by Mike Gayle
Monday, 1 June 1998
7.05 a.m.
I’m standing in the bathroom post-shower staring at the partially steamed-up mirror in front of me. I’ve been like this for ten minutes or so and, with each passing second, I have been getting more and more depressed.
‘What are you doing in there?’ says a muffled Alison, from the other side of the bathroom door. ‘I need the loo.’
I open the door and let her in.
‘Have you finished whatever it was you were doing?’
‘I’m going to ask you a question,’ I say, returning to the mirror, ‘and I want you to be truthful. Don’t sugar-coat it. And don’t worry about my feelings. Just tell me how it is, okay?’
Alison studies me with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. ‘Okay.’
‘Are you ready for the question? Okay, here we go: am I losing my hair?’
I lower my head so Alison can get a good look at my scalp.
‘It’s fine,’ she replies, after a few moments. ‘You’re worrying about nothing.’
I look in the mirror again. ‘Are you sure?’
I lower my head and she looks again. ‘Yeah, absolutely.’
‘Are you sure you’re sure or are you just saying that to make me feel better?’
‘I’m sure,’ says Alison firmly.
I nod, then peer into the mirror again, moving my head into the weirdest angles to get a good view of my scalp.
‘I am losing my hair, aren’t I?’ I say.
‘No. It’s fine.’
‘It’s okay, you can tell me straight.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your hair. It’s great. It’s fantastic.’
‘But, Al, I can see my scalp from here. It’s definitely thinning.’
She looks again. ‘Maybe a few hairs have gone from where you’re looking but that’s all.’ She examines the back of my head. ‘You’ve got loads of hair here. Loads of it.’
‘But it’s at the back where I can’t see it. The bit I’m worried about is here . . .’ I point to my crown ‘. . . where all the light is bouncing off my head. Look, just admit it for my own peace of mind so that I can come to terms with the loss of my youth, okay? I’m losing my hair, aren’t I?’
Alison nods apologetically. ‘’Fraid so.’
‘How bad is it?’
She puts down the loo lid. ‘Sit down here and I’ll give you a full diagnosis.’
I do as she says despondently and wait for her verdict. ‘How’s it looking?’ I ask.
‘It’s pretty bad,’ she replies. ‘Some thinning at the front. Major thinning on the crown. Overall it’s not looking too good. There’s no doubt about it, you’re going B-A-L-D.’ She pauses, then adds: ‘But bald is sexy. Think about it. Bruce Willis is bald and still a major Hollywood star, Michael Stipe from REM is definitely losing his hair and Jane really fancies him . . .’ she begins laughing ‘. . . and Homer Simpson from The Simpsons is bald and Marge adores him, just like I adore you.’ She bends and kisses my crown and, though I hate to admit it because I was determined to sulk about this, in less than five minutes she’s made me feel a lot better about saying goodbye to my hair.
Sunday, 21 June 1998
10.30 p.m.
Jim and I are in bed and we’re reading, which is nice in a cosy kind of way but extremely dull in a married-couple-not-having-sex kind of way. Jim’s half-way through the latest issue of What Car? because he’s been promised a company car and I’m reading Cosmopolitan.
‘Jim?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Do you think we have enough sex now that we’re married?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I said, do you think we have enough sex now that we’re married? It’s just that I’m reading this article and according to this chart,’ I wave the magazine in front of his eyes for effect, ‘we’re below average for a married couple.’
‘It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Well, I know this is going to sound paranoid but that’s the average, yeah?’ He nods and I continue, ‘So that means there are people out there like us who are having less than the national average.’ He nods again. ‘And there are people having more than their fair share.’
‘True.’
‘In which case there are married people out there who are having more sex than we are.’
‘So?’
‘Don’t you wonder who they are? Who are these above-average married people having more sex than we are?’
‘But it’s not like they’re having our fair share, is it? It’s not like the very fact that these people are having sex means that we can’t have more sex. In fact, it’s the opposite. It means that we can have less sex – not that that is a desirable thing,’ he adds hastily. ‘But it’s like this, they have more, which means there’s more in the pot, so to speak, for the rest of us to share.’
‘I don’t want somebody else’s sex,’ I say, semi-outraged. ‘That’s horrible. A complete stranger’s sex-life is making up for our own. No,’ I slam down the magazine, ‘if I’m going to have sex I want it at least to be our own.’
‘Look, Alison, don’t you think this is a little ridiculous? You’re going to give yourself a heart-attack at this rate.’
‘At this rate? What rate? When was the last time we did it?’
‘Last weekend.’
‘Nope. It was the weekend before that.’
‘But I’ve been at work.’
‘And I’ve been busy at work too but that’s no excuse. Aren’t you worried that we’re not normal?’
Jim looks at me blankly. ‘Fine, then,’ he says. ‘Let’s do it.’
Saturday, 27 June 1998
9.37 a.m.
I’m lying in bed watching kids’ TV on my portable while trying to motivate myself to get out of bed when Alison returns to the bedroom from a trip to the loo.
‘I think I might be pregnant,’ she says.
