His 'n' Hers Page 16

  ‘What are you doing?’ she says. ‘Are you mad? You are, aren’t you? What was all that stuff about being in a band?’

  ‘Do you know who she is?’

  ‘I’m guessing she’s more than just “a friend from university”.’

  ‘She was several months of torture and heartache.’

  ‘Even so, you’re not a millionaire rock star, you’re an accountant. All she has to do is look up the band on the Internet and she’ll know you’re lying.’

  ‘She won’t do that. Trust me. She wants to believe it.’

  ‘Believe what?’

  ‘That some guy from her university days who used to worship her is now in a famous band. She’ll dine out on this story for years.’

  And with that we get up and make a swift exit.

  Sunday, 11 January 1998

  3.56 p.m.

  Alison and I are at our kitchen table taking a long, hard look at our financial situation to work out whether we’ll be able to get a mortgage. Which is why I’m currently surrounded by credit-card receipts, store-card statements, bank statements and a million other bits of paper. Things on my side are fine. Things on Alison’s side, however, aren’t quite so good. Job-wise it is going well for her: she’s had two pay rises since she’s been at Cooper and Lawton but her money-management skills have let her down. Her financial situation is dire.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ I say, reaching for the remains of a packet of mini-doughnuts we’d bought on a supermarket expedition yesterday.

  ‘What?’ asks Alison.

  ‘How much debt you’re in,’ I say, taking one of the five sugar-coated doughnuts that are left. I drop it into my mouth and in three chews it has disappeared, leaving me free to moan at Alison. ‘I mean, I always knew you were awful with money but not to this extent.’

  ‘It’s not lots of debt,’ says Alison defensively. ‘It’s just a regular amount.’

  ‘Alison, you’re thousands of pounds in debt.’

  ‘I know.’

  I eye the doughnuts again, take another one and almost inhale it. ‘According to your statements, you consistently go several hundred pounds overdrawn five days before pay day.’

  ‘It’s when my half of the rent goes out.’

  ‘You’re up to your limit on three of your four credit cards and paying a huge amount of interest every month. When was the last time you tried to pay off any of what you owe?’

  There’s a long silence, which I use to have another two doughnuts one after the other.

  ‘Oh, Alison,’ I say despairingly, once I’ve finished chewing, ‘tell me the answer isn’t never.’

  ‘I thought that was why you had credit cards – to put credit on them.’

  ‘But you’re also up to your limit on two store cards.’

  ‘They offer it to you in the shop while you’re standing at the till. How unfair is that? It makes you feel like you’re getting it for free.’

  ‘But that’s not the end of the story. You’ve still got your student loan to pay off . . . and as if that’s not enough, you’ve got a four thousand pound bank loan.’

  ‘But that was for a car. A car’s essential.’

  ‘Alison, you haven’t even got a car!’

  ‘I know, I had the money sitting in my account for weeks and gradually it just sort of disappeared.’

  ‘The fact is, Alison, whichever way we look at this, you’re skint.’

  ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’ she says wincing. ‘I’ve been meaning to sort it out for ages. Has it ruined everything? Is it bad?’

  ‘Well, it’s not looking very good.’

  ‘But we can still get a mortgage, can’t we?’

  ‘They’ll take all of this debt into consideration when we ask for the money, which will mean they might offer us less.’

  Alison puts her head into her hands and I take the opportunity to sneak one last doughnut. ‘They’ll give us next to nothing and we’ll end up living in some really rough part of London where the police don’t go without guns and armoured trucks, and the flat we buy will have a crack den on one side and a brothel on the other and it will all be because I bought a couple of pairs of shoes in Selfridges.’ She sighs heavily. ‘Don’t let me near a shop again, will you? If you see me get my cheque book out for anything other than a bill, shoot me.’

  I can’t help feeling sorry for her. ‘We’ll be fine,’ I tell her. ‘All it means is that we’re going to have to tighten our belts a little and I’m going to use my savings for the deposit.’

  ‘But that’s the money you got after your dad died—’

  ‘No buts,’ I interrupt. ‘I’m doing it and that’s final. One way or another we’re going to get a home of our own.’

