Marry Me (3 page)

My fiancée had never been even slightly religious, but she was determined to have a traditional wedding. ‘There's just something nice about churches,' she said. ‘They're really old, and stuff like that.' After looking at quite a few, she chose her favourite, and we went along to talk through the arrangements. All the time, I could see she was stifling giggles, and as soon as we were outside she got on the phone to her sister and told her all about it. ‘There was this man in a dress,' she guffawed, ‘and he kept going on and on about God.'

When she'd hung up, I asked if she would rather look for a more secular venue, but she was adamant that we stick to her original plan. ‘It's so weddingy in there, with all those colourful windows and the candles and that weird-sounding piano.' Then she thought of something. ‘Wait here,' she said. ‘I'm going back to ask that man to pray for sunshine. That kind of thing's probably not real, but it's worth a try because you never know.'

A week before our wedding day, my fiancée suggested I go into suspended animation and leave all the lastminute preparations to her. At first I wasn't sure about the idea, but she soon convinced me that it would be best for both of us if I was to take something of a back seat. She took me to the local cryogenic freezing centre, and told me she would thaw me out on the morning of the big day. She kissed me goodbye, and shut the door to the chamber.

When I unfroze, there was no one there to meet me. I walked over to her place to see how things were getting along. She saw me coming up the path, and called out, ‘Look, everyone, it's the Iceman.' As I got closer, I noticed she looked a bit different, in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on. A tall, handsome man I had never seen before came out of the house, followed by a group of children, and they all started pointing at me and laughing.

She explained that she'd had cold feet, and hadn't been able to resist setting the timer for fifteen years. Then she stopped laughing, and her face turned to stone. She told me she hardly remembered me, and that it was time I left. She said I was trespassing, and that she would be well within her rights to call the police.

As our wedding day approached, my fiancée became increasingly excited about the new direction our lives were taking. ‘Just think of all the pathetic stuff we'll be able to do,' she said. ‘We can watch cookery shows together, and talk about curtains, and have really boring friends. And we can go to bed early–not to have sex, just to fall asleep.' She sighed. ‘It's what I've always wanted.'

It was what I had always wanted, too. I almost felt ready to start right then, by delivering an impenetrable monologue on the subject of aspect ratios, or droning on and on about my plans to upgrade the lawnmower, but I took a deep breath and stopped myself. It didn't seem right. I knew I had to be patient; some things would just have to wait until we were married.

At our wedding rehearsal dinner, I stood up and brought the room to a hush with a tap of my glass. I told our guests that the moment I met Arnemetia I had known that I was ready to spend the rest of my life with her. As one, everybody sighed, and the bride-to-be wiped a tear of joy from her eye. I went on to explain that my love for her was so strong that I had immediately started gathering data about her. At this point I started projecting some of my findings on to a big screen. There was a line graph depicting the changing length of her hair over time; a series of diagrams showing the colours she had favoured in her wardrobe month by month; and an elaborate bubble chart documenting the complexity of her moods. She'd had no idea that I'd been collecting this information, but unfortunately she didn't appear to be delighted by the surprise.

‘I can't work out if that's romantic or creepy,' she said. She asked our friends and family to help her decide, and with a show of hands they gave their opinions. Unfortunately, eighty-four per cent of them thought it was creepy, while a disappointing sixteen per cent thought it romantic. A further poll revealed that a comparable majority would fully understand were the wedding not to proceed.

Several years into our engagement, I took my fiancée's hand and told her that the time had finally come for us to pin down a wedding date.

‘This is awkward,' she said. ‘I was
really
drunk when I agreed to all that, and sober there's just no way.'

We spent every penny we could get our hands on making sure our wedding was perfect. With a lot of hard work we got it exactly right; every detail was in place for the happiest day of our lives.

When we returned from our honeymoon we found we weren't able to stay on top of the bills, and we soon lost our home. It was all worth it, though, and we don't regret a thing.

Now, years later, as we huddle together for warmth under whichever bridge happens to feel the safest, we reminisce about our special day.

‘Wasn't it wonderful?' says my wife, breaking off from a conversation about how we wish we had some boric acid to keep the cockroaches at bay. ‘I'll never forget the place settings. The calligraphy was exquisite.'

‘I know,' I say, ‘and what about the bridesmaids' corsages? To think the florist told us we'd be hard pressed to source that shade of orchid.'

We throw our heads back in laughter.

‘And do you remember Uncle Desmond?' she chuckles, her eyes bright with the memory. I chuckle, too. At the reception Uncle Desmond had done an amusing dance with his arms outstretched, as though he were an aeroplane, or a bird or something.

Lily of the Valley told me that, as an educated person, I must have known there was a one in three chance that a married couple of our demographic background would end up separating. ‘So, don't start acting like this is completely unexpected,' she said. A car horn sounded outside, and I didn't see what I could do but stand there like a lemon as she picked up her holdall and walked out of my life.

My wife died, and as I tended to my broken heart I was surprised by how many girls came around to offer their condolences. Without exception they steered the conversation in the same direction, telling me that while they were very sorry that she had slipped away, they had always thought I could have done better. It was so relentless that before long I began to wonder whether they had a point, and that I ought to aim quite a lot higher for my next marriage. Their visits continued, and eventually I whittled them down to a shortlist of six. When decision time came, I lined them up and got ready to make my final choice. They all had longer legs, more lustrous hair and glossier lips than my first wife, and none of them wore glasses or had a slightly haphazard nose like she had. Even so, I realised that none of them could ever take her place. ‘I'm sorry,' I said, ‘but I miss her so much, and it just wouldn't be fair on anyone.'

‘Come on, girls,' said the one with the most make-up on. ‘Let's go. I always had a feeling there was something funny about him.' Clutching their tiny bags, they stormed off, leaving me alone at last.

