February
Wednesday February 1st
As we pulled up outside Pam’s office, I was hit by a tidal wave of nostalgia. I’d spent hours of my life in that office, trying to understand myself, crying over old boyfriends, admitting my mistakes and forgiving myself for making them. And now here I am again.
Oliver stared solemnly out of the window. I still half-expected him to make a run for it.
‘Don’t look so scared, Oliver, she doesn’t bite.’
‘I’m not scared!’ he responded a little too quickly. ‘I’m just . . . wondering how we got here.’
‘We drove, Oliver,’ I replied flippantly, turning off the engine. ‘Let’s just go up.’ I grabbed my bag and exited the car, knowing full well what he had meant. I’ve wondered that too. The great Oliver and Phoebe who once couldn’t keep their clothes on have now gone back to being mates who occasionally think about shagging each other but never get around to it. We’ve been friends for over twenty years and I’m scared that falling in love has turned us into something that might not last for twenty more.
The betting shop that once stood underneath Pam’s consulting room is now a Pound Shop, so long gone are the desperate-looking punters, smoking furiously outside between bets. As we pass, I notice that they carry my favourite conditioner and make a mental note to stock up after our appointment. My relationship may be in trouble but there’s no excuse not to have tangle-free, shiny hair at a discounted rate.
We made it up to the first floor and sat in the waiting area, Oliver perched on the edge of a plastic chair while I turned off my mobile phone. The reception area always reminded me of sitting outside the head teacher’s office in high school, a place which, if I remember correctly, Oliver frequented often.
‘You’re making me nervous, man!’ I whispered, gently placing my hand on his arm. ‘It’s not a police interview. Relax.’
‘She’s not going to make me lie down on a big couch, is she?’ he asked, tapping his foot on the tiled floor. ‘Or make me talk about my mother . . .’
‘No, Norman Bates, it’s just a chat. You’re not—’
We were interrupted by the sound of Pam’s door opening. A man in his twenties wearing a brown leather jacket emerged, chuckling loudly. I felt grateful for the happy vibes. He was followed by Pam, who told him she’d see him next week and asked us to come in.
Pam Potter hadn’t changed a bit. Her hair was a bit longer but she still wore the same hippy shit she always did and had the same big Cheshire Cat smile. She welcomed us in.
‘Very nice to see you, Phoebe,’ she remarked as we walked past her and into the room. ‘And Oliver. Nice to meet you. Please. Have a seat.’
Oliver smiled but his eyes were darting everywhere, taking everything in; the odd ornaments, the purple seat covers, the small kitchen with a bear-shaped tea caddy on full display. I warned him that she was a tad unconventional but I don’t think he fully believed me. We sat down on the couch while she filled up a jug of water from the kitchen.
‘Shedoeslook like Tina Fey!’ Oliver whispered from the corner of his mouth.
‘So what brings you both here today?’ she asked, placing the water jug and two glasses on the table. Oliver crossed his arms in a manner that can only be described as ‘fuck off’.
‘Why don’t you start, Phoebe?’
‘Right. Um, sure.’ I began, positioning myself further forward on the couch. I could sense Oliver tensing up beside me. ‘I think we’re here because we’re stuck in a rut.’ I continued. ‘We’re not connecting the way we used to. I know it’s probably normal; kids come along, your sex life dwindles . . . work stress . . .’
She nodded. ‘Are you still intimate with each other? I’m not exclusively referring to sex, it can also include cuddling, talking, date nights. Do you make time for each other?’
Oliver was still mute. Jesus, I might as well have come alone.
‘I don’t think we do,’ I replied. ‘I can’t remember the last time we went out together. It’s always separately. But someone has to stay with Molly. And it’s not appropriate to be slobbering over each other in front of her, is it?’
Pam smiled. ‘Slobbering no, but it’s actually very healthy for your child to see you display affection for each other in front of her. Age-appropriate displays, of course, but seeing your parents secure in their relationship is never a bad thing. How is your relationship in general? Do you still—’
‘We don’t laugh as much as we used to.’
He speaks! I turned to look at Oliver but he avoided my gaze. ‘Our lives aren’t as fun as they used to be,’ he confessed. ‘Things got very serious, very quickly; the pregnancy, moving in together, becoming parents . . .’
Fucking hell, Oliver, unload much?
‘This was a difficult transition for you?’ Pam asked.
Oliver shrugged. ‘Not difficult as such . . . but when I stop and think about it, I realise how much we both had to change to make it work.’
Pam nodded as she scribbled in her little book while I listened to the once-reluctant Oliver convey just how much he missed the old us. The silly us. The carefree, funny, unburdened us.
