Better Than Easy

by Nick Alexander

  “Except for heterosexuals?” I say. Tom frowns, so I continue, “That’s what you said, wasn’t it? That it’s a ‘hetty thing.’ A ‘Christian thing.’”

  Tom glances at the laptop’s screen saver and then back at me. “I meant … Sorry, I’m trying to choose words carefully here.” He sighs. “I meant, that the moral … imperative … to build a lifelong marriage – well, it’s more of a Christian ideal; a Christian heterosexual ideal. I’ve got nothing against it per se … as an option – amongst many – but it hardly seems designed for us, for our lifestyle. That’s all. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “But I find it depressing – the idea that I can’t have that with you. That we can’t even aim for it simply because we aren’t straight. Because, for whatever reason – and I admit that it may be because I grew up in a mainly Christian, mainly hetero environment – but for whatever reason, it’s the model I always wanted, the thing I always dreamt of.”

  Tom frowns thoughtfully.

  “Do you see what I mean?” I say. “Why can’t we choose that, just because we’re gay?”

  Tom sighs and says, “Can I make a cup of tea? I’m not running away or anything, I want to continue, but can I?”

  I nod. “Sure,” I say, happy to have some thinking time. “I’ll have one too.”

  When he returns with the tea he hands one mug to me, then sits back next to me on the sofa and turns as far as he can to face me. “We’re nearly out of milk,” he says. “Sorry.”

  I glance at the semi-transparent contents of the cup and shake my head. “It’s fine,” I say.

  “I was thinking,” Tom says, “about what you said. But it’s not really a gay thing at all. I don’t think any relationships last these days. Straight or gay.”

  I raise an eyebrow at the statement.

  “Well, look at your parents – they split up. And Jenny and Nick. And my cousin and that asshole Pete.”

  “Your parents didn’t,” I point out.

  Tom wrinkles his nose and nods, vaguely conceding the point. “Yeah, but they should have. Actually I think they would have, if Mum hadn’t … if she hadn’t had the accident. She spent her whole life in love with my uncle, my dad’s brother. He came back from Australia just before she … I think she would have left Dad if she had had the chance. So even when they do stay together for thirty years, like my parents did, well, that doesn’t stop it being a sham. Most of the time they’d rather be doing something else. Most lifelong couples would rather split up, but they don’t because of the kids.”

  I wrinkle my brow to show that while I accept his logic, I’m not happy with the outcome.

  “Do you see what I mean?” Tom says. “I don’t see staying together forever, what ever, as a dream at all. It always looks like a prison sentence to me.”

  I nod slowly. “But it’s just so depressing,” I say.

  Tom shrugs. “It’s only depressing if you think that’s what you have to have, that that’s how it should be. If you just give up on the idea and take each day as it comes, if you just assume that everything is transitory, then it’s fine. Fun even.”

  I nod vaguely and reach out to stroke Tom’s leg. “I do see what you’re saying,” I say. “But … I don’t know. It doesn’t work for me.”

  Paloma leaps onto Tom’s lap and starts to turn round and around in an attempt at getting comfortable. Tom uncrosses his legs to help her. “Dizzy cat,” he says.

  “What you say makes sense, Tom, especially coming from where you’re coming from. Your parents, my parents, Jenny, Nick … I mean, I can’t fault the logic, but I don’t see how you can live like that. How can you plan for anything, build anything? How can you do anything other than live day-to-day if it’s all going to end?”

  “That’s the idea I think,” Tom says. “To live day-to-day.”

  “So, what about, say, the gîte? There are things that take planning, things that take more than a day. Things you can only do with the assumption that you’ll still be here tomorrow.”

  “It’s like life,” Tom says. “We all know we die at the end; we all know it’s ultimately pointless, but we do it anyway.”

  I swallow hard and nod slowly. “Except that that isn’t how I live,” I say. “What you say is true, but it’s not how I live. I don’t think about the fact that I’m gonna die all the time; that it’s all pointless – if I did I wouldn’t get out of bed in the morning. It’s how humans live – we pretend we aren’t going to die. And it may not be logical or scientific, or right even, but it can still be a better, happier way to live. And I do pretend that we’ll be together forever – or at least that we’ll maybe be together forever. Because the alternative – believing, as you do, that it’s all destined to dust anyway – makes me want to just not bother, not make any effort; it makes me want to give up at the first hurdle.”

