His 'n' Hers

by Mike Gayle

  ‘What’s the number-three topic of conversation that is absolutely off-limits?’ she whispers.

  I know this one. It’s easy. ‘His ongoing battle with his next-door neighbour – on the left – over the size of their privet hedge.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ she says, and then she announces to the room that she doesn’t care what film she sees either as long as it’s got explosions.

  Wednesday, 5 April 1995

  6.55 a.m.

  I’ve stayed over at Alison’s, I’ve just had a shower and I’m walking along the landing to our bedroom when I pass Alison in her dressing-gown, carrying several towels and her makeup bag, coming the other way.

  ‘Morning, babe,’ I say.

  ‘What’s the number-four topic of conversation to avoid?’

  Another easy one. ‘Your kid sister’s recent body piercing. It’s a definite no-no.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ she says, as she enters the bathroom and locks the door.

  Thursday, 6 April 1995

  8.08 p.m.

  I’m standing in the hallway with Jane and Mary waiting for Alison to come down so that we can all go to the Jug. Finally Alison comes down the stairs and before she can open her mouth I say, ‘No more testing.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts either.’

  She smiles coyly. ‘Just one more. I’ll make sure it’s not even a tricky one. I just want you to be ready.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Okay, what is the fifth and final topic of conversation to avoid at all costs with my dad?’

  ‘French cheeses?’ I say, in a bid to wind her up.

  ‘No,’ she says, shocked.

  ‘Gardening?’ I say, continuing as I mean to go on.

  She shakes her head. ‘One last go.’

  I think for a moment. ‘Your smoking?’

  ‘Now I know you’re not taking this seriously,’ she says, ‘because I know that you know for a fact that it goes without saying that we’d never talk about that. If my dad so much as suspects I smoke he’ll go bonkers.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I say, laughing. ‘But you do know those things will kill you, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re just stalling for time, Owen,’ says Alison, smiling.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I reply. ‘The answer to your question is, America’s role in the Second World War. Specifically the liberation of Europe. Apparently it really winds him up. But the fact is, Al, none of these topics have ever come up in any conversation I’ve had in my life. You just need to chill out, babe, it’ll be fine.’

  Saturday, 8 April 1995

  12.23 p.m.

  Jim and I have just arrived at the front gate of my parents’ house and my mum is already on the doorstep greeting us. She’s obviously been standing on lookout patrol for a while now, wanting to have the official first sighting of her daughter’s new boyfriend.

  Hi, Mum,’ I say, waving with my right hand while clutching Jim’s hand tightly with the left. ‘Tell me it’s going to be all right,’ I whisper to Jim, as we walk up the path.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ says Jim.‘Absolutely fine.’

  My dad suddenly appears next to Mum. I study his face carefully to work out what his first impression of Jim might be. He’s wearing the look he uses when he’s reading the newspaper. As Jim isn’t a copy of the Daily Telegraph I have no idea what that means. I reach into my bag, pull out a packet of extra strong mints and pop in yet another to hide any remnants of the ten cigarettes I smoked on the train journey here.

  ‘Hello, sweetie,’ says Dad, giving me a huge hug. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m good, Dad,’ I say, squeezing Jim’s hand so tightly I fear I’m in danger of crushing it.

  ‘And I take it this is the young man we’ve been hearing so much about?’ My dad holds out his hand for Jim to shake.

  My heart stops for a second.

  I’m suddenly convinced that Jim will give my dad’s hand a high-five slap like an American basketball player. I have no idea why I think this will happen as I have never seen Jim give a high five in all the time I’ve known him.

  Jim smiles widely like a TV game-show contestant and shakes Dad’s hand like a normal person and I let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ says Jim. ‘How are you today, Mr Smith?’

  ‘I’m well,’ says Dad. ‘Thank you for asking.’

