Better Than Easy (5 page)

Tom murmurs an, “Uhuh,” but continues looking at the TV.

I stare at him and wait for a reaction, and then when none comes, I laugh at the anti-climax. Honesty is the easy option after all.

“What are you laughing at?” he asks.

I shrug. “Nothing,” I say. “Just being silly… How's the web site going?”

Tom shrugs and glances at the screen. “I need new photos,” he says. “Did you take any?”

“Shit,” I mutter. “I forgot. I took the camera as well.”

“Oh Mark!” Tom whines.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I was kind of distracted – what with the snow and the fact that the place was all
closed up, and the rally. To be honest, it looked a bit cold and desolate. I'm not sure it would be that good for sales anyway.”

“You still could have taken a
couple,”
Tom says, glancing at the TV, then at the laptop, and then finally at me.

“Well, if I had remembered, I
would
have,” I say. “You could have come and taken some yourself,” I point out.

“I can't do everything,” Tom counters. “I can't do that and this.” He flourishes a hand before the screen.

I sigh and realise that we're at one of those crossroads – pointless conflict or not pointless conflict – I choose the high road. “Yeah, well, never mind, eh?” I say, running a hand across his back. “We can go up together another day and take some photos. Maybe even stay a night if she opens the place up.”

Tom clicks and adds a drop-shadow to the
Le Gîte
logo he's working on on-screen. “Not bad huh?” he says.

I nod. “Yeah, it's good,” I agree. “Looks like a TV thing, you know,
Chaos at the Castle
or something.”

Tom smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “I bet it will be too. You and me trying to run a gîte.”

“You must come and see the place though Tom,” I insist. “While there's snow. It's a bit bleak. It makes you realise just how isolated the place really is.”

Tom pauses, saves his work-in-progress and then looks sideways at me, his brow wrinkled. “So what are you saying? Are you having doubts?”

I shake my head. “No, not at all,” I say. “I just think, well,
you
need to see it – to be prepared.”

Tom stares into my eyes, seemingly deep in thought. For a moment I think he's going to say something important. But then he just shrugs and turns back to the TV. “If the holdup on the sale goes on much longer, I'll probably go back to the UK
anyway,” he says lightly.

“You got stuff to do?” I ask.

Tom shakes his head but still doesn't look at me. His sudden interest in the TV strikes me as suspicious. “No, not really,” he says. “But I might as well get some temp work, get some money coming in. And I kind of miss the nightlife.”

I remove my hand and sit back on the sofa, a separate being again. “I thought you meant just for, you know, a visit,” I say. “For a few
days
. How long are you thinking of going for?”

Tom shrugs. “How long is a piece of string?” he says.

“Tom!”
I say, plaintively.

“How long will the gîte thing take?” he says. “How long a mission will I get offered? It all depends, doesn't it? How should I know?”

I cough and stand, and start to move towards the kitchen, and then I pause and turn back. “Tom,” I say, chewing the side of my mouth. “Can we turn the TV off for a minute?”

He glances up at me. “Why?” he says.

“We have to talk.”

He reaches for the remote and somewhat theatrically clicks off the TV. “What's up?” he asks, his tone vaguely mocking.

I move back to the sofa and sit sideways, half facing him. “I'm a bit surprised,” I say. “I mean, that you're thinking about going back already. We haven't discussed this
at all.”

Tom shakes his head and sighs. “I knew you were going to have an argument with me today,” he says. “It's been brewing all day.”

I frown. “I haven't
been
here all day,” I protest. But I wonder all the same if it's true, if he isn't somehow right. It
could
be my hangover making me play up, but then it's hard to tell. When your perception gets skewered by drugs you're always the last to know.

“Whatever,” Tom says, before continuing in a
calmer tone of voice. “What I mean is, we can
argue
about this, or …
not
. But I can't really see any point in me staying here if there's no gîte project happening, can you?”

“I'm not sure really,” I say, trying to work out my thoughts, and trying to keep an eye on them for wanton negativity at the same time. “I mean, I suppose I just thought that this was
where we lived
now.”

