Rule Three 100 honesty, 100 of the time
Jack
For once we’ve been allowed to drive ourselves to a work event. Jessica pulls her duvet coat around her against the chilly morning air, wincing slightly at her hand on the frozen door handle, and then clambers into the passenger seat. I feel a prick of irritation because leaving at 6 a.m. was my idea, but it was supposed to appease her. I get ratty when I drive in London traffic, and at 6 a.m. there’s very little. In my mind, that’s a perfect problem-solving solution, but apparently not.
‘It smells like damp in here,’ Jessica says, as she takes a picture of her blindingly white trainers in the footwell and types so, so, so excited, on our way to the first ever Seven Rules residential, cannot wait to meet the couples we’re working with . She does not look so, so, so excited. In fact, the first thing she said to me this morning was, ‘It’s so early I hate everything and everyone.’
‘I’m sorry, the Ferrari is in the garage.’
‘I’m not saying we need a Ferrari, I’m just saying we could probably get something a bit less battered now we’re less broke.’
‘It smells damp because we hardly use it.’
‘Exactly, so time for a change.’
We inherited the car from her dad, years ago, when his second wife developed a burning desire for something smarter than the little Peugeot, and it was an absolute godsend. We were too hard-up to go on proper holidays, but we’d usually be able to stump for petrol, so when our mates were in Mexico or tagging along on a family villa holiday in Tuscany, we’d take a week off work, and then every day we’d drive out into the countryside until we saw something which looked pretty. My parents had given us a National Trust membership as a surprisingly un-shit Christmas present so we could sit in parks and gape at castles and then eat our Aldi picnics in the gardens. Jessica always liked the paintings and the interiors; she’d tell me that she was taking notes for when we had our own estate. I always liked the driving, the way she trusted me entirely with something so banal but so responsible, nipping across lanes and putting my foot down so London was behind us, the way she never let a song finish before she put another one on, and sometimes after a long day, she’d fall asleep with her cheek pressed against the glass.
I could tell her how much I miss that. Instead, I inexplicably say: ‘The solution to having a car which smells of damp from underuse is not to buy a newer and more expensive car – which we will also barely use – which will then, eventually, also end up smelling of damp.’
She breathes a ‘whatever’ and sets about trying to connect her phone to the Bluetooth which plugs into the cigarette lighter. I had actually thought earlier that the guests at the bootcamp might be a bit surprised by our shit car, but if I say it now, it’ll sound like I’m agreeing that we need a new one, and while we are making a decent whack, I do sometimes feel a stirring of anxiety about how cheerfully Jessica takes on new expenses. Times are good right now, but even so, the last thing I want is yet another direct debit winging its way out of our account on the first of the month.
‘Seatbelt on,’ I say, as I do mine up.
‘I was just about to,’ she snaps. She doesn’t move to put the seatbelt on. I pull away from the kerb and turn in the direction of the North Circular. The dashboard makes a beeping noise.
‘It’s going to do that until you put your seatbelt on,’ I say.
‘Do what?’
‘Make that beeping noise.’
‘What beeping noise?’
I pause to make sure I’m not talking over it. ‘That?’ It’s a very audible noise.
She’s half smiling now. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Has anyone ever told you that you can be quite annoying?’
‘I’m actually quite worried that you’re hearing imaginary noises.’ She tries to suppress a giggle.
‘I realise you’re trying to be funny but that noise is actually making me want to drive into the central reservation,’ I retort.
‘I was just messing around,’ she says, the smile gone. ‘Sorry.’ She puts her seatbelt on. The beeping stops and I briefly wish I’d been nicer about it. I change lanes and feel a sting of irritation when I notice her checking either side to make sure I’ve looked first. She doesn’t even have a driving licence – since when did she have views about my driving?
‘Are you listening to any podcasts at the moment?’ she asks, after about half an hour of silence. I almost laugh at the formality of the question.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘Not really.’
‘Oh.’
There’s another long pause. ‘Are you?’ I counter.
‘No,’ she says. ‘I haven’t been able to get into any lately.’
I put the radio on and for about an hour it’s a welcome distraction, filling the silence. But then we get into an area without much signal and it starts crackling and whining. She turns it off. Neither of us says anything. More grass now, fewer roads. Still over two hours until we get there.
We pass Cambridge. ‘Look.’ I point. ‘Cambridge.’
‘Cambridge,’ she repeats. ‘We could stop and see your parents quickly?’
‘Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe on the way home.’
‘Yeah. Maybe on the way home.’
Somewhere past Northampton I hear her sigh. ‘I know,’ I say.
‘I hate this,’ she admits.
‘Me too,’ I agree.
‘It’s never been like this. Even when we’ve been fighting, we’ve never had to work to find things to say to each other. We’ve never been indifferent before.’
I know I’ve been thinking the same thing but hearing her say it really stings. She’s indifferent to me. That’s worse than her hating me. Indifference is pretty much the worst thing she could be feeling about me.
‘I still love you,’ I say eventually, looking straight ahead and grateful for an excuse to do this without sitting face to face.
‘I still love you. It’s just been harder lately, with the publicity and the book and all the pressure. And everyone goes through rough patches, we all know marriage is hard—’
Jessica and I used to laugh at people who said marriage was ‘hard’, on their socials, like they were accidentally telling tales on themselves. ‘It shouldn’t be hard,’ we used to say to each other smugly as we lay in bed all weekend, shagging, reading, drinking red wine and talking nonsense. ‘It’s not hard for us.’ Maybe we tempted fate. Or maybe it comes to all couples eventually. Either way, we’re not smugly laughing anymore.
