Page 35 of Not Moving Out
‘Oh, right. Okay.’
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to steal your thunder.’
‘It’s fine. Thunder not stolen. Although slightly curious. I was coming here to argue for going ahead because I thought you’d be against having the party, given our current sticky wicket—’
‘Sorry, but do we have to call our separation and living situation a “sticky wicket”?’
‘What do you want me to call it?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘Let’s go to VAR on this one. Yes, it does appear that “sticky wicket” is just on the wrong side of appropriate, and has been ruled out. The referee is pointing to, what’s this? A new term for Joe and Freya’s house-shared living arrangement, and it’s… tricky sitch?’ I looked across at Freya, who was shaking her head but smiling. ‘Sorry, but VAR has ruled that “tricky sitch” has been accepted and will be used going forwards.’
Freya laughed. ‘Still just a massive knobhead.’
‘I take that as a compliment. So, back to the summer party, you want to go ahead?’
‘I do. Plus, with Dolly getting into Durham, and us probably selling the house soon after, I think it will be good to have one last party there. Like a final goodbye.’
Just hearing her talk about selling the house was jarring. It really brought home that within the next year, all of this was going to be over. Freya and I living together, our lives still connected, living with Dolly, it would all soon be gone and we’d both have to forge new lives alone. How had it come to this? It felt like we were on a ride, and I wanted to say stop, I want to get off. I wanted to have a break and make sure I was actually on the right ride, but I couldn’t because it had already started and was gathering speed. Was it that long ago that Freya and I were still trying to save our marriage? It didn’t feel like it. When exactly did we give up and why? I still wasn’t completely sure I knew all the answers. There had been times when I had sleepwalked through the turmoil of our marriage, and looking back now, I wasn’t always proud of myself.
‘What’s happening with you?’ I asked after a moment of silence.
It felt like weeks since we had really spoken at length, and I had no idea what was happening in her life. She excitedly told me all about the cold water swimming club she had been going to with Lucy. She explained about how incredible it felt afterwards, and how much she enjoyed the camaraderie she felt with the other women. When I asked her how painfully uncomfortable it was being neck deep in freezing cold water, she said it was worth every second of it, then she took a sip of her drink, looked at me, and said, ‘What about you? What’s new?’
This was the part of the conversation where I would have to tell her that I was writing a sitcom about the break-up of our marriage. That I was using the heartbreak, our ‘tricky sitch’ and Dolly’s life to create a laughter-fuelled thirty-minute comedy that could potentially save my career. I played the conversations I’d had with Karen over and over in my mind – the therapist that Freya also knew nothing about. How had I woven so many lies into the fabric of my relationship with Freya, and why? I could do this though. I could tell her now and get everything out in the open.
‘Oh, you know, just working,’ I said tentatively.
‘What are you working on? Is it still the one about the media agency?’
I had to just say the words.Tell her.It was time to man up!
‘No, actually. That one didn’t work out. This is just a family comedy thing.’
You absolute fucking coward. Why couldn’t you tell her? You know at some point you will have to tell her and the later you leave it the worse it will be, right?
‘Oh, okay, and does Carl like it?’
‘Yes, he does. It’s still really early on so, you know, we’ll see.’
‘Good luck with it,’ said Freya with a smile.
‘I just need to use the toilet,’ I said, getting up quickly and walking off.
Since the beginning of my career, Freya had read all my scripts and she had been the sounding board for most of the work. She had been an integral part of my process because she would often give me feedback before I even approached Carl. Most ideas would bubble away in my head for months before I jotted down notes, ideas, and then Freya would get a first look at it. Now she was literally one of the lead characters in my latest sitcom, her whole life was the subject matter, and she had no idea. I didn’t even need to go to the toilet, and so I washed my hands and looked at myself in the mirror above the sink. Middle-aged, on the verge of separating from my wife, my daughter on the cusp of leaving home, a vaguely successful comedy writer, and I still didn’t have the balls to tell my wife the truth. Was I ever going to be a proper grown-up? I looked in the mirror and the old man that stared back at me was definitely veering dangerously close to fifty and surely should have his shit together by now. But then again, being a comedy writer since university definitely hinted at some sort of Peter Pan complex.
‘I suppose we should discuss the details of the summer party?’ I said, sitting down again.
‘Then perhaps another drink?’ replied Freya.
‘Okay, I’ll get these,’ I said, and I was about to stand up when Freya stopped me.
‘Joe, can I say something?’
‘Of course. Unless it’s something awful. Is my receding hairline getting worse because I’ve been thinking about using a cream I saw on Amazon, but do I want to be that guy because it’s a slippery slope? You know today it’s cream for male pattern baldness and then tomorrow I’m injecting Botox into my eyeballs.’
‘No, Joe, it’s not about your hairline, which is fine by the way, and do people inject Botox into their eyes? I don’t think that’s a thing. Anyway, I just wanted to say how proud I am of us. When we agreed to this house-share situation—’
