By the time I have cleaned up Jenny’s rubble (the place still looks terrible), and returned downstairs, I am feeling exhausted and fed up. My own flat, filled with buckets and saucepans and mops and the propped up mattress, and without Tom, feels lonely and almost as desolate as Jenny’s. I sigh deeply. I’m over-hungry but I can’t be bothered to cook, so I vaguely consider going out for a pizza, but I hate eating alone in restaurants, so I sigh again. This time the sigh is interrupted by a knock on the door. I stand, still lost in my drama of weariness, and open the door to Ricardo’s smiling face. He’s holding two pizza boxes.
“I think you are maybe too busy to cook, so …” he says grinning broadly and jiggling the boxes from side to side.
The perfect timing plus the fact that I now remember Ricardo was in my dirty dream leaves me momentarily speechless. And then I think of a feminist joke from the eighties, and start to grin myself. “Q: What’s the ideal man? A: One that shags you senseless and then morphs into a pizza.”
Sex Like Chocolate
Ricardo smiles and frowns simultaneously. “Why you laugh?” he asks.
I shake my head and stand aside. “No reason, please, come in.”
He places the pizza boxes on the coffee table and shoots me a quizzical glance. “It’s OK?” he asks. “Maybe you are busy?”
I shake my head and smile in reassurance. “To be honest,” I tell him, “it’s perfect. I’m starving, too tired to cook, too lazy to go out. I don’t really want to be on my own and I was just thinking how nice a pizza would be.”
Ricardo laughs. “All this!” he says. “Good timing then.” He undoes his tie, rolls it and puts it in his pocket, then hangs his jacket over the back of a chair. “Jenny phoned me,” he says. “She felt so guilty leaving you like that, so I thought I would come and …”
“Ah! So you’re here as Jenny’s surrogate.” Ricardo frowns at this, so I continue, “On her behalf. Never mind. Anyway, I’ll get some knives and the mayo.”
Ricardo frowns. “Mayonnaise? With pizza?”
I nod and grin sheepishly. “It’s magical – you’ll see.”
The pizzas are oversized, over cheesy and generally orgasmic. As I fill my mouth with the first hot slice, Ricardo, who is rolling his shirtsleeves – revealing a glimpse of his tanned furry arms – says, “So you stop the water? It’s OK now?”
I nod and fan my mouth to help the steam escape. “Yeah, the plumber came, he fixed it. He left a hell of a mess though.”
Ricardo nods. “Maybe I can help you?” he says.
I shake my head. “Should be able to get Jenny’s insurance to pay for it all, so …”
Ricardo nods. “Well, if you do – I’m very good at … bricolage.”
“DIY,” I say. “For Do It Yourself.”
“DIY,” he repeats, grinning and reaching for pizza. “I like.”
“A man of many talents,” I say, wondering as I say it, if I am now lapsing into cheesy flirtation. I decide I need to get a grip on myself.
Ricardo nods and grins innocently. “Many!” he laughs.
“So are you really a doctor?” I ask.
He frowns at me. “Of course!” he says.
“So are you really a pompier?” I ask, in exactly the same voice.
Ricardo frowns and grins. “Of course!” he says. “A part-time pompier. Just one weekend a month at the moment.”
I laugh. “OK,” I say. “I thought there was something fishy going on.”
“Fishy?” Ricardo repeats.
I nod. “Strange. Never mind.”
“It’s for my French – how you say? – dossier. I think it helps for my French nationality request that I work as a pompier. I hope.”
I frown and cock my head to one side. “But you are French, no?”
“Not yet,” he replies, pouting and shaking his head.
“But you said …”
“Yes, I tell everyone this. I have waited five years now. If you say just Colombian to the French, they think Third World, or cocaine, or both – but nothing else. They think of you as étranger – a stranger?”
“A foreigner,” I say. “It’s the same with the English. You say you’re English and they either start going on about how we burned Joan of Arc, or the fact that we’re not in the Euro. They never seem to mention the Second World War for some reason.”
Ricardo nods. “Yes. And they like their doctors to be not foreign. So I say I already have double nationality.”
