by Mike Gayle
I’m pleased with his verdict, I suppose, because it’s always nice when someone says something complimentary about your home even if it’s a home you’re selling under difficult conditions. His comments make me feel moderately well disposed towards him so I ask if he wants a cup of tea. He asks if I’ve got any coffee and I tell him only decaffeinated and it’s been in the cupboard for ages. We both examine the jar to spot the sell-by date but it seems to have disappeared altogether. He tells me he doesn’t mind if it’s gone off a bit so I open the jar and scrape away at the solid contents within until I have sufficient chippings for a mug of coffee. We stand in the kitchen staring at the kettle waiting for it to boil. I’ve run out of conversation and for a moment, I think, so has he.
‘Can I ask why you’re moving?’ he asks.
‘I’m splitting up with my husband,’ I reply.
It’s strange to witness first hand but Terry’s eyes light up magically, as though the first thing I’m going to do with my freedom, following the end of the longest relationship of my life, is have a torrid affair with a cocky teenage estate agent.
‘You don’t look old enough to have an ex-husband,’ he says smoothly.
‘You don’t look old enough to be selling my flat for me. How old are you by the way?’
‘Twenty-two,’ he replies. ‘I’ve got a baby face. How old are you?’
‘Old enough to be your big sister,’ I tell him.
Tuesday, 6 April 1999
10.58 a.m.
I’m just about to go into a meeting when my phone rings. I think about letting the voicemail get it but then I wonder if it’s the journalist from The Times I’ve been trying to get hold of for the past few days who wants to do a feature on one of the cookery books I’m working on. I pick up the phone.
‘Hello, Publicity.’
‘Hello, I’d like to speak to Alison Smith, please. It’s Terry from Merryweather estate agents.’
‘Hello,’ I say brightly. ‘It’s Alison here.’
‘How are you?’
I look at my watch. ‘Fine.’
‘I just thought you’d like to know that we’ve valued your property.’
I hold my breath and listen. He then proceeds to tell me a figure that I would never have imagined our flat to be worth. I’m too shocked to speak.
‘How does that sound?’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘That seems very high.’
‘Properties in your area are selling very well indeed and, given the A1 condition of the flat, I actually think I’m being a little conservative. Would you like us to start marketing the property?’
I tell him yes, and suddenly tears are streaming down my face. I wipe them away, sniff deeply and glance around the office to see if anyone has noticed. ‘I’m sorry, Terry, I have to go.’
‘Oh,’ he says disappointedly. ‘Can I just ask one thing before you do? I know this is very unorthodox, and I would never normally do this in a million years, but I can’t help but feel there’s some sort of connection between us.’
Even though my cheeks are still damp with tears I find myself having to suppress a laugh. ‘You do?’
‘Yes. I was wondering whether you’d like to go out to dinner some time. Maybe this Friday, about seven o’clock. I know a couple of nice places we could go.’
I think for a moment about Jim.
I think for a moment about how the last six years have been wasted.
I think for a moment about the future.
And then I find myself saying yes.
‘That’s great,’ he says, as though he can’t believe his luck. ‘I’ll call later this week.’
I put down the phone and immediately regret giving Terry the teenager even the faintest glimmer of hope. I scribble a note on my Cooper and Lawton promotional Post-it pad: ‘Leave two days, then cancel with a cold.’
12.09 p.m.
My meeting went badly. I was supposed to be giving a report to my boss on how the campaign for one of our lead titles has gone. I kept losing my place and stumbling over my words. I wondered whether she could tell that I was thinking about the conversation I was going to have with Jim this afternoon. I wonder if she knows that I’ve set in motion events that will lead to my selling my home. The home I lived in with Jim. Our home.
1.17 p.m.
‘Jim,’ I say into the phone, ‘it’s me.’
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘The estate agent has valued the flat.’
‘How much?’
I tell him Terry’s valuation.
‘Are you joking? I can’t believe it’s gone up that much in a year. We’re rich.’
‘I suppose we are,’ I say quietly.
