Us

by Nicholls, David

  Of course, I had considered that another child might be the answer. Connie, I knew, longed to be pregnant again, and though we were fond and affectionate and, in some ways, closer that we’d been before, things were not easy. The stresses and strains of ‘trying for a baby’ have been rehearsed many, many times. In the shadow of what had happened – well, I won’t go into the details except to say that anger, guilt and grief are poor aphrodisiacs and our sex life, once perfectly happy, had taken on a rather dogged and dutiful air. It was not so much fun any more. Nothing was.

  Paris, then. Perhaps Paris in the spring might be the answer. Hackneyed, I know, and I wince now to recall the lengths I went to in order to make that trip perfect; the first-class travel, the flowers and champagne ready in the hotel room, the chi-chi and expensive bistro I had reserved – all this in a largely pre-internet world where arranging such excursions involved PhD levels of research and nerve-shredding phone calls in a language that, as we’ve established, I neither spoke nor understood.

  But the city was beautiful in early May, absurdly so, and we walked the streets in our best clothes and felt as if we were in a film. We spent the afternoon in the Rodin Museum, returned to the hotel and drank champagne while crammed into the tiny bathtub, then went woozily to dinner at a restaurant that I had previously reconnoitred, French but not cartoonishly so, tasteful, quiet. I don’t remember all that we said, but I do remember what we ate: a chicken with truffles under the skin that tasted like nothing we’d ever eaten before and wine, chosen purely by luck with a blind jabbing motion, that was so delicious as to be almost another drink entirely. Still in that corny film, we held hands across the table and then we went back to our hotel room on rue Jacob and made love.

  Afterwards, on the edge of sleep, I was startled to notice that Connie was crying. The combination of sex and tears is a disconcerting one, and I asked, had I done something wrong?

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ she said, and, turning, I could see that she was laughing too. ‘Quite the opposite.’

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Douglas, I think we’ve done it. In fact, I know we have.’

  ‘Done what? What have we done?’

  ‘I’m pregnant. I know it.’

  ‘I know it too,’ I said, and we lay there and laughed.

  Of course, I should point out that there was no way of ‘knowing’ this. In fact, at that precise moment, it probably wasn’t even true, as the gametes take some time to make contact and form the zygote. Connie’s ‘sense’ of conception was an example of ‘confirmation bias’ – a desire to favour the evidence that confirms what we wish to believe. Many women claim to ‘know’ for sure that they are pregnant after sex. When, as in most cases, it transpires that they’re not, they immediately forget their prior certainty. In the rare cases that they’re right, they see this as confirmation of some supernatural or sixth sense. Hence confirmation bias.

  Nevertheless, two weeks later a pregnancy test confirmed what we both already ‘knew’, and thirty-seven weeks after that Albert Samuel Petersen was welcomed into our world and chased our blues away.

  35. the little ray of sunshine

  - For crying out loud, Albie!

  - Why is it a problem?

  - But why don’t you want to come with us?

  - I want to do my own thing!

  - But I’ve booked the table for three people!

  - They won’t mind. Go with Mum. Stare into each other’s eyes, whatever.

  - What will you do?

  - Walk around, take photos. I might go and listen to some music.

  - Well, shall we come with you?

  - No, Dad, that is not a good idea. It’s the opposite of a good idea.

  - But wasn’t the point, wasn’t the whole point of this trip that we spend some time together as a family?

  - We spend loads of time together, every day!

  - Not in Paris!

  - How’s Paris different from home?

  - Well, if I have to answer that … Do you have any idea how much this trip is costing?

  - Actually, if you remember, I wanted to go to Ibiza.

  - You’re not going to Ibiza.

  - Okay, tell me how much this is costing, then. How much, tell me?

  - It doesn’t matter how much.

  - Well it obviously does, seeing as you keep bringing it up. Tell me how much, divide it by three, I can owe it to you.

  - I don’t mind how much, I just wanted – we wanted to spend time as a family.

  - You can see me tomorrow. Christ, Dad!

  - Albie!

  - I’ll see you in the morning.

  - Fine. All right. See you in the morning. No lie-ins. Eight thirty sharp, or we’ll have to queue.

