It's Not You, It's Them

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‘I don’t. I’ve only met him once, but he was too confident, too familiar… He and my sister don’t seem to have all that much in common, but she’s the baby of the family, typical youngest child. She can’t stand to be single; she’d rather have the wrong person than no person at all. The opposite of me, really.’

Mark and I have never really spoken too much about our love lives before we met – well, what’s the point? I know he had a serious girlfriend in Yorkshire, before he moved to London, and he always tells me that before he met me he was way too busy for any kind of a love life. When he used to tell me this when we first got together, I didn’t believe him. I’ve seen how women throw themselves at him. But as I’ve got to know him better and fallen in love with him, I’ve realised that he takes things seriously when they are important to him. I can imagine him putting his job first, and he’s so loyal that, when he says he isn’t into one-night stands, I believe him. Who is into one-night stands, anyway? They’re horrible.

‘I’m the only member of the family to have left the county – the village, actually. Everyone else still lives there and no one has any desire to move. You know how we love city living? The fact that the city never sleeps, the bright twinkling lights, Deliveroo?’ he laughs. ‘My parents would hate it. They like peace and quiet, early nights and good home cooking made with locally sourced ingredients.’

‘I see,’ I reply.

Each to their own, but I couldn’t imagine living outside the city centre.

‘Would you ever want to move back there?’ I ask him curiously.

‘Nope,’ he replies quickly and firmly. ‘My mum would love me to – she talks about it all the time – but I’d miss the city. I couldn’t do my job from the village, and I’ve got a thing for foul-mouthed southerners.’

‘I’d better fucking be your favourite,’ I reply jokily.

‘My one and only,’ he laughs. ‘Feeling any less worried now?’

‘No, I’m still terrified,’ I reply honestly.

‘So, plan B is to just distract you, until we get to a service station and I can get you something to eat, thus fixing “bored” and “hungry” – how does that sound?’

I feel my body melt into my chair a little.

‘That sounds great,’ I tell him.

‘OK, so what’s a good distraction?’ Mark wonders out loud.

I clap my hands excitedly.

‘We should play “Would You Rather”.’

‘Really?’ Mark laughs. ‘That’s what the lady wants? OK, sure. You go first.’

‘OK.’ I think for a second. ‘Would you rather… give up football or video games?’

‘Ouch!’ Mark jokes. ‘Going in for the kill straight away. Let me think about it for a second…’

Mark does indeed think this one over for a while. I don’t think I could’ve asked him a more difficult question.

‘Right, I’d have to give up video games,’ he concludes. ‘Because I love football, and I love going to games with my family, and you just never know what’s going to happen. With video games, I know I’ll always dominate.’

‘Nice,’ I reply.

‘OK, my turn,’ Mark starts excitedly, like he’s got a good one for me. ‘Would you rather give up having sex or wearing make-up?’

‘Ah, well, that’s a catch-22 situation right there, because if I gave up wearing make-up, no one would want to have sex with me…’

‘You know I’d rather you went without it,’ he reminds me.

‘Sex or make-up?’ I joke, raising my eyebrows, but I know what he means. ‘OK, well, with that in mind, I’m going to have to say I’d give up make-up – because at least you’ll still have sex with me.’

‘Ah, the winner by default,’ he laughs. ‘Next question?’

‘Would you rather… have a Disney Princess-themed wedding, or only be allowed to drive hot-pink-coloured cars for the rest of your life?’

For five seconds Mark doesn’t say anything, until…

‘Disney Princess wedding,’ he says sheepishly.

I laugh wildly.

‘Buddy, did you pause for just long enough to make it seem like you’re not totally into this Disney Princess thing, when in fact you’re mad for it?’ I tease.

‘OK, OK, if we’re on to the big, life-changing questions – would you rather live in a house decorated by a Star Wars fanatic, or name your first baby Yoda?’

My heart skips a beat. He’s never mentioned wanting kids before.