‘Have you got a solicitor yet?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘Do I need one?’
‘Of course you do. I’ve already got one.’
I want to laugh. ‘How could we have ended up in a situation where we need solicitors to talk to each other?’
‘Because we’re legally tied to each other,’ says Jim coolly. ‘It’s entirely up to you but as far as the marriage goes I think the best thing for us is to wait two years and then apply for a decree nisi as long as we both agree that’s what we want. And then six weeks after that we’ll be awarded a decree absolute and we’ll be officially divorced.’
‘You’ve done your research, haven’t you? You’ve got it all worked out.’
‘I’m only trying to do what’s best for us both,’ he says, and I have to put the phone down because I don’t want him to hear me crying.
1.29 p.m.
‘Well, you need one too,’ says Jane, when I call to tell her about Jim’s I’ve-got-a-solicitor-I-think-you-need-one-too surprise.
‘Why?’
‘To make sure he doesn’t rip you off when the flat’s sold,’ she replies. ‘You should have the guy my sister Kate had when she split up with her awful boyfriend, Paul. I’ll just get his number.’ The line goes quiet and I listen to the sound of papers rustling.
‘Found it,’ she says eventually. ‘This guy’s name is Graham Barnet and he’s from a firm called Fitzsimmons and Barclay.’
I scribble down the name and number carefully.
‘Jim’s solicitor is a woman,’ I tell Jane. ‘She’s called Penny Edwards from Saunders and Elcroft. Now, thanks to us, two solicitors – a man and a woman, no less – who have never met will be sending each other letters in legalese and charging us a fortune for the privilege.’
‘Maybe it’ll be like some kind of romantic comedy where the counsel for the warring sides end up together,’ says Jane. ‘After all, they say that opposites attract, don’t they?’
‘They certainly attract,’ I say quietly, ‘but I think in the end they lack a certain staying power.’
Monday, 26 April 1999
1.12 p.m.
Now that the flat is going on the market, I tell myself it’s time to start looking for a place of my own. It’s all very well sharing with Nick but after so long living with Alison what I really want is my own space. My own four walls.
During my lunch-hour I go on the Internet and register with some estate agents in and around East Finchley because I know I won’t be able to afford a flat in Muswell Hill on my own. Even in East Finchley I can’t believe how much money people want just for a one-bed flat. I even think briefly about moving out of London and back to Birmingham. On the plus side, I’d be able to afford something decent. On the minus side, it’s been a while since I lived there. Times have changed. Things have moved on. And it wouldn’t be anything like the old days.
Saturday, 1 May 1999
11.11 a.m.
I’m viewing my first place in East Finchley. It’s the groundfloor flat of a converted two-storey house on a quietish road off the High Road. On the phone the estate agent told me it was only a few minutes from the tube. It takes me nearly ten minutes to get there. The only way that those ten minutes could be converted into a few would be if I were to sprint full pelt from the station, which I c
an’t really see myself doing every day.
The estate agent’s name is Sourav. He’s wearing a badly fitting suit and cheap shoes, and it’s his first day in the job. I know this not because he tells me but because he’s clearly out of his depth answering any questions other than ‘Are you the guy from the estate agent’s?’ I try not to give him a hard time even though it’s the one thing I want to do.
Instead I decide to focus on the flat but my mind wanders. It’s weird looking for a place all on my own. It’s weird thinking I have no opinion to take into account other than my own. In a way it’s thrilling. This is one of the first times I’ve enjoyed not being part of a couple – the idea that I can do what I want when I want is exhilarating because, for the past six years, I haven’t made a single decision that hasn’t involved Alison even in some small way – even if it was to do the opposite of what she wanted. That’s a long time not to make a decision that’s purely your own.
