Seven
O f course I don’t expect him to just accept what I said and never say a word about it again. But I’m a little surprised to get a note under my door, at about half past eleven. I’m in my pyjamas, eating ice cream and watching the Star Wars movie he said he’s watched twelve times, while trying not to think about the mad thing I did. And it just skitters across my floor.
I pick it up with the spoon still in my mouth.
Unfold it, to find his gorgeous handwriting, picking up where we left off.
You can’t end of discussion something that preposterous , he has written, so I grab my own notepad, and I scribble my answer. Of course I can. And I’ll do it again if you keep arguing . Then I slip it back under the door to the place I know he’s still standing. I can hear him, nervously pacing. Probably wanting to do something that makes more sense than passing notes, like knock. Or even text.
Though I know why he didn’t do either.
It’s late. He didn’t want to disturb me.
Or at least, he doesn’t until he realizes I want to disturb him right back.
But I have to keep arguing. Because I really do not think you have thought through everything this would entail. I mean, we would have to stay in the same cabin together. Heck, we would have to sleep in the same bedroom. Maybe even in the same bed. You really think you can sleep in the same bed as me for two weeks? I get, a moment later. A little more hurried than the first note, but still beautiful-looking.
Even if it is a load of nonsense.
I don’t have to think that. Because that wouldn’t need to be a thing, I write back. Getting into this now, it feels like, in a way I can’t fully grasp. All I know is that I slide down the door and sit like that, before I push the note back.
And I think he’s doing the same on the other side.
We’re just silently speaking through writing now.
Like kids in a detention of their own design.
Explain to me how it wouldn’t, he sends to me.
So I send back: We can just say we’re in the same bed.
Then there’s a pause, before he finally gives me this:
And you think that will be easy to pull off when we’re staying in a cabin with two other people, one of whom is him?
I turn and look at the door at that. As if he can see my disbelief through it.
Then I scribble, furiously, Oh my god, you’re not serious. You can’t be serious. I don’t even know why you’d agree to that. Two weeks with him – he’s awful. He might actually be the worst person in the world. I couldn’t even stand him for thirty seconds, never mind that gigantic amount of time , I put, then shove it through to him.
But he’s not thrown off.
As if talking like this gives him more confidence.
And that is yet another reason we shouldn’t do this , he writes, in this very practical, reasonable sort of manner. Though of course he should know by now that practical and reasonable hold no water with me.
Not when sticking it to giant buttholes is on the line.
Oh, when that’s on the line, I can double down on anything.
Actually, it’s even more of a reason we should. Someone needs to save your cinnamon roll ass from evil, and apparently that someone is me. So start thinking of everything I need to know to convincingly be your wife , I write back, with several underlines and lots of exclamation marks.
Then I get this in response:
Well, first off, you need to be significantly less awesome than you just were.
And I want to enjoy it, I do. I doubt there’s anything finer than getting an A-plus and a smiley face from someone like him. I bet at least one of the students he accidentally taught is still chasing that high, all these years later.
But I can’t do the same. Because he’s wrong. What do you mean? That was not awesome. It was just standard decency , I write, so irritated now that I’m thinking of just speaking. Maybe even shouting. And then he writes this:
Well, whatever it was, it’s not going to help you endure a dull dork like me.
And okay, I have no choice now. ‘You are not a dull dork, Beck,’ I say out loud. Both my hands suddenly fists, pounding the air in front of me. Like a lawyer, trying to convince a jury that isn’t there.
But the jury is having none of it.
‘Tell that to my last date. And the four dates before that,’ he says back.
Casually, like it’s nothing. Even though it only infuriates me more.
‘Five separate women did not imply those things.’
‘You’re absolutely right, they did not imply it. They directly said it.’
‘All of them did? In those exact words? Where are you finding these people, a dating site called Going Directly to Hell Dot Com?’ I ask, then can’t even wait for the answer. I just think about them doing this and the same thing happens as when he said that thing about the billboard. Fury engulfs me, so white-hot that this time I can’t fight it. I blurt out inadvisable things, again . ‘You know what, how about you give me their numbers. I swear I just want to talk.’