Some years into our marriage, my wife asked me why, when there were so many different kinds of sex to choose from, I had only ever done the same two.

My wife told me she was adamant that our separation be amicable; that the last thing she wanted was for us to become one of those former couples who only had bad things to say about one another. These sentiments were so reasonable, and so eloquently expressed, that I found it impossible to disagree. Even so, I was unable to disguise my anguish. Until that moment I'd thought our marriage had been going really well.

She saw how upset I was, and with her customary kindness she set out to soothe me. ‘Would it help you to see a picture of my new boyfriend?' she asked.

Without waiting for an answer, she reached into her bag and pulled out a photograph. He was incredibly handsome. Smiling roguishly in aviator shades, he was sitting at the wheel of a sports car, rolled-up sleeves revealing muscular arms.

‘You can't see his eyes in this one, but my God . . .' As she saw the agony on my face, her dreamy expression changed to one of concern. ‘You do understand, don't you?' She held the photograph beside my face, and kept looking from one to the other. ‘It's a no-brainer, isn't it?'

I asked my girlfriend to marry me, and she said yes. I couldn't afford a diamond, so instead I handed her a lump of charcoal. ‘It's pure carbon,' I explained. ‘Now, if we can just find a way to rearrange the atoms . . .'

She stared at the black lump in her palm, and I began to worry that ours was going to be the shortest engagement in history. She smiled. ‘We'll put it under the mattress,' she said. ‘Maybe we'll squash it into a diamond over time.'

It's been there ever since. We check up on it every once in a while, and it never looks any different. I think we would be a bit disappointed if it ever did.

When my wife returned from a holiday with her friends, I was impatient to look through her photos. I was dismayed to see that in most of them a tall, handsome man was by her side, and in quite a few they were holding hands and kissing. ‘Who's he?' I asked.

She told me his name was Romantico, that they were very much in love, and that he was going to come and get her, to take her back to his country. ‘I want you to think of it as a fresh start for all three of us,' she said. I tried to talk her out of it, but it was no use; all I could do was look on as she waited by the front door, her holdall by her feet. That was over six years ago, and she's still waiting.

As she stood there we arranged our divorce, and after a while I met somebody new, and remarried. At first my new wife was unsettled by her predecessor's constant presence in our hallway, but over time she's become used to her. We find it handy to have her there in case a delivery arrives while we're out. Whenever the bell rings she'll open the door in delight, and cry ‘Romantico, I knew you would come,' before realising that it isn't him, sobbing a little bit, then signing for whatever's arrived. Last time it was a food processor.

My wife had been married so many times before that she knew exactly what to expect on our special day. ‘My favourite bit is always the vows and the rings and all that,' she said, ‘but I never like it when they make you write in that big book. It's really boring, and the audience just sort of sits there.' She was right—as we signed the register, I could sense that the guests didn't quite know what to do with themselves. ‘Hurry up,' she whispered. ‘We're losing them.'

My wife feels desperately sorry for women who wear revealing clothes. Whenever we're out together and we pass a girl in a short skirt that offers an uninterrupted view of long, smooth legs, she'll tut, and mutter something like, ‘It's such a pity—she's got no self-respect.' I completely agree with her; if I'm ever out on my own and happen to catch a glimpse of a young lady in a dress so tight that it clings to every contour of her supple body, showing in minute detail the luxuriant shape of her breasts and the outline of her pert behind, I am consumed by an overwhelming sadness. Sighing, I look away almost as quickly as I can.

After living together for over five years, there wasn't much left for us to talk about, and sexwise we were down to once a fortnight. I was spending more and more of my free time in the garden shed, sorting through my toolbox, and most evenings she would be round at her sister's, watching soap operas and complaining about me. There was no getting away from it—we needed to have a serious talk about our future.

After a long conversation, we agreed that the time had finally come for us to get married. As soon as we had made the decision, her eyes filled with a light that I hadn't seen for a long time. ‘Everyone will be so happy for us,' she sighed. She rushed to the shop, and came back minutes later clutching a wedding magazine. She leafed through it,
ooh
ing and
aah
ing at the pictures. ‘Look at these people,' she squealed, pointing. ‘They're in a horse and cart.'

I supposed I could put up with going in a horse and cart.

My friends are all married to very attractive women, and my wife couldn't help but feel a little insecure about this. When we got home after a night out with them it all boiled over, and she started to make spiteful comments. I gave her a hug, and told her that while she may not be in their league, she still had an awful lot going for her.

‘Really?' she said, glad of the reassurance.

‘Really.' I reached for a pen and a pad of paper, and together we set out to compile a list of her attributes. By daybreak, all we had written was that she had almost kicked her heroin habit, and that her new hairstyle might start suiting her once it had had a chance to grow out a bit.

My wife started introducing me to people as ‘My current husband'.

‘Darling,' I said, smiling at her choice of words, ‘what's all this “current” business? Peo­ple will think you're looking to move on.'

‘I hadn't thought about that,' she said. ‘I suppose they would—but then again, they wouldn't be a hundred per cent wrong.'

I felt my balance go. ‘How many per cent wrong would they be?'

She looked serious for a while and bit her lip, then her expression relaxed. ‘Zero per cent,' she said.

Whenever we were invited to a wedding, my girlfriend would be fiercely critical of even the slightest display of extravagance. ‘Remem­ber what Goethe said,' she would whisper, at the first sign of ostentation. ‘
One should only celebrate a happy ending; celebrations at the outset exhaust the joy and energy needed to urge us forward and sustain us in the long struggle. And of all celebrations a wedding is the worst; no day should be kept more quietly and humbly
.' I was inclined to agree, so when she accepted my proposal I looked forward to a simple ceremony among our immediate family and very closest friends.