Relight my Fire

by Joanna Bolouri

  When I picked Molly up from Maggie’s, she informed me that there had been an outbreak of nits at nursery and Molly’s head was crawling. Fear not though, she’d already washed Molly’s hair in medicated shampoo and deloused every inch of her head. I’m so grateful. By the time I’d finished hand-wringing and attempting to look through her hair from 15 feet away, she’d have been old enough to treat it herself. God, how do some women just find this so easy? Being a parent is gross.

  Saturday January 28th

  ‘Hazel has offered to take Molly tonight!’ I excitedly announced while Oliver was in the shower. ‘We could go out! We could catch a film or go for a meal or —’

  ‘I said I’d meet the footie lads for a drink,’ he replied before I could list endless couple possibilities. ‘Sorry. Didn’t I tell you? Big Paul just had a son. We’re going to wet the baby’s head.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ I replied, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘Can’t you go for a couple and meet me after?’

  ‘No, we’ve got a late one planned. Ask Hazel if she’ll do it next week instead.’

  ‘She’s not our fucking hired help, Oliver. She’s doing us a favour.’ My disappointment was well and truly showing. Along with annoyance. ‘Look, forget it.’

  He drew back the shower curtain just in time to see me storm out of the bathroom. ‘What’s wrong with you? I had plans. I wouldn’t ask you to change your plans. Can you hand me that towel?’

  I returned to the bathroom, grabbing a towel and throwing it at him. ‘The difference between you and me is that I WOULD change my plans. When was the last time we spent some time together?’

  ‘We fucking live together, Phoebe, so EVERY. BLOODY. DAY.’

  Now he was annoyed. He wrapped his towel around his waist, stepped out of the shower and over the pile of his dirty clothes that had been lying there since Thursday.

  ‘Are you bored of me, Oliver?’ I snapped. ‘Because I feel as invisible as these fucking clothes you’ve been ignoring for two days.’ I picked up the offending items and threw them at him.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous. I’m not dropping everything at your whim,’ he mumbled, drying his hair. ‘You never used to be so high maintenance.’

  ‘High maintenance?’ I laughed but now I was in full rage mode. Aware that Molly might hear us, I closed the bathroom door, my voice lowered to a snarling whisper. ‘That would fucking imply that there had been ANY kind of maintenance going on to begin with! You barely touch me. We never just sit and enjoy each other’s company anymore. I’ve been back at work all month and not ONCE have you asked me how it’s going or what I’m up to. When did we become this couple? What next? Shagging other people? Separate beds?’

  He stopped drying his hair. ‘You want to shag other people?’ The colour in his face began to drain.

  ‘NO!’ I insisted. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No, and don’t ever do that,’ he said, softly. The pink hue began to slowly return to his cheeks. ‘I couldn’t bear that.’ Without warning, he pulled me into him and hugged me.

  ‘I have no intentions of doing that,’ I said, taken aback by his sudden need for security. ‘I love you, Webb. I just need to know we’re OK. You need to start talking to me.’

  ‘We’ll sort this,’ he mumbled into my hair. ‘Whatever it takes – even your weird therapist . . .’

  I hugged him back so tightly he yelped.

  Monday January 30th

  Productive day today. I finally managed to get an appointment with the manager of Downtime Bar near the station. Judging from the advertising they do elsewhere, they obviously have a decent budget. I’m going in to see him next month and if I can swing this, I’ll win mega brownie points at work. The guy sounds like a bit of a prick to be honest but we’ll see how it goes.

  I also called Pam today and she can see Oliver and I on Wednesday at 2 p.m., so Oliver has arranged to work late tonight so he can get away early. He’s definitely making the effort. Let’s hope he doesn’t freak out before then.

  February

  Wednesday February 1st

  As we pulled up outside Pam’s office, I was hit by a tidal wave of nostalgia. I’d spent hours of my life in that office, trying to understand myself, crying over old boyfriends, admitting my mistakes and forgiving myself for making them. And now here I am again.

  Oliver stared solemnly out of the window. I still half-expected him to make a run for it.

