‘It’s easy for you to say that now,’ she pointed out, ‘you’ve got a boyfriend.’
And that shut me up, good and proper. Because I knew that the advice I was so generously dishing out to my friend wasn’t necessarily advice I’d follow myself. Sometimes, when the direct debit for the gas bill came out of my account and left me staring queasily at my bank balance wondering where Frazzle’s next consignment of posh raw food pouches was going to come from, or when I looked at the bathroom mirror and tried to remember the last time Jude had left me a note written with a soapy finger, or when I lay in bed after we’d had sex, sleepless and unsatisfied, I wondered what advice I’d give someone in my situation.
And I knew exactly what it was. Kick him to the kerb. Or maybe, if I was feeling charitable, Tell him to shape up or ship out. He’s just a cocklodger.
But, somehow, I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t Jude’s fault he wasn’t earning much and was working such long hours. It wasn’t fair that I had a job that paid me a decent wage and he didn’t. I got to swan off to the gym in the middle of the day, while he was stuck at work in an office, or walking the streets pushing leaflets through letterboxes, or getting a train to a rally somewhere at six in the morning. And he couldn’t help that sex wasn’t always satisfying for me. (Wasn’t ever satisfying, said the brutally honest voice in my head.) He always held me and told me he loved me afterwards, before he fell asleep, and often he said he was sorry it had been over so quickly. Before, I’d told him I loved him, too, but now I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
Maybe, I decided, I should talk to him. I’d pick a moment and have a proper chat, like the grown-ups we both were, and point out ways in which we could make our relationship better.
Over the next few days, I had conversation after conversation with Jude in my head. They all ended the same way: with him saying that of course I was right, he couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to see my point of view. He’d make a contribution to the rent on the flat. He’d make sure he got in early from work at least once a week, on my night off, so we could go out for a meal together. He’d make time over the weekend to help me give the place a good clean.
I never quite worked out what I imagined he would say about how to make things better in bed, because however many times I considered raising that particular issue, I couldn’t find any words at all.
Finally, my moment came. It was Sunday, lunch service at the Ginger Cat was over and for once Jude hadn’t had to go to work, or to a rally, or to some obscure meeting of political people in a pub. So we packed a bottle of wine and a picnic blanket and stopped off at Craft Fever and bought a pack of swanky truffle-flavoured crisps, and walked up the hill to the park. I spread out the blanket and sat down, opening the wine and pouring it into the glasses I’d brought from home, carefully wrapped in the blanket so they wouldn’t chip.
It was a glorious afternoon – one of the last we’d have that year, I thought. The sky was such a deep blue it looked almost purple, and the leaves clashed against it in their early-autumn oranges and golds. Jude spread himself out next to me and put his head in my lap, and I stroked his long hair back from his face, looking down at him and wishing things were simple but knowing they weren’t.
‘So how’s your week been?’ I began tentatively.
‘Fucking horrible,’ Jude said. ‘Relentless. But there’s a proper job vacancy come up, and I’ve been told there’s a decent chance I might get it if I apply.’
This was my moment – or was it? Shouldn’t I wait and, if he did get the job and was earning money, he’d offer to make more of a contribution?
‘That would be amazing,’ I said. I stopped, almost bottling it, but then forced myself to carry on. ‘Because, you see, I’ve been feeling lately that things between us are a bit kind of