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I sometimes think about the near misses. Do you?
I’ve always been someone who’s moulded to the man I’m with. In my younger years I lost myself completely to this affliction. I’d mimic their voice, adopt their taste in music, clothes and films. I’d be the perfect girlfriend, oh yes I would, except these relationships were doomed to failure by the nature of one person being an imposter of the highest order. No malice intended though. Never that.
Now I’m in my middle years and a little more certain of myself, for the first time maybe ever, I am who I am. There’s been a small degree of moulding in my relationship with Scott, but only the things you do to ease your life together. And he’s done it too. We’ve both made small changes to allow the relationship to work. I haven’t lost myself. If this were a novel about rediscovery I’d go further and add ‘I’ve found myself’. But that wouldn’t be true, as much as it’s romantic and neat.
Enough about the mundanity of a relationship that’s fulfilling and content. No one wants to hear THAT do they? I want to revisit the almost lives. I do this on the daily in my head, given I live in the city that I was born in. There are a lot of memories here. The primary school I visit twice a day is within walking distance of the house I lived in with a very odd man. I was 17. Seventeen! Imagine a 27 year old moving in a 17 year old now. When I mentioned this to my eldest son recently he was outraged. His generation won’t even date a girl one year below them. It’s ‘wrong’ apparently.
Anyway, when I think about men I have loved and how I almost had a life with them (if it weren’t for being a fake and a phoney), I start to conjure very real scenes. These lives could have been mine, they could! Imagine a life different to the one you live. All for the sake of not saying ‘I’m not sure this is working anymore’.
Let’s go:
D was a social worker and convinced me to apply for a midwifery degree. In our life together we’d live in one of the ramshackle terraced houses we’d viewed, in a boho part of Leicester called Clarendon Park. Our home would smell of cumin, bananas and old books. The floorboards would be bare save for a hairy rug or three, probably a bit splintery too, so shoes would always be on. The yard would have some neglected pots, probably a full ashtray for all our roll-up smoking pals. The cricket would often be on the radio. We’d eat a lot of lentils, probably bought through a community larder. I’d work at the Leicester Royal Infirmary, on delivery suite, walking home in the wee small hours across Victoria Park, dog tired, feet burning, shows splattered in various bodily fluids. Sometimes he’d meet me for safety reasons, sometimes he’d forget and I’d walk furiously, glancing over my shoulder, wondering what it was like to have a husband who cared more. We’d probably have had lots of children, I’m thinking at least 6. They’d share rooms, wear un-ironed clothes and be a little bit urchin like, definitely jammy. We might not have a TV, in an affected way. We’d host huge roast dinners for all our waif and stray acquaintances, especially the pretty occupational therapists he liked to befriend. We’d walk everywhere, for ‘environmental reasons’ (he actually couldn’t drive, but had lied about it) and we’d both join the local bowls club once the kids were old enough, in an ironic way, though really for the heavily subsidised bar. I think we’d both have got very into cycling at some point, though not in a Lycra wearing way, more as a means of transport. I can’t rule out the purchase of a tandem. Our kids would all go to Oxford like their Dad and be those annoying, extremely gifted kids with zero cultural references, as if they’d been raised on the planet Zog. One day I’d come home to find him on his knees in front of the secretary of the local amateur dramatics group. He’d cry and say it was the first time; he was just experimenting. His lover would shake his head and leave. We’d divorce and I’d probably decide I’d had enough of men, re-train to be a therapist, and explore my sapphic side. One of the children would rebel and become a city banker. D would refuse to attend his wedding but I’d be quietly proud of Miles (born ‘Alchemy’ but name changed in his first week reading PPE at Oxford) and enjoy all the treats he sent me from Selfridges and Fortnum’s, day-dreaming of how different my own life might have been if I hadn’t withdrawn my application to Oxford, at D’s suggestion, all those years ago.
