Marry Me (2 page)

‘It's so good of you to say so,' she said, squeezing my hand. ‘And your timing's just perfect—I met this
gorgeous
man on the way here. He gave me his number, but I wasn't sure about calling him because of all this business.' She indicated my outstretched body, tubes running in and out of it at various points. ‘But now I know we have your blessing . . .' She reached into her bag and found her phone. ‘He's a real catch—he'll be snapped up by another girl if I drag my heels.'

I was dismayed that she had found a replacement quite so quickly, and my face must have betrayed my feelings.

‘Oh, don't worry,' she said. ‘I'll tell him right from the start that there's no way he'll be getting lucky until after the funeral.' She dialled his number, and as she waited for a reply she carried on. ‘Well, maybe not after the funeral itself, but I won't let him do a thing until you're
completely
dead.'

I begged my wife to stay. ‘Please,' I said. ‘For the children's sake.'

‘But we don't have any children.'

‘I know. But I had always hoped that one day . . .'

On our honeymoon my wife lay beside me, writing a letter to her best friend. When she had finished, she asked me to check it over. I was glad to help, so I carefully read it through. Her handwriting is very neat, and her spelling and grammar are pretty good, but there were one or two minor glitches for me to point out. ‘See here?' I said. ‘You've written “the most biggest mistake I have ever made”—but it should just be “the biggest mistake I have ever made.” And this bit, where you've put “it feels like a life sentance,” that should be “sent
ence
”.' I'd only caught one more error. ‘Where you've written “I dont know what I did to deserve this,” you need an apostrophe in “don't”.' I explained that it was a contraction, and that it was the job of the apostrophe to take the place of the missing letter. She looked very serious, nodding just a little as she took it all in.

My bride didn't turn up at the church. The reception was cancelled, and I had no idea what to do with the cake. As I carried it through the streets I saw some peckish-looking tramps and offered it to them, but they told me they didn't like marzipan. I said I wouldn't be offended if they were to pick it off, but they told me very politely that just knowing it had had marzipan on it would make them feel sick.

The idea of cutting into it and eating it on my own made me so sad that I knew I couldn't do it. With trembling hands, I called my ex-fiancée. ‘Darling,' I said, ‘what should I do with the cake?'

‘I'm not your darling any more,' she said. ‘I left you, remember?'

‘Oh yes. Sorry. But what should I do with it?'

She sighed, and called out to someone. ‘Are you hungry?'

I could hear a man's voice. ‘Only for you,' it said.

She giggled. ‘Just feed it to the ducks,' she told me, and hung up.

I supposed that was as good an idea as any. I carried it to the pond in the park, but even the ducks weren't interested. Piece by piece I threw it in, watching each one float, ignored, on the surface before becoming waterlogged and sinking into the silt.

I told Aveline I was leaving. She gave me one of her looks, and said, ‘My memory of the wedding is that you promised to love me forever, no matter what.'

‘Oh, bloody hell,' I said. ‘I'd forgotten about that.' Under the circumstances there wasn't much I could do but carry on being married to her. It's not worked out too badly. On balance, I'm quite glad we've stayed together.

One cloudless night, on a starlit beach, I decided that the moment had come. I lowered myself to one knee, and asked Ammonite if she would do me the honour of being my bride. Her sweet face lit up. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Yes, I will.' Overjoyed, I took her in my arms and tenderly kissed her.

When we parted, I noticed that the gentle expression I had grown to love had changed to one I hadn't seen on her before: cold fury. ‘Right,' she snarled. ‘The last wedding we went to had a string quartet, so we're going to need at least a
quin
tet. And I'm not letting anyone bring children; I don't want shrieking brats running around. I'm having a Bentley, not a Rolls, and none of the guests are to wear coral, salmon or peach—I'm adamant about that . . .'

Hours later, as the sun came up, she was still going. ‘. . . Sandra from work will expect to be at the church, but she's only coming to the disco. And don't go thinking that friend of yours with the stupid hair is being invited—I've never liked him, and I'm not going to have him
or
his hair in the photos.' With no end in sight, I told myself that above all it was going to be Ammonite's day, and the best thing would be to let her have her way.

‘Yes, dear,' I said, in the rare moments when she paused to draw breath. ‘Of course, dear.'

In the run up to our wedding day, my fiancée told me to be quiet. ‘Can't you change the subject?' she snapped. ‘All I've been hearing lately is “I love you so much,” and “We have such a wonderful future ahead of us,” and “I can't believe I'm going to marry the girl of my dreams”.' She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘It's a legal procedure; let's just get through it with the minimum of fuss.'

 

 

RUSSIAN

 

 

 

 

Silver explained that while she loved me very much as a friend, she couldn't see us settling down together. She had anticipated my distress, and was quick to comfort me. ‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘You won't have to be alone.' She reached into her bag and brought out a brochure full of pictures of marriageminded Russian women. Leafing through it, she pointed at the ones she thought I would like, reading out their names, ages, heights and interests.

‘But what if I don't want a Russian bride?' I asked.

‘Don't be silly,' she said. ‘It'll help you get over me. And besides, I've always thought you would make a wonderful husband for some lucky girl.' One Russian in particular had caught her eye. ‘Look,' she said, ‘she's got such lovely hair. You two will be
so
happy together.'

I told her I was going to spend every moment of the rest of my life wishing she hadn't left me, and that would hardly be fair on the Russian.

‘Listen,' she said. ‘I'm moving on, and it would really help me to know that you've moved on too.' She gave me a pleading look. ‘So what do you say? Will you write to her?'

