Love Is Usually Where You Left It Page 5

  She glanced around and looked at some of the people in the other cars that were stuck in the jam, and she could see they all had exactly the same expression: no expression at all. They were all just staring away, blankly, into space. The minutes of their lives also just drifting away; between them hours and hours of completely wasted time. As Gayle focussed on the advert on the black cab again, she couldn’t help but think: there has got to be something better than this, hasn’t there?

  Chapter Six: Three Little Pigs. (12 Years Ago)

  It is an indisputable fact that reading some books can be bad for you. (Not this book. This book is actually good for you, so carry on reading. You still here? Phew!) But some books, usually reference books that give you small insight into complex matters, can leave you with incomplete information that can be bad for you, or even dangerous.

  Even worse, these days, is the internet. For example, if you are worried by a lingering discomfort and pain in your lower back you may take to the internet and come up with a fairly alarming self diagnosis – it turns out there’s a fine line between degenerative spinal disorder and uncomfortable, but usually non-life threatening, mild lumbago.

  For Clive the dangerous reading material was from a book that Gayle had borrowed from the library and was entitled “The Three Little Pigs Guide to Surviving a Relationship”. When Clive had refused to attend marriage counselling sessions, Gayle had been advised to take out some “relationship guidance” books from the library and try to reach out and connect with him through them. (“Reach out” and “connect” = words that Clive believed were (two of many) used by professionals in various fields in order to justify charging us for something at some point.) The book that Gayle found most enlightening was the pre-mentioned “The Three Little Pigs.....” book that, like many books, managed to fill 500+ pages with words that made up very little content. It was the type of book that relayed the same, simple principle in as many (slightly) different ways as possible. The “Three Little Pigs” concept was that relationships are a lot like building a house. Whilst things were going well, then you are building solidly with bricks; bricks that will stand your house in good stead for any uncertain futures ahead. When your relationship is struggling, then your house building is of lower quality, and is more like building with sticks or straw. The key is to recognise these times and work hard to re-build the sticks and straw parts of your house with the far more sturdy bricks.

  And this is essential because there are always times up ahead that are challenging. Circumstances beyond your control lead to arguments or difficulties that will test your house building to the very limit – the “big, bad wolf days”. And when those days arrive and that big, bad wolf comes along, one of two things will happen. Either your house will be so solid, and made up of such small quantities of stick and straw, that the wolf will be completely wasting his time even visiting your house; or, it will be so badly made that, when he huffs and he puffs, he will blow your house right down. And it will be over. No more house. (You do know that I’m still using the house = relationship metaphor don’t you? Ok, good – just felt like I maybe got side tracked by bricks, straw, sticks and wolves.)

  Anyway, Gayle loved the simplicity behind this idea and, after plucking up the courage for a couple of weeks, one night she sat down with Clive and showed him the book.

  “I’m worried about things” she said, once she had explained the concept of the book to Clive. “I’m worried about us.”

  Clive couldn’t argue against anything she was saying. Their lives were becoming more separate. Having Jack meant that nights out together were near on impossible. They had no family to help with babysitting and they both hated the idea of paying for a stranger to come round and look after him. As such, almost all nights out, that either of them had, meant going out without the other. They also seemed to be spending more time than ever watching different TV programs on different TV’s in different rooms. And pretty much going to bed each night at different times to each other.

  When Gayle was pregnant with Jack their relationship had hit a defining point. It was maybe what most people would think of as a real low point: Clive’s step mother, Sue, had just died, Gayle’s divorced parents had pretty much disowned her and anyone else close enough to be called “friends” felt that they were wrong to be having a baby at their age and had also turned their backs on them. But for Clive and Gayle this somehow made their union even stronger. They almost adopted the Space song “Me and You vs. The World” and used the meaning behind it as their anthem.

  They didn’t need anyone else. They had each other. They didn’t mind taking on the whole world, because they knew that they would win. Nothing could ever come between them.

  The problem was: they hadn’t accounted for the fact that maybe it wasn’t just the whole world that they had to contend with. There comes a time when fighting together isn’t the thing that is needed; but rather living together. And when the small, everyday practicalities of life become difficult to endure, then grand statements like “Me and You vs. the World” start to feel like old, faded memories.

  There had been a time when they would always watch TV together – both making the effort to watch each others’ shows, even if they didn’t really like them themselves; but they did it because they were together. There had been a time when they always went to bed at the same time and would very often watch an episode from their X-Files box set. A box set they had bought, not because they were huge Mulder and Scully fans, but because they had both loved the cheeky sexiness of the song The Bad Touch by The Bloodhound Gang, and in particular the line “.....and we’ll do it doggy style so we can both watch X-Files.”

  In fact one of them asking the other whether they wanted to watch X-Files was their code for asking if they wanted to get “jiggy with it”, whether they wanted to “get it on”, asking to “pour some sugar on me” and if..... well, you get it don’t you? Just so we’re sure – it’s about sex. Good, you got it!

