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‘You always leave something at home.’
‘Don’t.’ ‘Do.’ ‘Don’t!’ ‘Do.’ ‘Don’t!’
‘What about Paris?’
‘That wasn’t a passport. That was the tickets.’
‘Stop frowning. You always frown.’
‘Hardly a surprise with you nagging all the time.’
‘You’ll get wrinkles if you scrunch your face like that. You were doing that right through the whole wedding.’
‘I was nervous.’
‘You looked like you were about to be tortured.’
‘You told me not to look at you affectionately because you’d start blubbing.’
‘Yes, but not for the whole day.’
‘Well, I was nervous. It’s much easier for a bride.’
‘What?’
‘It’s easier. All you have to do is smile, look nice and walk up and down an aisle. I have four tests. I have to do the vows, I have to do a speech, I have to lead a dance, I have to have sex.’
‘Have sex? That’s difficult, is it?’
‘It is when all your bridesmaids are placing bets on it.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘You don’t be stupid.’
‘You don’t be stupid.’
‘You don’t be stupid.’
‘You don’t be stupid.’
‘You don’t be stupid.’
‘Last call for flight BA One-seven-eight to Delhi.’
‘You don’t be stupid.’
Tuesday 3 May
The passport was on the mantelpiece.
Still, another night at home recovering from the wedding was a blessing in disguise. At least, that’s what I suggested to Isabel, who didn’t seem to see it that way. Will make it up to her in India …
‘Darling, I’m sorry. I am an idiot. I will make it up to you in India.’
‘It’s okay, darling, I love that you forget things.’
‘I love that you love that I forget things.’
Ahhhh.
Why I married Isabel
There was never really any question about it. Until Isabel, I had always assumed I would simply marry the girl I happened to be going out with when it was time to get married, i.e. thirty-two. That’s how it worked for Johnson and every other bloke I knew. You spend your twenties trying to extricate yourself from any relationship that looks like it’s getting too heavy (anything more than two years is dangerous), the first two years of your thirties bracing yourself, then the rest of your life as monogamous as possible.
Isabel changed that. I suddenly got it. Even though I was only twenty-nine, I knew immediately that she was someone I’d be glad to spend the rest of my life with. Mainly because she’s different from all my other girlfriends.
In that she’s beautiful rather than somewhere between pretty and elephantine. She has short dark hair with red bits in it. She is tall but not alarmingly so. She has freckles in the summer. She has a cute dimple where she used to have a nose ring. And she would have had a cute dimple where she used to have a nipple ring but she sobered up before it was her turn in the Mexican nipple-piercing shop.
[No, that’s too shallow. It’s not about looks.]
In that she’s funny.
[Still no. Sounds like something you’d write in a personal ad (Must have GSOH).]
In that she does things impetuously. She isn’t on the conveyor belt. She’s lived in Paris and Buenos Aires; she’s spent a year teaching in the Andes and three months as a beer wench in Munich; she quite fancies showing me her favourite bar in Quito one day; she wonders if the campervan we will one day drive to Bangkok should be a classic rust-bucket or one of the rather nifty new ones. Now, she works for a charity and she loves it. But next year she might decide to become a policewoman. Who knows? She’s spontaneous.
[Still no. And I hope she doesn’t become a policewoman.]
In that we were mates within five minutes of meeting, that it felt completely natural when we moved in together, that the thought of her and me getting hitched seemed like the most exciting idea in the world ever without any question, and that I can’t wait to get on with married life. Johnson is wrong about women and I didn’t completely understand that until I met Isabel.
Friday 20 May
Back from honeymoon, which I don’t want to talk about. Ever. Except to say India wasn’t my idea. Just so pleased to be home, even if home is a one-bedroom flat at the wrong end of the mean streets of Finsbury Park.
Marmite toast, tea, hot bath, bed, sleep, lovely sleep.
Wake to a message left on the answer machine from Alex. ‘Great you’re back, Izzy babes. Can’t wait to hear all about India, babes. Hope you loved it as much as I told you you would. Give us a call, babes. Bye babes.’ Accidentally deleted.
Saturday 21 May
Slept for a whole day in lovely bed with lovely wife who still loves me despite honeymoon, then got dragged to John Lewis to rearrange wedding list. It’s a shame they let you do this. Suspect Isabel knew all along. Lets me put lots of stuff on before the wedding, lets me get all excited when people buy them for us, then switches it all around as soon as I’ve signed the marriage certificate. Clever.
STUFF I WANTED AND DIDN’T GET
Gas barbecue: ‘We don’t have a garden.’ ‘We will one day.’ ‘We need something to eat off before then.’
Croquet set: same.
Black beanbag: ‘We’re not living in a bachelor pad any more.’
Rothko prints: same.
Chef ’s blowtorch: same. ‘But what about crème brûlée?’ ‘You’ll use it once and get bored.’
Juicer: ‘Boy’s toy. Pointless gadget. Kitchen clutter. No.’
Coffee machine: same.
STUFF SHE WANTED AND DID GET
Twelve dinner plates: I thought the seven we’d got would do.
Ditto side plates, bowls, spoons.
Towels: boring.
Toastie-maker: ‘Isn’t that a pointless gadget?’ ‘No, every kitchen needs one.’
