and took three or four deep breaths to get rid of the kind of bubbling frustration that only driving can create.
‘You’re not ready?’ he had said, when she answered the door in
jogging bottoms, flip flops and a loose-fitting T-shirt. Her hair was
tied up, and she was wearing glasses instead of the contacts she still put in whenever she was seeing Tom. The kitchen table was piled
high with beaten-up NHS case folders. Next to it all sat a mug of
tea and an opened grab bag of Milkybar Buttons.
‘Ten minutes?’ she said, as Tom stepped inside her flat.
‘Five.’
‘Tom, there’s literally no chance I—’
‘Try.’
‘Alright. Moody.’
‘Es.’
‘Will the car be okay?’
‘Probably,’ he said, as he spotted a yellow-jacketed traffic warden
turn onto Denton Road. ‘Shit.’
‘I’ll come out,’ Esme called, as Tom ran back to the car before the
warden got there to begin the most absurd game of cat and mouse,
in which he drove extremely slowly from one end of the road to the
next, before performing a three-point turn and going back again,
repeatedly for twenty minutes.
When they eventually escaped London Tom’s nerves were shot,
and Esme’s good nature was about to turn. The anniversary playlist
had been ditched in favour of banal weekend radio and a frustrated
silence had settled over the car. At which point, they arrived at a sea of red brake lights, stretched out towards the horizon.
‘I feel sick,’ Esme said, sticking her head out of the window,
having clearly had enough of the noxious and nauseating blend of car
fumes, baking asphalt and the air freshener stuck on the dashboard.
84
Our-Life-text-pp.indd 84
10/09/2018 17:07:15
‘I’d offer you a mint,’ Tom said. ‘But we don’t have any.’
‘Oh God, Tom! Would you just snap out of this? You’re driving
me bloody mad.’
‘I’m frustrated.’
‘I know. Me too. But you don’t have to be a prick about it. I
don’t want to sit here next to some whinging middle-aged man who’s
obsessed with the sodding traffic.’
‘I’m not middle aged. I’m not even thirty.’
‘In attitude, Tom, you’re right there. Forty-three, bored, sat in an
estate car, wishing you had a Sky Sports subscription. That’s you,
Tom. You are the noughties edition of Mondeo man.’
‘Ouch.’
‘It’s true,’ she said, pulling up her light summer shirt and cleaning
her sunglasses with its hem, before slumping back into her seat and
looking out of the window.
‘It’s just that it’s our anniversary. And instead of being on the
beach, we’re in a car and it’s bloody miserable.’
‘Yes. It is. Which you are at least fifty per cent to blame for.’
‘Well, sorry if I—’
‘Tom!’ she snapped, loudly enough for the dads to divert their
attention away from the small transistor radio playing commentary
of the European Championships football.
Esme got out of the car and stormed over to the side of the road,
where she found a place to sit on a barrier. As soon as she left, Tom
knew that he would have to go and join her, that he would have
to make the walk of shame in front of the dozens of cars that had
witnessed their argument. Past the dads, who’d be saying stuff like
‘been there’ and would make jocular comments in his direction as
he went to offer his apology. Finally summoning up the courage, he
opened the door.
Esme was staring at the sky, at a single seagull hovering and
swooping on the summer air thermals.
85
Our-Life-text-pp.indd 85
10/09/2018 17:07:15
‘Sorry,’ Tom said bluntly, sitting down next to her on the warm metal barrier. ‘I don’t want to be that person.’
‘Which one?’
‘The bored, Sky Sports, traffic-moaning one.’
‘No one does. But looking at them I suspect it’s easy to lapse into.
That man there in the cargo shorts and the faded yellow polo shirt?
He used to be a playwright. The Guardian called him the ‘enfant terrible of British theatre’. Now look what’s happened to him. He’s
the area sales rep in Essex and Kent for a bathroom tiles company.
All because of traffic.’
‘And two kids, probably.’
‘Traffic, Tom. Traffic,’ she said.
Tom gave a gentle laugh.
‘And that one. Him with the T-shirt that’s at least a size too
small. He—’
‘Oh don’t,’ Tom said. ‘You’re making me feel sorry for them.’
‘Don’t worry. They’re happy,’ she said. ‘Or they’re not, but they’re
able to repress it enough to carry on with their lives.’
‘ Es! They can probably hear you.’
‘Nonsense. They’re listening to that radio.’
They sat for a moment in silence. Tom took Esme’s hand and
kissed her cheek.
‘I am, though. Sorry. I’m just frustrated about what today was
meant to be and about what it is.’
‘Me too,’ she said, shifting slightly closer to him. ‘But you’ve got
to remember that it’s not just about today. It’s the whole year we’re
celebrating. It’s always dangerous to plan these things too carefully.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘And you’re right.’
‘Besides, the whole day doesn’t have to be wasted. We could do
something here.’
