Better Than Easy (14 page)

I laugh. “OK,” I say. “Sure it is. Sometimes. I take your point.”

“I don't have,” he says soberly shrugging. “I don't have a point. Except maybe that this is who we are. This is Ricardo.”

I nod and reflect on this. “Whachagonnado?” I say.

Ricardo nods. “The mayonnaise is good,” he laughs. “Maybe too fattening, not necessary, but it's OK.”

I grin. “This is Mark!” I say, pinching an inch. “Wachagonnado? Don't you feel like you're lying though? I mean, when you're with Jenny – if you prefer sex with a guy, isn't it – a cliché I know – but isn't it sort of living a lie?”

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

“But I don't lie about my sexuality to anyone,” I say.

Ricardo nods. “But again, you don't tell
everyone everything
either. Everyone does not need to know
every thing,” he says.

“I don't think I would feel like me,” I say. “If I had to pretend.”

“Validation
…
” He sighs and slips into French. “La validation ne vient pas de l'extérieur.” –
“Validation doesn't come from outside.”

“I
know who Ricardo is,” he says. “That's what matters.”

“But you do
prefer
sex with a man,” I say.

Ricardo shrugs. “I prefer chocolate to bread,” he says.

“Chocolate?”

“Yes. I love chocolate. But I can't eat
only
chocolate. You can't live on chocolate.”

I shrug. “I think I could!” I laugh.

Ricardo stays for another hour. He helps me tidy the bedroom and manoeuvre the mattress back onto the bed. He points out that it will dry better if the air can get to both sides. It's a good job Tom isn't here to claim that particular victory.

He actually offers to put me up at his place until it dries, but as he describes it as a studio, this seems fraught with danger. I'm tempted, obviously I am. Were I single I'd jump at the chance just to find out what's really on offer. Were he not Jenny's guy I might even jump him none the less – he's one of the cutest, most exotic guys I have ever met. But I'm not single, nor is he, and the situation – his bisexuality or his Rickexuality or whatever he chooses to call it; the fact that he's dating my best friend, that he knows Tom – well, it's all too much, so I heroically resist, or at least that's what I tell myself. It's probably half of the truth. The other half is that I'm too tired after my disastrous day to move a single muscle, and that's probably a very good thing for everyone concerned.

So once Ricardo has kissed me on both cheeks – his stubble prickling enticingly – I close the door, grab a blanket and settle on the sofa with Paloma. As
I doze off to sleep I wonder if I can muster up and maybe even continue yesterday's oh-so-enjoyable dream.

The second I fall asleep, I'm re-awakened by a phone call from Tom and then another from Jenny. I sort-of-lie to both of them by not mentioning Ricardo's visit. As I doze back to sleep, I fret that Ricardo may tell Jenny, but I feel quite sure that he won't, a fact that somehow seems even more disturbing.

*

The next morning when I awaken, I feel, despite it all, thoroughly refreshed, verging on manic even. I realise that the sofa is in fact much more comfortable than the bed and wonder if the water leak and pending insurance claim aren't the perfect opportunity to buy a new one.

The rain outside has stopped and the sun is making a half-hearted attempt at reaching planet Earth, so I get dressed hurriedly and head through the old town for breakfast at La Civette.

Breakfast out is a luxury I rarely allow myself. In the strange world of perceived value there are things I can buy without even looking at the price tag (gadgets, iPods, telephones, computers
…
) and things that for some reason irk me beyond belief. Paying four Euros for a seventy-cent croissant to be served on a plate is one of them. But today, after two weeks of rain, eight Euros for coffee and croissant in the sun seems like a bargain. Dark clouds are still lurking to the east and west, so whichever way the weather moves it won't last long, but for now, at least, the sun is beating down, and I close my eyes and bask in the warmth.