  The greetings continue in the hallway. Mum smiles a lot and takes coats and bags. Dad smiles too, but less than Mum, and stands and watches her. As I open the door to go into the living room I imagine that the next few hours will go like this: Mum will tell me everything that has happened to her and everyone in the street since I’ve last seen her; Dad will engage Jim in conversation about cars; we’ll sit down to a meal with more food than any four people could ever imagine eating; Jim and I will attempt to consume as much of it as fast as we possibly can; and then at around six I’ll feign extreme tiredness, Dad will call a cab for us, we’ll catch the train home and I’ll be grateful to Jim for ever for being the best possible boyfriend in the world.

  The second I walk into the room I realise I have been completely outmanoeuvred.

  ‘Surprise!’ says my older sister, Emma.

  ‘Hi,’ says Emma’s husband, Eduardo.

  ‘Aunty Ally!’ screams their three-year-old daughter, Molly.

  ‘All right, sis?’ My seventeen-year-old kid sister, Caroline, greets me casually.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ says Nana Smith.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ echoes Nana Graham.

  I’m speechless. Three generations of my family are sitting around the dining-table with the specific intention of meeting Jim. I’m struck dumb by this scene and can only look on helplessly in horror. Maybe he’s right after all about being cursed. And now I’m cursed too.

  I look across at him once more. He doesn’t look like a man who’s about to dump me even when my mother announces to the room: ‘Look, everyone, this is Jim, Alison’s new partner – that’s the modern word, isn’t it?’

  I’m mortified. My mother, who has never used a word like ‘partner’ in her life, has suddenly started using politically correct terminology. I decide it can only get worse from here on.

  But it doesn’t.

  My family adore Jim.

  Dad talks to him about West Ham’s current form, music, politics and religion.

  Mum talks to him about his accountancy exams and his family in Oldham.

  My kid sister, normally terminally sulky, is positively perky and flirts with him outrageously.

  My older sister laughs to the point of choking at all of his jokes.

  As does my brother-in-law.

  As does Nana Smith.

  As does Nana Graham, once my older sister has repeated the joke in her good ear.

  Even my niece, whom I can barely get to acknowledge me without her bursting into tears, is sitting in his lap before we’ve finished dessert.

  6.34 p.m.

  ‘That wasn’t too bad,’ says Jim, when we’re safely ensconced in the back of a taxi on our way to the station.

  ‘I’m pretty sure my dad wants to adopt you,’ I say, squeezing his hand. ‘I’m sure the only thing stopping him is my mum. Mum says he always wanted a boy. I think the only reason my baby sister exists is because they thought they’d have one last go. You’re the son he’s always wanted. After this every other phone call will be “Jim this” and “Jim that” and “Jim the other”. If it wasn’t hard enough for me as the middle child to get attention from my parents it will now be almost impossible. But I don’t care. You’ve passed the parent test, babe. You’ve done me proud.’

  Sunday, 6 August 1995

  3.45 p.m.

  Jim, two large suitcases and I are standing in my hallway having just arrived back from our very first foreign holiday together – a seven-day package deal to Malta. The weather was okay and we had a reasonably good time, but I think we both found it hard to relax. The past few months have been something of a bl
ur for us both. Jim is still in love with his job and seems always to be revising for one exam or another. Meanwhile I’m still enjoying my MA and have been working intensively on my thesis. On holiday we must have looked like the oddest couple on the beach. There we were on the sunbeds, all day, every day, Jim reading books on tax planning while I chipped away at the works of Charles Dickens.

  ‘Home, sweet home,’ I say, flicking through the post.

  ‘Anyone in?’ yells Jim up the stairs. ‘Everyone must be out. No welcome-back party, then.’

  I carry on looking through the post: a gas bill, a letter from the student-loans company, two pieces of credit-card junk mail and a pristine white envelope postmarked London, which I open hurriedly.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Jim.

  ‘Remember I wrote to some publishing houses for work experience earlier in the year?’ I gabble excitedly. ‘Well, Cooper and Lawton have got back to me.’

