Better Than Easy (13 page)

After a few minutes of self-indulgent misery I make myself snap out of my doldrums to mop the floor in the bedroom. I then head upstairs to Jenny's to try again to find the leak. I check out beneath the sinks; I follow pipes along walls into cupboards, but other than a vague damp patch beside the bath I can find no clues. I'm just standing, hands on hips, noting the strange vacant air the flat has taken on now that Jenny has gone, when her phone rings. Thinking it might be the plumber or Jenny herself I pick up. But it's Ricardo's voice that greets me, and though I'm intrigued by the whole Ricardo story, truth is, right now, here today, my life seems complicated enough.

“Jenny's not here, Ricardo,” I tell him. “She's already left.”

“I know,” he says. “She phoned from the airport. I think, thought, you might need help with the water.”

I wrinkle my nose. Quite what a water-leak in
Jenny's
place, leaking into
my
place has to do with Ricardo escapes me. Unless he and Jenny truly are an item these days, as it now dawns on me that they must be. It's the first time the idea has crossed my mind. “It's fine, thanks,” I tell him. “I'm waiting for the plumber, that's all.”

“I thought I could
…
” he starts, but hearing a noise from the stairwell, I interrupt him.

“Sorry, but I think he's here,” I say. “It's the plumber. I have to go.”

The plumber, who I find lumbering up the stairs with his heavy toolbox and heavier body – he's massive in breadth and height – is a grumpy brute of a man. He's wearing stained overalls and has body-hair
sprouting from his collar, his cuffs and his nostrils. Initially I greet him jovially, but realising that he is a plumber of the glum school – all grimaces and air sucked through clenched teeth – I quickly give up and sink into a chair with an old newspaper. He prowls and growls, on all fours for the most part, around the flat. Thoughts of dog training make me want to giggle.

He may be grumpy, and he's certainly no looker, but he has a sixth sense when it comes to water leaks, and that, after all, is all anyone can really hope of a plumber. Muttering, “They really should have put in an inspection hatch,” he smashes the tiles from the side of Jenny's bath with a sledgehammer. It makes me pretty nervous, but sure enough, crouched beside me in the rubble, he points out the sheered pipe.

He saws and files and solders for another hour, and then stands up and declares his work finished. I enter the bathroom and take in the desolation of rubble and smashed tiles.

Before I can comment, he says, “I don't do tiling, so you'll have to get someone else in for that, but at least your ceiling won't come down,” and hands me a bill. It's an amazingly reasonable bill, so I let it go and write the check.

By the time I have cleaned up Jenny's rubble (the place still looks terrible), and returned downstairs, I am feeling exhausted and fed up. My own flat, filled with buckets and saucepans and mops and the propped up mattress, and without Tom, feels lonely and almost as desolate as Jenny's. I sigh deeply. I'm over-hungry but I can't be bothered to cook, so I vaguely consider going out for a pizza, but I hate eating alone in restaurants, so I sigh again. This time the sigh is interrupted by a knock on the door. I stand, still lost in my drama of weariness, and open the door to Ricardo's smiling face. He's holding two pizza boxes.

“I think you are maybe too busy to cook, so
…
”
he says grinning broadly and jiggling the boxes from side to side.

The perfect timing plus the fact that I now remember Ricardo was in my dirty dream leaves me momentarily speechless. And then I think of a feminist joke from the eighties, and start to grin myself. “Q: What's the ideal man? A: One that shags you senseless and then morphs into a pizza.”

Ricardo smiles and frowns simultaneously. “Why you laugh?” he asks.

I shake my head and stand aside. “No reason, please, come in.”

He places the pizza boxes on the coffee table and shoots me a quizzical glance. “It's OK?” he asks. “Maybe you are busy?”

I shake my head and smile in reassurance. “To be honest,” I tell him, “it's perfect. I'm starving, too tired to cook, too lazy to go out. I don't really want to be on my own and I was just thinking how nice a pizza would be.”

