Better Than Easy (26 page)

I nod. “So in a nutshell,” I say. “You're prepared to commit for a couple of years. But the cheating and lies will continue?”

Tom looks outraged.

“No, seriously Tom, it's fine; these things have to be said.”

“Yeah, but it's
how
you say them,” Tom says. “It doesn't have to involve cheating or lying.”

I roll my eyes at him. “So how does that work then?”

Tom shrugs. “If we agreed that this sort of thing is bound to happen, then it wouldn't involve lying.”

I laugh in disbelief. “An open relationship?” I say. “Is that what you're offering?”

Tom shrugs. “I'm not
offering
anything,” he says.

It strikes me as a profound truth and I sit in silence for a moment absorbing it. “No,” I say eventually.

“I'm just discussing,” Tom continues. “It seems to me that things might last a bit longer. If we allow a bit of freedom, a bit of leeway.”

“I don't believe that at all,” I say. “That's the trouble. It's like going shopping to save money.”

“You what?”

“If you spend time in shops you spend money. If you spend time cruising in bars or checking out the web then you'll meet someone else. Someone who seems better. At first glance they will anyway. If you want it to last, you have to stop shopping. That's my point.”

Tom nods. “I see what you mean,” he says. “But if you don't think your relationship can bear comparison – well, it doesn't say a lot about it does it?” His mobile rings at that instant, and he spins it towards him to look at the screen. “Jenny,” he says. I shake my head and he nods and presses the cancel button.

“You were saying,” I prompt.

Tom rolls his eyes to the ceiling, and then looks back at me. “What does it say about a relationship if it implies never looking elsewhere just in
case
you're tempted,” he says. “That's
my
point.”

I shrug. “It's an act of belief,” I say. “It's a decision. That there
isn't
anything better. That something can be
good enough.”
I have a sudden feeling of déjà-vu and wonder if I haven't already had exactly this conversation with Tom once before.

Tom nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I see. But I don't think I'm built that way.”

“No,” I agree. “Maybe not.”

“I could try though,” he says.

I blow though my lips. “Maybe that's not enough,” I say.

“I
would
try,” Tom says. “I promise.”

“It's the
trying
I'm having trouble with,” I say. “It just isn't very convincing.”

“No,” Tom says. “Well,” he adds, cleverly, “maybe that requires an act of belief on
your
part.”

I bang my hand on the table and stand. “Well, that's quite enough of that,” I say, realising that we have somehow slipped into dialectic – point-scoring tactics for winning arguments rather than anything deep or useful. “I'm going for a walk. My brain's saturated.”

Tom smiles at me. “Yeah,” he says. “I could do with a breath of fresh air too.”

I smile tightly at him. “Good,” I say. “Go for it.” Then just to make sure that it's clear we aren't doing this together, I add, “See you later then.”

Initially unsure of my destination, I walk briskly through the old town. I'm trying my hardest – for now – not to think about Tom or the gîte. There just doesn't seem to be anywhere sane for those thought processes to go.

It's three p.m. and the winter sun is already low enough in the sky to leave the streets in deep, cold shadow and my denim jacket is, I realise, insufficient. When I notice that I'm heading for Cours Saleya, I take a sharp left and start to wind my way up towards the Parc Du Château. Pausing after the first eleven steps (of hundreds) are two women – a fit looking wiry one in walking shorts and her very red faced friend. As I stride past them, the fat one, who looks like she's been eating Morgan Spurlock's McDonald's diet not for thirty days but thirty
years
, speaks to me in English. “Hey Mister,” she says. “Can you tell us if the chateau is this way?”

When it comes to foreigners in France assuming everyone can speak English I have a similar reaction to most French people: I consider it arrogant enough to want to ignore them, or worse still feed them duff information. But knowing the number of steps to go, looking at the woman's face and seeing that she won't make it alive, and noticing something about the pair that I can't put my finger on, I do my good deed for the day and tell them that a) there is no chateau in the Parc du Château, and b) it's a
very
long way to the top.

