Page 50 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

‘You do talk to someone, though, right?’ She opens drawers, whispering the word ‘scissors’ as she looks for them.

‘Uh,’ I reply. ‘No. No, not really. I’ve tried therapy a few times but it’s not really for me.’

‘I don’t mean a therapist, I mean like a friend or something.’

‘Still no, honestly. Most of my mates have kids so they’re nigh on impossible to get hold of, and then when we do go out, they’re always talking about how great my life must be because I’m child-free and assuming I don’t have any problems, even though the child-free thing is actually kind of part of the problem, so I don’t want to bring them down, and Jessica doesn’t want them to know that we’re trying to get pregnant. It’s always supposed to be a secret, so she’s privately obsessed and publicly we have to just act like the question of kids has never occurred to us. I used to have some work mates I talked to, but then of course I got canned from my job because I was doing this book and it was bringing “the wrong kind of attention”, and Jessica thought that was some brilliant triumph, like she wanted everyone to know our book was doing well enough that we didn’t need to have other jobs, but fuck me, I miss it. I miss it so much. I wake up in the morning and I’m just totally lost, I don’t know what to do with myself. Every time I tried to help with writing the book, it was like anything I suggested was stupid, and then the publishers had all these plans and they just spoke to Jessica like I wasn’t there. It all sounds so stupidly futile, complaining about not being allowed to work, having all this free time and freedom – you must hear this and think I’m such a prick, and I probably am; God knows I am to Jessica most of the time, you know? I’m really shit to her, I’m pretty much always in a bad mood and she doesn’t understand why. I just miss uswhen we were younger. I know she hated us being broke, but we were happier, we really were.’

I once tried to drink the top shelf of the bar at a pub in Oxford, after I’d eaten some sushi from the discount bit of the petrol station. It’s never been clear which of them caused the great hurling incident of 2009, but whatever the cause, that was very much like this, only then it was actual vomit and right now it’s word vomit. Streams and streams of it, everything I haven’t said to anyone for the last couple of months, just spewed over the pristine walls and floor of this designer kitchen.

Verity has stopped doing anything to do with baking. The cake mix, yellow and wet, sits in the bottom of the pan, half full, and drips on the marble counter. She looks at me like she’s genuinely very sad for what she’s just heard. ‘Have you said any of this to Jessica?’ she asks.

‘No,’ I reply. ‘Not really. Bits of it, sometimes, maybe. But not properly. I think I keep waiting for her to realise, like it’ll mean more if she decides to rescue me when she notices it herself. But she never does. Sometimes I worry that maybe she has, and she thinks that it isn’t important.’

I feel like a teacher who’s invited a student into their office and then started crying about their divorce. I’m supposed to be helping Verity, not putting all my misery on her plate. But saying all of this to her, despite being wildly inappropriate, has helped clarify that I need to pull myself together and talk to Jessica. I want her to be happy, but she’s not going to be happy if our marriage falls apart, and if we keep on like we’ve been for the last few months, it’s going to. Her happiness is important, but – and this isvery hard to admit as a British man who wants to repress every feeling before he’s even felt it – mine is too.

‘She should have noticed,’ Verity says, putting her hand on mine. ‘That’s her job. She’s your wife.’

‘I think maybe that’s part of the problem,’ I say sadly. Probably self-pityingly. ‘It’s literally her job, being my wife.’ I feel tears pricking behind my eyes, and I try to blink quickly enough that they’re gone before they escape, but I’m not fast enough and they run down my face. I brush them away with the sleeve of my jumper. Why am I doing this? Why am I talking to a semi-stranger about this intensely private stuff? But then, Verity’s the first person who’s asked me. I think maybe I would have told anyone who asked. And there’s something reassuring about the fact that this will leave with Verity. I’ll never see her again. It’s like the Catholic kind of confession, speaking into a void and taking the catharsis from saying it all. ‘Jesus. What are we going to do with ourselves?’

‘Well, I’m going to get divorced,’ Verity says calmly.

‘What?’

‘Yes. I did some sums, and I know how much money I need. It’ll take me a while because basically none of my work pays. But once I’ve got it, I’m going to take the boys and we’re going to leave Noah.’

‘Are you sure? That’s a big decision to come to.’ Jesus. Is this our fault? Have we accidentally inspired her to make some huge life-changing decision? And is there anything in place to make sure we can help her if we have? I briefly think about quiet, stoic Noah finding out that he’s not going to live in the same house as her anymore, and abouttheir kids being shuttled between them, and the thought comes with a surprisingly sharp pain.

