by Nick Hornby
“I note that you didn’t say, ‘I’d never thump you like that.’”
“I know you. You’d say, ‘Yeah, okay. But what if you did thump me?’ You’d push the hypothetical. That’s what you do.”
“Of course,” says Tom. “But that doesn’t mean you can just cut out the preliminary bit.”
“That went without saying. I have never thumped you yet, and I never would.”
“Ditto.”
“There we are, then. Something to take in there and build on,” she says. “How are you feeling about this week?”
“Well. I’m pretty sure I’ll be there from the beginning.”
“As opposed to fifteen minutes from the end.”
“It took a lot of balls to turn up last week. And the later it got, the more balls it took.”
“So if you turn up at the start this week, that shows . . .”
“Even bigger balls than turning up fifteen minutes from the end.”
“Right,” says Louise. “So there’s basically nothing you can do that isn’t an extreme act of heroism on your part.”
“That’s more or less it.”
“You’re so ballsy it’s a wonder you can even walk. Must be like having two . . . antique globes down there.”
“That was a bit sarcastic.”
“Sarcasm’s not allowed anymore?”
“Not considering the circumstances,” Tom says.
“I can’t remember the last time we didn’t speak sarcastically to each other.”
“Last week. In here. When you apologized and so on. I rather enjoyed it.”
“So I’m not allowed to make jokes about your giant balls?”
“You were being sarcastic. About me not having giant balls. If I had giant balls and you were making jokes about them, well, fine. But you weren’t. You were suggesting the opposite, really.”
“Right. And I’m not allowed to, because I’m the one who’s responsible for us being here.”
“Exactly.”
“Gotcha. Do you want me to tell you you have giant balls? I mean, sincerely? Is that where this is coming from?”
“No! Who wants giant balls?”
He looks at her suspiciously.
“It’s not something you’re interested in, is it?” he says.
“God, no.”
“I wonder if anyone is.”
“There’s probably a website. There is for most things.”
They both sip their drinks.
“So what’s the agenda?” says Tom. “Not Lucy again.”
“We got to the end of Lucy.”
“I can’t believe you even started on her.”
“I was giving some context.”
“I understand the relevance of Lucy’s party. I just don’t understand why you got into a twenty-minute conversation about Lucy.”
“She wanted to know why you hadn’t come with me on the night I, you know. Met Matthew,” Louise says.
“I didn’t come because I don’t like Lucy.”
“Yes, but why don’t you?”
“Boring.”
“The woman who has trekked through the Andes on her own?”
“That’s the one. I never want to talk to anyone who’s trekked through the Andes on their own ever again. They never shut up about it. Put some photos on Instagram if you must, but . . . Move on, woman! It’s over!”
“Whereas someone who saw the Turds in 1989 is the most fascinating person who ever lived.”
“That’s the great thing about music. There isn’t much to say, apart from ‘I saw the Turds in 1989.’ That’s it. End of. Then you talk about someone else you saw back in the day.”
“Kenyon was wondering if you felt a bit threatened by . . .”
Tom rolls his eyes.
“Will you stop making that face?” Louise says. “Her name’s Kenyon. There’s no point in disapproving of it.”
“I don’t disapprove of it. I just don’t . . . believe it. It might be her surname, but I can’t see that it’s her first name.”
“She said it was. Kenyon Long.”
“That’s two surnames.”
“One of them’s her first name.”
“Well, I don’t think so.”
“You believe our marital counselor is lying to us about her name?”
“Who’s called Kenyon? I mean, really?”
“She is. I can’t see what advantage she’s seeking by making it up.”
Tom thinks about this for a moment.
“Maybe that’s her counseling identity. Mild-mannered Julie by day. Nosy, judgmental Kenyon by night.”
Louise sighs.
“Is there anything you want to talk about this week?”
“Not really.”
“So let’s move on to Matthew,” she says.
Tom makes a face.
Silence.
“Really? I’d rather not.”
“It’s just that last week, you were of the opinion that there was no lead-up. I had an affair, and we decided to have counseling.”
“Last week was last week. Counseling is an ongoing process. You discover things about yourself and the other person that you’ve never seen before.”
Louise snorts.
“You’ve only done fifteen minutes.”
“Perhaps all the more reason not to . . . leap in.”
“So no Matthew.”
“I don’t think so,” says Tom.
He doesn’t offer up any alternative conversational topic. They sit there for a moment.
“Right. In which case . . .”
Silence again. They both look around the pub a bit helplessly.
The fighting couple walk into the pub. The man is upset, the woman regretful. She ushers him toward a seat and looks at him anxiously while she’s waiting to be served. He starts to cry. Tom can’t see him, but Louise can. She suddenly becomes more animated.
“What?” says Tom.
