His 'n' Hers (24 page)

‘Afraid not. Anyway, it’s late now. Let’s try and get some sleep.’ I kiss her. ‘Goodnight, then.’

‘I’ve got his short stories somewhere,’ she says grumpily. ‘I’m going to find out what it’s called.’

As I watch her pull on her dressing-gown and leave the room, I begin to wonder if she’s not joking about the builders driving her insane. She’s gone for almost half an hour. I’m considering going to find her, even though we’re suffering sub-zero temperatures in the flat, when she finally returns.

‘“The Destructors”,’ she says, wearily flopping into bed. ‘That’s what it’s called.’

‘Oh,’ I reply. ‘Well, goodnight, anyway, babe.’

There’s a long silence and I think she’s drifted off to sleep so I turn over on to my side.

‘Jim?’ she says, through a stifled yawn.

‘Yeah.’

‘At least once this is done we’ll have everything fixed before we try for a baby, won’t we?’

‘Hmm,’ I reply, and then I fall asleep.

Nick and I are in his car going back to London. Alison and Jane are back at the hotel and I assume will get the train to King’s Cross tomorrow. We haven’t spoken about what’s gone on and it’s unlikely that we will for a few days as I’m not even sure myself. The car’s heaters are on so it’s warm, and pitch dark outside. Combined with the constant purring of the engine and the music coming from his CD player, I feel like I’m in the safest place in the world. As we travel into the night I think about Alison. I’m devastated that I’ve hurt her this way. And I’m not the kind of person who uses a word like ‘devastated’ lightly. I’m not devastated when the video craps up and doesn’t tape
Seinfeld
. I’m not devastated when I walk out of a tube station, step on a loose paving slab and a puddle of rainwater soaks my trousers. I’m not devastated when my computer breaks down and I lose a whole day’s work. I am, however, devastated to realise I’m no longer in love with the woman I wanted to grow old with.

It hit a couple of weeks ago, in the supermarket of all places. It was Saturday morning and Alison and I were at Sainsbury’s in Muswell Hill. It appeared to be populated entirely by cute, trendy, cohabiting couples several years younger than us. They were everywhere I looked, with their faded jeans, logoed T-shirts, perfectly coiffed hair and obligatory air of smugness. They paraded around with their tiny shopping baskets as I piloted a hulking pushalong trolley – which held only a copy of
The Independent
and a large bag of watercress – and I thought to myself,
Alison and I used to be like you. We used to do our shopping with tiny baskets. We used to be trendy. I used to be cool. I even used to be the lead singer of a band. Really I did
.

As I stood in the fruit-and-veg aisle I spotted an incredibly beautiful girl coming through the doors. She was stunning. Absolutely beautiful in a million different ways. A goddess. She looked about twenty and had long dark brown hair. She wasn’t wearing anything special: a denim jacket, a blue V-neck jumper, jeans and workwear boots, yet somehow she transformed the whole ensemble into the most attractive clothing I’ve ever seen on a woman. I was convinced that she could wear a bin-bag and look cool. To top it all, she was with a tall, moody-looking guy, who looked like a part-time model.

They walked past without noticing me. I don’t know why but I turned my trolley and followed them. As they walked up and down the aisles she held his hand and seemed to laugh at everything he said. It was clear to me that they’d only just got together. It was also clear to me that they were in love. And I couldn’t help but feel jealous of what they’d got. This guy standing in front of me had the kind of girl that men put on a pedestal. As I followed them up the aisle lined with cereal packets I wondered if part of me missed all that. Alison wasn’t on a pedestal. She wasn’t even raised slightly off the floor. She was the same as me – imperfect, with feet of clay. I knew everything about her. There weren’t any secrets left to uncover.

I didn’t know whether this girl before me shaved her legs in the bath with her boyfriend’s razor or got them waxed in a salon. I didn’t know whether she sometimes went out in pants that didn’t match her bra. I didn’t know if she thought nothing of brushing her teeth while her boyfriend was sitting on the loo. But I did know these things about Alison. Just as she knew everything about me. We were no longer distinct from each other. Somewhere along the way we’d blended. Become less than ourselves. And all the mystery we used to hold for one another, all the questions about how our lives were going to turn out, had disappeared. Because other than the prerequisite two-point-four children Alison and I had nowhere left to go because we’d ticked nearly all the boxes in the list of things couples are supposed to do.

In a lot of ways I was proud of all the obstacles we’d overcome in the years we’d been together – the arguments, insecurities, temporary break-ups, being separated by distance, my dad’s death, the whole lot – because each one had seemed to imbue our relationship with more worth. Some of the things we’d faced might’ve stopped other people’s relationships in their tracks but not us. In fact rather than being a threat they were the reason we’d lasted so long. They helped define us. They helped us focus on our relationship. They gave us direction. But what do you do when you reach the destination you’ve been trying to get to for a whole lifetime and discover you don’t really want to be there?