I look up from the previous weekend’s Sunday Times, which I’m still trying (and failing) to read. “Sorry?” I say. “He’s fixed a date?”
Tom throws himself onto the sofa. “Yeah,” he says, apparently to the ceiling. “The thirteenth. I think the sooner the better to be honest.”
“February?” I say. “February the thirteenth?”
“Yeah,” Tom says, rolling to one side so that he faces me and propping his head up on one hand.
“Why, ‘the sooner the better?’” I ask, adding to cover my tracks, “I bet Jenny doesn’t think that.”
“Well, that way Jenny can move on,” he answers. “That way, we can all move on.”
I stare at him and lick the corner of my mouth as I analyse the phrase and try to work out what it might mean – could there be another interpretation other than that he knows? And then the phone rings. I hunt around the flat for the missing handset, and locating it in beneath a cushion, with the words, we can all move on, still bouncing around inside my head, I hit the button, and a woman’s voice greets me, French, Chantal.
“Sorry, I’ve been away,” she says. “I needed a break.” The lawyer, she explains, wants to set the date for the final signature; “So would the fourteenth of February, eleven a.m. be OK?”
My skin prickles. I listen to my heart beating, to the sound of my own breath. I can almost hear the creaking cogs as this particular set of points on the train-tracks of life hesitate between one direction and another.
Tom is frowning at me, wondering – suspecting, even – who is on the phone. I think, “The fourteenth – the day after Ricardo leaves.” I hear the words, as if they are still echoing, “We can all move on.” And I hear myself say, “OK, the fourteenth then. Eleven a.m.,” then, “oh, and, um, can we meet? Just a couple of hours, but, I’ve got this vast list of questions for you before you vanish.”
“Oui, pourquoi pas …” Chantal replies. – “Sure, why not? How about the afternoon – after the meeting with the notary?”
By the time I hang up, Tom has moved to my side. He’s staring at me, aware that something has happened, something major – perhaps he heard the squealing of the points too.
His face is taut, his eyes are glassy, as if he has understood everything, but daren’t quite believe. “Was that …?” he asks.
I nod.
“The lawyer?”
I shake my head, and momentarily he looks devastated.
“Chantal,” I say. “We’re signing on the fourteenth.”
“Feb?” Tom asks.
I nod.
“Wow!” he says, frowning seriously and nodding. “The day after Ricardo leaves,” he says, poignantly. “That’s perfect.”
I clear my throat. “Why?” I say.
Tom shrugs. “Well, to start with it will give poor Jenny something to think about.”
I nod vaguely. “Yes,” I say. “Of course.” In my self-centred drama, I had forgotten that Jenny and Sarah were even moving up there with us.
Tom runs his tongue across his front teeth, now visibly fighting a smile. “Are we really doing it?” he says. “I can hardly believe it.”
I stare into his eyes, and eye contact makes I contact, and I can’t help it, I start to grin with him. “If it’s what you want,” I say. “If you’re sure.”
Tom’s cheekbones start to protrude, his eyes start to sparkle. “I am,” he says. “Are you?”
I nod. “I am,” I say, and as I say it the whole sorry mountain of stress slips from my shoulders and slides into the muddy past with an unspectacular plop.
Tom screws his face up in a weird fashion, then through gritted teeth, he lets out a little yelp and jumps up and down twice. He looks about ready for infant school with Sarah. “Fuck!” he says. “Fuck fuck! I’m so happy.”
He grasps my head with both hands and plants a big wet kiss on my lips. “You’re sure you’re sure?” he asks.
I nod. “I am,” I say. “I told you.” And in that crazy space of my seesaw mind, it is, at that second, entirely true.
Tom repeats the grasping, kissing gesture, and says again. “Fuck. I’m so happy,” then, “shit, that’s in two weeks. Shit we have a lot to do. We have to confirm the bridging loan, get this place on the market, organise a moving van … Can I tell Jenny? I’m gonna tell Jenny.”