  Tom grits his teeth and pulls his bottom lip down into a cartoon grimace. “That bad huh?” he says.

  “But beyond the …” I shrug. “Emotional? side of things … I think that even in practical terms, well, I think that we make our own destiny. Through what we choose to believe.”

  “We do all die though,” Tom says. “Whether we believe it or not.”

  I nod. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “But not all relationships are doomed. Some do last a lifetime. But practically speaking, it kind of seems to me that if you don’t believe that it can, if you don’t even entertain that possibility, well, then it is doomed.”

  “Doomed,” Tom says in a Scottish accent. “We’re all doomed.”

  I frown at him.

  “Sorry,” he says, pulling a guilty face.

  “Don’t mock me,” I say.

  “It’s just all getting a bit dramatic,” Tom says gently. “A bit metaphysical.”

  “I know. But it is metaphysical,” I say. “There’s a bit of me that thinks that what you choose to believe is important. And if you believe that something can happen, then maybe it can, and if you believe that it can’t, then, well, it really can’t.”

  “So if I believe in UFO’s …” Tom says.

  “No. But if you believe our relationship might last forever then it might,” I say. “And if you don’t, then, well, it just won’t.”

  Tom nods. “I just think, take it a day at a time and see what happens,” he says, tipping his head sideways.

  And though I’m not quite sure why, I can sense that the communication is lost for now. That there’s no common ground, no meeting of the paths, and nowhere, following my or Tom’s logic, for us to go here. If we push this to the end of either road there’s only one conclusion. We are doomed. And I don’t want to go there. I’m not ready for it. I still want to believe.

  “Yeah,” I say vaguely. I sigh. “I guess that’s all anyone can do.”

  Tom looks relieved as if he just got released from a job interview. “On a more practical note,” he says. “Shall we go and get some food in?”

  I nod sadly and stand. “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s do that.”

  Surprise Guest

  I can’t believe you’re both abandoning me,” I say, taking the knives and forks from Jenny’s grasp.

  Tom’s shouts his contribution from the next room. “You see what I have to put up with?” he whines.

  Jenny smiles at me good-naturedly. “We’re hardly abandoning you,” she says.

  “Abandoning,” Tom wails mockingly.

  “We’ll both be back for New Year’s Eve,” Jenny continues as she searches for five identical spoons, “but it’s just, well, my mum needs me around at Christmas.” She holds out the spoons. “I have to go home, at least for Christmas.”

  I move to the other room and start to distribute the cutlery around the table. “You’re such a hypocrite,” Tom says, his eyes following me around the room, his lazy smile revealing that he’s only half joking.

  “How?” I say, glancing up at him. “Why a hypocrite?”

  “Only yesterday you were complaining that F
rance is supposed to be secular – but that the secular rules only apply to religions other than Catholicism.

  Jenny enters the room with glasses and napkins. She puts them on the table and ruffles Sarah’s hair. “How does that work?” she says.

  “I …” I start to explain.

  “Oh he was going on about how, you know, Muslim girls aren’t allowed to wear headscarves to school, but crosses are still everywhere, and all the public holidays like Ascension and Easter are all still Catholic holidays – and how all the the Pope needs to do is fart and French TV covers it immediately in HD stereo.”

  Jenny nods and pushes her bottom lip out. “Well, that’s true,” she says. “They even tell you which saint’s day it is at the end of the weather forecast for God’s sake.”

  I raise an eyebrow and nod at Tom in a, you see, kind of way.

  “Oh yeah, it’s true all right, but …”

  “Not what you said yesterday,” I mutter.

  “But …” Tom pauses pedantically, before continuing, “You can’t then start having a go at me because I’m not going to be here for Jesus’ birthday.”

  “I was talking about the French state banning Muslim stuff in the name of secularity but not … Anyway, it’s not about Jesus’ birthday.”

