Better Than Easy (32 page)

As we walk down, Ricardo, following one step behind my furious stomp, continues calmly to try to convince me. It makes me so furious I could punch him. “Ask Jenny if Sarah wouldn't be happier in an English school,” he says. “She will tell you the truth. She wanted to tell you all along. She feels really bad. It's Tom who persuaded her. And then you will see that there is nothing. Jenny will leave. And eventually Tom will leave as well. He already told you this. You are better off with me. It's obvious.”

“Jesus!” I mutter looking up at the darkening sky beyond the gate.

“Mark!” Ricardo says. “I'm happy when I'm with you. And if we can be together, then why not? And France or Colombia, what's the difference? You really have no idea how much I like you, do you?”

“And
you
have no idea how much I want to
punch
you right now,” I spit. “Now open the fucking gate!”

Ricardo reaches into his pocket and clunks the lock open. “Even angry I like you,” he says, still managing to sound calm. “That's a good sign, no?”

I push the gate open and unable to stop shaking my head at the utter madness, at the sheer
audacity
of the guy, I march homewards.
“He really is crazy,”
I think, then,
“Another one!”

Back at the flat, Tom and Jenny are sitting cross-legged either side of Sarah on the sofa. Their presence makes me feel cramped-out and I realise that in my urgency to escape Ricardo I have gone to the wrong place. I should have gone to the beach until I got my thoughts clear.

I must look flushed or pale or something because when he looks up at me Tom's smile fades. “What's up?” he says. “You look really
…
” He frowns but doesn't finish the phrase.

I look from Tom to Jenny and back again, and think,
“No way! I know these people.”

“I bumped into Ricky boy,” I say, sick of the lies and jumping in at the deep end. “He wanted to talk to me. We had a bit of an argument.”

Jenny glances at Tom. Tom glances at Jenny. Then they both turn back to face me. Something about those two swivelling heads disturbs me. “I need to piss,” I say, playing for time.

“But what did he say?” Tom says.

“One second,” I reply, my back already turned. “I'm busting.”

From the toilet, I can just hear Tom and Jenny talking in hushed tones. When I return, they cease and turn to face me expectantly. Sarah, who is sitting between them, for some reason bursts into tears.

Tom and Jenny both say, “What did
…
” simultaneously, then it's Jenny who finishes, “What did Ricky have to say? I thought he had gone home.”

I frown at them both. Something vague, something non-specific isn't right, the way a bad play fails to convince. I study their faces. Tom is smiling somehow inappropriately. Jenny's face looks glassy and bland, and for the first time ever, she seems impervious to her daughter's tears.

“Ricky?” I say.

“Yes,” Tom says.

“I don't
…
I was with Tony,” I say. “Did I say
Ricky?”

They both nod solemnly. “You did,” Jenny says.

“Sorry, must be because we spent the day with him. No, I was with
Tony,”
I say, at which both Tom and Jenny exhale slowly, discreetly.

“What were you arguing about?” Tom says, suspicion still in his voice.

So I invent a complex, embroidered tale, made more difficult because I'm not sure how much I said last time – I can't even remember if I gave the supposed boyfriend and lover names. I tell them that Tony has decided he's in love. That he's going to run off with his friend's partner. And that I argued that this really wasn't OK.

Tom, clearly impressed by my – even if I do say so myself –
stunning
performance, says, disinterestedly, “Well, if they're in love, I think he's right. Love is rare enough, without chucking it away when it does crop up.”

“Absolutely,” Jenny says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Right. Anyway
…
” I brush a hand through the air as if a fly is bothering me. “I'm sick to death of their shit to be honest. There's just too much deception going on. I'm gonna go work out what's for tea before the shops shut. Are you staying Jenny?”

Jenny who has now noticed that her daughter is crying, shakes her head and stands. “No,” she says. “I'm going home. This one's tired, aren't you? I need to get her back to our house.”

