Gaby Struthers, who adored Tim and believed he was special (and therefore she couldn’t be trusted), you behaved as if you thought he was a useless piece of rubbish, which tallied with how he saw himself. You were forceful, too – determined to impose your will. Kerry thinks that’s why Tim married you and stayed with you. You always seemed so intent on improving him. Maybe he hoped you’d succeed.
‘But she’s so relentlessly horrible to him,’ I pointed out. ‘He has zero freedom. I’d give up all hope of improvement and reclaim my life at this point, I think.’ Kerry told me I didn’t understand. ‘Tim has no interest in self-ownership,’ she said. ‘Who’d want to own a product that they perceive as among the most flawed on the market? Francine convinced him early on that his life was more her project than his. He doesn’t think sufficiently highly of himself to treat himself to a second chance.’
She said a similar thing on the way to Bath, about Tim having phoned us out of the blue, five months after writing to us to say he was exiting our lives forever. ‘I’m sure he knew within days that banishing himself was a bad move, but this is Tim. He believes that if he forces himself to live with the consequences of his cock-ups, he’s at least keeping himself in line. Only utter desperation would provoke a U-turn on this scale – a late-night phone call, a summons halfway across the country, with no notice.’
I sort of knew she was right. Or maybe that’s hindsight. I think I can remember being on the verge of saying, ‘But he’s U-turned before, when he left Francine,’ and then stopping myself when it occurred to me that in his farewell letter to us, Tim had written, ‘Francine might contact you with a hysterical and asinine account of my having left her. If she does, do your best to impress upon her that I’ve done no such thing. What I am doing is no reflection on anybody else, nor is it something I am doing “to” anyone, as all but the most ego-ridden will appreciate. I decided it would be beneficial for me and for those close to me if I were to isolate myself, and so that’s what I’ve done. And, more importantly, it’s all I’ve done. I have not left my wife.’
‘Only Tim,’ I said to Kerry. Or perhaps she said it to me. We said it to one another all the time, and still do. ‘Only Tim would leave his wife, then claim emphatically that he hasn’t left her, and mean every word of it.’
We arrived at Tim’s flat at 2.30 a.m. on the night of the surprise phone call, having done most of the journey at an illegal ninety miles an hour. Kerry put her hand on my arm as we pulled up outside number 8 Renfrew Road. ‘Prepare yourself,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to find, but it’s going to be bad.’ The house was a shabby Georgian carve-up on a street that was basically a hill, nearly too steep to park on. The front door was standing open, but the effect was the opposite of welcoming. It was more suggestive of none of the residents caring enough to shut it properly. The communal areas were disgusting. The threadbare carpet was every shade of stamped-in mud, the walls were cracked and damp-stained. The place smelled of a mixture of stale urine and wet dogs. Kerry and I tried not to touch the banister as we walked up the stairs. Tim had one of the two rooms on the top floor, he’d told us on the phone. We assumed it was the one with the open door, from which music was drifting out onto the windowless uncarpeted landing: classical. Songs, in German, a male voice. I looked at Kerry. I probably raised my eyebrows somewhat optimistically. Tim used to listen only to classical music before he met you, Francine – before you called it depressing, and banned it. Kerry shook her head: no cause for optimism. That was when I realised that the guy singing sounded pretty desolate. ‘Tim,’ Kerry called out.
‘Come in,’ he called back cheerfully. The music was turned
‘But she’s so relentlessly horrible to him,’ I pointed out. ‘He has zero freedom. I’d give up all hope of improvement and reclaim my life at this point, I think.’ Kerry told me I didn’t understand. ‘Tim has no interest in self-ownership,’ she said. ‘Who’d want to own a product that they perceive as among the most flawed on the market? Francine convinced him early on that his life was more her project than his. He doesn’t think sufficiently highly of himself to treat himself to a second chance.’
She said a similar thing on the way to Bath, about Tim having phoned us out of the blue, five months after writing to us to say he was exiting our lives forever. ‘I’m sure he knew within days that banishing himself was a bad move, but this is Tim. He believes that if he forces himself to live with the consequences of his cock-ups, he’s at least keeping himself in line. Only utter desperation would provoke a U-turn on this scale – a late-night phone call, a summons halfway across the country, with no notice.’
I sort of knew she was right. Or maybe that’s hindsight. I think I can remember being on the verge of saying, ‘But he’s U-turned before, when he left Francine,’ and then stopping myself when it occurred to me that in his farewell letter to us, Tim had written, ‘Francine might contact you with a hysterical and asinine account of my having left her. If she does, do your best to impress upon her that I’ve done no such thing. What I am doing is no reflection on anybody else, nor is it something I am doing “to” anyone, as all but the most ego-ridden will appreciate. I decided it would be beneficial for me and for those close to me if I were to isolate myself, and so that’s what I’ve done. And, more importantly, it’s all I’ve done. I have not left my wife.’
‘Only Tim,’ I said to Kerry. Or perhaps she said it to me. We said it to one another all the time, and still do. ‘Only Tim would leave his wife, then claim emphatically that he hasn’t left her, and mean every word of it.’
We arrived at Tim’s flat at 2.30 a.m. on the night of the surprise phone call, having done most of the journey at an illegal ninety miles an hour. Kerry put her hand on my arm as we pulled up outside number 8 Renfrew Road. ‘Prepare yourself,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to find, but it’s going to be bad.’ The house was a shabby Georgian carve-up on a street that was basically a hill, nearly too steep to park on. The front door was standing open, but the effect was the opposite of welcoming. It was more suggestive of none of the residents caring enough to shut it properly. The communal areas were disgusting. The threadbare carpet was every shade of stamped-in mud, the walls were cracked and damp-stained. The place smelled of a mixture of stale urine and wet dogs. Kerry and I tried not to touch the banister as we walked up the stairs. Tim had one of the two rooms on the top floor, he’d told us on the phone. We assumed it was the one with the open door, from which music was drifting out onto the windowless uncarpeted landing: classical. Songs, in German, a male voice. I looked at Kerry. I probably raised my eyebrows somewhat optimistically. Tim used to listen only to classical music before he met you, Francine – before you called it depressing, and banned it. Kerry shook her head: no cause for optimism. That was when I realised that the guy singing sounded pretty desolate. ‘Tim,’ Kerry called out.
‘Come in,’ he called back cheerfully. The music was turned
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