No Hard Feelings

How and when did we drift apart? It was so gradual that it was impossible to put a finger on it. I have made mistakes in our relationship, of course I have (although never been unfaithful) and we have had our minor arguments, which were resolved one way or another. And we have always been civil towards each other and mostly enjoyed each others company, but displays of affection between us was another matter. We were in a rut, living virtually as brother and sister or non-sexual friends rather than man and wife. We didn't even touch any more, and we were certainly strangers in the biblical sense.

Oh, by the way, I am Martin Jones and my wife was Martha Salmons. We are the same age, born six months apart.

Thinking about our present social arrangement reminds me with a smile how we began. It was pure chance, really. We were on nodding terms, seeing each other in company with a dozen others for six or seven months without even having a conversation longer than a couple of words. We were both doing an Open University degree arts foundation course which started in the early winter, November, I think, and culminated in a summer workshop at a choice of universities in the summer recess. I noticed her first and fancied her straight away. She was average height and busty with a shock of thick blond hair cut into a bob. We were both in our mid-twenties, which was towards the lower end of the wide range of ages attending the course. In all the time we were together, despite my probing, she has never admitted even recognising my existence, still, she was all mine for a while, so who am I to complain? I wasn't looking for a relationship at the time, I had broken off with my previous girlfriend about a month or so before the course started. What relationship Martha had, she wasn't saying.

We picked the same university and the same week for our summer school, so it was logical to get together and see if we could share the expense of the journey. Martha was not too keen on driving such a distance so se was happy for me to drive and she would chip in some petrol money. the only problem was that I selected the venue because I was keen on real ale at the time (OK, all the time, then and since) and instead of taking the motorway which would take a couple of hours, I wanted to go cross country, a drive twice as long, and have a leisurely lunch at the brewery tap in a beautiful old regional town. I put this to Martha, and she almost bit my hand off! She hated motorways and a scenic drive down and making a day of it, well, she made it sound like a date. And, as it turned out, it was a date, our first.

We spoke about it several times over the next few weeks leading up to it. Then I picked her up in my old jalopy and we had a hoot. We chatted merrily all the way on the trip, remarking on the scenery and slowly introducing each other to how we spent our lives. Neither of us said that we were seeing anyone, but then nor did we say we didn't. We stopped for a pub lunch in the ancient town of Dorchester, in the heart of Thomas Hardy country, and walked through a park stretching our legs before pressing on. We got to the university in plenty of time and had a great time getting there.

We met up, after settling into our rooms, for registration, the evening meal, an evening lecture and then in the bar for a couple of drinks and to a disco after. Yes, we ended up in bed together and never looked back. We enjoyed that whole week, plus we both had the following week off work and our love blossomed. We had a healthy sex life and so we married and had a couple of kids. Life was good.

Trouble is that life happens anyway and it doesn't always remain good. We had "the talk" for the first time when the kids were small and Martha told me I wasn't pulling my weight. Then I lost my job and put the family under a lot of strain. I was put under a lot of pressure by Martha to perform for the family and I was in internal turmoil because my confidence was shot and I had basically given up. She shut me out and denied me any love and we never had another clearing of the air as we had had the last time our relationship was in difficulties. I was always the one begging for affection anyway, and she responded by turning her back on me. I was stubborn and I thought that two can play at that game so I stopped asking. I can't remember what I was thinking at the time, perhaps I thought she would miss my attentions and come begging me to make love to her, but she never did. She never did for 20 years.

We are grandparents now, multiple-grandparents in fact. We still live in the old four-bedroom family house, the pair of us rattling around it, living separate lives and sleeping in separate bedrooms. We hardly talk, we never kiss or even touch one another. We still rather laughingly have anniversaries but we have even given up exchanging cards or gifts. We have been married for 35 years but we only gave each other the best 15 years of our lives. I was resigned to staying with my wife together in our house until we both retired and sold up the family home and then I would propose we split the proceeds and go our separate ways.