  “Well, it is actually,” Jenny says, laughing.

  “I know, but I mean, for me it’s not about that at all. It’s simply the one day a year when you’re supposed to spend the day eating and drinking and cuddling up with your loved one. Christmas isn’t a day you’re supposed to spend on your own looking at the cat.”

  “Christmas,” Sarah repeats.

  Jenny shoots her a smile. “Yes,” she says. “Christmas,” then to me, “I suppose you think I’m indoctrinating her.”

  I frown. “Not at all. As long as you’re not telling her that she was born in sin or any of that mediaeval rubbish.”

  Sarah frowns at the opaque turn the conversation has taken again and concentrates on her remote control puppy, which waddles straight into the wall.

  “She’s made a list for Father Christmas, haven’t you,” Jenny says.

  Sarah glances up and nods wide-eyed at me.

  “Maybe I should make one,” I say.

  “What would you put on it?” Jenny says. “I haven’t got you anything yet, so …”

  “A boyfriend to have Christmas dinner with,” I say.

  Tom lets out a theatrical groan. “That’s why we’re having Christmas dinner tonight,” he says.

  “Maybe you should go with him,” Jenny says, methodically folding napkins and putting them in the wineglasses. “If it’s that important to you.”

  “He doesn’t want me to go,” I say. “He hasn’t suggested it once.”

  “And Mark doesn’t really care,” Tom says, moving to my side. “He’s just being pissy.” He nudges my side and winks at me. “Aren’t you?” he adds.

  I sigh and, noting that the table seems finished, I pull out a chair and sit. I don’t bother arguing because a) the sparring is starting to tire me, and b) he’s perfectly right – the truth is that my flat is too small for both of us, and in secret I’m looking forward to a TV-free, dope-free, yes, Tom-free break. My complaints have more to do with my own guilt about that than anything else.

  “There,” Jenny says, surveying the table. “That’s better.”

  Tom stands beside her, hands on hips. “Very festive,” he says. “Shall I light the candles?”

  “Crackers?” Jenny inquires, looking from Tom to myself.

  I shake my head.

  “I left them downstairs,” Tom says. “I’ll go get them.”

  “So are you angry with Tom?” Jenny asks, once he has left. “About Christmas.”

  I wrinkle my nose and tip my head to one side. “A bit,” I say. “More about the whole going home to work than Christmas itself. But I could do with a break too. We’ve been so on top of each other since I stopped work.”

  She nods thoughtfully and smiles blankly, revealing that her mind is really elsewhere. “Well that’s OK then,” she says.

  “So what did you ask Father Christmas for?” I ask Sarah.

  She turns her moon-face at me. She has a serious nature for a little girl, an often-blank expression and glassy eyes. She’s a pretty girl but she somehow looks a bit too serious for her age – like she might be about to cry, or that deep down she might be crying already, silently. Of course she isn’t, it’s just something about her features, her lack of expression.

  “A wee,” she declares forcefully.

  I frown and look to Jenny for translation.

  Jenny shrugs. “That’s what it’s called. It’s a computer game. It’s W-I-I – Wii. But I’m not sure Father Christmas will be able to run to a Wii this year lovey. And I’m not sure he agrees that it’s appropriate for a wee young thing like yourself.”

  Sarah looks again like she might cry but actually smiles in a mechanical kind of way that leaves the rest of her features intact. She turns back to the puppy. “A Wii,” she repeats quietly – her passing shot at obstinacy.

  “So are we to be blessed with the presence of Doctor Love?” I ask.

  I hear Tom bound back up the stairs, and turn to take the box of Christmas crackers from his hands. But the person standing behind me isn’t Tom. I’m so shocked to see who is there that my heart stops beating completely for a second or so. When it resumes normal function it beats double to make up for lost time.

  I let my mouth drop and stare at him. My brow slowly wrinkles. “How on Earth can he be standing here?” I think. I actually blink, just in case this is a trick of the mind and he will mysteriously morph back into Tom. But it is still Ricardo’s face that stares back at me, his expression identical to my own. I cock my head to one side and work my mouth but nothing comes out.

