Read by Jim Cogan
Dr. ‘Just call me Walter’ Simmons stares at me, twiddling his long moustache like something out of an Agatha Christie novel. “Michael?” he says.
“Sorry, what was the question?”
He offers me a tepid, synthesised smile. “I was just asking whether either of you had anything you wanted to say before we begin?”
I turn to look at Julia, who is sitting on the other side of the couch, her thigh pushed up against the armrest as if she’s trying to maximise the distance between us. She doesn’t look at me, just keeps her eyes trained on Dr. Simmons, apparently irritated by my lack of concentration.
“I think we’re good to go,” I say, trying to hide the contempt in my voice. Or maybe I’m not trying at all. You see, I hate this place. I hate the certificates on the wall with their polished golden frames. I hate the smell of the leather furniture and the spotless carpet. I hate Dr. Simmons’ smug face. But as I keep telling myself, I’m not doing this for me. This is for Julia.
I’m still struggling to work him out. At times, his enthusiasm seems entirely forced, a professional effort. At other times it’s as though there’s genuinely nowhere else he’d rather be than sitting here with us, sorting through our mess.
He continues. “If you remember, last week we talked about the three C’s of a successful marriage: communication, communication, and communication.”
“It’s the communication, stupid,” I joke, but Julia glares at me, and Dr. Simmons looks perplexed.
“Well,” he continues, “today we’re going to be looking at two important aspects of effective communication: openness and honesty.”
I look at Julia, who is nodding along to every word. There was a time when she would have been cynical about this too, so the enthusiasm with which she has engaged with these sessions is worrying. It tells me she’s desperate, that we really are in trouble. I tell myself to concentrate as Simmons keeps going.
“Now remember,” he says, “this is a safe place, where we can be honest and open with each other. So we’re going to talk about where the two of you locate the problems in your relationship, and the aspects of each other’s behaviour and character that you struggle with.”
Doesn’t that sound like fun?
“But before we begin to talk about these negative things, I want us to spend some time focusing on the positives.” He passes us each a piece of paper, a pen, and something to lean on. “Why don’t you spend a few minutes, each on your own, writing down the things that you appreciate about your spouse? These might be aspects of their character, or habits they have, or things they do. Feel free to be as general or as specific as you would like.”
Really? The way we’re going to sort out our differences is to write pros and cons lists for each other? And this is the best that the Psychology PhD here can come up with?
“How long have we got?” Julia asks.
Simmons looks at his watch. “Let’s say five minutes. That should be plenty.”
Five minutes is a bloody long time when you’re staring at a blank piece of paper. Julia looks at me and I catch her eye. Before I know what I’m doing I wink at her. She glares back, and I know exactly what she’s thinking. This isn’t a joke, Michael. I have no idea what made me decide to wink, but I can’t take it back now, and I can’t apologise or explain myself because I’m supposed to be silently drawing up a list of all the wonderful things about my wife.
I pick the pen up and fiddle with it a bit, without actually writing anything. I can hear Julia scribbling away, and I wonder what she’s writing, what her top highlights are. There are some nights when I fall asleep first, so Michael doesn’t keep me up with his snoring, or He likes to buy surprise gifts, like when he bought a new television just before the world cup started, or sometimes when I’m too tired to cook, he’ll give me a break by ringing the takeaway, and then all I have to do is plate the food, pour him a beer, and do the washing up. And honestly, I’m not trying to paint Julia as a bitch here. She’s going to have a much easier time writing a cons list for me, and I know that’s my fault.
Dr. Simmons stands up and stretches his arms out. “Can I get anyone a refreshment?” he asks.
“Scotch, please,” I say.
Julia rolls her eyes, and Simmons appears taken aback. “I’m afraid I’ve only got tea or coffee,” he says.
I smile. “I was just joking,” I say. “Tea would be great, thanks. Milk no sugar.” I would definitely not have been joking had he said yes.
Julia also orders a tea with one sugar, which she only asks for when she’s stressed. Not a good sign.
Dr. Simmons goes over to the corner of the room. He has an electric kettle plugged into the wall and a selection of mugs, all perfectly matching.
