by Mike Gayle
Friday, 28 August 1998
9.09 a.m.
I’m at work thinking about the flat. Jim and I spent all last night talking about it. It’s only now we’ve moved in that we can see how much work it’s going to take even to get the place looking okay. It’s more work than we can do by ourselves, which means we’re going to have to get builders in. The only thing stopping us is money: we have none. I’ve just had an idea, though, that might solve all our problems.
10.03 a.m.
‘Jim, it’s me,’ I say, when he picks up the phone.
‘Hi, babe. What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve been thinking about the flat and I might have got a solution.’ I pause for dramatic effect. ‘I’ve asked my dad to lend us the money.’
‘You’ve done what?’
‘He’s said it’s fine and we’ll have a cheque by the end of the week.’
‘I wish you’d asked me before you did this.’
‘Why?’
‘So you could’ve heard me say, “No.” As nice as he is, I don’t want to borrow money off your dad. He’ll think I can’t look after you properly.’
Jim’s words stop me in my tracks. It has never occurred to me that he wants to look after me in the old-fashioned sense of the phrase. I think it’s possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard him say to me. I don’t mention it to him, though, because I know he’ll get embarrassed and say something that will spoil the moment.
‘You’re right,’ I tell him. ‘Shall I call him back and tell him not to send the cheque?’
‘Do you think I’m overreacting about this?’
‘No, you’re right. I’m a grown-up. I shouldn’t need to be borrowing money off my parents.’
Jim laughs. ‘But, then, again, the carpets in the living room are very brown and very seventies . . .’
‘. . . and there’s the old lady smell . . .’ I reply.
‘. . . and if we don’t get the place rewired soon we’ll probably be fried to a crisp in our sleep . . .’ adds Jim.
‘. . . and winter’s coming and the draughts coming through the windows are ridiculous . . .’ I put in.
‘. . . and we’ve got no central heating,’ says Jim, laughing. ‘I think I’ve just talked myself out of having any principles at all.’
Saturday, 12 September 1998
11.01 a.m.
I’m about to put out the bins when the doorbell rings. I know who it is, though. It’s the builder we’re thinking of hiring. We couldn’t get anyone to recommend one because everyone we knew who had had builders said they wouldn’t recommend them to their worst enemies so I did some research. I got six from the Yellow Pages to come round and give us quotes so I could see what they were like face to face. Of the six we’ve waited in for, this is the only one to show up.
‘Hi,’ I say, answering the door to a tall ferret-like man with a beard.
‘I’m Mr Norman from A1 Plus Building Construction Ltd,’ he says, in a strong Essex accent, offering his hand.
I shake it and invite him in and as we walk into the living room Disco takes one look at him and disappears behind the sofa. Alison and I show him round the flat and tell him what we want done – a new kitchen, the wall knocking down between the living room and the dining room, replastering in the two bedrooms, a new bathroom and all the floorboards sanded and varnished. He doesn’t seem fazed by any of it.
‘So,’ I say, leading Mr Norman to the front door having agreed a rough estimate for the job, ‘how long do you think it’ll take you to do the work?’
He looks at his pad as if making a rough calculation. ‘Six weeks,’ he says eventually.
‘Six weeks?’ I say. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. We don’t hang around, Mr Owen. We should be done in four but I’ve said six to be on the safe side.’
‘But no matter what happens, you’ll be done in six weeks?’
‘On my mother’s life.’
‘I know I’ve just asked you this,’ I tell him, ‘but you’re one hundred per cent sure that the whole job will be finished from top to bottom in six weeks? It’s just that we’ve had a lot of friends who’ve had builders in and, well, their six weeks quite often ends up being a lot longer.’
‘They’ve probably used cowboys,’ he says. ‘There’s a lot of them about. And, frankly, they’re a blot on the face of the trade. But I guarantee you, Mr Owen, that when I say six weeks for a job I mean six weeks . . . or less.’
While Mr Norman puts away his notepad Alison and I exchange glances. I shrug, Alison nods and the deal is done.
I clear my throat as if making an announcement: ‘I’m pleased to tell you, Mr Norman, that you’ve got the job.’
‘Great,’ he replies. ‘We’ll see you bright and early Monday morning.’
Monday, 14 September 1998
7.33 p.m.
Jim and I have just got back from work and we are amazed. Our home now looks like a bombsite. They got off to a good start at seven this morning when ten men arrived on our doorstep in four flatbed trucks, and it seems that the work continued at top speed all day because there’s now a huge skip outside our home, which is full to the brim. Jim is flabbergasted. ‘I can’t believe how much they’ve done,’ he says. ‘It’s a good job we took Disco to the cattery. She’d hate all this.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Looking on the bright side, though, she’ll be home soon. There’s no way it’s going to take them six weeks to finish. At this rate they’ll be done before we know it.’