‘We’re fine,’ Jessica repeats, more determinedly.
‘Are we?’ I look at her in profile and she looks back at me.
‘Aren’t we?’ she asks.
‘We thought Tom and Grace were fine,’ I say, my hands tight on the steering wheel, in the ten and two position I was taught years ago and have always been too boring to deviate from. ‘They thought they were fine. Actually, scrap that, everyone thought they were perfect. And now they’re putting his stuff in boxes and she’s probably downloading the apps.’ It still doesn’t seem possible.
‘They really did seem so happy.’
‘Yeah. But then I guess people would say that about us, right?’
‘Are you saying you think we’re going to split up?’ she asks me.
Occasionally when I’m reading I wrinkle my nose at the lack of imagination in how people describe shock. It’s always a twist of the gut or a punch to the chest. But maybe people describe it like that over and over again because it’s the only really accurate way to put it. I do feel, as she says the words ‘split up’, like I’ve been hit in the middle of my body by something very, very heavy.
‘No,’ I say eventually, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I’m saying I’m worried about us. I think we’re running on empty – we’ve spent too much time together but no actual quality time. We’ve been living in hotels, all we’ve talked about is work; it’s honestly no wonder that we’re snapping at each other constantly. But I don’t think we can keep shoving it under the carpet and just go on saying that marriage is hard without asking each other why it’s hard.’
She nods. ‘I think you’re right.’
At least we’re on the same page, I suppose. The same horrible, miserable page, a page I literally never thought I would find us on. But in harmony here, if nowhere else.
‘I mean, we are on our way to a marital bootcamp,’ Jessica offers.
‘Yeah, but for other people, not for us,’ I reply.
‘What if we change that?’
I’m genuinely shocked. ‘You want to take part in a marriage bootcamp?’
‘Why not? We’ve put together this incredible programme, we clearly need some help, surely we should take advantage?’ She’s sat up in the passenger seat now, looking at me expectantly.
The whole time Jessica was planning the retreat, she kept saying what an amazing project it was, that maybe we could run these things ourselves when she’s qualified. But we were very clear from the outset that we were there in the background. We’d offer an hour session to each couple if they wanted to ask any questions about the book, but otherwise the experts would lead the workshops and we'd be a nice bit of colour at mealtimes. There had been absolutely no suggestion that we would take part in anything, aside from standing around the sides making encouraging noises. I’m not sure I can think of anything I’d like to do less than join in and bare my soul and our problems in front of everyone. But it’s a shockingly agile suggestion from Jessica, the woman who won’t bicker with me in the back of an Uber lest it ends up live-streamed on the internet.
‘You’d really be willing to do that?’
‘I would. Would you?’
‘I’d give my right arm to make things right with you,’ I tell her, entirely honestly.
‘Great,’ she says. ‘I’ll email Suze. Project Bootcamp is a go.’
When we pull up at the house, I have to take a moment to really look at it. It’s a huge, beautiful former farmhouse. Natural stone with huge wood-framed windows, it’s pure Countryside. Not really Jessica’s taste, which skews more urban, but suitably escapist that it’s the perfect setting for this kind of weekend. Jess unlocks the door with a key code rather than an actual key and pushes her way inside. It’s incredibly warm and predictably luxurious, with pale-painted wood, thick carpets and wood burners. Not the kind of place I’d ever want to live – I’m a dull suburban boy at heart and the idea of not being able to pop out for a pint of milk terrifies me – but it’s the kind of place I’m delighted to be staying, and hopefully the kind of place which will make these people feel it was worth giving up their time to come here.
‘Suze? Are you here?’ Jessica calls out as she walks down the long corridor.
Suze appears from nowhere, carrying a thousand files and looking a bit frazzled. She’s followed by a very beautiful twenty-something man, and an equally terrifying twenty-something woman, both wearing trendy all-black outfits.
‘Hi, hi,’ she says, in a posh breathy tone. We all do hugs and then she realises that we’re staring at the haunted twins next to her. ‘Oh, this is Will and this is Cait, they’re from our events team.’
‘Will and Cait!’ I point out, amused.
‘... Yes?’ replies Cait.
‘It’s like Prince William. And Kate Middleton,’ Jessica points out. They both look very confused.
‘We’re not them,’ says Cait eventually.
Jess and I exchange glances. ‘No,’ she agrees. ‘You’re not.’
‘They’re an absolute crack team,’ Suze say, skating over my embarrassing joke. ‘They’ll keep the weekend running but you’ll barely know they’re here.’
Will and Cait carry on, clearly on a mission, but Suze hangs back conspiratorially. ‘Listen. Saw your email. Are you absolutely sure you want to join in?’ Suze asks, looking confused by our suggestion.
‘Yes,’ Jess tells her. ‘We were talking about it in the car and we want to do it properly. Like we’re one of the couples in the group.’
‘Yep, sure, totally, and that’s brilliant, but obviously the more private information you share with these guests, the less we can control what they post after the event ...’
‘Sure, I hear that.’ Jess smiles brightly. ‘But we think it’s for the best. Instead of us just hovering around, we can actually get involved. Way more authentic. Don’t you think?’
Suze looks deeply sceptical.
‘It’ll be fine,’ I say emphatically. ‘We know what we’re doing.’
Suze shrugs. ‘Okay. If you’re really sure.’
Jess catches my eye and gives me a nod so small it’s almost invisible. ‘We are,’ we say in unison.
‘I thought the Will and Kate thing was funny,’ she says to me, as we tramp up the stairs to our room.