by Mike Gayle
I pause for breath, and we both laugh, and then I add, ‘But apart from that you were fine.’
12.38 p.m.
‘Sometimes I used to wish that you’d be a little more vulnerable,’ I tell Jim. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t have wanted you to be weeping every five seconds just because you watched the last five minutes of Pet Rescue. In fact, I liked that you were quite blokey. I liked it if only because your behaviour was so weird and different from mine. But then again – and I’m sure, Jim, you’ll disagree with me here – I actually think you do have a little bit of a feminine side that most people don’t know about, and I wouldn’t have minded seeing more of it.’
Jim laughs in what I assume is him adopting a manly manner. ‘I haven’t got a feminine side. You’re making that up.’
‘I’m not saying it’s huge – because it’s not – but there were things about you that surprised me.’
‘Like what?’
‘Okay, this is only a very small example but the way you used to dry your legs when you stepped out of the bath fascinated me.’
‘You what?’
‘You used to step out of it really delicately like you were a prim and proper Victorian lady, then you’d sit on the edge and dry your feet. But you didn’t bring your foot closer to your body like most blokes would, you pointed it like a ballerina, then leaned forward to dry it. It wasn’t just once it was all the time. I know because I checked.’
‘I can’t believe you dedicated brain cells to that kind of nonsense. You know what? I can’t defend myself against your accusation because I have no idea how I dry my feet when I get out of the bath.’
‘You would say that because you never notice the details. But in a relationship the details are everything because they can remind you – just when you need to be reminded most – why you fell in love with someone in the first place.’
‘Are you saying you fell in love with me because of the way I dry my feet?’
‘I fell in love with you for a million different reasons. The way you dry your feet was only one of them.’
‘I know you’re trying to make a positive point but don’t you see that the details were part of the problem with us? If you’re always looking at the small stuff you’re always going to find something most people don’t notice.’
‘That’s exactly the point.’
‘Well, that’s all well and good for the positive “small stuff” – the things you think are cute and adorable. But what about the negative “small stuff”, the million and one different things I did every day that you must have hated and I didn’t even know I was doing?’
‘Like the way you used to have to channel surf through the adverts even though you knew I liked them?’
‘Who watches the adv—’
‘Or the way you used to think that taking out the rubbish to the wheelie-bin at the side of the house was somehow doing me a massive favour.’
‘But you never did it in all the time we were together.’
‘And never put the washing-machine on. How do you think your clothes got clean? By magic? And, anyway, you’re putting me off my stride now because I’m trying to remember the thing you did that used to annoy me most.’ I pause and run through a mental list of grievances. ‘I’ve got it,’ I say finally. ‘The most annoying small thing you used to do was eat a packet of twelve mini-doughnuts from the supermarket before I’d even had one.’
‘But if I’d left them until you’d got round to them they would’ve been stale and they’d have gone to waste.’
I laugh and shake my head. ‘You’re right about one thing,’ I tell him. ‘The details are dangerous. They can turn a woman to love one day and to loathing the next.’
12.56 p.m.
Jim is looking at me curiously.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘This is something I’ve always wanted to ask you.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘About four months after we split I sat down to watch The Professionals.’
‘The Professionals?’
‘Yeah, you know the one. The seventies TV show with Bodie and Doyle, a Ford Capri and lots of chasing after criminals.’
‘Oh, yeah, that one.’
‘Good, so you remember? They repeated the first series of The Professionals on cable. Do you remember?’
‘I remember you boring me to tears with it.’
‘I told you I was going to tape every single episode.’
‘I remember that, but only because you said that you weren’t going to watch them.’
‘Well, I was sitting at home and I put the first videotape into the machine, pressed Play, expecting to see the first episode of the first series, and do you know what I saw?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll tell you. It was an episode of Ricki Lake.’
‘And you think I did that?’
‘Yes, you must have done it after we’d had a row because you knew it would ruin the experience for me.’
‘Couldn’t you have just watched the other episodes?’
‘No. I wanted to watch them all in chronological order – it was very important to me.’
‘Well, you’re probably right about it being me,’ I say breezily. ‘I can’t imagine you taping Ricki Lake in a million years. Was it a good episode?’
‘You did it on purpose, didn’t you?’
‘Well, it probably would’ve pleased me then to see you annoyed so I more than likely did do it but not on purpose. I’m not that vindictive. I suspect what happened was you left the videotape in the machine and I assumed it was a blank one.’
‘You didn’t check? How irresponsible is that?’
‘It was very irresponsible,’ I say, trying to stifle a snigger. ‘You’re really annoyed about it still, aren’t you?’
‘Just a bit,’ says Jim, trying to play it down.
‘Well,’ I say humbly, ‘I consider myself well and truly told off.’
1.05 p.m.
‘When it looked like it was inevitable that we were going to split up did you think we’d stay in touch?’ I ask Jim.
‘I knew we wouldn’t,’ he replies.
‘Me too. I couldn’t see how we could possibly remain in each other’s lives after all that time together.’
