The Seven Year Itch

by Emlyn Rees

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Do you want tea?’ Kate asks.

  ‘Please.’

  I go and put Spirited Away on for Ben in the living room. And when I come back, Kate’s folded up the blankets and sheets and stacked them on one of the chairs.

  ‘Where’s Amy?’ she asks.

  ‘Out. Shopping. You know, for our trip to New York.’

  Kate hands me a cup of tea and we both sit down at the table. ‘Oh, yeah. Only two days to go. You must be really excited.’

  ‘Delirious.’ The level of involuntary sarcasm in my voice leaves me appalled. ‘I didn’t mean it to sound like –’

  ‘Like you don’t want to go?’ Kate says.

  ‘Yeah. Because I do.’

  Kate looks at me the way only a sibling who’s grown up trading bullshits with you over the past three decades can: like she doesn’t believe a word.

  She’s not wrong. Because I am a little wary about the trip, and still feeling a little kidnapped. It’s all happened in such a rush, and so far it’s not brought us any closer than we were before. Nothing has been mended. The fizz Amy promised never arrived. I feel as flat as a bottle of milk, and more deflated than elated at the prospect of spending three days with Amy, mano a mano.

  Kate blows on her tea and peers at me over the top of her mug. ‘Am I right in guessing that things aren’t so good between you two at the moment?’

  Of course, I want to contradict her, and tell her to back off and butt out. I want to laugh in her face and tell her she’s way off mark. And I wish that I could.

  Instead I say, ‘It’s that obvious, is it?’

  She nods sadly. ‘Like a turd in a cake shop.’

  Her lack of hesitation knocks me. I thought I’d done a fairly good job of masking all my worries and doubts from her, but maybe I’m not the one who’s been giving the game away, I then think, as a fresh fear creeps across my skin.

  ‘Did Amy say something to you?’ I ask.

  ‘No. It’s just . . . you know how you have a mental picture of somebody? Like Dad? I always picture him with a pint in his hand. Or Mum. I always think of her crying when Dad left . . .’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘Well, the picture I’ve always had of you and Amy was of the two of you laughing. You know, side by side. With your arms round each other . . .’

  I sigh. That’s always been the picture I’ve had too.

  ‘But now I hardly even see you in the same room,’ Kate continues. She reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘I want you to be honest,’ she says. ‘Is it me? Being here. You know, in your space . . . Because if it is, I can move out right away . . . into a hotel . . . The last thing I want is to make matters worse . . .’

  It’s an offer worth considering, I know, but there’s a desperation in her eyes when she says it, and there’s no way I’m going to accept. Besides, she told us last night that she’s got a room lined up at a mate’s place in two weeks’ time. It would just be mean to kick her out now.

  ‘No,’ I tell her. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’ Or if it was to begin with, I think, then it’s not any more. ‘It’s me,’ I admit. ‘Amy just seems to get pissed off at everything I do. If I go out, she gets angry, but if I stay in, she goes out herself.’

  ‘She still hasn’t forgiven you for going to Nobu with Matt then?’ says Kate.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you tried saying sorry?’

  I shrug. ‘Sorry is my middle name.’

  ‘I mean a proper sorry. Not just a pragmatic one to try and end an argument.’

  ‘There’s a difference?’

  ‘There is if you’re a woman. We can tell if you mean it, or not.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I say, ‘but really, this isn’t about sorry. It’s gone way beyond that.’ I rub at my eyes, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘We’re just not making each other very happy at the moment.’

  ‘So tell her about it. Tell her how you feel.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip, Billy Joel.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘I know, and I’ve tried. I told her that I didn’t think things were good between us, when she told me about the New York trip. She said she’d try to make things better. That we both should.’

  ‘Well, that sounds pretty positive.’