After five minutes or so I’m pretty sure I hate the flat. Not only is it too far from the tube but the guy tells me that they don’t have cable in the area and a satellite dish might be a problem because it would need to be mounted up high near the roof on a section of the house that wouldn’t technically be mine. Cable TV or satellite is essential to my new life-plan. Without it there’s no way I can become the happy new bachelor I intend to be. However, I poke around it for ten extra minutes or so because I don’t want to dismiss the flat based on criteria that aren’t entirely mine. At certain points, as I roam around with Sourav shadowing me, I find myself saying, ‘The hallway is too narrow,’ and ‘The living room’s a funny shape,’ and ‘There’s not enough natural light in the bedroom.’ Now, since when did I give a toss about ‘natural light’? I don’t. It was only Alison who cared about that kind of stuff, not me, and I feel like she’s haunting me. I begin to wonder if I’m haunting her too. How can you not be haunted when you’ve been with someone as long as I’ve been with Alison?
Tuesday, 4 May 1999
2.29 p.m.
Terry the teenage estate agent calls me at work about the flat. I listen carefully to his voice to see if he’s annoyed that I cancelled our date. I made up a huge lie that I had a bad cold and I even fake-sneezed several times. He didn’t get the message, though, and kept pushing me for a date when I thought I might be better. In the end I had to tell him it was too soon for me to be seeing someone else because I still had a lot of hurt to heal. He said he understood and that if I ever needed anyone to talk to he was only a phone call away. Fortunately today he sounds ridiculously jolly so I feel less guilty than before. He tells me that three couples are booked in to view the flat tomorrow at six in the evening. ‘Will you be in?’ he asks.
‘No, I’m working late.’
‘Oh, that’s a real shame. Maybe next time?’
‘Hmm,’ I murmur. ‘Maybe.’
Wednesday, 5 May 1999
7.38 p.m.
I’ve just got home and I’m checking all around the flat to see if anything has changed. It’s strange knowing that strangers have wandered around my home forming opinions about both me and it. I wonder what they thought of the colour of the kitchen. I kick off my shoes in the hallway, make my way to the fridge, take out a carton of cranberry juice and pour myself a glass. As I head to the living room sipping my drink I hear the answerphone beeping from its home on the sideboard near the radiator. There’s one message. It’s from Terry. One of the couples, a Mr Blake, a graphic designer, and his girlfriend, a Miss Quilliam, a photographer’s assistant, have already booked a second viewing. I decide to be brave and stay in this time.
Thursday, 6 May 1999
7.30 p.m.
The doorbell has just rung.
As I walk along the hallway I think that perhaps I should’ve set about filling the air with the aroma of brewing coffee or baking bread to make the flat appear more homely. I can’t help but smile as I sniff the air and realise that they’re going to have to make do with the aroma of my microwaved Singapore noodles emanating from the kitchen.
When I open the door Terry is standing there looking more youthful than normal without his goatee. Next to him are the couple who have come to view the flat. They look very arty and hopelessly young. He has long hair tied back in a pony-tail and is wearing olive green designer army trousers, trainers and an artfully distressed-looking leather jacket; she is dressed exactly the same, even down to the fact that her auburn hair is in a pony-tail too. They look like bookends.
‘This is David and Amanda,’ says Terry. ‘They really love your home.’
‘We think it’s amazing,’ says Amanda. ‘I like what you’ve done with the bathroom.’
‘It’s great,’ says David. ‘It’s exactly what we’re looking for.’
David and Amanda tell me they’re prepared to borrow a lot of money from their parents and mortgage themselves to their eyeballs to afford the flat. They look so cute and so utterly happy that I say that if they make the right offer they can have the fridge and cooker for free. I don’t care that Jim is probably going to argue with me over that. If he’d seen their faces light up when I said this maybe even his cold heart would’ve melted. When they leave I cry again because I know in my heart that this couple are going to be so much happier here than Jim and I were.
Wednesday, 9 June 1999
11.35 p.m.
