Dinner for Two

by Mike Gayle

  She focuses on the carriage window opposite. ‘No . . . I just wondered, that’s all. Do you still want kids one day?’

  I nod, and wonder where this is going.

  ‘I do, too,’ she says. ‘What do you think it would be like to try for a baby?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. I’m just thinking aloud. I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to have sex with the intention of getting pregnant and whether it would be any different from, you know, what we’re used to.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it would be the same.’

  She takes my hand and squeezes it, then lets go. ‘Are you sure? Of all the couples we know who have kids they all say they didn’t plan them.’

  ‘I had the same thought a while ago.’

  ‘But don’t you think that’s strange? Why don’t people want kids any more?’

  ‘They do. People have kids all the time. Maybe it’s just the type of people we know. A lot of our friends have got small flats or live in dodgy areas, or maybe they feel like they haven’t sorted out their careers.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. Perhaps we’re all waiting for the perfect time . . . I think it’s quite scary, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Saying that you actually want to get pregnant. I mean they even call it trying for a baby. Some people just say, “We’re trying,” and everyone knows what they’re talking about. Trying. The thing is if you try you can fail, but if you’re just intentionally forgetful about contraception there’s no failure if nothing happens, is there? In fact for most of our twenties it’s the other way round: you’re lucky, you had sex without contraception and you didn’t get pregnant. Think about it: no more fiddling around with foil wrappers; no more stuffing yourself full of dodgy chemicals; you can be free to make love without consequences. That’s why I think most people don’t admit to trying because that way they can’t fail. But for the people who try and try and try and then fail; for the people who want and desire a child more than anything in the world; for the people on their third or fourth round of IVF treatment: for these people sex without consequences is the worst thing in the world, isn’t it?’

  She looks at me as if she’s waiting for an answer. But I’m thinking about Nicola and the short conversation we’d had about sex. ‘Everyone’s trying to make out like sex isn’t a big deal but it is.’ It’s only now that I see that she’s right. You can call it ‘casual’, you can call it ‘safe’ but it always has the potential to turn your world upside down.

  I look at Izzy and respond to her question. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Sex without consequences can be the worst thing in the world.’

  ‘You see,’ she says, ‘this is what I don’t understand. Who in their right mind would want to join them voluntarily? I couldn’t do that yet. I don’t think I could face it, no matter how much I wanted a child.’

  ‘But you’re talking as if failure’s a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I don’t mean to. All I’m saying is that, right now, I don’t have what it takes to face failure. Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think it’s one of those things where you often don’t know what you can do until you do it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Do you think I’m a coward?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You can, you know. You can say what you want.’

  ‘I know I can say what I want. And no, I don’t think you’re a coward. What happened was sad and horrible. Anyone would be a bit apprehensive.’

  ‘I think I am a coward,’ she says, so quietly that I can only just make out what she is saying above the sound of the train, and then, without looking at me, she says, ‘Are you having an affair?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An affair. It’s a simple question, Dave. Are you having an affair?’

  It’s as if I’ve just been roused from a dream. I turn to face her, my whole body rigid with fear. ‘No, of course not.’ I speak louder than necessary. The couple sitting closest to us in the carriage look at me and then look away. I lower my voice immediately. ‘I don’t understand what would make you ask me such a thing.’

  This is a lie, of course. I understood precisely why she was asking me this question. I have thought dozens of times of the similarities between my situation with Nicola and an affair: the lies, the sneaking around and, most of all, the fact that I have fallen hopelessly in love with someone other than my wife. It is an affair – just not a romantic one. But it will be equally catastrophic and devastating when the truth gets out.

  I watch the tears well up in Izzy’s eyes and roll down her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Just ignore me. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘You should, if it’s what you believe. You must know I’d never do anything like that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then why did you ask?’

  ‘Because things don’t feel right between us. They haven’t felt right for a long time. I don’t know. I’m just being paranoid.’

  ‘But why? Why would you think that of all things? I love you. I’d never do that.’

  ‘It’s my fault. I’ve been neglecting you. I feel like I’m working all the time. I don’t deserve you.’

  If there’s ever been a moment when I should tell Izzy everything, this is it, but I don’t have that strength of character. ‘Don’t say that, babe. Don’t ever say that.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? It’s true. We barely see each other any more, now that I’m so busy at work. And when we do see each other I’m always tired or in a bad mood or whatever. Love doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like there’s an endless supply of it that you can keep taking out time and time again. I feel like I’m taking from our relationship without putting anything in. I feel like I’m taking you for granted. What happens if we run out of love?’

  I look at her and, for a second, she reminds me of Nicola on the day I first met her: she looks so lost, so badly in need of looking after that my heart goes out to her.

  When we reach home that night she’s looking more tired than ever so I suggest we go away for the weekend but she says she doesn’t want to run away any more. She wants to stay at home. I say okay, but only as long as we make it special.

