His 'n' Hers (21 page)

Authors: Mike Gayle

BOOK: His 'n' Hers

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‘I still think we’re casting our net too wide,’ says Jim. ‘I think we need to concentrate our search on proper North London.’

‘What do you mean by “proper North London”?’

He thinks for a moment. ‘Anything on or near the Northern Line and in zones one to four.’

‘Are you making this up?’ I say incredulously. ‘I’ve never known you to be so picky about anything like this before.’

‘I’m not picky. I’m just being careful.’

I get out the mini-map of central London from the back of my Filofax and read out places on or near the Northern Line. Jim rejects Camden as ‘too touristy and overpriced’, Kentish Town as ‘not too touristy but definitely overpriced’, Primrose Hill as ‘so overpriced it makes your eyes water’, Tufnell Park as ‘too grim for words’. Archway as ‘too desperate’, Highgate as ‘ideal, but too expensive’, Muswell Hill as ‘absolutely perfect’, Crouch End as ‘several million light years from the nearest tube’; and finally East Finchley as ‘Okay, but it’s not Muswell Hill, really, is it?’

‘So basically,’ I say, folding away the map, ‘you’re saying it’s Muswell Hill ideally, Highgate if we win the lottery in the next few weeks and East Finchley at a push.’

Jim laughs. ‘It sounds picky but you know it makes sense.’

Saturday, 14 February 1998

8.34 a.m.

I’m just thinking about getting up when I hear the post being delivered. I look across at Jim who is fast asleep, quietly slip out of bed and sneak out to the front door to get the mail. Today is Valentine’s Day and although I know it’s wrong I’m still curious to see whether I’ll get a card from Damon this year or whether he’s finally decided to move on. As soon as I get to the door I can see a mediumsized cream envelope resting on top of a pile of bills. I open it immediately. Inside is a crisp white card with the word ‘Love’ embossed in small gold letters. Inside it reads: ‘Hope this finds you happy. Thinking of you, D.’

Tuesday, 17 February 1998

4 p.m.

I’m sitting at work looking through a heap of property details that came in the post this morning from a half-dozen different estate agents. So far I’ve managed to persuade Jim to look at a couple of places in East Finchley because they were considerably cheaper than Muswell Hill, but he always manages to find something wrong with them, a leaky roof, mad neighbours, noisy roads – you name it, he’ll find it. He persuades me to look at a flat in Highgate that’s on the very edge of what we can’t afford, a tiny purpose-built one-bedroom flat in a horrible sixties block, and I hate it. As a compromise, a few days later, we look at some properties in the bit of North London that pretends to be Highgate even though it’s just a posher version of Archway. We see some okay flats but Jim hates them all. We look at a few places in Muswell Hill. They’re still pricy but I can tell from Jim’s face that this is really where he wants to be.

Saturday, 7 March 1998

12.47 p.m.

We’ve just seen a garden flat off the Broadway. It belongs to an Australian couple. They’ve done it up really well but they’re going back to Australia and tell us that they need a quick sale. They’re leaving carpets, curtains and even the cooker, and they want to sell us other stuff really cheaply. I think it’s perfect. Like the answer to a prayer. I feel, deep in the pit of my stomach, that this is the one, but I have no idea what Jim thinks because he always does his grumpy poker face to keep the estate agent on his toes.

‘What did you think?’ I ask, once the estate agent is out of earshot.

‘What did
you
think?’ Jim replies.

‘You can’t answer a question with another question!’

Jim laughs. ‘I just did.’

I decide to conceal my enthusiasm in case it makes Jim play devil’s advocate, which he loves doing and winds me up beyond belief. ‘Well . . . I think it’s got potential,’ I begin sceptically. ‘Obviously it will need decoration and I wasn’t sure about the size of the second bedroom—’

‘Are you joking?’ says Jim. ‘It’s bloody perfect. I love it. Two bedrooms. Tastefully decorated. A massive kitchen. And a garden for Disco to play in. It doesn’t get any better than this. You’re not going to veto, are you?’

