“Maybe if you let him try it, he’ll realise it’s not for him.”
“He’s so excited, though. He’s even got Niall designing the cover sleeve of their new CD. Reckons that’s guaranteed sales just for the artwork.”
“Niall Joseph?” I clarify. I nearly said “my Niall” but managed to stop myself in time. I need to be more careful.
“Yeah. They really hit it off that night we all went out.”
“I didn’t realise.” I don’t know how to feel about that. Part of me is excited there’s another connection between us, since I’m friends with Lara and he’s friends with Alex. I find myself wondering how I can invite myself over to their place more often. I’m also a bit jealous that they get to spend time with him, and they’re all having fun without me. It sounds childish and selfish, but I can’t help it.
“Why would you? It’s not as if we all run in the same circles. Although I sometimes think Niall is more suited to yours than mine. He is a successful artist, after all. Not a starving one like Alex is going to be.”
“You won’t starve. I won’t let you. I’ll hand you coupons for McDonald’s or something,” I tease. It coaxes a small smile from her, but not enough to plump up her cheeks or crinkle her eyes. “Seriously, Alex will get some redundancy pay, enough for you to get by while he sees if it all works out. Maybe you should agree a time limit on his attempts for stardom. A year or something.”
“That’s a good idea.” She stares off into the distance, as if she’s thinking it through. “Maybe we need to sit down and write it all out, like a calendar. If I know we can start trying in a year or so, I might be okay with that.”
“It’s not as if you have to worry about time running out yet. Plus it gives you some time to get as much drinking done as possible, because you’ll have to give all that up when the baby comes.” I’m teasing again. Lara’s not a heavy drinker. A shandy here, a Spritzer there. She’s mostly high on life.
“I’ll have to read fifty things to do before you have a baby.”
“Don’t joke, I bet somebody’s written it. Travel to the Taj Mahal, eat kangaroo dung, see if you can turn your husband into a rock star.”
She laughs and it sounds genuine. “Thank you.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “For letting me spout off and then cheering me up.”
“It’s a pleasure.” I return her smile.
If only my own problems were as easy to solve.
* * *
Two weeks later, it feels as though everything in my marriage is wrong. I measure my failure in bitter asides and pointed silences; in broken gazes and absences that taste like dust.
Simon’s still not talking to me—nothing more than pleasantries and the necessary exchange of information. “I’m going to be late tonight,” “Can you get me some more deodorant?” and “What’s the capital of Namibia?” were among the more notable interactions we’ve had this week. The latter was him trying to finish the Times crossword, something that seemed infinitely more preferable than having to spend time with me.
The longer it goes on, the worse I feel. It’s with that sense of shame that I call up a relationship clinic in St. John’s Wood and make an appointment for Simon and myself. When I mention it to him, he doesn’t refuse to come. That has to be a good thing. Maybe if we can actually talk things through, we can move on. There has to be a way we can compromise.
Yet, I find myself sitting in the pale green waiting room five minutes after our appointment is due to start, making stupid excuses for why he hasn’t turned up. Maybe he’s tied up with a client, or his taxi has broken down halfway across London. I play with a dozen different scenarios in my mind, all of them preferable to the one I’m trying my best to ignore.
He’s making a point.
I suppose I could call and leave messages on his answerphone, or send texts he never responds to. I could scream and shout and rail at him and let him know he’s hurt me all over again. But I don’t. Instead, I turn off my own phone and push it deep down in my handbag until it’s buried under half-ripped tissues and balled-up pieces of paper and Maltesers that’ve spilled out of a half-opened packet. Then I zip it up firmly and follow the receptionist’s directions to Louise Norton’s office, hoping I’ll find some sort of salvation there.
Louise is sitting on an easy chair when I walk into her room. She looks up at me with a welcoming smile on her red-painted lips. Her black, bobbed hair falls into her eyes and she smooths it away, standing up as I walk over to greet her.
“Beth? Please come and take a seat. Is Simon on his way?”
This is what a hundred pounds per hour gets you. A friendly face and somebody who has enough time to read your history before you walk into your appointment. I sit down in the soft, comfy chair opposite hers.
“I don’t think he’s coming. I’ve tried ringing him but there’s no answer.” It’s stupid, starting out by lying, yet it feels preferable to pitying stares. “I’m so sorry he’s not here.”
She tips her head to the side and looks at me. “Do you think he’ll get here soon?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” This is what gets me most of all. I’m all riled up and ready to talk. I’ve been fixating on this for days. It’s a kick in the gut. All the words I have stored up to say are floating around my mind, making me dizzy.
“Would you like to rearrange? I can ask the receptionist to make another appointment for you?” She’s still smiling, and it doesn’t look forced at all. I wonder at her ability to seem so open and approachable.
“Actually, can we talk, just you and me?”
For the first time Louise looks surprised. “I offer individual counselling as well as couples’ therapy, but I’m afraid I can’t mix the two. If you want to talk to me now, you’ll need to find another therapist to treat the two of you together.” She must notice the way my face falls, because she continues, “Sometimes that can work out for the best. Often I ask couples to go away to get individual therapy before they come back to me. And I can refer you to another relationship counsellor when you’re ready.”