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my fault. I’ve driven you away.
    You always tell me I’m laid-back, but it’s not true – I play the part well to everyone, even you, but underneath I’m uptight, holding on. You don’t know, Dee, that the day my father died, when adolescence was exploding inside my hormonally charged body, I did an abominable thingthat I’ve never told anyone about. Blind rage can make people act in atrocious ways. In fact, I’m riddled with faults you don’t appear to notice. You admire my self-discipline – my refusal to be beaten at squash, rigorously completing my fifty chin-ups at the gym, meticulously planning my lectures – but really I’m just inflexible. I’m arrogant too, believing since I became entranced by you that we were invincible as a couple. With hindsight, my attitude seems not only pompous, but naïve – things aren’t always so black and white. Is that what you’ve found now, Dee?
    The first time I met you, five years ago now, I felt a solid certainty that we had not only met before, but that we’d existed together in some other setting and timeframe far removed from this one. I had this strong sense that we’d already been on an epic journey together, survived against the odds, so that when we met that day, in the crowd at Trafalgar Square, there was a startling familiarity and a sense of reunion. When I dared to mention it on our first proper date (bolstered by a couple of gin and tonics), you sat back with incredulity. You knew exactly what I was saying.
    ‘We must have known each other before…’ you said, breathless. ‘It’s so weird.’
    We joked about it – played little games to see what we could guess about each other. I was right when I said I thought you were sporty and liked animals. You were spot on with my interest in Formula One and
Doctor Who
. You even guessed that I liked loud Mandela-style shirts and could do a decent Sean Connery impression. This surreal ready-made understanding was why I felt instantly sure about you, secure both about who you were and my feelings for you. Even so, the way things progressed between us has still been breathtaking.
    Getting married had never been on my To Do list, but you won me over. I was convinced from the age of around seventeen that I’d always be a bachelor. I don’t need a psychotherapist totell me why. Family. Everything comes back to family. As a young kid, I adored my dad and so did thousands of others. I had to share him. When your father is Ronnie Penn, left-back for West Ham, it’s hard to have him to yourself. Everywhere, people would stop him on the pavement and ask for autographs – but we had special times just the two of us; camping trips and seaside visits. There just weren’t enough of them. Mum joined us too and we had family days out at Alton Towers and London Zoo, but again, I can count them on one hand.
    If I wasn’t going to see much of my father, then I wanted a brother or sister. A proper family. I’m the sort of person who comes to life around other people and left to my own devices too long I’d get down in the dumps and lazy, so much so that Mum would often think I was ill. She wasn’t around a lot either; she insisted on working – as an optician – even though money wasn’t an issue. She was fascinated by the mechanics of the eye and didn’t want to give up her career. Dad was around even less: training, matches, publicity. I don’t blame anyone. They were both following their dreams. I slotted in there somewhere, but there was too much empty space around me – that books, toys, games and TV couldn’t fill. I had school friends, of course, but they were more interested in my father than me.
    Then dad left when I was only eight. He’d met someone else and it was all over. Mum was devastated and coiled into herself. That was when I started having problems with anger. I hid it well: never disruptive in school, never snappy with Mum. But I knew one day it was going to erupt out of control and do some