‘Yes.’

‘He doesn’t seem ...’

‘Horrible?’

‘I, uh. Well. No.’ I cringe.

‘He isn’t. He’s not much of anything, really.’

There’s a long, heavy pause and yet again I feel completely unequipped to deal with the situation I find myself in. The person who would know what to do with all of this is Jessica. Because it’s always Jessica. Which must, I realise, be a bit draining for her. When something in the house breaks, she knows where the manual and the warranty are, or finds the right number to call and get it fixed. When we’re double-booked, she massages the diary. She organises our holidays, arranges our social life, makes sure that the fridge is full and the house is clean. Even if she doesn’t really go in for cooking anymore, she makes sure that there are snacks and meals and plans and routines and everything around us is safe and functional. I used to do things for her, for us. Back in the day I’d go to the supermarket on the way home on Tuesday, when fresh flowers went on yellow-sticker discount. I’d come home with a battered bunch of tulips and she’d perk them up in some water, do something clever with taking off the leaves, and they’d look great. And then, after the account took off, some flower company offered her a free weekly subscription. She was elated that the flat was suddenly filled with all these expensive, beautiful flowers all the time. It seemed a bit stupid to buy her the supermarket flowers after that. So one of the little things that I did to make her happy got retired, andI didn’t replace it with anything else because pathetically, I felt hurt. And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want a row. All the same lazy excuses I’ve been making, and that I need to stop making.

I glance up at the clock on the kitchen wall and realise, with relief, that selfish time is almost over. It’s almost time to go home. ‘I should get going,’ I say to Verity. ‘Thanks for this. It really helped.’

Jessica

After selfish time we have a last lunch of fancy salads and talk about the last rule, ‘always leave the party together’. There’s no official activity for this one, because they’re all kind of leaving a party together, but we’ve got cars to drive them all home to their front doors, so that they can properly leave together. The idea being that they’ll chat about their time here, have a bit of a gossip about the other guests – whatever they want, really – and focus on being a unit rather than running for a train or having a row over the satnav. But before we can go home, it’s just the final photoshoot.

The stylist has outdone herself in terms of wardrobe. I’ve always been nervous about asking to borrow things or letting brands send me freebies, so when Clay said they’d send someone to style the shoot, I was massively relieved. Plus, if I’m really honest, I don’t hate playing dress-up in expensive clothes. There’s a hanging rail in our bedroom, filled with the most beautiful dresses, tops and trousers I’ve ever seen. I pull a silk blouse off a hanger and hold it up against me.

‘What do you think?’ I ask Jack. ‘I love it. But if I wear this, I’ll have to wear the trousers.’ I gesture to a pair of cream cashmere trousers with a wide leg. Then I think better of it. Cream trousers probably aren’t a great idea, because about an hour ago I went to the bathroom and, with the same familiar, disappointing, miserable feeling it always brings, I saw a faint trace of pale pink blood. Sometimes I like to allow myself a fantasy, to pretend that it’s just an implantation bleed, that I am actually pregnant, because sometimes bleeding can actually indicate a pregnancy; you’re not out until it’s a full-flow period. But today I didn’t have enough energy for the pretence. I just shoved in a tampon. I didn’t even have it in me to cry this time. Maybe this is how it goes. You just stop letting yourself feel all those huge feelings, resign yourself to the fact that it’s not happening, you’re not having it, it’s not for you, and get over it. Sometimes I read articles from women who never had the family they wanted and I wonder if maybe they used up all their allotted pain for that specific issue, and that’s how they found their peace.

‘Are you going to get dressed?’ I ask Jack, who is sprawled out on the bed, reading. There’s an entire row of beautiful men’s clothes. Merino wool jumpers, buttery soft jeans, suits if he wants to look formal. I asked them to include some tweedy, corduroy options so he didn’t feel like he was being made over, and maybe something 1950s vintage, in case he wants to channel any of his literary heroes. But he still doesn’t look interested at all. ‘Please?’ I say, trying to get his attention. He’s miles away.

‘Sure,’ he says, getting up. He pulls the closest garments off the rack and puts them on without looking at them.He looks great, he always looks great, and these are thousands of pounds of designer clothes so they make him look even more handsome. But I wish he could find the fun in it like I do.

‘Okay,’ I say, ‘I’m going down to hair and make-up.’

‘Okay,’ he replies.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, waiting in the doorway.

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