Tom frowns at me so I continue, “I thought the gîte was about us being together, not the other way around. I didn't realise we were together just so we could do the gîte.”

Tom tuts, and turns towards me and takes my hand. “Hey,” he says. “Don't make this about
us
. I just think it's a good idea for me to go and earn some money,” he says. “You can see the sense in that, surely?”

I nod. “Yeah,” I say vaguely. “I mean, I know that makes sense; I know there's a certain logic to it…”

“So?” Tom asks.

“Well, I don't know,” I say. “I mean, I understand the need for change, but if you need more nightlife, well, that's fixable
here
. This is
where we live
. Or it's supposed to be. And we're not exactly broke, not with my dole and your…”

“Well, this is
where we live
because we're buying a gîte,” Tom says.

I nod. “So what happens if it falls through then?”

“What, the whole thing? Completely?”

“Yeah,” I say. “What happens if, say, Chantal
can't
sell us the gîte? If the whole project crashes and burns.”

Tom shrugs. “We look for another property?” He says this in a tone of voice that implies that the answer is obvious.

I nod. “OK, but
who
does? Will
you
be here to do that?”

Tom shakes his head. “Hell Mark, I
don't know. I suppose you could look and then we could make the final choice together.”

I nod.

“I don't really see what the prob…”

“The problem
is …
” I interrupt quietly, still working it out, “that unless there's a gîte, we aren't together.”

Tom frowns, first nods, and then shakes his head. “And?” he says.

“So you're being here wouldn't seem to be about me really, or
us
, but about the gîte.”

Tom laughs sourly.

“What?” I ask genuinely confused.

“Why does everything have to be about
you?”
He shakes his head apparently in dismay.

I sigh. I grind my teeth a little, and then when I'm sure I can keep my tone neutral, I say earnestly, “So what's the gîte thing about? For you?”

Tom shakes his head. “I don't kn…” he protests.

“No, go on,” I interrupt. “In a nutshell, why do you want to do this?”

“Maybe we should have asked these questions before,” I think.

Tom shakes his head and pouts. “I don't know. Life change?”

I nod. “OK, life change.”

“Yeah, changing my life. You know that. We talked about it – around when my dad died.”

“OK, but living here with me, that's a life change isn't it?”

Tom shrugs. “Kind of. But I could be with
you
anywhere. I don't mean that to sound… What I mean is that the reason I'm
here
is because we're buying a gîte.
Here
. And if that goes, then the reason goes. I don't see what's so wrong with that.”

“So it
isn't
about being with me?” I say, wincing at the statement.

“Well, no,” he says. “Why does it have to be about
you?”

I nod. “So let me get this right.”

“Mark…”
Tom whines.

“Your decision to live here or stay in the UK wasn't about us being together.”

“Not primarily, no,” Tom says.

“So it's about… What?” I say.

Tom shrugs.

“Well, it would have to be about …
you?”
I say.

Tom shakes his head. “You see,” he says, clicking the TV back on. “I told you. You're impossible today.”

“End of intermission?” I ask.

“End of intermission,” Tom replies.

“Fuck you too,”
I think. What I actually
say
is, “OK. Enjoy the game show. It looks like a really good one.” It somehow means the same thing.

Jenny hands me a mug of tea and sits opposite at the tiny kitchen table. She's wearing a huge Arran jumper that makes her look like some clinical over-eater from a TV documentary. I wrinkle my nose and she looks down at herself.

“The jumper?” she asks.

I nod. “It makes you look huge!” I laugh.

“I know. Mum made it. Isn't it the worst? I never wear it outdoors. It's very warm though, very good for keeping the heating bill down. I've
lost
weight actually.”

I nod. “It shows in your face, but the jumper kind of hides everything else.” I raise my chin towards the sofa where Sarah is sleeping. “A bit early for her isn't it?”

Jenny glances over and sighs. “She's got a cold. She's been dozing all day. Poor little thing.” She sips her tea. “So come on then,” she says. “Tell aunty Jenny all about it.”

