Perfectly Ordinary People(69)

‘Um, would you be really offended if I just had toast?’ I asked. ‘You know . . . hangover and everything.’

‘Sure,’ Dan said, snatching the verrine back and nodding at the toaster. ‘Knock yourself out.’

By eleven we’d gone our separate ways, Dan out to an industrial kitchen in Wapping he used for his bigger functions, and me home to feed Buggles before heading out to my parents’.

There I joined Mum, Harry and Suzie in the kitchen, where they were making two of the biggest lasagnes I’d ever seen. One was going to be loaded with the cheap, fatty mince Mum favoured, but the second one, to my relief, would be veggie.

I was quickly put on onion-chopping duties, and as I chopped, Suzie told us about her brother’s new place and we all did our best to sound enthusiastic about him having chosen to live in Ashford.

Once she’d finished, I explained about Dan’s change of heart, which everyone agreed was good news, and then his reasons for having done so.

Mum declared that she would have given him a good punch on the nose, which was a lie, as Mum’s never punched anyone in her life, and Suzie agreed with Mum, saying that birthday or not, describing commitment as a mere concept was definitely a ‘punchable offence’.

Their remarks made me feel a bit upset about the whole thing so, once the lasagnes had been assembled and loaded into the oven, I stayed behind to wash up. This was partly so I could calm myself down a bit, but mainly to avoid having to continue the same conversation with ten extra people in the lounge.

After less than a minute, Harry returned to the kitchen, where he lingered in the doorway, drinking his beer straight from the bottle. We had virtually never found ourselves alone together, and I wondered why that was.

‘I just wanted to say,’ Harry said, when I finally paused scrubbing a pan to look at him, ‘that I think your fella is right.’ He glanced nervously back at the hallway then, to check we were alone.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘OK.’

‘But don’t tell Suzie. I don’t want to get a punch for my wickedness.’

I dried my hands on a tea towel and then turned to face him, leaning back against the worktop. ‘So your commitment to Suzie and your kids,’ I said. ‘Are we suggesting that’s just a concept?’

Harry glanced over his shoulder again and then looked back at me and shrugged. ‘I never really thought about it before, but yeah, I think it is.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘Not in a flippant way,’ he said. ‘I actually think your man’s being quite clever. I mean, look . . . we all like to think we’re these brilliant, infallible moral beings making everlasting pledges left, right and centre. But we’re not. We’re just . . . you know . . . human.’

‘If you’re . . . um . . . about to tell me something I shouldn’t know, then don’t,’ I said.

‘Oh, I’m not,’ Harry said, laughing. ‘Not at all. I’m just . . . look . . . I’d love to be able to say I’ll stay with Suzie for ever, no matter what—’

‘Which is what you promised the day you got married.’

‘Yes, I know that. Don’t you think I know that? And I have. I’m still here, aren’t I? But that’s still just what people say when they get married. The truth, your Dan’s truth, is that there are a whole load of get-out clauses no one mentions.’

‘Get-out clauses,’ I repeated dubiously.

‘Yes, reasons why I would leave her and it would be totally reasonable to do so.’

‘Such as?’

‘Jaysus, I don’t know,’ Harry said. ‘Suppose I found out she was a criminal or a murderer or something. Suppose she told me she’s been in love with someone else for years or she turned full-blown alcoholic like Mavaughn’s brother did and screamed the house down every night. She could start doing heroin or selling it, or I could find out she’s a terrorist or—’

‘OK,’ I interrupted. ‘I get your point, but none of those are very likely.’

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Or I could have my own reasons. I could go bat-shit crazy. Or meet someone and fall in love in some mad, obsessional way that left me feeling like I was dying if I couldn’t be with her.’

‘OK,’ I said again. ‘And your point is?’

‘Plus, those things aren’t that unlikely. They happen to people every day. But your Dan’s point – I think – is that if you see commitment as this cast-iron rule . . . if you see it like a legal text and you don’t know about the get-out clauses – and that is how men tend to see marriage – then the concept can be terrifying. It can start to sound like a prison.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Got you.’

‘But like you said, these things aren’t that likely. Plus most of them are within the control of whoever the contract is with.’

‘In your case Suzie.’

‘And in yours Dan. So I’d say . . . and I reckon that this is his point . . . that the probability that terror of commitment will destroy the relationship – that fear of having to stay with someone whatever happens – is far greater than the probability of Suzie turning into a serial killer or something. And the probability Dan’s fear will destroy your relationship is far greater than the probability that you’d ever give him an actual reason to leave.’