C was a BBC radio producer, committed to never leaving London. I worked in advertising and drank an awful lot of alcohol. In our life together he’d come home one day and break the news that we had to move to Manchester, or he’d lose his job. I’d shrug, think secretly that I’d never thought having kids in London would be that much fun, too many steps for one, and say ‘okay’. We’d relocate to Didsbury and I’d get a job at a local ad agency. I’d be deeply unhappy upon realising that it wasn’t like London. Everyone had a life outside of work, they didn’t get drunk with colleagues every night, instead doing normal things like an exercise class, a big shop, or just relaxing in their reasonably-ish priced homes. I’d irritate C by banging on about Liverpool a lot, how much I loved my uni days there, how I didn’t feel I knew Manchester in the same way. He’d stay away from home as much as possible to avoid my low level malaise, throwing himself into the Manchester music scene and ultimately getting his own show on Radio 6. He’d be the man everybody knew, much like he was in London. His exuberance for life was transferrable. I’d have a baby as an exit-advertising strategy and be shocked when it was a buy one get one free deal. Our twin girls, Ramona and Robyn would make me the perfect candidate to be chosen for the Bake Off - everyone just loves a twin. I’d finish as a finalist and then, instead of trying to make my money teaching baking, working with brands on recipes and the like, I’d be an early adopter of podcasting, egged on by C, himself now an acclaimed podcaster. I’d be one of those people who everyone said was ‘very lucky’ (with their head tilted) to have started a podcast back before they were popular. I’d interview mums and dads about how they feed their family, helped by C’s celebrity BBC connections. Both of us would drink more and more until one day I’d decide that AA was the only answer. C would decide a sober wife wasn’t for him and leave me for a smiley girl in HR with E cup boobs and a penchant for 1950’s style dresses. I’d use my pain to launch another podcast about sobriety and eventually develop an alternative programme to AA. It’d make a lot of money which I would almost definitely spend on luxury yoga retreats and ayahuasca ceremonies. I’d wear kaftans and waft rather than walk. The twins would follow their Dad into the BBC before puberty, DJ-ing a very popular under 18’s disco show on Radio 1, from 5.30am on Saturday mornings. They’d be accused of being nepo-babies, of course. I’d feel utterly disconnected to them, the only one to not have a BBC lanyard. We’d sort it all out in family therapy once they hit menopause, after C and I reconciled. We’d remarry and agree to an open relationship. The twins would find our geriatric enthusiasm for sex disgusting. We’d attend Dignitas together in our early 90’s after his prostate and my hip meant sex was no longer fulfilling, together or with our many lovers.
ID and I met at uni when I was training to be a midwife. He’d just finished his law degree and was about to move back to his home town of Belfast. I was about to drop out of uni and was a bit rudderless. In our life together he’d ask me to move home with him, telling me to ignore my lack of purpose, job or studies. His Dad was high up in the police, we wouldn’t want for anything. So I did. ID joined a law firm and worked very long hours indeed, whilst I played house at his parent’s home, having been given their annexe to live in together. I’d cook and clean, wash and iron all day, making elaborate packed lunches for ID complete with romantic notes. It’d be suffocating to ID, though he wouldn’t say anything, all too aware I’d moved country to be with him. He’d gain weight fast from all my buttery catering. Even his Sunday league rugby wouldn’t stem his stomach growing bigger and bigger. Within a year ID would look like he’d had a bicycle pump taken to him. I didn’t fancy him as much as I did in England. His accent wasn’t as exotic now and his 42 inch waist meant his trousers reminded me of clown pantaloons as I folded them onto hangers. But I’d stay because of my love for his large family, all his brothers jostling and playing like puppies despite being giant grown men. We’d attend church together of a Saturday evening, dressed to the nines for all to see. The local girls would give me evils, after all I’d stolen one of their home grown best boys. I’d feel triumphant, unaware ID was meeting his high school girlfriend after work in the Spar car park. We’d marry in a huge wedding, front page of the local paper. On the honeymoon ID would have a panic attack when scuba diving and confess later over a pina colada that he’d been seeing Clodagh behind my back, that he loved her, that he was sorry. We’d return early to Belfast, manage to get an annulment and I’d get the ferry to England, to Liverpool, where I’d apply to read English as a mature student. I’d love it so much I’d stay for a Masters, then for a PhD, working evening shifts at Keith’s wine bar on Lark Lane to finance my studies. I’d dedicate my life to the works of DH Lawrence and spend my free time searching for treasure on the beaches of Crosby. I’d give romance a wide berth for the rest of my life, stating that men were ‘troublesome’ if asked. I’d refuse to cook for myself or others on the grounds of finding it dull and tiresome. My diet would consist of Jacob’s cream crackers topped with expensive European jarred tuna, shared with my beloved pets. I’d take a daily multivitamin for good measure. My most fulfilling relationships would be with my cats; Gertrude, Miriam, Ursula, Gudrun and Rupert. I’d die happily, alone, surrounded by my felines, who would not eat me, despite popular belief. ID? Of course he’d married his Clodagh, had 3 daughters and made partner at the law firm. He died at the age of 48, on the rugby field. A heart attack. I’d tell lecturer pals this story when they enquired why I was so vehemently against butter. ‘Dangerous stuff’ I’d say.
I do love your writing. Alchemy and Gudrun 😅😂
This made me smile and then laugh. Brilliant 🤩