by Matt Dunn
‘Some better equipped than others,’ interrupts Tom, making a face by sticking his tongue into his cheek.
‘I suppose so…’ says Barbara, somewhat reluctantly.
‘And so that’s why I’m going to succeed at this. Because I’m committed.’
‘Or need to be,’ says Tom, looking up from where he’s laying the table.
Barbara sighs. ‘It’s a fine line, remember, Will. It’s lovely that you’re not scared of commitment, really it is. But whatever you do, don’t go rushing in brandishing a ring from day one, or you’ll only scare us off. That’d be like having sex and going straight for the orgasm. What about the foreplay?’
‘I don’t have time for foreplay, Barbara. That’s my problem.’
‘You and most men,’ she says, flicking her eyes across at her husband. ‘I’m serious, though. Don’t offer it to us on a plate. We need to feel that we’re competing for your affections at least a little bit. Otherwise, we just won’t be interested.’ She shrugs. ‘Ridiculous, I know.’
I shake my head. ‘So I can pitch up offering to be everything that you women normally moan about, and it will actually have the opposite effect?’
Barbara nods. ‘Possibly. Look at when you buy a house. If you know that it’s been on the market for a while, you begin to wonder what’s wrong with it. If no one’s made any offers, you’re not going to be rushing to make one yourself. But if the agent tells you that there’s a lot of interest in one particular property, that’s only going to make you more interested yourself. It’s the psychology. You’re asking someone to make a long-term commitment to you, Will. And to do that, she’s got to know that she’s chasing after a desirable property.’
‘But surely it’s more about the partnership? What you both bring to the party?’
‘And love, don’t forget.’
‘Barbara, you’re wrong. Look around you. Successful relationships are just that–a partnership. Forget love–all you need is affection. All the starry-eyed and passionate stuff just dies out sooner or later, and if you’re lucky it’s replaced by a working arrangement where the couple is more than the sum of two individuals. And surely that’s more likely to be the basis of a successful family unit, rather than all this romantic rubbish?’
‘Who on earth gave you that idea?’ snorts Barbara. I glance across at Tom, but he’s giving me a ‘don’t you dare’ look.
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ I say, rearranging the spoons that Tom always puts down the wrong way round. ‘Sometimes, decisions you make because of “love” are the most illogical, emotional ones, and therefore by definition not necessarily the right, or most sensible, ones. Whereas decisions you make out of practical necessity are so much better, because they keep the emotion out of it.’
‘Well, maybe, but…’
‘So that’s all I’m doing. Starting the partnership part early. Bypassing all the emotional stuff–which, let’s face it, is a bit of a waste of time anyway–and making sure the arrangement is rock solid in the first place.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ says Barbara, heading back into the kitchen.
But I know it’s not ridiculous. I spend half my time discussing it with my clients, and they all tell me the same thing.
‘And in actual fact, one of the big problems a lot of couples have is because the men struggle to deal with the change in status. I won’t, because there won’t be any change.’
Tom finishes laying the table and pours himself a glass of wine. ‘What change in status? What are you talking about?’
‘Well, think about it. For years, it’s just been you and her, right? And so, hopefully, you’ve been the biggest priority in her life up until then. Then along comes this little bundle of noise, and suddenly your place in the pecking order is bumped down by one. Or two, in your case.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘Nope. Watch this. Barbara?’
She pops her head around the kitchen door. ‘Yes, Will?’
‘If it was a choice of saving Tom’s life, or saving Ellie and Jack’s, what would you do?’
Barbara looks weirdly at Tom, then back at me. ‘What on earth are you asking me that for?’
‘Just humour me.’
‘Well, Ellie and Jack’s, of course.’ Barbara shakes her head then disappears back into the kitchen, muttering to herself.
‘See?’
Tom stares blankly at me. ‘See what?’
‘Well, let me turn that round. What would your answer be?’
Tom shifts uncomfortably. ‘What? My life or the kids’? The kids’, of course.’
‘Nope. The twins’, or Barbara’s?’
‘Er…’
Tom hesitates, and I see that he’s starting to get it. ‘And let me put it to you another way. That parachute jump I got you for your thirtieth.’
‘What about it?’
‘We asked Barbara if she wanted to come too, remember?’
‘And she chickened out. So what?’
‘She didn’t chicken out, Tom. She made a decision. She’d done one before, right?’
He nods. ‘Before she had Jack and Ellie…Oh.’
‘You see? A man will risk his life for fun. A woman will only risk hers if absolutely necessary. And that’s the difference between most mothers and fathers. But me? Once I have this baby, that’ll be my last jump for a long, long time.’
Tom grins. ‘You may be right there,’ he says. ‘But just remember, as much as we love having the kids, it’s not all “proud parents at sports day”, you know.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘In fact,’ he lowers his voice, ‘there are times when it can be quite draining.’
‘And how would you know?’ interrupts Barbara. ‘You only get them for a few hours a day.’
Tom ignores her and carries on. ‘For example, every morning you have the battle to get them up, washed, dressed, and then you’ve got to try and get their breakfast down them, rather than down the front of your shirt, and all before you can even think of getting yourself anything more than a rushed cup of coffee. And you can forget your fancy clothes and designer suits. It’s more important that whatever you wear is wipe-clean.’
