3
She’s wanted to be a mother for as long as I’ve known her, and every month it doesn’t happen is torture for her.
I know that.
Christ, what if she thinks that I don’t know that? That I didn’t answer the question because I wasn’t sure? Obviously I tried.
I opened my mouth.
I wanted to think of something fast and flippant to say.
But there weren’t any words, because why the fuck were they asking us about that? Since when did being in our mid-thirties without kids make us some sort of poster couple for child-free life? I wanted to ask the woman on the phone why she was sitting at home watching breakfast telly, calling in to ask questions about the lives of strangers.
But I couldn’t even get those words out fast enough, and they would probably have stymied our career, which is the one thing that would have made Jessica even angrier than she is right now.
So maybe it’s not such a bad thing that I went silent.
It’s the same thing that happens all the time lately, when she says something that hurts my feelings and I want to explain it but I can’t.
This screaming silence, where words become so slippery that I can’t force them out. Which meant that I left her there, on national television, to answer the worst question a person can ask her. I’d like to say some of this to her. But I know from previous experience that if I try to start a meaningful conversation in front of the cab driver, it’ll make her even angrier. Obviously this guy neither knows nor cares who we are, but sometime around hitting 100,000 followers, she seemed to implement this policy that disagreements needed to exclusively take place in private. And once we hit a million, it became ironclad. We used to cheerfully bicker on buses and call each other dicks at dinner parties. But not anymore. She wants us to act like members of the royal family, keeping everything on emotional lockdown until we’re away from the world, which means in a period of time where we’ve been deliberately thrust into the spotlight, there hasn’t been a moment to let any of it out. I want to say something right now, not wait hours until we’re home. But the only way to do that would be to break her number-one rule and raise it in front of a stranger. So instead I’m going to have to say nothing and compound the fact that I sat there and left her to flounder on TV.
The car windows are blacked out, and I’m struggling to work out whereabouts we are.
The studio is over in West London.
For some inexplicable reason, they all are.
The car is dropping us in Central London and what should have been a thirty-minute journey is taking forever.
Or the horrible purgatory between Jess and me is making it feel like hours.
Either way, we need to get a move on because we’re meeting with our management to discuss plans for the year ahead.
I never quite know how I feel about being the kind of person who has a ‘team’.
When we signed with CMA a few years ago, we’d both laughed and laughed at them.
The idea that we needed a team of people to manage our social media account was hilarious.
But, we agreed, we’d do it for a year.
Make as much money as we could, and then cash out.
We’d sworn blind that we would never say ‘my agent’ or ‘my manager’ out loud; it’s a promise that only one of us ended up keeping. And three years later there is absolutely no sign of us tapping out any time soon. We haven’t even finished the press for the first book and it’s time to talk about the next one. Happily, Jess and I have agreed that whatever we do next, we’re going to take a decent break first.
We arrive at the office, an open-plan one with lots of glass and a bike inexplicably hung on the reception wall.
Clay, our manager, an oleaginous fuck who unquestionably has regular Botox, greets us.
He’s got a sort of frenetic energy, like he’s perpetually on coke, but it’s probably just untreated ADHD.
‘My two favourite clients!’ Clay exclaims as we get through the revolving door. He holds his arms out to Jessica first and she hugs him.
‘I bet you say that to everyone.’ She smiles.
‘I absolutely do. But it’s true in your case.’
It bloody should be. We’ve made him eye-watering sums of money. He steers us through the lobby and up to the second floor, where we get a sort of hero’s welcome, if heroes were ever welcomed into meeting rooms. Jessica hugs and kisses everyone, remembering little details about people that make it seem like she actually cares. Or maybe she really does. I hang back, nodding and waving from a safe distance. Eventually, everyone makes a huge performance about sitting down.
Across the table from us, like an episode of The Apprentice , Clay is flanked by Maya, who is Clay’s number two. She is terrifying, which Jessica and I agree is probably a good thing. Next to her is Alec, the Head of Vision for the company, whatever that means.
‘So first things first, we want to say congratulations on your success. It’s a genuinely astonishing debut. Official numbers aren’t in yet, but from the preliminary figures the publisher sent over, it’s looking very strong, and as we’d all hoped, we can confirm that you’ll be on the Sunday Times bestseller list. Hopefully at number one. You should both be very proud.’
We both look at the desk because neither of us is sure what to say. Jessica is pink. I want to put my hand on her thigh and squeeze, because she’s done what most people only dream of. But the memory of her pushing my hand away in the taxi back from Leeds stops me.
‘The PR has been a huge success, and we know what a big ask it was to be constantly going from interview to event.’
We both make embarrassed noises to indicate that it’s fine.
‘How are you both feeling about the retreat?’