Duvets: ‘But darling, we’ve got two already.’ ‘Does that include the one with the candle burn from when you were trying to impress Saskia in your horrible Acton bedsit? When you lit a hundred tea lights and she thought you were terribly sophisticated and it was all perfect until the bed caught fire? I can’t believe you told me that. I want that duvet thrown out. It’s horrid.’
Yoga mat, hairdryer, pair of Birkenstocks: ‘But darling, these aren’t even on the original list.’ ‘I don’t care, I’m still annoyed about the duvet.’ The shop assistant gives her a go-girl look and types B-I-R-K-E-N-S-T-O-C-K-S into her annoying wedding-list computer with a triumphant flourish.
Saskia. The one crazy fling of my life. The only example of me behaving like a total cad. Ever. Pretty much. I still feel bad about it but that was a long time ago. And it’s still coming back to haunt me, even now I’m married, even here at John Lewis, even though it had nothing to do with Isabel. Why did I ever tell Isabel about the bloody duvet?
Monday 23 May
I expected some sort of fanfare, going back to work. To be treated differently. I feel different. Very grown-up. Last time I saw everyone, I was Single Man, now I’m Married Man. I speak the language of Married Man. I’m part of the Holy Order of Married Men. I know the Code. I can do mother-in-law jokes.
Favourite mother-in-law joke
My father-in-law was pulled over by the police the other day. The policeman said, ‘Sir, your wife fell out of the car five miles back.’
My father-in-law replied, ‘Thank God for that, I thought I’d gone deaf.’
Second favourite mother-in-law joke
A guy brings his dog into the vet and says, ‘Could you please cut my dog’s tail off?’
The vet examines the tail and says, ‘But look here, there’s nothing wrong with his tail. Why do you want it off?’
The man replies, ‘Because my mother-in-law is coming to visit, and I don’t want anything in the house to make her think she’s welcome.’
I deserve some sort of recognition. A plaque? But all Johnson and the other blokes want to know is if I managed to consummate the marriage on the night (‘None of your business but yes’), and the girls only ask about the dress (‘It was white’), the confetti (‘Yes, there was some’) and the honeymoon (‘I don’t want to talk about it’).
Then they all see I’m not wearing a wedding ring.
‘You’re not wearing a wedding ring.’
‘No.’
‘Want to keep your options open, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Why aren’t you wearing one then?’
‘Because it’s not traditional for men to wear jewellery. And I don’t need to wear one to make sure I’m faithful. Our relationship is based on a bit more than a meaningless bit of platinum. And I looked stupid with a ring on.’
Can’t wait to get home to my wife. Got home and she’s out with bloody Alex. When she comes back, she says, ‘Well, why aren’t you wearing one?’
‘We’ve already discussed this a thousand times. It’s not traditional for men to wear jewellery.’
‘Not traditional in your family.’
‘I’ll wear one if you want.’
‘It’s up to you but I think it would be nice. You know, I’m really, really proud to wear my wedding ring.’
This is something Isabel is good at: twisting an argument so that what a minute ago sounded fair and reasonable coming out of your mouth sounds like something about as acceptable as kitten-stamping. If you were cynical, you’d interpret this as manipulative. I know Isabel though: it’s only 20 per cent manipulation, 25 per cent misguided reasonableness and 55 per cent being typically female.
Tuesday 24 May
Pub crisis meeting with Andy and Johnson. Johnson starts, as he always does, by sucking in his cheeks, crossing his elbows and rocking back on his bar stool authoritatively. He reminds me, as he also always does, that he’s been married for ten difficult years; that if he can do it, married to the woman he is, then anyone can. What he doesn’t know about patching up quarrels, dodging marital bullets and ducking domestic pincer movements isn’t worth wasting good beer time discussing.
‘Come on then,’ Andy and I say in unison, ignoring, as we always do, the fact that Johnson’s hard-working, sensible, intelligent, patient and long-suffering wife Ali has almost certainly had a harder time putting up with ten years of the infant Johnson than he has putting up with her.
‘It’s not traditional,’ he offers at last.
‘Said that.’
‘How’s a piece of jewellery going to make any difference whether you’re faithful or not?’
‘Said that too.’
‘If you’re going to shag someone, a ring won’t stop you. You could just take it off.’
‘Yep, didn’t say that.’
‘And besides, there’s a certain type of woman who goes for men because they’re wearing wedding rings. Predatory women who want sex. Terrible women, these. They come at you in a bar, you’re sitting there having a drink, minding your own business, wearing your wedding ring, and they strike. These wanton, brazen, ravishing women with their short skirts and their stockings and their completely amoral attitude to fornication. The wedding ring is no defence. “Look, I’m married,” you say. “I don’t want a relationship, you sexy, sexy man,” they purr, running their filthy-temptress fingers down your tie. “I want you. And I want you now.”’
Johnson is running his fingers down my chest seductively.
‘I’ve got the idea.’
‘And before you know it, you’re waking up in the wrong hotel room with some brazen harlot in some filthy negligée ordering postcoital petit déjeûner.’
Andy says a ring to him is like a symbolic chattel, a sign of ownership—a ring-cuff, if you will. Love, if it’s true, doesn’t need symbols of repression. I point out that Isabel has a wedding ring. Andy nods sagely and, not for the first time, I wonder why I ever bother asking my two best friends anything.
