Rule Two 3
I could point out that she hasn’t been to my house since we moved in, but I don’t. I know the rules. She’s got kids. I don’t. So we do things on her terms. Which is probably reasonable – at least, I tell myself that it’s reasonable. But it’s also half the reason I’ve stopped making plans with her; I just can’t deal with hearing ‘it’s probably best we do things at my place, you’ve just got so much more flexibility’ over and over again.
‘All good,’ I say. ‘Before you came down, I was allowed to put five bricks into the new house he’s building.’
‘High honour indeed. Do you want a drink?’
It’s probably not a test. But whenever one of my friends offers me a cocktail or a glass of wine, I feel fairly sure that they’re really asking whether or not I’m pregnant. Not that many of them even know we’re trying – just our age, our lifestyle, all of our demographics add up to wanting children.
‘Yes, please,’ I say.
Tom comes back into the playroom with glasses of wine for me and Jack, who has been released from Ada’s Sylvanian hospital.
‘You two would make great parents,’ he says. Neither of us reply. I know we would, I want to scream. I fucking know we would. Sometimes I wonder if he might say these things to try to prompt a discussion, if he’s asking without asking. But surely no one that smart could be so stupid? If I wanted to tell them, I’d tell them. And I don’t. Grace would offer me advice, and supplements, and the names of doctors we could see – none of which she herself needed because she got pregnant with her perfect children the first months she tried, but she’d source them from her network of other barren women and then hand them over with a sympathetic grimace and I can’t do it.
There’s a long pre-bedtime routine starting with some French nursery rhymes, then Grace attempts to read them a lovely Victorian picture book while they both scream that they want the Frozen book, and eventually Grace takes both kids upstairs to bed. By Grace. Tom stays downstairs, holding court and laughing at his own jokes. I know I’m expected to follow Grace up and help her, but I just can’t face it, and surely if anyone should be giving her a hand, it’s her husband?
When Graces comes back there’s toothpaste on her jeans and she looks suddenly exhausted.
‘All okay?’ I ask.
‘Me? Oh yeah, of course. Brilliant. Great.’
She serves dinner in their dining room, a glass extension at the back of the huge Georgian house which absolutely could not be called a conservatory. They dub it a ‘garden room’ and while yes, it’s pretentious, it’s also so nice that it’s made me jealous again. The table is laid beautifully, with cut roses and pristine glassware. We chat about work (Tom’s is great, he’s ‘smashing’ his target and thinking about starting a podcast, because he thinks the world needs to hear some of his thoughts), the kids (they’re both in the top sets for every subject, but sadly their school just isn’t stretching them enough) and holidays (Barbados has been ruined, so apparently ‘everyone’ is stumping up for Mustique). We’ve exhausted pretty much every subject possible by the time Grace brings out a Baccarat plate laden with brownies and a bowl of fresh berries.
‘Very lazy pudding, I’m afraid,’ she apologises as she serves the perfectly cooked brownies. ‘Couldn’t face anything more complicated.’
Everyone has a cup of coffee and then a strange hush falls over the room.
‘So listen,’ Tom says into the silence. ‘Bit of an awkward one this, but we did actually ask you over here for a reason.’
‘We’re not sure we’re up for experimenting with swinging, but we’re very grateful to have been asked.’ Jack smiles. I laugh. Neither Tom nor Grace do. Instead they both adopt expressions of amusement despite clearly not thinking this was funny.
‘We’re getting divorced,’ Grace announces.
‘What?’ I inhale, almost dropping my tiny hand-painted coffee cup.
‘Tom and I. We’ve just filed for divorce.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Jack looks aghast. ‘How is that possible?’
Tom shrugs. ‘We’ve tried pretty hard, and we’re not making each other happy, so we think it’s best to call time. Before we make it worse and really hurt each other.’
‘We just think it’s easier this way,’ Grace explains. She looks bone-tired, now I look properly. Really, really tired.
