The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) by Douglas Kennedy Page A

Five years after the event, we’ve long since stopped screaming at each other. We deal with each other in (more or less) a correct manner. I have decided that the marriage was, from the outset, a huge mistake. But, despite my best efforts at so-called ‘closure’, the wound still remains curiously raw.

When I recently mentioned this to Meg during one of our weekly drunken dinners, she said, ‘Sweetheart, you can tell yourself over and over again that he wasn’t the guy for you, and that it was all one big blooper. But the fact remains that you’re not going to totally get over it. It’s just too big, too consequential. The pain will always be there. It’s one of the many rotten things about life: the way it becomes an accumulation of griefs, both big and small. But survivors - and, sweetheart, you definitely fall into that category - figure out how to live with all that grief. Because, like it or not, grief is kind of interesting, and kind of essential. Because it gives things real import. And it’s also the reason why God invented booze.’

Trust Meg to articulate a cheerful Irish-Catholic view of life.

‘For everyone’s sake, we really have to establish a little detente between us.’

Yeah, Matt - I do think that. But after all this time I still don’t know how to pull it off. Whenever I sit in this living room, the thought strikes me: everything is so random, isn’t it? Take the interior decor of this apartment. A large, cushy Pottery Barn sofa in stylish cream-colored upholstery (I think the name of the actual shade was Cappuccino). Two matching armchairs, a pair of smart Italian floor lamps, and a low-slung coffee table with a collection of magazines fanned across its beechwood top. We spent a significant amount of time deliberating about all this furniture. Just as we also debated the veneered beechwood floors that we eventually had installed in this room. And the high-tech grey-steel kitchen units we chose at IKEA in Jersey City (yes, we were so serious about this life we were building together that we actually made a trip to New Jersey to size up a kitchen). And the oatmeal-knit carpet which replaced that dreadful aquamarine shag which your grandfather lived with. And the Shaker-style four-poster bed which set us back $3200.

That’s why the sight of the living room still astonishes me. Because it’s a testament to a lot of rational discussion about that thing known as ‘a joint future’ even though the two people involved secretly didn’t believe in that future. We just happened to meet up at a certain juncture in time when we both wanted to be attached. And we both quickly convinced ourselves that we were compatible, worthy of being spliced together.

It is extraordinary how you can talk yourself into situations which you know aren’t durable. But neediness can make just about anything seem right.

The house phone rang, interrupting my reverie. I jumped up from the sofa, crossed over to the kitchen, and answered it.

‘Hi there, Miss Malone.’

‘Yes, Constantine?’

‘I’ve got a letter here for you.’

‘I thought the mail didn’t arrive until eleven.’

‘Not that kind of a letter … a hand-delivered letter.’

‘What do you mean, hand-delivered?’

‘What I mean is: a letter that was delivered by hand.’

Urgh!

‘That part I get, Constantine. What I’m asking is: when was it delivered, and by whom?’

‘When was it delivered? Five minutes ago, that’s when.’

I looked at my watch. Seven thirty-six. Who sends a messenger around with a letter at this hour of the morning?

‘And by whom, Constantine?’

‘Dunno. A cab pulled up, a woman rolled down the window, asked if you lived here, I said yes, she handed me the letter.’

‘So a woman delivered the letter?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What kind of woman?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You didn’t see her?’

‘She was in the cab.’

‘But the cab has a window.’

‘There was a glare.’

‘But surely you caught