She Just Can't Help Herself. Ollie Quain

randomly emailed me the other week to say, ‘I’ve told Barbara and Tim from next door that it was decided shortly after Easter you would be going your separate ways …’ As if her neighbours had been glued to the Sky News ticker tape during the summer waiting for an update on mine and Zach’s marriage.

      He sighs at me. ‘I know that Mum will be really sorry for you when she hears the news, Ash.’

      I ignore this comment. He ignores my lack of response.

      ‘So, will you go to the memorial? Because if you do decide to, I’ll come with you. I can drive us there.’

      He clears his throat. Another one of the mannerisms we both seem to have acquired recently. Whenever we are discussing something on the phone, either he or I or both of us suddenly seem to have something obstructing our oesophagus.

      ‘Don’t be silly. You’ve got that pitch coming up.’

      ‘It’s tomorrow. We finished the prep a couple of days ago, thank God. There’s been a lot of late nights in the office with Keith and … the team.’

      ‘Lucky you.’

      Keith With The Bad Teeth is Zach’s business partner. He refers to women as ‘poontang’ and rides a pimped-up eighties BMX along the pavements of East London into work. As Noelle Bamford would say, ‘Nuff said.’

      ‘Seriously, I appreciate the offer, Zach, but I’ll be more than capable of handling this.’

      ‘“Handling this”?’

      ‘Yes. Handling this,’ I repeat. It sounds even worse third time.

      ‘Well, when you decide what you’re doing … you know how to get hold of me.’

      ‘Through your solicitor?’ I joke weakly. ‘Please, can we not talk about this anymore.’

      He manages to smile too. ‘Okay. Hey … look, until I heard the news about your mother, I wasn’t planning on being here when you got back. You’d said you were going to be out late tonight, so I would have made sure I was gone by nine-ish. I want you to know I wasn’t breaking the agreement we made.’

      That being whilst things are being sorted out on the legal front, it’s best we are not in one another’s company. We talk or text when necessary but we avoid face-to-face encounters, especially at our homes. I haven’t even seen the place that Zach has rented, even though it is only a ten-minute walk.

      ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I tell him. ‘It doesn’t matter if we crossover occasionally. Obviously, you’re going to need to pack up the rest of your stuff and, besides, it’s still your flat.’

      ‘Nah, it’s your flat now.’

      ‘Maybe we should refer to it how Prince might: “The Home Formerly Known as Our Flat”.’

      We both emit a short burst of uncomfortable laughter again.

      ‘Well, I’ll, erm … finish off this box and then maybe we could grab some dinner,’ suggests Zach. ‘I know it’s also against the rules, but I don’t like the idea of you being on your own, thinking about all of this. Let me take you out for a Chinese. I won’t tell Kat Moss. Unless you’ve erm … got a hot date coming over later, then of c— …’

      ‘Actually, yes, I have!’ I interrupt, almost manically brightly. ‘I would quite like you to meet him. Nice guy. City trader, got a faintly experimental haircut and zips around on a Vespa … but despite that, isn’t a wanker. Although, I haven’t seen his bike helmet yet. If it’s emblazoned with a Union Jack or a Mod target in the colours of the Italian flag, then we’ll know he is indeed a massive tit!’ I pause, my unhinged laughter hanging in the air. ‘Sorry, I was just trying to l—’

      ‘Lift the atmosphere?’

      ‘Yeah.’ I clear my throat. ‘That.’

      ‘No need to apologise. I started it by making a joke about you having a date … which wasn’t necessary.’

      ‘Mmm …’ I flop faux-casually down onto my giant bean bag—the first piece of ‘furniture’ I bought for the flat. ‘True. It wasn’t. I can’t recall seeing anything on the initial paperwork sent from either of our solicitors instructing us that from now until the decree absolute is signed, one of us has to be the official ‘Lifter of the Atmosphere’ whenever we are in an enclosed space together.’

      He smiles at me. It is more relaxed this time. ‘Actually, we should probably take it as an encouraging sign. Apparently, a reflex desperation to lift the atmosphere is perfectly natural. One of the account managers I work with said that when they were in the early throws of getting a …’ He is as unwilling to use the D word as I am. ‘… well, breaking up with their partner, they went into this strange entertaining mode every time they saw each other.’

      ‘That sounds horrific. We’d better nip this in the bud right now then, or Christ knows where we could end up. Juggling, unicycling, fire-eating, angle grinding, puppetry …’ I prod him with my foot. ‘From now on let’s promise to only communicate with cold stares, monosyllabic replies and signatures in the appropriate places. Deal?’

      Zach reaches over with his right hand to shake mine, but I feel as if he has punched me with it. He is not wearing his wedding band. This is the first time I have seen him without it since we took our vows. We both decided to wear our rings on our right hand. Him because he’s left-handed. Me because the ring was too big for my left hand and I didn’t want to get it fixed. I wanted to wear it as soon as he gave it to me, and then I never took it off. I still haven’t.

      I clear my throat again to stay ‘in situ’, but I am not here … now. It is December 24th last year. I am lying on the bean bag next to Kat Moss. She is the world’s coolest cat. She is the cat that all other cats want to be. She makes being a cat look utterly effortless. And she knows she’s the best. Her meow sounds like she is saying, ‘Meeeeeeeeee …’.

      Kat has been grooming herself intensely. My face is now pressed against her fur, I am inhaling it, wondering if there is a finer smell in the universe than ‘eau de freshly washed feline’. Instead of heading out for my final festive knees-up with Fitz, I’ve come home straight after work to get changed. Zach and I are going out to dinner … to continue talking about ‘it’. I look up as he enters the lounge. I had left the house before he got dressed that morning so I assess what he is wearing: Stone Island wool coat, a ridiculous Christmas jumper which was given to him by his team at their work party the week before, True Religion jeans and, as usual, hi-tops. I like how the laces are tied as loose as they could be whilst still maintaining enough grip to walk in. He has perfected ‘louche lacing’.

       HIM: How’s my Number One girl?

       ME: Good, thanks.

       HIM: I didn’t mean you. I meant Kat Moss. (Picking up our cat. Cuddling her.) But I am also open to hearing how you are too given that although you don’t have the subtle, come thither allure of Ms. Moss—or the impressive whiskers—you’re still very sexy, Ash.

       ME: I know that. But it’s nice to hear that you think that too.

       HIM: And I will always think that. Even when you’re knackered, moody and swollen in places you never knew existed! (Laughing.)

      I swallowed. I had not realised we were laughing about ‘it’ yet. I thought we we were still talking about it. And would be doing more of that tonight.

       ME: What?

      HIM: (Not realising I am not laughing.) Oh, yeah, my Mum told me all about how things just … swell up. Apparently, your sock elastic will feel like you’ve been caught in a wire hunting trap, bra straps will give you welts and you may even need your wedding ring removed with a blow torch. You’ll be forced to live and work in your Snuggle Suit.

      I paused and considered