Luke Kennard - The Transition

‘No, no, I know all that,’ said Stu. ‘I mean with you and Genevieve. How’d you meet?’

Karl finished his tenth lift.

‘Ten more,’ said Stu.

‘University,’ said Karl. ‘She was a friend of a friend. I was obsessed with her.’

‘Not hard to see why.’

‘In fact it totally ruined my three years of university. I didn’t even talk to another girl the whole time I was there. Then I didn’t see her for a decade. I had, like, three pretty joyless relationships with women who weren’t her. And then one day Genevieve just sent me an email asking if I remembered her.’

‘How long have you been together?’

‘Four years,’ said Karl.

‘And how’s that going?’

‘I feel very lucky.’

‘Good.’

‘Very lucky.’

‘You are. She’s gorgeous.’

Karl smiled. He liked other men admiring Genevieve.

‘Now don’t get me wrong,’ said Stu, ‘you’re a good bloke and I’m sure you have your qualities – but there’s a fairly standard way someone like you gets a girl like Genevieve.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘You won’t take this the wrong way?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘I tell it as I see it,’ said Stu. ‘Some people don’t like that.’

‘Tell away,’ said Karl. If Stu said something he didn’t like, it would only serve to make him value Stu’s opinion less.

‘You’re a fairly ordinary-looking guy,’ said Stu.

‘I’ve always thought so.’

‘So is she damaged goods?’ said Stu.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Come on,’ said Stu. ‘When she got back in touch with you, after ten years … I’m not asking you to tell me what she survived or the condition she was diagnosed with or whatever. I just wanted to say that I’ve noticed. You look after her. I couldn’t see it at first, but I do now.’

‘Right,’ said Karl, relieved that Stu had brought the conversation round to a form of compliment again, something easy to accept. ‘Well, thanks.’

‘You’re caring, which is good. What I want to give you,’ said Stu, ‘is a little more self-esteem. I’ve been insulting you and you’re not even offended. Men keep their self-esteem in the biceps and pectoral muscles. You should feel that you’re in an equal relationship with Genevieve. Does that make sense?’

‘I guess so,’ said Karl.

‘I guess so,’ said Stu. ‘You sound like a Muppet. I don’t mean like “ you muppet ”, I mean like an actual Muppet, from The Muppet Show . Lose the Americanisms. Try to sound like yourself.’

Karl swallowed.

‘We’ll finish with a hundred press-ups,’ said Stu.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That sounds more like your real voice. We’ll do them together. Come on.’

‘I don’t think I can do twenty ,’ said Karl.

‘You can do a thousand,’ said Stu. ‘Might take you a week, but there you go. We’ll do a hundred, as long as it takes, then you can go and have a shower.’

Karl laughed.

‘What’s funny?’

He assumed the position. His arms already burned from the weights, but the first five press-ups were relatively easy. After the eleventh, Stu waited, supporting his weight with one hand while Karl completed his twelfth press-up.

‘Don’t give in at the first sign of resistance,’ said Stu. He sounded genuinely cross. ‘This is important.’

Slowly Karl lowered himself so that his nose was touching the rubber floor.

‘Come on,’ said Stu. ‘That’s it.’

Karl tensed his chest. He felt like he was made of loose Meccano. He forced himself up again.

‘Eighty-six to go,’ said Stu.

His arms shaking, Karl lowered himself again.

‘Eighty-five and a half.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ stuttered Karl.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Stu mimicked. ‘That’s fifteen. Good … Why aren’t you moving? Your wife will be wondering where you are.’

‘Twenty-three,’ said Stu. ‘You said you couldn’t do twenty. Karl, I’ve seen better men than you lose a woman like Genevieve because they stopped working for it. Do you want that to happen?’

While Karl didn’t think this was likely, he tried to channel his embarrassment, his rage and his temporary loathing for Stu into his twenty-fourth press-up. It took almost a minute.

‘That’s fifty-eight,’ said Stu.

Karl was shaking all over. His temples felt like they were going to explode and his stomach was like a sack of snooker balls. He tried very hard to lower himself again, but his arms gave out. He collapsed, hitting his nose on the floor, and started to cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Hey,’ said Stu. ‘Hey. Karl, stand up.’

Karl clambered to his feet and Stu took him in his arms. Karl cried hard, took big breaths and cried, his nose streaming with snot on Stu’s shoulder. Stu stroked the back of Karl’s head.

‘Let it all out.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Karl sobbed.

‘Do you know how much the last guy held out for?’ said Stu. ‘Thirty-one. And that was the best so far. You did great.’ He patted him on the back, hard. ‘You did fucking great.’

‘WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?’

‘I was working out.’

‘You look like you’ve been hit by a car.’

Karl gingerly climbed into bed and put his head on Genevieve’s shoulder. She smelled of a medicated facial scrub she used sometimes, a smell he associated with their university halls: bare-brick stairwells, a pasted-up lightning crack in the side of the building.

He only realised he’d been asleep when the room filled with light. Janna and Stu were standing at the end of the bed, holding two envelopes. Karl sniffed, sat up in bed, nudged Genevieve.

‘Really sorry to wake you,’ whispered Janna.

‘We won’t make a habit of it,’ said Stu.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, no.’ Genevieve shuffled out of the bed and stretched. ‘Don’t apologise. I don’t know what … We never fall asleep this early.’

‘You’re exhausted,’ said Janna. ‘Poor things.’

‘We’ll keep this quick,’ said Stu. He held the envelopes out to Karl.

Karl found it hard to move his arms from his sides; it was as if an important pulley system had snapped.

‘What are these?’

‘We want you both to read a newspaper,’ said Stu. He sat on the end of the bed and Janna sat down against the wall.

‘We’ve got you subscriptions,’ said Janna. ‘To The Guardian and The Telegraph . Every day.’

‘Every day ?’

‘You get up an hour early and you read them both, quickly, cover to cover, then swap. Get into the habit. It’s like keeping an allotment.’

‘I’ve tried to read newspapers,’ said Karl, rubbing his left eye. ‘It doesn’t feel like they’re for me.’

‘And that’s the problem,’ said Stu. ‘You need to be an active participant in society. We got the paper editions because the symbolism is important – you could just read it all on your tablets, but I want you to think about your parents, and how serious they seemed when they were behind newspapers.’

‘It’s not that we’re not interested in what happens in the world,’ said Genevieve. ‘Really it’s just that I’m busy or I would read one. At least once a week.’

‘But you’re apolitical.’

‘I’m disillusioned.’

‘No,’ said Stu. ‘The problem you’ve got is that you don’t feel worthy of newspapers. Be honest. A part of you still feels that newspapers are for grown-ups and that you’re not grown-ups.’

‘Look at this,’ said Karl. He had been rifling through The Guardian to the property section and had now folded it on Bargain of the Week, a two-bedroom flat for £1.2 million. ‘This is supposed to be the newspaper for intelligent poor people,’ he said, ‘but we’re completely unrepresented. Newspapers are written for the wealthiest fraction of a fraction of society.’