‘But good long, right?’ I hear myself saying.
‘Absolutely,’ says Dan, almost too quickly. ‘Of course!’
‘Great!’
‘Great. So.’
‘So.’
We lapse into silence again. Normally I would know exactly what Dan’s thinking, but today I’m not quite sure. I look at him about twenty-five times, sending him tacit, thought-wave messages: Say something to me. And, Start a conversation. And, Would it kill you to look this way, just once?
But nothing gets through. He seems totally wrapped up in his own thoughts. So at last I resort to doing the thing I never do, which is to say: ‘What are you thinking about?’
Almost immediately, I regret it. I’ve never been that wife who keeps asking, ‘What are you thinking about?’ Now I feel needy and cross with myself. Why shouldn’t Dan think in silence for a while? Why am I prodding him? Why can’t I give him space?
On the other hand: what the hell is he thinking about?
‘Oh.’ Dan sounds distracted. ‘Nothing. I was thinking about loan agreements. Mortgages.’
Mortgages!
I almost want to laugh out loud. OK, this just shows the difference between men and women. Which is something I don’t like saying, because I’m very much not a sexist – but honestly. There I am, thinking about our marriage, and there he is, thinking about mortgages.
‘Is there an issue with the mortgage or something?’
‘No,’ he says absently, glancing at the satnav. ‘Jeez, this route is going nowhere.’
‘So why were you thinking about mortgages?’
‘Oh, er …’ Dan frowns, preoccupied by his satnav screen. ‘I was just thinking about how before you sign up for one …’ He swings the wheel round, doing a U-turn and ignoring the angry beeps around him. ‘… you know exactly how long the loan period is for. I mean, yes, it’s twenty-five years, but then it’s done. You’re out. You’re free.’
Something clenches my stomach and before I can think straight, I blurt out, ‘You think I’m a mortgage?’
I’m no longer the love of his life. I’m an onerous financial arrangement.
‘What?’ Dan turns to me in astonishment. ‘Sylvie, we’re not talking about you. This isn’t about you.’
Oh my God. Again, I’m really not being sexist, but … men.
‘Is that what you think? Do you not hear yourself?’ I put on my Dan-voice to demonstrate. ‘“We’re going to be married for a massive long time. Shit. Hey, a mortgage is really good because after twenty-five years, you’re out. You’re free.”’ I resume my normal Sylvie-voice. ‘Are you saying that was a random thought process? Are you saying the two are unrelated?’
‘That is not—’ Dan breaks off as realization catches up with him. ‘That is not what I meant,’ he says with renewed vigour. ‘I’d actually forgotten all about that conversation with the doctor,’ he adds for good measure.
I shoot him a sceptical look. ‘You’d forgotten it?’
‘Yes. I’d forgotten it.’
He sounds so unconvincing, I almost pity him.
‘You’d forgotten about the sixty-seven more years we’ve got together?’ I can’t help laying a little trap.
‘Sixty-eight,’ he corrects instantly – then a tell-tale flush comes to his face. ‘Or whatever it is. As I say, I really don’t remember.’
He’s such a liar. It’s etched on his brain. Just like it is on mine.
We arrive back in Wandsworth, find a parking spot not too far from the house and let ourselves in. We live in a smallish three-bedroomed terraced house with a path up to the front door and a garden at the back which used to contain herbs and flowers, but now is mostly filled with the two massive Wendy houses my mother bought the girls for their fourth birthday.
Only my mother would buy two socking great identical Wendy houses. And deliver them in the middle of their birthday party as a surprise. All our guests were speechless as three delivery men manhandled in the candy-striped wall panels and roofs and cute little windows, and made them up while we all gawped.
‘Wow, Mummy!’ I exclaimed after we’d said our fulsome thank yous. ‘I mean, they’re wonderful … absolutely amazing … but … two? Really?’ And she just blinked at me with her clear blue eyes and replied, ‘So they don’t have to share, darling,’ as though it was perfectly obvious.
Anyway. That’s my mum. She’s adorable. Adorably annoying. No, maybe annoyingly adorable is a better way to put it. And actually, the second Wendy house is pretty useful for storing my gym mat and weights. So.
As we enter the house, neither of us seems to have much to say. While I’m leafing through the post, I catch Dan looking around our kitchen as though he’s seeing the house for the first time. As though he’s getting to know his prison cell, I find myself thinking.
Then I chide myself: Come on, he doesn’t really look like that.
