Better Than Easy (35 page)

“Please don't,” I say.

He nods. “But I do,” he says. “I love you.”

I close my eyes and exhale deeply. I could end up in tears here if I don't watch it.

“Ricardo love Mark,” he says. “And Mark love Tom. Tough, huh?”

I rub the bridge of my nose. “I do,” I say, quickly, snappily. It's an attempt at removing the emotion from the phrase.

He turns back to face me. “But,” he says.

I shake my head. “No buts. Well
…
yes, one but: I can't come with you. The way it has all happened. The timing, the people, it's all wrong. I can't.”

“So I wait for you,” Ricardo says.

“No,” I say. “That's not what I'm saying.”

“No,” Ricardo says. “It's me.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I think you're losing me,” I say.

Ricardo smiles for the first time. “No,” he says. “Not at all.
I
am saying this. I will wait. And when Jenny has gone to
…
Slurry?”

I smirk.
“Surrey,”
I correct him.

“Yes, so when Jenny has gone to Slurry, and Tom has gone to Brighton, then you will see. It's OK. I can wait.”

“Tom won't be going to Brighton, Ricardo. We're both selling our flats. We're both committed to this project.”

“Tom
…
Never mind.”

I lean in towards him. “I'm sorry?” I say. “Tom what?”

“Never mind,” he says. “It's OK. You will wake up one day and you will see. I think it won't be so long.”

I sip my coffee and shake my head in wonder. “You're crazy,” I say.

He laughs. “Oh yes,” he says. “But in a good way.”

I look at him and think how easy it would be, in fact, to say, ‘yes.' It would leave everything else in turmoil, my relationship with Jenny, with Tom, the purchase of the gîte, Paloma, my bike, tax bills, bank accounts, everything would be a post hurricane disaster site. But I would be far away. The thought is as tempting as ever. But I can't carry on living my life that way. It never made me happy in the past. “When I was younger I would have, Ricardo,” I say. “When I was young I would have run off with you and damn the consequences.”

“So? What change?”

I shrug. “I spent my whole life just chopping and changing, Ricardo,” I say. “You don't know me that well. That's why you don't understand.”

He laughs. “And now you want to build a house. You see I understand.”

I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “We can't behave like kids our whole lives.”

Ricardo gives me a Gallic shrug. “Kids have fun,” he says. “They run and climb and swim in the sea even if it's danger. I think is a good model, a good way to live, non?”

I laugh. “And then you grow up and you have to live by the rules.”

Ricardo sighs.

“I know. You don't believe in rules,” I say.

“I think some things are too big,” he says. “Some things are too important for rules.”

I chew a knuckle and stare at him. The desire to just say,
“fuck it,”
to leap from one train to another with a new unknown destination is almost overpowering. “I wish I could,” I say. “I would love to be able to make you happy, to make everyone happy, but
…
I'm sorry.”

He pulls something from his wallet, and then as if he is playing cards, as if this is in fact his trump card, he places it on the table, stares at it, then spins it and pushes it across the table. “Maybe you should just
make
you
happy,” he says.

I look at the photo and frown. It shows a big, weathered, wooden house on a beach. Around it are huge palm trees, in front of it – the photo is taken from the sea – rolling whitecap waves. “What is this?” I ask.

“A house,” he says. “My cousin holiday house. He lend it to me.”

“I thought you were going to Bogotá to your mother's,” I say.

“After, yes. But now I go here first,” he taps the photo. “For holiday. And then maybe half the time I will live there. There is a new health project in this area. Uribe got the FARC out of this region now – it used to be dangerous, but now it is OK – and we will set up a medical centre for the people near this house. For poor people. They need doctors now.”

“It's beautiful,” I say. “Stunning.”

“I will take you there,” he says. “When you are finished here.”

“Huh!” I say, pushing the photo back. “Imagine!”