‘Maybe,’ I say slyly. ‘And then again maybe not . . .’ As I say the words my own poker face crumbles. ‘I can’t keep this up, babe. I love it. I love it more than any flat we’ve seen so far. I think we should offer the full asking price right now.’

‘Right now?’

‘It’s Saturday. Think how many other couples are probably booked in to see it.’

‘But the full asking price? We’re first-time buyers, we’ve got nothing to sell. We can use all this as leverage to get the price down.’

‘I don’t care about leverage, Jim. I want us to have this flat. I can just see us in it, can’t you? This could be our home. The home we have a first child in. The home that will give us the best memories of our life.’

Jim laughs. ‘Well, I can’t argue with destiny, can I? Let’s put the full offer in now.’ He gets out his mobile phone and calls the estate agent. I’m so nervous I have to walk away.

‘What did they say?’ I ask anxiously, when it’s clear the conversation is over.

‘They say they’ll call us back by the end of the day.’

4.56 p.m.

We’re standing in WHSmith on the Broadway looking for a belated birthday card for Nick three weeks after the event, when Jim’s mobile rings in the pocket of his denim jacket. He takes it out and we both look at it in shock before he has the good sense to answer it. Once again I have to walk away to keep my composure so I stand by the magazine section and watch from my position of relative safety. Even though it’s somewhat futile I can see that his poker face is back again. The conversation seems to last for ever with no indication of whether it’s bad or good news. After a few minutes or so Jim ends the call and I walk back to him. The poker face is gone. In its place is the biggest, brightest smile I’ve seen in ages.

‘It’s good news,’ he says. ‘They’ve accepted. I’m going to contact our solicitor and get a survey under way for next week because part of the agreement is that we’re supposed to exchange contracts within six weeks.’

‘It’s really going to happen?’ I ask him incredulously.

‘Looks like it,’ he replies.

And right there in the middle of WHSmith, next to a whole display of
Good Housekeeping
magazines, we kiss.

Monday, 6 April 1998

1.34 p.m.

I’m standing in the furniture department at the Oxford Street branch of John Lewis having just ordered a cream sofa. For the past few weeks I’ve spent my lunch breaks visiting what feels like every furniture store in central London in search of the perfect sofa (right colour, shade, size and material) that would look perfect in the living room of our new home. My excitement about the flat is building to such an extent that I can’t concentrate on anything but homes magazines and home makeover programmes on TV. I’m obsessed, yet happily so.

Friday, 24 April 1998

1.31 p.m.

Jim and I went to the solicitor’s to sign the contracts yesterday evening. We’re supposed to be exchanging with the couple we’re buying from this afternoon. I’m heading out to a sandwich shop to get my lunch when I pass a small printer’s shop. I can’t help myself. Right there and then I order fifty change-of-address cards. They say I can pick them up the following afternoon. When I get back from lunch there’s a message from Jim. I ring him back immediately.

‘The estate agent rang,’ says Jim.

His voice isn’t right. I can tell something is wrong. ‘What did they want?’

‘They’ve taken it off the market.’

‘Who?’

‘The couple we’re buying the flat from.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘We’ve lost the flat. They said they’ve changed their minds about going to Australia.’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘We should phone them,’ I say tearfully. ‘Explain to them that they can’t do this. They can’t treat people like this. Maybe they’ll understand and change their minds.’

‘It’s their home. They can do what they want.’

‘But what about all the money we’ve spent already?’

‘We’ve lost it.’

‘But – but I’ve bought change-of-address cards. They have to let us buy the flat.’

‘I know, babe,’ says Jim. ‘But there’s nothing we can do.’

2.02 p.m.

It’s strange but I’m not prepared for how hard this news has hit me. I just burst into tears when I put down the phone after talking to Jim. I’m inconsolable. Here Jim and I are, trying to sort out our future, and the present won’t even let us get off the ground. I really don’t think I’ve ever felt so let down in my entire life. People at work keep telling me that there will be other flats and that this is all part of the game, but I don’t see it like that. I don’t see it like that at all. Jim’s the only one who understands, I think. He’s the only one who knows what this feels like.