While he has his back turned I take the opportunity to study his certificates. They’re carefully arranged on the wall, all parallel lines and right angles. I squint, trying to make out the names of the universities, fully expecting to see the names of some deadbeat old poly, or something worse, but they’re too far away and I didn’t bring my glasses. One of the words almost looks like Oxford, but that can’t be right, not for this charlatan. Although it could be Oxford Brookes, I suppose. And then I can almost hear Julia’s voice: You’re such a bloody snob, Michael.
The Oxford certificate reminds me of a trip we made years ago, trundling down the motorway in our old Ford Escort to visit some friends in Bicester. The traffic was horrendous, backed up in all three lanes after some idiot had lost concentration and caused a minor pile-up. Once we finally got moving properly I realised I’d left one of my bags at home, and then the radio stopped working, and then as soon as we came off the motorway we got pulled over by the police. Apparently our registration plate had been damaged, probably by vandals, and neither of us had noticed. By that point I was steaming, and just about ready to punch someone, which would have made the situation a whole lot worse. Before I could wind the window down Julia stepped out of the car and went to talk to the policeman. A couple of minutes later she opened the door, strapped herself in, and then we were off down the road again. Sorted, just like that.
“Here you go, Michael,”
I look up and see a cup of tea hovering in the air, which I take in both hands. “Thanks, Dr. Simmons,” I say, jolted out of my daydream by the heat of the cup and the steam rising from the liquid, fragrant Assam.
“Really, Michael. Just call me Walter.”
I smile and sip the tea. It’s good and hot, with just the right amount of milk.
“Are we ready then?” says Dr. Simmons, sitting down. “I know you won’t have been able to list everything, but that’s fine.”
Julia murmurs her assent, while I look down at my lap and see the piece of paper, just as bare as it was when we started. I begin to panic, but when I try think of something to write, nothing comes. I think about scribbling down the words registration plate, but it’s a strange memory from fifteen years ago, and having that as my only pro might just be worse than having none at all.
“Would you like to start, Julia?” Dr. Simmons says.
I look at the piece of paper on Julia’s lap. There’s writing on each side. She’s written so much that she had to turn over.
She begins. “I’ve always admired Michael’s inquisitiveness. He always wants to know more, to learn more, to understand more. And that rubs off on me, and I like it. And I appreciate his work ethic. Sometimes I think he works too much, but I know that he wants to provide for us, for the whole family–”
I can’t listen any more. Every word is like a magnifying glass on me, and with every word, the empty space on my piece of paper grows larger, until it seems like the whole world will be enveloped in white. Eventually she stops.
“Thank you, Julia,” says Dr. Simmons. “Thank you for your openness and for your honesty.” He turns to me. “Now Michael, I’m sure you’d like to respond to Julia’s words, but before we get into that why don’t you read what you’ve written?”
I look at him, wondering if he knows. Wondering if he’s doing it on purpose, just to destroy me. I look at the blank piece of paper again, feeling sweat begin to prickle on the back of my neck, and then I look at Julia, who is waiting expectantly. And I wonder if she knows too, if she’s just waiting for written – or in this case, unwritten – confirmation that her husband is, in fact, a complete prick, and then I wonder if they’re both in it together, if this is just a ruse to get at me, for my flaws and my failures, and then I think, don’t be such a bloody idiot.
“Michael?” Julia speaks my name but I can’t respond because my mouth is completely dry. “Haven’t you written anything at all?”
The thought crosses my mind that I could do something drastic: tear up the piece of paper and declare it as a grand romantic gesture, the sign of a love that cannot be confined to words on a piece of paper. But that would be bullshit, and Julia would know it, and she would hate me even more than she does right now, the idiot husband who can’t think of anything to write down, not one single thing that he likes about his wife. I look again at the blank piece of paper and my stomach tightens. And the tragic thing is that I do love her, I love her – and this is a cliché, I know, but hey, sue me – with every fibre of my being. I know this in the deepest parts of myself. It’s just that after all these years, I can’t remember why.
(c) Anton Rose, 2017
Anton Rose is an award-winning author from the Northeast of England. His work has appeared in a number of print and online journals, and you can find him at www.antonrose.com or @antonjrose
As a writer, Jim Cogan creates far too much marketing copy and not enough short stories. Luckily, he is able to scratch that itch by reading other people’s stories aloud to a raucous audience. He has been named Liars’ League Most Valuable Player twice: as writer in 2015 and as actor in 2016.
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