  - Dad, I promise you, at no point during this holiday will I relax.

  - Goodnight, Albie.

  - Au revoir. A bientôt. And Dad?

  - What?

  - I’m going to need some money.

  36. tripadvisor

  The restaurant where we’d eaten the famous chicken was closed for the annual exodus of the Parisians to the gîtes of the Loire, the Luberon, the Midi-Pyrénées. I’ve always had a grudging admiration for the chutzpah of this mass evacuation, a little like being invited to dinner only to find the hosts have gone out and left a tray of sandwiches. Instead we went to a local bistro that was so ‘Parisian’ that it resembled a set from a situation comedy; wine bottles barely visible under cascades of candle wax, canned Piaf, no inch of wall without a poster for Gauloises or Perrier.

  ‘Pour moi, je voudrais pâté et puis l’onglet et aussi l’épinard. Et ma femme voudrait le salade et le morue, s’il vous plaît.’

  ‘The beef, and the cod for madame. Certainly, sir.’ The waiter left.

  ‘When I speak in French, why does everyone reply in English?’

  ‘I think it’s because they suspect that you’re not a native French speaker.’

  ‘But how do they know?’

  ‘It’s a mystery to me,’ she laughed.

  ‘In the War, if I dropped behind enemy lines, how long before they cottoned on to the fact that I was English?’

  ‘I suspect before the parachute opened.’

  ‘Whereas you—’

  ‘I’d roam the country, undetected, blowing up bridges.’

  ‘Seducing young mechanics from the Citroën garage.’

  She shook her head. ‘You have a distorted impression of my past. It wasn’t like that. Not entirely. And even when it was, it wasn’t much fun. I wasn’t very happy back then.’

  ‘So when did you become happy?’

  ‘Douglas,’ she said, taking my hand by the fingertips, ‘don’t fish.’

  Thankfully we were now of an age where we no longer felt obliged to maintain a constant stream of conversation. In between courses, Connie read her novel and I consulted the guidebook to confirm the opening times and ticketing arrangements for the Louvre, and suggested some restaurants for the following day’s lunch and supper.

  ‘We could just walk out and find somewhere,’ she said. ‘We could be spontaneous.’ Connie disapproved of guidebooks, always had. ‘Why would you want to have the same experience as everyone else? Why join the herd?’ And it was true that there was a preponderance of English and American voices amongst the customers around us, a sense from the staff that they were giving us what we wanted and expected.

  But the food, when it came, was fine, with that excessive use of butter and salt that makes restaurant cooking so delicious, and we drank a little more wine than we should have, and enough cognac for me to forget, temporarily, my wife’s desire to move on. In fact, we were positively light-hearted by the time we made it back to the tiny room and, with the mild surprise that tended to accompany the act these days, we made love.

  Other people’s sex lives are a little like other people’s holidays: you’re glad that they had fun but you weren’t there and don’t necessarily want to see the photos. At our age too much
detail leads to a certain amount of mental whistling and staring at shoes, and there’s also the problem of vocabulary. Scientific terms, though clinically accurate, don’t really convey the heady dark intensity, etc., etc. and I’d like to avoid simile or metaphor – valley, orchid, garden, that kind of thing. Certainly I have no intention of using a whole load of swear words. So I won’t go into detail, except to say that it worked out pretty well for all concerned, with that pleasant sense of self-satisfaction, as if we’d discovered that we were still capable of performing a forward roll. Afterwards we lay in a tangle of limbs.

  ‘A tangle of limbs’. Where did I get that from? Perhaps one of the novels that Connie encourages me to read. They fell asleep in a tangle of limbs. ‘Like a pair of honeymooners,’ said Connie, her face very close, laughing in that way she has, eyes wrinkling, grinning, and I was suddenly hit by a wave of unspeakable sadness.

  ‘This has always been all right, hasn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This… side of our relationship.’

  ‘It has. You know that. Why?’

  ‘I just realised, one night we’re going to do this for the last time, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, Douglas,’ she laughed and pressed her face into the pillow. ‘Well, that’s taken all the fun out of it.’

  ‘The thought just occurred to me.’

