Better Than Easy (27 page)

After dinner I follow him to the lounge and sit opposite watching him skin up. “Are you OK, Tom?” I ask after a moment. “You seem overly quiet tonight.”

Tom licks the edge of his cigarette paper and glances up at me with a weak smile. “I'm OK,” he says unconvincingly. “I'm just irritated with myself for saying the wrong thing again.”

I nod. “You mean earlier on?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, tapping the joint on the coffee table.

“What, you don't feel you expressed yourself properly?” I say.

Tom shrugs. “I just always say the wrong thing,” he says. I sigh and wait for him to elucidate.

He lights the end of the joint, takes a few puffs, and then, speaking in smoke, he says, “It's like politics. I mean, it's easy enough to know what you're
supposed
to say.”

“What do you mean it's like politics?”

“Yeah,” Tom says. “Politicians are all the same aren't they? But you vote for the one who promises the most. The one who lies the best; the one who says the right things.”

I nod. “I see what you mean,” I say. “But I'm not
sure
this
is about saying the right thing. I'm not sure there
is
a right thing. It's about being honest surely, and then trying to work out if there's a way forward.”

Tom nods. “Yes,” he says. “That's how it should be. But the truth is different. Everyone's the same; everyone cheats and does things they're not proud of. But some are better at lying about it. They're the ones people marry. And they're the ones people vote for.”

I frown. “That's very cynical,” I say.

Tom shrugs. “You'll end up with some guy who promises you the Earth,” he says. “Someone who promises you undying fidelity and love till the end of days … You'll end up with a good liar, that's all.”

I frown. “I don't think that's true,” I say. “I think honesty is far more important than anything else.”

Tom nods and proffers me the joint, which, as a goodwill gesture more than out of any real desire, I accept. “You say that,” Tom says. “But the truth – that I don't think I'm capable of being faithful, doesn't suit you. So I should have just lied. I should have just said the opposite.”

I nod and sigh. “I see your point,” I say. “But I think there are people who believe in long term relationships. And fidelity. And …”

“Oh everyone,
believes
in it,” Tom says. “Everyone
dreams
of it. But wanting and doing are different things. Wanting and being
capable of
are different things.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I still think there
are
people who do.”

“Some people even believe their own crap – so I suppose that's called honesty,” Tom says, pointedly. “But it isn't the truth.”

I nod and pass the joint back to Tom.

“I wish you'd just tell me,” he says. “I wish
you'd
just tell me the truth.”

I hold my breath for a moment, then say, “Tell you what?”

“Well, you've already decided really, haven't you,”
he says. “You're going to call the whole project off.” He swallows with apparent difficulty and then stares at the ceiling in an attempt at steadying his voice. “You
can
just tell me,” he says.

I tut, and move across the room to his side. “That's not true at all babe,” I say. “I honestly don't know what to do right now, I really can't work it out. And it's not for or against you, not really. It's about trying to calculate if it can work. Because I really don't see things the same as you. I'm not attracted by the idea of an open relationship. I really do believe that one relationship can last a lifetime.”

Tom snorts. “It's ironic,” he says. “The guy who doesn't believe in long term relationships is trying to stay in one. And the guy who
does
believe is thinking about ending it.”

I sigh and stroke his back. “You're right,” I say. “That
is
fucked up.”

“So you are,” Tom says. “You are thinking of ending it.”

I shrug. “I don't know what I'm thinking Tom,” I say.

“Do you love me at all?” Tom asks, his voice cracking. “Even a little bit?”

“Of course I do,” I say. And in this instant, it's true again. His distress has opened a pathway across the gap. “Otherwise I wouldn't be here would I?” I say.

Tom nods and reaches for the TV remote. I think for a second – I
hope
– that he's just going to fiddle with it like a stress ball. But he points it at the TV and starts to zap through the channels. And the pathway to empathy closes as fast as it opened. “Well,” he says, his attention already sliding into dope and TV. “That's something, at least.”