‘Here?’ he said, looking around at the parked cars, the bored
children looking hopelessly out of the windows at the central
86
Our-Life-text-pp.indd 86
10/09/2018 17:07:15
reservations, the van driver and his mate who had decided to seize this opportunity to sunbathe on the roof and share a copy of Nuts
magazine.
‘Yes, here. We don’t need Whitstable. We can make our own fun
in . . . wherever we are.’
‘Near the Blean place. No man’s land,’ Tom said. ‘Fuck knows.’
‘Exactly. Fun in Fuck Knows. Look at it this way, we’ll always
remember it as the time we spent our anniversary stuck on the M2.’
‘What do we do, though? I brought some food but I reckon that
houmous has turned in the heat.’
‘Not food. I was thinking of a game.’
‘Of course you were,’ he said, a little apprehensively. A large grey
cloud hovered on the horizon, which he decided not to mention to
Esme.
‘What?’
‘I’m not really in the mood.’
‘Well, I am. And remember, you are still making things up to me.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. The rules are that we each name a highlight and lowlight
of our first year together. Then a plan for next.’
‘Why don’t we just do highlights?’
‘Because I want this to be realistic. The first year is exciting and
lovely. But it’s also when sex goes from being all amazing and new
and different, to finding out what works and that becoming normal.
It’s when you talk about each other’s flaws to your friends in private, in the hope that you can bear living with them in the future. There’s
a lot of comprom
ise and downsides to the first year. Anyone who
pretends it’s just champagne and roses is a bloody idiot.’
‘How very pragmatic. And sorry about the sex,’ Tom said, imme-
diately developing a complex about it and wondering if and when
he had let Esme down. And, equally, if she had faked anything so
87
Our-Life-text-pp.indd 87
10/09/2018 17:07:15
that he wouldn’t know. It was one of those things he wanted to ask about. But knew it was best not to.
‘Forgiven. Anyway, you have to think of three for each category.
You’ll get a point for each.’
‘Hang on,’ Tom said, turning to look at Esme. ‘How can you
award points? If they’re my highlights then they’re my highlights.’
‘Yes. But the way this will work is that I’ll say ‘highlight’, ‘low-
light’, or ‘plan’ and you have to answer straight away. No hesitation.
If you umm or err or can’t think of anything, you don’t get a point.
Then you ask me.’
‘You’re making this up as you go along.’
‘I am.’
Tom laughed, though was in truth a little apprehensive. Worried
that what she might think of as fun would trip him up in some way.
That he’d say the wrong thing.
‘Everything’s a game to you, isn’t it?’ he said, as he mentally filed
through as many memories of their first year together as he could,
trying to separate the things that had gone well from those that
hadn’t.
‘Well noticed. But you don’t get a point for it. Ready?’
‘Shit. My turn first, is it? Well, I’d say a high—’
‘Ah, ah, ah!’ Esme stopped him. ‘I choose, remember. Lowlight,’
she said, talking quickly, like a gameshow host keen to catch a
contestant off guard.
‘What?’
‘Lowlight. Come on.’
‘Well . . . er . . .’
‘No points.’
‘Come on. You’ve got to give me a second,’ Tom said.
‘Rules are rules. Right, now you ask me.’
‘Fine. Highlight.’
‘Ha! So predictable. First night you stayed at mine. You got up
88
Our-Life-text-pp.indd 88
10/09/2018 17:07:15
at four in the morning because you were thirsty. Laura finds you in the kitchen, thinks you’re a burglar and Joe from upstairs turns up
with a cricket bat.’
‘That was awful.’
‘It was hilarious,’ Esme said. ‘In hindsight.’
‘Who comes down with a cricket bat anyway?’
‘Someone who fancies the girl who lives downstairs and thinks
it might be his moment.’
‘Isn’t he married?’
‘And?’ Esme said.
‘So that’s your highlight, is it? From everything we’ve done
together in the last year, that’s what really sticks in your mind?’
‘Afraid so. Anyway, my go again . . . Highlight.’
‘Our trip to Amsterdam,’ Tom said, a little too quickly, as though
Esme had a gun to his head.
‘You have to be more specific.’
‘Fine. The boat trip.’
‘That’s a rubbish one.’
‘Better than yours. At least no one was nearly killed.’
‘No. You see mine was about you. It was a memory of Tom. Yours
was just that you enjoyed a boring boat trip in Amsterdam. I had
nothing to do with it.’
‘I can be more specific.’
‘Yes. But that would just be about the architecture or the weather
or something. The memory has to be about you and me. Not a thing
you and me did.’
‘Bollocks,’ Tom said, looking up again at the black cloud, drifting
ever closer. ‘I’m not very good at this sort of stuff.’
‘Just be creative,’ she said, whacking him on the arm. ‘I’ll give
you half a point for Amsterdam because it was nice, and it was hilarious when you couldn’t work the audio tour and had to listen
to it in German.’
