State of the Union

by Nick Hornby

  “A catch-up?” Louise says sarcastically.

  “If you want.”

  “It’s not really starting again, though, is it? You catch up with people you’ve known for a long time. If we stay living apart, then that’s what we’ll be doing in the future. ‘How have you been?’ ‘The kids are doing well, aren’t they?’ ‘Have you got any good graduation photos?’ ‘Nice to meet you, Naomi.’”

  “Who’s Naomi?”

  “Or Jenny, or Jackie. Or whatever. Your new partner.”

  “And that doesn’t make you feel a little bit sick?”

  “No, not really. I mean, if we do split, I’d like us all to get on.”

  “‘Us all’ includes your new partner, I presume. Russell or Nigel or Colin.”

  “Oh, thanks a bunch.”

  “They were just examples of names.”

  “Really crap names.”

  “They might be nice people. You wouldn’t turn your nose up at Russell Crowe. Or Colin Firth. Or Nigel . . . Kennedy.”

  “Nigel Kennedy?”

  “Nigel . . . de Jong, then.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The Dutch player who should have been sent off in the World Cup Final. Studded a Spanish player in the chest. Right up here.”

  He points to his own chest.

  “Terrible challenge, it was.”

  “You’re not selling him to me,” says Louise.

  “I’m sure he’s not like that at home.”

  “Anyway, you weren’t thinking about those people. You were thinking about home counties bank managers.”

  “Nothing wrong with home counties bank managers. We could do with one in the family. And as my solvency is a problem, I don’t think you should be too sniffy.”

  “Can we not talk about my next partner?”

  “Let’s talk about mine, then. What does Naomi do, as a matter of interest?”

  “Naomi . . . Hmmmm. I’m not getting anything.”

  “Well, choose me someone else, then. Jenny. What does Jenny do?”

  “She’s just opened her own coffee shop.”

  Tom makes a face, like, Not bad. I can see that.

  “You went in there to work every day, and got to know her, and . . . the rest is history.”

  “Well, history in the future, anyway. Speculative history. A new literary genre.”

  “Oh, and she loves kids, but she missed her moment because she spent too long with a guy who couldn’t make up his mind, and now it’s too late.”

  “Why is it too late?”

  “Because she’s too old.”

  Tom shakes his head.

  “You’re not palming me off with Old Jenny.”

  “You’re well into your fifth decade.”

  “Jenny isn’t.”

  Louise laughs.

  “Older men are always going off with younger women,” says Tom. “Rod Stewart. Mick Jagger. Rupert Murdoch. Nelson Mandela.”

  “And what have they got that you haven’t?”

  They are enjoying this conversation. They are amused and animated.

  “It’s more what I’ve got that they haven’t. I’m younger than any of them.”

  Louise looks at him.

  “I’d say you’re drifting into unwise territory here.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “I mean, if you do have children, although that might be . . . Anyway, if you do, you’d be good for a game of football in the back garden. But as for the rest of it . . .”

  “I’d probably be better at IT stuff than Rupert Murdoch. He wouldn’t know what to do with Spotify.”

  “He’d have staff.”

  “He wouldn’t be allowed to use them in a contest.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Plus, I’d kill Murdoch at tennis. I’ve got a height advantage, as well as an age advantage.”

  “You should challenge him. Settle this once and for all. If you explained that you needed to beat him to show that you’re entitled to a younger second wife, I’m sure he’d oblige.”

  “I could ask if he’s heard of Stormzy at the same time. Just to twist the knife.”

  “Oh, he’d know all about Stormzy.”

  “How?”

  “Kids. A much younger wife. Several tabloid newspapers and a few TV channels.”

  “Again, he wouldn’t be allowed to consult. I wonder whether we’re drifting away from the matter at hand.”

  “Which is?”

  “Well,” Tom says. “Perhaps we should be talking about this marriage, rather than future marriages. Or Rupert Murdoch.”

  “It seems to me that the further we drift, the happier we get.”

  “Weird, isn’t it?”

  “Well. Not really. A malfunctioning marriage is depressing and time-consuming. Imagining a future with Jenny from the tea shop and Nigel from the bank is quite liberating.”

  “But you can always do that. Imagine a future that’s easier than the one you have now.”

  “Is it as much fun living on your own as you thought it would be?” she asks him.

  “I never thought it would be.”

  “Of course you did. Everyone does. Every adult who has children and a spouse imagines an empty flat, no clutter, a white rug without Coke stains all over it, a big double bed to oneself, a remote control without tape wrapped round it, drawers that weren’t full of crap . . .”

  “We could have a go at the drawers . . .”