He takes the photo and strokes it lovingly before sliding it back into his wallet, then he puts the wallet in his back pocket and claps his hands. “OK,” he says, brightly. “So now, I must go. I have Jenny for goodbye dinner tonight.”

I frown at the sudden shift of energy. “Are you OK?” I ask him.

He smiles at me, and then the smile broadens and becomes the Ricardo beam. “Yes,” he says. “I realise all is OK.”

“It is?” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “I will give you my email. We keep in touch. There is no hurry.”

“I
…
” I shake my head. “I'm touched. Really,” I say. “But
…
”

Ricardo nods. “No but,” he says.

“Will I see you again before you go?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Or maybe
you can take me to the airport tomorrow? Jenny is working, and I have – J'ai une grosse valise.”
– “I have a big suitcase.”

As I head back to the coast I see that the weather has changed. The sky is a deep purple and the sun, somewhere behind the band of cloud, setting. It's hard to tell how much of the gloom is storm, and how much night time.

As I ride slowly down, the bike fails for once to silence my mind. I think about Ricardo. Poor Ricardo, with the crazed idea that I am going to somehow drop everything, dump Tom, and run off to Colombia with him. I think of the house on the beach, and imagine getting up there, waking up in that house on that beach, next to Ricardo. The idea maybe isn't so much crazy as crazily attractive. And absurd. But in the end it's all somehow
…
disproportionate, and it seems to have more to do with Ricardo's life than my own. Maybe I'm just the first guy he has felt that way about: first loves have a tendency to be unreasonable. Maybe he's sad to leave, and the idea of a link from Colombia back to this life – me – is reassuring for him.

But in a way, I can't help but feel that I have let him down. He's a beautiful man with seemingly limitless qualities and he deserves to be happy, and though I'm unsure how I got from there to here, it seems I'm now going to be responsible for making him unhappy. That guilt is an emotion I never expected to feel. I knew I would feel,
do
feel, guilt towards Tom for the lying, the cheating, but it never crossed my mind that affairs could lead to the double whammy of also feeling guilty towards the partner in crime.

By the time I lock up the bike, the first sparse drops of rain are plopping from the sky, the sheer volume of each droplet foretelling the downpour to
come.

Inside the flat, I find Tom, Jenny and Sarah snugly installed on the sofa. They are watching another black and white film, a moody number set in a train station.

“The train for Ketchworth, is about to leave from platform
…
”

Jenny is holding a glass of wine and Tom a joint, and the flat feels cosy and safe against the coming storm. There is something about the muffled soundtrack of the film too, something about the terribly middle class accents, and the rolling Beethoven soundtrack that oozes a reassuring,
Sunday
sort of ambiance.

“Hi,” I say. “I was just in time. It's about to tip down out there.” As I say this a clap of thunder rattles the windows.

“I love a good storm,” Tom says. “How did it go?”

“Shhhhh!” Jenny mutters, nodding at the TV screen. On it a couple are now sitting in a cinema, apparently discussing the film.

“It's the big picture now, no more laughter, prepare for tears
…
”

Tom pulls a face and grins at me. I frown – a little irritated that Jenny thinks the film is more important than our future livelihood. I shrug. “I'll make dinner,” I whisper, then directed at Jenny, I add, “If that's OK?”

Tom winks at me. “We're starving,” he says. “We ran out of munchies.”

“We can pause it if you want,” Jenny says, her tone of voice clearly demonstrating that this isn't an option.

“Nah,” I say. “It's fine.”

I change out of my bike leathers into jogging bottoms and, in the hope of warming up, a thick fleecy hoody, then I head through to the kitchen and peer into the refrigerator. “Pasta and tomato splodge by the looks of it,” I mumble.

The storm cracks again, momentarily dimming the lights, and then, as if triggered by the clap, rain starts to plummet from the sky. I hear it lashing against the windows in the lounge, and Tom says, “Wow!” and turns the volume on the TV up.