  I turn off both our mobile phones, unplug the land line, the fax, the computer, the TV and video, close the curtains and we go to bed, determined to shut out the world. We don’t leave the flat all weekend. Instead we talk and sleep and look after each other like a latter-day John and Yoko. We might not have brought peace to the world but by the time Monday morning comes round it seems a nicer place.

  aged

  To: izzy.harding@bdp.co.uk

  From: dave_atch01@hotmail.com

  Subject: Dave’s Male Man column

  Dear Izzy,

  Here’s my new column. Let me know if you need me to make any changes.

  Hope it makes you smile.

  love

  Dave XXX

  PS I’ll sort out dinner tonight. I’m going to make my very special Harding heavy-on-the-garlic lasagne.

  Getting Older

  The fear of getting older has for a long time been considered an oestrogen owner’s concern. It was women who worried about the ticking of their biological clocks, who were ‘creative’ when talking about their age, and worried about being left on the shelf. Men, like fine wine and good cheeses, were supposed to get better as they aged. The getting-older man was supposed to have made it. He’d be like Sean Connery in Goldfinger: cool, accomplished and self-assured. Women would find him irresistible, twentysomething men would find him intimidating, and everyone would be envious of him. That was how it was supposed to be. That was how I wanted it to be. But now, at thirty-two, I too am getting older and I’m not so sure.

  So what happened? A number of things. First the previous generation who should’ve been turning forty in
the potting shed of their garden, surrounded by small children and tax returns, have decided to grow old disgracefully. This group, composed of confirmed bachelors, childless divorcees and the serially monogamous, are behaving like twentysomethings. This is not only against the natural order of things but quite upsetting too. Most getting-older men I know are in relationships and like it that way. The thought that one day all the security that our partners offer could be taken away, leaving us to relive our twenties, is truly terrifying. So now we getting-older men not only have to worry about finding and keeping Ms Right, we have to face the prospect that failure will result in us spending the next decade driving sports cars, dating teenage girls and wearing leather trousers. A nice idea in theory but cheesy in practice.

  Second, now that for women weekly sessions with a therapist, a yogi and a tai chi master are the norm we men, having so little to complain about in our relatively uncomplicated lives, have decided to join the party. Now we worry about our weight, we worry about our love lives, and we worry about worrying. Getting-older women, on the other hand, are having a great time. The media have created a new buzz word ‘middle youth’ to describe them. These women are more likely than men to instigate divorce proceedings if their partners aren’t up to scratch and, to top it all, they’re reaching their sexual peak just as the average guy is slipping into something of a trough.

  My greatest fears about getting older focus on achievements in life. The first of which being the list: What I can no longer achieve that I used to be able to achieve very easily. The edited highlights alone make for grim reading. I can no longer beat my mate Lee in a sprint (he is twenty-five, skinny and unhealthy, and until recently I’d always beaten him). I can no longer stay up all night (I went to a glamorous club in central London a while ago and fell asleep while young girls in fluffy push-up bras danced around me – it was only ten past midnight). I can no longer make love all night. (Thankfully my wife and I are always so tired from work that she probably wouldn’t want to even if I could.)

  Of course life isn’t going to come to a halt just because I’m getting older. I know I’m not going to swap my Air Max trainers for a pair of slippers, but what I fear, and what I suspect all men fear, is change, no matter how gradual, no matter how subtle. But change is a fact of life, so you can either fight it and fail or, like Millennium Woman, accept it and grow. Alternatively, like most things in life there is a middle ground: while I might rage against the dying of my Nikes there’s part of me that’s secretly looking forward to getting older.

  PART FOUR

  (March–June 2001)

  When your heart is broken, your boats are burned: nothing matters any more. It is the end of happiness and the beginning of peace.

  Ellie Dunn, in Bernard Shaw’s

  Heartbreak House

  best

  I’m driving back to Wood Green with Nicola in the passenger seat. My current alibi is that I’m out looking for a new set of headlight bulbs for the car. Nicola’s is less specific: she’s on half-term holiday and she’s told her mum she’s out with friends. We have been driving around north London aimlessly all afternoon because that was what Nicola wanted to do today and I was happy to make her happy. Because it’s raining we’ve had the car roof up but we’ve still had a good time listening to music. We’ve even found some common ground: she played me Remedy by Basement Jaxx, an album I ignored when it was released because I don’t like dance music. But it’s actually quite good and we listen to the title track on repeat for ages.

  Over the past month life seems to have become more balanced. Izzy and I are making a conscious effort to spend time together. In fact, once I’ve dropped Nicola off I’m heading home to get changed and go out with Izzy for the evening. She’s booked a table at a new restaurant in Knightsbridge, which allegedly has a three-month waiting list for dinner reservations. This is the first time she’s flexed her muscles as the boss of a magazine.