‘We’d gone too far for that.’
‘How could we have been just good friends after having once meant the world to each other? I’d rather I never saw you again than have you consider me your friend. I’d rather you vanished into thin air. Or stopped breathing.’
‘What if I’d died?’
‘If you’d died at the time I would’ve come to your funeral. And I think I probably would’ve been sad and openly shed tears.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s hard to hold grudges against dead people.’
There’s a long pause and then, for no reason at all, we both burst out laughing.
1.10 p.m.
‘I can’t believe we’ve been talking like this for an hour,’ I say to Alison. ‘I bet you’ve been wanting to leave for ages.’
‘No, actually, I haven’t. I’ve really enjoyed talking with you.’
‘But you have to go now?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘I’m supposed to be working from home today but I’m not too worried. What about you?’
‘There’s nowhere I’ve got to be.’
‘Do you want another drink?’
‘I’ll have a glass of white wine, if that’s all right,’ says Alison. ‘Dry.’
‘Are you hungry? I could get us a lunch menu.’
Alison laughs. ‘But then we’d be having lunch together, wouldn’t we? And that would be a bit strange, don’t you think?’
‘I can see what you’re saying. Peanuts, then? No one can misconstrue a packet of peanuts, can they?’
‘Okay. Peanuts it is.’
1.17 p.m.
‘I was just thinking at the bar,’ I say, as I return to our table with peanuts, a dry white wine and a pint
of Guinness, ‘how in the early days of our relationship you were sceptical about everything.’
‘Was I?’ asks Alison.
‘Yes, you were.’
‘I didn’t feel like I was.’
‘I’d go so far as to say that in the early days of our relationship you were more like a bloke than I was. I’ll admit this much – and I don’t say it lightly – in the early days it was me who was insecure in our relationship. I could never get over just how hard you could be sometimes. The fact is, when we got together I was mad about you. I never thought that kind of thing would ever happen to me. So in the early days, because you showed so much restraint sometimes, I think you commanded more respect than any woman I’ve been involved with. I mean, I’ve had women who weren’t interested in me – I think most men have been there. But to have a woman who’s interested in you but still remains in total control of her emotions is another.’
‘Are you saying that most women aren’t? Because you’ll be on very dodgy ground there.’
‘I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that you were . . . balanced. That’s the way I’d describe you. Balanced. But the further we got into the relationship the more your defences came down. And that was good at first because it meant we weren’t playing games any more. We were equals with equal commitment to the relationship. The thing is, if at that point you were to have plotted a graph – with commitment on the vertical axis and time on the horizontal and my line in blue and yours pink—’
‘Pink!’ laughs Alison. ‘You’re making my line pink? I don’t even like pink. When have you seen me with pink anything? I can believe what a Neanderthal you’re being.’
‘What colour do you want?’
‘Green.’
‘Fine. You be green, then. The point is that at the beginning my line would’ve been high and yours would’ve been low, but as the relationship continued our two lines – blue and green – would’ve come together. They would’ve been on top of one another. In fact, they would’ve stayed that way for quite a while, but then suddenly while mine would have stayed the same, yours would have started going up sharply, like it was a rocket heading towards the moon or something. It was freaky. It was disconcerting.’
‘Not that I’m agreeing with a single word you’ve said, but why did that worry you?’
‘Because I felt like my line was in exactly the same place. It wasn’t going up and it wasn’t going down. It was the same.’
‘But by your admission in the beginning yours was high and mine was low, and you didn’t think that was such a bad thing, did you? In fact, you said that you “respected” me. So why, all of a sudden, did the rules change?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just . . . it’s just that . . . well . . . women don’t know anything about balance, do they? They’re so binary, it’s scary. They’re all so all-or-nothing, in or out, off or on, not at all interested in you or “I’m going to dedicate my life to you,” and while both are useful on occasions, too much of one or the other can drive a man insane.’
‘Face it, Jim, you’re like a living, breathing, eating, sleeping version of the biggest male cliché in the book. You want it when you can’t have it and when you’ve got it you don’t want it.’
‘No, you’re wrong. Yes, I wanted it when I couldn’t have it, but when I’d got it I just wanted you to pretend – not all the time, just every now and again – like sometimes you didn’t want it either.’
‘Why?’
‘To remind me.’
‘To remind you of what?’
‘To remind me . . . why I fell in love with you.’
1.41 p.m.
‘Is it a crime to fall out of love?’ asks Jim. ‘When we said we loved each other I’m pretty sure we meant it. But weren’t we talking about how we felt right at that moment? Is it the kind of thing you can predict? Isn’t it a little bit random? Chemistry mixed up with the unknown? How could we know that we’d always feel the same way about each other? Doesn’t having to love take away the incentive to love voluntarily? Is it better that we put up with each other because we promised to do so rather than cut ourselves free so we can love people we want to love rather than love out of a sense of obligation?’ Jim pauses and laughs. ‘Am I asking a lot of questions? Or is this just me?’