I’m not saying that I can read Jack’s mind.
Obviously that’s not a real thing that people can do.
But we’ve been together since we were twenty-one, and at this point I can certainly read every tiny micro expression on his face, and I’m sure that right now he’s having the exact same thought process as me.
We’ve known these people since university.
We introduced them to each other, for God’s sake.
Grace was my best friend and club buddy, Tom was Jack’s library bestie.
We watched them flirt at our crass twenty-something attempts at dinner parties, pretended to be surprised when they admitted they were shagging.
We saw Grace mop up after Tom when he got ill from a bad oyster on our group holiday to Cornwall.
Tom queued with Grace for seven hours when she wanted to audition for The X Factor , and told Dermot that he thought she was the most talented woman in London (something we are absolutely forbidden from talking about now).
We were there as he agonised over the ring he designed for her.
We were the first people to visit them when they were cocooned in their new baby bubble when Raffy was born.
They have always been happy, and connected, and right for each other.
They hit every single note of how you’re supposed to build a life.
If Tom and Grace, the two most perfect people in the world, who loved each other more than anyone else we know, who sometimes made us feel a bit shit about our own relationship because they were so happy, can end up getting divorced, then holy fuck.
What hope is there for us?
It’s hard to think of a conversational gambit at this point. We can’t ask about anything they’ve got coming up, because presumably the answer is ‘divorce admin’. Grace doesn’t work, and Tom’s job is so boring that I’ve managed to avoid learning anything about it, so beyond asking about the weather, I’ve got nothing. I can’t even bring myself to gossip about our shared friends, because let’s face it, Tom and Grace getting a divorce kind of tops the rumour that Holly from our corridor in first year is on Ozempic.
‘Any big plans for you two?’ Grace asks pleasantly.
‘We’re hosting an event for the book,’ I say weakly. ‘A sort of retreat.’
Oh God. Obviously we can’t talk about this, it’s a relationship bootcamp, I have completely fucked this.
‘And we’re going to finally tackle the garden,’ Jack chimes in, his voice slightly higher than normal. This is an absolute lie, we’ve had no discussions at all about gardening.
‘Oh very good,’ Tom says. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘We might redo the lawn,’ I say, lying. The lawn is about three square meters of grass, I doubt you even could redo it.
‘We loved the people who did ours.’ Grace smiles. ‘I’ll give you their number.’
We finish pudding and make polite conversation until the clock hits 11.30 and I think it’s socially acceptable to leave, and then we make our excuses. I want to ask whether we can still see them, whether Jack keeps Tom and I keep Grace, or whether we take it in turns, or all hang out normally. I want to ask whether they tried hard enough, what the kids think, whether it could be salvaged or whether they just don’t want to try anymore. Obviously, I do none of these things, because I’m their friend not their child, and the fact that their news has sent shockwaves through me is not their responsibility.
Jack and I step out into the sharp cold of the street and I start walking, Grace’s words ricocheting around my head.
We just think it’s easier this way .
I thought we all agreed that this wasn’t supposed to be easy.
That marriage is hard work.
And the more I think that, as I walk on assuming Jack is following me, the more I wonder why we’re bothering.
Everyone says it’s hard – I say it’s hard, I repeat it over and over again.
But we never say when it stops being hard.
We never explain what the end point is, what it is we’re actually working for.
I think about the war poem we read at uni, the one which goes ‘the old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori ’ – it is good and right to die for your country – and I wonder if in peacetime this is the old lie we tell.
That it’s normal to be unhappy.
That marriage is working when it makes you sad.
But is that really true? Is marriage actually supposed to be hard work? I’ve been unhappier than I have been happy for the last what? Few months, maybe even six months? I can see how Jack rolls his eyes or winces when I talk earnestly about my work.
I can feel myself boring him when I talk about analytics and demographics, and I can feel myself getting angrier and angrier about it, holding him responsible for finding me boring.
