Better Than Easy

by Nick Alexander

  I close the front door loudly and he looks up and grins, then, in reaction to the rising smoke, closes one eye and winks madly. The ensemble is so funny I can’t help but laugh.

  Tom smiles back and kicks the OFF button on the cleaner. “I take it the smile means that it went well,” he says as the machine whirs to a halt.

  I nod and pull my jacket off. “Piss easy,” I say. “France may be a bureaucratic nightmare, but there’s nothing so easy as signing on for unemployment benefit.”

  Tom nods and pouts thoughtfully. “I guess they’ve had a lot of practice at getting that one right,” he says.

  I pull a folded sheet of paper from my back pocket. “I didn’t actually need to go there at all you know. You can do it by Internet now, or even over the phone.”

  Tom raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that making it a bit too easy? I take it you have to go to some kind of Jobcentre so they can at least pretend to try to find you a job?”

  I shake my head. “Apparently they may call me in – in three months’ time.”

  “Cool,” Tom says. “And what about the dole cheque? How do you get that?”

  “Paid direct into my account,” I tell him. “Seventy percent of my salary.”

  Tom gasps. “Seventy percent? Jesus! I wish I could get that.”

  “For eighteen months…” I add.

  “Eighteen months! I don’t suppose anyone really looks for a job for eighteen months then do they?”

  I wink at him. “Not me anyway,” I say.

  “So you’re on holiday,” Tom says. “Officially.” He proffers the joint.

  I wrinkle my nose. “It makes me feel a bit guilty, but then I just think how much tax I have paid over the years…”

  “Oh go on!” he says, still waving the joint. “You’re free. It’s the end of one thing, the beginning of another. Have a smoke!”

  I shrug and take the joint. “I guess so,” I say. “I wasn’t planning doing anything else today.”

  “There’s nothing else to do is there? Not until we get the keys to the gîte.”

  “Actually, I think there’s plenty to do,” I tell him. “We need to get some kind of marketing plan sorted, a website and stuff…”

  Tom nods. “Yeah, I already started actually. Only, I need some decent photos of the place. Hers are all crap.”

  “And budgets,” I say. “I want to work out how we’re gonna make a living at it. But I need some figures from Chantal – profit margins and stuff. I think we need to go up there, have lunch, maybe even stay a weekend – pump her for as much information as we can. Because once it’s ours I get the feeling she’ll be out of there and never want to look back.”

  “I can’t wait to get started on the place though,” Tom says. “I was wondering – do you think we can grow rhubarb up there?”

  I frown at Tom and snort in amusement.

  “What?” he asks.

  I half-shrug. “I just don’t think growing rhubarb is gonna be very high on the urgent list of things to do,” I say.

  Tom scowls like a child. “So what’s going to be on the Fuehrer’s list of things to do?”

  I unplug the lead from the Dyson, hand it to him and then stroke his back. “Hey,” I say. “You can grow rhubarb, of course you can. I just mean, what with all the redecorating and marketing we need to be doing… Well, that’s the stuff I’m worried about. We need to make sure the place makes money.”

  Tom scratches his chin and slumps on the sofa. “Yeah, we so need to redecorate,” he says. “I was thinking it would be nice to do something quirky,” he says. “Like themed rooms, you know bright colours and stuff.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I thought so too, pick up some bits of funky second-hand furniture…”

  “I love rhubarb though,” Tom says, instinctively reaching for his smoking box and taking out the ingredients for his next joint. “I’ve got this craving for rhubarb crumble. Maybe I’m pregnant.”

  I slip beside him on the sofa and contain a sigh. His brain works differently to mine, drifting laterally from one subject to another. Mine is much more linear, logical. If I’m talking about decorating I’m not going to drift onto rhubarb. “And a dog,” Tom says. “Can we have a dog?”

  “A dog?!” I exclaim. “Where did that come from?”

  Tom shrugs. “It’s just a sort of recurring dream,” he says. “A daydream more I suppose. I always imagined one day I’d have a husband and a vegetable plot and rhubarb growing and a big country dog.”

  I nod at Paloma on the chair opposite; she’s cutely cleaning her forehead by licking her paw. “I’m not sure what madam will have to say about it,” I say, thinking about Tom’s use of the word husband. It’s not a word he uses generally – I like it.