“Oh Fred, it really was a lovely afternoon
…
”

I think,
Celia Johnson
, and then wonder how it is that I know that fact. The random items the brain collects! I switch off the kitchen light and stand in front of the window watching the rain spinning past the streetlights.

“You need help?” Tom says, the proximity of his voice making me jump.

I turn to face him. “Just looking at the rain,” I say, then, “No, you're fine. Finish your film.”

“Everything go OK though?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “It was fine. I'll tell you after, go back to your film.”

Tom nods. “Sorry,” he says, wiggling an eyebrow, and turning away, “but you know Jenny and her films.”

I smile after him and then look back out of the window. A man scurries past with a cardboard box over his head.

“He thought we were raving mad, perhaps he was right.”

I open the window – the sound of whooshing water is stunning – and I lean out to wet one hand before closing it again.
“No need to jet-wash the bike,”
I think.

I open the fridge again and take out two onions,
an aubergine, garlic, a tin of tomatoes; then I put a frying pan on to heat and reach for the chopping board. Then my mind registers the open bottle of white that was in the fridge, and I pull it out and pour myself a glass.

I chop the onion, slosh some cooking oil into the pan, and wait for it to start to fry.

“Alec rowed off at a great rate, and I trailed my hand in the water. It was very cold but a lovely feeling
…
”

I sigh and think how sad it is that I can't make Ricardo happy. And then I think how sad it is for myself that I have to choose. Instantly I realise what a capricious, childish sentiment this is. Maybe
I am
childish and capricious, because the truth is that I don't want to choose, I
do
want both. And in that moment, the linear nature of a life lived strikes me as profoundly unfair. I don't want to be the one to disappoint Ricardo. I don't want to destroy Tom's dreams either. But more than anything, it's selfish. More than anything, I don't want, myself, to have to choose from this life or that. I want both.

“We had such fun, Fred. I felt gay and happy and somehow relieved; that's what's so shameful about it all, that's what would hurt you so much if you knew
…
”

Why is it so hard to be
…
well, to be, just,
satisfied
, I wonder. What is it that makes happiness so God damned hard to keep hold of?

The sound of sizzling onion catches my attention, and I reach for a wooden spatula and stir it making it pop and sizzle loud enough to obscure the sound of the television. When the onions are browned, I pull the pan from the heat and start to chop the aubergine. I hear the distant voice of Trevor Howard –
how do I know this stuff?
– declaring his love.

“You know what's happened, don't you?”

I walk silently back to the lounge and lean in the doorway, taking in the dimly lit room, the flickering screen, the backs of Tom and Jenny's heads and the muffled sound of the film. I think of Saturday morning cinema when I was a kid.

“Yes, I do.”

“I've fallen in love with you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Tell me honestly. Please, tell me honestly that what I believe is true.”

“What do you believe?”

“That it's the same for you. That you've fallen in love too.”

Tom somehow senses my presence
– did I sigh?
– and turns. He beckons me over with a sideways nod of the head.

“No,” I whisper, already turning away. “I'm cooking.” But my voice is croaky, and I'm not sure if he heard me or not.

Back in the kitchen I lean against the worktop listening to the sound of the rain and the TV.

“I know you so little.”

“It is true though, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's true.”

My eyes are watering, maybe the onions, maybe tears. I swallow with difficulty. Tears then.

Through watery vision, and with a lump in my throat and a sick feeling in my stomach, I dice the aubergine and add it to the pan, which I slide back onto the ring.

As it starts to sizzle again, words from the TV are lost, which is a good thing, and yet, I strain to hear
them all the same.

“How often did you decide you were never going to see me again?”

“
…
”

“
…
love your
…
eyes
…
smile
…
”

“
…
spoils everything
…
still time
…
my love.”

I spin around and throw open the kitchen window again. Icy air blasts in but at least the sound of the falling rain drowns out everything else. I turn back to face the cooker. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.