I’m sitting on the sofa. Disco is on my lap (because it’s the only lap that’s available). A plate that once had a jacket potato and baked beans on it is on the seat next to me. The TV is on, but the sound is off, and I’m reading the lonely-hearts section of last weekend’s Guardian. I’m reading every single one written by a woman. Not the men. The women. It’s the women in those pages that interest me. Behind each ‘30-ish leftish n/s with gsoh seeking similar’ entry is an attractive, intelligent and financially solvent woman who likes theatre, music and long walks in the countryside, and they’re all looking for love. And I think. How am I ever going to get one of the good ones when the cold hard reality of life is that beautiful, intelligent women are being forced to hawk themselves in newspaper ads?
I grab a pen and spend the next few minutes writing my own lonely-hearts message. This is the best I can do:
Happy Go Lucky? Late twentysomething looking for love. Me: romantic, loyal, easy going, ex-leftie, likes cinema, theatre and badminton. You: tall, funny and skilled in the art of conversation. Let’s get together and see where we go.
Writing the fake ad makes me think about me and Jim. I still can’t believe the fact that we are really over. We’d been together for so long. I thought it would never end. And now the longest relationship of my life has fallen apart. I can’t think about work. I can’t think about anything. I just want to curl into a ball and cry. I’ve done a lot of crying over the last few months and in a way I’m a little bored with it. There are only so many tears you can shed before you use them all up. Once you get to that stage all that’s left is anger and bitterness, and an incredible sense of having been wronged.
The thing is, I don’t understand how we got to this point. I don’t understand at all. I’d been with Jim since 1993. And I just can’t get over the fact that something that was once so good has now somehow turned into something that’s so not right. I’ve been focusing on it day in and day out. And time and time again the same questions keep coming back to me. How did this happen to us? Why did this happen to us? When did this happen to us? I ask myself, time and time again, ‘What went wrong?’ Of course I talk it over with friends – Jane especially. But as great as friends are, deep down I know I’m never really going to get the truth from them because they’re on my side. They always come to the conclusion that it was Jim’s fault. And while I agree with what they say in part, it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. It feels empty. I’m not hearing anything I don’t already know. I want . . . I need to know, without any shadow of doubt, that I didn’t drive him away.
I spot my mobile phone out of the corner of my eye.
&nbs
p; I pick it up.
I put it down.
I pick it up again.
Then put it down.
Finally I pick it up, scroll through the phonebook, find Jim’s number and press Dial. It rings out several times before his voicemail kicks in. I take a deep breath and leave a message.
11.56 p.m.
It’s late. And London is loud. The sound of taxis, buses, mobile burger sellers and revellers leaving nearby bars and pubs fills the air. I’m still in my work clothes. My tie is stuffed into the inside pocket of my suit jacket and I smell of cigarettes, even though I don’t smoke. I’ve been out drinking with Nick. We’ve talked about stuff on TV, work, why they always serve that Belgian white-beer stuff in a girly glass, music we’ve bought in recent weeks and a bit of politics. I’ve drunk way too much and now I feel sick and sorry for myself as Nick and I stand on Tottenham Court Road waiting for the bus to East Finchley.
My phone beeps. I take it out of my jacket pocket and look at it. Apparently I’ve missed four calls and have several messages.
Message 1: ‘Jim, it’s me.’ Long exaggerated sigh and pause for breath. ‘Look, I know that we’ve both said a lot of terrible things to each other since . . . well, since we split up . . . but now the flat’s being sold and we’re talking to solicitors and I just feel like – like we should give our relationship one last shot. I think a relationship counsellor could really work for us—’
Message 2: ‘Jim, it’s me, Alison, again.’ Long exaggerated sigh and pause for breath. ‘I think I got cut off.’ Pause. ‘I can’t even remember where I’d got to now.’ Long pause. ‘Oh, right, yeah, the counsellor. The fact is, Jim, we need help. I know you’ve given up on us but I haven’t.’ Pause. ‘Look, whether you come or not I’m going to see her the week after next. She’s one of the authors I look after at work. She did that self-help book I brought home once, How to Make Love Flourish. Anyway, her name’s Caroline Roberts, and she’s in Crouch End just off the Broadway. I’ll pay for all the sessions. Please come at least once, okay? All you need to do is turn up. How easy is that? All you’ve got to do is turn—’