‘I don’t know the answer to any of them,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t think anyone does. I think that’s why love is what it is: the most complicated, intense and indefinable emotion. And yet without it . . . well, life wouldn’t really be worth living, would it?’
1.45 p.m.
‘I think a lot of our problems began when we moved in together,’ says Alison.
‘Yeah,’ I say, nodding. ‘It was weird how we fell into traditional male-female roles. I mean – put it this way – we’re both adults and we’d both lived on our own for quite a while. I can cook. I can clean a house without being told to. So can you, and you can even put together flat-pack furniture.’
‘Yeah, but I’m not sure how seeing as I never understand the instructions.’
‘Neither do I. But that’s not the point. The point is gradually I forgot these skills and somehow turned into my dad.’ I pause to sip my pint. ‘I never asked you to do this once but somewhere during the second year we lived together you started doing all the washing and ironing. And then I started doing all the things my dad used to do at home. Anything mechanical became my realm. Anything financial became my realm. Anything practical became my realm.’
‘Why does that disturb you so much?’
‘Because . . . I don’t know. Because I’d expected things to be different between us. I’d grown up in a world where women could do and be anything. The longest-serving prime minister in my lifetime was Margaret Thatcher. We were taught about sexual equality. We learned domestic science at school and the girls were allowed to do woodwork and metalwork. That was the world I was brought up in. And it was a little undermining to realise that . . . oh, I don’t know.’
‘I’d never have taken you for a feminist,’ says Alison, laughing. ‘I only did your washing and ironing because I loved you and wanted to do everything for you.’
‘I suppose I looked after all the blokey stuff for the same reason. But didn’t you find it a bit disappointing?’
‘Not in the beginning,’ she muses. ‘Well, okay, not all the time. I used to vacillate between doing it because I loved you, and feeling stupid and taken for granted. But back then I wanted to do everything for you. I wanted you to need me. There’s nothing in the world quite like that feeling of being needed by another human being.’
‘But that’s it. That’s what you did. You made yourself indispensable. You filled in all the gaps. For instance, I’m crap at remembering people’s birthdays and always forget the card. You have a sixth sense for remembering them so gradually you started buying them for me, then buying and writing them for me and getting me to sign them, then buying, writing and forging my signature. Gradually I – the unreliable variant in this – was completely erased from the process.’
‘I just got too annoyed by your uselessness sometimes. I know this sounds awful but I did it because it reflected badly on me. The worst thing is it got to the stage where I resented doing it so much and resented you so much that I used to go out deliberately and buy really ugly birthday cards just because I was annoyed. You didn’t even notice when I sent your mum an awful padded card with glitter on it.’
‘But if you resented it so much why did you do it?’
‘Because it wasn’t a choice between doing it and not doing it. It was a choice between me doing it and you doing it badly.’
‘But it was impossible to keep up with you. You used to buy Christmas cards in the middle of October. How was I supposed to compete with that? Christmas never used to get a look-in in my head until a few days before Christmas Eve.’
3.09 p.m.
‘It sounds stupid saying it aloud but women really are so different,’ I explain to Alison. ‘Do you know, I’d always tho
ught that men and women were pretty much the same under the skin – the thought processes and all that. And it’s not until you live with a woman that you realise just how – how not like men they are.’
‘Tell me about it. What was the biggest surprise to you about living together?’ asks Alison.
‘For me it was your lack of priority.’
‘What lack of priority?’
‘Well, for instance, the fact that we didn’t have a proper TV for ages when we first moved in.’
‘You call that a lack of priority? We had a TV. In fact we had two.’
‘Yeah but mine was tiny and yours was black-and-white and you could only ever get three channels on it.’
‘So you’re having a go at me because we had two crap TVs.’
‘No, I’m having a go at you because you’d have put up with it for ages. When I first met you you had a videoplayer that was the size of a tank, you didn’t even get a CD player until you moved to London. All you had was millions of tapes that friends had given you. I’m not saying that any of this makes you a bad person. I’m just saying I didn’t understand how you could live like that.’
‘And you only noticed this when we moved in together? What about every other weekend that you came to stay?’
‘It was quaint then.’
‘Quaint?’
‘Relatively speaking.’
She pauses and then says, ‘I knew it. I always felt like you wanted to change me.’
‘Well, that’s interesting, because I always felt like you wanted to change me too.’
‘You weren’t overt about it or horrible, it was just small things that you picked up on, I suppose. I definitely think you thought I couldn’t survive without you. By that I mean you thought that my life before you moved in was the equivalent of some kind of third-world country and us living together was you bringing me into the modern era. I suppose if you want a metaphor I think you thought I was India under British occupation. You know how historians always go on about how Britain gave India the railways, as though the poor Indians should have been grateful that the country was being illegally occupied just because they could now get the nine fifteen to Calcutta? It was like that. I always felt like you thought you were making improvements in my life when what you were doing was putting in a railway I hadn’t asked for.’