We last had a holiday together 10 years ago when we spent a week in bed and breakfast rooms in a couple of old cities. We slept together that week, sharing the same room, in order to reduce costs, but that is as intimate as we got.

So it was out of the blue when Martha suggested we go away together for a late summer trip to a beauty spot in about four months' time. OK, I agreed and went ahead and booked it.

Another out of the blue event was a couple of weeks later when Martha called me to the living room for what she described as "Marty, we need a talk". That rang a few alarm bells.

"I have to say this and want you to let me say what I have to say and then you can reply." She looked up at me. She was in tears as she spoke.

"We have been married over 35 years and together for a year longer than that but we have not been together as man and wife for a long while, y'know made love, for not sure how long ..."

"Twenty-one years and a bit." I interjected.

"Oh," she said, chewing her lip, "Really Marty. I thought it was perhaps 10 years or so ..."

"March 1997, early part of the month. A couple of weeks later I hoping for some rumpy for our anniversary on the 18th, but we argued on the way back from the restaurant and I slept on the settee." No, I do not have an anal retentive memory, I don't keep a detailed diary, it is just that it was about then I resigned from my job and Martha was so pissed with me that she shut up shop, permanently. I wasn't really sure about the last time I slept in our bed, but it was either that month or the next, but I sounded confident that I had the date right and that was good enough for me and, it appeared, her.

"Oh, so you can remember that but you couldn't remember to put the recycling bin out for collection last Monday?" she spat.

"I remember those things that matter to me, the last time I got some rumpy bumpy is deeply engraved in my memory banks and the images referred to as frequently as I need to, to relieve myself in the loneliness of my room on occasion. The reoccurring movements of the various categories of rubbish bins in the yard and their specific schedules never ever crosses my mind."

"Men, you've all got one-tracked minds. Sex is the only bloody thing you are worried about!"

"No, not true, I am worried about my present job, I worry about the loss in value of my investments and my eventual pension. I worry about my grandchildren and my kids and, believe it or not, I worry sometimes about you. I am concerned that my football team are facing relegation this year, that my weight is getting a little out of control, that I am drinking far too much and I think I need to have my blood pressure and cholesterol level checked. I worry about what you are thinking about, too, sometimes, like why you want this talk?"

"Well, perhaps you better let me get on with it then, hadn't you?"

"Lay on MacDuff," I said, showing my palms in acquiescence.

"Mmmm, right," Martha began after exhaling and drawing in a deep breath. "Honey, I don't think I can go on with our life like this."

I opened my mouth, she put up her hand to stop me speaking.

"Let me have my say." Martha paused for a moment until we both sat quietly and not moving, then she looked away from me and spoke.

"This is very difficult for me to say but I think we have finally come to the end of the line. We have a relationship where there is no longer any affection between us. I have never been unfaithful but I feel I need to make a new start while I still have the energy to find some happiness in my life. We can do this now, immediately. I am ready to move out at the end of the weekend. We can sell-up and settle-up now or we can wait sixty months until you're due to retire. We then sell up, split the money and go our separate ways." Martha looked up, she had tears rolling down her cheeks. "Your turn."

"Not surprised," I said quite calmly. I was surprised though that my voice was so steady, resigned, I had known this was coming, although I thought I would be the means of delivering this suggestion, not Martha. It was old news to me and I had almost got over feeling any emotion about us separating. We were so far apart already, splitting permanently couldn't be any worse than what I had been experiencing for more than half the duration of our sham of a marriage. I continued matter-of-factly, "I have no problem either way, we can do it now or later, as you wish. House prices are depressed at the moment and we do have some work to do around the place to modernise and maximise the price. Delaying until I retire gives us a chance to catch up on these little jobs, I suppose, and maximise our shareout." I smiled weakly at her.

Martha stared at me with open eyes, very moist eyes, welling up with tears.

"T-that didn't go well," she said, so very quietly that I automatically leaned forward slightly to hear her better, but refrained from touching her, to comfort her, for such a long time now it had no longer been my place so to do.