Saturday, 9 May 1998

9.07 a.m.

‘I think Jim and I have become a lot closer,’ I tell Jane on the phone. ‘Closer than we’ve ever been. I feel like it’s me and him against the world.’

‘What are you going to do now?’ she asks.

‘We’ve decided to stop looking for a while. I don’t think either of us is in the right frame of mind to carry on. We’re already down quite a bit of money because of the last deal falling through. The whole thing is just so demoralising. The downside, of course, is that now it feels like we’re stuck here in this flat. Things that we used to ignore before, like the leaky tap in the kitchen, or that the front door won’t open without brute force, or the guys in the flat above us who leave their mountain bikes in the communal hallway, really get us both down. Even worse it turned out that the couple were lying about not going to Australia. Jim spotted the flat go back on sale with a different estate agent last week with a new sale price several thousand pounds higher than before. They’d just got greedy. When Jim told me this, I said to him, “Why are we even bothering? Everything seems to be against us.”’

‘What did he say?’

‘He didn’t say anything. He just put his arms around me and gave me a hug.’

Friday, 22 May 1998

6.37 a.m.

Our depression about losing the flat has gone. We’ve come right through to the other side. In fact, now it almost feels like what happened has brought us closer. Jim and I are so happy together that it’s almost ridiculous. We laugh and joke all the time, and even the flat’s not getting us down. Things are perfect. He’s got a meeting in Leeds today, which is why he’s up early. I’m up early because I woke up this morning with the desire to be the perfect wife. While he got ready I made him breakfast, even though I could’ve quite legitimately stayed in bed for another hour at least. Love, I think, makes you do the strangest things.

‘Right, then,’ says Jim, putting on his suit jacket. ‘I’d better be off otherwise I’ll miss the train.’ He walks into the hallway and I follow him in my dressing-gown, yawning. ‘I have no idea how long I’m going to be in Leeds so don’t worry about dinner for me. We’ll probably eat up there.’ He kisses me. ‘See you later tonight, then.’

As he pulls away I notice a speck of shaving cream on his cheek. I lick my thumb and, in one swift movement, rub it off. ‘Shaving cream,’ I explain.

‘Cheers, I would’ve been like that all day if you hadn’t spotted it.’

‘Well, we can’t have you looking like a scruff, can we?’

‘No, we can’t’, he says. ‘See you tonight, babe.’ He kisses me again, picks up his bag and walks out. And as I close the door behind him I suddenly think about all of the things that need doing that I think of as my responsibility: the washing-up in the sink, the huge pile of dirty clothes in the laundry basket, all of the ironing waiting for me in the spare room and the cat’s litter tray that needs emptying and I think to myself, just for a second, When did I become this person?

Monday, 1 June 1998

7.05 a.m.

I’m standing in the bathroom post-shower staring at the partially steamed-up mirror in front of me. I’ve been like this for ten minutes or so and, with each passing second, I have been getting more and more depressed.

‘What are you doing in there?’ says a muffled Alison, from the other side of the bathroom door. ‘I need the loo.’

I open the door and let her in.

‘Have you finished whatever it was you were doing?’

‘I’m going to ask you a question,’ I say, returning to the mirror, ‘and I want you to be truthful. Don’t sugar-coat it. And don’t worry about my feelings. Just tell me how it is, okay?’

Alison studies me with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. ‘Okay.’

‘Are you ready for the question? Okay, here we go: am I losing my hair?’

I lower my head so Alison can get a good look at my scalp.

‘It’s fine,’ she replies, after a few moments. ‘You’re worrying about nothing.’

I look in the mirror again. ‘Are you sure?’

I lower my head and she looks again. ‘Yeah, absolutely.’

‘Are you sure you’re sure or are you just saying that to make me feel better?’

‘I’m sure,’ says Alison firmly.

I nod, then peer into the mirror again, moving my head into the weirdest angles to get a good view of my scalp.

‘I am losing my hair, aren’t I?’ I say.

‘No. It’s fine.’

‘It’s okay, you can tell me straight.’