“You see,” the fat woman says, wheezily addressing her friend. “You made me walk all that way for nothin'.”

The sporty woman catches my eye and almost imperceptibly raises an eyebrow, and I smile and
wonder if I have just sabotaged her attempt at getting her fit, or perhaps her hopes of inducing a heart attack. I give them a little wave and charge on up the hill, only now realising that the vibe I picked up is because they are, in fact, a couple; they are family.

After a hundred or so steps and a sharply inclined alleyway, I pass the gates at the base of the park. I zigzag on and up through little archways and up more steps past the waterfall, and by the time I get to the top, to the balcony overlooking the bay, stunningly lit by the beginning of a red sunset, my heart is pounding and I'm sweating freely and my brain has slipped into a restful silence.

I watch another couple of tourists taking portraits into the setting sun and wonder if they will be able to see anything except the red sky behind, and then I take a few deep breaths and head down the other side of the hill towards the port.

A guy in his fifties dressed in beige Crimpelene trousers –
where do they get these things?
– is lurking in the shadows on one of the bends. As I glance at him he offers what I guess must be his most winning smile, in fact a fairly nerve-wracking grimace; so I jerk my head back to the fore and walk even faster, and wonder how many days he has to lurk in the shadows of the park before he gets a result.

At the bottom of the hill I pass out through the gates – always a relief when closing time at the park is so random – and walk on down to the port. I wish I had put my running shoes on – I would happily have jogged the rest of the way. I continue past the restaurants and down past the boarding area for the Corsica ferry, then climb an alleyway of steps back up to street level. As I round the corner, I nearly bump into someone coming the other way, and as I dodge around him, I see that it's Ricardo. “Oh!” I say breathlessly. “You!”

“Ah!” Ricardo echoes. “Hello!”

I'm already one step past him and I hesitate
between lingering and speeding on.

He smiles at me. “You are late for somewhere?”

I consider lying but he gives me his face-cracking grin and I weaken. “No,” I say. “Just walking, burning calories, getting rid of stress.”

Ricardo looks around like a cornered animal and glances at his watch. “I only have a little time,” he says, nodding at a bar/pizzeria over the road. “But perhaps we can have a quick coffee?”

I shrug. “Sure,” I say. “Why not.”

The woman in the pizzeria is as welcoming as Guantanamo Bay. “We're not open yet,” she tells us as we push in the door.

Ricardo turns his grin on her and says, “Ce n'est pas grave. Nous allons simplement boire un coup.”
– “It doesn't matter. We are just going to have a quick drink.”

Incredibly, as if hypnotised, the woman shrugs and picks up her order pad.

“I was sure she was going to say no,” I say, once we have our drinks – two beers in fact – and the woman has disappeared out back.

“You just have to tell them how it is,” Ricardo says. “If you're forceful enough people just agree.”

I wonder if it isn't how Ricardo gets
everything
he wants.

“I'm so happy to see you,” he says. “A good surprise.”

His smile is such that I can't help but grin back at him, and I realise that I haven't used these muscles properly for days. “Yes,” I agree.

“I called you,” he says. “But you say no, and then you don't answer…”

I nod. “I know,” I say. “I'm sorry. But, well, it's all a bit complicated really. It's bad enough just between Tom and me without you and Jenny in the equation.”

Ricardo nods. “I understand,” he says, seriously. “But you –
tu m'as manqué.”

I smile dumbly and maybe even blush a little and
think that he probably can't see this because I'll be red from the walk anyway. “Thanks,” I reply. “I missed you too.”

“I needed to see you,” Ricardo continues. “I will go back to Colombia now.”

I nod. “Jenny told me. In February she said.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Ricardo says. “To explain.”

I laugh lightly. “There's nothing
to
explain Ricardo,” I reply. “Anyway, you already said that once you got your passport … I didn't think you'd go quite so quickly though.”

Ricardo sighs. “I know,” he says. “But my mother – she's not so good. Plus I think this is all a bit complicated for me too. You see, I say complicat
ed
now.”

