Page 46 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

He laughs again, and I take this as an invitation to sit on the far end of his sofa. ‘Have you always played?’

‘Sue and I used to go to the working men’s club every Saturday night when the kids were young. Left ’em with the grandparents, or on their own once they were a bit bigger and happy with a video. She was a demon at poker.’

‘Sounds like a very happy time.’

‘It was.’ He pauses. ‘That’s why you stick with it, when it’s hard. She’s the only one who remembers all of it, like I do. When I’m with her, I’m right back there again, with all our friends and our kids. Best years of my life.’

‘That’s lovely,’ I say, really meaning it. ‘You’re very lucky.’

‘Aye,’ he says. ‘D’you know how to use the remote? There’s darts on the other channel.’

Between us we make the monstrously complicated television work and we put the darts on. He gives a satisfied sigh as it starts.

‘You and that husband of yours have been a marvel this weekend. Shouldn’t you be doing something you actually enjoy?’ he says, after a few minutes.

I look up at the ceiling. ‘I can’t think of anything to do,’ I admit.

‘You sound like me, when I retired.’ He smiles.

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. I’ve been driving Sue bananas, walking around the house. I’d been to work every day for nearly fifty years, I’d not thought of a thing to do when I stopped.’

‘I don’t know what I’d do,’ I admit, drawing my knees up to my chest. ‘I used to say that we’d take a break when the book published. But I never thought about what we’d do. To be honest –’ I don’t know why I’m saying this – ‘I assumed by then we’d be having a baby.’

Ken looks at me, straight on, for the first time since I came into the telly room. ‘You two having trouble?’

I nod, and swallow at the same time, because if I try and form any words I’ll start sobbing and I’ve already embarrassed myself enough doing that last night.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Ken says. ‘I really am.’

There’s a long pause, and I get enough control of myself to say, ‘Thank you.’

‘It’ll come right,’ he says, looking at the television again. ‘One way or another. It always does.’

I have a horrible feeling that when he says ‘one way or another’ he means that there’s a world in which Jack and I aren’t together anymore.

I’d be lying if I said I’d never thought about it. If in our worst moments, I hadn’t wondered what it would be like to share a home with someone who actively loved my work, or to spend the night with someone I haven’t known since I was twenty-one. On the handful of occasions I’ve allowed myself to think about it, I’ve imagined one of those grown-up, sensible splits where everyone is mature, but you just go from sharing a bed to never seeing each other again. It’s not like we’ve got children. Nothing binding us together if we decided we didn’t want to be married anymore. And within seconds of giving it any proper consideration, I know that I absolutely cannot let that happen. It would break my heart.

Jack

My laptop is upstairs in our bedroom and I can hear it calling to me. It feels like ages since I’ve had a proper stretch of time to write. I’ve been hearing people talking about the sacrifices that they make for their partners this weekend, a lot of which make me look like a spoiled brat by comparison. And I think I could do with reframing this. Yes, I’ve been unhappy with some of the changes to our lives since the account snowballed. But we’ve built it to such a level, we’ve written a book together (ish) and we’re done now. When we get home, I can reasonably tell Jessica, properly – not by sulking and seeming sad and hoping she’ll work it out – that I want the break that we agreed to. Something substantial. And if she’s not upset, and I don’t handle it horribly like I did last time, we could talk about me doing my book, signing with Edward Nestor and finally working on the thing I’ve been trying to write since I was twenty-two. Or go back to the BBC, cap in hand. But either way, I want to do something I’m proud of, something that is mine.

I make my way towards the stairs and I’m almost halfway up when I hear the doorbell go. Who the hell is that going to be? I pause, hoping someone else will go. But the house is eerily silent, everyone absorbed in their own personal time.

I open the door and to my complete horror, standing there, looking like he teleported from Soho, is Clay.

‘Hello,’ I say, trying to summon enthusiasm. ‘What are you doing here?’

He walks into the house without waiting to be invited, and while I know I don’t own the place, I still find it rather objectionable.

‘Where’s your lovely wife?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You might want to go and find her. I’ve got news.’

Jessica

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