Lucky for me, however, he does not take that as too much soppy caring about him. Instead, he tackles it with the earnest, practical gusto I’m starting to like way too much. ‘I would but I feel like by that, you mean murder. And then I’d end up having to bust you out of prison over it – even though I can guarantee you, my busting skills would not be up to the task. My cakes are too light to really conceal a tunnel-digging tool, for starters. Then there’s the fact that I am not a patient man when justice is on the line. I just could not wait twenty years for you to make a big hole behind a poster of Rita Hayworth. I would have to come in from the other side with a drill of some description. And even if somehow I managed all of that, and got you through the sewers and into my getaway car, well. We wouldn’t really be getting away so much as crawling along the highway at ten under the speed limit. Because I am the most cautious driver to ever live,’ he says, and I don’t know what’s better.
That he invents this whole narrative.
Or the way he sounds when he does. His voice is just so warm, and easy. It’s like listening to someone narrate over the top of a movie about some long-ago triumph over insurmountable odds. It’s like an audiobook about an old man, teaching heartwarming life lessons to a troubled youth. It’s so great and so soothing and kind of hilarious at the same time.
And it throws me, it throws me.
I can’t even say anything, until he registers that I’m not.
Then I scramble to offer a faint, weak: ‘You can’t be that bad.’
But somehow, he just kind of laughs.
‘One time I was pulled over for going around one of them roustabouts you’ve got here too many times. And by too many times I mean I failed to take the lane I needed to on thirty-seven occasions. According to the cop who finally forced me out of there, it was some kind of record for his area. And just in case you don’t believe me, I have a fun bit of evidence for you here,’ he says.
Then just as I go to doubt it, a square of newspaper slides under the door. And I’m so greedy to see whatever is on there that I don’t even think to ask why on earth he keeps it on himself at all times. I just look, and there it is. A picture of him, next to the headline: A MERICAN M AN S ETS R OUNDABOUT W ORLD R ECORD .
In it, he has both thumbs up.
So of course I can’t even stop myself covering my mouth with my hand.
‘Yeah, bet you’re really starting to regret making that offer now, huh,’ he says, though honestly I don’t know why. All it does is make him seem much too hard on himself, and then give away exactly what he’s doing here.
‘You keep saying what you obviously think will put me off doing this. Only somehow, it’s the kind of thing that just makes me want to do it even harder. I mean, I was mad before that he was being a jerk to you. But now that I know how much everyone is a jerk to you, and also that you put two thumbs up in a mugshot completely unironically, all my fury triggers have been pounded on too hard for me to take,’ I say.
Much to his frustration.
‘None of that is enough of a reason for you personally to do so much for me. I mean, what would you even get out of this arrangement?’
‘Aside from satisfaction that justice is being served. And some sense that I’ve made up for my epic blunder. And a feeling of relief that someone as kind as you isn’t going to be hurt by someone who’s literally trying to steal your job?’
‘He’s not literally trying to steal my job. He just jokes a lot about me not deserving it and what would happen if our boss found out I was lying about something this weird and oh no, I’m making it worse, aren’t I?’
‘If by worse you mean filling me with an even deeper outrage and determination to do this, then yes. Yes, you are.’ I sigh, and shake my head at nothing but my own empty flat. ‘I mean god, Beck, are you really trying to persuade me not to do this when you could actually lose your job over it?’
‘It’s unlikely that I really would. You can’t fire someone because they’re a weird liar. No matter how much you say you hate weird liars. And like the idea of your employees being perfectly normal family men.’
‘Oh god, your boss is one of those super conservative assholes?’
‘Kind of. A little. Not enough to panic me about any of this.’
‘Beck, I can hear the panic in your voice right now.’
He has the decency to go quiet over that.
Only for a second though. Then he’s right back on it.
‘Look, either way I don’t think you should have to do this without getting something for yourself out of it. Something just for you. Something I can help you with, the way you would be helping me,’ he says, so urgently I can feel myself starting to listen. Even though I have no idea what I could possibly ask for. I find myself looking over everything in my flat for inspiration.
And then it hits me.
I don’t have to come up with something I really want.
I just have to come up with something that will convince him.
‘Okay, so what if you just help me with the retreat. With things I might not understand, or that I could get wrong. Stuff I might make a fool of myself over,’ I say, and try to laugh as I do. But I don’t know, it comes out weird. Too vulnerable, too much like the truth. I have to backtrack a bit. ‘I mean, not that I really care so much. I just, you know. Want to have a nice, easy, fun time.’
Then I wait, with what feels like inexplicably bated breath, for his response.
I don’t know why, however. He isn’t the sort to leave anyone hanging.
