by Matt Dunn
7.22 p.m.
We’re sitting at the bar, where Wendy is showing us an article she’s read in the Daily Mail’s ‘Femail’ section.
“‘Health-check your relationship”?’ scoffs Dan. ‘I can already tell you that Edward’s is so ill that it’s in need of major surgery. Liposuction, for example.’
‘Shut up, Dan. Go on, Wendy.’
‘Well, apparently, you’ve got to ask yourself a few simple questions,’ she says. ‘Firstly, are you happy in the relationship? Secondly, how does your partner enhance your life? Thirdly, if this person suddenly vanished from your life, how would you feel? Fourthly, where in your relationship league does this person sit? And lastly, how balanced is the relationship?’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Fire away.’
‘Right. So let’s look at these from Jane’s point of view. Was she happy?’
‘Obviously not.’
‘If you could let me answer them please, Dan?’
‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘Well, Edward?’
‘Um…obviously not.’
‘How do you think she felt you enhanced her life?’
‘Er…Well, can I come back to that one?’
‘If you suddenly vanished from…’
‘Well, I have, haven’t I, and she’s the one who instigated the vanishing, so I guess not so bad.’
‘Where in her relationship league table would you be?’
‘At the top, I guess. Based on length.’
‘And how balanced would you say the relationship was?’
‘Fairly. We split everything down the middle.’
‘Everything?’ asks Wendy. ‘Like the cooking? Cleaning? Driving? Sex?’
‘Well, apart from those things. Financially, I mean.’
‘Okay. Right, let’s turn those questions around. Were you happy?’
‘Yes!’
‘How did she enhance your life?’
‘Just by being there.’
‘If she suddenly…’
‘I think we all know the answer to that one.’
‘Where in your relationship league table would she be?’
‘That’s a league with very few teams in it,’ interrupts Dan.
‘Shut up, Dan. Wendy, I appreciate your input, but how is this helping, exactly?’
Wendy puts the newspaper down. ‘I just thought if we could work out what it was in the relationship she was unhappy with, then perhaps that would give you something more to go on.’
‘Thanks, but I think I know what it was she was unhappy with. Me. And I don’t need a quiz from the Daily Mail to tell me that.’
‘You’re sure about that, are you?’ asks Wendy.
‘Er…Why?’
‘Well, if we ignore for one moment the possibility that she has, indeed, gone off you, and was trying to let you down gently…’
‘Let me down gently? By moving her stuff out without telling me and buggering off to the other side of the world?’
‘…it could also be that she’s simply trying to work out some stuff, and seeing where, if anywhere, you fit in.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
Wendy shrugs. ‘Perhaps it’s everything: the flat, her job, Brighton, even. Maybe she’s going through one of those “what’s-it-all-about?” phases. I mean, she’s thirty, right?’
I have to think for a minute. ‘Er, nearly. But what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Because just as forty is an important age for men, thirty is for women. Did the two of you ever talk about getting married? Having kids?’
‘Don’t you start. No, we didn’t talk about it.’
Wendy looks surprised. ‘Not once in ten years?’
‘No. Besides, she always seemed pretty independent.’
‘It’s true,’ says Dan. ‘Jane’s the one who wore the trousers. Just as well, with her legs.’
As I punch Dan on the shoulder, which hurts me more than him, Wendy looks at me sympathetically. ‘Edward, sometimes the strongest woman in the world just wants a guy to seize control. To take over. She gets tired of having to make all the decisions, and of organizing every single thing that you do.’
‘But Jane seemed quite happy to do all that.’
‘Happy? Or was it just that if she didn’t, nothing would get done?’
‘Er…’ Not surprisingly, I don’t have an answer to that.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘This is how some relationships work, and I know it’s not particularly PC, but the guy goes out to work, and the woman’s job is to look after the guy. Keep the home clean, raise the kids, cook dinner, that sort of thing. Now, as I say, that may not be a particularly modern view, but it suits a lot of people. The problem you two had was that Jane loved her job, she was very much the career woman and earned a lot of money. It takes a lot to give that up. Particularly if you’re not sure you can rely on the man in the relationship to support you.’
‘But I’ve got a good job…’
‘That you’re always moaning about and threatening to leave. Hardly the best security from Jane’s point of view. And what about the “kids” thing?’
‘What “kids” thing?’
‘You and Jane. Having them. Neither of you were getting any younger. What were your plans in that department?’
I scratch my head thoughtfully, ‘I dunno really. I guess we just thought we’d have them one day. Or not.’
Wendy sighs exasperatedly ‘We thought? Or you thought? Did you and Jane ever discuss it?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why?’
‘Just because it never kind of came up, I suppose.’
‘Never came up, or because you avoided it?’
‘Well, not in so many words.’
Wendy tries another tack. ‘Did she want children?’
‘I don’t know. She loves kids, though. Other people’s, I mean.’
‘And what about you? How do you feel about it?’
I shrug. ‘Fine either way, really. If she wanted them that would be okay, and if she didn’t…Same, really.’
‘So, fundamentally, you’re not bothered about one of the major decisions every couple has to make?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it that way.’
‘What way would you put it?’
