,” I say. “Probably. If I can calm myself down.”

Tom starts to leave again, and then jerks back and shooting a tiny, nervous smile at me, he picks up the plate. “Almost forgot!” he says, grimacing and flashing his teeth at me.

Tom creeps around me all evening, cringing like a battered dog trying to avoid being seen and beaten anew by his master. He's doing his best not to annoy me and I can see why, and even appreciate the effort, but there's something cloying in his tone, something desperate and begging when I catch his eye, and in truth it only makes me want to beat him like a dog.

That night, however, he returns to the matrimonial bed. He doesn't ask me if it's OK, which to be honest is a relief. Instead, he waits until I'm asleep and sneaks in without waking me. At some point during the night I become aware that he's there, but, not awake enough to analyse it, I simply feel comforted by the physical presence. It's as if in sleep I have forgotten that we're at war.

In the morning though, when I awaken to find him curled against my back, one arm draped somewhat proprietarily over me, it's too much too soon. Feeling a pang of physical revulsion, I lift his arm away and get up. Tom makes a sort of snoring groan to show he's still asleep and therefore not responsible for his actions. I'm unconvinced.

He gets up shortly afterwards and after muttering a neutral, “Morning,” busies himself putting the picnic together, running up and down to organise with Jenny who is taking what.

I drink coffee and read the papers online, and when Tom finally asks if I am joining them, I surprise myself by saying, “Yes.” I didn't know myself that I had decided.

Just as we're leaving, at the exact moment Tom goes upstairs to help Jenny with her stuff, my mobile rings. Seeing that it's Ricardo who is calling and anxious to check he's not joining us, I scoot through
to the far end of the bedroom and answer it. “You're not going are you?” I say.

“Hello?” Ricardo says.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “Hello. Are you going on this picnic?”

“No. I thought we could have lunch. I want to see you.”

“I can't,” I tell him. “I'm going on the picnic.”

“Don't,” he says. “It's perfect time.”

“I can't,” I say. “It's too late.”

“You ready?” Tom asks, peeping around the doorframe. “Oh, sorry. We can hang on if
…
”

“It's fine,” I tell him, then into the phone I say, “No, I can't. It's too late. I've just got an iPhone, so I'm not interested in changing my handset at all. Thanks. Bye.”

I click the
End Call
icon and roll my eyes at Tom. “They're so tenacious,” I say.

“Bouygues?” he says.

I nod.

“In English?”

I swallow and nod again. “Yeah,” I say, winging it. “I used to get rid of them by not speaking French, but they're on to me now. Amazing huh?”

With the radio on I can't really talk to Tom and Jenny during the drive along the coast, so Sarah and I play I-Spy instead. She demonstrates a stunning range of vocabulary in both English and French, but little concept of which objects might, or might not be present, in or around a car. “Cheese, Cabbage, Caca, Chambre, Crumble, Camembert,” she spouts.

“Where can you see any caca?” I ask her.

“Out of your bum,” she declares, collapsing into giggles.

The drive takes nearly an hour and by the time we have parked the car and clambered down a few hundred steps to the bay – a process made
considerably slower by Sarah's requests for piggybacks and shoulder carries, alternating with sudden stretches when she wants to walk – it's nearly two p.m. The sky is deepest blue and the air has warmed enough for me to want to take my t-shirt off. The sun reflects blindingly from the waves in the bay, doubling its intensity, and a nearly full moon is hanging low in the sky to the west. I point it out to Sarah, saying, “Look! The Moon!” But she is unconvinced.

“It's day,
stupid,”
she says. “Not night!”

“You rude little girl,” I laugh, jiggling her up and down and making her chuckle.

We open the blanket in the middle of the beach. The restaurants are closed for the winter and we're sharing the entire bay with fewer than twenty people. I can hear from here that the couple at the farthest end of the beach is American and I wonder why tourists so often feel the need to shout at each other – the volume seemingly proportional to the nasal twang of the accent.

We start to delve into the cool-bags and spread out the picnic: a salad bowl with cling-film on top, two baguettes, a plate of cheese
…
Jenny produces proper wine glasses and knives and forks. But when I peer inside the bag I have been carrying and see Champagne, I start to wonder; I start to
worry
. Finally, having mastered my voice, I say cheerily, “Champagne? How come?”

Jenny positions herself cross-legged opposite. “Yes,” she says. “Champagne!”

“Can I paddle?” Sarah asks.

Jenny turns to her, frowns, and then smiles. “Of course,” she says, then, turning back to me, “It's a celebration. Didn't Tom tell you?”

I nod. “Yes,” I say. “But not the reason.”

Tom beside me shrugs. “Hey, I don't know either. She don't tell me nothin'!”

