Better Than Easy (20 page)

But the place feels dead to me. For some reason, it feels like the past.

We walk past the dark stone hut where Tom and I had impromptu sex, and Ricardo apparently has the same idea; he winks at me and points at the dark interior, but I shake my head and pull him onwards. The memory of that place is too sweet and the future too uncertain for me to want to redefine it with Ricardo.

We sit at the rusty table in front of the gîte and Ricardo unpacks the sandwiches from his backpack.

I stare at him, handsome and manly in bike gear. Some people look like they're in fancy dress, like this clearly isn't quite
them
– but Ricardo looks entirely at ease. He smiles at me – that smile, always so broad, always so easy – and I think about the fact that we're at the top of the hill, that it's all downhill from here.

And I think that he's probably the best looking guy I've ever slept with, and then, trying to be objective, I study his face in the crisp light. Some might look at him and see the gently pitted skin as a fault, no doubt the result of acne in his adolescence, or his barely perceptible cross-eyes. Others might look at him and see the grey hairs emerging at his temples, and imagining old age to come, wonder why he doesn't dye it. But unless I really make an effort, I don't see any of these things. I
just see those eyes; I just see that smile. And I suppose that this partial blindness is a symptom of love, or at least infatuation.

“What are you looking at?” he laughs. “You make me nervous!”

I smile. “Just you. In all your glorious leather.”

“Your!” he laughs. “Except the boots. And they belong to
les pompiers
.”

I nod and glance at the road, snaking and twisting down the hill, back down, bend by bend, to the oh so messy future, and wonder if we're allowed to discuss it yet.

“So?” Ricardo asks, looking around. “What do you think?”

I shrug. “About what?”

He nods at the building. “The gîte,” he says. “You still want?”

“Is that why we're here?”
I wonder.
“To size up possible futures?”
But surely I'm projecting here. The air may feel heavy with the scent of destiny, but if it came to it, Ricardo would never really have anything to offer me – he'd run a mile, I'm sure of it.

I shrug. “What do
you
think of the place?” I say.

Ricardo scans the vista and nods. “Beautiful,” he says. “Incredible. But I would not live here.”

I nod.

“Too isolated,” he says. “Too far from
…
” he laughs. “Too far from
everything.”

I nod again and look around. “Yeah,” I say.

“Unless I was very, very in love,” he says. “Maybe then
…
”

I clear my throat. “Yes,” I agree. “I suppose that's what it comes down to. I suppose that's what it all always comes down to.”

Ricardo rips off a lump of his sandwich and then speaks through breadcrumbs. “And are you? With Tom? In love?”

I shrug. “I don't know,” I say. “Not now. Not anymore.”

Ricardo sighs. “He's been gone for six, seven
days?”

I nod. “Seven.”

Ricardo shrugs. “A week. If you're still not sure,” he says, “then maybe you aren't.”

I nod and sigh. My stomach is starting to feel tight and my appetite for the sandwich is fading. “I thought the rules were to not talk about that.”

Ricardo nods. “You're right,” he says. “Eat.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Later maybe.”

I watch him chew and think about the reply to his question. But it's so complicated; my thoughts are such a messy swirl, it's an impossible equation. For clearly, I
do
love Tom. The simple thought of him sends a pang of angsty-guilt through my intestines. But the things I would miss about him: his presence, his humour, sex
…
well, Ricardo has been filling the gap, so to speak. And I haven't missed them at all.

I love Tom, of course I do. But I'm not sure that I
believe
in him. I'm not sure I have ever really convinced myself that our relationship was solid enough to last, that Tom, himself, is solid enough to ever build a future with.

And now, here I am, on the verge of falling
in love
, that stupid, hysterical, illogical state of being. And that's a totally different emotion, originating, it seems to me, in an entirely different part of the brain, outside of logic or reason or even reality. But it's so powerful that, drug-like, it's starting to smother every other emotion, every other circuit of reason. “Maybe not enough,” I say, finally.

Ricardo nods. “Like Jenny for me,” he says.