I nod. “Fair enough,” I say. “I don’t think anyone in Britain would care if you weren’t French – I mean, English. Plenty of the doctors are from elsewhere.”
Ricardo nods. “No. Probably not.”
“And you think being a pompier will help?”
Ricardo raises an eyebrow. “Maybe. I hope,” he says. “Everyone in France loves the pompier. How do you say in English?”
I shrug. “It’s difficult,” I explain. “We have fireman for fires, and then ambulances with medics. We don’t really have the combined paramedic thing. I suppose that’s it – a paramedic.”
He nods. “OK,” he says. “Paramedic. Though I like fire-man better. Anyway, everyone in France loves the fire-man.”
I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “Tell me about it.”
Ricardo laughs. “You too?”
I nod. “Fit guys, great uniform, saving children from burning buildings, giving the kiss of life … What’s not to like?”
Ricardo nods and stuffs pizza into his mouth.
“So why didn’t you tell Jenny we met?” I ask. “Why pretend like that?”
He shrugs and finishes his mouthful before replying. “I don’t know,” he says. “I ask myself the same question.”
I twist my mouth sideways, showing I’m unconvinced.
“I think because I didn’t mention it before,” he says. “We met two times and I never told her. So …”
I nod. “OK,” I say. “But why didn’t you tell her?”
Ricardo shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Really. And you? You tell Tom?”
“Yeah … no … sort of,” I say. As I stumblingly reply, it strikes me that if Ricardo is worrying about telling/not telling his partner that he met me, it must mean something – and it probably means the same thing it meant when I didn’t, then guiltily did tell Tom. Otherwise, why would he care? “I mentioned it in passing,” I say.
Ricardo nods and, it seems to me, looks disappointed. “OK,” he says.
We eat in silence for a moment, and then he knocks the wind right out of me by saying, “Jenny tell me you were lovers.”
I almost cough my pizza out. “We dated,” I correct, when I can speak. “A long time ago. It didn’t work.”
“Why not?” Ricardo asks.
I think of a line from Torchsong Trilogy and produce an approximation: “Well, she needed a big strong man. And I needed … a big strong man,” I say.
Ricardo laughs. “OK,” he says.
“It was my last attempt with a woman,” I say. “Before I realised.”
Ricardo nods again. “And now you are married with Tom.”
I laugh. “Yeah, well, not married. We’re together.”
Ricardo smiles. “So no more Jenny.”
I frown. “No! You don’t think … Surely you’re not worried that …”
Ricardo laughs. “No! I mean, no more girls!”
“Oh!” I grin. “Ah! No. I, erm, prefer guys.”
Ricardo nods and looks serious for a moment.
“Does that shock you? Is it difficult for you?” I ask.
He pushes out his lips and shakes his head. And then he shocks me even more. “Not at all!” he says. “I have also … with men.”
I pause chewing for a moment. Did he really just say that?
“Maybe that shock you,” he says.
I swallow. “A bit,” I say. “I mean, not … just, well, because it’s you … because you’re dating Jenny. Does she know?”
Ricardo shakes his head. “That I
have been with men? No.”
I nod. “I see,” I say.
“I don’t tell her about my other girlfriends either.”
I frown. This is getting worse and worse. “You have other girlfriends?”
Ricardo laughs and waves a hand over his shoulder. “Before, I mean!”
I blow through my lips. “Oof! OK,” I say. “So why didn’t you tell her?”
Ricardo shrugs. “What would be the reason? So that she would worry about …” he waves a hand at the space between us, “this, now?”
I nod. “But it’s kind of lying by omission.”
“Noo!” Ricardo says dismissively. “Not lying. You tell everyone everything about yourself?”
I shrug. “I guess not,” I say. “Well, pretty much maybe. So you’re what? Bisexual?”
Ricardo shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t worry. I’m me. I’m Ricardo.”
“OK,” I say. “But what do you say if someone asks you?”
He shrugs again. “They don’t.” He points at the final slice of pizza. “Can I?”