I nod gently.

“I don't want to carry on with Jenny now, but, you know, I don't want to …
Je ne veux pas le blesser
.”

“You don't want to hurt her,” I translate.

“Exactly,” he says. “So I will wait now. I see her not so often. And then I will go. It will be kind of natural death.”

“Beautifully put!” I say. “You
could
ask her to go with you,” I point out.

Ricardo nods. “Yes, I know,” he says matter-of-factly. “But she has other plans. And anyway, I want something different now. I think I am changed. So a fresh start is good.”

I sip my beer and suck the froth from my lip. “I envy you,” I say.

“Envy?”

“I'm jealous,” I paraphrase. “A fresh start. Just walk away and start afresh. It's very appealing.”

Ricardo shrugs. “It depends I suppose,” he says, “how happy you are.”

I swallow and nod meaningfully. “Yeah,” I say. “Quite. I was actually hoping that the gîte wouldn't happen. That we wouldn't be able to buy it.”

“But it's OK?” Ricardo says, crinkling his brow
deeply. “You will buy?”

I nod and shake my head and shrug all at the same time. “It looks that way,” I say.

“But you don't want,” he says, glancing at his watch again.

“If you have to go …” I say.

He pouts and shakes his head. “Soon,” he says. “But is OK. You don't want?” he asks again. “The gîte?”

I shrug. “If I have to decide, I'll probably say, ‘yes',” I tell him.

Ricardo frowns. “Why?”

I shrug. “You have to say, ‘yes' to things. You have to take chances. You can't spend all your time backing out of things. Plus we'd lose twenty thousand Euros if we pull out.”

“Then you are happy with the decision,” Ricardo says. “It's OK.”

I blow a sigh through my lips. “If it had fallen through, that would have been OK too,” I say smiling vaguely. “It wouldn't have been my decision, so …”

Ricardo nods. “Yes,” he says. “I think it's not such a good idea.”

“What?”

“To buy with Tom,” Ricardo says. “He doesn't know what he wants.”

I laugh. “That's good coming from you,” I say.

Ricardo laughs. “Yes,” he says. “You're right. But Tom … he loves you – but not enough to commit. This is what I think.”

I grin and bite my bottom lip. “Again,” I say. “You're not exactly a
master
of commitment.”

Ricardo laughs and looks me in the eye meaningfully. “This is why I understand Tom,” he says. “This is why
I
am not buying a gîte with Jenny.”

I clear my throat. “Yes,” I say. “Point taken.”

Ricardo glances at his watch again. “I'm sorry,” he says. “But now I must go.”

I nod. “It's fine,” I say.

“I want to see you again though,” Ricardo says. “I want to talk more. This is not enough time. We can have dinner?”

I wrinkle my nose. “My life is so complicated, Ricardo,” I protest.

“Please?” he says, standing. “It is important to me.”

I frown.

Ricardo nods then says, “Tomorrow? Or Wednesday?”

I shake my head lightly in dismay at my own lack of willpower. “Fine,” I say. “Wednesday.”

“At my place? I can order pizzas. No Pot Noodle.”

I nod. “OK, fine. But no Pot Noodle. And no funny …”

“No funny business,” Ricardo interrupts, glancing at his watch again and reaching for his wallet. “I know.”

“I'll get these,” I say. “Just go.”

Ricardo grins. “Now I am late!” he says, turning towards the door with a wink.
“À mercredi!”

I blink slowly in confirmation and watch the door swing closed behind him.

I become aware of the pizzeria woman standing beside me. “Il est mignon,” she murmurs.
– “He's cute!”

“He is,” I agree. “He is indeed.”

That evening, Tom is particularly sullen. As we prepare dinner together and then eat it in near-silence, I first notice the change, then start to worry about him. This fact – this
act
of worrying about him – reopens some lost pathway through my confused synapses and I start to see Tom as a human being again. A complex, fallible, lovable, suffering human being rather than just an irritation. I feel a little ashamed at myself for the lapse.