I sit and watch him staring at the TV, just in case he's coming back any time soon; just in case he's going to click the off button and snap back into the room. But he doesn't. And it strikes me that human
beings are so irritating; human relationships so
hard
, coupledom so terribly, terribly taxing – it's a wonder anyone ever manages to stay together for a week, let alone a lifetime.

The next morning, I bump into Jenny on the stairs. She's standing on the bottom step distributing a pile of mail between the different letterboxes. She's looking all smooth and bouncy haired again, and I assume she's on her way to meet Ricardo.

“Oh, hello,” she says brightly. “Bloody postman couldn't be bothered to put the letters in the boxes again. It's so lazy!”

I laugh. “Yeah,” I say. “I know. I found a recorded delivery letter on the pavement yesterday.”

“So where are you going?” she asks.

“Shopping,” I reply. “Jeans shopping.”

Jenny glances from the pile to me and smiles. “Good, we can go together,” she says. “I've seen so little of you lately.”

“I … I'm just going to men's shops,” I tell her. It seems that the only way not to lie to Jenny is not to spend time with her at all. She frowns at me, and I realise that Ricardo's existence is driving a real wedge between us.

“I've got to buy something for Ricky anyway,” she says. “He bought Sarah a Wii so we need to find a little something to give back. You can help me.
If that's OK.”

“Sure,” I say. “That'll be nice.”

As we head down Jean-Jaures, Jenny tells me how expensive the Wii game was. “I can't afford anything that expensive,” she says. “But I was thinking maybe a nice jumper. He doesn't seem to have many jumpers.”

As she chats aimlessly about Ricky this and Ricky that, about his great omelettes and how busy he is lately, about how much Sarah likes him and how sweet and attentive he is, I realise the other reason
I've been avoiding Jenny. Her relationship with Ricardo is real, and that's a fact I have been doing my best to overlook.

“You'll miss him, won't you?” I say as we turn into Place Massena.

“You bet,” Jenny replies. “He's a real catch. But I always … I … I suppose I never really expected it to last. I can't say why. But, yeah, he's great. Other than the fact that he's going away I can't find a single fault.”

“I'm sure he has some,” I say. “Everyone has. Isabelle once told me that until you can name someone's biggest fault you don't know them at all.”

“Yeah,” Jenny says. “Very true. Ricardo just covers them up better than most I expect.”

We turn into the pedestrian zone. I point to Springfield. “Let's try there,” I say. Then I launch into Tom's theory about love and politics.

“I think he's right,” Jenny says when I finish. “To an extent at least; I mean if Nick opened his relationships with, ‘Hi, I'm Nick and I am a violent alcoholic,' well, he wouldn't have many girlfriends would he. I expect it's the same with Ricardo. I'm sure there are things he doesn't tell me, but, you know, as long as they aren't slapping you in the face, well, it probably is better
not
to know.”

As I wonder which is the most dangerous path – asking what suspicions she has, or suspiciously failing to ask – I play for time by jokingly picking up an over-embroidered pair of fashion jeans. “What about these?” I say.

Jenny pulls a face. “No surface was spared,” she laughs, then looking around, “Are you sure this is a men's shop?”

I nod. “It is,” I say.

Jenny nods thoughtfully then continues her previous thought. “Yeah, I'm sure Ricardo has a dark side.”

“Really?” I say, turning away to hang the jeans
back up.

“Yeah,” Jenny says. “No one can be that clean. Of course, I have no idea really. But, for instance, all this going home to look after the mama – it wouldn't surprise me at all if he has a wife and kids over there.”

“Jesus!” I say. “Shades of Hugo.”

“Exactly,” Jenny says.

I pick up a pink and blue striped jumper. “What about this?” I say. “For Ricardo?”

Jenny wrinkles her nose. “It's very bright,” she says.

“It's the same colour as his shirt though,” I point out.

She nods. “Yeah,” she says, taking the jumper from me and laying it across her arm. “You're right. Yeah. That'll do. If he doesn't like it he can change it anyway.”

