because you like me,’ he says, laughing, ‘but, I’m sure, if prior to us meeting, you had been presented with a list of ten men’s names and asked which one belongs to a rock star, “Greg” would not be your number one choice.’
‘It depends who else was on the list,’ I say, looking at him as he changes gear then indicates.
‘Okay, so on this list …’ He continues. ‘… other than Greg, are the following; Jon (without the “H”), Kurt, Axl, Mick, Bruce, Gene, Eddie, Freddie, Jim … and Bono.’
‘Ha! But you don’t want to be called a name that is already associated with an established star … especially a dead one. Or worse, a smug one. Besides, you have to think that some singers aren’t necessarily born with the coolest name. They make the name cool themselves. I mean, what’s that guy called who fronts the, erm … Killers?’
‘Brandon Flowers.’
‘There you go!’
‘An isolated case … and to be fair, he’s not really that rock’n’roll. He’s a Mormon.’ He reaches across to rub my knee. ‘Hey, I’ve been thinking about your birthday … you know I was meant to be working? Well, I’m going to organise some time off. I need a break. That place is doing my head in. Why don’t we go somewhere? Have a long weekend. Manchester, maybe? See a band …’
‘Awww, that sounds brilliant …’ I lie. Live music! Drugs! Enforced wild abandon! No, thank you. ‘… but I’ve got a really important meeting on Monday morning at work and I’ll, erm … have to prepare. My boss is on my case about it.’ Another (half-)lie. I do have an appointment first thing that day but it’s not in any way related to my job. And no one would ever be on my case about anything because I’m always a consummate professional. ‘You know me, I hate being unprepared.’
‘Life on the edge, babe.’ He laughs.
‘Yep, I’m all about that periphery. Ha! Anyway, Suze and Maddie wanted us to do lunch. With Rollo and Kian, too …’ I add, in attempt to make it sound more appealing for him.
‘But we did lunch with them last year …’
‘That’s because they’re my best friends. Suze, Maddie and I always see one another on our birthdays. Besides, you get on with Rollo and Kian, and at least you and Suze can go off and you know what …’ I poke him.
He brakes and changes gear jerkily as the road twists.
‘No, what?’
‘God, sorry! Didn’t mean to make you jump. I meant, smoke. She’s the only one left out of everyone who still does.’
‘Oh, right. Yeah, I guess she is.’ He stares straight ahead. ‘But I’m not smoking any more …’
‘Which is why it’s so strange you smell of fags, not to mention unfair, when you’ve put in so much hard work.’
‘Very funny.’ He exhales loudly. ‘Okay, o-kay, I had a couple tonight before the gig. I needed the nicotine hit. It gets me hyped up. And, more importantly, stops me caning crisps.’
‘I still fancied you when you ate salty snacks. What happened to the electronic cigarette thing I bought you?’
‘It’s at home. I look like such a dickhead puffing on it.’
‘You’ll look even more of a dickhead when you’re hooked up to immobile medical apparatus so you can breathe.’
‘I know. I hear you. I’m so sorry, babe. I’ll try harder.’ He glances across at me briefly. ‘To quit …’
I laugh. ‘Stop it! You sound so tormented. I’m not angry with you, Greg … just concerned.’
‘… and you’re right to be concerned. I shouldn’t do it but, in the moment something sort of takes over.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘But I’ll make more of an effort, I promise …’
He takes his hand off my knee to change gear and his man bracelet jangles. I gave it to him and had it engraved on the inside: To my T. T = TRUE LOVE. I wrote this in code to a) make sure that other people did not know what it said as I hate relentless public celebrations of togetherness. (There is a whole section on my blog about the horror of ‘Insta-couples’) and b) because it was such a huge statement from me. I knew I would see it every day. In code, it was less likely to be a glaring reminder that the love I’d experienced before had been so false. It was a lie. The worst kind of lie. The type that breeds more lies.
Let it fucking go.
I find myself emitting a short gasp. It is a breath of realisation. Because it is time. Time to admit it to myself. Time to tell him. It is, isn’t it?
‘Babe?’
I jump. We are parked outside the house. Greg waves the car keys (attached to his mini-Fender Stratocaster keyring) at me.
‘Are you going to get out of the car?’
‘Wha— God, sorry.’
‘You all right?’
‘Uh huh.’ I click off my seat belt. ‘Greg …’
‘That is my name, yes … unfortunately. Ha!’
I don’t laugh. ‘I want to talk …’
His face tenses. ‘Right …’
‘About something good! The last time we discussed it, I wasn’t sure, but now, I think it will be fine. Fine! What a ridiculous word to use. I’ve been going round in circles in my head, not wanting to commit to a decision for so many reasons. But then I thought, what am I doing? In practical terms, we now have a house so it will not be that much of an upheaval as we have way more space. God, I’m sure the noise will still be a shock but you can’t hav—’
‘Awww, babe!’ He interrupts me and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘Thank you. I knew you would see the light eventually. It’s not as if we ever park the car in the garage anyway. Trust me, the guys will be over the moon. And please, do not worry about the noise. When Jez had his studio in his ex’s garage, he egg-boxed the whole thing for sound insulation. Sounds crazy but it works … you need a lot of boxes, so you can’t really do it with the dozen boxes you get at the supermarket. I’ll go to that posh farm shop up the road from your parents’. They’ll have the big trays. Unless …’ He takes a deep breath then gives me one of his Olympic-flickflack-inducing smiles. ‘Unless, we do it properly and get your old man to get some of his builders to soundproof properly. Yeah, I know, I know … you hate accepting anything from him. I do, too, but he did ask if you wanted help renovating when we first moved in and you said, “No,” so, the offer was there. All we need to do is clear out all the rubbish in there. What is in there, anyway?’
I consider whether to reboot the conversation. Are we actually talking about the garage?
‘Babe? Are you listening?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I asked what was in there.’
‘Oh … erm … you know, stuff …’
‘Like what?’
‘Old clothes. Magazines. Letters. Things like that …’
… let it fucking go. ‘But nothing important?’
‘No, nothing important.’
‘Fantastic! So, you can ask Pops and we’ll be good to go. Right you … out.’ He opens the car door and jumps from his seat. ‘I’m going to show you my appreciation in the only—but the best—way I can: N to the O to the O to the K to the I to the E. NOOKIE!’
Seconds later, I am tapping in the alarm code. Minutes later, we are in the sitting room. Greg’s kit is off already. As usual.