I nod. “Christ, Ricardo,” I say. “What the hell happens now?”

Ricardo raises an eyebrow and sighs again. “I know,” he says. “Difficult.”

“Tonight, Ricardo. Jenny comes home,
tonight.”
I glance at my watch. “In
five
hours.”

Ricardo nods. “What do you think we should do?” he asks, as if we're discussing a holiday route-map.

I shake my head. “I have no idea,” I say.

“You want to stop?” He flattens his hand and makes a chopping gesture. “Like
…
it was a dream? A bip on a radar like you said?”

I shrug. “No,” I say. “That's not what I
want
. But
…
” I shake my head and stare out at the peaks opposite, and notice for the first time that there is still snow there, the remains from my last visit slowly fading away.

A stupid, stupid song slips in to my head:
Torn between two lovers.
It's so idiotic – I'm ashamed at the workings of my own brain.

“Jenny is
…
important to me,” I say. “And Tom. I don't want to hurt Tom. And anyway I don't know if
…
it's too soon, I don't know if it's real, what's real
…
and
…
I don't know, really I don't.”

Ricardo nods. “OK,” he says, slapping a leathered thigh. “I think of this idea when you say about Tom. About not knowing.”

I nod. “Go on,” I say.

“So, you and I, we stop. Today. When we get home. Maybe one last
…
” he winks at me. “But then we stop. Jenny arrives tonight. Tom arrives?” he shrugs.

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“OK. So we say nothing. We pretend it never happened. And in a while – in, say, ten days – I think we will know better how we feel. We will feel OK or we won't. And then we talk again.”

I swallow hard and then exhale with force. “OK,” I say, steeling myself. “I suppose that's a plan.” The truth is that my own mind is so empty of solutions I'm happy to grasp at any rope anyone cares to throw me. “Shall we go?” I say, suddenly keen to move, now we have a plan, onto the next phase.

“You are OK with this?” Ricardo says.

I nod. “It's infinitely logical,” I say.

“And your sandwich?” he asks, pushing the tin-foil package towards me.

I wrinkle my nose. “Later,” I say. “When I get home. This place is giving me the creeps.”

Ricardo nods, pops my sandwich and his wrapper back in the backpack and stands. “I understand,” he says.

“Plus,” I say. “I need to get home and get my head straight before Jenny arrives.”

Ricardo puts an arm around my shoulder and tries to pull me to his side, but I blunder away as if I haven't noticed. I'm already onto the next thing.

Of course, close bodily contact is required for the descent. Ricardo asks if he can drive, and in my strange Armageddon mood, I agree, so I end up wrapping
my
arms around
him
for the entire ride home.

Despite all the stresses and fears of the situation, I find hanging onto him hopelessly sexy, and it's as much as I can do to muffle the stupid wheedling, childish voice pleading from somewhere just behind my left ear. Like Andy from
Little Britain
, it says, “I want that one.”

It is so soon after Ricardo leaves that I open the door to Jenny's travel-weary face that I wonder if they haven't crossed paths on the stairs.

“Hi darling,” she says, kissing me on the cheek, and then rattling on, “I don't suppose you've seen Ricky? Only he said he'd drop by, and he's not here and his phone's not answering and I was wondering if maybe I'd missed him.”

“No,” I say numbly, the taste of him still in my mouth. “I'm sure he'll call.”

“OK, well, let us get settled and then come have a drink eh?” she says.

“Wouldn't you rather be alone? I mean with Ricardo?”

Jenny screws up her face as if I'm mad. “No, I want to hear all your gossip,” she says. “And anyway, as I said, I can't get through to him.”

I think that I need to phone Ricardo and warn him of my presence at Jenny's, then think that if his phone's switched off that I won't be able to. “Why don't you come down to mine,” I say. “If he doesn't find you upstairs he'll soon guess.”

But Jenny interrupts me. “No,” she says forcefully. “Sarah's completely knackered, so it's best if we do it at mine. See you about
…
” she pauses and glances at her watch, “let's say nine thirty. OK?”

I nod. “Nine thirty,” I repeat.