“He’s crying.”
Tom, too, is excited by the distraction. He starts to turn around.
“No! He’ll see.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s buying him a drink.”
“I just want a running commentary from now on,” says Tom.
“We can’t talk about our session?”
“No.”
“She’s given him his drink . . .”
“Brandy?”
“No. Just beer. And . . . she’s not saying anything. She’s just sitting there while he weeps.”
“Oh, she’s awful.”
“It might be him. Supposing he’s murdered one of their kids with an ax, and the full horror of it has only just dawned on him?”
“And she punched him because of the murder? Or because of the dawning?”
“But you know what I mean,” Louise says. “Something like that, which would require counseling. The marital equivalent.”
“An affair, maybe.”
“An affair isn’t the marital equivalent of murdering your child.”
“Well, you would say that.”
“Please, can we forget about them and get back to us?”
“I’m reluctant. They make us look good.”
“We need to go, and we haven’t agreed on where to begin.”
She stands up, drains her drink, puts her coat on. Tom stays seated for a moment.
“We can’t talk about Matthew because that’s not the root cause. Not this week, anyway. Shall we talk about why we stopped making love?”
“Christ, no,” Tom says.
“So we’ve got to go further back than that? How far back?”
“Oh, we’ve got loads. Your work. My work. Dylan’s difficult spell. Your mum dying . . . Bloody hell. When you think a
bout it, it’s like Brexit. There are going to be two years of talks before we even agree on what the issues are.”
“Brexit is about divorce, though.”
“That’s the negative way of looking at it. What’s happening behind me?”
Louise looks over. The woman is talking softly, in one long, unbroken stream, while the man stares unhappily ahead.
“She’s talking to him.”
“He’s not speaking?”
“No.”
“Well. There goes your child-murdering theory.”
“Why?”
“Well, he didn’t do the murdering, anyway. She’s not saying, over and over again, ‘You murdered our child.’ No. She’s had an affair.”
“So why did she punch him?”
Tom thinks for a moment.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s as if we hardly know them. Can we go back to Brexit?”
“If we must.”
“It just is a divorce. I’m not being negative. Are you saying that’s where we’re headed? And will you stand up?”
He stands up, puts his jacket on, drains his glass.
“No. Of course not.”
“Just checking: That’s the last thing on your mind.”
“Honestly?” he says.
“Honestly.”
They walk toward the door.
“I don’t know how it can be. Not when we’re heading to see ‘Kenyon.’”
He says the name satirically again.
They walk out into the street and toward the crossing.
“Is it the last thing on your mind?” says Tom.
“Yes.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s one of the ways this might play out. And the thing about Brexit . . . Some people believe that there are opportunities at times of great change.”
“So you think you might be better off on your own?”
“God, no. I was talking about the country.”
They cross the road.
“So what are the opportunities for great change that you’re talking about?” Louise asks.
“Well. We won’t get bogged down in all that red tape. We can do our own trade deals.”
“I’m completely lost now. I don’t want to talk about the country anymore. I’m trying to understand why a marital Brexit might be a great opportunity for you.”
Tom shrugs. He’s being shifty.
“Who are you going to do trade deals with? As far as I know, you weren’t seeing any Italian or German women. I can’t see that you’ll have any more luck with the Chinese or the Americans. This is all rubbish.”
They have arrived at Kenyon’s front door.
“I’m just saying. It doesn’t have to be the catastrophe that The Guardian thinks it is.”
Louise stops dead and looks at him. He doesn’t meet her eye. Tom raises his hand to ring the bell.
“You voted for bloody bastard Brexit. DO NOT TOUCH THAT DOORBELL. That’s why you registered. Despite every single conversation we had.”
“And it took giant balls, let me tell you. Because everyone I knew was banging on about what a disaster it would be.”
“And that’s why you did it? Because everyone else you know was doing something different?”
“It was part of the appeal, yes. I have some complicated but defensible socioeconomic views, too.”
“Defend them.”
“I’m not going to defend them outside ‘Kenyon’s’ house a minute before marital therapy.”
Louise rolls her eyes at the inverted commas.
“Defend one of them. A small one.”
“Well, none of them are small. Believe me, I wish they were. But they’re big. Big views. Big ideas. But mostly I wanted to annoy your friends.”
“Oh, you’ve done that. They’ll never speak to you again,” Louise says.
“It’s not something I want gossiped about. Like I said. It’s a private matter.”
“How will you annoy my friends if I don’t tell them?”
“I was annoying them in the moment. While voting. I don’t want to rub their faces in it. The nation needs to move on. Heal.”
“Well, you can go and work in a care home for minimum wage. Replace all the East Europeans we’ve lost.”
“I’m prepared to do my bit. Although I’m useless if there’s any death involved. Or sickness. Or anything to do with the lavatory.”
