Pottery

POTTERY

Word of the year:

monachopsisnoun. The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place. Unable to recognize your intended habitat, never feeling as though you are at home.

28th February 2017—our ninth anniversary

Dear Adam,

Our house doesn’t feel like our home anymore, but at least you didn’t forget our anniversary this year. That’s something, I suppose. You’ve been busy writing again, and I have made myself busy doing other things with other people.

We opted for a quiet evening in—just like we do most nights—but with a bottle of champagne and a takeaway to celebrate mark our nine years of marriage. We both agreed that eating in the lounge while watching a movie was the best way to go—sitting in silence only highlights our struggle to have a conversation these days. You gave me a printed voucher purchased from a last-minute website for a pottery class. I gave you a mug that said GO AWAY I’M WRITING. I’ve considered suggesting that we see a marriage counselor, but so far, the time has never felt quite right. We’re both treading so carefully we’ve come to a standstill.

I felt a mix of relief and excitement when the doorbell rang and saved us from ourselves. You jumped up to answer it, and spent so long out in the hallway I presumed it was someone you knew. But it was my friend from work. She was crying. I had a slight wobble when I saw the two of you together. I try not to talk about us with her, but she always asks, so it’s hard not to without sounding rude. I guess I just wanted to keep her to myself, a friend of my own who had nothing to do with you, silly as that might sound.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, taking in the sight of you both standing there in the doorway, you in your slippers, her in high heels with tears streaming down her face.

She started as a volunteer at Battersea Dogs Home last year. If we actually had to pay everyone who works for the charity, we’d soon be bankrupt. Volunteers help staff with just about everything: caring for the animals, washing them, walking them, feeding them. They clean out kennels, they help raise awareness and funds at events, and some even help me in the office. That’s how we met. In return, I helped her get a full-time, paid job earlier this year, so now we see each other almost every day.

My colleagues didn’t warm to her the way I did. They made jokes that we could be twins were it not for my hair being blond and straight, and hers a mop of mousy brown curls. But I think most of the bitchy comments were green-eyed. Gossip is almost always jealousy’s love child. She’s shy and socially awkward, in that way that makes people suspicious. She’s also a tad too quiet, and always speaks as though doubting everything that comes out of her own mouth, trying the words on for size as if worried they might not fit. But not tonight.

“I’m so sorry to turn up like this, uninvited,” she said, wiping her tearstained face with the back of her hand. She was wearing an enormous puffy coat with a hood, which didn’t match the heels at all.

“What’s happened? Are you all right?” I asked and she started to sob. “Come in—”

“No, I really can’t. Adam says it’s your anniversary…”

Your name on her lips sounded foreign to my ears.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. We’ve been married for almost a decade; we don’t even have sex anymore.”

The look you gave me then was priceless.

I wonder what my own face did when she accepted the invitation, stepped inside, and lowered her hood to reveal a head of blond hair. The mousy curls were gone, instead it was styled straight just like mine, and dyed exactly the same shade.

“Oh…” she said, clocking my reaction as she removed her coat. “I got my hair done.”

“So I see,” I said, taking in the rest of the makeover. Her work uniform of a Battersea sweatshirt, old jeans, and trainers—which was pretty much all I had ever seen her wear—had been replaced with a tight-fitting red dress. She looked different yet familiar: she looked like me. She even sounded a bit like me. The East End twang I’d gotten used to was gone, but then a lot of people sound different when they are nervous. And she seemed super-nervous around you.

“I wanted to look nice because I had a date … but it was a bad one. He said he wanted to pick me up and I thought he was being old-fashioned and kind, but now he knows where I live. He threatened me and got very aggressive when I didn’t invite him in and … I’m so sorry, I don’t know anyone else in London except you and—”

“It’s okay, you’re safe now. Would a glass of champagne help?” you suggested, and she smiled with teeth that seemed whiter than before.

You’re always a better husband when we have an audience.

