Meeting in the Middle

Bernard Park is a lovely park, eight minutes away, where Mai makes new friends and plays. Christian and Mai are cultivating a close relationship and deep love. Mai adores Christian because his hand span covers her entire belly and because he creates exciting treasure hunts for her around the house and garden with treats. They sleep together and eat together, Christian and Mai, Mai and Christian. During the week, we take turns to walk her. On weekends, we go for walks together, like a family.

The Girls miss me now that I am north of the river. Who even are you, Stella? And when can we meet Christian properly? I miss them, of course I do. But I am happy and there are no greater advocates for my happiness than The Girls. I have longed for this moment. To be one half of a whole. To wake up with a person I love and to share my life with him. To live together, cook together and plan our future together. They have longed for it for me. They miss me but they could not be happier for me.

 

Christian is tolerant of my bad habits: working late in the evening, every evening, and tossing and turning in bed at night. His daytime TV favourites are BBC news, sports and cooking programmes. I think he should apply to MasterChef because he is so talented in the kitchen. He enjoys playing games on his Xbox during the day and does not like to be interrupted by me mid-game. It is ‘selfish’ of me to think that as soon as I take a break from work, or finish for the day, he is just going to be ‘available’. He could benefit from some structure to his day. A job would provide that but he is taking his time to find the right role and that is important. There is no point rushing into the wrong thing. At about 6pm, Christian and I need to discuss dinner plans. Otherwise, I will get home from Chambers at about 7pm, exhausted and hungry, and if the first thing that comes out of my mouth is ‘What’s for dinner?’ that can sound ‘demanding’ and ‘entitled’. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. Christian doesn’t mind cooking and eating late. He can eat dinner at about 9 or 10pm. I find it harder, especially if my Addison’s is playing up, but that doesn’t mean I can’t just wait. He is the one cooking, after all.

Christian is a procrastinator. He talks about it jokingly but he is serious. A master at putting things off; it’s actually a skill. It means he lives in the present and doesn’t worry about things that haven’t happened yet – or things that have, things he can’t change. I should try it sometime. I’m getting better at that but it takes practice. He endears himself to me when he expresses anxiety about getting a job. Procrastination has delayed this by some eighteen months. I try to imagine him as a Wolf of Wall Street and his many rebirths. Goldman Sachs Christian. Christian the Guitarist. Unemployed Christian. It is not my business to ask him about the results of his job search on a daily or weekly basis. He is financially savvy and comfortable and, putting it bluntly, his finances are not my concern. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry. He pays his bills and I respect that. Neither of us is motivated by money. I am motivated by happiness and peace. I think he is motivated by a desire to be free from the control of any person or thing.

 

He doesn’t like talking about past relationships. He doesn’t see the point.

‘How does that add value to the present or future?’

My mum would agree. I can think of a few ways, but I don’t say them.

As soon as I get home from Chambers, I take a shower. There is something important about it, the act of washing away a stressful day and welcoming the evening. Around the same time, Christian opens his first can of San Miguel. It’s his way of winding down and relaxing, our ‘his and hers’ downtime. Over the course of the evening, Christian drinks four to six 500ml cans of beer. He drinks because he wants to, not because he has to; there’s a difference. He will open a bottle of wine, for me. I don’t drink white, or at all most evenings, especially if I have to work late or have an early start in the morning, but it’s there if I want it. Not tonight but thank you for thinking of me. Christian ends up drinking between three quarters and the entire bottle, alternating between wine and beer. He’s not drunk. He knows how to handle his drink, he’s a grown man. Who am I, the Beer Police? I head to bed at about 11pm.

Christian normally comes to bed between two and three in the morning. After he has finished watching TV, playing games on his Xbox and drinking. He tries to be as quiet as possible when he comes upstairs. He is incredibly thoughtful in that sense. He will use the light on his phone and not the light on the side table or the main light to get ready for bed. He doesn’t want to wake me. I will wake, naturally, but I can fall back to sleep. Don’t worry, it’s fine. He will kiss me when he gets into bed. A precursor to sex. If I don’t look at the time, I feel less tired when my alarm clock goes off in the morning and I have to get up for work; it’s a psychological thing. I want him to go to sleep happy and to have sweet dreams.

Mai sleeps in her bed in our room but she will invariably climb onto the bed every morning. When he wakes up, Christian will invariably decide that we shouldn’t allow her on the bed. He says that every morning, while cuddling Mai within an inch of her life. I leave them in a tender embrace as I head off for court or Chambers.

