Better Than Easy (34 page)

And then we sit in the public dining room in front of a smouldering log fire and I run through my vast
list of questions on occupancy and advertising, on tourist offices and food shopping, and I note as many key points as my cold hands can manage from her voluminous, rambling replies. Ricardo sits silently, smiling vaguely, an expression I know only too well as
stoned
. Every now and then he catches my eye and manages to send me a discreet wink.

His presence here feels truly bizarre, not least because it feels so entirely natural. And when I reach the end of my batch of questions and Ricardo, as if newly switched on, launches into his own list, things get seem even stranger. For Ricardo's questions are just as logical, just as essential as the list Tom and I put together: where is the fuse box (hidden behind a secret panel below the stairs); where does the sewage go (to a septic tank which needs emptying once a year); on and on it goes.

As I listen to the answers to these essential questions I entirely failed to ask, I have to remind myself that I am not buying the place with Ricardo but with Tom, and there is something surreal about that thought, as if my brain has now confused the two of them entirely.

Yet despite Ricardo's stoned cool, and in spite of his natural reassuring manner, where Chantal answered my own questions charmingly, her replies to Ricardo slip through thinned, suspicious lips, as if she can't quite believe he has the nerve to ask her such a question. Or perhaps, as if she is as confused about his presence as I am.

One question in particular really seems to fluster her – Ricardo's, “So, where are you moving to after the sale?”

Chantal blushes, then stumbles, then pales, before muttering, “My mother's place
…
in Limoges.” At this point she cocks an ear and stands, saying, “Excusez-moi, le petit pleure
…
”
– “Sorry, the little one is crying.”

We watch her bustle from the room, and then
Ricardo turns and stares at me; stares
through
me.

“Did you hear a baby?” I ask.

Ricardo shakes his head. “No,” he says.

“No,” I say. “Nor me. They were good questions though, so thanks. Without you I wouldn't even have known about the septic tank.”

“No,” he says again, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

He shrugs. “She's lying,” he murmurs.

I nod slowly. “Yeah,” I say. “I saw that. I thought it was just me being paranoid.”

He shakes his head slightly. “No,” he says.
“Intriguing.”

Chantal bursts back through the door with her little girl in her arms, and it is immediately clear that the interview is now over. She jiggles the girl, who appears to me to be asleep, but who, upon being so energetically jiggled starts to cry. “Désolé,” she says. “Les enfants hein!”
– “Sorry. Kids huh?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Is that all then?” she asks.

I shrug and stand. “I suppose,” I say. I nod at Ricardo.

“I guess so,” he agrees. “Anyway. He can call you afterwards if he has any questions, I suppose. If you're only in Limoges
…
”

Chantal chews the inside of her mouth and shoots Ricardo the beginning of a glare, which quickly vanishes only to be replaced by a sugary smile. “Of course,” she says, then to me, “I'll give you the number on Thursday.”

I have just picked up my pad and pen, so I flip the cover over and say, “Oh, I might as well write it down now.”

“I don't have it,” Chantal says. “But I'll bring it Thursday.”

Ricardo narrows his eyes and smiles broadly at her. “You don't know your mother's number!” he
says. “Shame on you.”

Chantal shrugs and moves to the front door. “She changed it. I can't remember. On Thursday
…
You can have it on Thursday.”

And then we're back on the flagstones and the front door is locked, and loudly
bolted
, behind us.

Stepping from the interior out onto the forecourt is stunning, as if, when inside, you forget the snow-capped peaks surrounding the place.

Ricardo notices it too. “Wow!” he says.

“Yes,” I say. “Wow.”

We walk over to our vehicles, and Ricardo opens his door and then hesitates. “She's not going to Limoges,” he says.

I glance back at the gîte. Chantal is lurking in the shadows behind one of the windows watching us leave. “Not here,” I say.

“I'll meet you at the bottom,” Ricardo says, sliding into his car.

