Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir)

by Spalding, Nick

  She has large, luminous eyes and a soft expression that in no way betrays the steel she’s got running down her spine.

  Her nose is a tiny bit on the large side, but fits into the rest of her face well enough not to notice most of the time.

  She’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt - tight enough to let me notice those boobs - and wears them in that effortless way some women have of dressing scruffy, but looking like a million dollars at the same time.

  I register all this in the couple of seconds it takes her to walk into the shop.

  My senses have become heightened and my heart has started to beat a little faster. A smile spreads across my face as she nears and I start to think of a witty and friendly thing to say that’ll put her at ease.

  The smile drops off my face faster than the trim on a French car when she changes direction and makes a bee-line for Adam, who is now investigating the contents of his left ear hole with a prospecting finger.

  Oh fabulous, I think.

  The first attractive woman I’ve seen in months and she’s going over to chat to Adam - who in my opinion is far less handsome than me and doesn’t deserves the attention of such a fine looking woman.

  As she approaches him, a grin spreads across Adam’s face and I find myself fantasising about scooping his eyes out with a rusty spoon. I’ve gone from a state of boredom to nervous excitement and into rampant jealousy all in the space of thirty seconds.

  Then Adam says something that makes me glad to be alive:

  ‘Hi, sis!’

  Sis?

  Sister!

  She’s his sister! Fantastic!

  My mood takes an upswing immediately - then dips again when I realise that all the time I’ve known Adam he hasn’t mentioned being related to this lovely creature once.

  Why not?

  Why have I never met her before?

  Has he been keeping me away from her?

  Maybe he’s one of those protective brothers who police their sister’s relationships with a ruthlessness that’d make any Gestapo officer proud.

  …or maybe she’s already taken and he’s been trying to spare me the misery of being in the vicinity of such a goddess, knowing I can never have her.

  Then, she speaks:

  ‘Alright, toss-face. I see you’re working hard again.’

  ‘Yep. What have you been up to? Selling your body to the local perverts outside Tesco again?’

  How dare he!

  How dare he insult this beauty in such a way!

  My attitude has of course been coloured by my burgeoning desire and I’ve forgotten that one man’s ideal woman is another’s annoying little sister - who deserves a Chinese burn at every opportunity.

  Instead of being mortally offended by her brother’s comment, Sophie gives him a vicious rabbit punch to the upper arm and pokes her tongue out.

  I’m in love.

  I don’t have time to change into a nice suit. I don’t have time to comb my hair and gargle with mouth wash. I don’t have time to rehearse a suitable chat up line.

  I do have time to take a deep breath and compose myself, before sauntering over and interrupting their conversation.

  Sophie looks round as I approach.

  Adam, being a man and knowing of such things, sees the way my demeanour has changed and gives me a speculative grin, leaning back in his chair to watch proceedings unfold with a delighted and expectant look on his face.

  This is a ritual he’s seen a few times and enjoys it every time.

  I can only take it as a good sign that he hasn’t taken one look at me, started shaking his head and sketching the sign of the cross. Must mean his sister isn’t entirely unapproachable.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  ‘Hello’, she says back.

  The following conversation was one that took place on two levels, where the subtext was totally different from what’s being verbalised, like so:

  ‘I didn’t know Adam had a sister.’

  Translation: I’m delighted Adam has a sister and I’ve automatically got a leg up on all the other men that have tried it on with you because he’s my mate.

  ‘Yeah. He’s a pain in neck, but sometimes he’s alright.’

  Translation: OK, sonny boy. I’ve got your number. You’re thinking just because your mate is my brother, it’ll give you swift access to my underpants. Don’t count your bloody chickens. However, you’re not bad looking so I’m happy to engage in a conversation with you, for the time being at least.

  ‘He’s never mentioned you before. What’s your name?’

  Translation: Your brother is in fact a complete bastard and I will be having words with him about neglecting to introduce us. What’s your name? Please don’t let it be Nora, Enid or Helga.

  ‘Sophie. Yours?’

  Translation: You’re not doing badly so far, sport. Keep it up and who knows what’ll happen.

  ‘My name’s Nick. Nice to see somebody got the looks in your family, this ugly bastard here certainly didn’t.’

  Translation: Yes, I’ve just paid you a massive compliment. I would like to insert my penis in you at the nearest opportunity. Furthermore, I’m showing you how close my relationship is with your brother with some good natured insults, as this might improve my chances.

  ‘Fuck off, dickhead,’ Adam tells me.

  Translation: I’m loving every second of this. Unlike you Spalding, I’m totally at ease right now and am thoroughly entertained by your efforts to pull my little sister. You’re my mate and I’d be pleased to see you going out with her, but keep the details to yourself please. Oh, and if you hurt her, I’ll rip your spine out.

  ‘Thanks very much. He is an ugly little troll, isn’t he?’ says Sophie.