Ricardo laughs. “All this!” he says. “Good timing then.” He undoes his tie, rolls it and puts it in his pocket, then hangs his jacket over the back of a chair. “Jenny phoned me,” he says. “She felt so guilty leaving you like that, so I thought I would come and
…
”

“Ah! So you're here as Jenny's surrogate.” Ricardo frowns at this, so I continue, “On her behalf. Never mind. Anyway, I'll get some knives and the mayo.”

Ricardo frowns. “Mayonnaise? With pizza?”

I nod and grin sheepishly. “It's magical – you'll see.”

The pizzas are oversized, over cheesy and generally orgasmic. As I fill my mouth with the first hot slice, Ricardo, who is rolling his shirtsleeves – revealing a glimpse of his tanned furry arms – says, “So you stop the water? It's OK now?”

I nod and fan my mouth to help the steam escape. “Yeah, the plumber came, he fixed it. He left a hell of a mess though.”

Ricardo nods. “Maybe I can help you?” he says.

I shake my head. “Should be able to get Jenny's
insurance to pay for it all, so
…
”

Ricardo nods. “Well, if you do – I'm very good at
… bricolage.”

“DIY,” I say. “For
Do It Yourself.”

“DIY,” he repeats, grinning and reaching for pizza. “I like.”

“A man of many talents,” I say, wondering as I say it, if I am now lapsing into cheesy flirtation. I decide I need to get a grip on myself.

Ricardo nods and grins innocently. “Many!” he laughs.

“So are you really a doctor?” I ask.

He frowns at me. “Of course!” he says.

“So are you really a
pompier?”
I ask, in exactly the same voice.

Ricardo frowns and grins. “Of course!” he says. “A part-time
pompier
. Just one weekend a month at the moment.”

I laugh. “OK,” I say. “I thought there was something fishy going on.”

“Fishy?” Ricardo repeats.

I nod. “Strange. Never mind.”

“It's for my French – how you say? –
dossier
. I think it helps for my French nationality request that I work as a
pompier
. I hope.”

I frown and cock my head to one side. “But you
are
French, no?”

“Not yet,” he replies, pouting and shaking his head.

“But you said
…
”

“Yes, I tell everyone this. I have waited five years now. If you say just Colombian to the French, they think Third World, or cocaine, or both – but nothing else. They think of you as
étranger
– a stranger?”

“A foreigner,” I say. “It's the same with the English. You say you're English and they either start going on about how we burned Joan of Arc, or the fact that we're not in the Euro. They never seem to mention the Second World War for some reason.”

Ricardo nods. “Yes. And they like their doctors to be not foreign. So I
say
I already have double nationality.”

I nod. “Fair enough,” I say. “I don't think anyone in Britain would care if you weren't French – I mean, English. Plenty of the doctors are from elsewhere.”

Ricardo nods. “No. Probably not.”

“And you think being a
pompier
will help?”

Ricardo raises an eyebrow. “Maybe. I hope,” he says. “Everyone in France loves the
pompier
. How do you say in English?”

I shrug. “It's difficult,” I explain. “We have fireman for fires, and then ambulances with medics. We don't really have the combined paramedic thing. I suppose that's it – a paramedic.”

He nods. “OK,” he says. “Paramedic. Though I like
fire-man
better. Anyway, everyone in France loves the fire-man.”

I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “Tell me about it.”

Ricardo laughs. “You too?”

I nod. “Fit guys, great uniform, saving children from burning buildings, giving the kiss of life
…
What's not to like?”

Ricardo nods and stuffs pizza into his mouth.

“So why didn't you tell Jenny we met?” I ask. “Why pretend like that?”

He shrugs and finishes his mouthful before replying. “I don't know,” he says. “I ask myself the same question.”

I twist my mouth sideways, showing I'm unconvinced.

“I think because I didn't mention it before,” he says. “We met two times and I never told her. So
…
”

I nod. “OK,” I say. “But
why
didn't you tell her?”

Ricardo shrugs. “I don't know,” he says. “Really. And you? You tell Tom?”

