William Walker’s First Year of Marriage: A Horror Story
William Walker’s First Year of Marriage: A Horror Story
Matt Rudd
For anyone who has ever dreamed of finding true love only to discover that happy endings are just the beginning comes this brilliantly comic novel about marriage, ex-girlfriends, ‘performance anxiety’, and what it takes to make happily ever last beyond the honeymoon.William Walker has just married Isabel, the girl of his dreams. The happy couple live in a small flat in north London while William labours away at his magazine job, revelling in his recent promotion from a column for which he was required to taste different brands of cat food to more dignified reportage. So far, so perfect.But William has a Bridget Jones-ish knack for messing up the happiest of situations – he can’t help shouting at the obnoxiously precocious work experience girl and has an embarrassing tendency to forget names of women he has previously tried to sleep with. It doesn’t help that Isabel’s creepy best friend Alex is very obviously in love with her. Nor that Saskia, a vixen-ish old flame of William’s, has just moved in downstairs. As Alex slithers his way into Isabel’s heart, Saskia seems intent on resuming relations with William – or at least giving Isabel that impression.Increasingly beset, increasingly unlucky and increasingly hilarious, William battles his way through a series of comic disasters that threaten to destroy his relationship and reduce him to a state of sad bachelorhood – a fate, he soon realises, worse than death.
Matt Rudd
William Walker’s
First Year of
Marriage
A Horror Story
Dedication (#ulink_08665cd3-0780-525c-ac06-49cbe0eaef33)
To Harriet
Contents
Title Page (#u888634e2-f68a-5206-b36c-31ff0bc59a36)
Dedication (#ue14180c6-8a42-57b2-967c-1c0275d3d038)
May (#ue1570b2d-cc7f-5355-acc0-1b96d65e3c71)
June (#u9d2fd85a-3479-5e82-8e96-f74737dd93ed)
July (#uc8203d7f-6fd0-55aa-95b7-3e833f56673c)
August (#u9660f390-b896-5b18-b061-c202a0082be7)
September (#u8166bf08-456a-568c-8680-35b20bb08198)
October (#ubee714f3-02ce-5e5b-8a2d-2590dc22b400)
November (#u4a1170df-b2c4-5b10-a7f2-590808b0371c)
December (#u2556fbd2-044e-5c08-825b-906e61d71c41)
January (#u00ff3ac4-b7a9-565f-bf6e-5018b02c3eed)
February (#u013425b1-83b8-5a19-a178-a8ef2340804c)
March (#u1bf7c2c2-f201-594f-ae43-f9cd64ee20b3)
April (#u3099e873-627e-57e2-bfcb-7a5109101ef9)
Read On (#u4758af1e-d7e3-5d7b-9f21-7806fbb67042)
Acknowledgments (#u44b57559-bad8-5bc7-83b2-6fd603d2e5a2)
Copyright (#u47a1ad79-d32c-5590-b863-f7bd6ea41c95)
About the Publisher (#u70e89082-68b3-5440-b8e0-bbd7841d3b00)
MAY (#ulink_48d8011d-c952-5165-b068-2663d40d6b53)
‘Marriage is like life in this—that it is a field of battle,and not a bed of roses.’
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,
Virginibus Puerisque (1881)
Sunday 1 May
I never had a threesome.
I never had an orgy.
I never slept with anyone from Sweden. Or Norway.
I never slept with a Scandinavian full stop.
I never slept with anyone with tattoos or pink hair or non-facial piercings or a career in pornography.
I never slept with Mrs Robinson.
I never slept with any married woman, and no, last night doesn’t count because she was married to me.
Yesterday, I married Isabel, the girl of my dreams. Fantastic. I am married. Superb. I am a husband. Brilliant. I’ll never sleep with another woman again so long as we both shall live.
‘Hello, husband. I think I’m going to be sick.’ These were the first words she said when she woke. Isabel. My beautiful wife.
‘Morning, Mrs Walker.’
