Page 70 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

‘You’ll have to read it at some point, you might as well rip the plaster off,’ Grace says.

‘At some point, sure, but not yet. Please. You just read it and tell me what it says.’

‘Grow up.’ Grace sighs.

I hold her gaze.

‘Fine.’ She sighs again. ‘I’ll read it to you.’

Anyone who follows us will know that I fucked up this week. And what you’ve read – the things I said – were partially true. But they were also only part of the story. We did write a list of rules for our perfect marriage, and we wrote them by living our lives. And for a long time, they worked. But we got older, and life did things to us: we struggled with infertility, money, career turbulence – all the normal, horrible stuff that makes a life a life. I told someone last week that our rules weren’t working, and I was wrong to say that. They did work. They just aren’t working for us right now. The truth is, there are no set rules for a marriage because a marriage isn’t a set thing. It’s a living, breathing organism and you’ve got to keep changing to keep up with it. It doesn’t matter what your rules are, it matters that you’re both still trying to make them.

I haven’t been a great partner over the last few months. I broke Jess’s trust, I hid the fact that I was struggling, and I wasn’t there for her in moments when she needed me. And because of that, I damaged our marriage, and I damaged something she’d worked hard on: this community. She’s had her flaws, too. Neither of us has been perfect. But some people now claim that because she and I are having trouble, our rules don’t work. But those people are wrong. We know those rules work because they got us here, and they made us into a couple who want to keep trying to be happy together, whatever it takes.

There’s no one set of rules which will last forever, and now it’s time to make some new ones. And I’m very much hoping that Jess will make them with me.

Grace stops and looks at me. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think I need you to drive me somewhere.’

In films, when there’s a mad chase to the airport, the protagonist usually runs towards a waiting taxi, or speeds her sports car down the road. She doesn’t usually have to wait for her best friend to find two children each a pair of matching Zara trainers, and then strap them into their uber-safe rear-facing car seats. It takes nearly half an hour before we can slowly reverse out of the drive, with theMoanasoundtrack vibrating through Grace’s Chelsea tractor of a car.

‘Hurry up!’ I say. ‘I need to tell him I’ve seen it and I love him.’

‘You know that thing in your hand makes phone calls as well as posts photographs, right?’ Grace says, driving directly over a mini roundabout.

‘I don’t want to call him, I want to turn up on the doorstep. It’s romantic.’

Grace rolls her eyes, then indicates.

‘Nope,’ I say, reaching over and cancelling the indicator. ‘I need to make a stop before we go home.’

‘Where now?’ Grace asks.

‘WHSmith’s.’ She takes corners worryingly quickly. ‘I’d forgotten what a horrible driver you are,’ I say, gripping on to the handle and understanding why they shelled out for the £500 car seats.

‘You don’t even have a licence!’ Grace retorts, cutting someone else up and giving them the finger. My satnav takes us to the nearest branch of WHSmith’s, where I buy every single pack of biros that I can find while Grace waits outside, double-parked in the enormous four-by-four, ignoring anyone who beeps at her. Then I run back to the car, arms full of packs of ballpoints.

‘Now you can take me home, please,’ I say.

Jack has rung me twice – presumably he’s at home wondering whether I’ve seen his post and if I’m okay – but I’m tired of hiding behind my phone and want to talk to him in person.

Grace screeches to a halt outside our house, waves me good luck and then she’s gone because the kids have a spin class or something. I ring the doorbell despite the fact that I’ve got keys, and stand, waiting for him. He takes a while, and eventually when he comes to the door, he’s wearing pyjamas and the dressing gown he’s had since uni.

‘You came back,’ he says, a big smile appearing on his face.

‘I did.’

‘You saw what I wrote?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you think?’

I hold up my WHSmith’s bag. ‘I agree. I think we need some new rules. This time I brought a pen.’

Some hours later we are lying on the softly carpeted floor of our living room, surrounded by pens. I roll over and realise that one has been digging into my back. Jack laughs and takes out his phone. He takes a picture and shows me the perfect outline of a Bic in my skin. ‘You should post that,’ he laughs.

‘Nope,’ I say. ‘This one’s just for us.’

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