I felt so sorry for her as the three of us sat in the lounge, drinking our anniversary champagne, and listening to her seemingly endless horror stories about single life. I couldn’t imagine being on my own at our age. The world has changed so much—online dating, speed dating, dating apps—it all sounds awful. I had never seen it before—perhaps because she did such a good job of hiding it beneath the baggy T-shirts and old jeans she normally wore—but my friend is quite beautiful when she makes an effort. If single life is so hard for her, imagine what it would be like for us mere mortals. I felt far too old for that sort of malarkey. I watched you, watching her and being so kind and considerate. She beamed constantly as you made polite conversation, as though there were a smile quota she had to fulfill before the end of the night. I was glad that the two of you seemed to get on. As we opened another bottle, and sat and listened to her talk about dreadful dates with terrible men, I realized just how lucky I was to have one of the good ones.

“Well, it was nice to finally meet your work wife,” you whispered, as we climbed into bed. She was asleep in our spare room, and given the amount of alcohol she consumed there was probably no need to lower your voice.

“I don’t know why I’ve never invited her over before. Now I think of it, I’m not sure how she knew where to find me—I don’t think I’ve ever given her our address—but I’m glad that she did.”

“She isn’t quite what I pictured from the way you described her. She seems … nice.”

“You said that like it was an insult. Did you find her attractive?”

You laughed. “No.”

“Really? Even with the hair and heels and makeup—”

“Really, no. Besides I can’t see all that, remember? I only see what’s inside.”

“And what did you see? Inside?”

“An actress. I’ve met enough of them to know.”

I laughed. “That’s bonkers … she’s a quiet little mouse most of the time.”

“Not all actresses are on the stage. Some walk among us, masquerading as normal people.” We both laughed and you held me closer. There is something quite magical about being in a warm bed when it’s cold outside. Sharing body heat with someone you love. Or used to. But just because we still share a bed, it doesn’t mean that we still share the same opinions.

“What do you see inside me?” I asked.

“Same as always, my beautiful wife.”

You stared at me then and I felt seen.

“What happened to us?” I asked, expecting you to look away, or change the subject, but you didn’t.

“I’m not who I was ten years ago, and neither are you, and that’s okay. The only question we need to ask ourselves, is do we love who we are now? Listening to your friend tonight made me feel lonely and lucky at the same time. The success of a relationship can’t be measured by longevity alone. I love that we celebrate these milestones every anniversary, and even I smile at those news items about couples who have been together for seventy years, but I also think it’s possible to have a one-night stand that might be more profound than some marriages. It’s not about how long a relationship lasts, it’s about what it teaches you about each other and yourself.”

“What are you saying?”

You smiled. “Rock paper scissors.”

“What?”

“You heard me, rock paper scissors. If you win, we stay together forever.”

It must be a year since we last played that game. But you let me win just like you always used to, my scissors cutting your paper. It sounds silly, but I felt as if it was a sign that maybe we were more like who we used to be too.

“What would have happened if I’d lost?” I asked.

“We would stay together forever anyway, because I love you, Mrs. Wright,” you replied, slipping your arm around my waist. If it was the alcohol talking, I didn’t care. You spend all day working with words, but those were the only three I needed to hear.

“I love you more,” I said, and we made love for the first time in a long time.

I’m an eggs-in-one-basket girl when it comes to relationships, and it’s a dangerous way to be. One bad fall, or an unfortunate slipup, and everything I care about could get broken and smashed. I found my person when I found you, and I’ve never really needed or wanted anyone else since. Rightly or wrongly, I poured every emotional part of myself into us. I adopted your hopes and dreams and loved them as though they were my own. I cared about you so much, I had nothing left to give anyone else, even myself. I was content with a social circle big enough for two. You were always enough for me, but I never felt as though I was quite enough for you. Maybe that can change. Maybe if I try to love you a little less, the scales might tip in my favor, and you might love me a little more?

I care about my friend at work very much, but I don’t want to end up like her. Seeing her here in our home—so lonely, and sad, and broken—was a bit of a wake-up call. Funny how another person’s misfortune can make you realize what you have. We need to stop taking each other for granted. That’s another thing nobody tells you about marriage; sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad, doesn’t mean it’s over. Perhaps this is as good or as bad as it gets? So, although our house stopped feeling like a home, I’m going to try to fix that, and I’m going to try and fix us. Even if that means counseling, or compromises, or perhaps some time away, just you and me … and Bob. Maybe all marriages have secrets, and maybe the only way to stay married is to keep them.

Your wife

xx