Page 19 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
How many series of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel are there?
Who is Mrs. Maisel actress married to in real life?
Chapter 7
Neil’s dented gray Škoda pullsup outside my house. As he gets out of the car, he immediately trips over a paving stone, then laughs at his own clumsiness. Neil looks exactly how I imagine a tired, middle-aged divorced dad to look. If they were making an advert for KFC where the father is taking his kids out for a family bucket, they’d cast an actor who looked just like Neil. He’s average height, with thinning hair, a short beard, and a slightly round gut, but his face is attractive and he has kind eyes.
“Ready to catch some fish?” Neil asks jovially. Then he opens the passenger door for me and gives a flourish of his hand, as though he’s a footman showing me into a royal carriage. A few dozen brightly colored loom bands lie strewn on the floor of the car like confetti.
“What’s your story then?” Neil asks, once we’re driving.
“My story?” I ask.
“Yeah, how come you’re divorced? Don’t say if it’s too personal. I find it’s easier to blurt these things out, get it out of the way.” He tightens his hands around the steering wheel. “People assume I cheated on Sheila, and that’s why she left, but it was theother way around. I know there isn’t always someone else”—he glances across at me—“but there usually is.”
“Right,” I say. The question makes my chest tighten.
What was our story? That we were happy for fourteen years, busy and tired, but always a team. Then somewhere along the way, something changed. Dan got passed over for a promotion at work. He said he thought he would have achieved more by thirty-five, that he felt like he was on a treadmill, every day the same. He started losing his hair and when he looked in the mirror, he saw a middle-aged man. He told me he didn’t want to die having done nothing with his life, which hurt because our life, our family, didn’t feel like nothing to me. He became harder to live with, started drinking more, laughing less.
I found myself doing everything around the house and for the children. He was struggling to function, so I picked up the slack. Small things I hadn’t noticed before began to inexplicably annoy me: the way he dried himself after a shower, his inability to iron his work shirts, how he ran his tongue around his teeth after a meal. Sometimes I felt disgusted by him. I felt as though I were walking on eggshells, especially when he’d had too many beers. He was clearly depressed but couldn’t talk about it, and we were all drowning in his misery. I didn’t let myself question whether I had fallen out of love with him, didn’t admit to myself how lonely I was. I certainly didn’t confide in anyone how bad it had gotten.
Then one day, it was as though Dan woke up and decided to be the master of his own destiny. He quit his job, found a new one, stopped drinking, and started taking antidepressants. He shaved his head, bought books on nutrition, and took up cycling. Things looked hopeful for a while, but then I realized that among all the things he wanted to change about his life—his hair, his job, his waistline—I was on the list too. When he asked for a divorce, I felt relieved, and then ashamed, and then heartbroken.
But I don’t tell Neil any of this, I just say, “Dan left me. There wasn’t anyone else, though there is now.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he says, offering me a wine gum from the glove box by way of consolation.
“I’m fine, life goes on.” I hear myself repeating the line I say to everyone who asks how I’m doing.
“Well, clearly he’s a wanker,” Neil says, pulling a face, crossing his eyes, and sticking out his tongue. It’s unexpected and childish and makes me exhale a short, sharp dart of laughter. We move on to lighter subjects. Neil tells me about his job in IT and asks about my career in journalism. We talk about the children’s school and he does a funny impression of their new headmistress, her nasal, clipped voice. Slowly I feel myself start to relax.
When we arrive at the lake, Neil collects a cool box, rod, and canvas bag from the back of his car. I offer to carry something, but he says he’s “got a system.” We head through a wooden gate, which leads onto a footpath that hugs the bank of the lake. It’s an idyllic spring day. Wildflowers sprout along the side of the footpath, and there’s a bosky smell of new growth after a long winter. A couple with young children on bikes run past us, the man yelling at his son to keep away from the water. Neil and I share a look, gratitude that today, that is not us. As we stroll around the lake to find the fishing spot, Neil’s gait relaxes, like he’s an amphibian returning to his natural habitat.
Once we find the spot, Neil opens his case full of fishing tackle and shows me how to bait a line. He hums to himself, and I can see in his face that this is his happy place. “My grandad used to say fishing is like life,” he tells me, looking wistfully across the water. “You don’t know when you’re going to hook something good or when your line is going to break, but if it were easy, where would the satisfaction be? Fishing’s the thing that’s kept me sane this year.”
“I like that,” I say, returning his smile. Looking across at him, I wonder whether Neil is the kind of man who could grow onyou. Perhaps beneath the scruffy cargo trousers and slightly tragic air, there’s a hidden sexiness just waiting to be discovered. Whether I could fancy him or not, he seems far more normal than any of those men I met online. Maybe this “dates picked by the kids” idea isn’t so crazy after all.
Our peaceful moment of reflection is fractured when a man on a mountain bike sweeps past, causing two ducks to launch themselves off the footpath and into the water, disturbing Neil’s line. He scowls at the cyclist, and I realize this might be a good opportunity to bond with him about our mutual dislike of the sport.
“Bloody cyclists,” I mutter with a pantomimed eye roll.
“Right, cycling is such a cult these days,” Neil says, taking the bait. “When people invented bikes in China or whatever, they were just a method of getting from A to B; no one shaved their legs to improve their ‘aerodynamic performance.’ This cult of fitness, selling all this unnecessary kit to people—it’s maddening.”
“I completely agree,” I say.
“Sheila’s new bloke is a cyclist,” Neil tells me as he winds in the fishing line. “He’s this middle-aged guy with a bigger gut than mine, but he shaves his legs, as though that extra mil of wind resistance is going to make all the difference. Wanker.” Neil’s friendly face is now blighted by an ugly sneer.Is that how I sound when I talk about cycling? Is that how I look?The thought stops me in my tracks.
“I did nothing wrong, and now this guy gets to put my kids to bed at night,” Neil goes on. “I’m relegated to Weekend Dad because Sheila wanted to fuck some guy she met at a marketing conference. How is that fair?”
“I know, it sucks,” I say. Now I feel bad for bringing up bikes.
“Sorry for swearing.” Neil shakes his head, then lets out a slow exhale. “You want to have a go at a casting?” he asks, holding the rod toward me.
“Sure.”
Now that we’re back to fishing, Neil’s happy demeanor returns. He launches into a lengthy explanation about lead drops, spigots, and cast trajectories, but he might as well be speaking Greek. From his demonstration it looks like you just give the rod a bit of a flick, then lob the end into the water.
“You want me to hold on behind you, do one together?” Neil asks, and I suspect this might be one of those moves men pull, like standing behind you to guide your pool cue.
