Better Than Easy (29 page)

Ricardo appears to be suffering from a similar syndrome – his attempts to see me are few and far between – but when they happen, they are desperate and pleading. “Please,” he says. “In a few weeks I am gone. In a few weeks you never see me again.” Occasionally, too, when his pleas coincide with my own phase of wanting, they are convincing as well, so over the next three weeks I see him precisely three times; we have sex, or perhaps I should say, make love, precisely three times too. I say
make love
because as we orgasm together I can see something deep and warm and longing in his eyes, and I know what that thing is because I can feel it behind my own. And because, afterwards, tearing myself away from him is like pulling a tooth.

Tom hangs around the apartment, nervously waiting for me to announce a decision on the gîte; too nervous to ask or in fact mention the project in any way. I don't bring it up either because I don't have an answer. When I'm missing Ricardo, when I'm hoping he'll phone, or scheming when I might get away to see him again, the gîte is clearly a stupid futile fantasy – in fact the most absurd fantasy I have
ever indulged in, and at these times I wonder how I ever got this close to doing it; but when I'm yearning for Ricardo to leave, waiting for that blip on the radar of my life to finally start fading, it feels obvious, inevitable – Tom and the gîte feel like destiny.

There's a tiny detached part of my brain which seems able to oversee the two thought processes, seemingly so distinct that I wonder if each doesn't come from a separate hemisphere. The overseer analyses the whole thing with calm logic and announces that the end result will depend not on choice, but on timing, chance, call it what you will. It says that if I'm forced to decide before Ricardo leaves then I will be too doubtful to say, ‘yes,' that I won't be
able
to do anything except say, ‘no.' But if Ricardo leaves first there will be a life to be resumed and a void to be filled; a void that might only be filled with a ‘yes.'

In the meantime the decision tortures my existence, disturbing my dreams with sweaty unremembered nightmares and shortening my sleep with bursts of five a.m. insomnia. The dilemma obsesses my brain to the point that I'm unable to follow a film on TV or read a newspaper, let alone read a book. Hell, I can't even seem to remember that there is cheese on toast under the grill, or a tea bag stewing in a cup.

These lapses of sanity provoke worried glances from Tom and a gentle, almost parental taking over of the daily tasks. But he never comments, as if he somehow understands why I'm like this, and at times I wonder if he hasn't in fact understood everything. I wonder if he doesn't secretly know that time is on his side, that all he has to do is sit it out.

And then it happens, and like all truly good things, and all truly bad things, it is unpredictable and sudden.

Tom, returning from babysitting for Jenny, tells me that he thinks she's depressed. “Now Ricardo's
fixed a date I think it has really hit her,” he tells me.

I look up from the previous weekend's
Sunday Times,
which I'm still trying (and failing) to read. “Sorry?” I say. “He's fixed a date?”

Tom throws himself onto the sofa. “Yeah,” he says, apparently to the ceiling. “The thirteenth. I think the sooner the better to be honest.”

“February?” I say.
“February
the thirteenth?”

“Yeah,” Tom says, rolling to one side so that he faces me and propping his head up on one hand.

“Why, ‘the sooner the better?'” I ask, adding to cover my tracks, “I bet Jenny doesn't think that.”

“Well, that way Jenny can move on,” he answers. “That way, we can
all
move on.”

I stare at him and lick the corner of my mouth as I analyse the phrase and try to work out what it might mean – could there be another interpretation other than that
he knows?
And then the phone rings. I hunt around the flat for the missing handset, and locating it in beneath a cushion, with the words,
we can all move on
, still bouncing around inside my head, I hit the button, and a woman's voice greets me, French, Chantal.

“Sorry, I've been away,” she says. “I needed a break.” The lawyer, she explains, wants to set the date for the final signature; “So would the fourteenth of February, eleven a.m. be OK?”

My skin prickles. I listen to my heart beating, to the sound of my own breath. I can almost hear the creaking cogs as this particular set of points on the train-tracks of life hesitate between one direction and another.