“Yeah
…
no
…
sort of,” I say. As I stumblingly reply, it strikes me that if Ricardo is worrying about telling/not telling his partner that he met me, it must
mean something – and it probably means the same thing it meant when I didn't, then guiltily
did
tell Tom. Otherwise, why would he care? “I mentioned it in passing,” I say.

Ricardo nods and, it seems to me, looks disappointed. “OK,” he says.

We eat in silence for a moment, and then he knocks the wind right out of me by saying, “Jenny tell me you were lovers.”

I almost cough my pizza out. “We
dated,”
I correct, when I can speak. “A long time ago. It
didn't
work.”

“Why not?” Ricardo asks.

I think of a line from
Torchsong Trilogy
and produce an approximation: “Well, she needed a big strong man. And I needed
…
a big strong man,” I say.

Ricardo laughs. “OK,” he says.

“It was my last attempt with a woman,” I say. “Before I realised.”

Ricardo nods again. “And now you are married with Tom.”

I laugh. “Yeah, well, not married. We're together.”

Ricardo smiles. “So no more Jenny.”

I frown. “No! You don't think
…
Surely you're not worried that
…
”

Ricardo laughs. “No! I mean, no more girls!”

“Oh!” I grin. “Ah! No. I, erm, prefer guys.”

Ricardo nods and looks serious for a moment.

“Does that shock you? Is it difficult for you?” I ask.

He pushes out his lips and shakes his head. And then he shocks me even more. “Not at all!” he says. “I have also
…
with men.”

I pause chewing for a moment. Did he
really
just say that?

“Maybe that shock
you,”
he says.

I swallow. “A bit,” I say. “I mean, not
…
just, well, because it's
you …
because you're dating Jenny. Does she
know?”

Ricardo shakes his head. “That I have been with men? No.”

I nod. “I see,” I say.

“I don't tell her about my other girlfriends either.”

I frown. This is getting worse and worse. “You have
other
girlfriends?”

Ricardo laughs and waves a hand over his shoulder. “Before, I mean!”

I blow through my lips. “Oof! OK,” I say. “So why didn't you tell her?”

Ricardo shrugs. “What would be the reason? So that she would worry about
…
” he waves a hand at the space between us, “this, now?”

I nod. “But it's kind of lying by omission.”

“Noo!” Ricardo says dismissively. “Not lying. You tell everyone
everything
about yourself?”

I shrug. “I guess not,” I say. “Well, pretty much maybe. So you're what? Bisexual?”

Ricardo shrugs. “I don't know. I don't worry. I'm me. I'm Ricardo.”

“OK,” I say. “But what do you say if someone asks you?”

He shrugs again. “They don't.” He points at the final slice of pizza. “Can I?”

I nod. “It's yours. Go ahead.”

“I always knew I was not, you know, one hundred percent straight. But I do feel attracted to women too. Just not all.”

“I'm not attracted to
all
men,” I say.

“No,” Ricardo says. “And never women?”

I shake my head. “Not really,” I say. “So do you have a preference, or is it just
…
”

“It's a complex thing,” he says. “I prefer a good looking man to an ugly woman, or a good looking man to
…
I mean, a good looking woman
…
you know what I mean.”

I nod. “Sure,” I say. “But if they're the same –
equally
good looking. What then? You must have an overall preference, surely?”

Ricardo shrugs. “It never happen, so
…
I suppose I like the sex with men better. It's more direct. But I prefer relationship with woman.”

I wince at his
deballage
, suddenly wondering just how much of this I want to know. Jenny after all,
is
my oldest friend. “Plus,” Ricardo says, definitely pushing through the limits of what I want to hear, “a woman can't fuck you, not ever.”

I clench my teeth at this truth, causing Ricardo to pull a face. “Sorry,” he says. “I tell you too much. The problem with doctors. Doctors and nurses. It's all
banale
for us.”

I wobble my head from side to side, Indian style, to indicate,
kind of
. “It all just sounds a bit messy really,” I say.

“Messy?”

“Bordelique,”
I translate. “It sounds complicated.”

Ricardo shrugs. “Not always. Sometimes. But life often
is
complicate.
Your
life is never
bordelique?”