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