“No,” I say. “In Guillaumes. At La Provençal.”

Ricardo nods seriously. “OK,” he says. He slams his door, and then unintentionally showering me with gravel, he accelerates off down the hill.

When I first enter La Provençal the bar is perfectly empty. A single, illuminated “33” beer sign reveals that the place
might
be open. I step back outside and walk to the other end of the square before doubling back.

Everywhere else is closed, probably for the entire winter, and Ricardo's rented Clio is parked outside. I re-enter the bar. This time, not only has a waiter appeared – a spotty adolescent in a ski jumper – but Ricardo is seated at a table.

I shoot him a double-take kind of a glance. “So were you here ten seconds ago when I last looked?” I ask.

He smiles weakly and points to the rear of the bar. “Toilet,” he says simply. “I ordered you coffee, is that OK?”

I nod, pull out a chair and sit. “Yeah,” I say. “Thanks. Coffee's great.”

“Your friend is a strange one,” Ricardo says. He seems deflated, as though his
ordinary
batteries are finally expiring.

“My fr
…
Oh!
Chantal!
Yes. I'm just noticing that.”

“As long as you don't expect too much – how do you say,
service après vente en anglais?”

“After sales service,” I say.

“Of course,” Ricardo says, his voice unusually monotone. “I don't think you will get so much.”

“No,” I say. “I wonder where she's going.”

“Not to Limoges,” Ricardo says.

“Maybe she doesn't want to give me the number. Maybe there's some terrible structural fault with the place and she doesn't want us to be able to hunt her down.”

“If there is, you can cancel the sale,” Ricardo says. “Even afterwards. It's called
Vice Caché.”

“Hidden faults,” I say. “Right
…
Well, yes. There's always that.”

“But I don't think it's that,” Ricardo says. “I think is something more sinister. Maybe her husband is dead. Maybe she push him in the shit tank.”

“God,
don't!”
I say. “Hey, I just realised
…
she isn't coming on Thursday, so all that stuff about giving me the number on Thursday was bullshit too.”

The ski-jumper kid brings our coffee, so there is a brief interruption whilst he hands us the cups and the bill. When he's gone, Ricardo sips his coffee and mutters, “One hundred percent Robusta. Yuck.”

I laugh lightly. “I suppose Colombians know their coffee,” I say.

“Oh yes,” he says, putting down the cup. “Like the English and their tea.”

I shrug. “Actually though the English drink a lot of tea, it's mainly just basic cheap stuff. We're rarely snobby about it.”

“So you don't think she kill him?” Ricardo says.

I laugh. “Nah,” I say. “Maybe he's still alive though. Maybe it's a life insurance fraud and she's going off to meet the husband. Like that Anne Darwin character.” It's the first time I have clearly formulated the thought, but as I say it, I think,
“Yes, that's it. That's exactly what she's doing.”

Ricardo frowns, so I explain the story of Anne Darwin and her husband who “died” in a canoeing accident, only he was really living in the house next door; I tell him about Egypt and Chantal's strange over-reaction.

“If the husband is living next door, or in Egypt, is the sale still legal?” he asks.

I frown. “How do you mean?”

“If she can only sell because he is dead,” Ricardo says. “Then what happens if he is alive?”

I shrug. “I would think once it's sold, it's sold,” I
say.

Ricardo shakes his head. “Not if the person who sells it doesn't own it,” he says. “If the husband comes back, the sale will be
… caduc.”

I shrug again. “Who knows,” I say. “I can't see it myself, but who knows. Anything is possible.”

Ricardo nods. “You are very determined,” he says.

“I think you're very determined to talk me out of it,” I say, smiling thinly.

He pushes out his lips and shakes his head. “Not so,” he says. “I think is a mistake. But, no, you must make your choices. They surprise me. But maybe I am wrong. But, no
…
I would never
…
As long as
you
are sure
…
that it is not mistake.”

I stare out of the window and snort. “Actually, I think you're probably right,” I say. “But it's happening. Amazingly.”