  “. . . A toilet that isn’t streaked yellow or brown because nobody ever puts the seat up or uses a brush, a hallway that isn’t full of discarded trainers and bikes that nobody can be bothered to fix, doors you can lock because the keys are in the door, fart-free air, and, in the unlikely event that I did pass wind, I would not then greet my indiscretion with howls of laughter. Oh, quiet. I’d like to live somewhere quiet, with no hip-hop coming from the bathroom, nobody screaming at an Xbox . . .”

  “I’ve stopped doing that now I’m better at Call of Duty, so . . .”

  “Nobody complaining about the quality of the Wi-Fi, as if somehow I had authorized a cheap version, no cat puke to clear up . . .”

  Tom’s attention is distracted by something he’s seen out the window.

  “Ay, ay. A new couple.”

  A man and a woman in their seventies are emerging from Kenyon’s house.

  “Jesus,” Louise says. “Why bother? If we’re still having troubles when we’re that age . . . Well, we won’t be. I’ll be long gone.”

  “Maybe that’s the time to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well. Dying alone and all that. The stakes are high.”

  “You think about that?”

  “I’m living in a squat with three media studies students,” Tom says. “Of course I think about dying alone.”

  “You never told me it was a squat! Oh, Tom.”

  “Can we talk about that another time? I think this is important. You must see people who are going to die alone all the time.”

  “They’re going to die in a hospital, most of them. Surrounded by lovely Polish nurses. You’re not even going to have that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you voted to chuck all the Polish nurses out,” says Louise. “Why is it all about you dying alone? Not me?”

  “You don’t seem to be bothered. Anyway, it’s not really the dying bit, is it? It’s the year or two before.”

  Louise picks up her glass.

  “Here’s to a heart attack.”

  Tom returns the gesture.

  “Or a road accident.”

  “Did you ever have a baby pact with anyone?”

  “I’m not sure,” Tom says cautiously.

  “I had one with Neil. When we were both single. We
agreed that if we weren’t with anyone by the age of thirty-five, he was going to impregnate me.”

  “The normal way?”

  “Yes, the normal way.”

  “Neil Parker? Your old college friend?”

  “Yes, Neil Parker.”

  “You were going to have sex with Neil Parker?”

  “To get pregnant.”

  “So this is another one. Fucking hell.”

  “No! That’s the whole point! It’s a last resort!”

  “Christ,” Tom says gloomily. “Neil bloody Parker.”

  “Look, forget the sex part. The point is that we make a death pact instead of a baby pact. If it looks like we’re going to die alone, we move in together. Or move into the same retirement home. Or something.”

  “Great. At least this week we can take something positive to the session. A death pact.”

  “I think it’s positive. It shows a certain goodwill.”

  “It wasn’t what I was hoping for when I bought a new shirt and got myself a haircut.”

  “What were you hoping for?”

  Tom shrugs helplessly. Louise looks at her watch, drains her drink, stands up. Tom follows her lead.

  “How are new starts possible?” Louise says. “When you’ve been together for a long time, and you have kids, and you’ve spent years and years being irritated by the other person? But if they stop being irritating, they’re not them anymore.”

  “My text was me not being me.”

  “Exactly.”

  They walk to the door.

  “So I’ve got to stay as me.”

  “Yes.”

  “While at the same time being different, somehow.”

  “It’s a conundrum.”

  They walk to the crossing point.

  “Can I ask you something?” says Tom.

  “Of course.”

  “Jenny’s coffee shop . . . Is it doing okay, do you think?”

  He’s being serious. He wants to know. Louise takes it seriously.

  “Early days, but promising signs,” she says. “A lot of mums from the local primary school are starting to use it, and they’re spreading the word.”

  “So I’ll probably have to find somewhere else to work?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Nigel doesn’t have to be a bank manager, you know.”

  “Good. That’s the most generous thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  They have reached the front door. Louise rings the bell, and the moment of harmony is preserved.

  week seven

  CALL THE MIDWIFE

  Tom is sitting with his pint, at the usual table, doing a crossword. Louise’s drink is waiting for her. The crossword has been printed off—it’s on a piece of A4 paper—and some parts of it are damp from the pub table. He’s finding it difficult to fill in one of the clues, and he swears to himself.

  “Fucking thing.”

  Louise enters the pub, walks over, sits down, and takes a big glug of white wine.

  “Ah, that’s better.”

  No response. She exhales exhaustedly. Everything indicates that she has had a difficult day, but Tom won’t pick up on the cues.

  Louise nods at the crossword.

  “Who’s the setter today?” she says.

  “Arachne.”

  “Looks like you’re getting on okay.”

  “Not too bad. Except I hate doing the crossword on a bloody piece of paper. It’s either wet or bumpy.”

  “Why have you printed it off? Why aren’t you doing it in the newspaper?”

  “Because you’ve got the newspaper.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You know you have.”

  “Why won’t you buy another newspaper?”

  “You know it’s two quid now, don’t you? So that would be four quid a day.”