At the mere mention of those words my stomach muscles tighten and I sit bolt upright in our bed. ‘You think you might be what?’
‘Pregnant.’
‘Are you late?’
‘No,’ she replies. ‘I’m not due for another two days.’
‘Did you forget to take your pill then?’
‘No,’ she says, ‘I never forget.’
‘So why do you think you’re pregnant?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I’ve just got a feeling.’
‘A feeling?’
‘Well, I do have a feeling. I don’t know where it came from but it’s there and it won’t budge for love or money. It’s a nightmare. It’s like I’m possessed.’
I glance at Alison’s stomach to see if she looks any different. ‘You’ll have to give up smoking, won’t you?’
‘If I’m pregnant.’
‘But you’ve just said you think you are.’
‘I said I think I might be, which isn’t the same thing.’
‘But if you think you are, shouldn’t you give up smoking now, just in case?’
‘And what if I’m not?’
‘Then you’ll have given up smoking.’
Alison doesn’t reply. She just sighs, gets her dressing-gown and leaves the room.
Sunday, 28 June 1998
6.06 a.m.
I’ve just woken up and I’m busy trying to get myself back to sleep again when I realise that Jim’s awake too, as is Disco, who is lying at the end of the bed.
‘Has it arrived?’ he asks.
‘What?’
‘Your . . . you know.’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
3.30 p.m.
Jim and I have gone out for lunch with some friends of mine from work. I’ve just returned from a trip to the loo to check my makeup when he whispers something in my ear.
‘Pardon?’
He whispers again.
‘Jim, I have no idea what you’ve just said. Speak properly.’
He coughs and suddenly looks shifty. ‘I was just asking if . .
. er . . . you know . . . there’s any sign yet?’
‘Of my—?’
‘Yes, of that.’
I roll my eyes in despair. ‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘Jim?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you going to ask me constantly until it arrives?’
He thinks for a moment. ‘Yeah, I think so. Is that going to be a problem?’
I sigh heavily. ‘As soon as I know anything you’ll be the first to hear about it.’
6.01 p.m.
I’m off to Brighton for the company’s annual conference, so Alison’s decided to see me off at the station.
‘Well, I’d better be off,’ I tell her.
She kisses me. ‘See you on Wednesday. Have a good journey.’
I pick up my bags and manage to walk about three steps before I have to turn around. ‘Al?’
‘Before you ask,’ she says, ‘the answer is no. As in no sign at all. As in nothing. As in there are no biological signs that my period is on its way.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘You do know that I’m going to have to kill you if you carry on like this.’
I still can’t help myself. ‘But you’re sure?’
Wednesday, 1 July 1998
9.15 p.m.
I’ve dragged Nick, who moved to London a few months ago, to the pub on the pretext of drinking alcohol and talking. I haven’t touched my pint all evening and have barely said a word.
‘So come on,’ says Nick. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? You’ve been about as much fun as a corpse all evening. Was Brighton that bad?’
‘I’m going to tell you something,’ I reply, ‘but you have to remember that it’s top secret.’
‘Great,’ he says grinning. ‘I love secrets. Al’s not pregnant, is she?’
‘How did you—?’
Nick lets out a huge deep laugh. And continues so uncontrollably that he can barely breathe. ‘I was only having a laugh,’ he says, between guffaws. ‘She’s not really . . . you know . . . is she?’ I shrug. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, women and their hunches,’ I explain. ‘Just because they have a slightly more complicated biological mechanism than ours they think they’re in tune with the moon and the sea and all the elements. What is it about women that makes them all think they’ve latent psychic powers just because they’ve got a uterus? It’s ridiculous and all this horoscope nonsense just feeds the frenzy. Because without any proof at all Alison has managed to convince herself that she’s pregnant.’
‘But there’s no proof?’
‘I’ve tried to tell myself that there isn’t a single shred of evidence but in the face of a wave of overwhelming hoopla from Alison I’ve lost my nerve. It’s the way she keeps banging on that she’s just got a feeling. What kind of proof is that? Science isn’t based on having feelings. It’s based on having completely and utterly one hundred per cent irrefutable proof.’
‘Well, from what I can remember of my O level physics a lot of it is initially based on gut feeling, then they go out and prove it scientifically.’
‘You’re not helping, you know.’
‘I know. Look, just forget it. Chances are that she isn’t.’
‘The thing is, Alison’s good at spreading the paranoia. The more she goes on about it the more worried I become that I have super sperm that could somehow single-handedly defeat the pill—’
‘Tails.’
‘What?’
‘Sperm don’t have hands they have tails. If they were going to defeat the pill with anything they’d use their tails.’
‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’
‘What’s the worst thing that could happen? She’ll be pregnant, you two guys will become parents and I’ll be a godfather.’
‘It’s not just the baby though – although that’s enough in itself – it’s . . .’
‘It’s what?’
‘I don’t know,’ I sigh. ‘I’m not thinking straight. I haven’t been sleeping well and it’s got me talking rubbish . . . Let’s just have another pint, eh?’
Nick shrugs. ‘Why not?’
Friday, 3 July 1998
8.01 a.m.