Tuesday, 15 September 1998
12.17 p.m.
I’m just about to go to a lunch meeting with a new cookery-book author when the phone rings.
‘Hello, Publicity,’ I say.
‘Could I speak to Mrs Owen, please?’
I can tell straight away that it’s Mr Norman.
‘Hello,’ I say cheerily. ‘It’s Alison Owen here, Mr Norman. What is it you’d like to talk to me about?’
‘Ah, yes, it’s just to let you know that there’s been a bit of an accident.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘One of the lads managed to burst a pipe in the bathroom.’
‘What?’
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs Owen, just some water damage, but that’s not the real problem.’
‘First,’ I snap, ‘how much water damage is there? And second, what is the real problem?’
‘I’ll be straight with you. The water in the bathroom was an inch deep but we’ve mopped it up now although the people in the basement flat might want a word with you. We’ve managed to stop the water coming out but we need to get a plumber in before we can do any more work.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘Well, that’s the thing. The plumber we use is booked up for the next three weeks, which, of course, will have a knock-on effect on all the rest of the work so basically we’ve packed up and we won’t be back till then.’
‘But you’ve only been working two days,’ I say desperately. ‘And you said you’d be done in six weeks.’
‘That was more of a rough estimate. To be truthful, Mrs Owen, I think we’re looking at quite a bit longer.’
Monday, 2 November 1998
11 p.m.
The mattress that Alison and I are lying on is currently the closest thing we have to a bed as everything else is in storage. Alison is so grumpy because of the builders that I’m afraid for my life. The six-week self-imposed deadline has come and gone and they are now slowly driving us insane. They don’t listen to anything we say, they’ve installed things upside down and the wrong way round – you name it, they’ve done it. Worse still, Alison and I have been living, sleeping, eating (and dying a little on the inside) in one room – the rear bedroom – for weeks. For the past week and a half we’ve had no bathroom so we’ve been showering at the gym. We haven’t had a cooker for even longer so we’ve been eating either takeaways or microwaved food. I bought a camping-gas stove a fortnight ago
but after one evening meal too many of beans on toast Alison now screams at the mere sight of the can-opener. And if that’s not enough, it’s now costing twice the original estimate to do all the necessary work. We had to go back to the mortgage-lenders a month ago and practically beg them for some more money. For a while, it was touch and go as to whether they’d give it to us.
‘I’m going to go to sleep,’ I tell Alison, and I turn off my light. She doesn’t reply. Regardless, I reach across to kiss her goodnight and she pulls away.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ I ask short-temperedly.
‘Nothing,’ hisses Alison.
‘Fine,’ I snap.
‘I feel like the builders are taking over our lives,’ says Alison, unprompted.
‘That’s because they are.’
‘Well, it’s all your fault that things are like this.’
‘My fault?’
‘You let them walk all over you. You’re a man, you should be standing up to them.’
‘Hang on. Whatever happened to sexual equality? Why don’t you bloody well stand up to them if I’m such a lady-boy?’
‘I’m just saying you should stand up to them. I’d do it myself but they never take me seriously. I don’t see why I should do everything.’
‘But you don’t do everything.’
‘This is just great,’ snaps Alison. ‘You’d much rather lie here arguing with me than argue with the builders.’
‘I tell you what, you’re wrong. At this exact moment in time I’d rather be in bed with one of the builders than with you. They might be a bit rough around the edges but at least they’d have the decency not to be a walking gob on legs.’
11.11 p.m.
Once again we’re lying in neither of our usual positions that involve touching or spooning but rather we’re silently fuming with each other.
‘Jim?’ whispers Alison.
Here we go again. It’s our post-row, pre-making up ritual, only this time . . .
‘Hmm?’ I mutter noncommittally.
‘Are you talking to me?’
I say nothing because I’m not talking to her.
‘So you’re not talking to me?’
I allow myself to shrug because it’s not really talking.
‘Well, listen,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s okay.’ I sigh. ‘I’m sorry too.’
‘Friends?’ she says, rubbing my calf with her foot.
I don’t reply, but Alison takes my silence as an affirmative.
