His 'n' Hers (27 page)

My phone beeps. I take it out of my jacket pocket and look at it. Apparently I’ve missed four calls and have several messages.

Message 1: ‘Jim, it’s me.’ Long exaggerated sigh and pause for breath. ‘Look, I know that we’ve both said a lot of terrible things to each other since . . . well, since we split up . . . but now the flat’s being sold and we’re talking to solicitors and I just feel like – like we should give our relationship one last shot. I think a relationship counsellor could really work for us—’

Message 2: ‘Jim, it’s me, Alison, again.’ Long exaggerated sigh and pause for breath. ‘I think I got cut off.’ Pause. ‘I can’t even remember where I’d got to now.’ Long pause. ‘Oh, right, yeah, the counsellor. The fact is, Jim, we need help. I know you’ve given up on us but I haven’t.’ Pause. ‘Look, whether you come or not I’m going to see her the week after next. She’s one of the authors I look after at work. She did that self-help book I brought home once,
How to Make Love Flourish
. Anyway, her name’s Caroline Roberts, and she’s in Crouch End just off the Broadway. I’ll pay for all the sessions. Please come at least once, okay? All you need to do is turn up. How easy is that? All you’ve got to do is turn—’

Message 3: ‘This is getting ridiculous.’ Long exaggerated sigh and pause for breath. ‘Why don’t they sort these things out so that they work?’ Another long exaggerated sigh and pause for breath. ‘I’m not on a quiz show, and on the telephone I will not be hurried by anyone.’ Even longer exaggerated sigh and pause for breath. ‘This – in case you were wondering – is Alison again. I really think we need to sort out things between us and I can’t do that on my own. Surely we can’t throw away what we had without—’

Message 4: ‘This machine is pathetic! It’s me. You know what I want by now. Look, please call me and let me know ASAP.’

Even drunk I know better than to call her. It’s best to leave well alone. I can’t understand why she’s going on about relationship counsellors. It is possibly the worst thing she could’ve said to me. The idea of involving a third party to sort out what was wrong with us makes me shudder. I can’t begin to think how excruciatingly painful it would be. I can’t even read the problem page at the back of the
Mail on Sunday’s You
magazine without wincing at people’s distinct lack of shame.

Today we are selling the flat. Through our solicitors Alison and I have agreed that we should both turn up at the offices of Fitzsimmons and Barclay in Highgate to sign the agreements. We didn’t have to do this face to face. In fact, my solicitor tried to talk me out of it, saying it would cause me a great deal of emotional stress. I didn’t listen to her, of course. I think a degree of emotional distress is the least my relationship with Alison deserves. Otherwise it would be too clean. Too clinical. I want to say goodbye to this relationship. I want a full stop. And this is going to be it. I don’t know whether Alison feels the same. I assume she does because she agreed to it.

Fitzsimmons and Barclay is everything I expect of a solicitor’s office. There’s a receptionist, some fake potted palms and a waiting area where my ex-wife and her solicitor are now seated. Alison’s wearing a black shirt, dark blue jeans, and heeled black boots. She’s had her hair cut and is wearing a new shade of lipstick. I, on the other hand, look a little scruffy. I’ve taken the day off work because when I woke up this morning I realised I wasn’t far from losing the will to live. I’m wearing a T-shirt bearing the legend Northern Soul that I bought in a shop in Covent Garden because I’d seen a musician wearing one in a magazine, a pin-striped jacket, a pair of beige bootleg cords, a pair of red Converse All-stars. The look is deliberate. I don’t want to look like a nearly thirty-year-old accountant with a failed long-term relationship. I want to look like a cool, hip and happening single man with the world at his feet.

‘Hi,’ says Alison, standing up to look at me directly. ‘How are you?’

I give her a short smile. ‘Good.’

‘You didn’t return my calls.’

‘Things have been really hectic.’

‘It doesn’t matter anyhow. I cancelled the appointment. But I think I might reschedule it and go on my own.’

My gut instinct is to ask her why she wants to see a relationship counsellor on her own. But I don’t ask because the answer will involve my non-compliance. Instead I introduce a new topic, one that might be less likely to result in an argument. ‘How’s the cat?’

‘Her name’s Disco.’

‘Okay, how’s Disco?’

‘She’s good.’

‘Great,’ I reply. ‘Give her a cat treat from me.’

Alison’s solicitor stands up as mine walks into the reception area. There’s lots of polite smiles and shaking of hands, then we walk along a short corridor into an office. My solicitor says something in legalese, then Alison’s says something else in legalese and, in the meantime, Alison and I attempt to look as if we know what they’re talking about.

Eventually the time comes when we have to sign the necessary papers. Alison signs first and doesn’t look at me. I don’t know what I expected from her but it was certainly more than that. Now it’s my turn. Three contracts and a green fountain pen with black ink. Helpfully they’ve put some of those sticky red tabs on the places where we’re supposed to sign. The red tabs make me feel like I’m too stupid to know what’s going on. I feel like a six-year-old who has been practising his handwriting. I look at Alison’s signature. It seems so much neater than mine. I put the pen to the paper and my heart begins to race. As my name unfurls from the nib it gets faster and faster. I’m half expecting Alison to let out a gasp or faint or do something equally dramatic. But she doesn’t do anything at all.

One down. Two to go.

I look at the complete signature. Mine and Alison’s side by side. My stomach now joins the party and keeps flipping over. I can’t help but think that something will happen in the next sixty seconds to stop this going through. Because I know that once I’ve signed my name another two times there will be one less thing tying the two of us together. It’ll be the start of us becoming two separate people again. I’ll go back to being Jim. She’ll go back to being Alison.

I sign the second paper.

Two down. One to go.

Finally I sign the third paper.

And there’s nothing left to sign.

Because it’s nearly over now. Soon, Alison ‘n’ Jim will cease to exist.

‘I’ve never done anything like this before,’ I say, as we stand outside the vet’s. ‘What are we supposed to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Alison. ‘When I was a kid we had a mongrel, Clara, who died, but I was only eleven at the time. I think my mum must have sorted everything out.’

‘What are the options?’

‘I think we can either take her with us and bury her somewhere or the vet can deal with it.’

‘Do you think we should bury her?’

Alison shrugs. ‘I don’t know. What do you want?’

‘I don’t know. She wasn’t much of an outdoors kind of cat, really, was she?’

Alison gives me a smile and opens the surgery door. I follow behind her as she goes up to the counter and speaks to a nurse.

‘Do you want to take . . .’ the nurse pauses to look at a form on the desk in front of her ‘. . . Disco home with you?’

Alison looks at me.

‘I’m not sure I can face seeing her as she is,’ I tell Alison.

‘Me either.’

‘I think we’ll let you take care of . . .’ She doesn’t finish the sentence. ‘I know this is going to sound stupid but do you mind bringing out the box that she’s in so that we can say goodbye?’

The nurse nods and disappears behind a door. She emerges moments later carrying a Walkers’ crisps box and places it on the counter. Alison begins to cry and pats the box gently and I just stare at it. That stupid crisps box. And I’m almost in tears too.

That’s our goodbye.