Loch Ness Monster

The Prince’s real name is Nat. I began calling him the Prince when I introduced him to an old acquaintance of mine, housework. We’d just moved into a three storey house and I was in contact with my old buddy more often than I wished.

The Prince comes from a wealthy background where they had a live-in housekeeper or “maid” as he says. I think that’s a derogatory term to use for someone who scrubs your shit off your toilet. Three years on, he accepts magic drawers with clean clothes don’t exist and empties the dishwasher without being asked but the name has stuck.

About a month ago I reached for my hammer and chisel and started again on the steel shutters. The Prince was lying on his front hanging over the side of the bed reading.

“Can I talk to you?” I said. Silence.
“Nat, I need to talk.” Nothing. Ok, he asked for it.
“Nat,” I said. “I do not feel we are communicating anymore. You just refuse to talk to me about the baby thing so I’ve made us an appointment with a Relate counsellor.”

Silence…. Then movement. He raised his head like the Loch Ness monster and turned to look at me.

“You’ve done what?”
“It’s the only way I think we are going to re-connect.”
“That’s going to cost a fortune.”
“£50 an hour”
“We can’t afford that”
“It’s worth it to save our relationship.”
“Things aren’t that bad are they?”
“Yes they are. You do not talk to me about the baby thing and it is becoming a big problem for me. I need to know where your head’s at.”
“We can’t afford a second baby.”
“Yes we can. We’ll just have to be a bit poor for a while.”
“I’m not comfortable with the idea and don’t want to discuss this now. The Relate thing is very heavy and I’ll have to think about it.”

Then he switched his light off and hasn’t mentioned it since.