Despite the hangover, she starts trampolining around the four-poster, singing ‘I’ve go-ot married yes-t’day morning’ to the tune of ‘I’m getting married in the morning’, which doesn’t fit. She sings like someone being stabbed in a shower: all commitment, no tonal control. This is not because she’s singing and fighting back the urge to vomit. This is how she normally sings. It is one of her many endearing qualities.
‘Mrs Walker. I like that. So much better than Miss Brackett.’
‘This is why you married me? For my surname?’
‘Yes, that’s it. Couldn’t go another year as a Brackett.’
‘Well, now you’re a Walker. Any second thoughts?’
‘Yes. I wish I hadn’t drunk so much.’
‘No, about being, well, married.’
Until this morning, I’ve never had any second thoughts—well, not officially. Not so as to cause alarm. But from the moment I asked the woman I love to marry me, I’ve been expecting her to look dazed for a minute or two, blink a few times as if risen suddenly from a twelve-month coma, then look at me, look at the engagement ring and start screaming, ‘Marry you?! Are you mad?’ She could, I’m sure, even if I’m being objective, have had the pick of the field. A girl who looks even more beautiful in jeans and T-shirt than make-up and cocktail dress, an effortlessly glamorous head-turner, the sort of girl, honestly, you’d be quite chuffed to go on a date with. And I’ve got her to agree to spend the rest of her life with me. It’s ridiculous.
‘No, darling. No second thoughts. Even if you did knock the vicar out on my wedding day.’
If you ask Johnson, the world’s most pessimistic usher, he’ll tell you the wedding was a disaster. This is because he sees a friend getting married in the same way everyone else might see a friend being sent to prison. For life. He hasn’t enjoyed his decade of matrimonial bliss.
If you ask me, the wedding had gone pretty well. Compared to what I’d imagined. It had taken several Bishop’s Nipples the night before to convince the vicar I was not the infidel even though I only went to church once a year. After that, he’d been an absolute angel, until he’d fallen down the steps of his own church and come a cropper on the pew. I and a large part of the congregation had thought for several seconds that he had actually killed himself, but a glass of holy water brought him back from the brink. When he regained consciousness, he claimed I pushed him. I don’t think I did…I may have brushed past him as I helped Isabel and her dress turn, ready for the you-may-kiss-the-bride-and-get-out-of-here bit. Nothing he could do by then: we were already married.
And, despite Johnson’s grave warnings beforehand and rolling eyes during, everything else went okay.
My tailored suit (posted from Hong Kong because do you know how much tailored tails cost in London?) had, miraculously, fitted. The Corsa (89,452 miles) had started. And Isabel, despite her ‘best friend’ Alex and his ridiculous equine chauffeur service, had got to the church on time.
I had been forbidden to look her in the eye ‘emotionally’ or ‘with significance’ at any stage during the service for fear of opening her floodgates. ‘I don’t want to do an Alison,’ she had explained quite reasonably. Who could forget Alison’s wedding? It had taken hours, maybe days, for her to sob, squeak and warble her way through the vows. By the time she reached ‘till…sob…death…sob, sob, sob…do us…sniff…part’, we all thought she was going to illustrate her point by collapsing on the spot. RIP Alison who died at her wedding from dehydration.
Despite the threats, I had felt an overwhelming urge to burst into tears myself from the moment Isabel rounded the corner and began the walk. Quite hard not to, what with all your friends and family going ‘ooohh’ and ‘ahhh’, and seeing the dress for the first time. An amazing Sixties number, not at all like the explosion in a meringue factory you get normally. Then there’s the mysterious veil and the accompanying trumpet voluntary and your mum already blubbing away in her purple hat. Is this really not too much for any man to cope with? Did whoever invented weddings not add all this extra stuff to make it absolutely inevitable that the poor sap waiting up at the altar would weep deep tears of joy/run a thousand miles/pass out on the spot?
Isabel did what she always does when she’s trying not to cry: she laughed, hysterically. She walked the entire length of the church laughing and blinking back tears, her dress and variable bridesmaids flowing behind her. Only in the last few feet did her eyes meet mine. She smiled; I smiled back with as little significance as I could muster—a sort of thin-lipped, cold-eyed, non-bothered smirk, the kind you’d throw a kid on a bike when he calls you a fecker. She burst into tears anyway.