I increasingly like myself least when I’m with him.
He used to look at me like I was every single one of his dreams come true, and for a long time his view of me was contagious.
He thought I was brilliant, so occasionally, especially when we were together, I felt like I could be brilliant.
But now he seems to think I’m some vapid social-media-obsessed bimbo.
And I know that I’m not a nurse, or a teacher, or any of the other jobs which actually make the world a better place.
But I am good at this, and there’s more to it than just taking pictures.
I love coming up with campaign ideas, and shooting content, and scripting videos.
It’s the kind of stuff I wanted to do, the stuff I might have been able to do if I hadn’t missed the boat because I was looking after Mum while all my mates were doing internships.
‘Are you okay?’ Jack asks me, when he catches me up.
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘You look a bit freaked out. You’re doing that thing with your jaw.’
I pull my scarf up around my chin, by reflex. He knows every single one of my tells. Just like I know his. ‘I can’t believe they’re breaking up.’
‘No. Me neither.’
‘They were the happiest people we know.’
‘Well. Apparently not.’
Without discussing it, we take the longer route home, walking in step, not talking until we arrive at our front door. I think maybe we both need the motion, to walk off the impact of this news, as if we can leave it outside in the night air rather than bring it back into our home with us. When we reach the house, we both go into the kitchen and I wordlessly pour us each a glass of wine. Then we sit at the kitchen island, staring at each other, trying to work out what to say.
‘Sometimes I worry. That we could be ... That that could be us,’ I say.
There’s a long pause, and then Jack looks up at me. ‘Me too.’
I didn’t want him to agree. I wanted him to tell me that there’s no monster under the bed, no such thing as ghosts. I wanted the moment when you wake up and realise the terrible thing was in your dream and the real world is okay. And he hasn’t given it to me. If I thought things were bad, his agreement makes them feel catastrophic.
‘I think we might be in trouble,’ I say slowly.
He’s studying the kitchen counter and there’s the faintest trace of a wobble to his bottom lip, which shouldn’t surprise me because he cries at everything – adverts, books, TV shows – all of it.
‘I think you might be right,’ he half whispers.
My reaction to his agreement is totally unreasonable. There’s an anger in me, coming from somewhere. I don’t want him to agree with me, I want him to stop letting me say these things. I want him to tell me that I’m brilliant and he’s brilliant, that we’re brilliant together and we’re going to be happy together for the rest of our lives. The alternative is too terrifying. And it’s more than that. I don’t just want us to stay together because we’ve got a book, or because I don’t understand which way you swipe on an app. It’s not that I don’t want to be alone – it’s that I want to be with him.
‘I don’t want that,’ I say weakly. ‘I don’t want that for us.’
‘Me neither.’
‘We’re supposed to be relationship experts. We should know how to fix this. We shouldn’t have let it get this bad, but we should definitely know how to make it better.’ I look up at him but his face is blank. ‘I don’t even really know what the problem is. Let alone how to fix it.’
I’ve been telling myself that once the book was published, everything would snap back into place, but I think by now I have to admit that it hasn’t. Maybe it isn’t going to. I swallow, determined not to cry. But how is this possible? Months ago we were the happiest couple I know, now we’re talking about our marriage like it’s terminal. I shake my head, as if I can flick away the reality that we’re sitting with, that we’re in trouble.
I stare at the kitchen counter. He stares at the floor. We sit in yet another long pause during which I will Jack to say something. But he doesn’t. I want someone who knows what to do, to descend and tell us that we’ve made one simple mistake and if we just make a little course correction, we’ll go back to laughing together and teasing each other and finding each other easy, blissful company. I want a monitor, a spirit guide, a specialist. I want to call someone, like I do when the dishwasher breaks or there is a leak in the roof; I want to hire the most expensive, best-reviewed professional to swoop in, diagnose the issue and solve it immediately. But of course I can’t do that. Because if an expert like that – someone you can parachute in to fix a broken relationship – exists, it’s us.
