lampshade and growing old?’
‘Is that really so bad?’
He just doesn’t get it. ‘Yes! Yes, it is that bad! Can’t you see that it’s bad for us to be sitting around here like two pensioners with no surprises, no passion, no hope, just waiting to die? I mean, doesn’t that strike you as bad?’
For a moment it looks as if he’s going to cry, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. ‘Is that really the way you see our life together? Is that really what you think? That we’re like two old pensioners?’
I know I’m hurting him. But if we don’t speak honestly now, we never will. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I think.’
He sits, motionless, cradling his head in his hands. Silence stretches out before us, vast and insurmountable. Then suddenly, quite suddenly, he pulls himself onto his feet and I watch in horror as he crosses the floor and kneels in front of me.
‘I should have done this earlier, Louise. I’m so sorry, I’ve been very selfish.’ He’s looking up at me, his eyes two enormous pools. I feel sick.
He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a tiny, clear plastic bag.
‘Perhaps we haven’t been very passionate … I’m not very good at showing you how important you are to me. I’m sorry. I’d like to make it up to you.’ And he puts the little plastic bag into my lap.
There, floating amidst the emptiness, are three tiny coloured stones. It’s a surreal moment; I can’t quite figure out how we went from discussing our life together to this bizarre, make-shift proposal.
‘I got them from Hatton Garden. We can have them made into a ring.’
I should say something – act surprised or pleased, but instead I just stare at the packet, unable to form any cohesive thought other than shock and dismay.
‘Louise, I’m here … on my knees before you. I know we’ve been having difficulties. And …’ I have the uneasy feeling he’s rehearsed this; he’s looking down now, taking a pregnant pause. ‘And I want you to have this, to know that I love you, that I’m sorry.’
He looks up at me again.
It’s my cue. My head is pounding; say something nice, something conciliatory, it screams at me. But when I speak, my voice is cold and flat.
‘Exactly what do you want me to have? Some coloured stones in a bag?’
He blinks at me.
‘This isn’t a ring, is it?’
‘Yes, but … but it could be.’
‘But it isn’t. What kind of stones are these?’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know the names.’
And then I find myself doing something very unexpected; I hand the bag back to him. ‘Why don’t you get up,’ I say.
He stares at me in amazement. ‘Louise, please!’
‘Please what?’ I’m suddenly overwhelmingly angry. I want him off the floor. I don’t want to be a part of this charade anymore. It’s offensive. All of it; the stones, the speech. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I demand. ‘Why are you doing this now, after all this time?’
‘I … I’m doing it because I don’t want you to leave.’
‘Why?’ I persist. ‘What difference does it make whether I stay or go?’
He just kneels there, staring at me.
‘Be honest, you don’t really want me, do you? I mean, it’s not like you want to touch me, do you?’
‘I do want to touch you,’ he says, his eyes not meeting mine.
‘Then why don’t you?’
But he just shakes his head, over and over.
And I snap.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I shout, my voice so loud and shrill it doesn’t even sound like it’s coming from me. ‘Just tell me! Say it! Why?’
‘Because,’ he whispers, his hands trembling as they cover his face, ‘I cannot trust myself when you’re gone.’
My husband and I are having a ‘trial separation’.
Colin is looking for someone to rent his spare room. I tell him that person is me and he blinks in surprise and asks, wide-eyed, if there’s anything he can do. No, I say, there’s nothing to be done. And of that, I’m sure.
It’s been months now – months of conversations, arguments, silences, tears. We have ‘given it one more week’ again and again and again. It’s like trying to amputate a limb with a spoon.
We make it to the end of the month, to the end of another excruciating month, and then I move out.
It’s a Tuesday. My husband offers to help me pack my bags.
‘I’m not going on holiday,’ I tell him, repulsed and amazed that he can imagine us standing side by side, taking things off hangers and folding them into piles. He stares at me, numbly.
‘I’m leaving you,’ I explain, saying the words slowly and loudly, the way you speak to a deaf person. ‘This is me packing my bags and leaving you.’ But he just blinks.
‘I’ll pay for the cab,’ he says. He reaches for his wallet and examines the notes. I watch as he calculates in his head how much he can spare. He puts back the twenty for later. And I want to hit him, to cry, to tear through the fabric of our life together like it’s a badly painted backdrop and get to the point at last. He fumbles. Pulls out a tenner. And we’ve been here before; we’ve been right here, in this same, exact spot for a very long time.
I let him put the money on the table. I turn and walk into the bedroom and take down my suitcase, the one I brought to England when I thought I was going to be a famous actress, and start filling it with clothes.
My husband goes out for a walk and when he comes back I’m gone.
Colin lives with his flatmate Ria, a glassblower and gallery manager, in South London, beyond the urban chic of Brixton. Gone are the exclusive cafés and lunchtime concerts of Westminster, replaced by the gaudy splendour of the Streatham Mega Bowl and the late night Mecca Bingo parlour.
The cab driver helps me to unload my bags and haul them up the front steps. I ring the bell and the door opens to reveal Colin in his bathrobe, hair wet from the shower and Madonna blaring in the background.
I stare at the misshapen collection of bags, suddenly too overwhelming and unwieldy to move. ‘I’m sorry, Col. What am I doing? What have I done?’
He wraps an arm gently around my shoulders. ‘Come inside. Sit down. And I’ll make us a nice, hot cup of tea.’
