Maybe, I decided, I should talk to him. I’d pick a moment and have a proper chat, like the grown-ups we both were, and point out ways in which we could make our relationship better.
Over the next few days, I had conversation after conversation with Jude in my head. They all ended the same way: with him saying that of course I was right, he couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to see my point of view. He’d make a contribution to the rent on the flat. He’d make sure he got in early from work at least once a week, on my night off, so we could go out for a meal together. He’d make time over the weekend to help me give the place a good clean.
I never quite worked out what I imagined he would say about how to make things better in bed, because however many times I considered raising that particular issue, I couldn’t find any words at all.
Finally, my moment came. It was Sunday, lunch service at the Ginger Cat was over and for once Jude hadn’t had to go to work, or to a rally, or to some obscure meeting of political people in a pub. So we packed a bottle of wine and a picnic blanket and stopped off at Craft Fever and bought a pack of swanky truffle-flavoured crisps, and walked up the hill to the park. I spread out the blanket and sat down, opening the wine and pouring it into the glasses I’d brought from home, carefully wrapped in the blanket so they wouldn’t chip.
It was a glorious afternoon – one of the last we’d have that year, I thought. The sky was such a deep blue it looked almost purple, and the leaves clashed against it in their early-autumn oranges and golds. Jude spread himself out next to me and put his head in my lap, and I stroked his long hair back from his face, looking down at him and wishing things were simple but knowing they weren’t.
‘So how’s your week been?’ I began tentatively.
‘Fucking horrible,’ Jude said. ‘Relentless. But there’s a proper job vacancy come up, and I’ve been told there’s a decent chance I might get it if I apply.’
This was my moment – or was it? Shouldn’t I wait and, if he did get the job and was earning money, he’d offer to make more of a contribution?
‘That would be amazing,’ I said. I stopped, almost bottling it, but then forced myself to carry on. ‘Because, you see, I’ve been feeling lately that things between us are a bit kind of uneven. Like, in terms of who pays for stuff and who does stuff around the flat, and… you know.’
Jude opened his eyes and stared at me, his face full of reproach. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s just… I mean, when was the last time you bought any groceries, or did any washing or cleaning?’
He sat up, splashing wine into his glass. ‘Are you saying I’m not pulling my weight?’
‘No, of course not. Not exactly. Well, yes, I suppose I am a bit.’
‘You’re saying I should be paying you rent, to sleep with you? Is that it?’
I said, ‘Not rent, obviously. But I don’t get the flat for free. Alice offered, but if I wasn’t living there it could be done up and used for functions and stuff, and so I said I should pay for it.’
‘More fool you,’ Jude said. ‘It’s not all that, anyway, is it? You could find somewhere much better for the same money.’
‘Maybe. But it wouldn’t be right above work, and that’s really convenient for me and Frazzle loves being a pub cat. But that’s not the point. The point is—’
‘You think I’m freeloading. When I earn about ten per cent of what you do, and most of that goes on travel and lunches.’
‘I don’t think you’re freeloading,’ I objected. Although, I realised, that was exactly what I was beginning to think, and Jude’s defensive reaction made me suspect he knew it too. ‘I just feel, sometimes, like the way things are between us isn’t exactly fair.’
Jude looked at me, his expression changing from anger to hurt. ‘I didn’t realise that was what this was about. I thought we had something special, a real connection. Something that could transcend all this stuff. I thought we were both free spirits. I thought you cared about the big issues, just like I do – about justice, and equality, and the planet.’
‘I do care about those things. But it doesn’t feel very just or equal when I’m washing about seventeen of your T-shirts every week. Or particularly great for the planet, for that matter.’
He was still staring at me with those sad eyes. ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. This should be a romantic afternoon and you’re nagging at me like we’ve been married forty years and can’t even remember what romance was.’
‘Pointing out that you haven’t been doing your fair share isn’t nagging. And having to say it doesn’t make me feel particularly romantic, either.’
‘Well, you have now,’ Jude said. ‘Fine. You’ve made your point. We can go back to the flat right now and I’ll put a wash on, if that’ll make you feel better.’
I sipped some of my wine. We hadn’t brought a cooler and it was already losing its chill, the bottle streaming with condensation. All at once, I felt a deep weariness. How easy it would be, I thought, to apologise, thank Jude for offering, say we’d stay here and we could give the flat a bit of a tidy-round together in the evening. How easy it would be to just let things return to how they’d been – how Jude clearly wanted and expected them to be.
But I remembered what the app had said: You know what to do with your excess baggage, Aquarius. Ditch it, or pay the price.
Why was I letting this happen? What was I being taken for a mug? What had happened to fierce, feminist, independent Zoë who’d never be anyone’s doormat?
‘Look, I know you don’t want to hear this,’ I said, ‘but I’m not happy being treated like your chief cook and bottle-washer while you live in my flat without paying a penny. Spiritual connections are all very well, and I really felt – I really feel – like that’s what we have – what we had. But that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like a combination of a 1950s housewife and your mum. And what’s more—’
I stopped. I was full of righteous anger, but not quite full enough to go on to say, ‘Sex with you isn’t all that, either.’
‘Are you saying you don’t want us to be together any more?’ Jude asked. ‘I thought you loved me.’
‘No! Of course I’m not.’ And then I realised that that wasn’t actually the case. He wasn’t going to change. It had been clear from the start: he wanted a free place to stay and a comfortable life, and, like a mug, I’d given it to him, because I’d believed he loved me and wanted to believe I loved him back. I wasn’t sure any more whether he did, but to be totally honest, when it came to me, all I felt was sadness and annoyance. I’d thought we had so much in common, because we liked the same things and believed the same things and cared about the same things. But, I realised, there was one important exception to that: Jude didn’t care about me.
I was going to end it. I was going to have to, if I was to retain even a shred of self-respect. The only question was when, and how. And then I said to myself, Come on, Zoë! Grow a pair! You know this thing’s dead in the water. Do it now.