‘Well, I remember when you wanted to perform music, not teach it. You have so much talent in composing, songwriting, singing. But noooo, as usual, anything that requires you to take yourself out of your little bubble isn’t worth the effort.’
We sit and seethe in silence. What a fucking start to Christmas this is. I turn on my Apple music and click on the playlist I’ve spent ages compiling for the journey–Merry Bopmas. As the harmonium kicks in and the bassline descends, I instantly regret making the first trackthat version of Slade’s ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ where that Scottish guy just repeats the ‘hanging-up-your-stocking’ line over and over.
‘Fucking hell, Ed are you just trying to piss me off?’
I quickly skip it. ‘No, I’m not, Kate. I put it on there before I knew you’d be homicidal for the entire journey. I don’t get it. You laughed at that song the first time you heard it. What the hell happened?’
She throws her hands in the air. ‘I laughed at SpongeBob SquarePants as a kid. Does that mean I still have to laugh at it now? People change, Ed.’
‘Well, I haven’t changed,’ I reply, omitting the fact that I still laugh at SpongeBob. ‘I’m still the same person you met fifteen years ago.’
‘Exactly!’ she yells. ‘Maybe that’s the problem. People are supposed to change. We are supposed to evolve.’
‘So I’m the problem?’ I say, laughing in disbelief. ‘Wow. OK. Nothing to do with your unwillingness to actually put some effort into this relationship.’
‘What, because I don’t want to be married with five kids by the time I’m thirty?’ she asks. ‘I know you were an only child, Ed, but that doesn’t mean my womb is going to give you a basketball team to make up for it.’
‘Oh, silly me,’ I reply. ‘How stupid of me to assume that we were planning for the future like a normal couple. You know, building a life together and—’
‘You’re building a life that I don’t want!’
My blood finally boils. ‘Oh, fuck you.’
I see her lip tremble, but she stares straight ahead. ‘I think we should take a break. This isn’t working anymore.’
I nod. ‘At last, something we agree on.’
As she turns to face me, the traffic finally starts to move.
Kate
In 2014, singer Tara Mitchell left the hugely successful girl group Hype to start a family with her famous premiership footballer husband, Andrew Brown. Two children, a TV panel chat show, countless magazine deals and a very public affair later, Tara Mitchell-Brown opted to divorce Andrew and take advantage of our firm’s notoriously ruthless reputation in order to, and I quote, ‘take the cheating, lying wazzock for everything he’s got’.
While managing partner, Harriet Parish, was delighted to have Tara (and her forthcoming settlement) as a client, she was less delighted to be dealing directly with someone with a strong Geordie accent who openly supports the Labour Party.
‘She’s from your neck of the woods, Kate– I’m sure you’ll be able to offer her excellent representation. I think Julian is perhaps a little too public school for this one. They wouldn’t click. You’ve made quite a name for yourself, dealing with these reality-TV-personality types– keep it up.’
About a year after I joined the family law department at Parish Scott Taylor, I began to realise that I wasn’t hired solely on merit. A department which normally represented high-ranking politicians, bankers and CEOs quickly understood that the rise in popularity of influencers, WAGS, content creators and social media stars, was a highly lucrative market to tap into. Evenfive minutes of fame could be turned into a brand, making millions from deals, endorsements, merchandise and public appearances. They were young, rich and (fortunately for our firm) tended to get married rather impulsively. But, unlike the majority of our clients, they were, well. . . normal people. Normal people who didn’t own Fortune 500 companies, or sit on the front benches in parliament, or continue to give themselves fat bonuses at the end of a poor financial year. They were relatable. Likeable. They had regional accents and a state-school education and were smart enough not to squander an opportunity, working their backsides off to have a better life. Which is why I was hired. These people were me.
I still get drafted in to work on the occasional mega-bucks marriage dissolution, where the list of assets reads like a Harrods brochure, but over the past six months, I’ve dealt with a YouTube creator with over 26 million followers, a reality-TV star with a fitness empire and (my favourite) aMasterChefcontestant with a lucrative TV and book deal, who divorced a property tycoon, then anonymously donated her settlement to a children’s hospital because she was determined thatsomething good should come out of this shitshow.
Ed just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand why I work so hard in a job which makes me unhappy. Why I chose this over human rights– undoubtedly, a far more noble pursuit. I tell him that I took this job in family law because my mother was left with nothing after my father divorced her. Not that he had much, but nothing was in her name. Not even her car which he loaded up with her things and took. I tell him I work hard to make sure everyone is treated fairly, especially the children, and while this is true, it isn’t the whole story. I do have another motive but it’s one which I’m ashamed to admit, even though I feel it in my bones. I choose to work in this environment because I’m surrounded by people who haven’t settled for a mediocre life,and I’m scared to death that I might wake up one day and realise that’s exactly what I have.
When we pull up at Welcome Break motorway services, Ed and I haven’t spoken for forty minutes. He breaks this silence momentarily to ask if I want anything to eat but I shake my head, the lump in my throat preventing me from saying anything at all.
‘See you back here, then,’ he mumbles, taking the keys out of the ignition.
I grab my bag and make my way to the bathrooms, desperately trying to get into a cubicle before I begin to cry.
I use the toilet, wash my hands, then take a moment to compose myself, hoping my face isn’t actually as red as the fluorescent lighting in here suggests. Christ, I look a mess.Nothing like a mirror in a public bathroom to make you feel worse about yourself, I think, trying to flatten the crown of flyaway hairs which has formed on top of my head. Jesus, it looks like someone’s rubbed my head with a balloon.
Normally, this would be the time when I meet up with Ed at the food court and we compete to find the worst sandwich possible, which, given the choice, is actually more difficult than it sounds. Ed won in October with an egg and cheese monstrosity which got hurled out of the car window at 70mph, while I won in June with a prawn baguette which smelled like it was made in 1955. These road trips used to be like a little adventure, a chance to get away from everything and just relax. Be silly. Just be Ed and Kate– the two idiots who met at fourteen and have made each other laugh every day since.
I take a breath and wipe the mascara from under my eyes before making my way into the food court. I feel too upset to eat but I’ll grab some water for the car. I could murder a cigarette, but he’d only spend the rest of the journey moaning about the smell.
I return to the car where Ed is already back in the driver’s seat.I usually drive the second half of the journey, but I don’t mention it. He still looks angry and at this point, it really doesn’t matter. I slip into the passenger seat and close the door.
‘Shall we just head home, then?’ he snarls. ‘Cos, there’s no way I’m breaking this news to my parents at Christmas. I’d rather say we broke down or died or something.’