I nod. “It’s yours. Go ahead.”
“I always knew I was not, you know, one hundred percent straight. But I do feel attracted to women too. Just not all.”
“I’m not attracted to all men,” I say.
“No,” Ricardo says. “And never women?”
I shake my head. “Not really,” I say. “So do you have a preference, or is it just …”
“It’s a complex thing,” he says. “I prefer a good looking man to an ugly woman, or a good looking man to … I mean, a good looking woman … you know what I mean.”
I nod. “Sure,” I say. “But if they’re the same – equally good looking. What then? You must have an overall preference, surely?”
Ricardo shrugs. “It never happen, so … I suppose I like the sex with men better. It’s more direct. But I prefer relationship with woman.”
I wince at his deballage, suddenly wondering just how much of this I want to know. Jenny after all, is my oldest friend. “Plus,” Ricardo says, definitely pushing through the limits of what I want to hear, “a woman can’t fuck you, not ever.”
I clench my teeth at this truth, causing Ricardo to pull a face. “Sorry,” he says. “I tell you too much. The problem with doctors. Doctors and nurses. It’s all banale for us.”
I wobble my head from side to side, Indian style, to indicate, kind of. “It all just sounds a bit messy really,” I say.
“Messy?”
“Bordelique,” I translate. “It sounds complicated.”
Ricardo shrugs. “Not always. Sometimes. But life often is complicate. Your life is never bordelique?”
I laugh. “OK,” I say. “Sure it is. Sometimes. I take your point.”
“I don’t have,” he says soberly shrugging. “I don’t have a point. Except maybe that this is who we are. This is Ricardo.”
I nod and reflect on this. “Whachagonnado?” I say.
Ricardo nods. “The mayonnaise is good,” he laughs. “Maybe too fattening, not necessary, but it’s OK.”
I grin. “This is Mark!” I say, pinching an inch. “Wachagonnado? Don’t you feel like you’re lying though? I mean, when you’re with Jenny – if you prefer sex with a guy, isn’t it – a cliché I know – but isn’t it sort of living a lie?”
Ricardo shakes his head. “No lie,” he says.
“But I don’t lie about my sexuality to anyone,” I say.
Ricardo nods. “But again, you don’t tell everyone everything either. Everyone does not need to know every thing,” he says.
“I don’t think I would feel like me,” I say. “If I had to pretend.”
“Validation …” He sighs and slips into French. “La validation ne vient pas de l’extérieur.” – “Validation doesn’t come from outside.”
“I know who Ricardo is,” he says. “That’s what matters.”
“But you do prefer sex with a man,” I say.
Ricardo shrugs. “I prefer chocolate to bread,” he says.
“Chocolate?”
“Yes. I love chocolate. But I can’t eat only chocolate. You can’t live on chocolate.”
I shrug. “I think I could!” I laugh.
Ricardo stays for another hour. He helps me tidy the bedroom and manoeuvre the mattress back onto the bed. He points out that it will dry better if the air can get to both sides. It’s a good job Tom isn’t here to claim that particular victory.
He actually offers to put me up at his place until it dries, but as he describes it as a studio, this seems fraught with danger. I’m tempted, obviously I am. Were I single I’d jump at the chance just to find out what’s really on offer. Were he not Jenny’s guy I might even jump him none the less – he’s one of the cutest, most exotic guys I have ever met. But I’m not single, nor is he, and the situation – his bisexuality or his Rickexuality or whatever he chooses to call it; the fact that he’s dating my best friend, that he knows Tom – well, it’s all too much, so I heroically resist, or at least that’s what I tell myself. It’s probably half of the truth. The other half is that I’m too tired after my disastrous day to move a single muscle, and that’s probably a very good thing for everyone concerned.
So once Ricardo has kissed me on both cheeks – his stubble prickling enticingly – I close the door, grab a blanket and settle on the sofa with Paloma. As I doze off to sleep I wonder if I can muster up and maybe even continue yesterday’s oh-so-enjoyable dream.