  ‘Douglas, everyone has that eventually.’

  ‘I know. But this’ll be a little sooner than anticipated.’

  She kissed me, sliding her hand behind my neck in that way she has. ‘You don’t need to worry. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t quite the last time.’

  ‘Well that’s something, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll tell you when it’s the last time. I’ll toll a bell. I’ll wear a shroud and we’ll play a slow funeral march.’ We kissed. ‘I promise, when it’s the last time, you will know.’

  37. first time

  The first time we made love was a very different kettle of fish. Again, I won’t get into specifics, but if I had to use a single word to sum it up, the word would be ‘terrific’, and though Connie would undoubtedly find a better word, I like to think she would agree. Which might surprise people, I suppose. I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, but I’ve always been better at that kind of thing than others might expect. I’m keen, for one thing, and at that time I had also been playing a great deal of badminton, so was in pretty good shape. Also, it’s important to remember that Connie was still under the influence of certain artificial stimulants, and I’m prepared to accept that was also a factor. There was Chemistry between us, if you like. I once pointed out to Connie that she wouldn’t have taken me home if she’d been sober. Rather than deny it, she laughed. ‘You’re probably right,’ she said. ‘Another reason to Just Say No.’

  We arrived at the unassuming terraced house behind Whitechapel Road just before four in the morning. Apparently this area has since become fashionable, and perhaps Connie and her friends planted that seed, but at the time this was uncharted territory for someone like me. We were a long way from the All Bar Ones and Pizza Expresses of Hammersmith, Putney and Battersea, the somewhat suburban boroughs where many of my friends and colleagues lived.

  ‘It’s mainly Bangladeshi, with a little bit of old East End. I love it. It’s what the city used to be, before the yuppies moved in.’ She opened the door. Was I meant to come in?

  ‘Well … I’d better be off, I suppose,’ I said with a shrug, and Connie laughed.

  ‘It’s nearly four!’

  ‘I thought I’d walk.’

  ‘Back to Balham? Don’t be daft, come in.’

  ‘There’ll be a night bus, I’m sure. If I can get to Trafalgar Square, I can change and get the N77 …’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Douglas,’ she laughed. ‘For a PhD, you’re extremely dim.’

  ‘I didn’t want to assume anything.’

  ‘To assume,’ she said, ‘makes an ass of u and me.’ Then she leant forward, put her hand behind my neck and kissed me with some force. And that – that was terrific too.

  38. lime, vodka, chewing gum

  The house was an organised mess. ‘Curated’ is the word Connie would use, with every inch of wall covered with reproductions, postcards, posters for bands and clubs, photographs and sketches. The furniture was what might be called ‘eclectic’: a church pew, school chairs, an immense pale leather G Plan sofa partially buried beneath discarded clothes, magazines, books, newspapers. I saw a violin, a bass guitar, a stuffed fox.

  ‘I’m having vodka!’ shouted Connie from the kitchen – I didn’t dare to wonder what the kitchen was like – ‘But there’s no ice. Would you like vodka?’

  ‘Just a small one,’ I replied. She entered with the drinks and I noticed that she had reapplied lipstick somewhere along the way, and that made my heart sing too.

  ‘As you can see, the cleaners have just been.’

  I took my glass. ‘There’s fresh lime in this.’

  ‘I know! Sophisticated,’ she said, biting the slice. ‘Club Tropicana.’

  ‘Are any of these paintings yours?’

  ‘No, I keep those safely locked away.’

  ‘I’d love to see something. Your work.’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  Tomorrow?

  ‘Where’s Fran?’ She had told me all about Fran, her housemate, who, like all housemates through the ages, was ‘completely mad’.

  ‘She’s at her boyfriend’s.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  ‘It’s just you and me.’

  ‘Okay. And how are you feeling?’

  ‘A little better. I’m sorry for freaking out like that. I shouldn’t have taken that pill, it was a bad idea. But I appreciate you staying with me. I needed … a calming presence.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now, now I feel … perfectly fine.’

  We smiled. ‘So,’ I said, ‘am I sleeping in Fran’s bed?’