  ‘That’s what I thought at the time, but ever since . . . whenever I do talk to her, it’s like . . .’ I struggle to find the words. ‘It’s like talking to a telephone operator. You ask a question and you get some information back, but there’s no emotion in the exchange . . . That’s how we are at the moment. Our conversations are perfunctory. We talk about putting the bins out, or what’s on the TV, or how Ben needs a new pair of shoes, but on anything emotional, it’s like she’s totally distracted. Honestly, Kate, we might as well be work colleagues – and work colleagues who don’t even like each other very much at that.’ I shake my head sadly. ‘I don’t want our marriage to turn into a business arrangement.’

  ‘No. Of course not. It’s got to be about you two loving each other, and loving Ben.’

  I look at my sister, my little sister, and I see that she looks worried as hell.

  I tell her, ‘That’s how I always thought it would be. Me and Amy against the world. I never thought we’d win – you know, because you can’t, because the world grinds everyone down in the end, everyone gets old or sick, everybody dies – but I did hope we’d give it a damn good run for its money. Not just quit.’

  ‘And that’s how you feel? Like you’ve both given up?’

  ‘I don’t know. You know how it is. You spend your life discussing how things are going to be next year. And the year after. And what will happen when you get that new job. And what kind of house you’ll move into, and all the cool places you’ll go to on holiday . . .’

  ‘Yes, but surely that’s half the fun.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it. Amy and I don’t discuss that kind of thing any more. We’ve stopped making plans. It’s like instead of looking forward, we’re standing still. Or looking back. And I don’t know which is worse.’ I chew down on my lip. ‘I just know that it’s making us both miserable.’

  ‘But every relationship goes through its ups and downs,’ Kate points out.

  ‘I’m not talking about ups and downs. I’m talking about downs and downs. I mean, sure, we’ve had rough patches before. Like after Ben was born. But not like this. I hate it. I hate what’s going on between us. I hate her shutting me out. But what I hate about it most is that it’s like yawning. It’s contagious. It makes me want to do it to her too.’

  That’s how it feels, I realise. Like we’re in love and in hate at the very same time.

  ‘That’s how it was with me and Tone towards the end,’ Kate says. ‘Before he told me to pack my bags and go.’

  I grimace. ‘Oh, cheer me up, why don’t you?’

  Kate clamps her hand over her mouth, then says, ‘Oh God. That sounded awful. I’m not saying that’s how it’s going to be between you and Amy,’ she hurriedly adds. ‘You two are totally different. You’ve been together for ever.’

  People used to say that to me about Zoe Thompson, I suddenly think, simultaneously realising that I haven’t really thought about Zoe for years. Not since we broke up in 1995, after going out with each other for two years.

  But the reason I am thinking about her now makes perfect sense. It’s because Zoe and I stopped talking towards the end, just like me and Amy have now.

  My stomach lurches.

  Is that what this is? The beginning of the end? Have Amy and I already started acting out our relationship, instead of inhabiting it for real?

  ‘I bet it’ll all blow over,’ Kate says. ‘You probably just need a change of scene.’

  ‘Well, New York here we come,’ I say, trying to sound positive. ‘Make or break.’

  ‘Just look on it as a fresh start,’ Kate says encouragingly. ‘Draw a line under all the bollocks that’s going
on now.’ She comes round the table and stands behind me, squeezing my shoulders. ‘You will get through this, big bro. I know you will.’ She hugs me and I lean back into her.

  ‘I know,’ I sigh. ‘I’m just letting off steam. You’re right: New York’s the place to move things on.’

  She hugs me again, harder this time. I look up into her eyes. She suddenly seems so grown up, and I suddenly feel so young.

  ‘Never feel like you’re on your own,’ she tells me, ‘because you’re not. You’ve always got me.’

  But the way she says it, the way she hugs me so hard when she does, I know that she thinks my fears are real fears, and that what I dread might be happening to Amy and me actually is.

  11

  Amy

  Age-Defying Hands

  Radio CapitalChat

  Jessie’s Daily Discussion: What would you say is the most important thing in a relationship?

  Caller: Amy from West London

  As always, it’s been very interesting talking to you, Amy. So, to recap for the listeners, you’re saying that honesty is the most important thing in a relationship.