‘Oh my gosh, darling. Of course I could do those things. Honestly, I would do them anyway, so—’
‘So that’s settled then,’ I finish for him, and he falls blessedly silent.
Or, at least, silent on that score. ‘So I guess all there is left for me to fret about is the fact that you hate the idea of having a husband,’ he says. And I know he means that I might be uncomfortable playing this role, and so doesn’t want to push me into it. I get it.
I just can’t really focus on that part.
‘I’ve never told you that.’
‘No, you didn’t. Mabel did.’
‘What the fuck did Mabel tell you that for?’
‘Oh, well, at the time of suggesting I move in across the hall from you, she thought I was single, not pretend married. So she said to me not to worry about anything getting awkward, because you weren’t interested in ever having the kind of relationship I would obviously want,’ he explains in a way that all makes sense.
Yet somehow, at the end of it, I don’t feel glad that Mabel told him that.
I feel annoyed. Don’t share things about me with people , I want to yell at her. Even though I’ve never wanted to yell that before. And this isn’t even a bad thing, for our situation. It helps me. Now I can better convince him this will all be fine. ‘Okay. Well. Even if that’s true, surely it’s a reason I’d be a perfect candidate to do this. You know my feelings are never going to be involved. I know yours are never going to be,’ I say, super calmly. And a silence follows.
Like I almost have him with that logic.
So I stand, and I start unlocking the door. Just to get him face-to-face, to drive this home. ‘We can be super businesslike about this. Just get in, get out,’ I say, once he’s there in front of me. All rumpled in his own pyjamas, face just trying not to be hopeful as I was hoping it would be.
Though he still takes a shot at shooting me down.
‘Except there would be no out. Because you would just be my fake wife.’
‘Not if we also worked toward fake divorce.’
‘But wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?’
‘The purpose is to prove that you didn’t make up a marriage. To solidify that, in a way that makes sense. Once that’s sorted, nothing else matters. We can slowly reveal we’re on the rocks, then sometime later you say your divorce is finalized. Job done,’ I explain, and I can see it’s working. In fact, there’s only one possible problem that I can think of. ‘Unless of course you’ve told everyone that our love for each other is undying and the sex is out of this world.’
Though I should know what the answer is going to be.
And I do know, the moment he briefly winces.
‘I have not told everybody that. In fact, I was so afraid of overembellishing that I somehow ended up describing our pretend love as comfortable and our pretend sex life as responsible and sedate,’ he says, and then it’s just me trying not to laugh.
‘Oh, Jesus. Is that why Mabel told me you have sex with your bow-tie on?’
‘Honestly that was real kind of her. I said fully clothed in complete silence.’
‘Dude. I don’t know whether to be horrified for you or relieved for our plan.’
He hesitates then. Before finally, finally: ‘So it’s our plan now.’
And I go to say yes.
But I don’t get to it. The word just sort of falls back down inside my throat when I realize he isn’t looking at me in that bemused, astonished sort of way anymore. He’s not half laughing along with me. He’s suddenly serious, in a way I’ve not seen before. Intense, to the point where it sort of changes his face.
Suddenly I can see that he has very thick, black eyebrows.
And his gaze is very heavy, and very dark, and much more assessing than it seemed before. Like he is searching me for an answer I don’t know how to give. Like he can see right down deep into me, and understand too much about whatever he finds. Which sounds weird and nuts.
But it’s there.
I think it makes me answer him more nervously than I intend.
‘I don’t know. What do you think?’ I ask, into the suddenly thick silence. This serious silence that is happening in a hallway with a man I hardly know. This could go very badly , I find myself worrying, just before he answers.
‘I think you need to be sure that you know what you’re getting into,’ he says.
Like he knows it could go badly for me, too.
Even though all he should really be thinking of is what this will do to him. I mean, he’s the one who is possibly getting humiliated here. He’s the one who might end up in a sticky situation. He’s the one we are trying to save here. What does he think is going to happen to me?
‘I think I’m getting into being your pretend wife. Hazel,’ I say, and I do it without thinking. I do it because I can’t be Connie. Connie will already be on the list of names signed up for this. I’ll have to be the wife he said would attend, if she could.
But I only realize, once the name is out and he’s nodding like it’s settled, that I didn’t really think about what was logical. I thought about the way he described it. I thought about him saying that who I really am sounds beautiful, and like rolling fields, and autumn frost.
And that’s why I chose it.