Negotiations

Hattie likes a morning shout at the radio, but I prefer a quiet coffee. Is that too much to ask?

But they do seem to spend rather a lot of time back here with their mum

When I get downstairs she’s shouting at the radio again. As I rummage in the breakfast cupboard I tell myself I should be used to it by now.

Hattie’s a news junkie. In particular, get her on the subject of politics and she’s unstoppable. Don’t think for one minute you’ll get a word in edgeways either. You won’t. I’ve tried. Apparently, I don’t know what I’m talking about.

I realise I’ve left my specs on the table next to my side of the bed. I don’t really want to tramp up two flights of stairs again – we sleep in the loft extension – so this morning, cereal-wise, I’m going to have to wing it.

As well as being unable to get through her day without a feast of political commentary, Hattie is a born organiser.

Unfortunately, she’s not very good at passing on her system to the person she shares her life with. I suppose it comes with having had the house to herself for the past 15 years since the kids left home.

She has this dreadful habit of emptying the contents of each new box of cereal into different white plastic airtight containers, without bothering to label them. The result is that unless I’m wearing my glasses I can’t actually make out what it is I’m eating till it’s too late. Have you ever tried to cook muesli, in the mistaken belief it’s porridge? Take my advice. Don’t.

‘Flaming Brexit talks!’ I hear her cry.

My head hurts. How can she be so lively at 8am? She’s already dressed and by the look of exhaustion on the dog’s face she’s taken him out as well and put a load of washing on. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already made her list of jobs for me to do.

It’s a list that gets longer every day, because, frankly, I’m no handyman. When we first got together through the dating website it was all about her looking for companionship and someone with a GSOH. Competence with an electric drill or familiarity with the house’s ancient plumbing system was nowhere on her list of essential requirements in a life partner.

‘The whole thing makes my blood boil,’ she continues.

Did I mention that Hattie’s 50? I’m 52. Yes, we’ve lived a lot of life as single people, each in our own separate houses – or flat, in my case, never having had the encumbrance of a dog, or children. Unlike Hattie.

Ah, yes. Children. I believe I’ve already mentioned them, albeit briefly. Miranda and Tom. They’re adults now. Both have jobs. Both have their own places – rented, of course, this being the age we live in. But they do seem to spend rather a lot of time back here with their mum, turning up unannounced, helping themselves to whatever they can lay their hands on and generally getting in the way.

When I suggested – only last night, in fact – that she ought to speak to Tom about the habit he had of turning up just when dinner was about to be served, Hattie got on the defensive. This was still his home, she said. It was unthinkable that she should take his key off him. She said other stuff too. Like, since I’d never had children I couldn’t possibly understand the bond between a mother and a son.

Well, maybe I can’t, I said. But one thing I do understand is when one person is being taken advantage of by another. As I gradually begin to wake up a bit more, I remember

something else I said. Something about if he were as familiar with the vacuum cleaner as he was with the cake tin then I might have more time for him.

As I tip what I hope is porridge into the saucepan it occurs to me that the reason Hattie is even more engrossed in her one-sided conversation with the radio is because she’s giving me the silent treatment. Well, perhaps two can play at that game.

When I said I was moving in with Hattie, who’s been divorced now a good 10 years, Jim, who I guess you’d call my best friend, gave me the kind of horrified look you’d give a man who’d just told you he was giving up booze for Christmas.

Did I know what I was letting myself in for, he asked me. Several times, actually. Hadn’t I always said I was a confirmed bachelor? He said other stuff too. That I was always going to have to play second fiddle to her kids if I moved in with her and did she have a dog, because if so then I would definitely end up playing second fiddle to that.

I laughed it off. I like Jim, but he’s a bit of a male stereotype. A confirmed pipe and slippers man. A what-do-women-wantbecause-I’ve-never-figured-itout kind of man. If he was in a TV drama it would be one of those on the Drama channel, first shown circa 1980.

He’d be the man sitting in an armchair, hiding behind his copy of The Telegraph, content to let his wife investigate the doings of a dodgy neighbour, as long as she had his tea on the table at six o’clock.

I miss Jim. Hattie fell out with him about something last time he was round and it all got a bit awkward. I haven’t seen him since. But anyway, before I moved in with her and before Jim and I more or less lost contact, I assured him that Hattie

and I

had discussed all of his concerns. We knew the pitfalls, I said. But we were ready for them. We were in love and we wanted to be together. Whatever teething troubles we had we’d see them through.