"That didn't go anything like how I planned it!" She was crying more now, her little fists balled up in her lap as she stared at me. "Don't you want to fight to keep me? Don't you want to try and rebuild our relationship before it is too late? Are you prepared to try counselling?" Her voice volume increased as she spat out the sentences.

"Hold on," I said, "This 'Marty we need to talk' session is completely your idea and you opened this conversation by telling me that we were finished, that you couldn't go on and you were leaving me. I am very well aware what condition our dead marriage is in, I've been here just as long as you have and we both know that I have been the lodger staying in the box room since Jamie moved out 14 years ago and before that I was mostly sleeping on our old settee."

"But don't you want us to be together? Do you want to be alone in your old age? Don't you want to fight to keep us together as a married couple?"

"I've been on my own, a single man lodging in bed breakfast and evening meal accommodation for over 20 years, I've got used to it. Your present suggestion to sell up and split is only five years before I was going to bring it up myself anyway. Can't see there's anything to fight over, to be honest, our marriage is all water gone under the bridge long, long ago."

The tears continued.

"Well," she sobbed, "I was hoping you would suggest we start again and try and repair our marriage. After all, we have the kids and the grandkids to visit or have to stay over. We have Christmases and birthdays to share. It would be easier to stay together, unless of course, you have someone else in mind?"

"Not me, once bitten, you know?" I shrugged, "Spitting up would give me the freedom to do what I wouldn't dream of doing if I still lived here, although maintaining a house or flat on my own definitely wouldn't leave me in a position to be a gad about town seeking out granny fanny. Besides, I'm too old, fat and ugly to have much of a chance in the dating stakes."

I grinned, which was in complete contrast to her tears and the look of horror on her face at my suggestion that I would consider dating someone else. She stood up and said, "I'm going up to bed, alone it seems as you don't appear to want to try and get us together again!"

"Hey!" I said, "Hold on a mo!"

It dawned on me that perhaps there was an outside chance of breaking my twenty-year cherry if I played my cards right.

"Honey!" Did I really say that as I stood up and stroked her back? "I'm not ruling out getting back together, you know how bad I am at picking up your signals. I thought you wanted us to split when you started talking and I didn't think you were offering me a choice. You know I can't multitask and can only take on board one idea at a time. Of course, if there's a chance s getting back together as a loving couple I would love to do that. I still love you, you know, you ought to understand that, otherwise I'd've left long ago." Stroke, stroke and moved my left hand to hold one of hers while maintaining eye contact.

She softened and leaned into me, her left shoulder onto my chest. I kissed her on the top of her head and moved my hand from her back to grip her shoulder and pull her round to face me. She lifted her face, I lowered my head and our lips met. They touched lightly, then lightly again. Third time they touched with lips still closed but our kiss held longer and harder and encouraged more. The fourth kiss led to her arms going around my neck and I opened my lips which were pressing hers much harder. I used my tongue to gently lick her lips, they parted and she emitted a low moan, which encouraged me to spread my lips to her neck and ears. We held each other firmly for a few minutes while we kissed, the most passionately we had embraced for more than twenty years.

"Wait," Martha said. "This is much too much, far too soon. I'm not ready for this."

Of course she wasn't, she was never ready for making love, I always had to initiate any moves. I had every right to feel bitter about it. Let's put the onus back on her, after all, she started this "let's talk" business.

"OK, why don't we have a date, a first date, and get to know one another again?" I suggested.

"Why not a series of dates," she countered, "then maybe sometime you might get lucky?" She had moved her hands to my chest by this point, moving her head out of the range of my eager lips. At least she was smiling at me, not quite a first but was a rare event in itself, recently, and by that I meant the last two decades.

"When?"

"Well, I'm free most of the time, when are you free?"

"Let's look at the calendar."

We walked through to the kitchen, actually holding hands. Blimey! The was a turn-up.

Then Martha unhooked the calendar from the wall and placed it on the kitchen table, leaning over it with her hands on either side.

"This is today," to be helpful, I stabbed a digit at the calendar at today's date, a Sunday.