“But why didn’t you just ask me . . .”
Tom rings the doorbell.
“Right,” says Louise. “We’re talking about Brexit. For the entire fifty minutes.”
“Fine. How did Matthew vote?”
“How do you think?”
There is the sound of a buzzer, and they push on the door.
week three
SYRIA
The pub is empty, apart from one man—the male half of the couple that goes in to see Kenyon before Tom and Louise. He is staring at the bar. His pint is untouched.
Tom walks into the pub, holding a newspaper. He goes up to the bar to buy himself a drink and sees the depressed man. Tom does a double take. The depressed man looks at him impassively. Tom nods a greeting. The girl behind the bar comes to serve Tom.
“A pint of London Pride, please. And a packet of dry-roasted.” Tom watches the other man while his pint is being poured. He’s desperate to say something. He opens his mouth and closes it again. He knows it wouldn’t be appropriate to speak. He speaks.
“How’s it going?”
The depressed man looks at him.
“Me?”
Tom is regretting his decision to ask.
“Sorry, I was just . . . It was more like a nod.”
“A nod?” says the man witheringly.
“You know how you nod at people if you happen to be in the same place at the same time? Like that. ‘How’s it going?’ That’s all it was.”
Tom nods exaggeratedly, and then tries again, with more modulation. The man looks at him as if he’s a half-wit. The barmaid is back with Tom’s pint and his nuts.
“Four pounds, please,” she says.
Tom decides to try again with some conversation.
“Just getting a quick one in before the missus turns up,” he says, and raises his eyebrows conspiratorially.
“What a brave lad,” says the man.
Tom is wounded. He takes his pint and his nuts and sits down at their usual table. Louise comes in, sees him, and sits down. There is no drink in front of her.
“A glass of dry white, please,” she says.
“Oh. Sorry. I forgot. I got flustered at the bar. Have you seen who’s sitting there?”
Louise looks over.
“Ah. The battered husband.”
Tom raises his eyebrows significantly.
“He’s walked out.”
“Gosh,” says Louise.
“I can’t buy you a drink, though.”
“Why not?”
“I tried to talk to him, and it didn’t go so well. I’m not going back up there.”
“What on earth did you try to talk to him about?”
“I wasn’t attempting a full-on conversation. I just nodded.”
“Why?”
“I feel like I know him. It’s an intimate thing, watching someone cry.”
“And get smacked in the face by your wife.”
“I nearly brought that up,” Tom says.
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“Because . . . Well, he suggested that I wasn’t being very manly.”
“You gave him an unmanly nod?”
“That’s the first conclusion you come to, isn’t it? Not that he was being unreasonable. Not that he was being a macho prick. Oh, no. It has to be my unmanly nod.”
&nbs
p; “But what else could it have been, if all you did was nod?”
“I tried a . . . I don’t know. A pleasantry. A nod with words.”
“So an unmanly pleasantry, then? What was it?”
“Just, you know. ‘Ooh, at last. A lovely pint.’”
“That seems quite manly.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Unless it was the ‘ooh.’ The ‘ooh’ could have sounded a bit, you know . . . effete.”
“It wasn’t an ‘ooh.’ It was more like . . .”
He gives a long, satisfied exhale, like a thirsty man being served a pint.
“No, that’s all right.”
“I thought so.”
“And anyway,” says Louise, “he’s the crybaby.”
“‘Crybaby’? That’s a bit harsh. You cried last week.”
“I cried about Brexit, not about the terrible state of our relationship.”
“Well. You didn’t cry about Brexit per se. You cried about me voting for Brexit. So in a way you were crying about the terrible state of our relationship.”
“The main reason I cried is because I work in the NHS and half my staff is European.”
“Remember Kenyon said we weren’t allowed to talk about it until we saw her today.”
“And I also cried because you weren’t honest about it.”
“It’s a private matter.”
“Privacy and lying are different.”
Tom makes a face suggesting this is a matter of debate.
“Anyway. Let’s stop,” he says. “Remember what Kenyon said. And I still think we’re better off than those two.”
“You can’t be comparative about relationships like that. You can’t look at a couple you don’t even know and say, you know, ‘Oh, at least we’re not like them.’”
“I do.”
“Your own happiness doesn’t come into it?”
“Nope. Entirely dependent on other people being unhappier.”
“You are absolutely not someone who jumps out of bed in the morning full of the joys of not living in Syria. You’re miserable as hell. You have never once thought that you’re better off than anyone.”
Tom glances out the window of the pub.
“Here she comes.”
The woman emerges from Kenyon’s door.
“She’s crying.”
They look at each other. Even Louise is pleased.
“She’s coming in here!” says Tom. “This is going to be good.”
