Paul rolls his eyes and reaches for his drink.
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we haven’t taken a holiday for three years, so I don’t exactly have to work out my notice period. I’ve just booked it all off as annual leave,’ Paul informs me, taking another swig of his beer. ‘Today was my last day. Ever.’
‘Right…’ I grumble, shifting in my seat, not knowing quite how to react.
There’s a lot to unpack, from Paul’s dig about us not having gone on holiday to him suddenly letting me know, out of the blue, that he’s simply not going back to work. I decide I’ll start with the dig and work my way up to the more monumental life-changing stuff. I know I should have moved on from it by now, but underneath all the questions I have and the shock of Paul’s big news, there’s still a small crushed part of me, a silly hopeful part, that truly wanted to end up getting engaged tonight. I reach for my wine, eager to numb the sinking feeling inside.
‘You never complained that we didn’t go on holiday,’ I point out, taking another sip.
It’s true that we haven’t gone on holiday for three years, which I know is a long time, but I never realized it was such a big issue. Instead of going on holiday, we’ve been spending money on doing up our house. I thought Paul and I had a mutual understanding that it was more important to get our house in order than it was to spend a few weeks in Mykonos or wherever. And anyway, it’s not like we’ll be redecorating forever. Eventually we’ll get the house sorted and we can go on loads of holidays. I had no idea our lack of getaways was getting to Paul quite so much. If I did, I’d have suggested a break.
‘If I had complained, would you have listened?’ Paul huffs.
My heart lurches. Of course, I’d have listened. What is this? What’s got into him? Paul literally drives us to IKEA every other weekend. Only a fortnight ago, he was assembling a cabinet for the bedroom while belting along to an Ed Sheeran song on the radio. He even picked up some gorgeous second-hand curtains and a candle holder from Habitat during his lunch break the other week. I thought he was completely on board with our project to transform our home. I didn’t think he minded that we were spending our money and our weekends on the house. And yet now he’s acting like I’m some kind of controlling tyrant who’s forced him into living a miserable holiday-less existence.
‘Of course, I’d have listened!’ I tut. ‘You know, it might actually have been helpful to speak to me rather than keeping whatever resentment you’ve been harboring locked up inside, quitting your job and then getting at me in the middle of a restaurant!’
A few other diners look our way. Damn. I realize I’ve raised my voice. I dip my head, allowing a curtain of my hair to fall, partly covering my face.
‘I wanted to talk to you, but sometimes you can be a bit… overbearing, Rachel,’ Paul states, his voice quiet but clear.
‘Overbearing,’ I scoff. ‘Are you kidding me?’ I gawp, staring searchingly at him.
I feel half-tempted to just get up and walk out of the restaurant. What on earth has got into Paul? I’m not overbearing. I’m just a normal woman and a normal girlfriend. I go to work, I come home, Paul and I hang out, there’s nothing overbearing about me. I’ve never stopped him from doing anything and I certainly didn’t deliberately deny him a holiday. What’s overbearing is making life-changing decisions without talking to the people they’ll impact. What’s overbearing is character assassinating your partner in the middle of a restaurant. I want to say this, but I’ve already attracted enough attention from fellow diners, and I don’t trust myself to voice my thoughts without losing my cool.
‘Yes, you are overbearing. You just assume I’m up for doing all the things you want to do all the time, but maybe I don’t like spending my weekends being dragged around homeware stores or upcycling dressing tables. I might actually be really bloody bored and unhappy, you know!’ Paul barks.
Other diners look our way again. One woman rolls her eyes and shakes her head, before returning her attention to her calzone. This is mortifying. I look towards the exit. I really do want to just get up and leave, and yet I can’t. I need to get to the bottom of all of this. I feel so rattled. It feels like the man sitting opposite me isn’t the Paul I know, but some other incarnation. Even the slumped way he’s sitting is different. His eyes are usually soft and relaxed, sleepy almost, and yet tonight they’re cutting and belligerent. In a way, Paul’s choice of venue is perfect, because it’s almost like we’re on a first date all over again. I feel like I don’t even know the person sitting opposite me.
I take a sip of my drink and make a deliberate effort to steady myself.
‘Paul, if you hate going to IKEA so much and you’re so desperately bored and unhappy, how am I meant to know unless you tell me? Or, I don’t know, express it in SOME WAY!’
The woman who was rolling her eyes two minutes ago looks over again, giving us yet another disparaging look. I roll my eyes right back at her and she quickly diverts her gaze.
‘Okay, well I’m telling you now, alright?’ Paul points out. ‘I hate IKEA, okay? I HATE it! One trip every now and again is fine, but we’ve been at least once a month for two years! I hate assembling flat pack furniture. I hate upcycling furniture. I hate spending my Saturday mornings sanding stuff. I hate eating takeaways after a day spend doing odd jobs around the house. I hate being your unpaid handyman. There’s only so much a person should care about furnishings and you’ve pushed me. I reached my limit a long, long time ago. I’m bored. I am so bloody bored!’
I look down at my lap, wishing the ground would swallow me up. I know people are looking, but I don’t care anymore. My hurt has eclipsed the embarrassment. How can Paul act like I’m such a bad person and I’ve done such terrible things, when all I wanted was a nice cozy home for us. Okay, I might have taken my interest in home furnishings a bit too far sometimes. And okay, I might have started an Instagram account dedicated solely to the interior of our house, featuring before and after shots of different rooms and images of old junk furniture we’ve managed to do up, as well as wallpaper cuttings, color schemes, shots of pretty curtains and stuff like that. I get that it’s a bit middle aged and maybe quite uncool, but it’s not like I’ve cheated on Paul or lied to him or been emotionally abusive, and yet from the way he’s acting, you’d think I’d done something terrible, truly terrible.
I glance up. His hands are clenched into a ball on the table, his jaw is tight, his eyes burning. He looks like a ball of rage. You’d think I was the worst person on earth looking at him.
‘Okay, I’m sorry. You hate DIY, I get it. I’ll stop involving you in it. We can stop spending so much time and money on decorating,’ I relent. ‘But why have you quit your job? I get that you don’t like it, but what about….’ I trail off.
‘What about what, Rachel?’ Paul spits.
I don’t reply.
‘You were about to say, “What about the house?” weren’t you?’ Paul sneers.
I gulp. I look away. Okay maybe he’s right and I was about to say that, but I don’t want to lose the house. We’ve worked so hard on it.