Still, I passed the four tests…
THE FOUR TESTS OF A BRIDEGROOM
1 The vows. Don’t shout them, don’t whimper them, don’t faint during them. Easy.
2 The speech. Thank everyone—but mainly in-laws, look happy, declare love for new wife and make bridesmaids cry. Had to follow Isabel’s father, who did ten minutes on the traumas of her breech birth and made two members of the audience physically sick. Did fine, though, compared to Andy. I’d chosen him as best man over Johnson because he worked in the diplomatic corps and I’d remembered those Ferrero Rocher ads. As Isabel pointed out, he wasn’t actually an ambassador but doesn’t everyone in the diplomatic corps have tact? No, nerves destroyed his judgement and he never recovered from his choice of opener (‘What’s the difference between a bridegroom and a cucumber?’). His attempt to regain momentum involved raising all three topics he’d specifically been told not to (my scatological university tragedy, the vastly differing weights of the bridesmaids and my Hyde Park Corner fling with a floozy). It wasn’t pretty.
3 The dance. Two lessons hadn’t been enough to master the foxtrot. Isabel’s toe crushed in the first verse of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ and an elephantine triple-trampling in the second. I considered stopping in the third to summon a paramedic or podiatric specialist but she blinked away the tears, squeezed my shoulder very, very hard and whispered, ‘Keep going.’ I did, we finished with a twirl, great aunties sighed, friends said how beautiful we looked and I decided to take that at face value.
4 The consummation. Bridesmaids always ask the bride if you did or you didn’t. If you didn’t, they tell their boyfriends and husbands. Who tell all their friends. Who all snigger. So, despite fatigue and room spin and a frankly terrifying corset, we did.
Now it’s Sunday and we can relax for the first time in six months.
Lunch was fun. No ribbons or corsages or speeches or Windsor knots or place mats or chauffeurs or confetti or wish-they-hadn’t-come extended family. Just thirty of us at a pizza restaurant in Highgate going over the post-nuptial-mortem.
THE POST-MORTEM
One Boris Becker. Andy and a waitress—in a cloakroom, though, not a cupboard. He loves her. She loves him. He’s moving to Sydney when her work visa runs out next Thursday. Already started Googling for flats on Manly Beach this morning. It won’t happen.
One hospital admission. Not the vicar. He made a miraculous recovery. It was Johnson, emboldened by ‘It’s Raining Men’, who needed medical attention after he stage-dived into an adoring crowd. There was no adoring crowd. There wasn’t even a crowd. Witnesses say he scored a perfect belly flop, and in so doing broke his nose and his fifth metatarsal, and severely bruised his right testicle. Why not his left? Because it doesn’t hang as low as the right one. I wished I hadn’t asked.
One run-in with the law. My father showing love-sick Andy how to down a bottle of red wine, on the way back to the hotel at 2 a.m. ‘Evening, gentlemen, everything all right?’ ‘Yes, officer.’ ‘On our way home are we, gentlemen?’ ‘Yes, officer.’ ‘A long way, is it?’ ‘Just over there, officer.’ ‘Best be on our way then, hadn’t we, gentlemen?’ ‘Yes, officer.’ ‘Will you be taking the bollard with you?’ ‘No, sir.’
One storming out. Surprise, surprise, Watzerface who is the girlfriend of Alex who is the best friend of my wife who clearly isn’t always a good judge of character.
Why did Watzerface storm out?
Official reason from Alex, while sadly not choking on his goat’s-cheese pizza (amazing, he can even manage to find a pretentious flavour of pizza): ‘She wanted marriage, but it felt too soon. You can’t rush such an important decision, can you? Marriage should be for life, not a month or two. I’m so upset that she couldn’t give me more time.’ Misty-eyed nods from bridal group, eye-rolling from me, Andy and Johnson. He’s confusing marriage with rescue dogs, and the girls lap it up.