  Yes. Whatever the problem, or issue, honesty is always the best policy.

  And you’re totally honest with Jack? Always?

  Of course.

  And Jack’s honest with you?

  Yes . . .

  You don’t think he might have told you a few white lies along the way?

  Well . . . maybe . . . but I trust him.

  And he trusts you, I’m sure. Maybe we’re getting somewhere here. I don’t want to put words in your mouth, Amy, but maybe you’re saying trust is what’s more important. More important than honesty, perhaps? What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over and all that . . . But I want to hear some more of your thoughts, listeners. After this ad break . . .

  ‘That was great,’ Alex says to me, when I stay on the line after I’ve been on air.

  But I feel soiled. Phoney. For the first time, I’ve called in just to get on the radio and not because I believed in what I was saying. Because all that – everything I’ve just said on air – is a lie.

  ‘Jessie’s giving me the thumbs up from the studio,’ Alex continues. ‘Honestly, you should see her. I think she even has her hands done.’

  ‘Her hands? What do you mean?’

  ‘You know. Botox. Or plastic surgery. Those hands of hers are so bloody perfect they don’t seem real. We’re all sure of it. She’s definitely had work . . .’

  Botox? Plastic surgery? Jessie? That certainly doesn’t fit with my image of a lady ‘on the turn’ living a spinster’s life in her mother’s old house. And why would she have work done on her hands and not the rest of her? It doesn’t make any sense, but I’m not given a chance to enquire further, before he says, ‘So you’re off to New York? How exciting. I wish we could come with you and do an OB.’

  ‘OB?’

  ‘Outside broadcast.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Jack would like that,’ I tell him. I’m not even sure that Jack really wants to go. And to be honest, I’m not sure I do either. It’s like everyone else is excited apart from me. The Vipers went nuts when I told them about the trip yesterday. Camilla went into overdrive about discount designer stores and Faith, who apparently worked there for a few years before she got married (which was total news to me), started listing off tips. Now, today Alex too is telling me how lucky I am. But I feel doomed.

  ‘Well, whatever,’ he continues. ‘You’re going to love it. All that shopping. And it’s all included in the prize?’

  ‘Flights, hotel and a thousand dollars spending money,’ I say, but my enthusiasm sounds false.

  ‘Lucky lucky you. I could spend that in a second in New York. Oops, gotta go. Jessie’s cracking the whip again. That’s her problem, Amy. She thinks she’s God! Speak to you soon, darling. Tatty bye.’

  When he puts down the phone, I ring straight back and speak to the CapitalChat receptionist.

  Suddenly, I want a photo of Jessie Kay.

  Telling It Like It Is

  It’s six o’clock in the evening as I come out of the tube at Green Park. The workers are spilling on to the pavements and I’m just another body in the crowd on Piccadilly, yet I feel as conspicuous as if I had a neon arrow above my head pointing down at me.

  I walk around the corner to the cobbled streets of Shepherd Market. My head is telling me that I shouldn’t take one step further, but something that I don’t understand, and certainly can’t fight, compels me to walk on. I’ve made the decision to do this in person and that’s the right thing to do. The decent thing to do. Isn’t it? I’m the one who thinks that honesty is the best policy. I said so on the radio, after all.

  I spot him straightaway, as I approach The Grapes, the pub where we’ve agreed to meet. He’s wearing cream linen trousers and a loose cream linen shirt, and he’s sitting at one of the tables outside, reading a book. He’s surrounded by men in grey suits standing up, drinking beers. In the late afternoon sun, Tom Parry looks almost saintly.

  For a moment, I’m tempted to turn and flee, but, as if sensing me, he looks up and waves. Like a fish on a hook, he reels me towards him.

  ‘Amy from West London,’ he says, standing up and smiling. ‘You came.’

  He doesn’t touch me, but I feel his body, as if it’s radiating out towards me. I bite my bottom lip and look down at my feet, holding my handbag against my knees. I’m wearing my new red wedges especially. Can he tell how much effort I’ve made with my appearance?

