by Mike Gayle
Message 3: ‘This is getting ridiculous.’ Long exaggerated sigh and pause for breath. ‘Why don’t they sort these things out so that they work?’ Another long exaggerated sigh and pause for breath. ‘I’m not on a quiz show, and on the telephone I will not be hurried by anyone.’ Even longer exaggerated sigh and pause for breath. ‘This – in case you were wondering – is Alison again. I really think we need to sort out things between us and I can’t do that on my own. Surely we can’t throw away what we had without—’
Message 4: ‘This machine is pathetic! It’s me. You know what I want by now. Look, please call me and let me know ASAP.’
Even drunk I know better than to call her. It’s best to leave well alone. I can’t understand why she’s going on about relationship counsellors. It is possibly the worst thing she could’ve said to me. The idea of involving a third party to sort out what was wrong with us makes me shudder. I can’t begin to think how excruciatingly painful it would be. I can’t even read the problem page at the back of the Mail on Sunday’s You magazine without wincing at people’s distinct lack of shame.
Wednesday, 7 July 1999
5.34 p.m.
I’m near Blackfriars Bridge and it’s raining. I consider getting my umbrella out of my bag but there’s something sweet and life-affirming about the rain so I just walk and enjoy the feeling of the droplets against my face. Within minutes I’ve reached my destination: Jim’s work. I’m not hoping to bump into him. Instead I’m hoping that my general presence in this vicinity will be picked up by his psychic radar and will somehow shame him into action. I can’t believe he hasn’t phoned me after all those messages. I can’t believe he doesn’t want to give us another go. Or, at the very least, find a way that we might be able to sort things out between us. I reach into my bag for my phone and scroll through the numbers until I reached Jim’s, then press Dial. I’m not the least bit surprised when the call goes straight to his voicemail as his phone has been off for weeks.
‘It’s me again,’ I say wearily. ‘It’s been ages now and I’ve heard nothing from you. I know that you’re about because I saw you and Nick in the Yorkshire Grey on Langham Street – and before you say it, yes, I did go there on purpose, but, no, I wasn’t stalking you . . . I just wanted to have it out with you but I reasoned that having it out in the pub in front of your mates wasn’t the best idea in the world. Is it really too much to ask that you do this one thing for me? For us? I’ve made an appointment with Mrs Roberts. Please come. I really do think this is our last chance.’
11.33 p.m.
It’s late, I’m tired and I want to go to bed. Instead I’m sitting in the living room with Disco, listening to the saddest music I can find but, given that I’ve only got two CDs, The Best of Disco Volume 2 and The Man Who, by Travis, there isn’t much choice. The Travis album won the day. It fits my melancholy mood perfectly – and is the perfect soundtrack while I drink three-quarters of a bottle of Merlot and chain-smoke nearly a whole packet of Marlboro Lights in less than an hour. As the album comes to a close, I look at the bottle of wine in front of me, pour the last of it into my glass and pick up my cigarettes and lighter. There’s only one cigarette left. I take it out and put it to my lips. I’m about to light it when I stop and look at it. This is stupid, I think to myself. I’m not even thirty and I’ve got a failed marriage, and a cigarette addiction that will probably kill me one day. I put the cigarette and the lighter back into the gold and white Marlboro Lights packet. Then I walk to the spare bedroom, kneel down at the end of the bed, pull out a battered brown suitcase and open it. Inside are old letters from friends and family, photographs from my younger days, keepsakes and mementoes from happier times. I drop the cigarette packet inside, close the lid and put the suitcase back under the bed.
That’s that, I think to myself. I’m never going to smoke another cigarette again.
Friday, 6 August 1999
9.54 a.m.