  Those were the times that they would always go to bed at the same time and, very often, Clive would whisper the chorus of The Bad Touch: “You and me baby ain’t nothing but mammals, so let’s do it like they do on the discovery channel” as they would rip each other’s clothes off and collapse onto the bed in each other’s arms, kissing and tasting each other like they were uncontrollably addicted to one another. Sweating and steaming as they..... sorry, getting a bit 50 Shades-esque carried away there.

  Anyway, those days had gone.

  Like so many people who have had children, that playful lust for life and sex had faded somewhat. Sexiness had been replaced by tiredness. They were both feeling burdened and unattractive due to the stresses and strains and disappointment of feeling trapped in jobs that they didn’t want to be in. Dreams, that sparkle and shine in the ignorance of youth, had been replaced by a monotonous reality; and that had spread into their relationship.

  As Gayle continued to pour her heart out Clive, though he knew she was right, couldn’t help but be put off by all the sugary analogies that Gayle was quoting from the book. It felt like the counselling idea all over again; that almost American way of addressing your problems – in the most dramatic and public way possible.

  Why did people want to “talk about their feelings” all the time these days? Why didn’t they just get on with things? Why was Gayle now obsessed in dwelling on the fact that their relationship wasn’t perfect? Whose relationship was perfect? And why was she getting books out from the library that emphasise the problems you’re having and actually make them worse?

  “I know there’s a problem” said Clive after a long silence and much to Gayle’s relief. “But this is like the counselling thing all over again. We don’t need this kind of help. All relationships have tough times. We just need to make more of an effort with each other.”

  Clive reached out and took the book out of Gayle’s hands, closed it and put it on the coffee table in front of them.

  “We don’t need books” he said
pulling Gayle towards him and then loosely wrapping his arms around her. “We just need each other. Like we always have. We’ll be ok. We’ll be ok!”

  Gayle closed her eyes and tried to stop herself from crying. She could hardly feel Clive holding her. His response had been the same as always.

  She knew that, deep down, he wanted to try and fix things as much as she did, but he was too proud, too stubborn, too afraid; too stupid to do something real about it.

  They would probably go to bed at the same time tonight. They may even “watch” an episode of X-Files. And for the most part of the next week or so they would be nice to each other, probably talk a bit more than usual; but then, after that, things would just revert back to how they were.

  Their house was more sticks and straw than ever before and yet there was nothing she could really do about it. And it felt like that big, bad wolf was getting ready to blow it right down.

  Chapter Seven: The Things That Turn A House Into A Home.

  Clive marched back and forth along the same bit of carpet, wondering how the hell he could have been so stupid. He had checked the notes on his phone, seeing as he was another definite disciple of the phone-having-now replaced-memory-function generation, and found that he had booked the estate agent to come round “some time after nine”.

  Some time after nine.

  How had he been so dim-witted to book something so open-ended? Even for those delivery slots in which you are given something a little more specific, like between seven and one, they usually turn up at least an hour late. (More often than not because of bad traffic on the by-pass.)

  So, what sort of time will the estate agent arrive after leaving it open-ended? Midnight? Some time tomorrow? Some time next week? All those scenarios fall under the category of “sometime after nine”.

  Oh, how could he have been so stupid? That’s the problem when something is left too vague: there is no pressure for things to be done properly or even logically.

  It’s like the movie Gremlins and the ridiculous plot point about “…. no matter how much he cries, no matter how much he begs, never feed him after midnight.”

  Well, when on earth can you feed him? Technically any point in time is after midnight, one way or another. And that’s the problem with being vague, how can you.....

  Clive stopped himself. He was obsessing about the whole Gremlins / Midnight thing again, wasn’t he? It was a good job Gayle wasn’t here or she would have been saying that same thing to him again – “Will you just let it go? Everyone you know has had to hear you moan about the Gremlins feeding thing at least a dozen times!” God, she didn’t half repeat herself!

  Clive began pacing again.

  He was supposed to be meeting Knobhead for snooker at twelve o’clock but there was no way that was going to happen now, was there? Not now he realised that he’d readily agreed to an open-ended booking. He may as well phone Knobhead and cancel now. No, a leisurely afternoon on the green baize, whilst sinking half a dozen pints and talking uncomplicated nonsense to one of his oldest buddies, was completely out of the window. How could he have been so stupid…?

  A knock at the door caught Clive’s attention and offered that poor same stretch of carpet some much needed relief. Clive glanced out of the window and saw a car bearing the name of Slater’s Estate Agents on the side parked out on the street. Thank the lord for that. He looked at his watch – it was one minute past nine.

  Clive walked to the front door and opened it and knew that, because of his punctuality, he would like the estate agent instantly. As he opened his mouth to say hello he was met by the outstretched palm of a young, slickly dressed man who was busy chatting on his mobile phone. Clive changed his mind - he knew he was going to dislike this young upstart straight away.

  Instead of even meeting eye contact with Clive the estate agent continued to chat away for the next thirty seconds; a conversation that seemed to have no relevance to estate agency in general, and certainly no relevance to this part of estate agency-ing: namely his visit to Clive and Gayle’s house. (That is of course unless “meeting up with Sharky, Dean and the “pussies” at Nobbies house at eight” was actually estate agent code for valuing someone’s house.)