 

I am working from home and the morning has escaped me the way it does when I have so much work to do and not enough time. I have left my breakfast bowl in the sink. I will wash it when I take a break. I’ll be done in half an hour. Christian would rather I washed it now. It’s a bowl, for goodness sake. How long is it going to take to wash up? It’s not exactly the kind of thing you need to soak, is it? Christian is not as angry about the fact that I have left the bowl unwashed in the sink, as he is about my ‘attitude’. Is he supposed to wait until I take my break before he can use his kitchen? I need to wash up so he can make lunch.

‘I am going to, I promise. I’ve just got to send this Advice off quickly. Can you give me fifteen minutes?’

He cannot make lunch if there is no space to cook. Can I think of someone other than myself? What is he supposed to do? Christian speaks in a tone that I don’t recognise and at a volume that is new. His face takes on an alien expression as he addresses the issue of dirty dishes. His gaze does not break as it holds mine, his eyelashes do not blink. I mark my place in my papers and make my way to the kitchen sink. His eyes follow me. I make a mental note never to leave dishes in the sink ever again.

Now, after every meal, and as soon as the last piece of cutlery is laid to rest on its plate, I stand to clear the table. I wash the plates, the cutlery and the cooking utensils. I do not leave them in the sink to decorate it or to let them soak. It is only fair after he has spent so much time and effort cooking for us both. If, for any reason, I am too tired to wash the dishes straight away, because I’ve had a really long day or because my Addison’s is playing up, I tell him that I will wash them first thing in the morning. So he is not surprised if he goes to the kitchen before he goes to bed and finds dirty dishes in the sink. I don’t want him to get that angry again, not over dirty dishes.

 

We don’t argue about serious things. But our arguments can be serious.

‘If you take my charger when my phone is charging, can you put it back on charge when you’ve finished using it!’

It’s not a question and it’s not something I did on purpose. I checked his phone before I unplugged it. It was on eighty-seven per cent battery, mine was on fourteen per cent. I am annoyed at myself for leaving my charger in Chambers. I meant to put his phone back on charge but I got distracted by a work call.

‘I didn’t not put it back on purpose. I forgot, sorry.’

His anger is loud. His reaction, disproportionate. I think I made a mistake when I said, ‘It’s not a big deal.’

‘Why do you have to have a response to that? Can’t you just say sorry? You are clearly in the wrong.’

When he storms upstairs to our bedroom, I follow him. That is a mistake. When Christian is angry, he does not want to be followed. He does not want to speak to me or even see me. I should not push him to try and engage in conversation because that is not what he wants. What he wants is to be left alone.

‘Get out of my face.’

He shuts the door in mine.

 

Sometimes, when he is not angry any more, we try to understand how we managed to get to such a terrible place so quickly. Christian says that living with another person is not easy. He knows he can be moody but my actions are antagonistic and do not help the situation. Overall, he thinks we get on eighty-five per cent of the time and that I am amazing. He is happy that we are living together. He couldn’t ask for anything more. He has a temper and when he is angry, he needs to be left alone. I need to give him that space and not follow him around the house when he has asked for time to himself. He doesn’t want to say or do anything in anger. It’s really important that I respect that and give him space to cool down. I try to take it on board. I am happy we are together too but I think we need to work on our communication.

I try to explain what I meant in Dirty-dishes-gate and Charger-gate. I am very aware that I am in his house and that he probably has established ways of doing things. I don’t want to interfere with that. I would never deliberately set out to upset or irritate him. It’s really important for me to resolve conflict as soon as possible. I hate the feeling of knowing that he is angry or upset with me, especially when we are in the same house. I only followed him upstairs to make peace. I thought that would make the situation better. I did not want to make it worse. I would never want that.

 

We are working hard to meet in the middle. When I take a break from work and want to speak to Christian, I check that he is not in the middle of his Xbox game before I start to speak. If he is, I wait for the game to be over first. I know the game is over when it makes a jingle sound. Sometimes, I forget to wait and talk to him without looking up or checking first. When he ignores my question, I know that he is still playing the game and that he has not been listening to me. I pause and wait and try again. It is hard to talk to him with these rules. He promises that he will make an effort not to play in the evenings or on weekends. I really want him to meet my friends. He will, soon. He promises.

 

In the middle of the night, I am convinced, as I stir, that I cannot breathe. Perhaps I am running to the bus stop from Nursery Road, trying but failing to get to my haven. Or arriving at Sudbourne to find that my History A Level exam starts in five minutes and I am unprepared. Perhaps there is an F grade among my A Level results and it is the end of the world. Or maybe I am falling in a bus off a bridge.

‘I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!’

He holds me close and tells me, ‘You’re okay. You’re okay, I’m here.’

I fall back to sleep in his arms, safe and still and breathing.