Today we are selling the flat. Through our solicitors Alison and I have agreed that we should both turn up at the offices of Fitzsimmons and Barclay in Highgate to sign the agreements. We didn’t have to do this face to face. In fact, my solicitor tried to talk me out of it, saying it would cause me a great deal of emotional stress. I didn’t listen to her, of course. I think a degree of emotional distress is the least my relationship with Alison deserves. Otherwise it would be too clean. Too clinical. I want to say goodbye to this relationship. I want a full stop. And this is going to be it. I don’t know whether Alison feels the same. I assume she does because she agreed to it.
Fitzsimmons and Barclay is everything I expect of a solicitor’s office. There’s a receptionist, some fake potted palms and a waiting area where my ex-wife and her solicitor are now seated. Alison’s wearing a black shirt, dark blue jeans, and heeled black boots. She’s had her hair cut and is wearing a new shade of lipstick. I, on the other hand, look a little scruffy. I’ve taken the day off work because when I woke up this morning I realised I wasn’t far from losing the will to live. I’m wearing a T-shirt bearing the legend Northern Soul that I bought in a shop in Covent Garden because I’d seen a musician wearing one in a magazine, a pin-striped jacket, a pair of beige bootleg cords, a pair of red Converse All-stars. The look is deliberate. I don’t want to look like a nearly thirty-year-old accountant with a failed long-term relationship. I want to look like a cool, hip and happening single man with the world at his feet.
‘Hi,’ says Alison, standing up to look at me directly. ‘How are you?’
I give her a short smile. ‘Good.’
‘You didn’t return my calls.’
‘Things have been really hectic.’
‘It doesn’t matter anyhow. I cancelled the appointment. But I think I might reschedule it and go on my own.’
My gut instinct is to ask her why she wants to see a relationship counsellor on her own. But I don’t ask because the answer will involve my non-compliance. Instead I introduce a new topic, one that might be less likely to result in an argument. ‘How’s the cat?’
‘Her name’s Disco.’
‘Okay, how’s Disco?’
‘She’s good.’
‘Great,’ I reply. ‘Give her a cat treat from me.’
Alison’s solicitor stands up as mine walks into the reception area. There’s lots of polite smiles and shaking of hands, then we walk along a short corridor into an office. My solicitor says something in legalese, then Alison’s says something else in legalese and, in the meantime, Alison and I attempt to look as if we know what they’re talking about.
Eventually the time comes when we have to sign the necessary papers. Alison signs first and doesn’t look at me. I don’t know what I expected from her but it was certainly more than that. Now it’s my turn. Three contracts and a green fountain pen with black ink. Helpfully they’ve put some of those sticky red tabs on the places where we’re supposed to sign. The red tabs make me feel like I’m too stupid to know what’s going on. I feel like a six-year-old who has been practising his handwriting. I look at Alison’s signature. It seems so much neater than mine. I put the pen to the paper and my heart begins to race. As my name unfurls from the nib it gets faster and faster. I’m half expecting Alison to let out a gasp or faint or do something equally dramatic. But she doesn’t do anything at all.
One down. Two to go.
I look at the complete signature. Mine and Alison’s side by side. My stomach now joins the party and keeps flipping over. I can’t help but think that something will happen in the next sixty seconds to stop this going through. Because I know that once I’ve signed my name another two times there will be one less thing tying the two of us together. It’ll be the start of us becoming two separate people again. I’ll go back to being Jim. She’ll go back to being Alison.
I sign the second paper.
Two down. One to go.
Finally I sign the third paper.
And there’s nothing left to sign.
Because it’s nearly over now. Soon
, Alison ‘n’ Jim will cease to exist.
PART SEVEN
Now
2003
Friday, 17 January 2003
10.45 a.m.
I’m at home waiting for the buzzer to ring. It’s strange to think that in a few minutes I’m going to see Jim for the first time in nearly four years. I’ve been trying to imagine what his life is like without me in it and each time fail miserably. It’s almost like he ceased to exist when we went our separate ways. Like it was all a dream. I’m just about to go and get my coat when the buzzer rings. I pick up the entryphone by the door.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ says Jim.
‘I’ll just buzz you up.’