Silver knew I would do anything for her, and there was nothing I could do but nod. She jumped up and down, squealing with delight. ‘Can I be a bridesmaid?' she asked. ‘Oh, can I? It's only fair—you two would never have met if it hadn't been for me.'

I agreed to let her be a bridesmaid. Veruschka is due to arrive any day now. I'll try as hard as I can to love her, for Silver's sake.

My mother told me that the time had come for my girlfriend and I to legitimise our sex life. She had a point, so a few days later I found myself down on one knee in a romantic location. Unfortunately, I was rejected. My girlfriend told me she just wasn't able to see us growing old together, that I had never been quite as good in bed as she had hoped, and that under the circumstances it would be best not to drag things out any longer.

When I broke the news to my mother, she was furious. She had already bought a massive hat. She took it out of its box, put it on her head and pointed at it. ‘What am I supposed to do with this fucking thing now?' she bellowed.

My girlfriend had been a real nuisance, and even though she was incredibly good-looking I had been thinking quite seriously about splitting up with her. Since her lobotomy, though, things have improved, and I'm starting to see a way forward for us as a couple. These days I can leave coins and cigarettes lying around without having to worry about her stealing them, and she's even started smiling, in a vacant sort of way. None of my friends had liked her very much, but they're starting to change their opinions. ‘If you're still thinking about packing her in,' they say, looking her up and down with hunger in their eyes, ‘I'd be glad to take her off your hands.' A while ago I'd have relinquished her on the spot, but not any more. I'm even thinking about putting a ring on her finger, to mark her as mine. She won't notice, but it'll still count.

My wife told me she was leaving, and I was heartbroken. Clutching at straws, I asked her if we could still be friends.

‘Let's be realistic,' she said. ‘I've been through this so many times, and take it from me—the
friends
thing never really works.'

‘So I'll never see you again?' I sobbed.

‘No,' she said, sympathetically patting my arm, ‘I'm afraid not. But if it's any consolation, you'll be hearing from my solicitor.'

I came to the realisation that I would love my girlfriend just the same even if she lost her looks. ‘This means I'm definitely ready for us to get married,' I said.

She looked thoughtful. ‘If you were to lose your looks,' she said ‘I think I would love you quite a lot less.'

I was worried. ‘Does this mean you won't marry me?'

‘No, I might as well. It's a gamble, but I've always had a reckless streak.'

My wife had been unemployed for ages, so I was delighted when she applied for work as a classical composer. Neither of us knew much about that kind of thing, but they must have been impressed by her enthusiasm because she got the job. They sent her on a training course, and a few weeks later I went along to the premiere of her first symphony.

I was struck by how professional it sounded, and enjoyed a lot of the tunes. When it was over, I listened to the people sitting next to me as they discussed their interpretations of the piece. They agreed that the first movement had been as bleak and brave a portrayal of a failing marriage as they had ever heard; the second, they said, had been about escaping the emptiness of this marriage by embarking upon a passionate affair with a handsome bassoonist; and the consensus was that the third had dealt with the final escape, leaving the grinding tedium behind to begin an exciting new life.

I tracked her down backstage. ‘You didn't mean any of that, did you?' I asked.

She nodded. ‘Every note. I'm sorry you had to find out this way, but at least it's out in the open now.' She gave my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, told me her brother would be round for her things, then left to begin her first world tour.

I never seemed to meet the kind of girl I would like to settle down with, but after reading Sigmund Freud I realised where I had been going wrong. I took out a lonely hearts ad that said:
Do you resemble this woman? If so, I would be interested in marriage
. Underneath was a photograph of my mother. Unfortunately, it didn't work quite as well as I'd hoped. I only received one reply, and although she seemed quite promising on paper, I got to the rendezvous to find I'd been corresponding with my sister.

I don't know what she was thinking. If anything she takes after our father's side of the family.

My bride was determined to be the most beautiful girl at her wedding, and had gone out of her way to look her best for the big day. As we danced cheek to cheek at the reception, she whispered, ‘Have you seen the way the men have been looking at me? They can't believe what they're seeing. There are going to be some suicides tonight, I can tell you.'

I wasn't so sure. I thought she was wearing too much make-up, and her hair looked really stiff. Quite a lot of the other girls looked better than her, but I decided that under the circumstances it would be best to keep my opinions to myself. ‘They'll be jumping off the roof like lemmings,' I said.

My wife told me that while she loved me very much, she was no longer in love with me. ‘I'll be staying here, and keeping all the pots and pans,' she continued, ‘so your new place is going to need a little stocking up.' She pulled out a catalogue and started pointing to various items of kitchenware, praising their style and making claims about their versatility and longevity. ‘How would you feel if I was to say that
you
could own some of these extraordinary pieces?' she asked.

Dazed, I found myself signing up to buy three saucepans, a frying pan and an oven dish, as well as a number of associated accessories.

‘You're my first customer,' she said, sealing the deal with a firm handshake. ‘I would give you a discount because I know you, but it's early days and I'm sure you'll understand that I've got to keep a firm grip on my finances now I'm a single gal.'

My wife handed me an envelope, and I excitedly tore it open to find a greetings card with a picture of some kittens on it. I looked inside, and in her neatest handwriting she had written:
Thank you so much for putting up with me through my lesbian phase
.

‘What lesbian phase?' I asked.

‘Oh,' she said, looking surprised, ‘it's been going on for about two years. I thought it was obvious: the short hair; the dungarees; the way I wouldn't let you touch me.'

I was stupefied, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I couldn't believe I hadn't read the signals.

‘But never mind all that,' she said, reaching up to ruffle my hair. ‘I'm back to normal now. I'll go and put on loads of make-up, and we can pretend it never happened.'