  As I pull up at a set of traffic lights Nicola turns off the CD in the middle of ‘Red Alert’ and I look at her anxiously. ‘I was listening to that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I have to ask you something. Remember ages ago when I told you about the boy at school I liked?’

  ‘Brendan?’

  ‘There’s a party tonight. And he’s going to be there. And . . . well, I think I’m going to try to pull him.’

  ‘Pull him?’

  She nods. ‘I don’t know if he wants a girlfriend, though. He’s always with girls but he never has them as girlfriends.’

  I’d much preferred this boy Brendan when he was an object of Nicola’s unrequited fantasies. I’d known boys like him at school. In fact I’d been a boy like him at school.

  ‘Are you sure you like him that much?’ I ask her.

  ‘Yeah. Of course.’

  ‘So what’s this “not sure he wants a girlfriend” business, then?’

  She shrugs. ‘Well, he might not, might he?’

  ‘But isn’t that what you want? You know, to be his girlfriend?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So why just settle for letting him kiss you, then?’

  ‘Because I want to kiss him.’

  As the traffic lights change to green I try a different line of argument. ‘Does he do a lot of kissing, this Brendan?’

  ‘Loads of girls like him. And, yeah, he does get off with quite a few.’

  This is all I need to hear. ‘I don’t think he’s the one for you,’ I tell her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re better than that.’

  ‘Better than what?’

  ‘Better than letting some fifteen-year-old waste-of-space kiss you if he’s not going to be your boyfriend. You have absolutely got to be the prettiest girl at your school and . . . well . . . I think you deserve someone better.’

  ‘But I don’t want someone better,’ she says moodily. ‘I want Brendan.’

  Nicola sulks and even though I’m old enough to know better I sulk too. I keep my eyes on the road, sigh a lot, turn the car radio on and listen to Radio 4, which really annoys her. We don’t speak to each other again until I drop her off at our usual point two roads away from her house.

  ‘I’m off,’ she says, picking up her bag and opening the car door.

  I suddenly feel guilty. ‘You can’t go like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like this – you in a mood with me just because I’ve said something you disagree with.’

  ‘But I like Brendan.’

  ‘I know you do, sweetheart. All I’m saying is that boys . . . well, they can be a bit crap, really. Not all of them . . . just some of them . . . so . . . I don’t know . . . Just . . . look after yourself and don’t trust them as far as you can throw them. I’m only saying this because I want what’s best for you and I’m proud of you . . . and, well, you make me laugh, which is no bad thing.’

  ‘You make me laugh too . . . sometimes.’

  ‘So, are we friends again?’

  ‘Okay.’ She looks at me. ‘I’d better go. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know how the party went, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘See you later, then?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘See you later. I love you, you know.’ I hadn’t intended to say that but it’s true and it feels as natural saying it to Nicola as it does to Izzy.

  ‘I love you, too,’ she says, and climbs out of the car.

  I watch her walk down the road and disappear, and then my phone rings.

  survival

  ‘Hi, Dave, it’s me.’

  It’s Izzy.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Bad news. I think I’m going to have to cancel our plans for tonight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s Stella. She’s in a right state. I think she and Lee have split up for good.’

  According to Izzy, Stella had decided to call it a day with Lee during an argument about whether to go to the cinema or not. Lee had wanted to go and Stell
a had wanted to stay in. Stella said, why didn’t he go on his own and Lee had said that was what he was going to do. She said, well, if he was so keen to go out without her why didn’t he just take his things and leave? So he did just that. She was in floods of tears and Izzy was going over to Stella’s to make sure she was all right.

  ‘I’m really sorry, babe,’ says Izzy. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I reply. ‘There’s no problem. Being on twenty-four-hour call for your mates is just one of the things that go with the territory when you’re an agony uncle . . . or aunt.’

  She laughs. ‘You should still go out, though. You should do something nice. I’ll feel bad if I think you’re just sitting in on your own on a Thursday night.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll stay in.’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘Do what I did before I met you.’

  ‘What? Eat bad food, watch crap telly and go out with desperate women?’

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’m going to play music. Loud.’

  do?

  It’s nearly midnight and I’ve been playing my all time favourite songs, track by track, in the living room, which I’m never allowed to do, with the volume turned loud enough to annoy the neighbours. CD jewel cases are scattered all around me, albums lie out of their sleeves and like a demented DJ with an audience of one, I’m showing absolutely no sign of waning. I’m just about to follow up the seven-inch single of ‘Seven Rooms of Gloom’ by the Four Tops in deliberately eclectic fashion with ‘50 Dresses’ by Animals That Swim, with an eye to following that up with ‘Everyday’ by Angie Stone and then perhaps ‘Sliver’ by Nirvana when my mobile rings. I think about ignoring it but it might be Izzy.

  ‘Is this Dave Harding?’

  It’s a teenage girl’s voice. But not Nicola’s.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘You don’t know me. My name’s Keisha. I’m a friend of Nicola’s.’