Page 4 of Not Moving Out
‘You’re suggesting some sort of housework schedule, I assume?’ he finally said.
‘Something like that, and we also need to discuss money.’
‘Do we have to?’
‘We can’t ignore it, Joe. Right now we have a joint bank account, joint credit cards, and our finances are so intertwined, we need to talk about what we’re going to do about it.’
I looked at Joe, and he sighed.
‘I mean, you’ve always been in charge of money, Freya.’
‘So you don’t care what we do?’ I said.
‘Honestly?’
‘Please.’
‘Just do what you have to do. Rearrange our finances however works best. I just, I don’t know, it’s all a bit much for me at the moment. I trust you, and I’ll do whatever you think is best to make this work.’
I looked at Joe and if there was one word I would have used to describe him it was resigned. He looked resigned to defeat, and it made me sad. I suppose a part of me had still held out hope that maybe he would have turned up today full of determination to fix us. Maybe he would have suggested counselling, and when faced with the reality that we were actually separating, he might have panicked and begged me to give him another chance. I worked for a solicitors’ in Hove, who specialised in family and divorce law, and I had seen my fair share of couples who, after some tough reality checks and some professional mediation, decided that, yes, their marriages were worth saving – especially when faced with the reality of a single life at almost fifty. The thing was, I needed Joe to care and want to put in the effort, and at that moment, neither seemed to be true.
‘Even if it means giving you a fixed weekly budget?’ I said, and I waited for his reaction.
‘Sorry, what do you mean, a fixed weekly budget?’
‘At the moment, all our money funnels into the joint account and we both spend whatever we want and we pay bills from that account too, but if we’re separated, I think it makes sense if we budget ourselves.’
‘And because you bring in more money, I assume you’re suggesting you get a bigger budget than me?’
‘I think that’s fair, don’t you?’ I said. Perhaps this was the thing that was going to elicit a response and make him care. However, after a moment, he just looked at me and smiled.
‘I suppose it does. How much pocket money will I get?’ I detected the sarcasm in his voice, and I knew he didn’t love the idea, but he would accept it because he wasn’t up for the fight, and also when it came to finances he knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on. We existed almost exclusively on my wage.
‘We can discuss the details later. Shall we move on?’
‘Suppose I’d better enjoy this coffee now, while I can still afford it,’ said Joe, before his face broke and he added, ‘I’m only joking.’ Although it was clear he definitely wasn’t.
We discussed the finer points of our separation, and what would happen after Joe had moved into the spare room. We would disclose any dates to the other person, and no dates would be brought back to the marital home, obviously. Although we both acknowledged that neither of us were expecting anything to happen on that front anytime soon. We would, as much as possible, try to keep eating together, mainly for Dolly’s sake, but as our lives separated further, alternative shopping and eating schedules would emerge. Flexibility would be needed, I stressed like a politician discussing difficult policy changes. The main thing, we both emphasised, was that no matter what happened over the next six months, Dolly always came first. She was the greatest thing we had created, and she was at a pivotal point in her education, and we weren’t going to fuck that up just because we didn’t want to be married any more.
Eventually, after almost two hours of talking, we stood outside the coffee shop, about to say goodbye. Opposite was a florist: Joe had bought me flowers there once on his way home from London after a successful meeting and had good news to share. It felt like a lifetime ago now, and was another reminder of the complete and utter failure of our marriage. We had agreed upon our ‘Manifesto of Separation’ without arguing or raising our voices – much – which felt like a bit of a triumph. But was it too easy? Shouldn’t Joe have argued his corner just that bit harder? Joe had never been one to fight and, over the course of our marriage, I could count the amount of times we had shouted at each other on one hand, but that part of us that I used to think was a positive was now suddenly a giant red flag.
‘I’ll see you later then?’ I said to Joe.
‘Okay. We can talk with Dolly.’
‘Should we order a takeaway? Stress that, despite our break-up, we can still do normal things together.’
‘Good idea. Perhaps an Indian?’
‘Sounds great.’
‘Right then.’
‘Off to see your mum?’
‘Said I’d pop in after. You?’
‘Just home to work.’