  “It’s a country dog,” Tom says. “It will live outside in a kennel. And I can take it for walks on those footpaths along the ridges.

  I nod and smile at the image. I get it. These things are linked for Tom. Just as Sunday mornings are somehow linked to croissants and saxophone for me, gîtes, dogs and rhubarb are part of his dream. I shrug. “I guess,” I say. “A dog and rhubarb. Why not? We could call the dog Rhubarb and kill two birds with one stone.”

  Tom runs his lighter along the edge of the lump of dope. “Wasn’t that a cartoon dog? Rhubarb and Custard or something.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t think Rhubarb was a dog…” I shrug. I think for a moment. “No, I can’t remember. Where do you get this stuff from anyway?” I ask pointing at the dope. “I mean, I hope you didn’t bring it back from Brighton?”

  Tom tuts. “Don’t be crazy! I wouldn’t go through customs with it. No, Jenny gets it off that bloke she’s seeing.”

  “Jenny?” I repeat. “And what do you mean that bloke she’s seeing? I don’t know anything about a bloke!”

  Tom sprinkles the dope and glances up at me. “You didn’t know? About Rick?”

  “Rick?” I say. “This guy has a name?” It’s a dumb comment – of course he has a name. But I’m shocked, and a little outraged that Tom is on first name terms with a guy Jenny is seeing. Jenny is my closest friend after all, and I didn’t even know that Rick existed.

  Tom shrugs. “She hasn’t been seeing him long,” he says. “A couple of weeks tops.”

  “What’s he like?” I ask wondering if he’s one of the guys I’ve crossed on the stairs. “And he’s what? A drug dealer?”

  Tom shakes his head and runs his tongue along the edge of the paper. “I haven’t seen him,” he says. “He sounds nice though. And no, he’s not a dealer at all. He’s a doctor I think.”

  “Jenny is dating a drug dealing doctor,” I say. “And I didn’t know.”

  Tom shrugs. “The disadvantage of being at work. And he’s not a dealer. Don’t say that. You’ll upset her. And him! He just had some – for you know, personal use, and she asked him for it and then gave it to me. Said it makes her too lazy.”

  I shake my head. “I just can’t believe that I didn’t know this,” I say. “How can I not know this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Tom shrugs. “It didn’t come up I suppose. Hey, you know the redecorating thing,” he adds, his voice suddenly velvety.

  I give him a puzzled smirk. “Yeah?” I say. I’m guessing he’s going to tell me he doesn’t like decorating.

  “Well, I had an idea what we could do with the cellar,” he says, wiggling an eyebrow.

  I roll my eyes. “I was wondering when that would come,” I say.

  Tom winks at me. “So you thought of it too,” he says, lighting and then passing me the joint.

  I take a hit. My head spins instantly. “Wow, this one’s strong,” I say. “This one’s gonna make me really lazy. Yeah, I knew you’d want a dungeon down there.”

  Tom wiggles his head sideways. “There’s no reason why we can’t is there?”

  I roll my eyes. “Again Tom, nice idea, but not that high on the list of priorities.”

  “Oh go on!” he laughs. “We could make it a gay hotel.
Charge extra for the dungeon key… like those places in Amsterdam,” he says, “with whips and chains in every room.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “You dirty birdie,” I say.

  “Nice idea though,” Tom says.

  I nod and grin. The dope is working and it all suddenly seems not only a very funny idea but also a very good idea. Except… “You crazy guy,” I say. “We’re not going to be in Amsterdam though, are we?”

  Tom frowns.

  “They have hotels like that in Amsterdam because it’s a city of clubs and bars and cruising zones,” I say. “Loads of guys want to go there anyway. Up in the Alps I think you’re much more likely to get hearty Christian heterosexual hill-walking types in those green convertible short/long trouser things.”

  Tom sighs. “I guess,” he says sadly.

  “What are they called anyway?” I ask, dragging on the joint again and then passing it to Tom. “Those zippy short/trouser things?”

  Tom shrugs and looks mock-despondent. “Pantaloons?” he says.

  “Pantaloons?” I repeat, and we both collapse into laughter.

