The Will

His sister had picked us up from Milton Keynes station. Their lack of similarity was disarming in the way that it sometimes is with siblings. She was recently engaged which seemed unimaginably grown-up to me. Their parents had helped them buy a new-build at the corner of an estate which we stopped at on the way to the family home. We could hear the local traffic go by as we sat in their garden, where the only grass growing was through the grooves of the patio. We sat politely side-by-side and I wondered if this was why people hated meeting their partner’s family.

If you don’t know anything about Milton Keynes, its defining feature is that it is the first UK city built on a grid system. Its other primary attribute (also geographical) is its high quota of roundabouts. He had told me a few stories of grey ‘MK’, generally leaning into the fact that it was a bit of a shithole but one he looked back on it fondly. He had a few friends there that he still kept in touch with.

I wouldn’t say he led me to believe he was rough around the edges but he didn’t do anything to deter the preconception that being from Milton Keynes created, which was one of lower-middle-class greyness and strife. I’m sure he preferred it that way and was grateful to me for not questioning him further.

He needn’t have worried as I rarely questioned anything he said.

In fact, the only time I remember doing so was a month previous when he had told me he loved me. That I had queried - only to myself of course. Not that I didn’t believe him but the feelings weren’t mutual so I didn’t bring it up again. He was also on ketamine at the time so, either way, I’d had to take the declaration with a large pinch of horse-tranquiliser.

Yet I did feel somewhat cheated when we drove through the gates of a wide-set manor house. I sensed his shame at his privilege and dishonesty by omission. We were greeted by his parents and what looked to be a small cast of extras from Midsomer Murders, laden with props; trowels, sunhats and yappy terriers.

They hadn’t always lived there, he told me, as soon as he’d closed the door on our wood-panelled bedroom. And they didn’t own the whole house. It was split into three and there were other people their age living there too.

Still, I hadn’t been warned. It was not like most boyfriend’s parents' houses. Admittedly, that was more of a guess on my part as I hadn’t actually been to any other boyfriend’s parents’ house.

We had dinner outdoors amongst the rolling hills of their property. His dad was affable and agreeable like his son. He made an effort with me and was warm in nature. He liked that I was Irish. If they were wealthy on account of him, it was likely that he’d made it. His mum was the stronger character and dominated the conversation with forgettable topics. Her hair had the unnatural orange halo of dyed red hair. If the money came from her side, she was born into it.

I remember the food being ferried down from the main house and served to us. Casually, but by someone not in the family. The help but seemingly happier. A wobbly neighbour joined us and made an awkward joke about the drinking habits of the Irish. We hiked back up the hills in the dark.

He pushed me off him in bed which had never happened before. In fact, we’d never gone to bed and not had sex. I put it down to not wanting to leave evidence in the family home and felt embarrassed that I’d tried.

We were doing the pre-station drop-off dawdle the next day. We had just enough free time before leaving that it was awkward, most niceties had withered by then. His mum asked if I’d do them a favour. I agreed before hearing what it was. I was eager to make everything easy.

She said they needed a signature. They couldn’t ask the neighbours because they had the same address (even though the neighbours seemed like the type of people with more than one address) - and it was due the next day. Would I sign it?

He questioned the ceremony briefly but knew it would make little difference, so dropped his head in his hands and expressed his embarrassment by laughing.

I looked at the pages and saw that it was their will. The obligation to sign remained and I tried to remember how I even wrote my signature, my learned motor skills became clunky, present and deliberate. The pen felt foreign in my fingers. I didn’t have time to do much other than scan the document and sign. I saw his sister’s name but not his.

I remember feeling perversely affirmed that this might not be my first and only visit there - that by signing their will it indicated that I was in some way invited into their family. They thanked me and brought us to the train.

He broke up with me two weeks later. He didn’t give any reason for it which seemed uncharacteristically cruel. My friends remarked that they thought I would be the one to end it, not him. I agreed. Yet the sting of being the rejected one lasted. I woke up for months cringing, curling up as if to squeeze out the shame of it all. I stopped drinking in case I cried in public.

I should have got there first.