  ‘Good God, I bloody hope not.’ She took my hand and we kissed again. She tasted of lime and chewing gum. In fact the gum was still in her mouth, which would have thrown me at any other time.

  ‘Sorry, that is disgusting,’ she laughed, removing it, ‘us kicking that around in there.’

  ‘Don’t mind,’ I said.

  She stuck the gum on the doorframe. I felt her hand on my back, found my hand on her thigh, on top of the dress then beneath it. I stopped to catch my breath. ‘I thought you said nothing was going to happen?’

  ‘I changed my mind. You changed it for me.’

  ‘Was it because of the lemon battery thing?’ I said, and she laughed while we kissed. Oh yes, I was quite the wisecracker.

  ‘My bedroom’s a disaster area,’ she said, breaking away. ‘Literally and figuratively.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said, and followed her upstairs.

  Do I sound uncharacteristically suave in all of this? Do I sound aloof, nonchalant? The truth is that my heart felt like a fist trying to punch its way through my rib-cage – not from the excitement of it all, though it was thrilling, but from a sense that finally, finally something good was about to happen to me. I felt the proximity of change, and I had wanted more than anything for something in my life to change. Is it still possible to feel like that, I wonder? Or does it only happen to us once?

  39. a brief history of art

  Cave paintings. Clay then bronze statues. Then for about 1,400 years, people painted nothing except bold but rudimentary pictures of either the Virgin Mary and Child or the Crucifixion. Some bright spark realised that things in the distance looked smaller and the pictures of the Virgin Mary and the Crucifixion improved hugely. Suddenly everyone was very good at hands and facial expression and now the statues were in marble. Fat cherubs started appearing, while elsewhere there was a craze for domestic interiors and women standing by windows doing needlework. Dead pheasants and bunches of grapes and lots of detail. Cherubs disappeared and instead there were fanciful, idealised landscapes, then portrait
s of aristocrats on horseback, then huge canvases of battles and shipwrecks. Then it was back to women lying on sofas or getting out of the bath, murkier this time, less detailed, then a great many wine bottles and apples, then ballet dancers. Paintings developed a certain splodginess – critical term – so that they barely resembled what they were meant to be. Someone signed a urinal, and it all went mad. Neat squares of primary colour were followed by great blocks of emulsion, then soup cans, then someone picked up a video camera, someone else poured concrete, and the whole thing became hopelessly fractured into a kind of confusing, anything-goes free for all.

  40. the philistine

  Such was my understanding of the history of art – its ‘narrative’, I ought to call it – until I met my wife. It is barely more sophisticated now, though I’ve picked up a few things along the way, enough to get by, so that my art appreciation is almost on a par with my French. In the early days of our relationship Connie was quite evangelical and bought me several books, second-hand editions because we were in our happy-but-poor phase. Gombrich’s The Story of Art was one, The Shock of the New another, given specifically to stop me tutting at modern art. Well, in the first flush of love, if someone tells you to read something then you damn well read it, and they’re terrific books, both of them, though I’ve retained almost nothing of their contents. Perhaps I should have given Connie a basic primer in organic chemistry in return, but she never expressed an interest.

  Still – and I’d hesitate to confess this to Connie, though I think she knows – I’ve always felt a little at a loss with art, as if a piece of me is missing, or was never there. I can appreciate draughtsmanship and deft choice of colour, I understand the social and historical context, but despite all my best efforts my responses seem to me fundamentally shallow. I don’t quite know what to say or, indeed, feel. In portraiture I look for people that I recognise – ‘Look, it’s Uncle Tony’ – or for the faces of film stars. The Madame Tussaud’s school of art appreciation. In realist works I look for detail; ‘Look at the eyelashes!’ I say, in idiotic admiration at the fineness of the brush. ‘Look at the reflection in his eye!’ In abstract art I look for colour – ‘I love the blue’ – as if the works of Rothko and Mondrian were little more than immense paint charts. I understand the superficial thrill of seeing the object in the flesh, so to speak; the sightseeing approach that lumps together the Grand Canyon, the Taj Mahal and the Sistine Chapel as items to tick off. I understand rarity and uniqueness, the ‘how much?’ school of criticism.