  ‘Excellent,’ says Jim. ‘A few weeks in London sounds like a good laugh.’

  ‘But it’s better than that,’ I tell him. ‘In fact, it’s better than I ever could have imagined – they’re offering me a job interview for an editorial position. How fantastic is that?’

  ‘Great,’ he replies, wearily, then kisses my cheek, picks up my suitcase and takes it upstairs without another word.

  8.59 p.m.

  Jim and I are in the pub with my housemates. He hasn’t said much all night. In fact he’s been ‘funny’ ever since I had my good news. I’ve asked him several times what the problem is and each time he denies there is one.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ asks Jane, when Jim goes to the loo.

  ‘He’s been miserable all night,’ says Mary.

  ‘You two had a fight?’ asks Jane.

  ‘No,’ I sigh, ‘he’s sulking.’

  ‘What is it with boys and sulking?’ asks Jane.

  ‘It’s the only way they can communicate,’ says Mary.

  ‘I quite like Jim when he’s sulking,’ I reply. ‘He reminds me of a small boy. A small boy who’s afraid to say what’s on his mind. I know what’s on his mind, though, but there’s nothing much I can do unless he wants to talk about it.’

  ‘What is it?’ asks Mary.

  ‘I’ll give you two guesses.’

  ‘Not your job interview?’

  ‘You can’t turn it down,’ says Jane firmly. ‘It’s too good an opportunity.’

  ‘I know, but if I take it I feel like it’s going to send my whole life in a different direction.’

  ‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’ says Mary.

  ‘The thing is, I like my life now. I like being with Jim. I like what we’ve got. But what if I get the job in London? What if it takes us in different directions? Plus he’s only just got started with his new job—’

  Jim comes back from the loo and I stop abruptly.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll make it to last orders, babe,’ he says, yawning. ‘I’m feeling really tired. I’m going to get off home.’

  ‘To yours or mine?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘But I thought you were—’ I don’t finish my sentence. ‘Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow night.’

  He nods and walks out without kissing me.

  ‘Deep down,’ I say, as I watch him leave, ‘I know he’s right to be worried about us because I’m worried about us too. I don’t understand how relationships work. I don’t know how they survive. It seems like every day something new arrives to threaten your peace of mind.’

  11.07 p.m.

  The girls and I have just got home. We sit up and have a cup of tea and talk for a while in the kitchen and then, one by one, we say goodnight and get ready to go to bed. I’m the last in the bathroom. As I’m taking off my makeup and washing my face Disco wanders in and looks at me accusingly. I must be the only person in the world who can be made to feel guilty by a cat because I suddenly decide to go over to Jim’s. He’s in bed when I creep into his room. I undress in the dark leaving my clothes in a pile on the floor next to the bed and climb under the duvet next to him.

  ‘Are you awake?’ I whisper.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says quietly. ‘Look . . . tonight . . . the way I’ve been acting . . . I’m sorry, okay?’

  I love the way he talks to me as if I know what he’s talking about immediately because, of course, I do. We can just launch into new topics seemingly at random to people outside the relationship, or continue conversations that we began hours earlier.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased for me.’

  ‘I am pleased for you. It’s just that I know where all this is going and I don’t like it.’

  ‘But it’s only an interview. I probably won’t get it.’

  ‘You will. I know you will.’

  ‘But I don’t have to take it.’ Of course I do want the job. I want it more than anything. But it feels like it would’ve been wrong to say anything else. It wouldn’t have been what either of us wanted to hear. This way we have a temporary solution.

  Sunday, 20 August 1995

  1.20 p.m.

  Alison is due to go to London tomorrow for her interview. She’s spent ages getting her clothes ready. I am in the pub with Nick. I needed to get out of the house for a while. Nick is good for distraction. We talk about nothing much. Nothing that matters, at least. I’m just beginning to feel okay when he says, ‘Al’s off to her interview tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply.

