I know she’s not. She’s talking about detail, clutter, the stuff that stops you floating away.
“It’s easy for you to say that, isn’t it, Mzzzz. Hot Shot City Lawyer. It’s not my fault that the shop isn’t doing very well.”
“Jesus Christ.” She changes gears with an impressive violence, and doesn’t speak to me for a while. I know we nearly got somewhere; I know that if I had any guts I would tell her that she was right, and wise, and that I needed and loved her, and I would have asked her to marry me or something. It’s just that, you know, I want to keep my options open, and anyway, there’s no time, because she hasn’t finished with me yet.
“Do you know what really annoys me?”
“Yeah. All the stuff you just told me. About the way I keep my options open and all that.”
“Apart from that.”
“Fucking hell.”
“I can tell you exactly—exactly—what’s wrong with you and what you should be doing about it, and you couldn’t even begin to do the same for me. Could you?”
“Yeah.”
“Go on, then.”
“You’re fed up with your job.”
“And that’s what’s wrong with me, is it?”
“More or less.”
“See? You haven’t got a clue.”
“Give me a chance. We’ve only just started living together again. I’ll probably spot something else in a couple of weeks.”
“But I’m not even fed up with my job. I quite enjoy it, in fact.”
“You’re just saying that to make me look stupid.”
“No, I’m not. I enjoy my work. It’s stimulating, I like the people I work with, I’ve got used to the money … but I don’t like liking it. It confuses me. I’m not who I wanted to be when I grew up.”
“Who did you want to be?”
“Not some woman in a suit, with a secretary and half an eye on a partnership. I wanted to be a legal-aid lawyer with a DJ boyfriend, and it’s all going wrong.”
“So find yourself a DJ. What do you want me to do about it?”
“I don’t want you to do anything about it. I just want you to see that I’m not entirely defined by my relationship with you. I want you to see that just because we’re getting sorted out, it doesn’t mean that I’m getting sorted out. I’ve got other doubts and worries and ambitions. I don’t know what kind of life I want, and I don’t know what sort of house I want to live in, and the amount of money I’ll be making in two or three years frightens me, and … ”
“Why couldn’t you have just come out with it in the first place? How am I supposed to guess? What’s the big secret?”
“There’s no secret. I’m simply pointing out that what happens to us isn’t the whole story. That I continue to exist even when we’re not together.”
I would have worked that out for myself, in the end. I would have seen that just because I go all fuzzy around the edges when I don’t have a partner, it doesn’t mean that everybody else does.
4. (In front of the TV, the following evening.)
“ … somewhere nice. Italy. The States. The West Indies, even.”
“Excellent idea. What I’ll do is, tomorrow I’ll get hold of a box full of mint Elvis Presley 78s on Sun, and I’ll pay for it that way.” I remember the Wood Green lady with the errant husband and the amazing singles collection, and feel a quick pang of regret.
“I presume that’s some kind of sarcastic male record collector joke.”
“You know how broke I am.”
“You know I’ll pay for you. Even though you still owe me money. What’s the point of me doing this job if I have to spend my holiday in a tent on the Isle of Wight?”
“Oh yeah, and where am I going to find the money for half a tent?”
We watch Jack Duckworth trying to hide a fifty-pound note he won on the horses from Vera.
“It doesn’t matter, you know, about the money. I don’t care how little you earn. I’d like you to be happier in your work, but beyond that you can do what you like.”
“But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. When I met you we were the same people, and now we’re not, and … ”
“How were we the same people?”
“You were the sort of person that came to the Groucho, and I was the sort of person that played the records. You wore leather jackets and T-shirts, and so did I. And I still do, and you don’t.”
“Because I’m not allowed to. I do during the evenings.”
I’m trying to find a different way of saying that we’re not the same people we used to be, that we’ve grown apart, blah blah blah, but the effort is beyond me.
“ ‘We’re not the same people we used to be. We’ve grown apart.’ ”
“Why are you putting on that silly voice?”
“It’s supposed to indicate inverted commas. I was trying to find a new way of saying it. Like you tried to find new way of saying that either we have babies or split up.”
“I did no … ”
“Just joking.”
“So we should pack it in? Is that what you’re arguing? Because if you are, I’m going to run out of patience.”
“No, but … ”
“But what?”
“But why doesn’t it matter that we’re not the same people we used to be?”
“First, I feel I should point out that you are entirely blameless.”
“Thank you.”
“You are exactly the same person you used to be. You haven’t changed so much as a pair of socks in the years I’ve known you. If we’ve grown apart, then I’m the one who’s done the growing. And all I’ve done is changed jobs.”
“And hairstyles and clothes and attitude and friends and … ”
“That’s not fair, Rob. You know I couldn’t go to work with my hair all spiked. And I can afford to go out shopping more now. And I’ve met a couple of people I like over the last year or so. Which leaves attitude.”
“You’re tougher.”
“More confident, maybe.”
“Harder.”
“Less neurotic. Are you intending to stay the same for the rest of your life? Same friends, or lack of them? Same job? Same attitude?”
“I’m all right.”
“Yeah, you’re all right. But you’re not perfect, and you’re certainly not happy. So what happens if you get happy, and yes I know that’s the title of an Elvis Costello album, I used the reference deliberately to catch your attention, do you take me for a complete idiot? Should we split up then, because I’m used to you being miserable? What happens if you, I don’t know, if you start your own record label and it’s a success? Time for a new girlfriend?”
“You’re being stupid.”
“How? Show me the difference between you running a record label and me moving from legal aid to the City.”
I can’t think of one.
“All I’m saying is that if you believe in a long-term monogamous relationship at all, then you have to allow for things happening to people, and you have to allow for things not happening to people. Otherwise what’s the use?”
“No use.” I say it mock-meekly, but I am cowed—by her intelligence, and her ferocity, and the way she’s always right. Or at least, she’s always right enough to shut me up.
5. (In bed, sort of beforehand and sort of during, if you see what I mean, two nights later.)
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I think it’s because I feel insecure.”
“I’m sorry, Rob, but I don’t believe that for a moment. I think it’s because you’re half-cut. When we’ve had this sort of trouble before, it’s usually been because of that.”
“Not this time. This time is because of insecurity.” I have trouble with the word insecurity, which in my rendition loses its second ‘i’. The mispronunciation doesn’t strengthen my case.
“What would you say you’re insecure about?”
I let out a short, mirthless “Ha!,” a textbook demonstration of the art of the hollow laugh.
“I’m still none the wiser.”
“I’m too tired to split up with you.” All that. And Ray, and you seem … cross with me all the time. Angry that I’m so hopeless.”
“Are we giving up on this?” She’s referring to the love-making, rather than the conversation or the relationship.