His 'n' Hers

by Mike Gayle

  ‘What’s funny?’ asks Jim.

  ‘Nothing . . . well, not nothing, actually . . . everything. I’ve just realised that I want – no, I need to marry you. I’m serious. I love you. I want us to be together for the rest of our lives.’

  Jim looks at me and says. ‘To be truthful I’ve sort of been feeling the same way. I think we should do it.’

  ‘The idea of getting married just feels right,’ I tell Jim. ‘We shouldn’t make a big deal of it, though. I don’t want a big wedding or anything showy. Let’s just go for it.’

  ‘You mean elope?’

  ‘Jim, we’re too old to elope. We should just go away somewhere, get hitched and do all the explaining once the deed is done.’

  ‘So where do you fancy doing it?’

  ‘There’s only one place I can think of. The place where it all began.’

  Tuesday, 4 November 1997

  12.03 p.m.

  Today is the day of the wedding. And Alison and I have just arrived in Birmingham. We’re not due at the register office for another two hours. So, as we planned on the way up on the train, we get a cab to Selly Oak and have lunch at the Varsity, which, to our disappointment, has undergone a refurbishment. Afterwards we take a walk down to the university and sit on a bench outside the library. To the left of us is the beautiful ivy-covered building of the arts faculty, ahead is the clock tower and University Square, where in summer my friends and I would lie on our backs and attempt to get to grips with books on quantitative economics. Being here brings back all the memories.

  ‘It’s been a long journey,’ says Alison wistfully.

  ‘What?’ I joke. ‘From the city centre to the campus?’

  ‘No, from first meeting you at university to where we are now. I mean – 1989 – it seems like yesterday. I can still remember how I thought about the world, how I thought my life would be, how I first felt about you. All those memories are still fresh in my mind. It doesn’t feel like so much time can have passed so quickly, does it? Look at us. Here we are, years later, you an accountant, me working in publishing, and the two of us about to get married.’ Alison lights a cigarette. ‘If the student me could see me now I think she’d be quite pleased.’ She pauses for a drag on her cigarette. ‘She’d be a bit disappointed I’d never got round to writing that great novel I was convinced I had in me but she’d be impressed that I work in publishing. Relationships-wise, I think she’d be happy that I’d found love. I think while she put on a brave face about finding the right person for her, she always thought that the right person might not be out there or, if he was, that he’d never find her. I think she’d be surprised that she’d found it with the Boy Who Dresses Differently because she would have assumed that he wasn’t her type. What about you?’

  ‘I think student me would be a bit disappointed. I think he had big plans for the rest of his life. A lot of things he wanted to achieve, dreams he wanted to pursue. I know for a fact that he certainly didn’t want to end up in accountancy.’

  ‘Oh, that’s really sad,’ says Alison.

  ‘It is a bit,’ I reply. ‘But on the other hand I think he’d be quite chuffed with the money he’s earning.’

  ‘Would he think you’d sold out?’

  ‘He’s a student. Of course he’d think I’d sold out. I think he’d be really annoyed for a while . . . at least until I explained to him that he was never going to be a rock star. I think he’d realise I’d done the best with the skills he’d got.’

  ‘And what about me? What would he think about you still being with Damon’s girlfriend after four years?’

  ‘He’d be surprised it’s lasted this long. I think he’d be a little bit scared at the thought of being with someone for that long. But at the same time he’d be relieved because I don’t think he wanted to go through life alone.’

  ‘Yes, but what about me?’

  ‘What would he think of you? He’d think, Yes, you’re all right.’

  ‘Only all right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I think he’d play it cool.’

  ‘But what would he really think about me?’ asks Alison, carefully flicking the ash from her cigarette. ‘You know, when he’s alone at night thinking about life.’

  ‘He’d think he’d done better than he ever deserved.’

  1.37 p.m.

  Jim and I are sitting in the waiting room inside the register office, waiting for our turn to get married. We thought it would be really funny to dress down for the wedding so we checked into our hotel and got changed. I’m wearing jeans, trainers, a cream top and a jacket. Jim’s wearing jeans, trainers and a thick black polo-neck jumper. As a special surprise, when we walked into the register office he showed me his socks: the Argyle-patterned knee-length ones he wore on Freshers’ Night. I laugh when I see them. I don’t know where they’ve been hiding all these years. I thought I’d weeded out most of the embarrassing stuff he used to wear.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re getting married in less than half an hour,’ says Jim.

  ‘Me either,’ I concur.

  ‘Do you think we’ll feel any different once we’ve done it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say reassuringly. ‘I think we will. You must feel different after you get married otherwise why do people still do it? I think I feel different already.’

  Jim laughs. ‘We haven’t even decided what you’re doing about your surname. Are you still going to be Ms Smith or do you fancy being Mrs Owen?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’ I clear my throat theatrically. ‘Alison Elizabeth Owen – what do you think?’

  ‘Alison Owen has a certain ring to it. Try out a double-barrelled job.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I begin, ‘I’m not sure Alison Smith-Owen works, does it?’