I’ve been trying not to think about it, but as part of the last push for PR for the book, we said that we’d take a group of readers – people who’d applied via a competition on our account – to some big house in the country and do a sort of marital bootcamp. The publishers are paying for it, and Jessica seemed into the idea, largely because (as she said, breathlessly excited), ‘If it works, maybe we could do more of them?’ I said yes because I always say yes to her, and then pretended that it wasn’t happening because it’s my personal idea of hell. But now the ‘it’s Sunday and I haven’t done my homework’ feeling erupts in my sternum.
‘Jack?’ Clay gets my attention.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking about the retreat. Lots to prepare.’
‘Really?’ Maya sounds surprised. ‘I thought the publisher had done most of the legwork? If you’re spending a lot of hours, we should invoice them for additional services.’
‘No, no.’ Jessica quickly jumps in. ‘They’ve done almost everything, we’re just tinkering with things. We’re very happy with how it’s going. Right, Jack?’
‘Right.’ I nod.
‘Lovely,’ says Clay. ‘And once you’ve done the retreat, publicity will be over and you’ll have a little break.’
This is almost as exciting as the bestseller-list thing. Time off. A break. Some headspace from the brand our marriage has become and some time to focus on us and what makes us happy. I can write. Maybe if they get really desperate, they might let me pick up a few days of freelance at my old job. I long to come home after a day away from Jessica and pour her a glass of wine while I download all the gossip from the office, just like we used to.
‘So it feels like the right time to start asking some questions. What’s next for brand Jack and Jessica?’
There’s a long pause. Alec looks at Maya and they seem to be taking a toss-up about who has to speak next.
Jessica is playing with her charm bracelet under the desk. From the chest upwards she looks serene, but I can tell she’s nervous. She always seems to think that this lot are going to drop us, that they’re going to tell us that we’re washed up and there’s no more road, despite the fact that she’s now their highest earning client and a social media genius.
‘Do you have any thoughts?’ Alec asks.
‘After the break?’ I ask.
Clay laughs. ‘Absolutely. But come on, we don’t want you out of the game for long. Momentum is a powerful thing.’
Before I can reply, Jessica does. ‘We’ve talked about it. We’d like to take a break and have a think. And then maybe a follow-up, more rules for marriage, based around us getting a bit older and having been together longer. A sort of “how to go the distance”?’
The fact that she’s remembered about the break is a relief. It was one of the stipulations for doing this, that as soon as the book was done and dusted, we would take a proper period of time off to think about what we wanted to do with our careers. Hers, and mine. Not ours.
Everyone nods in a way that makes it clear they think this is solidly mediocre. ‘That could work,’ Maya says, which even I know is code for ‘that’s a fucking terrible idea’.
‘And it’s only six months until I finish my MSc,’ Jessica says, ‘so then I’ll be able to dive a bit deeper into the psychological side of relationships. I’m excited to maybe move into a more science-based direction. The end goal is that I qualify as a therapist.’
Everyone nods with even less enthusiasm and now I’m starting to feel frustrated. I know they all think her MSc is a pointless vanity thing, and that she’s only doing it because occasionally someone will point out that we have no actual expertise in relationships other than being married. And yes, they might technically be right. But my God does she work hard on it. She’s never missed a lecture, nor been late for a deadline. She got on that course legitimately, not through the press office, despite what people suggest online, and she loves it. But apparently the idea of us doing something that might actually help people isn’t appealing to this lot, who just want to keep making money off the same old formula for success.
‘We talked about doing something a bit different,’ I say. ‘I liked the idea of essays on marriage, something a bit more reflective. Maybe an anthology with other writers. Maybe we could interview some experts and do something a bit more rounded? Or a series of profiles of long-term married couples for a newspaper?’ I allow myself a moment to imagine Jessica and I sitting down with Zadie Smith and Nick Laird, asking them gently probing questions about the intersection of their marriage and their careers. Being invited to stay for a literati dinner party afterwards.
There’s a very long silence and I realise that, by comparison, they were actually being really nice about Jessica’s ideas because no one can think of anything to say about my thoughts. There’s a long, very uncomfortable silence and then Maya clears her throat.
‘We watched your slot on Morning Chat this morning, and that actually really dovetails with what we wanted to talk about today.’ I think I know where this is going, and I very much hope that I’m wrong. ‘We’ve done the numbers, looked at your comments online, done market research, produced analysis across all the socials. And basically, everyone is asking the same question.’ She pauses, clearly hoping that we’re going to jump in and finish the sentence for her. ‘People are desperate to know: when is the J and J baby coming?’
‘The J-bee!’ Alec adds. He laughs at his own joke, but when the laughing stops, the room is painfully silent. There’s a rubbish truck on the street outside. I listen to it beeping while the three of them work out what they’re going to say. Jessica is doing an impression of impassive listening, switching her gaze from one person to another every few seconds.