Real reason: she’d had to find her own way to the church and reception because Alex, after much begging, had been given the job of chauffeuring. He’d been told ‘nothing flash’ then turned up with a white coach and six horses, none of which he could properly control. He had worn tailored tails and a waistcoat strikingly similar to mine except not from Hong Kong. He’d spent the whole service muttering gloomy imprecations, especially during the vows, which meant the vicar, sensing possibilities, had repeated the ‘Can anyone see any lawful impediment?’ question … twice.
Even before our first dance had finished, he’d tapped me on the shoulder, then refused to give Isabel to anyone else for the next three dances. And, once prised away, he’d marched up onto the stage, handed out sheet music to the band, declared how much he loved his best-friend-in-all-the-world Isabel, spat out how delighted he was she’d found the perfect man, then sang Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’. If I hadn’t been so busy vomiting, I would have stormed out too.
Home late to the flat. More lugging over the threshold on Isabel’s insistence, accompanied by what I took to be slightly sarcastic clapping from one of the idiots from the upstairs flat. India tomorrow. Tired, so tired.
Monday 2 May
‘Someone’s stolen my passport!’ I was completely sure of it.
‘No, they haven’t.’ But Isabel wasn’t.
‘Yes, they have.’
‘No, they haven’t.’
‘Yes, they have.’
‘No, they haven’t.’
It doesn’t take long for the matrimonial harmony to wear off, does it?
‘Yes, they have, I had it on the Tube and that bloke opposite looked shifty.’
‘So you were pickpocketed?’
‘Yes, he must have followed us.’
‘Thought you said you were like a coiled spring when you were travelling, a coiled anti-pickpocket spring.’
‘Yes, well…’
‘That if anyone tried it on with you, there’d be a blur, a flash and a whimper.’
‘I—’
‘That they’d be picking up their teeth with broken fingers.’
‘Shut up and help me look in these bags!’
‘Don’t snap at your wife.’
‘Yes, well, my wife is being incredibly unhelpful, the flight’s about to leave and someone’s run off with my passport.’
‘Is it at home?’
‘What?’
‘Have you left your passport at home?’
‘Of course I haven’t.’
‘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.
Nevertheless, it is worth one more try. I wait until Isabel is brushing her teeth before mentioning the brazen, harlotish, fornicating women in bars. She says she’s prepared to take the risk, then spits for effect.
Getting a ring next week.
The trouble with asking Johnson or Andy anything about women
Johnson is an expert in the art of handling the opposite sex by virtue of the fact that he is older than me and Andy. He likes to use the standard line on this. ‘Ten years, man, ten years—if I’d killed her instead of marrying her, I could have been out on parole by now.’
Before Johnson ‘went soft’ and came to work on Life & Times magazine with me, he was a hard-bitten crime reporter on the Manchester Evening News. Somewhere along the line, he has muddled his time working the sink estates, covering stories of social decay, organised crime and young lives wasted with marriage. He sees them as the same thing.
‘I know what makes women tick,’ he says. ‘You can’t trust them. Not ever. They will stab you in the back the moment you think they’re your friend.’
‘Are you talking about women or inner-city drug dealers?’
‘Same thing, my son. Same thing.’
He thinks Isabel is the best thing that ever happened to me and can’t understand why I had to ruin it all by marrying her.
Andy, meanwhile, is an expert in the art of handling the opposite sex by virtue of the fact that he has handled an awful lot of them. The only problem here is that he has never handled them for any length of time. He isn’t a womaniser, he is an optimist. He travels the world falling in love when he should be representing Her Majesty’s Government. Then, inevitably, visa issues, flight schedules, language barriers and, occasionally, husbands get in the way. He has now concluded that love transcends the boundaries of time and space. He thinks Isabel is the best thing that ever happened to me but that marriage is nothing more than several signatures on a meaningless piece of paper. ‘True love transcends time, space and institution,’ he says.
‘So how is that waitress from the cupboard?’ I reply.
‘She will always have a place in my heart.’
‘You’re not moving to Manly?’
‘And leave you two? All married and alone? I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.’
Wednesday 25 May
Isabel wants to know what Johnson, Andy and I always talk about at the pub, besides brazen, harlotish women in bars.
‘Stuff,’ I say.
‘What stuff?’ It’s not the first time she has asked but this time she says she has a right to know.