89
Our-Life-text-pp.indd 89
10/09/2018 17:07:15
‘Ja.’
‘Anyway. Your go.’
‘Lowlight,’ Tom said.
‘Food poisoning. Missed you playing in the tribute band at that
Irish festival in Victoria.’
‘Fucking hell, Es. How do you come up with this stuff so quickly?’
‘I have a good memory.’
‘So, really, the game is rigged.’
‘Not at all. My go again. Lowlight.’
Tom said nothing. He was distracted by the droplet that had
landed on his hand. Fol owed by another, and a few more soon after.
‘You feel that?’ Esme said.
‘I did. I was thinking about making it one of my lowlights – rain
during our anniversary celebrations. But now I realise that the real
lowlight was probably still the motorway.’
‘A sort of lowlight within a lowlight?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I guess we’d better . . .’ Esme said, motioning at the car, as the
rain began to come down heavier, causing the gaggle of dads to
scatter back to their estates.
She ran first and Tom followed her over to the little Corsa. But
when they got there, the doors wouldn’t open.
‘Tom, bloody unlock it!’ she shouted, pulling the neck of her
dress over her head as he padded around his pockets, desperately
searching for the keys. ‘Tom!’
‘I can’t find them.’
‘If you’ve locked them—’
‘I definitely brought them with me.’
‘Then open the bloody car. I’m getting soaked,’ she said, over the
noise of the water that had begun drumming against the tin-like roof
of the Corsa. ‘And people are looking.’
‘Shit,’ Tom said, patting himself down frantically now, before
90
Our-Life-text-pp.indd 90
10/09/2018 17:07:16
scuttling back to the barrier they’d been perching on to find the keys on the side of the road.
‘Got them!’ he called back to Esme, sprinting back and finally
unlocking her door. Inside the pleasant, fresh smell of summer
rain was instantly overpowered by the awful, noxious blueberry air
freshener.
‘Don’t,’ Esme said. ‘Before you even start. Don’t.’
‘They must’ve fallen out of my pocket.’
‘I’m soaked.’
‘I am sorry, Es.’
‘And they were all looking. All the dads.’
‘Well, you know . . . Pretty girl, wet clothes.’
She whacked him on the arm again. And again, as he chuckled
to himself.
Tom turned on the car and set the heaters high for Esme to dry
her hair. The radio promised ‘two hours of all the show tunes you’ve
told us you love in our one hundred best musical moments,’ which
he immediately silenced again. Outside the rain continued to fall,
beating down hard against the windscreen. When she’d done what
she could with her hair, Esme slumped back in her seat, looked over
at Tom and smiled.
‘Worth the journey?’ he said.
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘Well, I could say something trite and romantic. Like “oh Tom,
it’s just so perfect!”.’
&nbs
p; ‘But it’s not.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And that’s okay?’
‘More than okay.’
‘I love your optimism, Es,’ Tom said. ‘I just wish I could borrow
a bit of it sometimes.’
91
Our-Life-text-pp.indd 91
10/09/2018 17:07:16
‘It’s not optimism. I just think it’s things like this that we’ll remember. I know it’s not necessarily what we planned, or what
you wanted. But who’s to say a perfect day would’ve been any better?’
‘And, anyway, who’s to say a day on the beach in the sun would
have been better than four hours stuck in traffic?’
‘I mean, I think life’s better when it surprises you. It’s like when
people try to overly plan a wedding and it ends up being really
boring in comparison to one that’s just a bit slap-dash. The things
you do as a couple should represent who you are.’
‘And we are four hours stuck in traff—’
‘Oi,’ she said.
The rain began to ease a bit.
‘So shall we call this a glorious failure?’
‘Glorious is a bit strong, Tom.’ He smiled, knowing that she was
right. ‘At least we’ll never forget it, will we?’
‘As hard as we might try.’
Tom leant over the car to kiss her. Her face was still wet from the
rain and her lips tasted like cherry lip balm.
He thought about the drive back: the hours on the motorway; the
looming battles with London’s cabbies, cyclists and cars; the return to the rental place in Kilburn that, at night, resembled the setting for
the denouement of a television crime drama. Then he caught Esme
smiling, joyful even now, in the menial surprises of life. He became
suddenly aware of a sense of their togetherness, himself one half of a whole – that the things he lacked, she had, and vice versa. He could
stand a few more hours like that, wherever they spent them.
‘Your go to ask, isn’t it?’ he said. Esme looked surprised that it
was him who’d suggested carrying on with her game about their
first year. Although Tom didn’t say it, he wanted to relive more and
remember more; to appreciate things he might not have noticed in
the moment.
92
Our-Life-text-pp.indd 92
10/09/2018 17:07:16
‘Oh right. Highlight, then. But it can’t be this,’ she said with a smile.
‘Fine,’ Tom said, sitting back in his seat, and content to drift back
through his last twelve months with Esme.
93
Jamie Fewery Page 9