“House,”
I think, heading through to the kitchen and opening a random cupboard. I suppose that's what they call a Freudian slip. I stare blankly at the contents and try to think about what's going on. Could it really be that Tom and Jenny have been lying to me? It's not a vast issue; waiting a few months to tell me that Jenny is bailing out isn't exactly
Earth shattering
. But it would be a
deception. Another one. Why is it that no one tells the truth anymore? And how come everyone has secrets, except me? I remember Jenny actually telling me she had secrets. Maybe she
wanted
me to ask what they were. Ricardo said she felt bad about it. And then I realise that of course I'm being a complete hypocrite again. I have the biggest secret of all.

Before I even begin to think about dinner, Tom is at my side, handing me the phone. If he had asked, I would have said,
“later,”
but, the phone is in my hand and Tom is now outside the flat talking to the departing Jenny.

“Allo?” I answer.

“Bonsoir Mark,” Chantal says. “Sorry to trouble you, but I was wondering if we could meet before instead of after the sale. I'm going back
…
away, the day before
…
unexpected reasons.”

“The day
before
the sale?”

“Yes. But it's all OK, don't worry. The notary will have all the paperwork, but I can't be there. I'm sorry, it's unavoidable.”

“Sure,” I say, frowning. “Fine.” The truth is that my brain is so full of junk that I'm unable to even consider if this is fine or not. If there was a French word for,
whatever
, that's probably what I would have said, but French doesn't do modern concepts like sardonically exaggerated disinterest.

But it sounds dodgy for some reason. I will have to phone the notary and check he thinks it's all still legitimate.

“Could we do it on Monday or Tuesday?” she asks.

“Well
…
OK, I suppose,” I say.

“Monday or Tuesday?” she asks again, her tone slightly irritated.

“OK, Tuesday,” I say. “Same time? One p.m.?”

“That's perfect,” Chantal says. “That way I can get on and make all my arrangements. Ever so sorry, but it'll be fine. Thanks.”

I realise that I have sounded a little short with her,
so in an attempt at being more chatty, I say, “You off back to Egypt?” The silence that follows is so long, I wonder if the connection hasn't died. “Hello?” I prompt.

“Oui
…
” Chantal says, hesitantly. “Egypt
…
Pourquoi j'irai en Egypt?”
– “Egypt. Why would I be going to Egypt?”

In the heat of the moment I can't remember why I
thought
she was going to Egypt. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I don't know
…
I thought
…
I don't
know
why.”

“I have
never
been to Egypt,” Chantal says. She sounds like someone in front of the McCarthy commission denying they have been to the Soviet Union. She sounds like going to Egypt might be a war crime.

I think that maybe she's racist; enough French people are. Maybe Egypt is just a bit too
Arab
for her. “I'm sorry,” I say, not quite sure why I'm apologising. “I must have got it mixed up.” But as I say it, it comes back to me: the forum, the message. So it wasn't her after all. Or it was her, and she doesn't want me to know.

“OK,” Chantal says, a certain hesitancy still in her voice. “So, Tuesday, one p.m.?”

“Fine,” I say. “Perfect.”

“OK then,” she says. “Bye.”

I tap the end-call button and frown at the phone. I think,
“What's wrong with everyone today? Why do they all sound like bad actors in a dodgy sitcom?”
I suppose it could be me. Usually when
everyone
else seems this way or that, it's not their fault at all. Maybe I have a paranoid filter installed today.

Tom appears in the doorway. He holds onto the top of the doorframe and hangs there looking at me. Even that gesture looks somehow contrived – it
must
be me. “Everything OK?” he says.

“Yep,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Except that we have fuck-all to eat. I'm gonna nip out to Monoprix before it closes.”

I'm already closing the front door behind me when I hear Tom, who has opened the fridge door say, “What are you on about? There's
a mass
of stuff here.”

I pretend I haven't heard him. I need the space.

By the time I return with ingredients that are suitably unusual not to be in the refrigerator already, I have decided that a clear-cut confrontation with the facts is the only way forward. I don't particularly want to drop Ricardo in it, but then, I reason, he will be far away from all of this in a few days. It hardly seems to matter anymore.