‘I am your wife. You shouldn’t be going out with them any more. Not without telling me what you talk about.’
This is the sort of thing Johnson has been warning me about. I must nip it in the bud.
‘Well …’ I begin with a sharp, scandalised intake of breath.
‘I was joking,’ she says. ‘It’s only that you never seem to come back from the pub with any news about the two of them. I was curious about how you pass the time.’
This could easily be a trick. If I was a better chess player, I’d be able to work out the various permutations before I opened my mouth. I don’t think she’s trying to trick me. She’s simply making conversation. She likes talking to me when we get back from work. She likes it more than watching television. This is obviously a compliment but it does mean I am no longer up to speed with The Bill. It could also still be a trick.
‘Well, you can come.’
‘What?’
‘Come to the pub.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Er, yes.’ Suddenly, I’m not. I should have just moved the pawn. That would have been fine.
‘Okay, but you have to talk about the things you always talk about. No chatting about art and poetry and horse-riding just for my benefit.’
These are the things she really does like to talk about, which is sometimes a problem. I don’t know very much about art but she does, on account of her highly arty family upbringing. The poetry of the Romantic Period was her special subject at university and, unlike everyone else who went to university, she still remembers it. And made me go to several poetry recitals when we first met just because she really, really wants to share the joy of it all. I almost got it. I almost did. I could see why she loved it and why I was a useless philistine for not loving it as much.
Horse-riding, though. That’s where we really come unstuck. She loves horse-riding. When we’re tired of London (about five years) and we’ve won the lottery, she wants to move to somewhere remote and horsey like North Wales. She wants to ride and muck out stables and give out carrots and blow in horses’ nostrils because they love it. She likes smelling of horse.
We’ll never see eye to eye on the joy of horses.
I phone Andy and Johnson, both of whom are suspicious, even when I tell them we don’t have to talk about poetry. Reluctantly, they agree to meet me and Isabel in the pub on Friday—and pretend she’s a bloke.
Thursday 26 May
Woke up with absolutely no idea of the eureka moment about to occur in the bathroom. Bath, teeth, flossed a little bit, nothing out of the ordinary. Attempt to shave, but last razor is on last legs. I’m busy hacking away like a tired peasant in a cornfield when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot another option lying provocatively on the shelf: Isabel’s pink leg-razor. Isabel is still in bed and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Amazing. It’s all over in a flash, a clean shave, my skin all silky smooth. Pink girly razor: the best a man can get … I put it back, so no one will ever know. Skip to work, delighted that the years of hacking away and patching up cuts with bits of loo roll might be over.
Friday 27 May
Isabel found dark stubbly hair in her razor. Firmly told not to do it again or she’ll tell Johnson.
‘Evening, boys.’
‘Evening, Isabel.’
The four of us are in the pub. Johnson is behaving like he’s in an interrogation room. He squints suspiciously at Isabel.
‘Well, since I’m the honorary bloke, I’ll get the first round.’
While we sit in silence, she goes to the bar, returning minutes later with four pints of bitter, four whisky chasers and four packets of pork scratchings. Everyone starts to relax.
Three pints later, we are playing one of Isabel’s traveller drinking games. A pint after that, Andy is explaining to us how breasts vary from one nation to the next. Then, Isabel tells everyone that I use a Ladyshave. Then Johnson tells us his post-pee dribble trick.
Johnson’s post-pee dribble trick
You have to trick it. Finish the pee, shake as usual, put away, zip up, pretend you’re leaving then retrieve when it thinks it’s in the clear and have another shake. I tried it and it works. Andy did too. Can’t believe I’m almost thirty and only now have I truly mastered the art of urinating.
Rest of evening spent discussing where to hold the door handle on the way out of the toilet. I always hold it at the top corner, where other people don’t touch it. Johnson reckons that doesn’t work because it’s the bit least likely to be cleaned properly. Even though it’s touched less, the germs have longer to prosper. Andy uses his shirtsleeve or waits for someone else to come in. Isabel thinks we should get out more.
Saturday 28 May
Andy is unconscious, perhaps dead, on our sofa. Johnson called to say he fell asleep on the night bus and woke up in a depot near Hounslow. I feel as sick as I did on the third day of our honeymoon after eating the warm lamb rogan josh.