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘No.’

  He shrugs. ‘Okay, I was just asking.’

  ‘Things are strained between us,’ I say, without further prompting. ‘They have been since she announced she was off. I admit it’s all my fault. It’s just that I can’t help but feel a bit . . .’

  ‘Cheated?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. Cheated. I’m just getting my life sorted for the first time. I’ve got a great job, a great girlfriend. Everything’s in place and now . . . well, now it’s not going to be. She’ll get the job. I know she will. And when she does that will be it. She’ll be off. And we’ll be over.’

  Friday, 8 September 1995

  7.02 a.m.

  Every day since the interview Alison has been waiting to hear something from Cooper and Lawton about the job. After the first week she couldn’t sleep and even her twenty-fifth birthday turned into a bit of a non-event because she was so worried. After the second week it was all I could do to stop her calling them to put her out of her misery. Finally last night I said to her that, whatever time it is, when the letter arrives she should call me and we’ll open it together. So, when the phone rings as I’m making breakfast, I already know she’s got news.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  ‘I think the letter’s here,’ says Alison.

  ‘I’ll be there in a second,’ I say, and put down the phone.

  7.10 a.m.

  Alison’s in the hallway with Jane and Mary when I let myself in.

  ‘Morning, babe,’ she says, greeting me with a kiss.

  ‘Is that it?’ I say, looking at the letter in her hand.

  She nods. ‘It’s got their postmark on it.’

  ‘Well, go on, then,’ says Jane. ‘He’s here now so you can open it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Open it.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘It’s too weird.’

  ‘I’m one hundred per cent sure you’ve got it,’ declares Mary. ‘Just open it.’

  Alison hands the envelope to me. ‘You do it for me.’

  ‘I really think you should do it, Al.’

  ‘I can’t. Please, Jim, just do this one thing for me.’

  I hand the letter back to her. ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘You open it. I’ll be right here with you.’

  She opens the envelope and scan-reads the letter. Her face says it all.

  ‘Well?’ demands Jane.

  ‘I didn’t get it,’ says Alison. ‘They said I was an excellent candidate but they’ve given the job to
someone with more experience.’

  I put my arms around her and she begins to cry. Jane and Mary make a diplomatic retreat. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really thought you were going to get it. There’ll be other jobs. Everything will work out okay in the end.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I don’t think there will be. I knew I was no good and I was right . . . At least you’ll be happy anyway. You never wanted me to get that job. I could tell.’

  ‘If you’re asking me if I’m glad you’re not moving to London the answer’s yes,’ I tell her. ‘Of course I am, because it would have made life difficult for us. But if you’re asking me if I’m happy that you didn’t get the job then, no, I’m not. I was sure you’d get it. And I wanted that for you. I wanted you to be happy because that’s what being in love is supposed to be about. And if you’d got the job I would have tried my best to be happy for you even if it had torn me up inside. And do you know why? Because making you happy is what I’m supposed to do. It’s my job. And if you’re not happy I can’t be happy either.’

  Thursday, 5 October 1995

  7.13 p.m.

  Jim and I are standing in a medium-sized bedsit in a huge, dilapidated house in Moseley. It’s a large room with a single bed in one corner, two cooker rings on a work surface by the window, a large wardrobe next to the door and a lime-green carpet dotted with faded stains.

  The reason we’re standing here is because we’ve decided to move in together. It just seems to make sense. We’re together more often than we’re not, and now that I’m not moving to London there just doesn’t seem any reason not to. But as we examine the four walls in front of us I can see plenty of reasons not to. The place stinks of cigarette smoke, and the bathroom is on the landing, shared with other residents. Its only saving grace is that it’s cheap.

  ‘What do you think?’ asks Mr Mebus, the landlord of Flat 11c Fenchurch Avenue, as we leave the building.

  ‘We’ve got some other places to see,’ says Jim, cheerily, ‘but we’ll ring this evening if we want it.’