Then I exonerate myself, because in fact, he really does. He’s pacing around like a tiger, eyeing the blue-painted cabinets morosely. Next he’ll be scratching a mark on the wall. Starting the tallies to mark our ceaseless, weary march down the next sixty-eight years.
‘What?’ says Dan, feeling my eyes on him.
‘What?’ I counter.
‘Nothing.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘Nor did I.’
Oh God. What’s happened to us? We’re both irritable and wary. And it’s all that bloody doctor’s fault for giving us such good news.
‘Look, so we’re going to live practically forever,’ I burst out. ‘We have to deal with it, OK? Let’s just talk this out.’
‘Talk what out?’ Dan feigns innocence.
‘Don’t give me that!’ I erupt. ‘I know you’re thinking: Bloody hell, how the hell are we going to last that long? I mean, it’s wonderful, but it’s …’ I circle my hands. ‘You know. It’s … it’s a challenge.’
I slowly slide down the kitchen cabinet I’m leaning against, so I’m on my haunches. After a moment, Dan does the same.
‘It’s daunting,’ he agrees, his face relaxing as he admits it. ‘I feel a bit … well … freaked out.’
And now, finally, it’s out. The honest, deep-down truth. We’re both shit-scared of this epic, Lord-of-the-Rings-scale marriage we suddenly appear to find ourselves in.
‘I mean, how long did you think we’d be married for?’ I venture after a pause.
‘I don’t know!’ Dan throws up his hands as though in exasperation. ‘Who thinks about that?’
‘But when you stood at the altar and said “till death us do part”,’ I persist, ‘did you have, like … a ball-park figure in mind?’
Dan screws up his face, as though trying to cast his mind back. ‘I honestly didn’t,’ he says. ‘I just envisaged … you know. The misty future.’
‘Me too.’ I shrug. ‘I was totally vague. I suppose I imagined we might reach our silver wedding one day. When people reach their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, you think: Wow. They’ve done it! They’re there!’
‘When we reach our silver wedding anniversary,’ says Dan, a little grimly, ‘we won’t even be halfway there. Not even halfway.’
We’re both silent again. The ramifications of this discovery just keep on coming.
‘Forever is a lot longer than I thought,’ says Dan heavily.
‘Me too.’ I slump against the cabinet. ‘So much longer.’
‘It’s a marathon.’
‘A supermarathon,’ I correct him. ‘An ultramarathon.’
‘Yes!’ Dan looks up in sudden animation. ‘That’s it. We thought we were running a 10K and now suddenly we’ve found out we’re in one of those nutty hundred-mile ultramarathons in the Sahara Desert and there’s no getting out of it. Not that I want to get out of it,’ he adds hastily, at my glance. ‘But nor do I want to … you know. Collapse with a stroke.’
Dan really knows how to pick his metaphors. First our marriage is a mortgage. Now it’s going to give him a stroke. And by the way, who’s the Sahara Desert in all this? Me?
‘We haven’t paced ourselves properly.’ He’s really warming to his theme. ‘I mean, if I’d known I was going to live that long, I probably wouldn’t have got married so young. If people are all going to live until a hundred, then we need to change the rules. For a start, don’t commit to anyone till you’re at least fifty …’
‘And have babies at fifty?’ I say, a little cuttingly. ‘Heard of the biological clock?’
Dan is drawn up short for a moment.
‘OK, that doesn’t work,’ he concedes.
‘Anyway, we can’t go back in time. We are where we are. Which is a good place,’ I add, determined to be positive. ‘I mean, think of your parents’ marriage. They’ve been married for thirty-eight years and counting. If they can do it, so can we!’
‘My parents are hardly a good example,’ says Dan.
Fair enough. Dan’s mum and dad have what you might call a tricky relationship.
‘Well, the Queen, then,’ I say, just as the doorbell rings. ‘She’s been married for a zillion years.’
Dan just stares at me incredulously. ‘The Queen? That’s all you can come up with?’
‘OK, forget the Queen,’ I say defensively. ‘Look, let’s discuss it later.’ And I head to the front door.
As the girls burst joyously into the house, the next sixty-eight years or whatever suddenly seem irrelevant. This is what matters. These girls, right now, these rosy-cheeked faces, these fluty high-pitched voices calling, ‘We got stickers! We had pizza!’ They both drag at my arms, telling me stories, and firmly pulling me back towards them when I try to say goodbye to my friend Annelise, who’s dropped them off and is waving cheerily, already heading back to her car.