Isabel, on the other hand, is eating toast and contemplating a fry-up.
‘I think I’ll skip the next few pub outings. You three are lightweights.’
‘Fine by me.’
‘And it really is true, isn’t it? Blokes can spend a whole night in a pub talking about absolutely nothing whatsoever. No “how was the honeymoon?” or “how’s work?” or “sorry things didn’t work out with the waitress” or “terrible what’s going on in Bangladesh”.’
‘Blokes don’t need to natter on the whole time.’
‘Oh, I see. Okay. Still, at least I know how to shake my willy.’
Johnson was right—women should not be allowed to gatecrash bloke-nights.
WHY BRITISH MEN DON’T NATTER ON THE WHOLE TIME
It’s exhausting.
We’re not Italian.
Life is too short.
We spend our (too short) lives being nattered at by women. It is therefore only sensible to think of male company as a pause between bouts of nattering. Isabel can’t see this because she is a woman. While she made a good honorary bloke last night, she has reverted to type this morning by nattering. Even if she did make an excellent fry-up.
Monday 30 May
Met Isabel four years ago today. Seems like much, much longer. Not in a bad way.
Dinner at Andrew Edmunds (note for next time, refuse downstairs table if upstairs full and go somewhere else instead because left smelling like lamb chops), then a tour of all the bars we’d got drunk in back when we were all excited and unfamiliar with each other. Isabel gets super-nostalgic: ‘We sat on this sofa, you ordered those drinks, you tripped on that step and ruined the dress of a girl sitting at that table. And you were wearing that horrible off-centre skintight jumper.’
I explain, as I did at the time, that it was bias-cut, very fashionable, chosen by a fashion PR who’d felt sorry for me. She explains, as she did at the time, that I will never be fashionable with my sticky-out ears and my sticky-out nose and my pointy little head. And I remember why I fell in love with her. And how we met on a speed-dating evening neither of us had planned to go to.
What if she hadn’t gone along to support her recently dumped friend? What if my mate Tom hadn’t forced me to go along with him because he wasn’t going to turn up on his own ‘like some creepy pervert’?
The speed-date girls I could have ended up with
‘Hello, I’m William.’
‘Hello, William. I’m Alison. Isn’t it hard to meet people these days? Just so busy at the firm…working all the hours. Not a min, simply not a min to meet a man. Wouldn’t be here otherwise, course. If I had some sensible job, you know. Not going to meet someone between my flat and the office, am I?, which is the only time I ever get out these days. I’m not going to fall in love with the fat middle-aged guy who looks up my skirt on the Tube every morning, am I? That’s why I’m here. Not because I’m desperate.’
‘Hi, my name is William.’
‘Right, William. I’ll be straight with you. I’ve been mucked about by men far too much and I’m sick of you lying bastards. Yes, I’m blonde and yes, I have very large breasts but that doesn’t mean I’m a tart. I want to know, right now, before we go a single second further, if you’re seriously looking for love, if you want to have a relationship. You know, with actual dating and cinemas and walks in the country. I’m not interested in wasting any more time with no-hopers. Capiche?’
‘Good evening, I’m William.’
‘William. Charlotte. Do you ride? Horses, that is. Hahahahaha. I love riding. I’m still talking about horses. Hahahahahahahaha-haha-snort. I ride three. Still horses, William, you filthy-minded man. Hahahahaha. Another glass of ssshampypampy? Oh go on. Oops. Spilt it. Bit squiffy, which is odd because I’ve only had two glasses. We should go riding sometime. Not talking about horses any more, William, hahahahahaha.’