  Translation: Yes, I like you. Congratulations. You’ve got over the first hurdle and haven't come across like a complete wanker. I’m happy with the way things are going and my first impression is favourable. I’m looking forward to the second stage of negotiations. My pants are staying on for the minute though pal, I’m not easy.

  The conversation went on for about fifteen minutes.

  It turned out Sophie had come in to tell Adam that their mum wanted him to call her about his doctor’s appointment last week - meeting a guy was the last thing on her mind.

  This is usually the case when bumping into your future partner.

  You can be guaranteed that all the time you’re desperately searching for miss or mister right, they’ll never happen across your path. But the second all thoughts of love and communion are out of your head: there they’ll be, opening up a whole new world of possibilities.

  Sophie turns to leave the store, administering a friendly poke to her brother and a winning smile at me as she does so. And yes, she does look back round as she walks out of the shop.

  Excellent.

  Nothing has passed between us that would suggest the foundations of a love affair or anything. I haven’t asked her out on a date or declared my undying love. But I like to think some groundwork has been laid and the next time we meet, I’ll have the chance to really get stuck in and charm her properly.

  Once she’s gone I start to interrogate Adam.

  To begin with, I fake an air of casual interest, but by the time he starts to give me the kind of answers I want to hear, my true feelings have come out.

  Adam’s replies to my searching questions go something like this:

  ‘She’s twenty four Nick… She works in a florist Nick… Yes, she’s single Nick… No, I don’t know if she’s happy being that way Nick… No, I don’t know if she’d like it if you asked her out Nick, but you’re welcome to give it a go... She’s been away in Scotland with our dad for the past few months Nick, that’s why you’ve never met her… No, I’m sure she didn’t meet anyone up there, she would have told me Nick... I’m seeing her at the weekend Nick… Yes, I’ll ask her what she thought of you when I do Nick.’

  The poor bloke was getting more and more cheesed-off with the bombardment of questions and
was no doubt relieved when the end of the day came.

  When I got into work, I had no idea I’d be in love nine hours later.

  That’s how it works, isn’t it?

  Love doesn’t account for the clock, or schedules or calendars. It doesn’t care what you’re doing with your life or what plans you may have. It waits for you, like a lion in the high grass waits for a passing antelope.

  And like a lion, love looks soft and beautiful - but has claws.

  It took three weeks to see Sophie again and the time went by painfully slowly.

  Adam saw her and did his duty as a friend by letting her know I was interested - something she no doubt realised herself anyway. He then did his duty as a brother by letting me know her positive - if guarded - reaction.

  Eventually, he manufactured a night down the pub with his girlfriend and invited both of us along.

  The evening went astronomically well.

  I was dressed in dashing casual gear. I felt good. I smelt good. I remained virtually sober throughout the whole thing, not wanting to ruin my chances with any stupid drink related cock-ups.

  Sophie and I got on like a house on fire.

  We talked about work, university, my ambitions to be a writer. At some point Adam and his girlfriend made their excuses and Sophie and I continued to chat until closing time.

  It was wonderful.

  I drove her home, as any honourable knight-in-shining-armour would, and she favoured me with a gentle kiss on the cheek when I saw her inside.

  We planned to meet up again at the cinema, and I drove home at roughly four hundred feet above the tarmac.

  The movie we went to see was Saving Private Ryan - her choice.

  I put my arm around her as she cried softly during the harrowing parts.

  After the film, we spent an hour in the nearby pub discussing the war and its aftermath. She’s deeply affected by the film and so am I.

  It takes us about three months to fall in love completely.

  They are the happiest months of my life.

  Still are.

  They tend to be for everyone, don’t they?

  The feeling you’ve at last met someone who fits is indescribable.

  True love is never about need.

  Need is a greedy little emotion and never leads to anything good.

  True love is about want.

  You want to be with this person, you feel comfortable around this person, you know that they complete you.

  True love is mutual. It puts you at ease and gives you the confidence to tackle any problem head on.

  True love makes you stand.

  And that’s how it was for me, as my relationship with Sophie deepened into something more than just another one to add to the list.

  I knew after only a few weeks that this relationship was going to be long-term and it didn’t bother me in the slightest. I was ready for some serious commitment - much to my surprise.

  As we got to know each other better, we fell in love even more and those months flew by faster than I could believe.

  One year goes by and we start to plan for marriage.

  We only managed to hold off that long because we’re both fairly practical people and wanted to make sure we worked as a couple before taking the plunge.

  In hindsight it was pointless to wait. I think we wanted to be married after only a few weeks of being together.

  It pays to be patient sometimes, though.

  Her job at the florist pays well, and my job at Currys has increased in salary to the point where I’m feeling good about the financial future.

  We decide on a small ceremony in a church we’d once had a picnic in. It’s in a small village, about ten miles away from the city.

  We invite thirty close friends and family. It’s slightly overcast on the day, but it doesn’t spoil things in the slightest. The wedding goes off without a hitch and we all get nicely drunk at the reception.

  Sophie and I make love that night in the hotel, and while it’s not the most rampant or earth-shattering sex we’ve ever had - no body oil, karma sutra positions or handcuffs - it's the most memorable by far.