  ‘Not really. Maybe Alison Owen-Smith at a push, but it sounds a bit of a mouthful. Me being a man of the nineties, maybe I should change my name to Jim Smith.’

  ‘No way,’ I say firmly, ‘if you have a name that bland, people will constantly think it’s false. I’m going to go with Alison Owen. I’m a bit tired of Alison Smith anyway. She was a lovely girl but she did moan a lot. Alison Owen is a much nicer woman altogether.’

  ‘Mr Jim Owen and Miss Alison Smith?’ says a kindly looking middle-aged woman in a black trouser suit.

  Jim and I both look up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re next,’ she replies.

  2 p.m.

  We’re now standing in the room where we’re going to get married. It’s painted cream, and there are long velvet curtains at either side of the huge window in front of us. It is filled with enough plastic chairs to seat at least forty or fifty people. It seems a bit empty because there are only three of us here.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I explain to the registrar. ‘We haven’t brought any witnesses with us.’

  The registrar smiles. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not the first and I’m sure you won’t be the last. I’ll just go and get some.’

  She disappears and returns, moments later, with a young man in a security-guard uniform and a well-dressed elderly woman in a hat.

  ‘This is Daniel, our security guard,’ says the registrar. ‘Most people who work here have been witnesses at some point, but Daniel’s new so I thought he’d like a go.’

  Alison and I shake hands with him.

  ‘I’ve never done this before,’ he says.

  ‘Neither have we,’ I reply.

  ‘And this lady who’s volunteered,’ says the registrar, ‘is due to get married after you.’

  ‘Call me Marjorie,’ she says, offering her hand.

  ‘Thanks for doing this,’ says Alison. ‘I hope your husband-to-be doesn’t mind.’

  ‘He thinks the whole thing’s hilarious. Just out of curiosity, why haven’t you got any witnesses?’

  ‘It’s just one of those things,’ says Alison in reply.

  ‘Okay, then,’ says the registrar. ‘Now the witnesses are present let’s begin.’

  I cough nervously and Alison looks at me.
I just know I can’t go through with this. I can feel in my bones that this is going to be a huge mistake.

  ‘Do you mind hanging on a second?’ I say to the registrar. ‘I just need to talk to my girlfriend before we go any further.’

  I grab Alison’s hand, lead her to the back of the room and take a deep breath. ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?’ asks Alison. ‘I knew you would.’

  ‘I’m not at all,’ I tell her. ‘I just want to make sure you’re happy about doing it like this. You know, your mum and dad aren’t here. Your friends aren’t here. It’s just you, me, the registrar and two people we’ve never met before.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ she says. ‘I’ve never wanted a big wedding. I’m not sure that before I met you I even wanted to get married. But what I do know is this, I love you and getting married to you is the best thing I could possibly do.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asks the registrar, who has now walked down to our end of the room.

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘We were just sorting out a few details.’ I look at Alison and smile. ‘We’re ready when you are.’

  And with that we walk back up to the front of the room, the registrar does what she has to do, Alison and I say, ‘I will,’ at the appropriate points in the ceremony, and it’s over and done with. We’re married.

  PART FIVE

  Then: 1998

  1998

  Sunday, 4 January 1998

  12.23 p.m.

  It’s the beginning of a new year and our family and friends have finally forgiven us for getting married in secret. Last night we went out for dinner at my friend Shezadi’s house in Tufnell Park. We were too lazy to get a taxi home but, thankfully, our neighbours above us have keys and agreed to feed Disco so we ended up staying the night, sleeping on the futon in the front room. Today is a beautiful sunny day. The kind of day that puts everyone in a good mood, so I suggest to Jim that we walk down to Camden because Shezadi told me last night about a lovely little café off the high street where Jim and I could have breakfast.

  Outside there are loads of people just milling about chatting and as we walk along I keep looking into the windows of amazing three-storey houses, trying to imagine the lives of the people who live there. I can’t begin to imagine Jim and me in a place like that.

  As we approach Chalk Farm we walk past an estate agent’s window. Every picture is of a loft apartment featuring wooden floors, huge windows and tasteful furniture. I turn to Jim and say, ‘If money was no object, which apartment would we buy?’

  Jim laughs. ‘Ladies first.’

  ‘How about this one?’ I say, pointing to a newly built duplex in Islington.

  ‘Too small,’ says Jim. ‘If this is meant to be a fantasy, you need to think big.’

  ‘All right, then,’ I say, mulling over a few more. ‘What about this one?’

  ‘Not enough square footage. There’s barely enough room to swing Disco in the living room.’

  ‘It’s huge.’

  ‘Well, think huger.’

  I scan the windows again and then, finally, I see it: the apartment of my dreams, in Belsize Park. It’s so expensive the details don’t even feature a price. ‘I’ve found the winner,’ I say, pointing, barely able to contain my glee.

  Jim follows the direction of my finger. ‘Nice one. Now you’re talking. It’s fantastic.’

  ‘Can you imagine it? It would be amazing to live there. I wonder what it looks like in real life.’

  ‘Pretty much what it looks like in the pictures.’