‘What are we going to do?’ I ask, as if he’s going to have some solution.
He gets up and takes a packet of crisps out of the cupboard, pulling out a handful and chewing meditatively. ‘Do you ever worry that the rules don’t work?’
‘What?’
‘The Seven Rules. I mean, you said yourself, we’re not doing so well, and we wrote the rules, so I guess I was just wondering—’
‘Are you kidding?’ This is surely not the time for Jack to get on his high horse about the account and the rules. We hold eye contact, neither of us willing to be the one to push this into an argument. We’ve never had a sensible discussion about the rules, because sometimes he laughs at them, sometimes he ignores them, and occasionally, when it suits him, he quotes them back at me.
I take a deep breath. ‘Some of the time, I get the impression that you think they’re a load of shit,’ I say. ‘And I think we’re enormous hypocrites, because I don’t think we take our own advice. Like, would you really say that you’re my greatest cheerleader?’
I’m expecting a furious response to this, but in fairness I don’t get one.
‘No,’ he admits. ‘Not all the time, anyway. I try to be, but I guess ...’ He pauses. ‘I struggle. Especially since it all got so big, so ... I don’t know. Public.’
I'm surprised by his frankness, and I rush to mirror it, wanting him to see that I’m trying too. ‘And I don’t think I’m exactly inviting you to make time for intimacy,’ I add. He’s not the kind of man to complain about a lack of sex, but we haven’t slept together since I was last ovulating a couple of weeks ago, and that was a perfunctory, half-hearted event. It couldn’t have been less intimate. Every hotel room on the press tour seemed to expect sex. It felt a bit like the walls were disappointed by our attempts at conception, comparing us to other couples who’d stayed there and had delicious, chandelier-swinging shags.
‘Look, I don’t know what the answer is.’ He reaches for my arm and I lean in to his touch. ‘But I get it. Something is off. And if we don’t fix it, we’re going to be in real trouble, and obviously I don’t like the idea of ending up divorced from you.’
‘You don’t?’ It’s not a great sign that hearing him say he doesn’t want to divorce me feels like a triumph, but it’s nice. Reassuring. Like when you take a bite of food and realise that you were starving hungry, I didn’t know that I needed to hear it until he said it.
‘No. Of course I don’t.’ He looks shocked at the question, which is unreasonable because – well – because he’s made me feel recently like he’d love it if I weren’t around. On my more dramatic days, I think that if I got hit by a bus he’d be sad and everything, but that then he’d really relish the mourning period where he didn’t have to go anywhere or see anyone. No bitch wife nagging him to put on one of the outfits our stylist pulled or begging him to pose for pictures. But how the hell do you square the circle if doing the stuff which keeps a roof over your heads is making your partner like you less?
‘I know I’ve been a bit ... distracted. With the book. And the baby stuff.’ My voice is pathetically small. ‘But I don’t want to end up divorced from you either,’ I tell him, when I realise he’s looking at me and waiting for me to say something.
‘Course not. It’d be bad for the brand.’ He laughs.
If he thinks this is funny then he’s the only person who does. I get to my feet. ‘Maybe one of the things we need to work on while we’re doing this “bootcamp” is occasionally having conversations which don’t end with you being massively snide towards me?’
‘I was making a joke,’ he protests.
‘It wasn’t funny.’
‘You very rarely think my jokes are.’
‘Because they’re always at my expense!’
There’s a long silence. I get my Stanley cup, fill it with ice and screw the lid on. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We can work on things tomorrow.’
I know he means this nicely – genuinely I do. But his words hurt. I don’t want to ‘work’ on our marriage. I don’t want our marriage to need work, at least not in the sense that other people’s seem to. It never did before. I only started writing about us because we were so naturally good. Maybe we tempted fate. I want the light, happy, casual joy that we had in each other for the first twelve years of our relationship. I just want it without the constant worries about money or the misery of working a job I loathed.