  Alison smiles weakly at me and then I smile weakly at her and then we both look at the empty packet of doughnuts. I suddenly feel guilty. Alison didn’t get to eat a single one of them even though it had been she who had put them in our shopping basket. By all rights she should be having a go at me for this. But she doesn’t of course because you can’t really have a go at someone for eating a whole pack of mini-doughnuts when they’ve just done what I’ve just done. It wouldn’t seem right. But it wouldn’t have been all that wrong either.

  Friday, 6 February 1998

  8.07 p.m.

  We’re on the Piccadilly Line just coming back from our first viewing. It was a second-floor flat in a house conversion on Green Lanes. I fell in love with it just looking at the estate agent’s details. We both agreed it had potential. But the second we stepped out of Manor House tube station I knew Jim would hate the area because he saw an old man urinating against a lamp-post.

  It has been difficult getting started on the house-hunting because we’ve got quite a limited budget even with the benefit of Jim’s savings. The other problem is deciding whereabouts in London we want to live. I don’t mind but Jim won’t go anywhere except North London so with that decision made we’ve concentrated our search. We’ve agreed always to look at the places together and we’ve also agreed that we both have the right of veto. We’ve even come up with a system: I go round to as many estate agents as I can, making the appointments, while Jim concentrates on the money side and approaches mortgage-brokers and banks for the best deal. It feels like we’re a real team.

  ‘I still think we’re casting our net too wide,’ says Jim. ‘I think we need to concentrate our search on proper North London.’

  ‘What do you mean by “proper North London”?’

  He thinks for a moment. ‘Anything on or near the Northern Line and in zones one to four.’

  ‘Are you making this up?’ I say incredulously. ‘I’ve never known you to be so picky about anything like this before.’

  ‘I’m not picky. I’m just being careful.’

  I get out the mini-map of central London from the back of my Filofax and read out places on or near the Northern Line. Jim rejects Camden as ‘too touristy and overpriced’, Kentish Town as ‘not too touristy but definitely overpriced’, Primrose Hill as ‘so overpriced it makes your eyes water’, Tufnell Park as ‘too grim for words’. Archway as ‘too desperate’, Highgate as ‘ideal, but too expensive’, Muswell Hill as ‘absolutely perfect’, Crouch End as ‘several million light years from the nearest tube’; and finally East Finchley as ‘Okay, but it’s not Muswell Hill, really, is it?’

  ‘So basically,’ I say, folding away the map, ‘you’re saying it’s Muswell Hill ideally, Highgate if we win the lottery in the next few weeks and East Finchley at a push.’

  Jim laughs. ‘It sounds picky but you know it makes sense.’

  Saturday, 14 February 1998

  8.34 a.m.

  I’m just thinking about getting up when I hear the post being delivered. I look across at Jim who is fast asleep, quietly slip out of bed and sneak out to the front door to get the mail. Today is Valentine’s Day and although I know it’s wrong I’m still curious to see whether I’ll get a card from Damon this year or whether he’s finally decide
d to move on. As soon as I get to the door I can see a mediumsized cream envelope resting on top of a pile of bills. I open it immediately. Inside is a crisp white card with the word ‘Love’ embossed in small gold letters. Inside it reads: ‘Hope this finds you happy. Thinking of you, D.’

  Tuesday, 17 February 1998

  4 p.m.

  I’m sitting at work looking through a heap of property details that came in the post this morning from a half-dozen different estate agents. So far I’ve managed to persuade Jim to look at a couple of places in East Finchley because they were considerably cheaper than Muswell Hill, but he always manages to find something wrong with them, a leaky roof, mad neighbours, noisy roads – you name it, he’ll find it. He persuades me to look at a flat in Highgate that’s on the very edge of what we can’t afford, a tiny purpose-built one-bedroom flat in a horrible sixties block, and I hate it. As a compromise, a few days later, we look at some properties in the bit of North London that pretends to be Highgate even though it’s just a posher version of Archway. We see some okay flats but Jim hates them all. We look at a few places in Muswell Hill. They’re still pricy but I can tell from Jim’s face that this is really where he wants to be.

