Page 22 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

‘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 Italk 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 offthe 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 anapp. 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.

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