With that, he bounds from the room, and I stand in shock and joy, all mixed up, and think how easy it was in the end to say, ‘yes,’ and I think I realise for the first time in my life the power of words. For I have said, ‘Yes,’ or, ‘Oui,’ – three letters in either language; and everything has changed, the future is born anew, and it feels right, and good, and true. I think of the Coldplay song that Jenny quoted and I think, “That’s how it happens then.” A life, a destiny, a future, all created from thin air, woven so naturally from the words we choose to say, not woven from those we keep inside. It’s that simple.
Tom returns a minute later with Jenny and Sarah in tow. “This calls for a celebration,” he says excitedly.
“Picnic?” Sarah says, her face hopeful as she picks up on Tom’s excitement.
Jenny sweeps her up into her arms. “No darling,” she explains. “We can’t have a picnic every time.” She rolls her eyes and looks at me. “So it’s happening,” she says. “How exciting.” I notice but ignore something in her tone, something restrained, something complex. “You’ll be able to build snowmen in Mark and Tom’s garden,” she adds.
“Snowmen?” Sarah says.
“Yeah, you haven’t seen them yet,” Jenny replies. “Actually, yes you have. In the book.”
“In the blue book?” Sarah says. “Le bonhomme de neige?”
Jenny nods. “Indeed,” she says, then, her accent not a patch on Sarah’s, “Le bonhomme de neige.”
“There’s no reason why we can’t have a picnic,” Tom says.
Jenny glances at the window. “Weather’s OK. I could probably rustle up some stuff. And Ricky’s off this afternoon, so he could join us.”
“I’d rather do it tomorrow,” I say. “I need to do some things today – phone the bank and stuff.”
Jenny shrugs. “Fine, tomorrow then. To be honest, I’m not sure I want him to come anyway. This is our celebration isn’t it?” She jiggles Sarah, who remains cross looking, up and down. “We’re going on a picnic,” she enthuses. “Tomorrow!”
“We could go to that lake you mentioned,” Tom suggests.
“It’s better in summer, but, yeah, I’m sure it’ll be fine. As long as the weather is OK,” I say.
“That’s settled then,” Jenny says, swivelling to leave. “See you tomorrow.”
Once she has left, I comment, “She seemed funny.”
Tom frowns at me. “You think?” he says, apparently oblivious. “Well, I suppose she’s going to be. Probably more and more … what with Mister Wonderful leaving and everything.”
Phasing Out
We leave the house the next morning at ten a.m. The weather looks unsettled with dotted clouds moving quickly through a pale blue sky. There is still a distinct February chill to the air, which prompts a last minute dash by Jenny back up to her flat for extra pullovers. The round trip seems to take far longer than it should, and by the time she returns – wearing entirely different clothes, I notice – a policeman is approaching.
“Sorry,” she says. “Ricardo phoned just as I was …”
“Can we actually go now?” Tom asks, nervously watching the policeman.
Jenny squeezes into the back seat and Tom takes off even before I have my door closed. “They’re bastards here. Look, he already has his pad out,” he spits.
As we head north to the motorway, the sky darkens, and I think we all independently wonder if this was such a good idea, but then as we circle around Nice and drive west, we leave the unsettled weather behind us and head into pure blue sky. The journey is unusually quiet, even Sarah remains virtually silent. The atmosphere inside the car isn’t uncomfortable in any way, but rarely h
ave I been on a car journey when everyone seemed so quiet, so thoughtful. I assume everyone is simply mulling over the newly confirmed future and everything it implies.
At the lake, we park the car beneath some parasol pines near the only café still open, and, heavily laden with blankets and cool-boxes, we tramp down to the shingle beach. It’s packed solid here in summer but entirely empty today.
The water, a deep emerald green, reaches all the way to the horizon. “Wow it’s huge,” Jenny says. “And beautiful. It’s artificial you say?”
“Yeah, it’s an electricity reservoir isn’t it?” Tom says.
Jenny frowns, so I explain. “Hydro electric. There’s a dam over that way. The lake belongs to EDF.”
“Nice to see man make something pretty for a change,” she says.
By the time the blanket is spread, glasses distributed, Champagne poured and tubs of ready-made pasta salad from Monoprix prised open (this is a Tom-food picnic and it shows) it’s warm enough to sunbathe.