“And with Tom, you are OK still?”

I turn back to him and nod. “Yeah,” I say. “He explained everything. He borrowed money to cover Jenny's missing rent if we need it. He's making an effort.”

Ricardo nods. “I underestimate you,” he says.

“I'm sorry,” I say, looking into his eyes. “If things had been different
…
well
…
you know.”

“If things had been different
…
what?” Ricardo says.

“Well, I would have loved to come with you,” I say. “You're a gorgeous guy, and, well, it would be an amazing adventure.”

“It would be,” he says. “Amazing.”

“But they aren't,” I say. Ricardo furrows his brow, so I expound, “Things – they
aren't
different.”

“Which things?” Ricardo says.

I shrug. “Oh everything really. It would need to be a different life,” I say. “One where you aren't dating my best friend, and
…
”

“But that is over. It was
always
over, from the beginning. Well, from Christmas anyway – when
Jenny told me she was leaving.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But the past doesn't just disappear because something new happens. You'll always be Jenny's boyfriend. Or Jenny's ex. I suppose, maybe if I had met you before we signed for this place
…
but even then
…
” I shrug. “Who knows?”

Ricardo nods. “It's my fault. I was not clear enough,” he says. “I should have left Jenny. Then maybe.”

I shake my head. “That wouldn't have done anyone any good,” I say.

“She loves you very much,” Ricardo says.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I know.”

“But in August she is gone,” he says.

“I know,” I say.

“I don't understand,” Ricardo says. “These reasons
…
they don't
…
”

“The main reason is that I love Tom, Ricardo,” I say. “I'm sorry, but I'm not sure you realise that.”

“Tom,
yes,”
Ricardo says.

“Yes,
Tom,”
I say, a note of annoyance entering my voice.

“Tom who does not believe in
fidelité
or
la vie à deux.”

“That's a bit the pot calling the kettle black,” I point out.

Ricardo frowns, so I try a biblical reference instead. “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” I say.

Ricardo nods. “Yes,” he says. “Of course. I fall in love with you, so I am the same.”

I pause and have to swallow at the use of the ‘L' word. I force a cocky shrug, but my voice still falters as I say, “No one is perfect, Ricardo. That's all I mean.”

“And where is your Tom?” Ricardo asks, glancing around the room. “Where is he today?”

I exhale sharply. “Yes,” I say. “He should be here.”

“I
am here,” Ricardo says.

I shrug. “I know,” I say.

“Like Christmas,” Ricardo says. “I was there.”

I nod. “I know,” I say.

“And when Jenny make your flat wet,” he says.

I nod. “OK Ricardo,” I say. “I get it.”

“Do you?” he says.
“Do you get it?”

I cover my mouth with my hand, and then speaking through my fingers, I say, “Don't
…
it's not fair. You'll have forgotten me by the end of the week.”

Ricardo's nostrils flare. “Don't you
…
” he says. “Don't you tell me what I think. It's not such an easy thing to say to someone, you know?”

I swallow and nod. “I'm sorry,” I say. “The thing is
…
I don't know what to say. I mean, there's only one of me.” It strikes me that I have never been so much in demand.

“And you love Tom?” Ricardo asks, sadly.

“I do,” I say.

“And me, not at all?” he says.

I sigh. “No, I do,” I say. “I'm fighting it. I think you're amazing. Everything about you is
…
well, perfect.”

“You think,” he says.

I nod.

“Say it,” he says. “Tomorrow I am gone, so say it today.”

“Say what?” I ask.

Ricardo turns to the window and sighs heavily.

I frown. “Anyway,” I say. “You never said that to me either.”

“I didn't?”

I shake my head. “Not directly.”

Ricardo stares at me and licks his lips, then swallows. I see his Adam's apple bob. “Probably true,” he says. “These are hard words for me, always.”

I nod. “I understand,” I say.

“I
…
I do though,” he coughs.