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There was a time in my life when I swore I wouldn’t live with a man again. It was when I was casually dating some MBA student, who insisted on leaving his chunky, ugly bike in my lovely hallway and forever leaving the toilet seat up.
‘Why would any sane woman put up with this full time?’ I’d ask my mum.
‘Who knows?’ she would say with resignation in her voice. ‘Who knows…?’
Fast forward a few years, I met Roman, and he became my boyfriend. We were ticking along nicely and talking about the future. The “moving-in together” subject was floating around.
It made sense to live in the same place, but there was a part of me who wasn’t ready to let go of a space that was completely my own. I had built my kingdom up from the ground with beautiful artwork, body creams, candles and a Pilates ball…I didn’t want some straight man invading it with all of his crap.
And, I thought, why would he want to move in with me? I am a diva in the morning (‘Nobody dare speak to me until I write at least 1000 words, okay?’). And sometimes I’d be covered in white paste to remove the hair from my feet and upper lip. I eat pretty much the same thing every day, which is annoying, I’m sure. Also, I’m not the tidiest.
‘Why don’t you rent the flat above me? Then it would be like we’re living in a house?’ I suggested to Roman one day.
He did not like this suggestion.
He accused me of sending mixed messages, and I could see his point; we had spoken about having kids and getting a corgi, so living together was the natural next step. I couldn’t quite explain why sharing a baby seemed easier than sharing a wardrobe.
After some quiet mulling over, I announced out of the blue that I would like to move in together. This is how I operate; silently comprehending with the jury inside my head for a significant amount of time until I reach a conclusion, which I appreciate is also annoying, but Roman was getting used to it. I guess what tipped my decision was when I realised that it wasn’t just some random straight man invading my space – it was Roman.
And so, the move-in process began.
I say process, because that’s what it was for Roman. He gave in his notice, and over 8 weeks he slowly moved his belongings over. He wanted to avoid the shock of a big change, so he thought that delivering his things in bags a couple of times a week would be less…traumatising for both of us.
His hobbies were film and football, so there wasn’t anything horrendous like golf clubs or a Peloton that would fudge up the aesthetics of the home. The only thing I had to cope with was the PlayStation, which was the first to arrive in the flat.
David Sedaris was concerned on my behalf. I met him at a book signing in Southbank. Roman had told me before I left that I should tell The David Sedaris that I am an author.
‘Definitely not,’ I said. ‘How many people must go up to the poor guy and tell him they’re a writer? And then what do I tell him? I wrote a book called Amy Elman Doesn’t Feel Sexy? The guy writes for The New Yorker for Christ’s sakes.’
So no, I didn’t tell David Sedaris I was an author; instead, he asked me questions about my life, and I told him my boyfriend was moving in with me, and that he had put a PlayStation in my flat. (It was raw, so I was telling everyone).
‘Be careful with that gaming,’ David warned, like one of those wise characters in a movie who are only there for foreshadowing purposes. And then David drew a colourful foot in the book, and we parted ways.
I knew, really, that I didn’t have to worry about the gaming because everything Roman does is considered. He’d finish one match of FIFA and happily turn it off.
‘Are you not going to play anymore?’ I’d ask in bewilderment. I was used to growing up with a brother who would play FIFA for forty-eight hours straight, eyes bloodshot and surrounded by pizza boxes.
‘No. I’ve played my match,’ Roman would say, brightly, before delving into his Empire magazine.
Roman was also very neat. In fact, if someone was to ask me to describe him in three words, neat would be one of them. He liked to organise inanimate objects into lines as if he lived in a Wes Anderson film. I’d find my phone, purse, notebook and keys in a grid on the kitchen table and knew Roman had passed through.
When we first met, I was astonished by how tidy his wardrobe was. When he came over to mine, I had to pretend for a day that I also folded my clothes like they were in a shop. He was meticulous with his houseplants, watering them with a spray can once a week. As a result, they had grown to an impressive size, unlike mine, which were shrivelled up like hostages.
‘Hold on guys, I’m coming,’ Roman would whisper to my plants, reassuring them that help was on its way.
We dedicated a weekend to moving the final bulkier things, including the house plants, kitchenware and the giant Arnold Schwarzenegger coffee table book.
It didn’t get off to a good start. We were insistent on not hiring a moving company, thinking we could just pack up suitcases and take the Tube, but it soon came apparent that this wasn’t the most efficient way of doing it.
‘Why don’t we put everything on your bed so we can see what you have?’ I suggested.
Well, I may as well have said, ‘ Why don’t we throw all your belongings out of the window and go from there?’
It was incomprehensible to Roman to have everything out all at once. After a few long, painful silences, we decided on a less scary strategy: do one area at a time. Over the weekend, we took four Ubers and an Addison Lee van.
By Sunday, the living room was a jungle of books, boxes and plants. Our 30-something years mashed together in a one-bedroom flat. Not to be Taylor Swift about it, but it felt like a new era.
The issue with joining homes in your mid-thirties is you have double the amount of things that you don’t need. We were forced to do an ironing board contest to see which one we should keep. Roman won, but I had a winner with my kettle. We had enough plates to feed a small school, and too many cushions. (I never thought I’d say that). But it also meant our book collection became quite impressive, and we had a sophisticated variety of wine glasses.
The first few weeks in, and I am feeling surprisingly un-invaded. The PlayStation has come in quite handy when I want to write. And, I must say, my plants are thriving under Roman’s regime. We spent an evening colour coding our books and bought Friend’s Trivia Pursuit. It’s all quite fun, really.
As for Roman, I think he’s enjoying living with me, although I’m sure he’s not too keen about the daily clothes explosion on our bedroom floor; but hey, if it gets too much, there is always the apartment upstairs.
THE QUACK 