wrench for him, especially with Elgar’s Dream of Gerontius coming up.
We haven’t talked about our several-months-long separation. It doesn’t feel right to ignore it, to act as if it never happened, but I don’t want to be the one to bring it up and push for answers that I may not want to hear. So I throw myself back into my teaching. Most of the time, I use a studio in central London, not far from Oxford Street. Sometimes, if all the studios are booked up I teach in the flat.
Before we got married, we thought about selling our flats and buying a house, maybe one of the Edwardian houses a bit further north, but still close to Ladbroke Grove. My flat wouldn’t be big enough for children, Sandy said. I remember being struck by a strange feeling when he said that. We’d never seriously discussed children and his remark made me realise that he’d simply taken it for granted they would eventually materialise. I had assumed that, too, without really giving it any thought. But when he began talking about the children we would have to fit into our home I was terrified. I made all the right noises, but inside my head all I could hear was some inner voice whispering, No, no, no .
I remember, too, that when we first got together I woke up once to find him gazing down at me. I rubbed my eyes to get the sleep out of them and squinted up at him.
‘That’s a strange look you’re giving me,’ I said.
‘I’m thinking that, if we have a child, I want it to have your eyes.’
‘Well, I certainly don’t,’ I said. ‘My eyes are far too small!’
‘Ah, but that’s why they sparkle so much!’
Foolishly, I had thought at the time that the conversation was about me, but even then he must have been thinking ahead to children that didn’t yet exist. And never would.
We never did get around to buying a house. Sandy sold his flat in Fulham and moved in with me and, a year or so after we got married, we bought the basement flat and connected the two to make a maisonette. I stopped taking my birth-control pills, but secretly prayed I wouldn’t get pregnant. Sandy didn’t seem to anguish over it. Once or twice he suggested it might be good for both of us to get checked out. But we didn’t do anything about it and, now, when I look back, I ask myself why Sandy didn’t push more. I don’t have an answer. In any case, I don’t think I was the only one feeling ambivalent about having kids because Sandy eventually stopped talking about them, too. If he had been that keen, wouldn’t he have made more of an issue of it?
I’ve started going to the gym with Ursula. I hated it at first, and tried to find excuses not to go, but Ursula wouldn’t let me back out. Now, I look forward to the sessions. I feel good after them.
I’ve also started to see a psychotherapist, but the pressure to do so has come less from Sandy than from Ursula and Angela.
‘Her name is Sheila Fitzgerald and she’s good,’ Ursula said, handing me a piece of paper with a name, address and telephone number. ‘She’s Irish, too, so she’ll have a head start on understanding where you’re coming from.’
‘You went to her?’
‘No, but one of my exes did. I rang him up and got her deets.’
I like Sheila. She’s about the same age as Angela, around sixty. She even looks a bit like Angela – on the sturdy side and with once-fair hair, cut in a soft bob below the jawline. At our first session, just over a month ago, I sat facing her and told her about the Crumlin incident that had brought me to her. Now it’s the beginning of June and I’ve been seeing her twice a week, but we haven’t returned to the Crumlin episode yet.
Our sessions go like this: I lie on a couch and Sheila sits at the back of the room, where I can’t see her, and I talk and talk. I talk about anything and everything, but not about Crumlin. I’m doing this reluctantly. I’m doing it because I know I have to do it if I’m going to get a grip back on my life.
So I talk
We haven’t talked about our several-months-long separation. It doesn’t feel right to ignore it, to act as if it never happened, but I don’t want to be the one to bring it up and push for answers that I may not want to hear. So I throw myself back into my teaching. Most of the time, I use a studio in central London, not far from Oxford Street. Sometimes, if all the studios are booked up I teach in the flat.
Before we got married, we thought about selling our flats and buying a house, maybe one of the Edwardian houses a bit further north, but still close to Ladbroke Grove. My flat wouldn’t be big enough for children, Sandy said. I remember being struck by a strange feeling when he said that. We’d never seriously discussed children and his remark made me realise that he’d simply taken it for granted they would eventually materialise. I had assumed that, too, without really giving it any thought. But when he began talking about the children we would have to fit into our home I was terrified. I made all the right noises, but inside my head all I could hear was some inner voice whispering, No, no, no .
I remember, too, that when we first got together I woke up once to find him gazing down at me. I rubbed my eyes to get the sleep out of them and squinted up at him.
‘That’s a strange look you’re giving me,’ I said.
‘I’m thinking that, if we have a child, I want it to have your eyes.’
‘Well, I certainly don’t,’ I said. ‘My eyes are far too small!’
‘Ah, but that’s why they sparkle so much!’
Foolishly, I had thought at the time that the conversation was about me, but even then he must have been thinking ahead to children that didn’t yet exist. And never would.
We never did get around to buying a house. Sandy sold his flat in Fulham and moved in with me and, a year or so after we got married, we bought the basement flat and connected the two to make a maisonette. I stopped taking my birth-control pills, but secretly prayed I wouldn’t get pregnant. Sandy didn’t seem to anguish over it. Once or twice he suggested it might be good for both of us to get checked out. But we didn’t do anything about it and, now, when I look back, I ask myself why Sandy didn’t push more. I don’t have an answer. In any case, I don’t think I was the only one feeling ambivalent about having kids because Sandy eventually stopped talking about them, too. If he had been that keen, wouldn’t he have made more of an issue of it?
I’ve started going to the gym with Ursula. I hated it at first, and tried to find excuses not to go, but Ursula wouldn’t let me back out. Now, I look forward to the sessions. I feel good after them.
I’ve also started to see a psychotherapist, but the pressure to do so has come less from Sandy than from Ursula and Angela.
‘Her name is Sheila Fitzgerald and she’s good,’ Ursula said, handing me a piece of paper with a name, address and telephone number. ‘She’s Irish, too, so she’ll have a head start on understanding where you’re coming from.’
‘You went to her?’
‘No, but one of my exes did. I rang him up and got her deets.’
I like Sheila. She’s about the same age as Angela, around sixty. She even looks a bit like Angela – on the sturdy side and with once-fair hair, cut in a soft bob below the jawline. At our first session, just over a month ago, I sat facing her and told her about the Crumlin incident that had brought me to her. Now it’s the beginning of June and I’ve been seeing her twice a week, but we haven’t returned to the Crumlin episode yet.
Our sessions go like this: I lie on a couch and Sheila sits at the back of the room, where I can’t see her, and I talk and talk. I talk about anything and everything, but not about Crumlin. I’m doing this reluctantly. I’m doing it because I know I have to do it if I’m going to get a grip back on my life.
So I talk
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