Rhys took a deep breath, braced himself, and looked in the mirror.

God.  It wasn't a pretty sight.  The morning sun streaming in through the bathroom window cast a harsh light across his face, shadowing it in all the wrong places and showing up bumps and odd little creases that he didn't even know he possessed.  He hadn't shaved for a couple of days, thinking - if he'd thought about it at all - that it lent him a reckless, Cohn Farrell vibe but, combined with the baggy skin under his eyes, it just made him look like a down-and-out who'd been sleeping in the rain for too long.  The skin of his cheeks and temples was gritty, and he could have sworn that the flesh on his neck - the red-rashed, chicken-skin flesh on his neck - was looser than he remembered.  Jesus, was he getting jowls!  He was he was actually getting jowls!

Rhys shook his head in disbelief.  When had all this happened?  When had he gotten old?  The last time he'd taken a good look at himself he'd been young, fit and carefree.  His eyes had been bright, his skin clear and his stomach as flat and as hard as a butcher's slab.

But now...

He looked down, knowing he wasn't going to like what he saw.  And he was right.  The bulge of his beer gut wasn't anywhere near big enough to hide his feet, but it was getting to the point where he'd have to take polaroids of his wedding tackle so he could remember what it all looked like.

Was this what Gwen saw whenever she looked at him?  He groaned.  No wonder she spent so much time out at work.  He was a mess.

They'd had a long conversation, on the way back from the Indian Summer.  It was probably the most serious conversation they'd ever had apart from that hesitant, 'Are you on the pill?' 'No - do you have any condoms?' exchange the first night they met.  They'd started off talking about Lucy, and how Rhys reckoned she needed a safe place to stay.  Gwen had ducked the issue, making some sarcastic comment, and then she had started talking about the two of them and where they were going with their lives.  Rhys was worried that she was winding herself up towards saying she wanted children, but fortunately her thoughts hadn't got that far along the road to the future.  She was just worried they were drifting apart.  The spark just wasn't there any more.  He'd agreed, more because she was talking and he needed to throw in the occasional 'Yeah' and 'I know' to show that he wasn't thinking about something else, but looking at himself in the mirror now he had a pretty good idea why they were drifting apart.

When was the last time they'd been out to a gig?  When had they last gone clubbing?  When had they last spent money on something frivolous, something that wasn't for the flat or the car or dinner?

Somewhere along the way, they'd lost the fun.

He was turning into his father, that's what was happening.

Taking a deep breath, he began running through a list of all the things that would have to change in the flat.  Radio 2, for a start.  That would have to go.  He'd found himself tuning to it more and more, while cooking food or tidying up, but despite the catchy tunes and the humorous banter of the presenters, it would have to vanish from the radio's memory.  Radio 2 was the kind of thing he remembered his dad listening to.  It wasn't called 'easy listening' for nothing.  Radio 1 from now on - or, even better, one of the cutting-edge broadcasters that had sprung up with the advent of digital radio.  Something radical.  Something that would make him feel young again.

The fridge would need some clearing.  Get rid of all the milk and replace it with skimmed, for a start.  Or, even better, that soya stuff.  The bread would have to go: no more cheese on toast of an evening.  All that pasta in the cupboard was now surplus to requirements.  And he'd go out later and get lots of fresh fruit and vegetables.  He and Gwen could revolutionise their eating habits overnight.  No more takeaways, no more Indian restaurants, just salads and healthy living.