by Gil Brailey
Faith got to work early, showered there and changed, ignoring twenty messages on her phone from Dan, she found Phil, already at his desk and told him she needed his help.
“Oh yes? What kind of help?”
“I need a mortgage.”
He told Faith it shouldn’t be too much of a problem, especially with two decent salaries and a hefty deposit.
“Only one salary, actually, I’m buying the house myself.” Phil looked thrown, then a little awkward. “We’re splitting up, Dan and me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, Faith, I didn’t realise.”
That night, Faith found herself reasoning with Dan again, but for reasons Faith couldn’t quite work out, he was still clinging on to the idea, that they were a going concern. Faith wondered if it was because she had got there first, because she had made the first move, and consequently his pride had been dented; but it didn’t seem that way, for once his argument sounded genuine.
“We’ve just hit a rocky patch,” he reasoned, “we started taking each other for granted, I suppose, but we can change, no need to throw the baby out with the bath water.”
Dan’s wonderful, well-used English metaphors used to amuse Faith, now they irritated her beyond belief. Did he really think comments like that would resurrect their relationship that had just had its life support machine switched off? Apparently he did, because he told Faith he had organised tickets for a show in the West End, a show he knew she was keen to see. Faith did not have the heart to turn him down, he was making an effort after all, and so she went along with it, but ironically it proved without doubt that their marriage was a lost cause.
Dan complained about everything: the fact that the seats he had bought were fearfully expensive and yet their view was not that good, the price he was charged for drinks in the theatre bar, and the price requested for a programme; (a price he refused to pay). He complained that the play was incomprehensible and told Faith that the only reason plays like this were put on at all was because the writer “knew someone”. As the play was by Harold Pinter, he’d at least got one thing right. Pinter had known just about everyone in the theatre community during his illustrious career and for good reason. He even complained on the bus home that it took forever because obviously the driver was on a go slow, threatening a letter of complaint to the bus authorities, although he would not entertain the idea of a taxi for reasons outlined above.
When they got in, Faith started packing straight away.
“What are you doing?” he asked, bewildered.
“Leaving,” said Faith, “I’ll organize the rest later, but I’ve enough here to keep me going.”
Blood drained from Dan’s face; he looked stricken. “But Faith we’ve been through all this.”
“Exactly. Look, Dan… no one’s to blame. We want different things, we don’t really communicate anymore. Let’s just cut our losses, shall we?”
Dan was stumped for once, his mouth opened as though he was about to launch one last offensive, but in the end he didn’t. It was as if he knew it too now; there was no point. The die was cast.