But like the toad-speckles of mouldy damp in the far corner of the bathroom, it was going to be a lot of upheaval to fix, and we never quite got round to it.
Though we’d waited long enough, I’d never really doubted we would formalise things. While Rhys still had the untamed hair and wore the eternal student uniform of grubby band t-shirts, distressed denim and All Stars, underneath it all, I knew he wanted the piece of paper before the kids. We called both sets of parents when we got home, ostensibly to share our joy, maybe also so we couldn’t go back on it when we’d sobered up. Not moonlight and sonatas but, as Rhys would say, life isn’t.
Now I picture this day, supposedly the happiest day of our lives, full of compromises and swallowed irritation and Rhys being clubby and standoffish with his band mates, the way he was when I first met him, when being in his gang had been all my undeveloped heart muscle desired.
‘For how long is the band going to be the third person in this relationship? Are you going to be out at rehearsals when I’m home with a screaming baby?’
Rhys pulls the wine glass from his lips.
‘Where’s that come from? What, I’ve got to be a different person, give up something I love, to be good enough for you?’
‘I didn’t say that. I just don’t think you playing should be getting in the way of us spending time together on our wedding day.’
‘Ha. We’ll have a lifetime together afterwards.’
He says this as if it’s a sentence in Strangeways, with shower bumming, six a.m. exercise drills in the yard and smuggling coded messages to people on the outside. Won’t. Let. Me. Come. To. Pub …
I take a deep breath, and feel a hard, heavy weight beneath my ribcage, a pain that I could try to dissolve with wine. It has worked in the past.
‘I’m not sure this wedding is a good idea.’
It’s out. The nagging thought has bubbled up right through from subconscious to conscious and has continued onwards, leaving my mouth. I’m surprised I don’t want to take it back.
Rhys shrugs.
‘I said to do a flit abroad. You wanted to do it here.’
‘No, I mean I don’t think getting married at the moment is a good idea.’
‘Well, it’s going to look pretty fucking weird if we call it off.’
‘That’s not a good enough reason to go through with it.’
Give me a reason. Maybe I’m the one sending desperate messages in code. I realise that I’ve come to an understanding, woken up, and Rhys isn’t hearing the urgency. I’ve said the sort of thing we don’t say. Refusal to listen isn’t enough of a response.
He gives an extravagant sigh, one full of unarticulated exhaustion at the terrible trials of living with me.
‘Whatever. You’ve been spoiling for a fight ever since you got home.’
‘No I haven’t!’
‘And now you’re going to sulk to try to force me into agreeing to some DJ who’ll play rubbish for you and your divvy friends when you’re pissed. Fine. Book it, do it all your way, I can’t be bothered to argue.’
‘Divvy?’
Rhys takes a slug of wine, stands up.
‘I’m going to get on with dinner, then.’
‘Don’t you think the fact we can’t agree on this might be telling us something?’
He sits again, heavily.
‘Oh, Jesus, Rachel, don’t try to turn this into a drama, it’s been a long week. I haven’t got the energy for a tantrum.’
I’m tired, too, but not from five days of work. I’m tired of the effort of pretending. We’re about to spend thousands of pounds on the pretence, in front of all of the people who know us best, and the prospect’s making me horribly queasy.
The thing is, Rhys’s incomprehension is reasonable. His behaviour is business as usual. This is business as usual. It’s something in me that’s snapped. A piece of my machinery has finally worn out, the way a reliable appliance can keep running and running and then, one day, it doesn’t.
‘It’s not a good idea for us to get married, full stop,’ I say. ‘Because I’m not sure it’s even a good idea for us to be together. We’re not happy.’
Rhys looks slightly stunned. Then his face closes, a mask of defiance again.
‘You’re not happy?’
‘No, I’m not happy. Are you?’
Rhys squeezes his eyes shut, sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.
‘Not at this exact moment, funnily enough.’
‘In general?’ I persist.
‘What is happy, for the purposes of this argument? Prancing through meadows in a stoned haze and see-through blouse, picking daisies? Then no, I’m not. I love you and I thought you loved me enough to make an effort. But obviously not.’
‘There is a middle ground between stoner daisies and constant bickering.’
‘Grow up, Rachel.’
Rhys’s stock reaction to any of my doubts has always been this: a gruff ‘grow up’, ‘get over it’. Everyone else knows this is simply what relationships are and you have unrealistic expectations. I used to like his certainty. Now I’m not so sure.
‘It’s not enough,’ I say.
‘What are you saying? You want to move out?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Neither do I, after all this time. It’s been quite an acceleration, from nought to splitting up in a few minutes. I’ve practically got hamster cheeks from the g-force. This could be why it’s taken us so long to get round to tying the knot. We knew it’d bring certain fuzzy things into sharper focus.
‘I’ll start looking for places to rent tomorrow.’
‘Is this all it’s worth, after thirteen years?’ he asks. ‘You won’t do what I want for the wedding – see ya, bye?’
‘It’s not really the wedding.’
‘Funny how these problems hit you now, when you’re not getting your own way. Don’t recall this … introspection when I was buying the ring.’
He has a point. Have I manufactured this row to give me a reason? Are my reasons good enough? I weaken. Perhaps I’m going to wake up tomorrow and think this was all a mistake. Perhaps this dark, apocalyptic mood of terrible clarity will clear up like the rain that’s still pelting down outside. Maybe we could go out for lunch tomorrow, scribble down the