Tom is frowning at me, wondering – suspecting, even – who is on the phone. I think,
“The fourteenth – the day after Ricardo leaves.”
I hear the words, as if they are still echoing,
“We can all move on.”
And I hear myself say, “OK, the fourteenth then. Eleven a.m.,” then, “oh, and, um, can we meet? Just a couple of hours, but, I've got this vast list of questions for you
before you vanish.”

“Oui, pourquoi pas …” Chantal replies. – “Sure, why not? How about the afternoon – after the meeting with the notary?”

By the time I hang up, Tom has moved to my side. He's staring at me, aware that something has happened, something major – perhaps he heard the squealing of the points too.

His face is taut, his eyes are glassy, as if he has understood everything, but daren't quite believe. “Was that …?” he asks.

I nod.

“The lawyer?”

I shake my head, and momentarily he looks devastated.

“Chantal,” I say. “We're signing on the fourteenth.”

“Feb?” Tom asks.

I nod.

“Wow!” he says, frowning seriously and nodding. “The day after Ricardo leaves,” he says, poignantly. “That's perfect.”

I clear my throat. “Why?” I say.

Tom shrugs. “Well, to start with it will give poor Jenny something to think about.”

I nod vaguely. “Yes,” I say. “Of course.” In my self-centred drama, I had forgotten that Jenny and Sarah were even moving up there with us.

Tom runs his tongue across his front teeth, now visibly fighting a smile. “Are we really doing it?” he says. “I can hardly believe it.”

I stare into his eyes, and eye contact makes
I
contact, and I can't help it, I start to grin with him. “If it's what you want,” I say. “If you're sure.”

Tom's cheekbones start to protrude, his eyes start to sparkle. “I am,” he says. “Are
you?”

I nod. “I am,” I say, and as I say it the whole sorry mountain of stress slips from my shoulders and slides into the muddy past with an unspectacular plop.

Tom screws his face up in a weird fashion, then through gritted teeth, he lets out a little yelp and jumps up and down twice. He looks about ready for infant school with Sarah. “Fuck!” he says. “Fuck
fuck!
I'm so happy.”

He grasps my head with both hands and plants a big wet kiss on my lips. “You're sure you're sure?” he asks.

I nod. “I am,” I say. “I told you.” And in that crazy space of my seesaw mind, it is, at that second, entirely true.

Tom repeats the grasping, kissing gesture, and says again. “Fuck. I'm so happy,” then, “shit, that's in two weeks. Shit we have a lot to do. We have to confirm the bridging loan, get this place on the market, organise a moving van … Can I tell Jenny? I'm gonna tell Jenny.”

With that, he bounds from the room, and I stand in shock and joy, all mixed up, and think how easy it was in the end to say, ‘yes,' and I think I realise for the first time in my life the power of words. For I have said, ‘Yes,' or,
‘Oui,'
– three letters in either language; and everything has changed, the future is born anew, and it feels right, and good, and true. I think of the Coldplay song that Jenny quoted and I think,
“That's how it happens then.”
A life, a destiny, a future, all created from thin air, woven so naturally from the words we choose to say, not woven from those we keep inside. It's that simple.

Tom returns a minute later with Jenny and Sarah in tow. “This calls for a celebration,” he says excitedly.

“Picnic?” Sarah says, her face hopeful as she picks up on Tom's excitement.

Jenny sweeps her up into her arms. “No darling,” she explains. “We can't have a picnic every time.” She rolls her eyes and looks at me. “So it's happening,” she says. “How exciting.” I notice but ignore something in her tone, something restrained,
something complex. “You'll be able to build snowmen in Mark and Tom's garden,” she adds.

“Snowmen?” Sarah says.

“Yeah, you haven't seen them yet,” Jenny replies. “Actually, yes you have. In the book.”

“In the blue book?” Sarah says. “Le bonhomme de neige?”

Jenny nods. “Indeed,” she says, then, her accent not a patch on Sarah's, “Le bonhomme de neige.”

“There's no reason why we
can't
have a picnic,” Tom says.

Jenny glances at the window. “Weather's OK. I could probably rustle up some stuff. And Ricky's off this afternoon, so he could join us.”

“I'd rather do it tomorrow,” I say. “I need to do some things today – phone the bank and stuff.”