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Matt Rudd
For anyone who has ever dreamed of finding true love only to discover that happy endings are just the beginning comes this brilliantly comic novel about marriage, ex-girlfriends, ‘performance anxiety’, and what it takes to make happily ever last beyond the honeymoon.William Walker has just married Isabel, the girl of his dreams. The happy couple live in a small flat in north London while William labours away at his magazine job, revelling in his recent promotion from a column for which he was required to taste different brands of cat food to more dignified reportage. So far, so perfect.But William has a Bridget Jones-ish knack for messing up the happiest of situations – he can’t help shouting at the obnoxiously precocious work experience girl and has an embarrassing tendency to forget names of women he has previously tried to sleep with. It doesn’t help that Isabel’s creepy best friend Alex is very obviously in love with her. Nor that Saskia, a vixen-ish old flame of William’s, has just moved in downstairs. As Alex slithers his way into Isabel’s heart, Saskia seems intent on resuming relations with William – or at least giving Isabel that impression.Increasingly beset, increasingly unlucky and increasingly hilarious, William battles his way through a series of comic disasters that threaten to destroy his relationship and reduce him to a state of sad bachelorhood – a fate, he soon realises, worse than death.
Matt Rudd
William Walker’s
First Year of
Marriage
A Horror Story
Dedication (#ulink_08665cd3-0780-525c-ac06-49cbe0eaef33)
To Harriet
Contents
Title Page (#u888634e2-f68a-5206-b36c-31ff0bc59a36)
Dedication (#ue14180c6-8a42-57b2-967c-1c0275d3d038)
May (#ue1570b2d-cc7f-5355-acc0-1b96d65e3c71)
June (#u9d2fd85a-3479-5e82-8e96-f74737dd93ed)
July (#uc8203d7f-6fd0-55aa-95b7-3e833f56673c)
August (#u9660f390-b896-5b18-b061-c202a0082be7)
September (#u8166bf08-456a-568c-8680-35b20bb08198)
October (#ubee714f3-02ce-5e5b-8a2d-2590dc22b400)
November (#u4a1170df-b2c4-5b10-a7f2-590808b0371c)
December (#u2556fbd2-044e-5c08-825b-906e61d71c41)
January (#u00ff3ac4-b7a9-565f-bf6e-5018b02c3eed)
February (#u013425b1-83b8-5a19-a178-a8ef2340804c)
March (#u1bf7c2c2-f201-594f-ae43-f9cd64ee20b3)
April (#u3099e873-627e-57e2-bfcb-7a5109101ef9)
Read On (#u4758af1e-d7e3-5d7b-9f21-7806fbb67042)
Acknowledgments (#u44b57559-bad8-5bc7-83b2-6fd603d2e5a2)
Copyright (#u47a1ad79-d32c-5590-b863-f7bd6ea41c95)
About the Publisher (#u70e89082-68b3-5440-b8e0-bbd7841d3b00)
MAY (#ulink_48d8011d-c952-5165-b068-2663d40d6b53)
‘Marriage is like life in this—that it is a field of battle,and not a bed of roses.’
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,
Virginibus Puerisque (1881)
Sunday 1 May
I never had a threesome.
I never had an orgy.
I never slept with anyone from Sweden. Or Norway.
I never slept with a Scandinavian full stop.
I never slept with anyone with tattoos or pink hair or non-facial piercings or a career in pornography.
I never slept with Mrs Robinson.
I never slept with any married woman, and no, last night doesn’t count because she was married to me.
Yesterday, I married Isabel, the girl of my dreams. Fantastic. I am married. Superb. I am a husband. Brilliant. I’ll never sleep with another woman again so long as we both shall live.
‘Hello, husband. I think I’m going to be sick.’ These were the first words she said when she woke. Isabel. My beautiful wife.
‘Morning, Mrs Walker.’
Despite the hangover, she starts trampolining around the four-poster, singing ‘I’ve go-ot married yes-t’day morning’ to the tune of ‘I’m getting married in the morning’, which doesn’t fit. She sings like someone being stabbed in a shower: all commitment, no tonal control. This is not because she’s singing and fighting back the urge to vomit. This is how she normally sings. It is one of her many endearing qualities.
‘Mrs Walker. I like that. So much better than Miss Brackett.’
‘This is why you married me? For my surname?’
‘Yes, that’s it. Couldn’t go another year as a Brackett.’
‘Well, now you’re a Walker. Any second thoughts?’
‘Yes. I wish I hadn’t drunk so much.’
‘No, about being, well, married.’