  After the wedding and subsequent honeymoon in Jamaica (bulkhead seats on the plane) we return home and start house hunting.

  This ain’t much fun at all.

  You’ll recall that I’m crap when it comes to buying large things, and as houses are about the biggest thing you can buy, the levels of my inadequacy sky rocket. In the face of viewings, estate agents reports and mortgage arrangements I collapse under the weight of my own neuroses.

  This is the first time Sophie’s skills at negotiating come to the fore. Which is just as well. God knows what kind of dive I would have bought otherwise.

  Case in point:

  We looked at a house in a leafy country lane, set in a picturesque village - the same one as the church where we had the wedding. On first inspection, the place looked great and I was deeply enamoured with it.

  I’m an idealist and when I see something that fits my ideal, I tend to act first, ask questions later. That was certainly the case with this house. It looked beautiful - with climbing ivy on the walls and a spacious front garden, perfect for miniature gnomes.

  After only inspecting the outside of the house, I was ready to buy it and move in yesterday.

  Sophie counselled caution and suggested it might be a good idea if we saw the inside of the place first.

  This was an extremely good suggestion.

  Seen the Texas Chainsaw Massacre?

  If you have, you’ll have an idea of the interior of this house. If you haven’t, just imagine dirt, dust, a disturbing meaty smell and a lot of nasty detritus on the floor.

  Rotten furniture, musty carpets, broken glass, and what looked like the bones of at least two or three small animals were just some of the delights to be found in this chamber of horrors.

  This really was a house built in the country: smelly, dirty and covered in pig-shit.

  The estate agent who showed us round admitted it could do with a bit of a clean up. This was like saying that Osama Bin Laden could do with a bit of a telling off.

  We leave the house on Nightmare Avenue, returning to my flat for a good hot shower - and never speak of the place again.

  Incidentally, I had cause to drive along that leafy country lane a couple of years ago and saw that the roof had fallen in.

  There was a sign saying abandoned on it. I might have substituted that for one that read Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here - having been inside.

  Bearing this near disaster in mind, I let Sophie take more of the lead in deciding which houses to view from then on.

  It took us a couple of months to find the right one, but when we do, we find a place we both love.

  She loves it because it sits in a quiet street. I love it because there’s a spare room big enough for me to convert into a study.

  We move in - Adam helps out a lot by nicking the Currys delivery van for the weekend - and settle into the kind of domestic bliss most people hear about, but never experience.

  All is well in the house of Spalding and his Mrs.

  I don’t mention the thing with the sponges for several months.

  Sounds fantastic, doesn’t it?

  And it was.

  It was great through the first four years of our marriage. It continued to be great through Sophie’s pregnancy, the birth of our son Tom - named after her grandfather - and my change in job from Curry’s assistant manager to marketing copywriter.

  We had tiffs, obviously. Caused by one petty thing or another - including expensive BMWs - but for the most part, they were small and easily settled with a few gentle words of apology and the odd bunch of flowers from the petrol station forecourt.

  So where does it all go wrong?

  How does the marriage of Nicholas and Sophie Spalding end?

  Did I cheat on her?

  Did she cheat on me?

  Nope.

  Nothing so easy to ident
ify and pin down as the cause.

  What is it that destroys this particular nuclear family?

  Time, my friend: Time.

  It’s rearing its ugly ahead again, as it has several times in this book. But on this occasion, it’s not a minor annoyance or an unavoidable element of modern life we can ruefully make jokes about.

  This time, it’s serious.

  Lack of time becomes the real problem. Lack of quality time with one another.

  Not planned, not expected and certainly not wanted - time drives a rift into our wedded life.

  It doesn’t happen at once. Its effects are slow and insidious.

  Eight years pass before things come to a head.

  I’m working hard by this time - very hard indeed.

  I’m spending more and more time at the office, getting in earlier and leaving later. I get home at gone seven o’clock most nights, sometimes only catching a brief few minutes with Tom before he goes to sleep. I then spend an exhausted hour on the couch with Sophie before turning in, getting up again in the morning and repeating the whole cycle.

  I can safely say in the average day I see my wife for maybe a total of two hours if I’m very lucky. Sometimes it’s as little as one and never more than four.

  The situation is exacerbated by her job at the florists, which keeps her busy from early morning until early evening in a schedule as hectic as mine. Even when she is home, she’s on the phone to a supplier or client, as I sit on the couch watching Sky News, trying to keep my eyes open.

  Our poor son sees more of the expensive nanny we’ve had to hire than either of his parents. I wouldn’t have felt quite so bad, but I’m sure the woman’s moustache is starting to frighten him terribly.

  Things gets worse.

  Sophie and I start to argue.

  Properly, this time.

  She accuses me of thinking work is more important than my family. I accuse her of much the same thing. It doesn’t occur to either of us we’re both in the same situation and should work together, instead of throwing recriminations about. Practise what you preach is a maxim never employed in our household.