  Saturday, 7 March 1998

  12.47 p.m.

  We’ve just seen a garden flat off the Broadway. It belongs to an Australian couple. They’ve done it up really well but they’re going back to Australia and tell us that they need a quick sale. They’re leaving carpets, curtains and even the cooker, and they want to sell us other stuff really cheaply. I think it’s perfect. Like the answer to a prayer. I feel, deep in the pit of my stomach, that this is the one, but I have no idea what Jim thinks because he always does his grumpy poker face to keep the estate agent on his toes.

  ‘What did you think?’ I ask, once the estate agent is out of earshot.

  ‘What did you think?’ Jim replies.

  ‘You can’t answer a question with another question!’

  Jim laughs. ‘I just did.’

  I decide to conceal my enthusiasm in case it makes Jim play devil’s advocate, which he loves doing and winds me up beyond belief. ‘Well . . . I think it’s got potential,’ I begin sceptically. ‘Obviously it will need decoration and I wasn’t sure about the size of the second bedroom—’

  ‘Are you joking?’ says Jim. ‘It’s bloody perfect. I love it. Two bedrooms. Tastefully decorated. A massive kitchen. And a garden for Disco to play in. It doesn’t get any better than this. You’re not going to veto, are you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say slyly. ‘And then again maybe not . . .’ As I say the words my own poker face crumbles. ‘I can’t keep this up, babe. I love it. I love it more than any flat we’ve seen so far. I think we should offer the full asking price right now.’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘It’s Saturday. Think how many other couples are probably booked in to see it.’

  ‘But the full asking price? We’re first-time buyers, we’ve got nothing to sell. We can use all this as leverage to get the price down.’

  ‘I don’t care about leverage, Jim. I want us to have this flat. I can just see us in it, can’t you? This could be our home. The home we have a first child in. The home that will give us the best memories of our life.’

  Jim laughs. ‘Well, I can’t argue with destiny, can I? Let’s put the full offer in now.’ He gets out his mobile phone and calls the estate agent. I’m so nervous I have to walk away.

  ‘What did they say?’ I ask anxiously, when it’s clear the conversation is over.

  ‘They say they’ll call us back by the end of the day.’

  4.56 p.m.

  We’re standing in WHSmith on the Broadway looking for a belated birthday card for Nick three weeks after the event, when Jim’s mobile rings in the pocket of his denim jacket. He takes it out and we both look at it in shock before he has the good sense to answer it. Once again I have to walk away to keep my composure so I stand by the magazine section and watch from my position of relative safety. Even though it’s somewhat futile I can see that his poker face is back again. The conversation seems to last for ever with no indication of whether it’s bad or good news. After a few minutes or so Jim ends the call and I walk back to him. The poker face is gone. In its place is the biggest, brightest smile I’ve seen in ages.

  ‘It’s good news,’ he says. ‘They’ve accepted. I’m going to contact our solicitor and get a survey under way for next week because part of the agreement is that we’re supposed to exchange contracts within six weeks.’

  ‘It’s really going to happen?’ I ask him incredulously.

  ‘Looks like it,’ he replies.

  And right there in the middle of WHSmith, next to a whole display of Good Housekeeping magazines, we kiss.

  Monday, 6 April 1998

  1.34 p.m.

  I’m standing in the furniture department at the Oxford Street branch of John Lewis having just ordered a cream sofa. For the past few weeks I’ve spent my lunch breaks visiting what feels like every furniture store in central London in search of the perfect sofa (right colour, shade, size and material) that would look perfect in the living room of our new home. My excitement about the flat is building to such an extent that I can’t concentrate on anything but homes magazines and home makeover programmes on TV. I’m obsessed, yet happily so.

  Friday, 24 April 1998

  1.31 p.m.

  Jim and I went to the solicitor’s to sign the contracts yesterday evening. We’re supposed to be exchanging with the couple we’re buying from this afternoon. I’m heading out to a sandwich shop to get my lunch when I pass a small printer’s shop. I can’t help myself. Right there and then I order fifty change-of-address cards. They say I can pick them up the following afternoon. When I get back from lunch there’s a message from Jim. I ring him back immediately.

