Better Than Easy (21 page)

“No,” Jenny interrupts. “Of course not. The turkey was for Ricky, only I don't think he understood me properly. Did you really eat Pot Noodle?”

I nod. “We did,” I say. “Two each. Washed down with lashings of alcohol.”

“What's he like drunk?” Jenny asks. “I've never seen him drunk. Never really wanted to – not after Nick.”

I shrug and push a mental image of exactly what he was like from my mind. “Normal,” I say.

“Normal,” Jenny says, frowning at me. “Normal nice, or normal drunken bastard?”

“Nice,” I say. “You know, a bit louder, a bit funnier. Nice.”

“Nice,” Jenny repeats.

I laugh and pull a face. “Nice,” I say.

Jenny contorts her face into a strange expression. I'm not quite sure what it means. “That bad, eh?” she finally says.

I frown at her and shake my head slightly.

“Oh come on Mark,” she says. “I know you like I made you. You don't really like him do you? Only you're too scared to say.”

I push my lips out and wrinkle my brow. “Not at all,” I say. “I don't know why
…
”

“Because you're being all weird,” she says. “You're purposely not telling me anything. You think he's weird or awful or something.”

I shake my head.

“Or too nice. You think there's something wrong with
…
”

“Hey,” I laugh. “Methinks ye
projects
too much,” I say.

Jenny laughs. “Maybe,” she says. “But you did spend the whole night with him. That would usually leave you with more adjectives than
nice.”

The only strategy I can think of is half-truth. “Look,” I say. “I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea Jenny. I think he's
really
nice.”

“But,” she says.

I shrug. “No buts. Except maybe that I'm a bit jealous.”

Jenny's face contorts into childlike glee – a mixture of amusement and pride. “Really!” she says. “You fancy him?”

I shrug and blush. “He's
very
pretty,” I say.

Jenny's cheeks rise into big pink domes of happiness. “Huh!” she says. “That's a first.”

I shrug coyly. “I wouldn't say that,” I say. “Nick was pretty sexy too. In a Neanderthal kind of way.”

Jenny nods at me circumspectly. “Was he?” she says. “I suppose. And Ricky is cute in what way exactly?”

“Oh, he's got this whole healer–of–the–sick thing going hasn't he.”

Jenny nods. “I suppose he has,” she says.

“Plus the
pompier
aspect of course!”

“Yes,” Jenny says. “I thought you'd like that. So
you think basically that he's mister perfect?”

I nod. “He's very nice, really,” I say. “Other than that, well, you know him better than I do.”

Jenny nods. “I was hoping to see him tonight,” she says. “I could do with a shag. A home-coming post-Christmas shag.”

“A home-
coming
says it all really,” I say with a laugh, which sounds, to me at least, entirely genuine.

“And Tom?” Jenny asks. “What's happening with you two?”

“I think he's probably had lots of home-
comings,”
I say, happy to shift the focus of the conversation to Tom.

Jenny looks confused. “What do you mean?” she asks.

And so, to throw up a smokescreen – to escape having to discuss her relationship with Ricardo whilst avoiding admitting the sordid truth, I tell her of my suspicions that
Tom
isn't being entirely faithful over in the UK. The evidence of course, his use of Recon, his failure to mention where he spent Christmas Eve, is vague to say the least, but as I say it, it sounds true enough.

When I have finished Jenny frowns. “Well, you've not a lot to go on,” she says. “But I have to say it, even though I
hate
to say it: you're not usually wrong about these things.”

I shrug lopsidedly. I think, “That's probably because I'm the expert.”

“Would you dump him? I mean, if you found out it was true?” she asks.

I shrug again. “It depends on circumstances I suppose.”

Jenny nods thoughtfully. “So what about you?” she asks.

“Me?” I say, trying to stifle the panic in my voice.

“Yeah, are you shagging someone else?”

I shake my head. “W… Why would
…
?”

“Someone called
…
maybe
…
” she says teasing
me.