‘I hate those sodding builders,’ says Alison vengefully. ‘I’m not just saying that. I do, really. I hate them. Any excuse and they stop work – a national shortage of trained plasterers, suppliers sending the wrong parts, adverse weather conditions, too cold, too wet, too hot, too windy, mysterious electrical faults . . . The list is endless. Do you know what? I came home tonight and it looked like the only thing they’d moved all day was the kettle so that they could make themselves a cup of tea.’
‘I think that’s what they do all day – drink tea and read the sodding Daily Star.’
‘What I’d give to have five minutes with them with their hands tied behind their backs and me armed with a blunt instrument.’
‘That’s a bit violent,’ I say, coolly.
‘That’s how they make me feel. I feel like they’re taking our dream and smashing it. Honestly, they’re like the children in that Graham Greene short story where the kids systematically vandalise a house just for the sheer fun of it. What’s it called again? It’s going to bug me all night if I can’t remember.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never read any Graham Greene.’
‘I thought everyone did that story at school. It’s like Shakespeare. Didn’t you do it?’
‘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.
Friday, 4 December 1998
4.02 p.m.
The decorators have gone, the last of the builders went this morning, and we’ve wiped the brick dust off the entire flat and it sparkles. Our home is ours once again and it looks amazing.
‘We’re here,’ I say to Jim, J-cloth in hand, as we stand in our brand new kitchen.
‘Where?’ asks Jim.
‘You know. That place. That place where you’re supposed to be. The place where everything comes together. Where everything works. Where everything is just right and exactly the way you want it to be.’
‘What about the cracks in the plaster in the bathroom?’ says Jim.
‘After all we’ve been through these past few months a few cracks in the bathroom plaster are the least of our problems. Everything is as it should be. All we need to do now is live happily ever after.’
Thursday, 31 December 1998
11.59 p.m.
The four of us are standing on Prince’s Street watching the fireworks, having decided to drive up in Nick’s new company car and spend New Year’s Eve in Edinburgh. As it gets closer to midnight a countdown begins from ten. On the stroke of midnight a million and one fireworks explode into the air, filling the sky with colour. We all wish each other a happy new year and join in with everyone around us singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ even though I’m sure we don’t know all the words.
‘Just think,’ says Jane, ‘this time next year will be the year 2000. A brand new millennium.’
‘Technically speaking,’ says Nick, ‘the millennium isn’t until 2001, given there wasn’t a year nought.’
Jane and I roll our eyes.
‘Stop being such a boy,’ says Jane. ‘The fact is, everyone in the world – apart from Nick – will be celebrating the millennium this time next year.’
Nick laughs. ‘I bet you there’ll be a huge rise in births too. People always make big decisions around momentous occasions.’
‘Jim and I have decided we’re going to start trying for a baby in 2000,’ I say, smiling at Jim. He doesn’t return my smile, though. He just looks at the ground.
‘That’s brilliant,’ says Jane. ‘I can’t wait to be a godmother.’ She adds, ‘I do get to be your baby’s godmother, don’t I?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, ‘Jim and I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘And I’m going to be their baby’s godfather,’ interjects Nick. ‘Jim’s already given me the okay. So you can abandon any ideas you might have of sole responsibility for imparting spiritual wisdom to their kid because I’m going to have a few things to say.’
‘About what?’ says Jane. ‘You can’t just read out the contents of a packet of fortune cookies.’
‘Now, now, children,’ I interrupt. ‘If you both carry on like this neither of you will get the privilege, okay? Anyway, Baby Owen isn’t here yet, and there’s a whole year ahead of us before we even have to think about making him arrive so let’s just enjoy 1999, shall we? It’s going to be mine and Jim’s last chance to be recklessly youthful before we have to settle down and become parents for the rest of our lives. So, let’s go back to the hotel, raid the mini-bar and drink
until we fall over.’
Everyone laughs, except Jim, so I walk over to him and put my arms around him.
‘What’s wrong, sweetheart? Got the new-year blues?’
‘I don’t know how to say this,’ he begins.
I can see from his face that he’s serious. ‘Say what?’
‘This. Us. This whole thing. I’m really sorry but it’s not working any more. At least, not for me. I think we need to spend some time apart.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You’re not making sense, Jim.’
There’s a long silence.
‘I just need some space to get my head together, that’s all.’
‘You can’t do this,’ I say, fighting back tears. ‘We’ve made a home together. We’re happy. Whatever’s going on with you it’s just a blip . . . We’ll be okay.’ I put my arms around him and squeeze tightly as the tears roll down my face. ‘We still love each other,’ I tell him. ‘I still love you.’
‘That’s just the thing,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure I do love you any more.’
PART SIX
Then: 1999
1999
Friday, 1 January 1999
2.10 a.m.
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.