I give this a bit of thought. ‘Well, it’s more a case of if Jane decided she wanted kids, then…’
‘Let me just stop you there. So having children would be a decision she’d have to make. Another thing that she’d have to instigate?’
‘I suppose. But I’d be happy to support her, both financially and, you know, emotionally, and all that.’
Wendy rolls her eyes. ‘Edward, for every woman who reaches the age of thirty, having children is the biggest issue they’ve got to deal with. We know that unless we make a decision about it soon then we may be leaving it too late. Firstly, we’ve got to decide whether we actually want them at all. Next, we have to work out whether the person we’re with would make a good father. And then we’ve got to decide whether we can bear to stay with them for at least the next eighteen to twenty years while we’re stuck at home bringing up the kids.’
‘Kids?’
‘Oh yes, as in the plural, because you can’t really stop at just the one.’
‘Can’t you?’
‘My parents did,’ interrupts Dan, who’s been pretty quiet throughout most of this discussion.
‘I’m not surprised,’ says Wendy. ‘But, Edward, that’s why we have to take drastic action sometimes. It’s not like in our twenties, where relationships are just about us, and if things aren’t right we can simply end it and move on. There are time factors that come in to play here. The older we get, the more pressure we put on our partner to be the right one, particularly where our decision regarding kids is concerned. Let’s face it, if we do decide you’re not the right one, we can’t just go away and instantaneously have a child with someone else. We’ve got to go through the same relationship process, then actually get
pregnant, and then carry the little sod around for nine months. So the longer we leave it, the older a mother we’re going to be, and the more chances there are of complications or that we can only have one child. You guys can keep fathering until you’re old and grey. We’ve only got so many eggs.’
‘So…’ Dan frowns. ‘Jane’s deciding whether she’s going to put all her eggs in Edward’s basket, so to speak.’
‘Kind of,’ says Wendy. ‘She’s coming up to a crucial time in her life—I as a woman can sympathize with that—and maybe she just wants to be sure. I think if she’d just left him, moved out, stayed here in Brighton, and maybe started looking for another boyfriend, then Edward should be worried. But instead, she’s gone off to Tibet on this “finding herself” mission, because she needs to find herself before she can decide whether she wants to find someone else.’
This is great—the idea that the reason Jane left might not all be down to me, but rather down to some other issues she needs to get straight in her own mind is something I’m more than happy to entertain. But on the other hand, if it is partly because she might have been thinking about starting a family, then that’s something else I’ve got to sort out before she gets back.
I shake my head. ‘I can’t believe this is all because of bloody children. But maybe she doesn’t want kids.’
‘Maybe,’ agrees Wendy. ‘But the fact that you’re sitting well and truly on the fence probably doesn’t help her one bit. See it from her point of view—she’s coming up to that age where she’s got to start thinking about making a decision, and you’re doing the old “whatever you decide dear…” It’s not like choosing a new duvet cover—this is the most important issue she’s ever going to face, the biggest decision anyone ever has to make; it will affect both of you for the rest of your lives in the biggest possible way and you don’t have an opinion on it?’
‘Ah.’ I’m starting to see Wendy’s point. And I’m also starting to feel pretty stupid.
‘If we’re going to spend nine months feeling sick, suffering back ache, watching our bodies change—sometimes irreversibly—needing to pee every five minutes, culminating in a day or two’s intense effort, pain, and stress when we have to try and squeeze something through a part of our body that’s only used to much, and in Dan’s case, much much smaller things going in and out, then spend several years not sleeping, stressed, with sore nipples, changing crappy nappies, breathing a sigh of relief when he or she finally goes off to school but at the same time crying our eyes out when they do, then spending the next thirty or forty years worrying about every little thing…Well, we need to be sure that the person we’re doing it with is at least a little bit interested, not to mention committed.’
Dan nudges me, ‘You’d need to be committed if you want to have kids.’ He nudges me again. ‘Like in a mental institution…’
‘I got it, Dan.’
‘Yeah, but you didn’t laugh.’
‘Because it wasn’t funny. Go on, Wendy.’
Wendy smiles, and goes back to reading the Mail. ‘I’ve finished, really.’
‘Thank goodness,’ whispers Dan, sticking his tongue out and miming hanging himself.
And as Wendy chases him round the bar with her rolled-up newspaper, for the first time I realize that this isn’t just about me sorting myself out. It’s about Jane as well.
And more importantly, it’s about us.
Thursday 20th January
11.21 a.m.
I’m at my desk, scanning through the ‘Health and Fitness’ section of the Argus, until an ad catches my eye. ‘New You. We can transform you. Call Sam Smith’, followed by a mobile number. Sam Smith. He sounds like an upright kind of bloke. I take a deep breath, pick up the phone, and dial.
Sam answers after three rings, but turns out to have a very girly voice.
‘New You, personal trainers.’
‘Oh. Yes. Hi. Can I speak to Sam Smith, please?’
‘This is she.’
This wasn’t what I was expecting, and I’m considering putting the phone down, when Sam’s voice comes back on the line.
‘Hello?’
‘You’re a girl?’
‘Last time I looked.’