‘Erm,’ I stall for a moment because I don’t know what to say. Well, I do – it’s that I don’t want kids. But if he’s asking a question like this then he obviously does, right? ‘Probably the second one.’

‘Really?’ he laughs. ‘You’d give our poor first baby that as a name before you’d put up with a bit of geeky wallpaper and a few light sabres on the wall?’

Well, we’re not going to have one, so obviously picking that option is pretty low risk.

I shrug my shoulders casually.

Does Mark want kids? It’s not something we’ve ever spoken about. I guess we were so busy with our whirlwind romance, focusing on how in love we are right now, that we never really thought about our future. I mean, Mark’s proposal was definitely a surprise, but I knew I wanted to marry him – and of course, he asked, so it’s not like neither of us has thought about our future together. We’ve just been too busy being the perfect couple to discuss the details. Perhaps I don’t know Mark as well as I thought I did. I guess I just always figured I’d learn all the things I didn’t know as we spent more time together. All I know is that now is definitely not the time to talk about it.

‘I’m a bit tired, actually,’ I lie. ‘Do you mind if I have a snooze until we hit a service station?’

‘Yeah, sure. You sure you’re OK?’

‘Maybe it’s just low blood sugar,’ I lie again.

‘It’s definitely not low blood sugar given how many biscuits I saw you smash at your parents’ house, but OK,’ he laughs. ‘I’ll wake you when we get there.’

Lying back a little, closing my eyes, I try my best not to think about Mark wanting kids. Well, of course he does; all normal grown adults do, right? Apart from me. The maternal instinct just skipped me, for some reason. It’s not like it’s just the thought of having to take care of a small human for at least eighteen years, what it does to your career, or your social life, or the expense – the thought of carrying a baby for nine months before giving birth actually makes me feel sick. I just can’t handle the thought of it, being ill all that time, irreparably ruining my body, going through the excruciating agony of labour. I have the upmost respect for anyone who chooses to do it, but I choose not to.

I cannot think about this right now. I just need to try and get some rest and concentrate on the task at hand. Getting through a night at my country-bumpkin future in-laws’ place.

I feel my body jolt forwards before my fast-acting seatbelt snaps me straight back into place.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Mark yells at the vehicle in front of us.

‘What’s happening?’ I ask, rubbing my chest under my seatbelt. That’s the thing about boobs and seatbelts; the seatbelt doesn’t stay over your chest so you have to decide between putting it under or over them. I opted for over.

‘I was pulling into the service station when this lorry driver pulled out in front of me. We nearly crashed – it’s a good job my brakes work.’

We pull into the service station safe and sound.

‘There’s the prick who nearly made us crash,’ Mark points out, as a man hops out of a lorry not too far from us in the car park.

Maybe it’s because I’m anxious, stressed or just pissed off, but before I know what I’m doing, I’m getting out of the car and marching over there.

‘Roxie, what are you doing? Come back,’ Mark calls after me, but I’m too far gone. I march over to the bright-yellow lorry. On the side of it the name ‘Starr Haul’ is printed in huge black letters, so I take out my phone and begin googling it to try and get a number to call up so I can report this reckless driver to them.

‘Oi, what are you doing?’ the driver calls out, having glanced back just in time to see me making a note of his registration number.

‘I’m reporting you,’ I inform him. ‘You could’ve killed us.’

‘Could I fuck,’ he snaps. ‘Get on yer way.’

‘What’s your name?’ I ask him.

‘I’m nae telling you,’ he replies firmly in his strong Glaswegian accent. ‘Here you, Jimmy. You want tae control yer lassie.’

Mark takes me by the arm and whispers into my ear: ‘Look, I only understood maybe every fourth word of what he just said but I can tell he’s mad, so let’s just go.’

I shrug him off. As I peer around the front of the lorry, I can see that the driver has a number plate in his window with his name on: Tommy.

‘Tommy, is it?’ I say victoriously. ‘Jog on, mate. I’ve got all I need to report you.’