Jenny turns to leave and then looks back at me. “You look really well,” she says. “I haven't seen you look so healthy in ages.”

I blush, half at the compliment and half at the realisation that my post-coital glow isn't purely mental. “Must be all the rest,” I say.

“From work, or from Tom?” Jenny asks, a sneaky
tone in her voice.

“Work of course,” I say.

“Humm,” Jenny says thoughtfully. “If you were a woman I'd think you were pregnant. You have that kind of homely glow about you.”

I pull a face. “Thank God that's not a possibility,” I say.

She winks at me and nods. “Indeed,” she says. “A job for life
…
talking of which. Madam is waiting.” And with that, she turns and trudges back upstairs.

By nine-thirty, my pregnant glow has, as far as I can see, entirely faded. I actually think I look a bit pale. I run an open hand across my chin, blow out sharply through pursed lips as if preparing for round two, and head upstairs.

I haven't been able to speak to Ricardo, and the idea of bumping into him at Jenny's
really
doesn't appeal.

But Jenny puts me at ease immediately. “Ricardo can't make it,” she says. “There's a mini flu epidemic and apparently they've put him on call.”

“A flu epidemic,” I say. “That's probably the explanation for that pregnant glow you noticed.”

Jenny puts a hand to my forehead. “Maybe – you don't feel feverish though.”

I close the door behind me and watch her return to the lounge and slump back into her chair.

“Mummy?” Sarah calls from the bedroom.

Jenny rolls her eyes. “Go to sleep,” she says severely.

I take a detour via the bedroom, and crouch down next to Sarah. She's tucked up in her mother's bed. Beside her a new clock radio is cycling through the colours of the rainbow. “Hello you,” I say in my smoothest voice. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

Sarah nods at me seriously.

“This is nice,” I say, running my hand over the dome of the clock-radio-rainbow-lamp.

“It's mine,” Sarah says. “Granny gave it to me for Christmas.”

I stroke her hair, but she frowns at me and pulls her head away.

“Well you're very lucky,” I say standing.

“Thank you,” she says. “I'd like to go to sleep now.”

I restrain a frown and force a smile. “OK then, night night.” I leave the door ajar, and head back to Jenny who is slouched in an armchair with a glass of wine. “Well, that certainly did the trick,” I say.

“Uh?” she says.

“The second I tried to talk to her she suddenly wanted to go to sleep.”

Jenny wrinkles her nose. “Don't take it personally,” she says. “They're just testing boundaries at that age. Trying to see what works and what doesn't. It's not personal, or even meant. She's been doing it with me all day too. Grab yourself a glass from the kitchen will you? I swear I'm paralysed from the scalp down tonight.”

I grab a glass, fill it from the wine bottle, which is almost empty, and take a seat opposite her on the sofa. “So,” I say. “You seem to be downing that bottle pretty quickly.”

Jenny grins and nods. “It's an antidote,” she says. “We were up at five and I've been drinking coffee all day – I thought alcohol might have, sort of the opposite effect. Plus my mother's been driving me insane; she's gone microbiotic. Did I tell you that?”

“Macrobiotic?”

“Yeah, that's the one. So everything I wanted to eat or drink the entire time came with a bloody twenty minute health warning.”

I grimace at her. “Ouch,” I say. “Happy Christmas.”

“Indeed,” Jenny says, raising her glass. “A toast to being an adult,” she says.

I raise my glass.

“To being an adult, and having the freedom to do whatever the fuck you want, no matter what anyone thinks,” Jenny says.

I lick my lips, force a big wide grin and clink my glass against hers. “To freedom,” I say.

Jenny tells me at length about Christmas in England. She tells me how bowled over Sarah was by a visit to Father Christmas in Debenhams, and she makes me laugh with a blow by blow account of the negotiations with her mother over the Christmas menu which took longer than shopping for and cooking the meal combined. “That's why I dictated your menu over the phone to Rick,” she says. “You got to eat everything I couldn't. Or you were supposed to.”

“Are you responsible for the turkey then?” I say. “Because you really should know by now that I don't
…
”