Hope was utterly dumbfounded by this incoherent explanation of why they were here. ‘What are you talking about?’ she demanded of Jack, who moved away from her so he was almost sitting on the arm of the sofa. ‘I thought we were here because even though you’re supposedly in love with her, there’s an outside chance that you might want to stay with me. Or is that not the case? Are you not even willing to make an effort?’
Jack shook his head. ‘You’re not getting it. Why did I shag someone else?’
Hope still wasn’t entirely sure of the answer to this one. ‘You keep telling me that you’re in the grip of this sexual obsession, which I don’t really buy. Usually you’re the king of self-control. You can stop after only one bowl of ice-cream.’
‘We just got so boring, Hopey. You tried to schedule our sex-lives so we only had a shag on Sunday mornings!’
‘That’s not fair! It wasn’t like that at all. You were too tired in the evening and I didn’t have time in the morning, so I thought it would be nice to really make it special and something to look forward to.’ Hope couldn’t help but gasp at the unjustness of Jack’s accusation. ‘I even bought croissants and the really expensive filter coffee for afterwards.’
‘And that’s another thing: the way you go through money like you’re single-handedly trying to spend Britain out of the recession.’ Jack wagged an angry finger at Hope. ‘Every month, the joint account goes into the red by the fifteenth because you buy a whole load of crap that we don’t need, which just makes the flat even more of a tip, because you’re physically incapable of keeping a room tidy for more than five minutes.’
‘At least I’m not completely anally retentive. Sometimes I think you get out a ruler so all the stuff on the bathroom shelf is perfectly aligned. And anyway, this is not the issue. You cheated. You lied. For months.’
‘You’re not hearing me, Hope!’ Jack snapped. ‘Yeah, I hold up my hands up. I did lie and I did cheat, and I am more sorry than you will ever know about the way I’ve treated you, but we need to talk about why it happened in the first place.’
Hope was all ready to snap something right back, but then she heard the scratch of pen on paper and turned her head to see Angela scribbling away on a notepad, and whatever the point of therapy was, it probably wasn’t about sniping at each other in front of a paying audience. Or rather an audience paid for by their parents.
She sighed. God, they hadn’t even touched on the heavy weight of their parents’ expectations and their pathological need for a grandchild.
Jack had lapsed into silence too, and Angela lifted her head. ‘Well, yes, this is all very illuminating,’ she murmured, but didn’t seem keen to explain any further. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me when you can last remember feeling excited about your relationship?’
Hope forced herself to look at Jack, who looked back at her, and she was frantically trying to think of a particularly happy time, but it was hard when what she really wanted to do was slap him. ‘You go first,’ she said with saccharine sweetness so she’d have more time to think.
It seemed as if Jack was struggling with the same problem. ‘Well, um, it’s hard to pick just one,’ he said, which was hedging, plain and simple. He wrinkled his nose. ‘I suppose it was when I was doing my degree in London and Hope would come and spend the weekend with me. That was cool. I wouldn’t see you for a few weeks …’
‘Oh. My. God!’ Hope gasped. ‘The last time you actually got some joy from our relationship was nine years ago when we were living 170 miles apart and I didn’t see you for weeks. Bloody great, Jack. Thanks for that.’
‘OK then, Miss Snappypants. When was the last time that you felt buzzed about being with me? Or can’t you remember that far back?’
Actually, the answer wasn’t that difficult when Hope stopped being angry and took a second to think about it. ‘When I came down to London to do my SCITT and we moved into that studio flat in Whitechapel.’ She was all ready to wax lyrical about having no money and living on Pot Noodles and cider and yes, there had been an awful lot of unscheduled shagging, but Jack snorted.
‘Yeah, the dingy bedsit in Whitechapel with the rats,’ he said flatly. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ‘So, what do you think?’ he asked Angela, who looked quite taken aback. ‘Any chance of a cure, or should we just quit while we’re ahead?’
‘So much for taking this seriously,’ Hope muttered under her breath, as Angela put down her pad and clasped her hands against her bony chest.
‘I don’t like to use words like “cure”,’ she said in her reedy voice. ‘It’s about working together to resolve your issues. I assume because you’re both here that you think these issues are worth resolving?’
That was the question Hope had been 100 per cent sure about until ten minutes ago. Now she glared at Jack until he grunted his assent, and she matched it with a grudging, ‘Well, I suppose so.’
Jack cleared his throat. ‘We’re kind of not living together right now, because, well, we’re not really together at the moment. Do you think I should move back in or …’
‘Certainly,’ Angela said with a smile. Even when she was smiling, she looked as if she was reliving the agonies of major dental work. ‘If you both think that moving in together will be a resolution rather than a source of more conflict.’
‘What do you think?’ Jack asked Hope.
She shrugged. ‘Well, it’s up to you.’ No, that wasn’t what she meant. Counselling wasn’t about taking offence every time Jack said something she didn’t want to hear; it was about making Jack realise that they still belonged together. ‘Of course I want you to come home. I’d love it if you did, but if you feel like you’re being rushed and you’re not in that place yet, I’ll understand.’ Hope shot Jack a pleading look and he nodded, almost imperceptibly – as if he was finally ready to throw her a bone.