"You are working the next five days, so you are free on Friday night. Aren't you?"

"Yes, do you want to go to the pictures?" I had hopeful visions of copping a feel in the dark.

"Nothing on, when I looked earlier, that I fancy seeing. Why don't we go for a meal and go dancing afterwards?" Martha suggested.

Shit! I fucking hate dancing. Martha always shows me up, she's such an exhibitionist on the dance floor. Whenever we have gone out with other couples, you know, couples who think we are still a couple, she often dances with the other girl or girls and they always attracts a crowd of men who want to chat them up.

"Sounds great," I said, "Italian, followed by the Starlight Club float your boat?"

"Bene! You know I love Chianti and ante pasta."

"OK then, I'll make a booking for Friday, say eight o'clock?"

"Ottimo! Mmmmm, I like to be spoiled and indulged. You might even get lucky early."

But not until then at the earliest, I thought. I knew like me that pigs can't fly and I wasn't sure if the amount of runway needed was worth it.

Well, things were much better at home over the next few days. I didn't see her awake mornings, as I have to scoot off to work while Martha still got her beauty sleep. However, when I got home I would put my arms around her and kiss and cuddle briefly in welcome and she would respond in like fashion.

I thought I would test her on Thursday, though. I came in and called out a greeting and joined her in the kitchen as she served up, but I didn't touch her, kiss her or cuddle her. She bustled around the kitchen and served up, brought the plates through and did lean one hand on and almost squeezed my shoulder as she set down my plate. That was it, no passionate welcome home unless I was the one who initiated it. Clearly she was only responding appropriately to stimuli, not initiating touches in order to get a response from me. She would respond if I initiated a move, but that was all. Obviously her heart really wasn't in it.

On the Friday during the day at work Martha received a bouquet of roses from the local florists. None of your faded forecourt blooms bought as an afterthought, but a deliberate (and I might add bloody expensive) and relatively public token of my affection. She loved them, she said, as did all the envious girls at work, and when I got home she polished my tonsils for me before we went out. So it turned out she could initiate affection, passion even, if she felt minded to, or was rewarded sufficiently beforehand.

The meal was fantastic. I'm not that fond of Italian pasta, I prefer spicy, Indian as favourite, Mexican second, Thai third. But this was first class and we had a nice buzz by the time we left and went to the Starlight club. It's expensive there, which keeps a lot of the riff-raff out. I danced a few dances with Martha and she turned down a number of offers from much more handsome men than me, when we sat out a couple of early dances, so I forced myself to get up with her for far more dances than I ever did before.

I got the beginning of my reward for the evening in the back of the cab on the way home, with a nice snog and pretty unrestricted mutual feel-up on the way home.

Indoors, Martha forced herself on me on the settee after I carried her over the threshold and through to the sitting room. I had a raging erection in the cab and while we undressed and kissed on the settee before I went down on her. However, when I thought she was wet and ready to accept what I had to offer, Mr Pecker sank like the Titanic.

Was it anxiety? Was it over anticipation? It couldn't have been the drink, although I had drunk maybe a little too much bourbon. Was Mr Pecker baulking at reneging on Felicity Fivefingers, my faithful companion for so many years?

I tried to make it up to Martha by going down on her with my tongue and fingers for another go, but it was a poor second and my mouth and tongue was soon knackered. So my unhappy wife went off to sleep in her room and I went back to my little monastic cell, feeling less than confident in my abilities. Damn! I had looked forward to this all week and I felt I had really let myself down.

Saturdays are Martha's day for housekeeping and I usually get out of her way playing golf with my buddies. As I had planned on bedding my ever-loving other half on the Friday night and being in situ in her bed with my morning wood at dawn, I had banked heavily on a morning's tender and maybe not so tender loving. Therefore I had cancelled my planned golf booking with my buddies and so I was left on my own in my lodger's bedsit with a combined disappointment, Chianti and Jack Daniel's hangover, with Martha up early and noisily hoovering the blessed place as if nothing was wrong with the world of Martha.