“Do you
really
think he has a wife?” I ask.

Jenny laughs. “Course not,” she says. “But I'm sure he has secrets. And it's probably better that way. So in that much, I agree with Tom.”

“You think I should buy the gîte, don't you?” I say, rifling through a rack of jeans in an attempt at finding a pair that might reach higher up than the crack of my arse.

“Yes,” she says. “Tom loves you to bits.”

I nod. “He says he doesn't think he can be faithful though,” I say. “He says he doesn't think he's capable. God these bloody low-waist jeans!” I say. “I can't stand them.”

Jenny frowns. “Why not?”

I shrug. “Unless you have big girly hips they just fall down all the time.”

“Don't you have big girly hips?” she giggles appraising me with half-closed eyes.

“No,” I say. “I do not.”

“Shame they don't have an M&S,” she laughs. “I'm sure they'd have some good sensible jeans that
would reach up to your nipples. As for Tom - if he can't be faithful, then you should just tell him to keep it to himself. If it upsets you, I mean. Just tell him to be a better liar.”

I laugh. “That's what … a friend said,” I say.

Jenny frowns, searching for a name, then says, “Tony?”

I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “Actually, I think I'm done here.”

“OK, I'll just pay for this,” she says. Turning towards the counter, she pauses, and adds, “You know, we all have secrets, even me. I bet even you do …” She looks at me and twists her mouth thoughtfully. “Nah, you probably don't. Bloody Mother Teresa, you are.”

I laugh. “I think you overestimate me,” I say.

“Maybe,” she says, “maybe not. Actually, I think honesty is probably
the
most over-rated human quality.”

I pull a face and scratch my head. “Funny,” I say. “I keep hearing this lately.”

“And being a good liar is probably the most underrated,” she says. “Keeping everyone happy is a gift. No matter how you do it.”

On Wednesday night when Ricardo opens the door, I can't help but laugh at the dimly lit interior. He shoots me an amused frown. “Why are you laughing?” he asks.

I nod at the room behind him. “The candles,” I say. “You're such a Romeo!”

Ricardo shrugs this off and steps aside so that I can enter. “I like candles,” he says. “You don't?”

I grin at him and pull off my soggy coat. “I do,” I say. “But I don't exactly light them every night.”

“Neither do I,” he says.

“Exactly my point,” I say under my breath.

“It's raining?” Ricardo asks, peering over at the window.

“Yes,” I reply. “Quite hard. It just started.” I follow him through to the kitchen where he pours two gin and tonics. “So, tell me about your mother,” I say, thinking about Jenny's suspicions.

“My mother?” Ricardo says, shocked. “You are my psychiatrist now?”

I laugh. “Yes,” I say. “I see what you mean … but, no, I just meant, how is she? You said she was ill.”

Ricardo nods and gives me a little push towards the lounge. I frown at the gesture. “Sorry,” he says. “It's cultural. Even after seventeen years.”

“Pushing people?”

Ricardo laughs and nods. “Yes,” he says. “Colombians do a lot of pushing. It upsets Europeans.”

I nod. “Yeah,” I say crossing to the window. “Don't try it in England.”

“Anyway, my mother,” he says, joining me at my side. “She's not good. She has Alzheimer's. My sister says she is getting bad very quickly now. She has
whole days when she doesn't recognise anyone.” I note that he replies without hesitation.

A gust of wind blows the rain against the window making the interior feel somehow even cosier. “Can't your sister look after her?” I ask. “I mean, if she's already there?”

Ricardo laughs. “Maria Clara? She can hardly look after herself! Anyway, mother hates her. She was saying this morning that her bad days are the only good days, the only days she can get near her.”

“Because she doesn't recognise her?”

“Exactly,” Ricardo says.

“Will you live with her then? Your mother?”

“Yes,” Ricardo says. “To start with anyway. Maybe later if she is really bad she will go to a hospice. But to start with, yes, that is the idea. And houses are very expensive in Bogotá. Her apartment is very big, so …”