Therapy

fifties, not the nineteen-fifties — was nearly always associated with one partner’s loss of interest in sex. So I worked hard at that. Well, if he didn’t initiate it, I did. After sport was always a good time, when we were both feeling good from the exercise. I thought that sport and sex and a comfortable lifestyle would be enough to get us through the Difficult Fifties — that’s what the article was called, it comes back to me now, “The Difficult Fifties.”
    Well, I was wrong. It wasn’t enough. Tubby’s knee injury didn’t help, of course. It separated us as regards sport — he couldn’t compete with me any more — and it put a damper on sex. He wouldn’t risk it for weeks, months, after the operation, and even then he always seemed more concerned about protecting his knee than having a good time. Then when it became apparent that the operation hadn’t been a success, he fell into a deeper depression than ever. This past year he’s been impossible to live with, completely wrapped up in himself, not listening to a word anybody says to him. Well, I suppose he must listen to his agent and his producer and so on, he could hardly function otherwise, but he didn’t listen to what I was saying to him. You’ve no idea how infuriating it is when you’ve been talking to someone for minutes on end, and they’ve been nodding and making phatic noises, and then you realize they haven’t taken in a single word you’ve said. You feel such a fool. It’s as if you were teaching a class while writing on the blackboard and then you turn round to find that they’ve all quietly left the room and you’ve been talking to yourself for you don’t know how long. The last straw was when I told him Jane had rung up to tell us she was pregnant — Jane’s our daughter — and that she and her partner were going to get married, and he just grunted, “Oh yes? Good,” and went on reading bloody Kierkegaard. And, you’d hardly credit this, even when I keyed myself up to tell him that I’d had enough and wanted to separate he didn’t listen to what I was saying at first.
    Oh, I’m afraid I can’t take this Kierkegaard thing seriously. I told you, Tubby’s not an intellectual. It’s just a fad, something to impress other people with. Perhaps me. Perhaps himself. A device to dignify his petty little depressions as existentialist Angst . No, I’ve not read any myself, but I know roughly what he’s about. My father used to quote him occasionally in his sermons. Not any more, but of course we had to when we were children, every Sunday, morning and evening. I think that’s why I find Tubby’s obsession with Kierkegaard rather absurd. Tubby had a totally secular upbringing, knows absolutely nothing about religion, whereas I’ve been all through it and out the other side. It was painful, I can tell you. For years I concealed it from my father, that I no longer believed. I think it broke his heart when I finally came clean. Perhaps I waited too long to tell him what I really felt, as I did with Tubby about our marriage.
    Well, I could say that it was none of your business, couldn’t I? But no, there isn’t anyone else. I suppose Tubby’s been unloading his paranoid fantasies on you. You know about his ridiculous suspicion of my tennis coach? Poor man, I haven’t been able to look him in the eye since, let alone have any lessons. I really don’t know why Tubby went berserk with jealousy. Well, yes I do, it was because he just couldn’t accept that the problem in our marriage was himself. It had to be somebody else’s fault, mine, or some phantom lover of mine. It would have been so much better for all concerned if he could have faced facts calmly. All I wanted was an amicable separation and a reasonable financial settlement. It was all his fault that it’s escalated into a battle, with lawyers and injunctions and separate lives in the house and so on. He could still avoid a lot of unnecessary pain and expense by simply agreeing to the divorce, and making a fair settlement. No, he’s not. He’s at his London flat, I suppose. I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in the last few weeks. The bills keep coming in for the house, for gas and electricity and so on, and I forward them to him but he doesn’t pay them, so I’ve had to pay some myself to avoid having the services turned off, which isn’t fair. He very meanly drew out most of the money in our joint bank account the day after I left the house, and