‘I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ he said, and Hope felt that they’d just taken at least ten steps backwards.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ she whispered. ‘I mean, I don’t expect …’
‘I do think that for the time being you need to concentrate on experiencing intimacy without having …’ Angela swallowed and seemed to be having immense difficulty in finishing her sentence, ‘… sexual intimacy. Maybe you could take up a hobby together. Try something that you’ve never done before, like, say, bungee jumping or pottery.’
This time the look that Hope and Jack exchanged was conspiratorial and said everything that they couldn’t say, because if either of them opened their mouth, it was inevitable that the only thing that would come out would be hearty guffaws.
Now as Angela again asked them what they’d like to achieve at the end of their counselling, and Jack again reiterated that he wasn’t sure if they had a future together, Hope didn’t automatically set her phasers to stun.
It was the reason why they were both there, after all. Although it was disheartening that Jack needed the guidance of a trained professional to help him make a decision that would affect them both, at least he was here, sitting next to her on the chintzy sofa, participating. That had to count for something. So, when Angela repeated the question to her, Hope nodded. ‘Well, we seem to have reached a crossroads or a stalemate or, like, we’re stuck in this holding pattern, so I think we need to see if we can commit to a future together.’
There was no point in dissembling or being vague. ‘And by future together, I mean becoming properly engaged and then getting properly married,’ Hope continued. ‘I have to know you really mean it if you decide to come back.’ For a moment, Hope thought she’d blown it, but Jack was nodding again rather than running for the hills.
As soon as Angela dismissed them, ten minutes before their hour was officially up, Jack and Hope scrambled for the door, and within seconds they were racing down the road and turning the corner so they could collapse against each other and laugh.
‘Did you see the cross-stitch sampler of that evil cat?’
‘Bungee jumping.
Fucking bungee jumping. Do we look like we would ever go bungee jumping?’
Hope was still giggling as they retraced their steps to the tube station. She was pleasantly surprised when Jack took her hand. It had been a long, long time since they’d walked down the street holding hands.
‘Hopey?’ he said tentatively, and she tried not to stiffen in anticipation.
‘What’s up?’
‘Can we make a pact that what happens in therapy, stays in therapy?’
‘Doesn’t that sort of defeat the purpose of being in therapy, Jack?’ Hope looked up in time to see the conflict crease his face. She was getting really tired of seeing that expression.
‘I think we should treat Angela’s chintz consulting room as a safe place to talk about our problems, and I totally think we should do the homework and think of a hobby to do together, as long as it doesn’t involve jumping from high platforms or throwing pots, but I don’t think we should take all the bad shit we’re having to wade through home with us.’
‘But do you think fifty minutes a week is enough time to wade through all the bad shit?’
Jack pulled her into the glow of a lamp-post so she could look up to see him gazing down at her solemnly. ‘I don’t think either of us can be trusted to start talking about our problems on our own. It just leads to shouting and arguments, and I’m sick of them.’
‘I am too,’ Hope said. ‘And I suppose she has set us tasks, hasn’t she? You moving back in, finding ways to be intimate without being naked.’ It all sounded good and feasible, but one thing was bothering Hope. ‘You have been happy being with me during the last few years, Jack, haven’t you? Because if you haven’t, then what’s the point?’
‘Shhh, shhh. Of course I’ve been happy,’ Jack insisted, cupping Hope’s face in his gloved hands, which made her think of Wilson doing that when he kissed her, not even twenty-four hours before. She wanted to pull away, sickened by her own deceit, but forced herself to stay still. ‘You can’t measure a relationship’s success on a scale of one to ten. Generally, being with you for pretty much half my life has made me happy.’
‘And then all of a sudden it didn’t,’ Hope said sadly.
Jack tweaked her nose. ‘That’s why we’re seeing the blessed Angela once a week.’ He did, in fact, look happier. Finally all the conflict and confusion was gone from his face and he suddenly grinned at her. ‘Come on, let’s walk up to Swiss Cottage and get the bus to Camden and have dinner at the cheesy Italian.’
Maybe their parents were right, which was a mind-boggling concept, and therapy was the answer to everything, even though Angela and her creepy cat obsession didn’t exactly inspire confidence. Hope’s smile was a little shaky to start with, but then she was out of practice. ‘The cheesy Italian that has pepper grinders so huge that I’m sure the waiters are over-compensating?’
‘That’s the one,’ Jack said, wrapping his arm around Hope’s waist as they started walking again. ‘Now, have you any ideas about hobbies that we could try? I was thinking that we should start playing Bodycount.’
‘Is that some sort of computer game, or do you want us to take up serial killing?’ Hope enquired drily. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of kick-boxing or going jogging together so we can work on our interpersonal skills and I can lose all the weight I’ve put on.’
‘You haven’t put on that much weight,’ Jack insisted somewhat unconvincingly. ‘Still, I’m up for a jog as long as it’s in the evening and it doesn’t involve having to get up early.’