I nudge him with my elbow. ‘And there’s me thinking that the reason your only suit is so shiny is just because it’s old.’
‘Well, it’s hardly because he wears it to the office every day,’ says Barbara.
Tom ignores us. ‘And then at night, you come home knackered, and they still want to play some inane game with you, or show you an unintelligible squiggle that they’ve drawn at school, when all you want to do is collapse in front of the TV with a large glass of wine.’
‘Maybe so…’ I say, as Barbara rolls her eyes at me.
‘And every weekend, when you’re desperate to have a lie-in, or just read the paper in peace, you get woken up at some ungodly hour to play hide-and-seek, or read them a story that you’ve read them a million times before. And then it’s a forty-eight-hour marathon of trying to keep them entertained, especially if you’re stuck indoors if it’s raining, or you end up going to some child-infested café where you can’t move for buggies, or even hear yourself think above the screaming that’s coming from the ball-pit.’ By now, he’s getting quite animated. ‘And holidays? Forget two weeks of luxury in the Maldives. You have to go ahead and book some child-friendly hotel, which generally means adult unfriendly, and where you don’t dare swim in the hotel pool because the water’s a strange yellow colour, and you’re pretty sure what’s causing it. Plus, when they get to school age, you have to go away at the same time as all the other parents and their kids, which not only costs you an arm and a leg but means being stuck on a plane for three hours with a hundred or so other people’s children, which is so unpleasant that there are times when you’d actually consider it a relief if you crashed, and even when you get there you can’t relax–a trip to the beach turns into some nightmare scene from Lord of the Flies. And then, for the next ten years, you�
�re tied into a succession of theme-park holidays where you have to pretend that chugging round in a large plastic teacup at five miles per hour in the Florida heat, accompanied by some would-be child molester in a mouse costume, is the most fantastic thing you’ve ever done. By the time you realize that it’s cost you the price of a good meal for two at a London restaurant just to buy burger and chips for the four of you, it’s too late; you’re sucked into a Disneyesque nightmare from which the only escape is when they become surly teenagers…’
Eventually, Tom runs out of steam, and takes a huge gulp of wine, much to my and Barbara’s relief.
‘I, er, didn’t know you felt so strongly,’ I say.
‘Nor did I,’ adds Barbara, looking at her husband strangely, before walking back into the kitchen.
‘But don’t get me wrong,’ says Tom, topping his glass up. ‘Having said all that, I wouldn’t change them for the world. I just want you to know the reality of the situation.’
I shrug. ‘All that doesn’t matter. This is something I definitely want to do. Whatever the cost.’
Chapter 16
Today is Barbara’s birthday, and tonight, as is customary on this annual occasion, Tom is taking her out to dinner. Their babysitter has cried off sick, and rather than Tom and Barbara cancel their one night out of the year, I’ve offered to come round and look after the twins. To my surprise, Barbara has agreed, and I’m sitting in my office trying to work out what I’m going to do with them later, when Jen rings through.
‘Will, I’ve got Lisa on the phone for you. She says it’s an emergency. Again.’
Lisa was one of my first clients, and I tend to see her regularly every few weeks now. She’s about ten years older than me, not unattractive, and desperate to settle down, but with a bad habit of always going for the wrong men. To use a technical term, she’s a ‘humpty dumpty’–the men she meets just want to hump her and dump her–but she’ll typically fall head over heels within the first week, meaning that they can’t get rid of her that easily, and so resort to treating her badly in an attempt to try and get her to leave them. Ironically, in many ways, her dilemma and mine are the same, except I come from the ‘dumping’ side–which is probably what gives me such a good insight into what she’s going through.
I look at my watch, conscious that it’s lunchtime, and I’m hungry. Lisa’s calls usually take the best part of an hour. ‘No worries, Jen. Put her through.’ There’s a click, and then I hear a sniff at the other end of the line.
‘Will Jackson.’
There’s another sniff. ‘Will, it’s Lisa. I need you.’
If only those words were uttered by someone else. ‘What’s the problem?’ I say, struggling to keep the words ‘this time’ from the end of the sentence.
‘I just…It’s…’ is all that I hear, before Lisa starts crying down the phone.
‘What time can you get here?’
‘I’m just outside now,’ she says, in between sobs. ‘Two minutes?’
I sigh, trying to ignore my rumbling stomach. ‘Fine. Tell Jen to send you straight in when you get here.’
Almost as soon as I’ve put the phone down, there’s a knock on the door, and a red-faced Lisa comes in and makes her way automatically towards the couch. Even if I hadn’t just spoken to her, it’d be obvious that she’s been crying.
I walk over and shut the door behind her, and I’m just about to tell her to take a seat when I see she’s already assumed the position. I reach into my desk drawer for the box of tissues, hand it to her, and sit down in my chair.
‘So,’ I say, ‘do you want to start at the beg—’
‘Richard and I might be breaking up.’
Oh well. Start at the end, then. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘A couple of things he’s said recently.’