  ‘Don’t look so scared, Oliver, she doesn’t bite.’

  ‘I’m not scared!’ he responded a little too quickly. ‘I’m just . . . wondering how we got here.’

  ‘We drove, Oliver,’ I replied flippantly, turning off the engine. ‘Let’s just go up.’ I grabbed my bag and exited the car, knowing full well what he had meant. I’ve wondered that too. The great Oliver and Phoebe who once couldn’t keep their clothes on have now gone back to being mates who occasionally think about shagging each other but never get around to it. We’ve been friends for over twenty years and I’m scared that falling in love has turned us into something that might not last for twenty more.

  The betting shop that once stood underneath Pam’s consulting room is now a Pound Shop, so long gone are the desperate-looking punters, smoking furiously outside between bets. As we pass, I notice that they carry my favourite conditioner and make a mental note to stock up after our appointment. My relationship may be in trouble but there’s no excuse not to have tangle-free, shiny hair at a discounted rate.

  We made it up to the first floor and sat in the waiting area, Oliver perched on the edge of a plastic chair while I turned off my mobile phone. The reception area always reminded me of sitting outside the head teacher’s office in high school, a place which, if I remember correctly, Oliver frequented often.

  ‘You’re making me nervous, man!’ I whispered, gently placing my hand on his arm. ‘It’s not a police interview. Relax.’

  ‘She’s not going to make me lie down on a big couch, is she?’ he asked, tapping his foot on the tiled floor. ‘Or make me talk about my mother . . .’

  ‘No, Norman Bates, it’s just a chat. You’re not—’

  We were interrupted by the sound of Pam’s door opening. A man in his twenties wearing a brown leather jacket emerged, chuckling loudly. I felt grateful for the happy vibes. He was followed by Pam, who told him she’d see him next week and asked us to come in.

  Pam Potter hadn’t changed a bit. Her hair was a bit longer but she still wore the same hippy shit she always did and had the same big Cheshire Cat smile. She welcomed us in.

  ‘Very nice to see you, Phoebe,’ she remarked as we walked past her and into the room. ‘And Oliver. Nice to meet you. Please. Have a seat.’

  Oliver smiled but his eyes were darting everywhere, taking everything in; the odd ornaments, the purple seat covers, the small kitchen with a bear-shaped tea caddy on full display. I warned him that she was a tad unconventional but I don’t think he fully believed me. We sat down on the couch while she filled up a jug of water from the kitchen.

  ‘She does look like Tina Fey!’ Oliver whispered from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘So what brings you both here today?’ she asked, placing the water jug and two glasses on the table. Oliver crossed his arms in a manner that can only be described as ‘fuck off’.

  ‘Why don’t you start, Phoebe?’

  ‘Right. Um, sure.’ I began, positioning myself further forward on the couch. I could sense Oliver tensing up beside me. ‘I think we’re here because we’re stuck in a rut.’ I continued. ‘We’re not connecting the way we used to. I know it’s probably normal; kids come along, your sex life dwindles . . . work stress . . .’

  She nodded. ‘Are you still intimate with each other? I’m not exclusively referring to sex, it can also include cuddling, talking, date nights. Do you make time for each other?’

  Oliver was still mute. Jesus, I might as well have come alone.

  ‘I don’t think we do,’ I replied. ‘I can’t remember the last
time we went out together. It’s always separately. But someone has to stay with Molly. And it’s not appropriate to be slobbering over each other in front of her, is it?’

  Pam smiled. ‘Slobbering no, but it’s actually very healthy for your child to see you display affection for each other in front of her. Age-appropriate displays, of course, but seeing your parents secure in their relationship is never a bad thing. How is your relationship in general? Do you still—’

  ‘We don’t laugh as much as we used to.’

  He speaks! I turned to look at Oliver but he avoided my gaze. ‘Our lives aren’t as fun as they used to be,’ he confessed. ‘Things got very serious, very quickly; the pregnancy, moving in together, becoming parents . . .’

  Fucking hell, Oliver, unload much?

  ‘This was a difficult transition for you?’ Pam asked.