Tom pulls his top off and declares, “Better make the most of it. It might be a while before you see this temperature again.”
“Do you think there is still snow up there?” Jenny asks.
I nod. “A bit,” I say. “But not much. I’m going up there next Thursday to talk to Chantal about how she runs the place. You can come if you want.”
Jenny shakes her head. “I can’t on Thursday,” she says. “I’m working. And Sarah’s at nursery.”
And that’s the moment that it dawns on me. “Your job,” I say, furrowing my brow. “How are you going to …?”
Jenny licks her lips, glances at Tom, and coughs, waiting, it seems, to see how the phrase will end.
“What are you going to do?” I continue. I have been so wrapped up in my own stuff, I haven’t even thought about it before. “Jenny?” I prompt.
Jenny grimaces. “Shit,” she says. “I was going to tell you, but, well, I didn’t want to spoil the celebration.”
Tom swivels and stares at her gravely. “Jenny!” he says sharply. His voice is strained, making it sound more like a rebuke than anything else.
I frown at him, but then turn back to Jenny as she shoots Tom an equally complex look and continues, pleadingly, “I can’t. I just can’t. Not full time. It was all so on-and-off, I had to make other arrangements. And I need the money from the job, and Sarah’s in nursery school now. But we’ll come at weekends. Every weekend. And school holidays. I’ll still be there to help out.”
Tom turns to me and gives me a sort of, what are you gonna do? shrug.
I shrug back. “I should have thought about it,” I say, thinking, “You should have told me earlier.”
“Crap,” Tom says.
“I’m sorry,” Jenny says. “Really I am.”
“I suppose the weekends and holidays will be the busiest period,” Tom volunteers.
I nod vaguely. It’s just dawning on me that Jenny had been going to contribute rent as well. Without that money, things will be really tight.
“Is it the money?” Jenny asks, as if aware of my thoughts. “Because I could still pay half-rent or something.”
“Crap, yeah, the rent!” Tom says. There is something strange about his voice again, something unconvincing. Plus Tom never says, “Crap.” I can’t put my finger on what’s going on. I wonder if maybe he’s glad that Jenny won’t be living with us full time. “We’ll be OK without that, won’t we?” he says, his intonation stuck halfway between statement and question.
I sigh sharply before saying, mainly to ease Jenny’s manifest guilt, “I expect so. It’s not a few hundred Euros that are going to make or break the bank.”
“And we’ll come up on Friday afternoons and back down on Monday mornings,” Jenny says. “And of course if you two need a weekend in town, well, you can use the flat, and I’ll cover for you up there.”
Tom nods. “Actually, that will be good,” he says. “It could get a bit much up there. You’ll have to get a car though.”
Jenny smiles. “Yeah, I thought you could help me find an old banger,” she says. “You’re kind of the car guy around here.”
“Hey,” I complain. “I’m good with cars as well.”
“Not as good as me though,” Tom says cheekily.
“I’m quite excited about that. I won’t need a four-wheel drive or anything will I?” Jenny asks. “I mean, with the snow and stuff.”
“You might, actually,” Tom says.
I laugh.
“What?” he asks.
“You might know about cars Tom, but you know fuck all about the weather down here.” I turn to Jenny. “You’ll be fine,” I say. “Obviously a four wheel drive is best, but really any old banger will do as long as you have snow-chains in the boot.”
“You see,” Jenny says beaming at us both. “The perfect combination.”
In a way, of course, the new arrangement – were it not for the financial aspect – would be the perfect combination as well. Tom and I get some time alone to run the gîte. We get visits and help during school holidays and weekends. And a place to stay in Nice for a night on the town once my flat is sold. But the financial implications are, in truth, pretty dire: four hundred Euros a month could well break us.
“I am sorry,” Jenny says, “about the money thing. My mum’s still helping me out so it’s hard, but you know, I’m sure I will be able to pay some rent.”
“It’ll be fine,” Tom says, shooting me a glance. “If you’re paying rent here, we can hardly ask for rent up there, can we? We don’t really need it anyway,” he continues. “If you are gonna help us out then that’s more than enough, isn’t it Mark?”
