"Why don't you just grow up, Toni? You're not bloody eighteen any more!"
"Well at least I'm not bloody middle-aged like you!"
"Yes, you are, Toni. That's exactly the point, you are middle-aged, and it's bloody ridiculous to be wandering about pretending you're still a teenager."
I knew he was right but I resented him, of all people, being right about me.
"Just because you grow up doesn't have to mean that you grow old"
"And just because I don't want to go to clubs or grow a goatee beard and dress like a fucking student doesn't mean I'm old. I'm in my late thirties, and so are you. Don't sulk at me because I'm not pretending to be something I'm not. I'm happy with me, Toni. I thought you were too."
"I was once," I muttered, knowing that he was right, "but I didn't know you were going to turn out to be such a bore. Anyway, I'm in my mid-thirties."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he laughed mirthlessly, grabbed his jacket, and turned to the door, "I'm going to the pub."
The door slammed shut.
For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Until death us do part. Fat chance.
Three years ago we had a dream of a wedding day. Simon wore a kilt and I wore a fabulous gold silk empire-length dress with a floor length veil and very high pointed shoes. It was very Audrey Hepburn. His face was slightly flushed with pleasure all day long. When I looked at him I thought I'd never seen anyone so handsome. I kept finding his eyes upon me and feeling his arm creep round my waist and squeeze me. All our friends got on. Even our parents could stand being in the same room for six hours. We ate salmon and drank champagne in a local hotel. We disappeared up to the bridal suite just before the strawberry pavlova to consummate the marriage. The best man had palpitations because we didn't tell him and he was worried about the speeches. When we came down again my lipstick was smudged. I laughed too loudly at all the jokes. Then we went away to Majorca for two weeks and spent most of it in our hotel room. He was my soul's other half.
But I hadn't counted on his ageing so fast. He takes afternoon naps at the weekends when I want to be out doing things. When he gets home he changes into shapeless sweat pants and T shirts. He watches too much TV.
I am young. Chronologically, of course, we're the same age, but in every other respect I'm decades younger. I keep abreast of fashion. I buy in cheap and cheerful shops, whereas he's already taken to the men's outfitters' type of place. I like to go out, try out the new bars and clubs. My music purchases include current hits; his collection atrophied at Genesis. Just before Christmas last year he joined the Sunday Times Wine Club. That way, he reasoned, he could be sure of giving our friends decent wine. He reads gardening columns.
It's all such a shame.
The phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Toni? Hi! It's your old friend Frederik here, calling from Holland!"
"Freddie!" I said, "Hi! How are you?"
"I'm great as ever, Toni. And howsabout you?”
Frederik is Dutch. He is also an Elvis fan. Or he was when I knew him, back in those halcyon days in Toulouse with Marc. He was delightfully aimless. Everybody liked him enormously when he wasn't there and then found him slightly irritating when he was. He had a quilt and turned his shirt collars up. He wore an open zip-up cardigan or a satin bomber jacket with a loud motif on the back. He affected a southern fifties drawl which led him to say things like "howsabout" with total seriousness.
"I'm well. What are you doing these days?"
"Oh I'm still a student. I'm working for my masters in European Law. It's a drag."
"Not enjoying it then?"
“Hey, you know how it is. It kind of gets in the way of my party time."
"Mmm. So why are you calling, Freddie?"
"I'm in the area. Bath? Thought we could maybe get together and do some talking."
"That would be great!" I said warmly, making a mental note not to take Simon. Frederik would find him really dull. "There's a good pub at the end of our street. Eight tomorrow?"
We made the arrangements and I hung up. It would be fun to see Frederik again. He was a laugh.
Simon came in about eleven twenty. I was into the TV programme I was watching. It was just getting to the point where the detectives were going to get the final piece of evidence which would prove that the father was framing the mute homeless man for the murder of his son. But Simon wanted to talk.
"We need to talk."
"Can't it wait - it's just getting to the crucial stage here..."
"Oh, what's the point?"
He dropped his wet coat on the sofa and went upstairs, trailing 'Dogbolter' fumes. Real Ale makes anoraks of men. I sighed heavily and swept the coat onto the floor with my foot. By the time the father had confessed to the murder and was writing out his confession as the wife was led away hysterical with grief, Simon was snoring rhythmically in our bed. I ended up watching an American made for TV movie circa 1982, half my brain addressing its half-witted plot and the other half feeling dissatisfied with my lot. But we did both have to go to work in the morning, so I crawled resentfully into bed at about one, pressing the bedclothes down into a channel between our bodies, sighing heavily so that in the event that he was really awake, he would be left in no doubt about my feelings. Then I fell asleep miserably, reflecting that even if I was unhappy with him, it was probably true that I was even more unhappy with myself.
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