I'm struggling to retain my composure here.

“I don't know
…
erm
… Tony
maybe?”

“Tony?” I say.

“Yes, Tony.”

“Who the fuck is Tony?”

“Your friend!” Jenny says. “The one you've spent all week with.”

“Oh!” I say.
“Tony!”

I take a deep breath and recover my wits. “I forgot, you haven't actually met Tony, have you,” I say.

Jenny laughs. “Oh,” she says. “Not a looker then?”

I shake my head. “He's sweet. But, no. Definitely not. Anyway,” I add, embroidering as I go along. “He's already got a partner.
And
a lover. I think his life's quite complicated enough. He's shagging his best friend's partner. That's what all the angst is about. Should he stay or should he go?”

Jenny nods. “That's twisted. It happened to a girlfriend of mine in England. Her best friend was shagging her husband. She lost them both in one go. And they were really close too. Awful business.”

At midnight when I get back, I close the shutters and sit in the darkened flat. Lit only by the bars of orange light from the streetlamps outside, the place looks strange and alien, yet at the same time, the difference is refreshing. It feels for some reason like it's been ages since I really
saw
the place and the unusual darkness enables me to do that. It's my flat, and I love it. And of course if the gîte works out I will have to leave it. I have barely thought about that.

The street outside is silent, and with the exception of Paloma purring – she has jumped on my lap immediately – and the humming of the fridge, the world is silent. It feels almost as if everyone on the planet, with the exception of myself, is asleep.

I'm feeling a little sick, so I sit and wait for it to pass. Initially I think the cause is Jenny's cheap wine, but slowly it dawns on me that the cause is more psychological. What I'm feeling is guilt. The sickening stomach churn of a guy who has spent the evening lying to his oldest friend. I think about this, and then about the fact that pretty soon I will no doubt be actively lying to Tom as well, even if only to make sure that the stories I have told Jenny tie up. I think about the twenty years I have known her, about all the things we have been through together from failed attempts at sex to shared traffic accidents. I remember suddenly that I am Sarah's godfather and imagine Jenny explaining to her why they suddenly stopped seeing uncle Mark all those years ago.

I notice a strange taste in my mouth, and then an unusual quantity of saliva, and finally a burst of acid reflux forces me to stand and run through to the bathroom. I kneel and wait, but nothing comes; so after a few minutes I return to the lounge. I wish I
had someone to talk to about it all. A sort of gay tribal chief who would dispel wise advice. It's the kind of thing I would usually discuss with Tom or Jenny, and this makes me realise anew how truly fucked-up the whole situation is. And then I think of Isabelle, once a close friend, now living in Canada. Three a.m. in France makes, I calculate, ten p.m. in Canada. A little shocked at how quickly we forget people once they're out of sight and living in a different time zone – I reach for the phone.

A man's voice answers, presumably her Dutch boyfriend. While I wait for him to fetch Isabelle, I think about the fact that I'm an English guy dating another English guy in France, and having an affair with a Colombian, and that I'm in the process of phoning a French friend who lives in Canada with a Dutchman and I wonder when the world got so complicated. The big global mix-up seems to have happened so suddenly, and almost entirely unnoticed.

“Salut l'étranger,” Isabelle says, her voice bright as a spring morning. “Ça fait longtemps!” –
“Hi stranger. It's been ages!”

I ask her about life in Toronto and she tells me that it's, “Géniale, mais glaciale.”–
“Brilliant but glacial.”
She tells me excitedly about her new job as a photographer's assistant, quite a difference from her previous job as a nurse, I point out.

“I know,” she says. “Tell me about it. But things are different here. No one cares about what you
are
, they just want to know what you can
do.”

And then she realises that it's three a.m. in France, and I admit that I can't sleep, so of course she asks me why, and I finally get to spill the beans. The account takes almost half an hour, and she only comments a few times to say, “Uhuh,” or “Well, yes,” or “No! He didn't!”