  ‘The estate agent rang,’ says Jim.

  His voice isn’t right. I can tell something is wrong. ‘What did they want?’

  ‘They’ve taken it off the market.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The couple we’re buying the flat from.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We’ve lost the flat. They said they’ve changed their minds about going to Australia.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘We should phone them,’ I say tearfully. ‘Explain to them that they can’t do this. They can’t treat people like this. Maybe they’ll understand and change their minds.’

  ‘It’s their home. They can do what they want.’

  ‘But what about all the money we’ve spent already?’

  ‘We’ve lost it.’

  ‘But – but I’ve bought change-of-address cards. They have to let us buy the flat.’

  ‘I know, babe,’ says Jim. ‘But there’s nothing we can do.’

  2.02 p.m.

  It’s strange but I’m not prepared for how hard this news has hit me. I just burst into tears when I put down the phone after talking to Jim. I’m inconsolable. Here Jim and I are, trying to sort out our future, and the present won’t even let us get off the ground. I really don’t think I’ve ever felt so let down in my entire life. People at work keep telling me that there will be other flats and that this is all part of the game, but I don’t see it like that. I don’t see it like that at all. Jim’s the only one who understands, I think. He’s the only one who knows what this feels like.

  Saturday, 9 May 1998

  9.07 a.m.

  ‘I think Jim and I have become a lot closer,’ I tell Jane on the phone. ‘Closer than we’ve ever been. I feel like it’s me and him against the world.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ she asks.

  ‘We’ve decided to stop looking for a while. I don’t think either of us is in the right frame of mind to carry on. We’re already down quite a bit of money because of the last deal falling through. The whole thing is just so demoralising. The downside, of course, is that now it feels like we’re stuck here in this flat. Things that we used
to ignore before, like the leaky tap in the kitchen, or that the front door won’t open without brute force, or the guys in the flat above us who leave their mountain bikes in the communal hallway, really get us both down. Even worse it turned out that the couple were lying about not going to Australia. Jim spotted the flat go back on sale with a different estate agent last week with a new sale price several thousand pounds higher than before. They’d just got greedy. When Jim told me this, I said to him, “Why are we even bothering? Everything seems to be against us.”’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything. He just put his arms around me and gave me a hug.’

  Friday, 22 May 1998

  6.37 a.m.

  Our depression about losing the flat has gone. We’ve come right through to the other side. In fact, now it almost feels like what happened has brought us closer. Jim and I are so happy together that it’s almost ridiculous. We laugh and joke all the time, and even the flat’s not getting us down. Things are perfect. He’s got a meeting in Leeds today, which is why he’s up early. I’m up early because I woke up this morning with the desire to be the perfect wife. While he got ready I made him breakfast, even though I could’ve quite legitimately stayed in bed for another hour at least. Love, I think, makes you do the strangest things.

  ‘Right, then,’ says Jim, putting on his suit jacket. ‘I’d better be off otherwise I’ll miss the train.’ He walks into the hallway and I follow him in my dressing-gown, yawning. ‘I have no idea how long I’m going to be in Leeds so don’t worry about dinner for me. We’ll probably eat up there.’ He kisses me. ‘See you later tonight, then.’

  As he pulls away I notice a speck of shaving cream on his cheek. I lick my thumb and, in one swift movement, rub it off. ‘Shaving cream,’ I explain.

  ‘Cheers, I would’ve been like that all day if you hadn’t spotted it.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have you looking like a scruff, can we?’

  ‘No, we can’t’, he says. ‘See you tonight, babe.’ He kisses me again, picks up his bag and walks out. And as I close the door behind him I suddenly think about all of the things that need doing that I think of as my responsibility: the washing-up in the sink, the huge pile of dirty clothes in the laundry basket, all of the ironing waiting for me in the spare room and the cat’s litter tray that needs emptying and I think to myself, just for a second, When did I become this person?