For better or worse

My wife was an eight when I met her. She was curled up in one of those alcoves in Rumbar, sipping Bombay Sapphire and tonic. We got engaged exactly one year later. By then she was what she called a small ten. She said she was a large ten at college, and never wanted to go there again. I was bigger too, in some parts. Two hundred crunches last thing every night and pumping ten-kilo bars, my biceps hard as cricket balls. I was slimmer round the waist, though. Thirty-two inch jeans clung to my hips like climbers on a cliff. We could both lose a few pounds now.

Helen was with the girls. She was the prettiest – I’d spotted her before. She said I was brave to walk over to their table. But I had the boys behind me. Charlie bet me a pint I wouldn’t speak to her. Haven’t seen him for years. Perhaps I could give him a call. Wonder how the rest of the gang are doing now.
We mostly stay in these days. Watch quite a lot of TV, especially since we bought the flat screen. The flicks was always our thing: an interest we shared. That year we must have walked to the Coronet in the High Street at least fifty times. Makes me smile to think of it. Once, we missed the whole film and had to see it twice – too much snogging at the back.

To be honest, we watch some rubbish – soaps and reality shows. But I keep up with the sport. I was playing footie on Sundays. Helen would come along and cheer. I can still see her by the corner flag, two scarves and arms folded, bouncing to keep warm. And that time I scored with a glancing header and Helen came charging onto the pitch. I took a lot of stick from the team, but I knew they were jealous.
I still keep up with the sport – on tele, at least. She stopped coming after a while, of course. Completely understandable. And I turned up less often after that. We wanted to spend our Sunday mornings together. Thinking about it, I haven’t played since we bought the house. We needed every second to do it up.

I’m not complaining. Helen stopped her life drawing too. It’s a pity really; some of her stuff was good. And that’s not just me saying it. She could really get that moody charcoal look with the smudged shadows. I should tell her to take it up again.

Come to think of it, she dropped the salsa lessons, soon after we got engaged. At first I said I’d come along – always wanted to learn to dance. She was good at that too. I’ve watched her a few times, in the evenings, after weddings, spinning round the floor with her little black dress flying. To tell the truth, it would ease my heart a bit, on those evenings, if the man she danced with was me. But we never found the time.

I suppose we were too busy with our careers. We were both ambitious. And of course we’re still busy, though the house is pretty much finished. Helen gave up work when she had Matthew. And I turned down the promotion. We didn’t want to move to London. You have to make sacrifices.