I roll my eyes. “Actually, I want
your
news,” I say. “I can't believe I haven't seen you for so long.”

“Five weeks,” she says, running her fingers through her hair. “I saw you the morning I left for England. I
was
away for two weeks, so…”

I nod. “Yes, I expect that's it. I just kind of lost the habit of popping upstairs.”

“I've been busy too,” she says. “I've been out more than usual.”

“Been having a lot of doctor's appointments?” I snigger.

“Tom
told
you!” she says, flashing the whites of her eyes at me.

I nod. “I was a bit surprised to be learning the intimate details of your life from Tom,” I say. “But,
well, I can hardly complain; if I can't be bothered to come up two flights of steps … Anyway, tell me.”

“Well …” she says, licking her lips, flicking her hair back and clearly relishing the story. “He's a doctor, he's very, very cute, he speaks wonderful English – thank God – he's good in bed …”

“Thank God he's
good in bed?”
I ask, grinning.

“No, the English … well, yeah, both. Anyway, he's the slowest man to, you know,
come,
that I've ever met.”

I frown. “And for you girls that's a
good thing
, right?”

She nods. “Sure is!” she says.

I pull a face and shrug. “More than ten minutes of foreplay and I'm bored,” I say.

Jenny laughs and flicks her hair back again. “Men!” she says. “Tom said the exact same thing. You're all the same!”

“Except Doctor Sex,” I say.

Jenny blushes and flicks her hair yet again. “Except Doctor Sex.”

“So Jenny has a boyfriend,” I say. I suddenly realise I'm supposed to be noticing something here. “What
exactly
has happened to your hair?” I ask.

Jenny bounces the edges of her new haircut against her knuckles, shampoo-ad style and frowns at me. “What's wrong with it?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say. “It looks great. It's just … well, you suddenly look like you fell out of a Garnier advert or something, that's all.”

Jenny smirks, blushes slightly, and twists her head as if to demonstrate just how swirly the new hair is. “I kind of forgot about my appearance for a while back there – when I had Sarah, I think. Anyway, I walked into this really posh salon a few weeks ago and said, ‘Fix this.' I think it's called coming back to life after having a baby.”

I push my lips out and nod appreciatively. “I think it's called cruising your doctor actually,” I say.
“Anyway, they sure fixed it. It makes you look heaps younger.”

“Thanks. I'm not sure how long it will last though. It seems you have to keep going back there if you want it to carry on looking this way.”

“The first hit's free,” I laugh.

“Exactly,” Jenny says. “Only it wasn't. Far from it.”

“So how did you meet him anyway? He's not
your
doctor is he?”

Jenny smirks. “He was, for one visit – for thrush of all things. Very romantic! And then he phoned me and asked me on a date – well, it wasn't really a date. We talked for ages and I told him I was having trouble meeting people here and so he asked me out for a drink … and then, well, you know how it goes.”

I grimace. “Thrush?” I say. “Gross. So he saw the goods beforehand so to speak?”

Jenny blushes and shrugs coyly.

“Is that allowed anyway?” I ask. “Shagging patients?
Patients with thrush!”

Jenny laughs. “Well no! That's why I had to find a new doctor. He was very professional about it. We didn't shag to start with.”

“Not until the thrush had gone,” I say.

“Well … no,” Jenny says. “I changed doctors, and the cream worked and … Actually I think the new one is a lesbian. She's all plaid shirts and stretch pants.”

“Maybe she'll ask you out as well.”

Jenny laughs. “Heaven forbid,” she says. “She's about eighty.”

“So is it love?” I ask her. “Or just a good time?”

Jenny clears her throat and looks thoughtful. “I'm not sure really,” she says, ignoring or missing my Rose Royce reference. “I mean, he's quite unusual, he's a bit, you know, metro-sexual, and he has lovely clothes, always very clean and tidy. It makes a change after all that beer and football and shell-suits
with Nick.”