That was precisely what Hope had been going to suggest, but she instantly closed her mouth before she could plead the case for exercising in the morning when she was vaguely energised. They had to start compromising more, otherwise they’d stay stuck in the same place, and Hope hated the place where they were currently stuck. ‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘And when we get back, if it’s not too late, then maybe we could play a few levels of Bodycount.’
HOPE DIDN’T LIKE to tempt fate, because that never turned out well, but over the next two weeks, she and Jack settled back into their groove. Except this time, it was a new groove. Not better or worse than the old groove, but different. At least, she hoped so, but it was still too soon to ask Jack if he’d reached any major, life-changing decisions.
It was easier when Hope was at work because she didn’t have time to think about Jack, or worry about where their relationship was going, or if he was meeting Susie in his lunch break for a quickie. There was no time to think about anything but making sure Blue Class were ever so slightly ahead of the National Curriculum, as Dorothy had got a tip-off that the Council was planning a spot-inspection. It was all Hope could do to get her charges through her intensive lesson plans with the incentive of extended Golden Time on a Friday afternoon. She’d also managed to crowbar in another trip to Camley Street Natural Park on a day when it had rained solidly, and she now had Stuart’s mother threatening to sue Hope, the school and the Board of Governors because his chesty cough had returned, and there had been five reported cases of TB in Islington in the last week, according to the local paper.
When she wasn’t drumming knowledge into over-taxed little brains, Hope doled out stickers, filled in reports, and spent every break and at least an hour after school working on the Winter Pageant. She had started rehearsing the junior school two afternoons a week, sweet-talked a local club-owner into lending her his PA system, and persuaded the local traders’ association into providing raffle prizes. She’d even found a rabbi to come in and explain the Chanukah story to Yellow Class. Then she’d had to field a reporter from the local paper who’d heard about her ambitious plan for a human menorah and thought she was setting nine seven-year-olds on fire. The journalist was very disappointed when Hope icily explained that they’d be wearing woolly hats with red, yellow and orange streamers sewn to them as a substitute for living flame.
Hope had imagined that after every stress-filled day, she’d dread coming home to work on her intimacy skills with Jack, but, much to her surprise, they’d stuck to their agreement to run in the evenings. Though he was barely able to leave work before eight, as soon as he got home, Jack and Hope would get into their running gear, complete with reflective tabards that she’d found tucked away in a staffroom cupboard, and would pound the cold, wet pavements of Holloway together.
The actual running, or jogging, wasn’t much fun but at least the cold meant that Hope didn’t sweat like a woolly mammoth in a sauna, and instead of checking the pedometer app on her iPhone to see how long she’d been running and, more importantly, how many calories she’d burnt, they talked. Jack had read somewhere that in order to run effectively, you shouldn’t be so out of breath that you couldn’t talk. Whenever Hope started panting heavily and was on the verge of calling it quits and limping home, he’d say, ‘OK, you have to tell me the three things that happened at work today that pissed you off the most.’
Despite the lack of oxygen getting through to her lungs, it was a request that Hope could never ignore. Then she’d ask Jack the same question, and by the end of the third week of their rapprochement, they were managing an hour’s run every other night as they complained and whined and generally bellyached about their jobs, their colleagues and the big mistake they’d made in choosing their respective careers.
Then, when they got home, they very democratically took it in turns to have the first shower and not use up all the hot water. They also took turns to sleep on the sofa, though Hope suspected that if they were sharing a bed sex would be the very last thing that either of them felt like, not when she stank of Deep Heat spray and Jack insisted on having a round of toast and Marmite just before he turned out the light.
Maybe the reconciliation wouldn’t be going so well if their jobs were humming along and they weren’t both so stressed. Still, Hope comforted herself with the knowledge that not so long ago, they’d have taken the stress out on each other, but at least now they were communicating and she could almost get back into her jeans again.
> The only thing that was coming between them was Jack’s iPhone. It started ringing in the morning, before he’d even got up, but Hope had learned her lesson and didn’t go near it. Or she went near enough that she could see ‘Blocked Number’ flash up on the screen. The phantom caller would ring three times, then hang up. Ring three times and hang up, until Jack grunted his permission for Hope to turn the phone off.
Jack claimed that it was ‘just someone playing silly buggers’, but obviously it was Susie. Hope hadn’t given much thought to how Jack had ended things with Susie, but it appeared she’d been cut off in a fairly brutal fashion. The end justified the means, as far as Hope was concerned, but one Thursday evening, when they’d come back from their run and it was her turn to grab the first shower, she was forced to reconsider her position.
The bathroom was the one room in the flat that always got toasty-warm and stayed free of arctic draughts. In fact, it became so steamy that condensation ran down the walls and they had to keep one of the window flaps open while they were having a shower. Then it was a tricky job to stand in the bath just near enough to still be able to hold the shower hose without yanking it off the bath taps, but far enough not be assaulted by icy blasts of air from the open window. That night, just as Hope turned off the taps and dived for a towel, she heard Jack on the phone.