The second I fall asleep, I’m re-awakened by a phone call from Tom and then another from Jenny. I sort-of-lie to both of them by not mentioning Ricardo’s visit. As I doze back to sleep, I fret that Ricardo may tell Jenny, but I feel quite sure that he won’t, a fact that somehow seems even more disturbing.
*
The next morning when I awaken, I feel, despite it all, thoroughly refreshed, verging on manic even. I realise that the sofa is in fact much more comfortable than the bed and wonder if the water leak and pending insurance claim aren’t the perfect opportunity to buy a new one.
The rain outside has stopped and the sun is making a half-hearted attempt at reaching planet Earth, so I get dressed hurriedly and head through the old town for breakfast at La Civette.
Breakfast out is a luxury I rarely allow myself. In the strange world of perceived value there are things I can buy without even looking at the price tag (gadgets, iPods, telephones, computers …) and things that for some reason irk me beyond belief. Paying four Euros for a seventy-cent croissant to be served on a plate is one of them. But today, after two weeks of rain, eight Euros for coffee and croissant in the sun seems like a bargain. Dark clouds are still lurking to the east and west, so whichever way the weather moves it won’t last long, but for now, at least, the sun is beating down, and I close my eyes and bask in the warmth.
I glance around the terrace as it fills rapidly in the sunshine. I try to convince myself that I’m just looking around, but in truth I’m hoping to spot Ricardo, and the fact of this desire to see him again makes me feel a little disappointed in myself. As my coffee arrives, I realise that I still don’t know what he actually wanted to talk to me about, unless it was about his bisexuality, but then why would he feel the need to tell me? Unless my vague suspicion – or is it my hope? – that he has been cruising me from the start, is correct.
I look around the terrace again and think back to the old days, to the dating game. I met quite a few people in this bar, either by chance or prearranged over the net. They were nearly always catastrophic disappointments, the potential Mister Right turning out to be either fifty percent bigger or smaller or madder than expected; I’m glad to be out of it, and yet, in a way I miss it too. The thrill of the hunt, the excitement of first – even if usually illusory – love.
I chew croissant and sip coffee and think about Tom in Brighton and wonder what he’s doing, and inevitably question if he’s being faithful. Every synapse seems to conclude that he isn’t, that he’s probably with tool4you or whatever
his name is, already getting his holes filled, and I wonder why it matters to me so much.
I’m hardly the first person in the world to think that fidelity is important – that’s why we have a word for it. And so I end up pondering why it is so important to so many people. Isn’t it just a case of the ego asking, demanding, that the wonderful person that I am suffice? That my marvellous self should be sufficient for all Tom’s needs? For life? That would surely be absurdly arrogant of me? And then I wonder whose potential infidelity I’m trying to excuse.
The thought makes me uncomfortable, so as the market traders start to pack up their fruit and veg stalls I turn my thoughts back to Tom. I think about phoning him not so much to check up on him but … OK, to check up on him. I could log into his second email account, the one he thinks I don’t know about. I could surf Recon to see if he’s online, maybe even create a tempting profile to trap him. But in the end it strikes me that that road can only lead to deception if I’m right, or the madness of an endless hunt for proof if I’m not. It seems wiser and easier just to choose to believe, to choose to be naive. It’s perhaps revealing that the two words rhyme.
A very Cote d’Azur woman in vast Christian Dior sunglasses and gold high heels installs herself at the table in front of mine, and begins a strident conversation on her iPhone. It’s one of those completely pointless, “Hi, I’m just calling to let you know that I’m calling you,” conversations, devoid of any useful information for the called party. She might as well be saying, “Hi, I’m just calling to let you (and everyone around me) know that I’m one of those complete losers who still thinks having a mobile phone is groovy and hip.” I watch the chrome edge catching the light as she waves it about and think about the gîte, about how our life will be up in the mountains far away from all of this.
Tom of course doesn’t believe that it will happen. So what will happen to me if he’s right? Will I look for another gîte? Will I move back to Brighton to be with him? Or maybe I’ll just sell up, pack up and move onto somewhere new, leaving the gîte and Nice and Tom behind.
Better Than Easy Page 10