  Oliver shrugged. ‘Not difficult as such . . . but when I stop and think about it, I realise how much we both had to change to make it work.’

  Pam nodded as she scribbled in her little book while I listened to the once-reluctant Oliver convey just how much he missed the old us. The silly us. The carefree, funny, unburdened us.

  ‘But most of all,’ he continued, ‘I miss our sex life. That year when you had your “list” and you were so open to new things and we . . .’

  I saw his face tinge pink as he remembered that year. I felt myself blush too. That was the year I created my sexual bucket list and he volunteered to help me out. The year I finally told my ex-boyfriend Alex to get the fuck out of my life. That was the year we fell in love. God, that year not only changed our lives but created a brand new one.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I guess what I’m saying is, I miss that time. I know we have Molly and I love her to death but I want to feel like us again. I want to feel as wanted as I did back then.’

  ‘Wanted? I come on to you all the time!’ I exclaimed, feeling more than a little defensive. I moved away towards the arm of the couch. ‘You’re never in the mood . . . well, there was that time at New Year . . . but usually you’re tired or busy or—’

  ‘We’re not here to assign blame, Phoebe,’ Pam interrupts. ‘Oliver’s just expressing how he feels.’

  I retreated back to my side of the couch, fuming that she’d taken his side over mine. I am so not ready to be a grown up.

  She put down her little notebook. ‘Do you still love each other?’

  ‘Yes!’ we replied in unison. No hesitation, no thought required. Just a very firm, definitive ‘yes’. I felt a warm tingle wash over me as Oliver squeezed my hand. All I could think was – he still loves me. I will never get tired of hearing that.

  Pam saw my face and laughed. ‘Then that’s a very, very good starting point. From what I’ve heard, it sounds like you’re both willing to put the work in, to reconnect not only physically but emotionally too. So, if you’re both ready, I have some ideas that I think might help you.’

  Friday February 3rd

  First step for next week – individually, think of three songs which describe your relationship right now.

  Molly is in bed and Oliver is glued to some Silk Road documentary so I’ve hidden myself away in the bedroom to work on Pam’s music idea. Essentially it’s a mixtape. A fucking mixtape. What are we? Fourteen? I remember making a mixtape for my high school boyfriend Chris Dolan, spending hours choosing a playlist that I hoped would accurately convey my teenage feelings of love and lust (neither of which I was well-versed in), but I made sure he knew I wanted to both shag him and marry him, possibly at the same time. He, in turn, handed me a tape which accurately conveyed his feelings . . . for Weezer and Oasis. What a fucking knob.

  Anyway, yesterday – after the music assignment, we worked through Pam’s plan: ‘Relight My Fire’. Seriously, she named the process after a Take That song and now I can’t get it out of my head. From what I understand, it’s a series of different exercises that will help us reconnect as a couple. She hasn’t told us what they are though – I presume so we don’t start writing it off before we’ve even begun.

  *

  I’m looking through my Spotify tracks but it’s harder than I anticipated. God, I listen to some amount of shite. Anyway, so far the contenders are:

  • ‘Romance is Dead’ by Paloma Faith – Could work! Quirky, shows I still care.

  • ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’ by The Smiths. No. Behave.

  • ‘Need You Tonight’ by INXS – Corny but true.

  • ‘I Touch Myself’ by The Divinyls - Maybe not entirely true at the moment but I need to ensure he knows that he still turns me on.

  • ‘Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole’ by Martha Wainwright. Hmm . . . maybe not.

  I have until Thursday to finalise it. Ugh, I swear if Oliver hands me an entire fucking Radiohead album, I’ll scream.

  Monday February 6th

  Oliver dropped Molly at the childminder this morning, which meant I wasn’t in a massive rush. If I don’t have appointments, there’s no need to bring my car, so today I had the pleasure of standing on the underground from the West End to the city centre, trying desperately not to smell the female armpit that was directly in front of my face for the entire journey. It’s still bloody Baltic outside though – really looking forward to the three days of sunshine we’re expecting in June.