I glance around the terrace as it fills rapidly in the sunshine. I try to convince myself that I'm just
looking around, but in truth I'm hoping to spot Ricardo, and the fact of this desire to see him again makes me feel a little disappointed in myself. As my coffee arrives, I realise that I still don't know what he actually wanted to talk to me about, unless it
was
about his bisexuality, but then why would he feel the need to tell
me?
Unless my vague suspicion – or is it my hope? – that he has been cruising me from the start, is correct.

I look around the terrace again and think back to the old days, to the dating game. I met quite a few people in this bar, either by chance or prearranged over the net. They were nearly always catastrophic disappointments, the potential Mister Right turning out to be either fifty percent bigger or smaller or madder than expected; I'm glad to be out of it, and yet, in a way I miss it too. The thrill of the hunt, the excitement of first – even if usually illusory – love.

I chew croissant and sip coffee and think about Tom in Brighton and wonder what he's doing, and inevitably question if he's being faithful. Every synapse seems to conclude that he isn't, that he's probably with tool4you or whatever his name is, already getting his
holes filled
, and I wonder why it matters to me so much.

I'm hardly the first person in the world to think that fidelity is important – that's why we have a word for it. And so I end up pondering why it
is
so important to so many people. Isn't it just a case of the ego asking, demanding, that the
wonderful person that I am
suffice? That my marvellous self should be sufficient for
all
Tom's needs? For life? That would surely be absurdly arrogant of me? And then I wonder whose potential infidelity I'm trying to excuse.

The thought makes me uncomfortable, so as the market traders start to pack up their fruit and veg stalls I turn my thoughts back to Tom. I think about phoning him not so much to check up on him but
…
OK, to
check up on him
. I could log into his second email account, the one he thinks I don't know about. I could surf Recon to see if he's online, maybe even create a tempting profile to trap him. But in the end it strikes me that that road can only lead to deception if I'm right, or the madness of an endless hunt for proof if I'm not. It seems wiser and easier just to choose to believe, to choose to be naive. It's perhaps revealing that the two words rhyme.

A
very
Cote d'Azur woman in
vast
Christian Dior sunglasses and gold high heels installs herself at the table in front of mine, and begins a strident conversation on her iPhone. It's one of those completely pointless,
“Hi, I'm just calling to let you know that I'm calling you,”
conversations, devoid of any useful information for the called party. She might as well be saying,
“Hi, I'm just calling to let you (and everyone around me) know that I'm one of those complete losers who still thinks having a mobile phone is groovy and hip.”
I watch the chrome edge catching the light as she waves it about and think about the gîte, about how our life will be up in the mountains far away from all of this.

Tom of course doesn't believe that it will happen. So what will happen to me if he's right? Will I look for another gîte? Will I move back to Brighton to be with him? Or maybe I'll just sell up, pack up and move onto somewhere new, leaving the gîte and Nice and Tom behind.

It's surprisingly appealing, which makes me worry, not for the first time, about this self destructive streak in me, always tempted to blow everything to smithereens, always tempted by a fresh start – something new, something better, something different.

*

Back in the flat, the light already fading as the bad
weather moves back in, I check my email hoping for reassuring words from Tom, but of course there are none. Feeling only vaguely guilty despite my decision
not
to do so, I check Tom's secret email account to see if he's writing to anyone else, but it only contains a reply to the message he posted in the hill-walking forum. I click on the link and watch the hill-walking pages appear, first Tom's request asking if Jean is still running hill-walking weekends from his gîte, and then below it, an anonymous reply from someone called
ChampiRando.

“Jean has moved away,” ChampiRando writes. “And he hasn't visited the forum for over a year. But I hear the gîte has been sold, so maybe the new owners will be running walking tours as well - watch this space.”

I log out from Tom's account, sigh and close the laptop. And then I frown and open it again and study the messages. How could
ChampiRando
know that we are buying the gîte? Unless
ChampiRando
is Chantal. But why would Chantal say he has
moved
away? I suppose that the truth isn't something she'd want to start discussing on a public forum. But then again, if it
is
Chantal, why not say,
“We're
selling up –
I'm
selling up.”