  Jenny moves into view from my right. “Mark, Ricky, Ricky, Mark.”

  I swallow hard and let out a prolonged, “Oh!” My mouth starts to form the shape for the ‘W’ of “We’ve met,” but Ricardo beats me to it. His face clicks and shifts into action forcing a blank expression and then a winning smile as if he is responding to a meet new person button on Sarah’s remote control.

  “Mark!” he says. “I’m so happy to meet you. Jenny has tell me so much about you.”

  “Told,” Jenny corrects him, then as an aside to me she adds, “Rick is learning English.”

  I swallow my forming sentence, swallow again, and then take a deep breath and form an unconvincing copy of his expression. “Great! Well. Jenny told me almost nothing about you!” I joke acerbically. “Except that you’re a … What is it you do again? A doctor? Is that right?”

  Ricardo nods. “Yes, that’s right.” He turns to Jenny, kisses her on the lips and hands her a bottle of Champagne. “Here. Because it’s Christmas,” he says.

  Petites Mensonges

  Jenny looks from Rick to myself and back again, frowning as she picks up on the weird atmosphere. My brain is racing as I try to work out all of the implications of Ricardo being Rick, and Rick being Jenny’s boyfriend; his pretending to be a doctor when he’s really a fireman. I’m also trying to work out why we’re pretending we haven’t met before, and why – if my allegiance is to Tom and Jenny, as it clearly should be – I am playing along with his little game, whatever that is. I’m also trying to work out what exactly will happen if I stop playing along – if I say, “Surely, we have met, haven’t we?”

  Tom bounds into the room holding the absurdly sized box of Christmas crackers, and his presence, the fact that he knows Rick already, somehow complicates the dynamic even further and, overloaded with questions, my brain slides into numb submission and gives up any attempt at processing.

  “Rick! Hi!” Tom says. “Good to see you again. Spivvy as ever, I see!”

  Ricardo frowns. “Spivvy?”

  “It just means well dressed,” Jenny says, starting to ease off his coat which is glistening from the rain.

  Ricardo is indeed looking sp
ivvy – he’s wearing a brown suit with a vague orange check, a striped shirt and a pink tie. The result looks like something from The Apprentice.

  “Tom expects everyone to dress like a crusty,” Jenny adds. “Just because he does.”

  “Hey! I used to wear suits,” Tom says. “For work.”

  “Yes, I come from work,” Ricardo says.

  “Came,” Jenny corrects – a little savagely it strikes me.

  “So, Rick,” I say. “Is that Richard or …”

  “Ricardo,” he confirms. “But Jenny likes Rick better.”

  “Actually I like Ricky best of all but he doesn’t like it,” she laughs. “Did you know he’s Colombian?”

  I nod. “Y … No,” I say, struggling to work out what I’m supposed to know and what I’m not.

  Ricardo nods. “Franco-Colombian,” he says, then with a wink. “Like Ingrid Betancourt. You know her?”

  “Anyway,” Tom says. “Shall we sit? There’s not really room for all this standing around.”

  “Please,” Ricardo says, waving a hand above the dining table. “I go help Jenny with the aperitifs.”

  “What’s up with you?” Tom asks me once Ricardo has swept Sarah from the floor and followed Jenny into the kitchen.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if I can brazen it out, or indeed if I should.

  “Do you fancy him or something?” Tom asks. “You’re acting all weird.”

  I shake my head. “Am I?” I say. “No, it’s just …”

  “Huh, now I know you’re being weird,” Tom says. “You don’t fancy him?”

  I frown. “Yeah, no, I mean, he’s cute. But that’s not …” I glance at the door wondering if they will reappear to save me, to give me some more thinking time, but I can hear Jenny laughing and Sarah shrieking over her in a bid for Ricardo’s attention.

  “Well?” Tom asks.

  I shrug. “He reminds me of someone,” I say. “He reminds me of someone I met on a bike run so much it’s uncanny.”

  “Are we talking about one of your many conquests?” Tom asks mockingly.