By the time he’s made it upstairs I’m standing in the front doorway waiting for him.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Do you want to come in for a moment?’
He follows me into the flat and closes the door behind him.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ he says, sitting on the sofa. ‘It’s very you. How long have you lived here?’
‘About six months,’ I reply.
‘Alone?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry . . . I was just asking if you bought your flat on your own?’
‘No, I bought it with Marcus . . . my fiancé.’ I point to a picture on the mantelpiece.
‘Is that the two of you together?’
‘It was taken last summer in New Zealand.’
‘And you’re getting married?’
‘This Valentine’s Day. How about you? Are you in a relationship at the moment?’
Jim nods.
‘Still the great communicator. Has she got a name?’
‘Her name’s Helen.’
‘And it’s serious between the two of you?’
‘We’re planning to live together, if that’s what you mean.’
I look at my watch and stand up. ‘We’d better go,’ I say. ‘I’ll just get my coat and do something with my hair.’
I’m ready in a few moments and we leave the flat and start walking along the road. As we walk we talk generally about our lives, rather than what we’re about to do. I tell Jim about my wedding arrangements. In return he tells me the odd snippet about him and Helen. By the time we reach the vet’s we’re not exactly strangers any more but neither are we old friends. We’re more like old acquaintances who lost touch.
11.07 a.m.
‘I’ve never done anything like this before,’ I say, as we stand outside the vet’s. ‘What are we supposed to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Alison. ‘When I was a kid we had a mongrel, Clara, who died, but I was only eleven at the time. I think my mum must have sorted everything out.’
‘What are the options?’
‘I think we can either take her with us and bury her somewhere or the vet can deal with it.’
‘Do you think we should bury her?’
Alison shrugs. ‘I don’t know. What do you want?’
‘I don’t know. She wasn’t much of an outdoors kind of cat, really, was she?’
Alison gives me a smile and opens the surgery door. I follow behind her as she goes up to the counter and speaks to a nurse.
‘Do you want to take . . .’ the nurse pauses to look at a form on the desk in front of her ‘. . . Disco home with you?’
Alison looks at me.
‘I’m not sure I can face seeing her as she is,’ I tell Alison.
‘Me either.’
‘I think we’ll let you take care of . . .’ She doesn’t finish the sentence. ‘I know this is going to sound stupid but do you mind bringing out the box that she’s in so that we can say goodbye?’
The nurse nods and disappears behind a door. She emerges moments later carrying a Walkers’ crisps box and places it on the counter. Alison begins to cry and pats the box gently and I just stare at it. That stupid crisps box. And I’m almost in tears too.
That’s our goodbye.
12.04 p.m.
Jim and I are standing outside the vet’s in silence, not quite sure what to do with ourselves.
‘I’m really glad you called me,’ says Jim.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ I reply. ‘The thing is . . . I don’t want this to come out the wrong way but . . . when I told Marcus what had happened he was sorry for me, and sad because he was fond of Disco too, but I couldn’t get away from the idea that he wasn’t feeling what I was feeling.’
‘I think Helen was the same. She was understanding but it’s not the same if it isn’t your pet.’
‘But don’t you think that’s strange? That out of all the people in the world – Marcus, my family, my friends – the only person who has any idea of what I’m feeling right now is you? We haven’t been part of each other’s lives for a long time and yet here we are, two people who used to love each other saying goodbye to their pet cat.’
There is another long silence.
‘I’d better go,’ I tell Jim.
‘Me too,’ he replies.
Instinctively I put my arms around him and squeeze tightly while he does the same. We hold each other in this hug for what feels like minutes but is probably no longer than a few seconds and then it’s all over.
‘I really had better go,’ I say finally. I smile and add, ‘Have a nice life. I hope you’ll be really happy.’
‘You too,’ says Jim. ‘And all the best for your wedding day.’
I begin walking towards Crouch End Broadway when I stop in my tracks and turn to see Jim standing in the spot where I left him. He walks towards me and I walk towards him and we meet in the middle.
