money for a deposit on a place of our own. While it was true that my flat was cheaper, it was also true that Mel would hate living with me and Dan. Mel was allergic to slovenliness at the best of times and, well, the flat Dan and I inhabited was pretty much the shelter of the slovenly. She’d be fighting a losing battle that would eventually drive her insane.
I looked at the wardrobe again. In Mel’s bedroom it would’ve looked fine with her antique pine dressing table, framed Hopper prints and lilac walls. But in my bedroom it would’ve looked crap because it would never go with my off-white walls, Incredible Hulk poster and bookshelves littered with CDs, records, video console games and my ever-growing collection of comedy videos. I had no concept of what “our” bedroom would look like, but there was little doubt in my mind it wouldn’t look like
my
bedroom. Not if Mel had anything to do with it.
Out of curiosity I read the label on the wardrobe and was horrified. “We can’t buy it anyway. It’s a flatpack wardrobe. Remember the flatpack chest of drawers we tried to assemble that one bank holiday? It took us three days just to find the screws and another three days to give up and chuck it underneath your bed!”
It was a joke of sorts, although to be truthful neither of us had the time or patience for flatpack furniture. Mel, however, didn’t laugh. Instead she fell into the kind of silence you’d imagine fills the air before a volcano erupts. I was scared.
“I’m sorry, babe, it’s just that—”
I didn’t get the chance to finish my sentence. Mel turned and walked briskly away, and I chased after her berating myself for not choosing the option marked LEAVE WELL ALONE.
Ikea was now overspilling with examples from the entire couple rainbow. Ones in matching jumpers, ones with matching kids, odd ones, young ones, old ones—and they were
all
in my way. I lost sight of Mel whilst trying to get round an Indian couple wheeling their children along in two of Ikea’s pushchairs. By the time I’d apologized my way through them she’d disappeared. I raced frantically through Beds, Office Furniture and Storage Units before I caught sight of her in Dining Rooms.
“Mel!” I called out after her, but she refused to acknowledge me. “Mel, wait!” I shouted.
A blond man wearing a herringbone jacket and jeans, with a small boy on his shoulders and his heavily pregnant significant other by his side, tapped Mel on the arm and pointed to me. She stood still but the flow of couples was coming too fast for her to remain stationary for long. She stepped out of the couple slipstream wearily and sat down on a dining room chair that was part of one of the displays. It was a sleek modern-look dining room with a frosted-glass table. A perforated metallic black lampshade hung above it; Swedish novels lined the “Billy” bookcase; a large sign pointed out the wooden-effect flooring was from the Tundra range at £15.00 a square meter.
I pulled up a chair opposite her. “Look, I’m sorry,” I whispered—we were now attracting a considerable amount of attention from passing couples. “It was a stupid thing to say. Of course we can get the wardrobe. Please.”
“This isn’t about wardrobes!” said Mel through clenched teeth, her voice increasing in volume and anger with each syllable. “It’s about
you
and
your
attitude. All I want is a bit of support. Some reassurance. Is that too much to ask?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that a stout couple were watching us as though we were some sort of avant-garde amateur dramatic society. This was my idea of hell. I hated rows in public. I hated them more than anything in the world. “Of course it’s not too much to ask,” I apologized. “You’re right. I’m wrong. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”
Mel’s face contorted in outrage. “You’re not listening to me!” she screamed. Angry tears streamed down her face. “You haven’t listened to a
I looked at the wardrobe again. In Mel’s bedroom it would’ve looked fine with her antique pine dressing table, framed Hopper prints and lilac walls. But in my bedroom it would’ve looked crap because it would never go with my off-white walls, Incredible Hulk poster and bookshelves littered with CDs, records, video console games and my ever-growing collection of comedy videos. I had no concept of what “our” bedroom would look like, but there was little doubt in my mind it wouldn’t look like
my
bedroom. Not if Mel had anything to do with it.
Out of curiosity I read the label on the wardrobe and was horrified. “We can’t buy it anyway. It’s a flatpack wardrobe. Remember the flatpack chest of drawers we tried to assemble that one bank holiday? It took us three days just to find the screws and another three days to give up and chuck it underneath your bed!”
It was a joke of sorts, although to be truthful neither of us had the time or patience for flatpack furniture. Mel, however, didn’t laugh. Instead she fell into the kind of silence you’d imagine fills the air before a volcano erupts. I was scared.
“I’m sorry, babe, it’s just that—”
I didn’t get the chance to finish my sentence. Mel turned and walked briskly away, and I chased after her berating myself for not choosing the option marked LEAVE WELL ALONE.
Ikea was now overspilling with examples from the entire couple rainbow. Ones in matching jumpers, ones with matching kids, odd ones, young ones, old ones—and they were
all
in my way. I lost sight of Mel whilst trying to get round an Indian couple wheeling their children along in two of Ikea’s pushchairs. By the time I’d apologized my way through them she’d disappeared. I raced frantically through Beds, Office Furniture and Storage Units before I caught sight of her in Dining Rooms.
“Mel!” I called out after her, but she refused to acknowledge me. “Mel, wait!” I shouted.
A blond man wearing a herringbone jacket and jeans, with a small boy on his shoulders and his heavily pregnant significant other by his side, tapped Mel on the arm and pointed to me. She stood still but the flow of couples was coming too fast for her to remain stationary for long. She stepped out of the couple slipstream wearily and sat down on a dining room chair that was part of one of the displays. It was a sleek modern-look dining room with a frosted-glass table. A perforated metallic black lampshade hung above it; Swedish novels lined the “Billy” bookcase; a large sign pointed out the wooden-effect flooring was from the Tundra range at £15.00 a square meter.
I pulled up a chair opposite her. “Look, I’m sorry,” I whispered—we were now attracting a considerable amount of attention from passing couples. “It was a stupid thing to say. Of course we can get the wardrobe. Please.”
“This isn’t about wardrobes!” said Mel through clenched teeth, her voice increasing in volume and anger with each syllable. “It’s about
you
and
your
attitude. All I want is a bit of support. Some reassurance. Is that too much to ask?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that a stout couple were watching us as though we were some sort of avant-garde amateur dramatic society. This was my idea of hell. I hated rows in public. I hated them more than anything in the world. “Of course it’s not too much to ask,” I apologized. “You’re right. I’m wrong. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”
Mel’s face contorted in outrage. “You’re not listening to me!” she screamed. Angry tears streamed down her face. “You haven’t listened to a
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