The deal

Yesterday I cried a bit. Not the tears you shed at the end of The Secret Millionaire; it was tears of real fear and frustration; tears for London and me. What have I done? Can I ever leave? I don’t think Hilde understands. I want her to understand the deal. 18 months then we go – no problems. If I’m unhappy then we leave. And she doesn’t make it hard for me.

She’s already making it hard. She pretends not to understand. But it’s really simple. I want her to be unequivocal. “We go. No problems. I make it easy.” She doesn’t want to say it, because she doesn’t want to think about going back, she tells me. “Because the thought is just awful.” How’s that for making it easy?

It’s a bit shameful to say this but it’s true: I wouldn’t care if we didn’t have the kids. All the power in our relationship has shifted. Had we moved here before the kids I could have just gone back to London, or Berlin, or Copenhagen, or Prague, or anywhere other than Stavanger, and she could have come if she wanted. She would have done too. Now she can trap me here. And I don’t trust that she won’t.

I wish I didn’t even need to make the deal. If I were unhappy I would want Hilde to want to go back. I know she won’t. She’s very selfish. She wants to know that I’m going to try to be happy. I’m supposed to not talk about it. I need to try. I know I do. I will. But without the safety net I can’t imagine being happy at all.

Later I’m going to make her record the deal into my iPhone. I don’t trust her otherwise. “There’s your voice saying it. There it is!” What have I done?