‘But you’re…I was expecting…I mean, Sam, that’s usually short for Samuel, isn’t it?’ I’m aware that I’m blushing down the phone.
‘Or Samantha.’ Her voice hardens a little, ‘But if that’s a problem for you, I can recommend someone with a little more hair on their chest.’
I think about this for a second or two, and realize that it’s probably not a problem at all. Who better to knock me into the kind of shape that Jane will find attractive than another woman.
‘No. No, that’s fine. My name’s Edward, and I need to get fit, you see. My, I mean—’
Sam interrupts me, ‘Edward, let me stop you there. I’m with a client at the moment, but why don’t we get together later today?’
I swallow hard. ‘Today?’
‘Just for an initial chat,’ says Sam, noting the alarm in my voice. ‘Shall we say six o’clock? Then you can tell me exactly what it is you’re trying to accomplish, and we can work out how we’re going to achieve it.’
We arrange a place to meet, and I put the phone down, feeling slightly nervous about what I’m getting myself in to. Telling Sam what I’m trying to accomplish will be fairly straightforward. It’s the ‘achieving it’ part that I’m worried about.
6 p.m.
I’m in a cafe on the seafront, drinking the worst cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted, while waiting for Sam to arrive. I’ve already been sitting nervously at the table for ten minutes, and I’m trying to hide an ashtray full of my discarded cigarette butts when she walks in through the cafe door.
The moment I spot her, I suddenly feel rather fat, extremely unfit, and very, very self-conscious. Compared to me, Sam positively glows with health. With short dark hair framing a pretty face, a cute, slightly upturned nose, and the most beautiful brown eyes, stick her in a black cocktail dress and she’d be Audrey Hepburn circa Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Without the cigarette holder, of course.
She’s not that tall; perhaps a shade over five feet in her Nikes, and wearing a bright blue tracksuit that hugs her athletic, almost ballet-dancer figure. I smile at her, conscious that I’m holding my stomach in, which, when I catch sight of my reflection in the window, gives me a bit of a pained expression.
She walks over towards my table. ‘You must be Edward.’
‘Sam?’ I say, before realizing that I’ve just asked possibly the most unnecessary question in the whole universe.
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘You too,’ I say, trying hard not to wince when she shakes me firmly by the hand.
As Sam sits down opposite me and orders a decaf coffee from the waitress, I wonder why I ‘must’ be Edward—am I the fattest, most unfit person in the whole cafe? I look around quickly and then realize that actually, apart from the waitress and Sam, I’m the only other person in the whole cafe. But even including the waitress, who’s perhaps nudging fifty, I’m probably still the most unfit person here.
‘So,’ says Sam, pulling a clipboard out of her rucksack and uncapping a biro with her teeth, ‘as I said on the phone, I thought we ought to sit down and have a chat first, so you could tell me what your goals are.’
‘That’s easy,’ I say, reaching into my pocket to retrieve Jane’s photo. ‘This.’
Sam takes it from me and studies the picture closely, a puzzled expression on her face.
‘Blimey. That’s a bit drastic. I mean, exercise can work wonders, and I know my ad says we can transform you, but…’
‘But what?’
‘I think you may need the help of a good plastic surgeon. And maybe some hormone treatment?’
I find myself blushing furiously as I blurt out my reply. ‘No. You don’t understand. This is Jane. My girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. She’s left me. And I need to get her back.’
‘Oh,’ say
s Sam, looking more than a little relieved. ‘Right. Sorry.’
‘I’ve got three months to…To make her fancy me again.’
It’s not the first time I’ve said it out loud, and although it still sounds a little strange to me, Sam doesn’t seem to think so. She hands the photo back to me, looks me up and down, then lets out a small whistle.
‘Three months? That’s going to be tough.’
‘Whatever it takes.’
‘Well,’ says Sam, writing my name down on the clipboard, ‘in that case, all I can say is that Jane’s a lucky girl.’
Sam runs through some personal details, general health questions, and family medical history, noting my answers down, before looking me directly in the eye.
‘So tell me a little bit about your lifestyle, and be honest. Do you smoke?’
As the waitress brings Sam’s coffee over, my eyes flick guiltily towards the pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray. ‘No. I mean, yes. Trying to give it up though.’
Sam follows my line of vision. ‘Well, you should think about trying a little harder. What do you like to do in your spare time?’
I shrug. ‘Most evenings I go to the Jim.’
Sam raises her eyebrows before realization kicks in. ‘That would be “Jim” as in “Admiral”, rather than g-y-m?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Are you into any sports?’
‘Darts. And I’m quite good at pool.’
Sam shakes her head. ‘Try and think of something that’s not pub-based, please.’
‘Football.’
Sam looks pleasantly surprised. ‘Five-a-side, or Sunday in the park? Where do you play?’
‘Sorry,’ I say, guiltily. ‘I thought you meant watching.’
Sam sips her coffee, makes a face, and pushes the cup away. ‘Can you swim?’
I glance through the cafe window at the churning grey sea, and decide to lie.
‘Nope.’
‘Do you own a bike?’
‘Same answer. Sorry.’
Sam sighs thoughtfully, and when she puts her clipboard down on the table, it seems to have an alarming number of crosses on it.