Jenny shrugs. “Fine, tomorrow then. To be honest, I'm not sure I want him to come anyway. This is our celebration isn't it?” She jiggles Sarah, who remains cross looking, up and down. “We're going on a picnic,” she enthuses. “Tomorrow!”

“We could go to that lake you mentioned,” Tom suggests.

“It's better in summer, but, yeah, I'm sure it'll be fine. As long as the weather is OK,” I say.

“That's settled then,” Jenny says, swivelling to leave. “See you tomorrow.”

Once she has left, I comment, “She seemed funny.”

Tom frowns at me. “You think?” he says, apparently oblivious. “Well, I suppose she's going to be. Probably more and more … what with Mister Wonderful leaving and everything.”

We leave the house the next morning at ten a.m. The weather looks unsettled with dotted clouds moving quickly through a pale blue sky. There is still a distinct February chill to the air, which prompts a last minute dash by Jenny back up to her flat for extra pullovers. The round trip seems to take far longer than it should, and by the time she returns – wearing entirely different clothes, I notice – a policeman is approaching.

“Sorry,” she says. “Ricardo phoned just as I was …”

“Can we actually go now?” Tom asks, nervously watching the policeman.

Jenny squeezes into the back seat and Tom takes off even before I have my door closed. “They're bastards here. Look, he already has his pad out,” he spits.

As we head north to the motorway, the sky darkens, and I think we all independently wonder if this was such a good idea, but then as we circle around Nice and drive west, we leave the unsettled weather behind us and head into pure blue sky. The journey is unusually quiet, even Sarah remains virtually silent. The atmosphere inside the car isn't uncomfortable in any way, but rarely have I been on a car journey when everyone seemed so quiet, so thoughtful. I assume everyone is simply mulling over the newly confirmed future and everything it implies.

At the lake, we park the car beneath some parasol pines near the only café still open, and, heavily laden with blankets and cool-boxes, we tramp down to the shingle beach. It's packed solid here in summer but entirely empty today.

The water, a deep emerald green, reaches all the
way to the horizon. “Wow it's huge,” Jenny says. “And beautiful. It's artificial you say?”

“Yeah, it's an electricity reservoir isn't it?” Tom says.

Jenny frowns, so I explain. “Hydro electric. There's a dam over that way. The lake belongs to EDF.”

“Nice to see man make something pretty for a change,” she says.

By the time the blanket is spread, glasses distributed, Champagne poured and tubs of ready-made pasta salad from Monoprix prised open (this is a Tom-food picnic and it shows) it's warm enough to sunbathe.

Tom pulls his top off and declares, “Better make the most of it. It might be a while before you see this temperature again.”

“Do you think there is still snow up there?” Jenny asks.

I nod. “A bit,” I say. “But not much. I'm going up there next Thursday to talk to Chantal about how she runs the place. You can come if you want.”

Jenny shakes her head. “I can't on Thursday,” she says. “I'm working. And Sarah's at nursery.”

And that's the moment that it dawns on me. “Your job,” I say, furrowing my brow. “How are you going to …?”

Jenny licks her lips, glances at Tom, and coughs, waiting, it seems, to see how the phrase will end.

“What are you going to do?” I continue. I have been so wrapped up in my own stuff, I haven't even thought about it before.
“Jenny?”
I prompt.

Jenny grimaces. “Shit,” she says. “I was going to tell you, but, well, I didn't want to spoil the celebration.”

Tom swivels and stares at her gravely. “Jenny!” he says sharply. His voice is strained, making it sound more like a rebuke than anything else.

I frown at him, but then turn back to Jenny as she
shoots Tom an equally complex look and continues, pleadingly, “I can't. I just can't. Not full time. It was all so on-and-off, I had to make other arrangements. And I need the money from the job, and Sarah's in nursery school now. But we'll come at weekends.
Every
weekend.
And
school holidays. I'll still be there to help out.”

Tom turns to me and gives me a sort of,
what are you gonna do?
shrug.

I shrug back. “I should have thought about it,” I say, thinking,
“You should have told me earlier.”