‘Such as?’
‘That he needs some space. Some time on his own. And how he loves me, but he’s not “in love” with me.’ She dabs at her eyes with a tissue. ‘What does that mean?’
Ah. Lisa and Richard have been together for nearly six months, and, despite her regular appearances here during that time, six months is a record for Lisa ever since I’ve known her. And there was me thinking that maybe this one had some legs.
I shake my head. ‘Lisa, you need to think carefully about what he’s said. You love him, yes?’
She nods enthusiastically. ‘Yes. Of course.’
‘So, technically, given that fact, and the fact that he’s said he loves you, then the two of you are actually “in love”, wouldn’t you say?’
Lisa frowns. ‘But he says that he isn’t.’
‘And so what does that mean?’
‘That…he’s lying? About loving me?’
I nod, still marvelling at the fact that the easiest approach to this life-coaching lark is just to turn the question back onto the person who’s just asked it. ‘And do you really want to be with someone who can lie about something so important?’
Lisa helps herself to another tissue from the box and blows her nose. ‘Do you think he’s going to break up with me?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘How do you know?’
Because I’ve used those lines myself in the past, I want to say. Or had them used on me. And this is why I’m qualified to talk about this kind of stuff. I’ve not learned it from a book, or at any college. This is classic University of Life, Bachelor’s Degree in Modern Relationships.
‘Lisa, how many times has Richard had you here in tears?’
Lisa shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Two? Three?’
I open her file and flick through. ‘Nine. In the past six months. And that can’t be good, can it? Especially for your bank balance.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘And how many Richards have there been?’ I ask, tempted to use the shortened form of his name.
Lisa shrugs. ‘But I really thought he was the one.’
‘Did you? Or were you just desperate for the next one to be the one?’
‘No!’ says Lisa defiantly.
I adopt a more conciliatory tone. ‘You know what the really frustrating thing is? We sit here and talk and talk about your problems, and just when I think we’re making some progress, you go and fall into the same trap again. And do you know what’s more frustrating than me giving you the same advice time and time again?’
‘No…’ she says, a little more meekly this time.
‘You not taking it. Why on earth do you sit here and agree with everything that I say, and then walk through that door and forget it all?’
Lisa gazes up at me and, for a moment, I think she’s in danger of bursting into tears again. She knows the answer as well as I do. Because the real problem is that Lisa is desperate to meet the right guy. But the kind of right guy she’s desperate to meet must also be a forty-year-old millionaire, so she can get married and live happily ever after in the style to which she’d like to become accustomed. And the problem with that is that, by definition, forty-year-old single millionaires tend to have rather a lot of choice on the woman front–no matter what they look like. And usually, that choice doesn’t tend to favour forty-year-old single women who are blatantly trying to marry a millionaire of their own.
‘Maybe…maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic?’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘But I just want to be happy.’
‘Lisa, you say that. But you’ve got this weird idea of happiness.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Because you’re…objectifying it. Happiness isn’t something that you can buy, or get off the shelf. Happiness is a state you achieve through a set of circumstances. Not through a cheque book.’
Lisa stares at a spot on the floor. ‘But I know I could never be happy with someone who’s…’
‘Poor? Why ever not?’
‘Because they couldn’t ever give me what I want.’
‘Which is?’
‘Like I said. To be happy.’
‘And what will that person give you, to make you happy?’
‘A big house. Two cars. Nice holidays.’
‘Lisa, those are all very material things. And trust me, while you think they might be the key to your happiness, there’ll come a time when you realize that those things are just…things. And not what life’s about.’
‘But they’ll help to numb the pain…’
‘Of what? A bad relationship?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, why not do something radical and go for a good relationship instead? That way, there’ll be no pain to numb.’
Lisa blows her nose loudly. ‘There’s always pain, Will. You just need to know how to control it.’
And as Lisa talks, I start to feel strange. Empty, even. And I don’t mean in a haven’t-had-lunch-yet kind of way, but it’s more of a hollow feeling deep inside me. For a while, I can’t quite put my finger on why that is, and then, suddenly, I realize that it’s because as I’m sitting here, trying to advise her, I’m starting to have doubts myself. Not about my advice, but about how I’m trying to achieve what I’m trying to achieve. Because Lisa just wants to be happy. And she’s fixated on the one thing that she thinks will make her happy. But in order to achieve that, she’s prepared to sacrifice an awful lot else–maybe too much, in fact. And maybe, like Lisa, I’m in danger of falling into the same trap. And also, again like Lisa, I might not be going about it in quite the right way.
An hour later, Lisa leaves, feeling a little better, I think. I, on the other hand, am thoroughly depressed, not to mention starving, and I’ve got another appointment at two, so I quickly rush out and grab myself a coffee and muffin from Starbucks. As I’m heading out of the door, clutching my purchases, I spot Emma coming the other way.
‘I’m beginning to think you’re avoiding me,’ she says, looking at the coffee-to-go in my hand.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Not at all. I’ve just been busy. And no, not with lots of women, before you ask. Well, apart from professionally…’ I stop talking, conscious that I’m in danger of getting myself into trouble again.