‘But,’ Clay offers, ‘having a baby is not the only option. We could also go in a different, equally exciting, direction.’ He pushes an iPad across the table. It sits on the table between me and Jessica. It’s a mock-up of a book cover. Seven Rules for the Perfect Child-Free Marriage .
‘We’re not committed to the title,’ Alec throws in, ‘we’re still on the fence about childless versus child-free; it’s such a difficult definition.’
They all nod and makes noises of agreement about how difficult the definition is. I try to read Jessica’s expression in profile. I realise that I should say something. I left her to field the questions on the breakfast show and I can’t do that again. I need to say something which will make them back off, and I’m not giving them any details about what’s going on with us. I’m just not sure how—
‘That’s an interesting thought,’ Jessica says. Slow. Almost robotic. ‘So, to clarify, the strategy for our brand for the next twelve to eighteen months is that we should either have a baby, or announce that we’re not going to have a baby.’
She’s incredible at things like this. Her tone is so light, but there’s something commanding about it too. Maya looks a little shamefaced. Alec, who I’m increasingly convinced is only half human, takes over.
‘Pregnancy would be the next natural step for your brand, in terms of sponsored content and growing your following, and...’ Alec pauses. ‘Your demographic.’ He looks at me like I might not understand the word and my fists clench under the table.
Clay leans forward, silencing Alec with his body language. ‘I realise this all sounds a bit heavy, but the publishers are pressing us for next steps. It doesn’t matter whether you want to lean into the child-free life, or jump into parenthood. There’s going to be speculation online about your plans, so it’s cleaner and fairer to your following to just give a straight answer. I know you guys get it.’
How have these people created a world where it’s normal to ask a couple to decide whether they’re trying to have children or not, and then announce it publicly? This was supposed to be Jessica’s side hustle, her lockdown hobby, a distraction from not liking her job. But somehow we have dehumanised ourselves so much that the idea of us having kids or not wanting to have kids has become part of the ‘brand story’ or, worse, the business plan.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You’ve made your point. Jess and I will talk about it privately. Right, Jess?’
She nods. ‘Sure.’
I can’t wait for us to be alone so we can discuss what an insane fucking nightmare this whole meeting has been. It might even be awful enough to distract from the Morning Chat row.
‘Great,’ Clay says. ‘Now, I know you both wanted a break, so we’re going to propose you take two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’ I say weakly. The last time Jessica and I discussed this, we talked about taking a year out, maybe going travelling, definitely me doing some freelance work if not going back to work full-time. That was the whole deal, that I put everything I was doing on hiatus while we did one book; there’s no way in hell she’s going to sign off on a two-week break. ‘What? Jess?’
Jess pulls herself up in her seat. ‘Let’s talk about the break once we’ve decided about the next project. Shall we go over the potential new brand partnerships you emailed about last week?’
Eventually we step out into the street, blinking in the bright winter sunshine. She finds her sunglasses and looks around for a cab. I wrap my arms around her, and she doesn’t resist. Is that because we’re in public? Or because she wants to be held?
‘Well, that was fucking awful,’ I say.
She nods. ‘The book idea ...’
‘Yeah. And the fact that they won’t let us take a proper break.’
She’s looking at her phone, trying to summon an Uber. It would be quicker to get the Tube but this isn’t the moment to point that out. ‘I think they’ll go to six weeks instead of two,’ she says. ‘So maybe we could still go away for a bit? Get some space?’
I played rugby at school and so I know what it’s like to have someone smack their full body weight into you at speed. This feels like that. ‘Six weeks? I thought we said we’d do a year?’
She looks confused. ‘A year? Why would we take a year?’
‘When we were writing the book. We said we’d take a year, I’d freelance, or go back to work, or write my own book. And you’d do your degree, and relax for the first time in your life. We were going to go on a big trip?’
‘I mean, I don’t remember that, but surely we were talking about it like if we won the lottery. It was a fantasy, it’s not— You don’t actually want to take a year out? When things are going this well? You heard what Clay said about momentum—’ She stops because her phone buzzes. On the screen are the mock-ups of the book cover and an email: See if you prefer child-free or childless! Xoxo Alec.
She looks like she might be about to cry. The phone buzzes again, another interruption. ‘He’s arriving, the number plate ends in PC0,’ she says, in a very small voice. I open the door for her, and close it gently behind her. Then as I cross behind the car to get in the other side, I take a steadying breath. She’s not okay. I know she’s not okay. Those people in there have done the most painful thing they could possibly have done and she’s such a pro that she held it together the entire time. This is not the day to have the argument about what I really want.