Page 24 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

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 Isay 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 havea 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.

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