‘I don’t want to sound presumptuous,’ begins Jim, ‘but you’re not thinking what I’m thinking, are you?’
I laugh. ‘More than likely.’
‘It’s just that . . . well, I haven’t seen you in so long. It just seems odd for us to go our separate ways like that.’
‘I know what you mean. I feel the same too.’
‘Why don’t we go for a drink? Just the one and well . . . we’ll just talk.’
‘That sounds great,’ I reply. ‘Let’s just talk.’
12.11 p.m.
Alison and I are now sitting in a corner booth in the Red Lion. The pub is relatively empty, although small groups of people are dotted around the bar. Pop music is playing in the background – I suspect that one of the bar staff has put on a chart compilation CD from about two years ago because all the songs are annoyingly familiar. Alison has been chatty, but not too chatty, since we left the vet’s. We talk about work (it’s going fine); her parents (they’re fine too); work for me (it’s going fine); my mother (she’s fine too). I’m just thinking about getting another drink when Alison clears her throat as though she’s about to speak.
12.12 p.m.
‘I don’t want this to come out the wrong way,’ Alison begins, ‘but I was just wondering, do you ever think about us?’
‘Sometimes,’ I reply. ‘It was such a mess when it ended.’
‘It was, wasn’t it?’ she agrees. ‘It’s just that with what’s happened today it’s got me thinking about the past. Disco was part of our history. Our shared past. And the thing is, when things end badly – like they did for us – you never get to really find out –’
‘– what went wrong?’ I interject.
‘Exactly.’
‘Yeah, I thought that a few times.’
‘I mean, aren’t you curious?’ she continues. ‘We were together over six years. When did it stop working? Why did it stop working? Did we bring out the worst in each other? Was it just one person’s fault or both of us? Aren’t these the questions everyone wants to ask when they split up with someone?’
I laugh. ‘I think initially you’re convinced it’s the other person’s fault.’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ says Alison. ‘I would’ve blamed you for starting the Second World War when we broke up.’
‘But now?’
‘Well, now my judgement’s a bit clearer.
What about you?’
‘My judgement’s always been one hundred per cent sound.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m joking. I agree with you. I can see things differently now. There are certain things I regret.’
‘Me too,’ she says.
‘Do you want to talk about it? Us? It’s sort of a weird thing to talk about, isn’t it, really? But I’d like to.’
‘Why not? We’re both in new relationships.’
‘We’re both happy with our partners.’
‘Then let’s do it,’ says Alison. ‘Let’s find out where we went wrong.’
12.27 p.m.
‘The first question I want to ask you is this,’ begins Alison. ‘Apart from the big things, which I’m sure we’ll both be talking about sooner or later this afternoon, when we were together what sort of things did I do that annoyed you?’
‘This is going to sound weird,’ I say, ‘but do you know the first thing that sprang to mind when you asked that?’
‘No.’
‘You’re going to laugh.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘Hair conditioner.’
‘Hair conditioner? How can any normal person be annoyed about hair conditioner?’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘You always had loads of it, as though you were stocking up in case there was ever a world-wide shortage of posh conditioner for dry and damaged hair,’ I explain. ‘Your idea of financial parsimony was to buy anything that was in a Boots three-for-two offer. Which meant you constantly had six different brands of shampoo and conditioner on the go at once. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed but you’ve only got one head.’ Alison laughs. ‘And while we’re at it, I don’t even know what conditioner does. Shampoo I understand. Shampoo, good, cleans your hair. Conditioner, useless, because it does bugger-all. I know this because I tried it several times during the course of our relationship and it didn’t do a bloody thing. My hair was exactly the same after as it was before. It didn’t feel fuller or softer or anything, it just felt like hair. So you buying three bottles of stuff that does nothing at all to your hair for the price of two bottles of stuff that does nothing at all to your hair isn’t a saving – it’s just money thrown away.’