Not What They Were Expecting

1

‘Well at least the date means the anniversary will be easy to remember,’ James said.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘25th December 2011. The day the romance died. Still, five years, four months and seventeen days was a good run.’

‘Oh give over,’ Rebecca replied, ‘I was bursting. Now look away, I’m finishing.’

‘Although even without the romance there’s something about seeing you with your knickers around your ankles…’

‘Shut up and turn around, we’re running late as it is.’

‘I don’t need much time,’ he said, his mouth full of toothpaste.

Rebecca watched as he continued brushing his teeth, and making a big deal of looking away – staring at the bathroom doorframe, whistling, and occasionally feinting as if he was about to turn around. She grabbed the toilet roll from the top of the cistern, and noticed those cobwebs above the door must have been there for months.

‘And it’s five years, four months and fifteen days actually,’ she said over the cranky flush. ‘And I saw you wee in the first six months when we went for a ramble in the countryside after a pub lunch.’

‘I remember that walk,’ he said. ‘Did we—?’

‘No. There was a creepy looking guy with his dogs sniffing around everywhere, and I didn’t want to get grass stains on my skirt. And you freaked me out talking about how the dogs were probably picking up the scent of a dead body.’

‘Ah yeah. You never were much of a country gal.’

She squeezed between him and the shower cubicle and slid her hands into the sink, where he was standing dabbing dots of her Bright Eyes hydrating crème on the circles under his eyes.

‘And who was it that spent half the walk and the entire drive home complaining about getting dog shit on his shoes, Mr One-with-Nature?’

‘Cor, I remember. I loved those trainers. They were virtually brand new then. I should dig them out – I’ve still got them somewhere.’

‘No you don’t. I threw them out.’

‘When?’

‘Three years ago. They were making the wardrobe smell.’

‘Bloody dog shit.’

‘It wasn’t the dog shit.’

‘Are you sure it’s fifteen days?’

‘Anniversary’s the tenth.’

He stared at the ceiling through the mirror while he muttered days quietly to himself, and his thumb counted off his fingers.

‘Sixth, seventh, eighth… Aha! No, you’re wrong it’s… Actually, no you’re right, you’re right. Sixteen days to go.’

‘Just as well you haven’t got a job that needs you to be good with numbers.’

‘Ha ha,’ he said, his arms around her waist as he stretched to reach a towel. ‘It’s this sort of squabbling we’ll be learning to live with now the romance has gone, eh?’

‘I. Was. Desperate,’ she said, poking a finger into his chest, ‘and we haven’t got any time…’

‘I understand, I understand. It’s your condition. I just thought we had maybe a few more months of carefree unencumbered bliss…’

When had her life become so much about taking a piss? Rebecca wondered to herself. A couple of weeks or so before Christmas, she’d been in their cramped, desperately-in-need-of-a-renovation bathroom, trying not to pee on her fingers while she manoeuvred a plasticky stick in place. She wanted to make sure she got it while ‘in midstream’ as recommended by the box. She could hear James outside, pacing across the rug on the landing, over the creaky floorboards to the window in the spare room – soon not to be spare room – and then back again. He’d wanted to come in with her then, but she hadn’t let him. The plan had been she’d take the test, get herself back looking composed and presentable, and he’d come in and they’d wait for the results to become clear together.