When I get to the end, she says nothing, so I wait for a moment and then prompt her, “Well?”

She clears her throat. “I think
…
well, to start
with, I think you shouldn't have told me,” she finally says.

“You could have said before,” I point out.

“Yeah. But it's interesting,” she says. “I wanted to hear. Only now I'm not so sure.”

I sigh. “You're not going to feel some moral need to tell Tom or something are you?”

Isabelle laughs. “No!” she says. “It's just, well, I was thinking really, that the only way to deal with it is never to tell anyone.
Ever.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It's pretty bad really, isn't it?”

“So what about Ricardo, or Rick or whatever. Does he love Jenny?” she asks.

I sigh. “I don't know really,” I say. “I don't think so. But he might be saying that just to
…
”

“To make it seem less bad. Sure.” she says. “And Jenny?”

“Does she love Ricardo?”

“Yeah.”

I scratch my head. “I don't think she's letting herself. I think she suspects something wrong – nothing specific – certainly nothing to do with me. But all the same.”

“And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, who do
you
love?”

My chest is so tight – I'm having trouble breathing. I blow through my lips in an attempt at evacuating the stress. “I love Tom,” I tell her. “I do. But it's, you know, comfortable love. It's almost like he's just a friend these days.”

“And Ricardo?”

“I don't know,” I tell her. “I don't think so. I think I've got that, you know, new person, obsessive thing happening. I think it's more attraction than love. New things, different things, are always so much
…
shinier? Do you know what I mean?”

“Of course I do,” Isabelle says. “Otherwise I wouldn't have run off to Canada with Lars, would I?”

“It's a mess, though isn't it,” I say.

“Yeah,” Isabelle says. “It is. But of course you don't know Ricardo really do you. You haven't known him long enough.”

“No,” I say. “I mean, I feel like I do, but logically I suppose I don't.”

“What's his biggest fault?”

I shrug even though she can't see me. “I don't know,” I say.

“Yeah, so you don't know him at all. Because he sure has one somewhere.”

“No,” I say. “I see what you mean. Sorry about dumping all this on you, only I needed to talk to someone,” I say.

“No, it's fine. Lucky it's me,” she says. “Because you really shouldn't be telling people about stuff like this.”

“So I should just, you know, keep it to myself, forever? That's what you think.”

“Yeah. It's the only way with affairs. Never tell anyone,” she says, definitely.

“I'm not sure I'm capable though,” I say.

Isabelle clears her throat. “Then you shouldn't be having affairs,” she says.

“I just feel so guilty, every time I lie. I feel half the time like I'm on the verge of owning up to it all,” I say.

“I understand that,” she says. “But your desire for contrition is entirely selfish.”

“That sounded very professional,” I say. “You could do this for a living.”

“What, the desire for contrition being selfish? Oh I read it in a book. Toronto is self-help city. It said that most of the time, owning up to things is about wanting to demonstrate what a wonderful honest person you are, and basically, fuck the consequences.”

“That's quite profound really,” I say.

“Yeah. It was a good book,” she says. “It's true
though. I mean, it will feel good for you to tell the truth, well, for a moment it will. But then everything will come crashing down. It would destroy you and Jenny, and you and Sarah, and you and Tom maybe, though you gay boys tend to be more understanding about these things. You have to decide what's more important I suppose. Happiness or honesty.”

“And Jenny and Ricardo. It would be the end of them presumably as well.”

“Yeah,” Isabelle says. “No one left alive. A sort of relationship neutron bomb. The only things left standing would be buildings. You need to think long and hard before you do that.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I can see that. So I just stop the affair and take the secret of it to the grave.”

“Well, stop or don't. Whatever.”

“You don't think it matters?”

“It's not that. It's more – I doubt you'll have much control over it. These things tend to have a life of their own. But whatever happens. You have to keep your mouth shut.”

“Sounds like experience,” I say.

“Sorry?” Isabelle says.