Alison’s in the shower and I’m lying in bed thinking about whether or not she might be pregnant. I’ve barely slept all week and every conversation I’ve had with her has started with the words, ‘Before you ask . . .’ The thing is, a big part of me isn’t convinced I want a baby yet. But I can’t help feeling that maybe I’m being selfish; if Alison really wants a baby then why should I stop her? After all, we’re happy, married . . . A baby might be the best thing that could happen to us right now . . . When I hear her coming out of the bathroom I get out of bed; despite feeling faintly sick, I’m determined to tell her of my new state of mind.
‘Morning, babe,’ I say, as she enters the room wearing just her towelling dressing-gown.
‘You can stop panicking,’ she says. ‘It’s here.’
‘It as in “it”?’
She nods.
‘You’re a hundred per cent sure?’ She nods. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Relieved . . . and maybe a little bit disappointed. Life’s about building and creating things, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose,’ I reply.
‘Why don’t we put it on the list?’
‘What list?’
‘You know,’ she says, brightly, ‘the big list. The life list. The long list of all the things we want to do with our lives. We’re already doing well so far. We’re together, our careers are going well, we’re married, and if we ever get a flat we’ll have another one done too.’
I frown. ‘How high on your list do you want it?’ I ask, noncommittally.
‘How about a millennium baby?’ she replies.
‘Fine,’ I say, even though two years seems too close. ‘But for now let’s just concentrate on the present.’
Saturday, 4 July 1998
11.09 a.m.
Alison and I are currently standing in Flat 4A, Crescent Gardens. It’s a garden flat half-way between Muswell Hill and Crouch End. Alison spotted it in the estate agent’s window last Thursday and got the details even though she knew it wasn’t exactly close to the tube. She persuaded me to come and see it, and now that I’m here I absolutely love it. It belongs to an elderly lady, who’s going into an old people’s home, and it needs pretty much everything doing to it – new wiring, new bathroom and kitchen, redecorating from top to bottom – but I can definitely see the potential. It’s so much bigger than the majority of places we saw last time, and with it being a garden flat there’s the possibility of extending it and maybe getting an extra room. Half-way through the viewing I can see that Alison’s getting excited but I tell her we shouldn’t jump the gun this time, we should make sure we’re happy with everything before we make an offer. She agrees, and appears to be putting on her best poker face until we visit the kitchen for the second time.
‘Look,’ she whispers, so the estate agent won’t overhear us.
‘Where am I looking?’
She’s pointing at the door that leads to the back garden. ‘We have to buy it now,’ she says. ‘It’s already got a cat-flap.’
‘And?’
‘Well, we wouldn’t have to put one in for Disco, would we?’
‘You want to buy this flat above all others just because it’s got a cat-flap?’
‘No, but you have to admit it’s a good sign. It’s cat-friendly.’
‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘I think we should make an offer. But, cat-friendly or not, we should be prepared for it not to happen because they’re asking way too much for this place.’
Alison laughs. ‘Great,’ she says, adopting a poor American accent. ‘Let’s play hardball.’
Thursday, 9 July 1998
12.45 p.m.
I’m sitting at my desk, thinking about what I’m going to have for lunch, when my phone rings.
‘Hello, Publicity.’
�
��Hi, it’s me,’ says Jim. ‘Good news.’
‘You’ve heard from the estate agent?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And . . . they’ve . . .’
‘“They’ve” what?’ I say exasperatedly.
Jim lets out a yell. ‘They’ve accepted!’
Thursday, 6 August 1998
5.25 p.m.
We’ve been asked to come into our solicitor’s office to sign the contracts. Now it’s all done we’re standing outside the offices of de Gray and Hampton.
‘How does it feel to be officially in debt for hundreds of thousands of pounds?’ I ask Alison.
‘Not bad, I suppose,’ she says, grinning.
‘No regrets?’
Alison shakes her head. ‘None whatsoever.’
As we head back to the flat we pass an off-licence so I go in and buy a bottle of Moët and Chandon. When we get back to the flat we drink the lot with our first Indian takeaway in months while Disco eats a very posh brand of cat food – gourmet chicken dinner, the most expensive we can find in the supermarket.
Saturday, 22 August 1998
10 a.m.
We’re in our flat. Our new home. When the estate agent handed the keys over to us half an hour ago I thought Alison was going to cry. Right now, however, she seems deliriously happy. She’s wandering around all the rooms in our poorly decorated flat squealing with delight. ‘These are our walls!’ she yells in the kitchen, so loudly that Disco runs out of the room.
‘These are our light switches!’ she screams in the hallway.
‘See this horrible 1970s brown carpet in the living room?’ she asks, pointing to it. ‘It belongs to us!’
‘And what about the smell of old ladies?’ I ask. ‘Who does that belong to?’
Alison sniffs the air. ‘You’re right. It doesn’t so much smell of old ladies as reek.’ Alison walks across to the door and sniffs the wallpaper. ‘I think it’s in the bricks, you know. I think the actual bricks that make up our home have been permeated with the essence of old lady. We’re never going to get rid of this smell, ever. It’s going to live with you, me and Disco for the rest of our lives.’