  No, instead of ending his, clearly personal, call before knocking on Clive’s door, this young high-flyer decided it was ok to knock on that door and completely ignore Clive as he completed arranging his night.

  He was wearing a, quite-possibly fitted, three-piece charcoal suit (unless he was one of those annoying people who were just the perfect dimensions that one of the off-the-peg sizes looked like it was fitted, whilst the rest of us look like we’ve either lost or put on a huge amount of weight since buying our clothes), shoes so shiny that you could most probably see them from the moon and had one of those ridiculously trendy long beards that seem to be all the fashion with young people right now. (Which are obviously one of those fashion statements that will be looked back upon in the years to come with the same kind of confusion and hilarity that shoulder pads and mullets are now.)

  Clive gave thanks that his “cool” days were in the 90’s during which fashion seemed to be having a fairly low-key decade and so future piss-taking may hopefully be kept to a minimum. (Of course it helped that he had burnt all copies of photos that captured him during the few years that he sported a ponytail. Praise Nikon and Canon, and all those other camera manufacturers, for delaying the introduction of digital cameras – you look like a twat these days and it’s captured forever.) Do you remember when beards, for people that you actually knew, were the exclusive fashion choice for strange uncles? (And some, even stranger, aunties??)

  Finally the estate agent hot shot finished his phone call with the phrase “later, bitches!” and glanced across at Clive.

  “I’m Slade from Slater’s, nice to meet you!”

  Through gritted teeth Clive managed to speak,

  “Slade? That’s an usual name.”

  “Yeah, yeah, man. My folks are pretty out there. It’s old English – means child from the valley.”

  Really, thought Clive. It doesn’t actually mean child conceived to “Cum On Feel The Noize”?

  “It’s Clive, innit?” asked Slade, or Slick as Clive had renamed him in his own head.

  “It’s alright if I call you C, innit?”

  “Err, yeah” said Clive, again through gritted teeth. He hated it when people he didn’t really know felt like it was ok to use nicknames. Nicknames should only be used after earning them after several years; and then ideally for taking the piss in one way or another.

  “Right C, if it’s ok with you, I’ll just take a quick slip round the house and make a few notes for myself.”

  He didn’t wait for any kind of agreement and instead just walked past Clive and began talking into his phone, Dictaphone style, no doubt also unable to retain any facts in his own “memory”.

  “Access to front door directly from the pavement..... enter into fairly dark, pokey entrance hall..... might just be able to get away with calling it quaint or cosy..... some sort of weird key storage thing on wall, probably some school kids first ever CDT lesson effort..... advise vendor to take down..... and ideally bin..... decor on first impression..... shocking..... probably have to say in need of a little TLC.....”

  What the hell? Clive was standing right next to him as he muttered these damning words into his phone. Right next to him.

  This pattern continued around the house and, as Clive reminisced about things like how he and Gayle used to watch TV whilst eating their dinner on trays in the front room, or about how they used to sometimes have sex on the lawn under the full moon of a summers evening, Slick would make comments about how “the kitchen / diner would struggle to seat a game of chess, let alone a family dinner” or how the “garden was hideously overlooked”. Oops, seems like there used to be sex shows for free on Percival Road. (Maybe this was why Mr Dennis would regularly come round, wearing a dressing gown that allowed him instant access to his tackle?)r />
  Clive chuckled even more as Slick inexplicitly decided to make a comment about their CD and DVD collection being “horribly dated” adding “does anyone really like Bon Jovi?” and “who realistically owns a Jim Carrey collection or multiple X-Files box sets these days?” If only the young upstart knew the history behind those X-Files box sets he may not be quite so quick to criticise it.

  Clive looked at the CD collection, music that that had been added to and loved for as long as Clive and Gayle had been together, and realised that the Bon Jovi effort that Slick was openly criticising was the album at the top of the stack: This House Is Not For Sale. It was ironic, and sad really, seeing as the individual who was disapproving of such a CD was actually the one who was here to sell the house. It seemed that Jon Bon Jovi’s house was not for sale but Clive and Gayle’s soon would be. And when that happened, not only would it be Clive and Gayle that were forced apart but all those CD’s and DVD’s, that had sat side by side for years, would have to be sorted through and would also be heading in different directions. Clive took a deep sigh.

  As Slick from Slater’s paused in the bath room and made some derogatory comment about how “the tiler must have had a bad day”, Clive cleared his mind of all the house items that would need splitting and, potentially, arguing about and, instead, stopped and gazed into Jacks bedroom.

  He ignored the comment about this room “not being big enough to swing a cat” and took a moment to soak in the memories. (Does anyone really ever “swing a cat”? Is this an acceptable and legitimate way to measure a room? Are there any other, similar historic ways of measurement? How long is your garden? About as long as you can kick a tortoise? Maybe not. But this isn’t the only well known cat saying that is a more than a little concerning. As well as: “not enough room to swing a cat”, there’s: “put the cat amongst the pigeons”, “more than one way to skin a cat”, “like a cat on a hot tin roof” and “let the cat out of the bag”. Should we really be swinging and skinning cats; or even putting them amongst the pigeons or on hot tin roofs, or keeping them in bags, in this day and age? Maybe the RSPCA should look into all these things in some detail?)