Well, that was two months ago. I’m feeling a bit less smug now. In fact, should I spot him on the street at a distance, heading in my direction, I’d be inclined to hide from him before he spotted me. Nobody likes having their noses rubbed in it. Because, the truth is, I’m not sure this is working. I mean, I’m an easy going man, ask anyone. But I’m not perfect. There are certain things that – how can I put it? – I prefer done my way. Breakfast in silence. A bathroom I don’t have to book an appointment to get into. No grown-up kids unless by prior agreement. Preferably no dogs.

But this is not my house. So I

How come, when she’s irritated me so much, I still need to hear her voice

guess I have to live by Hattie’s rules. Jim would say it’s a strong case of emasculation. This time next year I’ll be one of those men who trails behind his wife in the supermarket, ticking off things on the list she’s made, having no say whether we buy brown rice or white, butter or low-fat spread, Stinking Bishop or something wrapped in plastic that has no smell, and tastes of nothing.

All these thoughts run through my head as I grab my favourite mug and place it under the nozzle of my fancy coffee machine, one of the few things I insisted I couldn’t leave behind, when I moved into Hattie’s house. ‘Fancy’ is Hattie’s word for it, by the way. To me, it’s just a coffee machine.

I know she hates it being there. It’s too big, she says. And it makes too much noise. It’s impossible to hear the dialogue on her soaps when that thing is chugging away, apparently. That’s another thing, soaps.

‘Total inflexibility.

Utter deadlock.’

I slouch against the kitchen counter, yawn, scratch my head. I can’t even begin to get my head round what she just said. Chug, chug, chug, goes my coffee machine. The first cup of coffee in the morning is a wonderful, restorative thing. I turn around now the chugging has finally stopped, to remove it from under the nozzle.

‘What the…!’

I don’t believe it! Hot, steaming liquid spills over the sides of my mug. It’s obvious what’s happened. Someone’s changed my settings. My yell of pain stops Hattie mid-flow.

‘What’s happened to the Gaggia?’ she demands.

‘Nothing’s happened to the Gaggia,’ I reply. ‘Somebody else has been using it and they haven’t changed the settings back to how I need it for my favourite cup.’

Hattie’s shocked by my fury. ‘Honestly, darling, it’s hardly a big deal.’

I snatch at the mug in my fury. Hot liquid scalds my fingers.

‘It’s a huge deal. It’s my morning coffee.’

‘There’s no need to be so precious about it.’

Her voice is soft, calm. But slightly on edge too. When she speaks again I know why.

‘I’m sure Tom meant to put it back to how it was,’ she says.

Tom. I might have known. I gulp what’s left in my mug, run my scalded digits under the cold tap, then head for the hall. Grabbing my jacket, I growl that I’m going out.

‘Where are you going, darling?’ Her words trail after me. They’re mixed up with other words coming from the radio. The 8.30 news summary. ‘There is still no agreement between Europe and the UK government about our long-term relationship,’ the newsreader gravely declaims.

I slam the door behind me, march down the path and take a left. There’s a bus stop at the end of the street that will take me into town and drop me off outside my favourite coffee shop. I’m already calming down just thinking about it. Add croissants and jam to the mix of thoughts and my mood is practically restored.

Except for that little niggle. The one that jabs me in the temples while I give my order to the waitress and pokes me in the ribs as I stare at my phone.

Living with someone is hard. I’m too used to my own ways. But I’m not the only one. I think about the words I heard Hattie speak this morning about the political negotiations.

The future looks suddenly bleak. But then suddenly my phone rings. It’s Hattie and my heart leaps. How come, when she’s irritated me so much, I still need to hear her voice. She takes a deep breath. And then she says she’s sorry. Sorry for belittling my need for coffee. Sorry for taking Tom’s side against me.

‘I think we need to sit around the table and have a proper talk about how we’re going to make this work,’ she says. I ponder her words.

‘Because I love you. And I don’t want to lose you,’ she adds. ‘And I want you to believe that this is your house now, as well as mine.’

There are things I need to say sorry for too. No doubt Hattie will remind me once I’m home and we’re sat round that table, at the start of our negotiations.

It might take us a while to hammer out a deal. I shall be taking a firm stand on keeping my coffee machine. And Jim’s going to have to come back into my life. I won’t waver on that. But our hearts are willing so I’m sure we’ll get there in the end. Love means love, after all. Whatever Brexit means.

the end