What he says is honourable and generous and entirely untrue. “Yeah, of course,” I say, trying in my head to rehash the figures and feeling a little sick.
“And maybe next year everything will be different,” Tom says. “By next year we’ll probably be making loadsadosh and we can pay you to work for us.”
“Yeah,” Jenny says, vaguely. At that moment, I realise that not only is she no longer renting the flat from us, but that she has in fact lost her enthusiasm for the project as well. “Maybe. We’ll see what happens, Tom, yeah?” she adds.
Tom shrugs and smiles at me. “It’ll be fine,” he says.
Because the gîte has been off-limits conversation wise, I had forgotten how scary his blind optimism can be. “We’re not going to be making loads of dosh, Tom,” I point out. “It’s gonna be really tough, I hope you realise that. Especially now.”
Jenny looks concerned and starts to open her mouth, but I raise a hand to silence her. “It’s fine Jenny; don’t worry. Everything you say is normal and fine. I’m just worried Tom here doesn’t realise how hard it’s going to be.”
“Of course I do,” Tom says. “I did the spreadsheets, remember?”
“The very optimistic spreadsheets,” I say.
“Only the first one,” he says. “Anyway, what’s the worst that can happen?”
I laugh. “Um … we don’t get enough customers, we run out of money, we can’t buy food or heat the place, we starve, can’t pay the loan, and they repossess. How does that sound?”
Tom rolls his eyes. “If it gets that bad, I can always get some temp work,” he says. “You know I earned two thousand pounds for Christmas. That would pay the loan off for nearly five months.”
“Four months,” I say. “And that was before tax.”
“OK, four,” he concedes. “But I don’t think I’ll have to pay tax on … anyway, whatever.”
I stare at him as a short film plays in my mind. In it I’m alone at the top of the mountain, surrounded by snow – a sort of Chantal left behind, only with Paloma instead of a baby. “I hope you’re joking,” I say. “Because I am so not going to be left up there on my own whilst you swan off to Brighton. Anyway, you won’t have a flat there anymore.”
“No,” Tom says. “Of course.”
Jenny glances at Tom, then catches my eye and raises an eyebro
w in what I take to be shared concern.
Tom sees it and tuts. “God!” he says. “I only meant if things get desperate … rather than starve.”
“I’d rather starve,” I say, pointedly.
“Talking of which,” Jenny says, ruffling Sarah’s hair, and forcibly changing the subject, “I’m starving. Shall we?”
After lunch, Tom heads off exploring with Sarah, leaving Jenny and me sunbathing. To avoid talking about Tom and the gîte, or Jenny’s missing rent, or indeed Ricardo’s imminent departure, all of which make me feel panicky, I trawl the Sunday Times for fresh conversation matter. “That Colombian woman is still being held hostage,” I say, flashing the newspaper at her. “They’ve just released these pictures of her. She looks rough, huh?”
“Yeah,” Jenny says. “Well, you’d look rough after six years prisoner in the middle of nowhere.” She pulls a little grimace. “I didn’t mean … I meant, in the middle of the forest … In the middle of the rainforest,” she says.
I laugh. “No,” I say. “Quite. Did you read about this one? The life insurance scam?”
Jenny nods. “Is that the woman who was claiming for her husband, only they found him alive and well and living down the road?”
I nod and point the newspaper briefly at her. “Yeah,” I say. “Anne Darwin. The husband says he can’t remember who he is. They’re trying to decide if he’s truly amnesiac or not.”
Jenny shakes her head. “Outrageous! Of course he isn’t. She got a half a million pound life insurance payout. And they were up to their eyes in debt.”
“Maybe that’s what Ch …” I say, pausing as something catches the corner of my eye. I turn as, at the edge of my vision, two bushes part. Ricardo appears between them. “What the fuck’s he doing here?” I say.
Jenny frowns and turns. “Oh good,” she says.
“You said he wasn’t coming,” I say.
“Yeah, he phoned, when I nipped back, didn’t I say?”
“No,” I answer. “Well, yes. But you didn’t say he was coming.”
Jenny knits her brow. “What’s wrong?” she says. “Is that a problem for some reason?”
Better Than Easy Page 22