“Well,” Jenny says, taking the bottle from me and then handing it back. “Actually, could you? I hate it when it pops. Yes. It's a surprise.”

I start to unwrap the foil from the top of the bottle and fiddle with the wire cage. I'm fumbling in my nervousness to get it done, to find out why we're here. I force myself to slow down.

By the time I get to the point where the cork might pop, Jenny is in mid sentence about how beautiful the place is and I have to hold the cork in place to stop it popping of its own accord.

“
…
it's so
warm
as well,” she is saying, “because of the sun, and the way the rocks keep the wind out. And the sea is so sparkly! How did you
find
this place?”

Tom nods at me. “Mark brought me here,” he says. “It's your favourite beach, isn't it?”

I nod and smile. “It is,” I say. “Hey, this cork's going to blow.”

“Oh, wait!” Jenny snaps. “I want to tell you my news. It's bad luck to pop it first.”

Tom and I speak in unison. “Is it?” we say.

Jenny nods. “Yes,” she says. “Plus, Sarah likes the popping bit. I hate it myself. Makes me jump. Sarah? Sarah! Yes, come here a
…
that's right darling. Mark's going to open the bottle. So!” She pauses dramatically. “The good news is
…
”

“Jenny come on, the cork's moving, I can feel it,” I say.

“OK. I got a job!” she declares.

“A job?” I say incredulously.

“Yeah,” Jenny says, nodding at the bottle and raising her glass. “Don't sound so surprised.”

The cork plops out unspectacularly. “Oh,” Jenny says. “That wasn't very good was it?”

“Sorry,” I say, filling her glass.

“You're suppose to make it pop,” she says. “Isn't he darling?”

Sarah looks at Jenny and nods, and then glances at
me – a deadly expression of disappointment. Then she shakes her head gravely, and runs back down to the water.

“She's turning into a proper little madam,” Tom says. He looks at me and laughs. “The look she gave you!”

“I know!” Jenny says. “So anyway, back to me. I have a job as an English teacher. Twenty-five hours a week, so it fits perfectly around Sarah's nursery hours. And fifteen Euros an hour after, you know,
cotisations.”

“That's excellent,” I say.

“You sound relieved,” Jenny laughs. “Did you think I was unemployable?”

I finish pouring my own glass of Champagne and put the bottle down. “No,” I say. “I thought you were going to say you were pregnant!” I laugh. “So yeah, relieved is the word.”

“How though?” Tom asks. “You don't even speak French!”

Jenny nods and grins. “I know!” she says. “I'm doing conversation practice with foreign students.”

“So you're basically paid to yak?” Tom says.

“Exactly,” Jenny agrees. “Brilliant huh?”

“You're certainly qualified,” I laugh, a wave of relief washing over me.

We toast to Jenny's new job, and then Tom says, “Actually, I'm a bit disappointed. I thought you were gonna marry Ricky boy.”

“Marry him? Huh!” Jenny says.

Tom frowns. “No?” he says. “Shame. I love a wedding. Dressing up and everything.”

“No!” Jenny says, very definitely. “If you want a wedding it'll have to be you two.”

I raise an eyebrow and shoot Tom a scowl that leaves both him and Jenny in no doubt that this won't be happening any time soon.

“There is some news about Ricardo too,” Jenny says. “But that's not it. That's really not it.”

I frown at her use of his full name. I have never heard her say it once.

“I think Mark already knows,” she adds.

I shrug. “No,” I say. “I don't think so. Know what?”

Sarah reappears, yanking on her mother's shoulder. “Can I have some?” she says.

“You don't like it,” Jenny tells her. “It's Champagne.”

Sarah pulls a tantrum face, so Jenny laughs and shrugs and hands her the glass. She takes the tiniest of sips, declares, “Yuck,” and runs away again.

“She's terrible isn't she?” Jenny says. “Do you think I'm bringing her up badly?”

“No,” I say. “You're doing brilliantly. Now what is it? About Ricardo?”

“Oh,” Jenny says. “Yeah. He's, erm, going home, actually,” she says, glancing around at the picnic and reaching for a baguette. “Back to Colombia.”

Tom widens his eyes in a caricature of surprise. “What, you mean, not for a holiday?”

Jenny shrugs. “No,” she says. “For a few years. So he says.”

“And are you going with him?” Tom asks.

Jenny pulls a face. “Don't be daft,” she laughs. “What would I do in Colombia? Anyway, he hasn't asked me.”

“But if you …”

“Tom!” Jenny says. “He
hasn't
asked me.”

Tom nods. “Oh,” he says. “Sure. Sorry.”

“I thought he was waiting for his passport,” I comment.

“Yeah,” Jenny says. “He told you that much then. Well, he got it yesterday unfortunately. Unfortunately for me that is.”

“What passport?” Tom says.