  “Anyway, they usually have good muscled walking legs,” I say when I manage to stop sniggering. “Pantaloons indeed.”

  Tom flashes the whites of his eyes at me. “I love a chunky calf,” he says. “A chunky calf protruding from the bottom of a pantaloon.”

  I nod. “I know you do,” I say. “Only they’re so not called pantaloons.”

  Tom reaches out and rubs my own, not-so chunky calf. “Fancy a siesta?” he says.

  I open my mouth to say, “Yes,” but the phone starts to ring. With a little difficulty I stand and cross the room. “Allo?” I say. I frown at the officious voice on the other end, then I cover the mouthpiece and roll my eyes at Tom. “It’s about the gîte,” I tell him. “Just hold that thought, OK?”

  Dreams On Hold

  The phone call takes forever. The information I am given is irritating and confusing and particularly hard to decipher through my dope smoke screen. By the time I hang up, Tom has given up and wandered off, so I sit and frown and sigh repeatedly until he returns, two carrier bags of food hanging from his wrists.

  “What kind of a country is this?” he asks, pushing his way in. “I mean the French think they’re so civilised – some guy on telly said it was the most civilised country in the world the other day – anyway, I think that’s what he said.” “Le pays le plus civilisé du monde,” he mocks pompously. “But they’ve never even heard of rhubarb crumble. Can you imagine that? You see, we do need to plant rhubarb. Urgently! Anyway, I found lemon meringue pie – I suppose that’ll have to do…” He looks at me and pauses as he notices my expression. “What was that about then?” he asks, nodding sideways towards the phone and pulling a frozen lemon meringue pie in a box from the Picard bag.

  “That,” I say rolling my eyes, “was bad news.”

  “About the gîte?”

  I nod sadly. “About the gîte.”

  “She’s not pulling out?” he asks, suddenly serious, frozen in the doorway, the pie still half in, half out of the bag. “She can’t now, can she?”

  “Not quite,” I say. “But you know Chantal’s missing husband.”

  Tom shrugs. “I never saw him.”

  I shake my head. “None of us did – it seems he’s really missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Yeah, like missing-person missing,” I explain. “He walked out on her eighteen months ago and never came back.”

  “What, like, popped out for a packet of cigarettes?” Tom asks. “Or a lemon meringue pie?”

  I shrug. “Something like that. Only trouble is, because they were married, the place automatically belongs to both of them. So he needs to be present to sign the sale.”

  Tom’s mouth drops. “And what? Chantal didn’t know this when she signed the papers?”

  I shake my head and interrupt. “She says not. I mean, that wasn’t her – it was the lawyer, but no, he said she inherited the gîte, so she just thought it was hers.”

  “So what, until this bloke turns up we can’t buy the place?”

  I shrug. “Unless they declare him dead,” I say. “I think missing presumed dead is the term.”

  Tom nods and then looks at the pie box again, frowning as he reads the French defrosting instructions. “Shit,” he says. “It takes ages. You have to leave it to defrost. So how long is that gonna take?”

  I shrug. “I dunno, doesn’t it say on the box?”

  Tom shakes his head and turns, a bemused expression on his face. “Not the pie! For him to be declared dead!”

  I frown, and then slip into a smirk.

  “What?” Tom says.

  I shrug. “I forgot to ask,” I say, biting my tongue and crossing my eyes in a caricature of stupidity.

  Tom grins at me in disbelief. “You are joking, right? I mean, it’s the only really important bit of information in there.”

  I shrug. “I’m stoned,” I say, starting to snigger. “Sorry.”

  Tom turns his palms skywards and looks at the ceiling and shakes his head, then turns to the kitchen. “I can’t wait that long,” he says, as he disappears. “There’s only one thing for it.”

  “Yeah?” I shout, standing to follow him.

  “We’ll have to eat it frozen,” he replies.

  All About Tom

  My beloved Kawasaki purrs and rolls beautifully from one bend to the next. The air is crisp and clear, the sky a deep shade of blue after the rain. Despite thick, gleaming bike leathers and somewhat less sexy Damart underwear, the cold is starting to reach my thighs and I’m still only a third of the way up. I wonder just how cold it is going to be up there.