  “But it’s not four quid a day, because we’re separate people. We don’t live together. You might as well add up all the money your friends spend on The Guardian, and say it’s fifty quid a day.”

  “Six, more like,” Tom says gloomily.

  “Oh, for God’s sakes. You’ve got hundreds of friends. Lots of friends, anyway. But we’re getting off the point. You can afford to buy a paper.”

  “It seems like a big step.”

  “It’s really not.”

  “Like I’ve committed to leave my home.”

  “How about this? If you move back in, don’t buy a second paper.”

  “Jesus. I was only talking about the crossword, and we’re back here again. Don’t you get tired of our marriage?”

  “Yes! Yes! Tired! Bored out of my skull! But how can we stop, if you sit here complaining about how you can’t afford to buy a newspaper?”

  “I wasn’t complaining. I just said it was a step I wasn’t prepared to make.”

  “A symbolic step?”

  “If you like.”

  “No. I don’t like. I’d rather you just bought the paper,” Louise says. “The point I’m making is that from the moment I walked in, you’ve been talking about our marriage, through the medium of the crossword.”

  “Just by saying I didn’t like doing it on A4?”

  “Have you never heard of subtext?”

  “You’re reading too much into it. As my mum used to say when I tried to talk to her about Bob Dylan.”

  “And was she right or wrong?”

  “She was wrong then, I’m right now. Sometimes a crossword is just a crossword. And I can’t write properly when the paper gets wet.”

  “The conversation could have gone an entirely different way.”

  “For instance?”

  “You could have not mentioned the wet paper,” Louise says.

  “Well, obviously I wouldn’t have done if I’d known that complaining about wet paper—and the little bumpy bits on the table . . .”

  “Oh, believe me, I know it’s not a frivolous complaint . . .”

  “If I’d known that complaining about wet paper . . .”

  “And the bumpy bits . . .”

  “Was going to be the opening scene in a Bergman film.”

  “Let’s start again.”

  To Tom’s bemusement, Louise stands up and walks out of the pub. He waits for a moment, but she doesn’t come back immediately. He starts to look at the crossword, and is no longer looking at the door when Louise walks in and sits down. She picks up her wine, takes another large swig.

  “I needed that.”

  Tom smiles vacantly. Louise exhales ostentatiously. Tom suddenly spots an answer, tries to write it in, and is immediately frustrated by the scratchiness of the biro on the stains and the table.

  “Fucking thing.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Have I gone wrong already?” Tom says.

  “Yes!”

  “How?”

  “I wanted you to ask me what sort of day I’d had.”

  “How was I supposed to know that?”

  “So, first of all, it’s often a conversation starter, isn’t it? Between partners? ‘Hi. How was your day?’”

  “Gotcha.”

  “And secondly, I gave you all these cues. I took a swig of my wine, and then I exhaled, and . . . well. Never mind. Your way gets us back to the dual-newspaper problem within two seconds.”

  She shakes her head.

  “What sort of day have you had?” Tom says.

  “It’s too late now. Have you noticed that we only ever seem to be able to talk about the last few seconds?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “We start talking, somebody says the wrong thing, and then we spend the rest of the time talking about the wrong thing someone has said.”

  “Yeah. That’s what happens in counseling every week.”


  “Exactly. We come out in exactly the place we went in.”

  “Or a little further back, usually.”

  “What happened last week?” says Louise.

  “I can’t remember. We’d had that conversation in here about the names of our new partners, which we rather enjoyed . . .”

  “She asked us how the week had been . . .”

  “She always does that . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “Did we have an argument about the cost of the cat’s medication? Or was that the week before?”

  “The week before,” says Louise. “Got it! Call the Midwife.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “It didn’t get us very far, did it?”

  “I thought it was useful.”

  “In what way?”

  “Because she interrupted you a couple of times to let me finish. You’ve never let me finish before. So we learned the value of counseling and safe spaces.”

  “I only interrupt when you’re talking about Call the Midwife. And that’s because there is no end to your loathing. You know I enjoy it. I find it relaxing.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t.”

  Louise laughs in disbelief.

  “I shouldn’t?”

  “No. Why can’t you find Preston Sturges films relaxing?”

  “Which one is he?”

  “Sullivan’s Travels,” Tom says impatiently.

  “Can I make a confession?”

  “Within reason.”

  “I don’t really like black-and-white movies. I mean, I can see they’re good, some of them. But . . . there’s something about them that feels a bit like eating your greens.”

  Tom is stunned.

  “Double Indemnity?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Maltese Falcon?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom thinks.

  “Jules et Jim?”

  “Yes!”

  Tom is still thinking.

  “I’m worried that you’re going to name every black-and-white film ever made, and I’m going to say yes to all of them.”

  “Oh my God,” says Tom. “I really had no idea.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I’m not a critic. I like what I like.”

  “‘I like what I like.’ I never thought I’d end up with somebody who could say that and mean it.”