  ‘I’d love a place of our own,’ I say, sighing, then pull on Jim’s hand. ‘Come on, or we’ll be too late for breakfast.’

  Jim doesn’t move. ‘Well, let’s do it, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Buy a place of our own.’

  ‘We can’t afford it.’

  ‘We can’t afford this,’ he says, pointing to our dream apartment, ‘but surely we can afford something a little more down to earth.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

  ‘Definitely,’ says Jim. ‘I love our flat but I think we’re growing out of it, don’t you? Plus it seems like every other night coming home on the tube the headline on the Evening Standard is something along the lines of “House Prices Set to Fall”, or “London Property Bubble Will Burst in the Next Fifteen Minutes”, or “If You Don’t Buy Property Right This Very Second You’ll Never Get On the Property Ladder and You’ll Be Renting For Ever”.’ Jim laughs. ‘I must admit, in my mind renting a place was always supposed to be a short-term thing. Paying out hundreds of pounds every month for something we don’t own seems ridiculous. I thought you wouldn’t be into the idea, though. I thought you’d reckon it was going to tie us down.’

  ‘Now we’re married, I think we actually need to put down some roots,’ I tell Jim. ‘You know, establish ourselves. I think we should do it.’ I look at the picture of the amazing apartment again. ‘Imagine if we had loads of money and we could afford to buy this!’

  ‘It’d be great,’ he replies. He pauses for a moment and then says: ‘What if . . .?’

  ‘What if what?’

  ‘What if we pretended we were going to buy it?’

  Before I can say anything Jim has opened the estate agent’s door and is already half-way inside.

  12.45 p.m.

  Alison and I take a seat in the waiting area. Ahead of us there are three glass-topped desks with no more than a cordless phone and a laptop on them. A bespectacled, black-suited, intriguingly haircutted agent, dealing with a couple, is sitting at each. The couple to the rear of the office look like barristers; the couple in the middle look like hairdressers: and the couple nearest to us look like they work in advertising. They have one thing in common: they all look like they earn an awful lot of money.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ whispers Alison. ‘We don’t fit in at all.’

  ‘Yeah, we do,’ I say confidently. ‘Just leave the talking to me.’

  After about five minutes the couple who look like they work in advertising stand up and say goodbye to the estate agent. The dark-haired woman who has been assisting them looks up from her paperwork and catches my eye. For a split second I think I recognise her, then she goes completely wide-eyed and I know I do.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ she says, her hand clutching at her chest. ‘Jim. Jim Owen.’

  I can barely believe my eyes. ‘It’s not you, Anne, is it?’ She nods. ‘Anne Clarke.’

  She still looks as great as she did at university. In fact, even more so. Everything about her is really cool and sophisticated.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks, coming from behind her desk to kiss my cheek.

  ‘Great, thanks. How about you?’

  ‘Fine. Really good. How long has it been?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Give or take a few months.’

  Anne laughs.

  ‘You look great,’ I say. ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘Really? Thanks.’

  ‘Anne,’ I say, turning to Alison, ‘this is my wife, Alison. Alison, this is Anne Clarke . . . We were sort of friends at university.’

  Everyone smiles and there’s an awkward lull in the conversation.

  ‘So, what brings you guys in here?’ asks Anne.

  ‘We’re looking for a place to buy,’ I say firmly.

  ‘No, we’re not,’ says Alison.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ I reply.

  Anne looks at us both, confused.

  ‘We’re really interested in the apartment in your window that’s in Belsize Park.’

  Anne taps on her laptop briefly. ‘You mean this one?’ she says, turning the screen to face us. ‘It’s a lovely property. It’s only been on our books a few weeks. It’s in immaculate condition.’

  ‘Great,’ I tell her. ‘Immaculate condition’s what we’re looking for, you see.’ I pause for a microsecond, then add, ‘What with me bein
g away on tour a lot. I’m in a band, you see. We’ve just signed to a record label in the States.’

  ‘How exciting,’ says Anne. ‘This isn’t the same band you were in at university, is it?’

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘We’re called . . .’ I pause and attempt to come up with the most ‘band-like’ name I can think of, ‘. . . Sidewalking.’

  ‘And you’re their singer?’

  I nod.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re famous.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I’m famous exactly—’

  ‘I’m so impressed,’ says Anne. ‘And to think I knew you at university. You must be so excited about everything that’s happened.’

  ‘We are,’ says Alison tersely. ‘We’re over the moon.’

  ‘Well,’ says Anne, ‘I’ve got some good news for you. We’ve got the keys here in the office so if you like we can go and view it now.’

  ‘We’re not doing anything special,’ says Jim. ‘That’ll be great.’

  ‘Excellent. Do you have transport?’

  ‘Not with us.’

  ‘That’s okay, we’ll take my car. Well, let me take down your details and put them into the computer. Then, if you can give me a moment or two to fetch my coat, we can get off. I’m parked round the back so I’ll meet you outside in a few moments.’

  Anne takes down our completely fabricated details, then disappears through an exit marked ‘Office’, leaving Alison to stare at me in total disbelief.