  Despite the ride, the air, the sky, the sun, I’m feeling blurry and irritable. As I pass through tiny abandoned villages I wonder how much of my mood is due to the dope hangover, and how much is caused by circumstance – the holdup on the sale and Tom’s refusal to come with me (his own reaction to the hangover being a day in bed.)

  As I leave the 202 and head up towards Guillaumes, little patches of snow start to appear at the roadside and my visor starts to mist up as the temperature plummets. The cold really starts to penetrate my leathers now, but it’s a good feeling – bracing and somehow real, invigorating. I pass a group of cars parked for no apparent reason in the middle of nowhere, then a police car and another, and I vaguely wonder what that’s all about.

  In Guillaumes there seem to be far more people milling about than usual, but I don’t really pay any attention – I put it down to some kind of village fête and continue on up towards Chatauneuf d’Entraunes, the hilltop village where the gîte is located. The snowfall here has been heavy, and though the road has been cleared, I start to wonder if it’s actually possible to get to the top on a motorbike. Cars may slip and slide in the snow, but two hundred kilos of motorbike (two-eighty if you include the rider) on two motorbike tyres – well, if I meet snow on the road then there’s really no way. I wonder about the state of my front tyre and suddenly can’t remember when I last checked the tread. It can’t be far from illegal.

  The scenery is incredible and eventually it manages to pierce my dope bubble. The pines, deepest green, are heavily laden with brilliant white, icing-sugar snow. It looks more and more like a Swiss postcard the higher I ride.

  As I take the final turn towards Chateauneuf d’Entraunes the snow starts to encroach upon the road – there has clearly been far less traffic on this stretch. I pass another policeman sitting in his car on the bend and almost stop to ask what’s up, but really I am just too lazy to pull the brake lever.

  I keep the bike in one of the narrow tracks left by car tyres and slow to walking pace. The bike slithers a little from time to time, but nothing so bad that it doesn’t seem like fun.

  The gîte, when I finally arrive, looks stunning – far more beautiful than my memories. The roof is blanketed with ten inches of snow, rising and falling as it hugs the contours of the roof tiles. Ev
erything – the deep grey stone walls, the plastic table and chairs, even the wheelbarrow – looks different and beautiful topped with this fresh glittering whiteness. But the blue, weather-beaten shutters are closed; there is no trail to the front door. The place has been closed for a while.

  I park the bike and slip and slide my way – my bike boots don’t seem to have much tread left either – round the back of the building and up into the tiny village square, but here too, apart from a couple of single sets of footprints, the place shows no sign of life. I’m not going to be able to speak to Chantal today.

  As I head back through the snow-dampened silence, it strikes me for the first time how difficult it is going to be to fill this place in winter; to get paying guests up here at all, in fact to get anyone, even friends, to visit. And I realise that if the seller has closed the place up awaiting the sale, it’s probable that there aren’t any paying guests in winter anyway – and further, that if she isn’t here to take bookings then we are no longer buying a going concern but a clean slate with an empty diary. It’s going to be harder than I ever imagined to make ends meet.

  I clean the snow from a chair and sit in the sun for a while enjoying the view, which is undeniably stunning and definitely the thing to concentrate on in any marketing we do. I imagine life here, with Tom walking his big dog along the ridge, or tending his rhubarb. I imagine us play fighting over who has to get up to do breakfast for the early-starting hill-walkers. After half an hour my stomach starts to rumble – I had hoped to have lunch here – so I start the bike and crawl back down the hill. The heavy bike on the snow feels much scarier heading back down – lethal in fact – but I make it to the main road without a mishap. The nail of realisation about just how tough winter can be up here is driven in a little further. The bike will be unusable a lot of the time; even in a car it could be hard to get in and out. We’re going to be pretty isolated, pretty cold and money will be tight too. But in the end, as long as I imagine Tom in the picture doing it all with me, as long as I imagine us shovelling snow together or building huge log fires, then it seems fine, brilliant in fact. And I realise that my own dreams really don’t have much to do with the gîte at all. Of course its fun, it’s an adventure, it’s a change, but the more I analyse things, it’s really all just about Tom. And I wonder if that isn’t a good definition of being in love.