  Work was pretty uneventful; Brian was off sick and Kelly moaned every time she had to put a booking through in his name. She’s not big on team spirit; I’m pretty sure she’d prefer everyone starve to death rather than be paid for having the audacity to be ill.

  There was a new email from Lucy waiting the moment I logged in.

  From: Lucy Jacobs

  To: Phoebe Henderson

  Subject: So??

  How did your couple’s session go? Are you both on sex meds now? Do you have to feed each other oysters and do sensual massage once a week?

  From: Phoebe Henderson

  To: Lucy Jacobs

  Subject: Re: So??

  We have a list to work through, can you believe it? ANOTHER FUCKING LIST. Why is this my life? She gives us something new every week – this week we’ve each to make a CD with three songs that describe our relationship. Oliver doesn’t seem too engaged with the whole thing but at least he’s trying.

  From: Lucy Jacobs

  To: Phoebe Henderson

  Subject: Re: So??

  Well, that’s different. Whatever will you choose? You should just take three random, ‘I’m going to boot his truck to fuck’ country songs and make him listen to them on repeat until death.

  Wednesday February 8th

  I took Molly to nursery this afternoon, trying my best not to make eye contact with Lord Wilson but she cornered me as I was making small talk with Lena and Judith (who also cannot stand her).

  ‘Ruby was talking about coming to play at your house, Phoebe,’ she began, without an apology for interrupting. ‘Which is fine, in theory, but I just wanted to check where you live exactly before we take this any further.’

  Lena and Judith slipped quietly away, making it clear that I’m on my own here. Rotten bastards. ‘West End,’ I responded. ‘You know Dowanhill?’

  ‘Of course!’ she replied. The mere mention of an upmarket address brought a smile to her pointy face.

  ‘Well, not there,’ I continued. ‘We’re much closer to Maryhill . . . or should I say Scaryhill?’

  Her smile changed first to a look of confusion and then annoyance when she realised that I was messing with her. Still, she put on her fake laugh and slapped me on the shoulder with her leather-gloved hand. ‘You almost had me there,’ she snorted. ‘You wouldn’t be in the catchment area for this nursery if you lived there! Anyway, we’ll arrange a play date – yes?’

  And with that, she about-turned and teetered out of the building, heels clipping loudly against the floor like a Shire horse. I finished putting Molly’s trainers in her gym bag, wondering why the fuck Sarah Ward-Wilson had taken a shine to me, out of all the mu
ms here.

  Thursday February 9th

  Back to Pam’s today for the big playlist reveal, with a still-unconvinced Oliver who sighed as he sat down, clutching his CD. Apparently just Bluetoothing over a playlist wasn’t ceremonial enough or something; physically making and handing over a CD was a far more personal way to reveal our feelings.

  ‘How did you get on this week?’ she asked, watching Oliver fiddle with his CD case. ‘Any problems?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure how effective this will be,’ Oliver blurted out. ‘Like, men and women view music very differently, especially romantic music or touchy-feely shit. We just don’t do it very often.’

  ‘But some of the most romantic lyrics ever written were by men,’ Pam interjected. ‘Our society favours romanticism so our philosophies with regards to love are very evident in a lot of music . . . regardless, this isn’t an exercise in romantic music per se, this is an opportunity to express your feelings in a way that’s perhaps less confrontational to begin with. There’s a communication breakdown somewhere and sometimes letting a song speak for you can be very useful.’

  To be honest, I also thought the idea was a little batshit crazy but the more she explained it, the more it made sense.

  ‘If you’d both like to exchange your CDs,’ she continued. ‘Oliver. Can you read out Phoebe’s choices and tell us what you think she’s trying to say?’

  We swapped CDs and I watched Oliver read down the list.

  ‘“Romance is Dead” by Paloma Faith, “Need You Tonight” by INXS and . . . oh wow! “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails.’

  I felt my cheeks start to burn. I hadn’t considered that Pam would be privy to our choices. I’m hoping she isn’t familiar with the song.

  Smiling, Oliver continued. ‘I guess Phoebe is trying to say that she’d like more romance in our relationship, as well as informing me that she’s filthy as hell.’