Page 48 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage
Clay gives Jack a look. He never really understands Jack’s self-deprecation. ‘Jack, there was always going to be a book two. The pre-orders and early sales surpassed the publisher’s wildest dreams; you’re a debut that landed at the top of theSunday Timesbestseller list. Of course they’ll want to take up their option for the second book. They’ve already made that clear.’ He laughs and I almost jump up and down. The entire time we were doing the book, it always felt so flimsy, like one wrong step and it could all disappear. When we bought the house, it felt so dangerous, like we were letting ourselves slip into a world we couldn’t afford to stay in. But this is different. This is the rubber stamp I’ve been waiting for. And with the kind of money Clay’s talking about, that terror that it’s all going to disappear, that I’ll be back hoping my card doesn’t decline when I get on the bus, that’s gone. They say money can’tbuy happiness, but what I’m feeling right now, this kind of bullet-proof optimism about our future, that’s a feeling that only money can give you and I’m so unbelievably grateful for it.
‘Jesus, Jack,’ I say, hugging him again. ‘We did it. We really, properly did it.’
He smiles down at me. ‘You did it,’ he says.
I shake my head. ‘I couldn’t do any of it without you. And I know it’s a lot, to have to keep going, not take a break. But it’s not like we’d be doing anything important with that time.’ I glance down at my stomach, empty and hollow. I can’t bring myself to say it, that I couldn’t get my head around the break if we weren’t having a baby. But I think he knows.
‘Right, lovebirds,’ Clay says, picking up his bag. ‘Shall we go over some quotes for press about the retreat?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘Let’s go and find a bigger table so we can stretch out.’
‘It’s supposed to be selfish time?’ says Jack.
I stop halfway to the door. ‘Sorry. You’re quite right. Clay, can you wait for a bit? Jack and I are halfway through one of the sessions for the weekend.’
Clay looks perturbed. ‘I said I’d have this back with the team in a couple of hours.’
I look at Jack, and then at Clay, and wonder for a moment why I seem to get stuck between them so often. ‘Would you mind? If I did a couple of hours with Clay on this?’ There’s a loud silence.
‘Sure,’ Jack says eventually. ‘I guess this is what makes you happy, so it’s kind of appropriate.’
‘Exactly.’ I smile as he leaves the room.
‘How’s it been?’ Clay asks as he unpacks his laptop, an iPad and a sheaf of papers on to the dining table.
‘Really good, actually,’ I reply. ‘I was nervous about it, joining in and being part of the activities. But it’s been great. I think it’s helped us a lot.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought Jack would be able to get off his high horse long enough to join in,’ Clay laughs.
I bristle at this. Occasionally I’ve let myself confide in him, because it was easier than talking to Grace, who seemingly had things perfect, or any of my other friends who I worried might think I sort of deserved it as karma for bragging about my amazing marriage. But I realise, as Clay cheerfully makes a snide comment about my husband, the person I’m allegedly the world’s biggest cheerleader for, that I’ve got something wrong. If he feels like he can languidly snipe at Jack, that’s because I’ve made it seem like that’s okay.
‘He’s been brilliant, actually,’ I say.
Clay seems to understand that I’m telling him to shut up, without telling him to shut up. He acknowledges me with a little nod, and then opens the laptop so we can pick between ten almost identical quotes and ten almost identical headshots of us.
Jack
I head towards the kitchen because I want to drown my sorrows in biscuits, and because obviously there’s now no point in using ‘selfish time’ to write. I woke up this morning with a purpose. Get through the last part of the retreat, get back to London and get back to the BBC, tosome version of myself that I recognise. Finish the book. Convince Edward Nestor that I’m worth representing and put some distance between me and the Seven Rules era, without hurting Jessica or seeming ungrateful for all that nice money they threw at us. Easy. Perfect.
Too perfect, it turns out. In retrospect, it was painfully naïve of me to think that we’d be allowed to stop making money for Clay and the publishers. We’re golden geese, so obviously we’re not going to be allowed to run around free range. And now the next year of my life is going to be spent doing this whole thing over again, but in America this time. Months and months more of Seven Rules. Then, inevitably now, the whole circus will start again with another book.
I know I should be happy. I want to be happy. This is the seal of approval Jess has dreamed of since she started making money this way. She spent years sitting at a desk being patronised and ignored, she applied for job after job and got rejected for all of them because she didn’t have the right experience or know the right people, and then finally, when she’d made her peace with never having a career she was in love with, this all happened. I want it for her. I just really, really don’t want it for me. And I don’t want it for our relationship either. The unavoidable truth is that we were better together before all this started.
For a while I latched on to the idea that all this was worth it to buy a house instead of moving every time a landlord sold up. I even bought into the logic that it was a way to put something into savings, catch up with our friends who have wealthy parents. But I can see now that if it went well, it was never going to be an in-and-out thing. I’m done with pretending that I can extricate myself fromthis. Of course it’s not going to work like that. It’s going to be like we’re at a casino, chasing a win by throwing the dice over and over again, not caring about the cost. Jessica’s never going to want to stop doing this because it’s making her feel alive, and I’m never going to be allowed to bow out because despite having fuck all to do with the content, I’m part of the package. I am stuck. Not important or necessary, not central to the work, not creatively fulfilled – not even really creatively consulted. But locked in.
I let the kitchen door bang as I walk in, and then head straight to the cupboard.
‘What’s wrong?’ Surprised to hear a voice behind me, I turn around to see Verity standing in front of a stand mixer, weighing out ingredients.
‘Sorry,’ I say, stopping on my quest. ‘Sorry, I was just being clumsy. What are you doing?’
‘Baking.’
‘Stupid question,’ I say, looking at the very obvious evidence around her.
‘Want to help?’ she offers.
Not really. But I can’t write now, and at least if it looks like I’m in conversation with one of the guests I can’t be dragged back to Clay and Jessica’s production line. ‘Sure. What can I do?’