I scratch the bridge of my nose and look at the message again. The message may be anonymous, but the IP address is showing: 213.186.33.5. It probably just belongs to Chantal's Internet provider, but all the same, I google an IP tracking site and type in the numbers – a trick I learnt in my last job. The trace says that the number belongs to Egyptian Internet provider EGnet. I type the same numbers into a web-browser, fully expecting the operation to fail, but very slowly a web page appears:
Egyptour – Your local guide to the treasures of Egypt.

Now why, I wonder, would an Egyptian tour operator be reading French hill-walking forums, and how could they know anything about the sale of the
gîte? I'm just picking up the phone to call Tom to discuss it when, luckily, I'm interrupted by a knock on the door. It's only once I'm standing next to the insurance assessor, watching him peer at my stained ceiling and grimace as he lays a hand on the damp mattress, that I remember I
can't
talk to Tom about it. I'm not supposed to have been fishing in his email in the first place.

It turns out that Jenny's insurer can send someone to repaint my ceiling, or I can do it myself. If I do, they will pay me three hundred Euros, and because a pot of paint is less than forty, and I'm time-rich and potentially soon to be money-poor, Monday lunchtime when the phone rings I'm at the top of a ladder splattering paint everywhere. I groan at the interruption and clamber down and lay the roller in the paint tray. I wipe my hands on my old jeans and grab the handset.

“Oh, hi Tom,” I say. “I'm kind of busy painting the ceiling.” It's not that I don't want to talk to him, it's just truly not a good time.

“Is everything OK?” Tom asks.

“Sure,” I tell him. “I'm just up to my nipples in white paint.”

“Humm,” Tom says, causing me to frown.

“Is everything OK with
you?”
I ask.

“I suppose,” he says.

I crease my brow and scrunch my nose at the handset. Whatever this is, I had better call him later to sort it out. “OK then, well, I'll call you as soon as I've finished the first coat,” I say.

“I'll be out by then,” he says gloomily.

“OK, then we'll talk this evening.”

“OK,” he says. “If I'm in.”

I let out a huge sigh and resign myself to scraping dried paint off the floor and maybe even buying a new roller. “OK Tom, what's up?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, somehow managing to make the denial sound aggressive.

I say nothing, knowing that it's the best way to prompt him to continue.

“Last time I called you were just going out,” he
says.

I nod. “Yeah?” I say, puzzled.

“And the time before you were just going to sleep.”

I roll my eyes. “OK,” I say. “Well, it's just coincidence. These things happen. Everything's fine Tom. It's just I'm
…
I was worried about the paint drying on the roller, but
…
”

“Just go then,” Tom says.

“But,”
I continue forcefully, “I've decided it doesn't matter, so here I am. What do you want to talk about?”

“Nothing really,” Tom says. “You just seem distant lately.”

“Lately?” I say.

“Yeah, since I came home.”

I frown at the use of the word
home
, but decide not to take issue with it right now. “Well, since you went
home
, I
am
distant Tom,” I say. “I'm about a thousand miles distant. But you chose that, not me, babe.” The babe is an afterthought, an attempt at avoiding all-out conflict. “It's nothing we can't handle though, is it?” I add.

Tom clears his throat. “I'm not sure,” he says.

“What do you mean, ‘You're
not sure?'”

“It's just, well, if we go on this way, it could be the end of us,” he says.

I pull a grimace at the sudden dramatic twist. “What are you on about? Carry on like
what?”

“I feel like I'm single,” he says. “I don't feel like I'm in a couple. You're just not there. Only I don't feel able to do the things I used to do when I was single either. It's weird. I'm bored.”

I rub the bridge of my nose. “It's not weird Tom,” I say. “You're
not
free to do the things you used to do when you were single because you
aren't single
.”

“Yeah,” he says vaguely. “Only every time I even try to talk to you you're too busy even to do that.”