20 August
Scott and I have a window table at Food For Friends. Since the most amazing black olive polenta is melting in my mouth, I believe Scott when he tells me this is one of Brighton’s greatest veggie restaurants. I love how this is a relatively fancy place, and yet we have nothing special to celebrate except getting to see each other. That’s one of the nicest things about a long-distance relationship: every date feels special. Every date feels heavy with meaning and spark.
On this particular evening, however, Scott seems to feel less pressure to make the most of our limited time. His mind has left our table without making its excuses. Having finished his starter, he’s checking his phone. After every series of intense taps and flicks, he flashes me a smile, so I don’t feel wholly ignored, but I no longer have full access to his mind.
I wonder what Scott looks at most often when he’s on that thing. Checking his email, his texts, his WhatsApp, his share prices? How many steps he’s walked today?
He could be obsessively checking out an ex’s every move. Not that you’d know anything about that, obvs.
Is this unreasonable? Do I really want to be that partner who demands full attention at all times? But I mean, fuck, we’re having dinner here. Scott’s phone siphons away more and more of his attention – especially now that he’s upgraded to this fancy new model.
This may simply be the way of all modern relationships. The pleasure of a digital fix will inevitably outshine the pleasure of connecting with your partner. These days, you face the impossible task of vying with the internet for their attention, and that’s just the way it is.
Yeah, that’s one idea. Or maybe Scott and I only get to see each other once per week at most, and I should speak the hell up.
“Shall we go for a drink after this meal we’re having together?” Can’t help loading that last part with sarcasm, but it doesn’t register. “I like the look of the Mesmerist, across the road.”
“Uh…” Scott is sitting right across the table, but his brain may as well be in Sydney. “I don’t… know… We’ll have to decide in a bit.”
“Okay,” I say, casual as anything. “Let’s talk when you’re back in the room.” And I glide off to the ladies’. Once inside the cubicle, I breathe deeply and think of a few gratitudes. I tell myself that Scott and I are not, repeat not, going to argue about this issue.
Lost in the heat of argument, we walk the pavement, aimless, almost blind. Our mouths offload all the tension we couldn’t shift in the nice, quiet restaurant. Scott is all innocent, hard-done-by eyes – damn those eyes – and earnest spread hands. Me, I’m caught in that awkward position of not knowing whether I’ve made too big a deal of this, while feeling obliged to follow my complaint through.
“Baby, you know I’ve been extra-busy with work lately. I’m sorry I pissed you off, but I do have to keep more of an eye on things than usual.”
“You were keeping an extraordinarily good eye on those things, even during our main course. But I’m starting to wonder what sort of things we’re talking about here.”
I know exactly what comes next from him. This pregnant pause will be followed by the classic utterance made in every couple’s argument at some point, the whole world over. Three, two, one…
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, how am I supposed to know what you’re looking at on there?”
“Oh, Kate, come on. Please. Like what?”
No matter how tightly I fold my arms, my insecurities keep on coming. “How do I know you’re not still looking at Tinder?”
This time, the pause lasts for ten steps at least. “Tinder?”
The words almost fly out of me, but I reel them right back in. Yes, Tinder! Can we finally talk about the place where you fully ignored my Super-Like on Valentine’s Day?
I stop walking and round on him. “I’m using Tinder as an example: most people are on it these days… aren’t they?”
“I was on there at one point.” He doesn’t try to escape my gaze, which is encouraging until I realise how political his answer sounds.
“But are you still on there, or any other dating places?”
He blinks. “I deactivated Tinder, soon as we became a thing. And that’s the only one I ever used.”
Unsure as to whether he’s telling the truth, I don’t know what to do. Ask to look inside his phone? That would stray into obsessive territory. You either trust your partner or you don’t.
“I’m getting tired of you spending so much time on that thing when we’re together,” I tell him. “Can’t some of this stuff wait?”
“No,” he says. Actually, he doesn’t merely say this. He almost growls it, and now a shade of grey has crept into his eyes. A cold grey I rarely see. “It bloody can’t. Seriously, I’m under real work pressure at the moment, as I’ve told you several times.”
“Don’t patronise me, Scott. Of course I remember you saying, but the question is, do I believe it? You could be getting up to anything while I’m in Leeds.”
“So could you,” he says, still with that distinct edge, “but you don’t see me making a big song and dance about your phone.”
“I can hardly do much with that thing, anyway.”
Walking again, I hear the angry thud of his footsteps behind me. His voice sounds tight as a steel trap. “Fucking hell, Kate, you know what I think this is really about? I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re jealous of my phone.”
Clipping on my finest scandalised, incredulous expression, I laugh in his face.
While so very afraid he’s right.