“Hi,” Tom says cheerily meeting me at the front door. He follows me through to the kitchen and peers into the carrier bag I put down on the counter-top. “So what are these mystery ingredients missing from our nearly full refrigerator?” he asks, picking up a packet. “Humm, more scallops,” he says. “Peas, mint,
…
”

“It's a recipe I saw in the Sunday Times,” I say, quietly, my mind already on the next conversation. “Seared scallops, pureed peas with mint, and potato.”

“What, like, mushy peas?” Tom laughs.

“Yeah,” I say. “That's the one.”

“You OK?” Tom asks, running a hand down my back and peering in at me with a concerned expression.

I shrug his hand away and turn to face him. “Tell me,” I say. “I can read you like a book and you've been lying to me. You've both been lying to me.”

His eyes dart around, searching my face for clues. “About what?” he says.

I laugh sourly. “Not exactly a denial, is it?
About what?
You might as well say,
‘which lie?'”

Tom shakes his head gently. “No, yes
…
” he says. “I don't know what you're on about.”

“OK,” I say. “Here's a clue. Jenny's not moving to Chateauneuf D'Entraunes.”

“Yeah,” Tom says vaguely. “And?”

“And you knew about that when exactly?”

“I don't understand,” Tom says.

“Tom!” I shriek, actually starting to doubt whether he has lied at all. “I know! Now don't make me angrier by
…
”

Tom's face falls. He slumps back against the kitchen wall and shakes his head sadly. “Jesus!” he says.

I wait silently for him to continue.

“I can't keep anything from you, can I?” he says eventually. It's a vague attempt at being cute, but I look at him in stony silence, letting him know that I'm having none of it.

“I'm
sorry,”
he says. “God, I keep having to say that at the moment. I mean, why do I seem to spend my life apol
…
”

“Don't even go there, Tom,” I say.

“No,” he replies. “Look, I thought it was for the best. I thought otherwise you'd drop out.”

I shake my head. “I'm so angry with you both, I could
…
I don't know.”

Tom swallows and shakes his head. “It's not Jenny's fault,” he says, then dropping his head to stare at his feet, he continues, “she wanted to tell you, all the way through. I wouldn't let her.”

I shake my head. “It's just
…
” I gasp in exasperation. “It's just so fucking childish,” I say. “Because we could finish up Shit Creek without a paddle because of this. Nothing good can come of hiding that kind of thing. And it's just another lie. It's just another reason for me not to trust you.”

“I know,” Tom says. “There's really no point is there. You always find out. It's like living with fucking Miss Marple.”

I wrinkle my nose at him to let him know that again, the joke won't wash, and then I head through to the lounge. After a couple of minutes he follows me through. “I fixed it though,” he says, standing in the doorway. “I wasn't going to tell you, but
…
”

“Well there's a fucking surprise!” I exclaim. “What weren't you going to tell me
this time?”

Tom sighs. “I arranged a loan. In case we need more money. I arranged a loan.”

I gasp. “A
loan
? How the fuck is that going to help? We're up to our tits in debt as it is! Honestly. Sometimes you beggar belief!”

Tom shakes his head and crosses the room, taking a seat beside me on the sofa. He turns to face me, his expression earnest. “No, this is different,” he says. “Listen, let me explain.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head, and then with a little jerk of my head I indicate that he may continue.

“I asked my uncle. You know he's loaded. And if we run out of cash he'll lend us fifteen thousand Euros.” I open my mouth to speak, but Tom continues, “It's interest free, it's only if we need it, he says I can pay it back whenever I want, and it's in my name, nothing to do with you. So if the cash from Jenny's rental cripples us, I've covered it. Fifteen thousand covers what Jenny would pay for like, four years.”

“Three,” I correct.

“OK,” Tom says. “Three.” He rubs his forehead.
“Is it
three? Anyway, you see, I fixed it.”