  I think of all the lies I told Jack so easily in order to get here. The fictitious theatre trip with Ali – the spare ticket becoming free at the last minute. It was as if everything just fell into place, so that I could be standing here, right now.

  ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ Tom says, smiling at me and holding up his hands, like I’m some kind of flighty creature. ‘Don’t go away. OK?’

  I nod. I can’t look at him. I can’t look at his lips. They’ll be forever locked in that midnight moment and the kiss that I can’t forget. Just the thought of it turns my insides to jelly.

  It occurs to me that Tom and I share history that no one else knows about, and that we’re making more history at this very moment. Despite all my resolve, it feels wonderfully, decadently selfish, because since I met Tom, for the first time in over seven years, I feel like I’m living my life. Mine. As if I’ve connected to a part of myself I’d forgotten about, the bit that isn’t a wife, or a mother, or a daughter, or friend. The bit that’s just me.

  Then I remember why I’m here.

  I’m here to tell him how it really is.

  I sit down at the end of the bench and stare at the table, listening to the group of men in suits behind me.

  ‘That place? The art gallery. You know it used to be a brothel,’ one of them says.

  ‘How things have changed.’

  ‘Not really, there’s still loads of hookers around here.’

  ‘Shhh.’

  There’s a small silence, and I notice them looking at me. Oh my God! Do they think I’m a hooker? I hope not, but, I have to admit, there’s some part of me that feels like one. I look down at my red skirt. Maybe I should have worn my black one instead.

  Tom comes back outside, carrying my drink. He smiles, and there it is again . . . that feeling of lightness.

  ‘What are you reading?’ I ask, nodding to the book on the table.

  ‘I’ve just finished it. It’s by an author I’m meeting tomorrow,’ he says.

  ‘Is it any good?’

  ‘It’s brilliant. Why don’t you take it? I’d be interested to hear your take on it.’

  He pushes the book towards me and I reach out for it. As I do, his finger brushes over mine. I feel it like an electric shock and I move my hand away quickly.

  What am I thinking? I feel sick with nerves.

  ‘Amy?’ Tom says, searching out my eyes.

  I shake my head and look down again, forcing myself t
o remember the speech I’ve rehearsed. ‘You know I told you I wasn’t lucky and I never won anything?’

  He nods.

  ‘Well, I was wrong. I just won a trip to New York for two.’

  ‘Wow! Are you going to take me?’ he says. His eyes dance with smiles. ‘I love New York. It’s one of my favourite places. I could show you round.’

  ‘No, no,’ I stutter, thrown by the casualness with which he’s made this suggestion. ‘No, it’s this weekend, and I’m going with Jack. We’re going together.’

  I’d planned out what I was going to say next, but sitting opposite Tom, I feel tongue-tied. I feel like I should apologise.

  I swallow hard. ‘So what I came to tell you is –’

  ‘Amy?’

  I look at him now. His gaze is so intense that I can’t look away.

  ‘Please don’t say any more. It’s enough that you’re here.’

  He smiles and it’s a beautiful smile – and all at once, I realise what a stupid, silly cow I’m being. How, once again, my ego is getting the better of me: because to know that someone as attractive as Tom finds me attractive is possibly the most seductive boost my ego has ever had – and, like a junkie, it’s crying out for more, more, more.

  I sigh, still looking at him, giving in.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, smiling despite myself. ‘Look Tom, whatever this is, it’s ridiculous. We’ve only met once and –’

  ‘Sometimes it only takes once: to realise that you really like somebody. It has for me. Somebody told me that when you know, you know. I never believed them until now.’

  ‘You can’t, I mean –’

  ‘Just listen to what I’ve got to say,’ he says, reaching across the table and holding his hand over mine. It feels warm and strong.

  ‘But Tom, I –’

  ‘You see, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Not for a moment since we met.’

  I can tell how much he means it. I shake my head, flustered and confused. My eyes fill with tears.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I say.

  ‘What don’t I understand?’