Until this morning, I’ve never had any second thoughts—well, not officially. Not so as to cause alarm. But from the moment I asked the woman I love to marry me, I’ve been expecting her to look dazed for a minute or two, blink a few times as if risen suddenly from a twelve-month coma, then look at me, look at the engagement ring and start screaming, ‘Marry you?! Are you mad?’ She could, I’m sure, even if I’m being objective, have had the pick of the field. A girl who looks even more beautiful in jeans and T-shirt than make-up and cocktail dress, an effortlessly glamorous head-turner, the sort of girl, honestly, you’d be quite chuffed to go on a date with. And I’ve got her to agree to spend the rest of her life with me. It’s ridiculous.
‘No, darling. No second thoughts. Even if you did knock the vicar out on my wedding day.’
If you ask Johnson, the world’s most pessimistic usher, he’ll tell you the wedding was a disaster. This is because he sees a friend getting married in the same way everyone else might see a friend being sent to prison. For life. He hasn’t enjoyed his decade of matrimonial bliss.
If you ask me, the wedding had gone pretty well. Compared to what I’d imagined. It had taken several Bishop’s Nipples the night before to convince the vicar I was not the infidel even though I only went to church once a year. After that, he’d been an absolute angel, until he’d fallen down the steps of his own church and come a cropper on the pew. I and a large part of the congregation had thought for several seconds that he had actually killed himself, but a glass of holy water brought him back from the brink. When he regained consciousness, he claimed I pushed him. I don’t think I did…I may have brushed past him as I helped Isabel and her dress turn, ready for the you-may-kiss-the-bride-and-get-out-of-here bit. Nothing he could do by then: we were already married.
And, despite Johnson’s grave warnings beforehand and rolling eyes during, everything else went okay.
My tailored suit (posted from Hong Kong because do you know how much tailored tails cost in London?) had, miraculously, fitted. The Corsa (89,452 miles) had started. And Isabel, despite her ‘best friend’ Alex and his ridiculous equine chauffeur service, had got to the church on time.
I had been forbidden to look her in the eye ‘emotionally’ or ‘with significance’ at any stage during the service for fear of opening her floodgates. ‘I don’t want to do an Alison,’ she had explained quite reasonably. Who could forget Alison’s wedding? It had taken hours, maybe days, for her to sob, squeak and warble her way through the vows. By the time she reached ‘till…sob…death…sob, sob, sob…do us…sniff…part’, we all thought she was going to illustrate her point by collapsing on the spot. RIP Alison who died at her wedding from dehydration.
Despite the threats, I had felt an overwhelming urge to burst into tears myself from the moment Isabel rounded the corner and began the walk. Quite hard not to, what with all your friends and family going ‘ooohh’ and ‘ahhh’, and seeing the dress for the first time. An amazing Sixties number, not at all like the explosion in a meringue factory you get normally. Then there’s the mysterious veil and the accompanying trumpet voluntary and your mum already blubbing away in her purple hat. Is this really not too much for any man to cope with? Did whoever invented weddings not add all this extra stuff to make it absolutely inevitable that the poor sap waiting up at the altar would weep deep tears of joy/run a thousand miles/pass out on the spot?
Isabel did what she always does when she’s trying not to cry: she laughed, hysterically. She walked the entire length of the church laughing and blinking back tears, her dress and variable bridesmaids flowing behind her. Only in the last few feet did her eyes meet mine. She smiled; I smiled back with as little significance as I could muster—a sort of thin-lipped, cold-eyed, non-bothered smirk, the kind you’d throw a kid on a bike when he calls you a fecker. She burst into tears anyway.
Still, I passed the four tests…
THE FOUR TESTS OF A BRIDEGROOM
1 The vows. Don’t shout them, don’t whimper them, don’t faint during them. Easy.
2 The speech. Thank everyone—but mainly in-laws, look happy, declare love for new wife and make bridesmaids cry. Had to follow Isabel’s father, who did ten minutes on the traumas of her breech birth and made two members of the audience physically sick. Did fine, though, compared to Andy. I’d chosen him as best man over Johnson because he worked in the diplomatic corps and I’d remembered those Ferrero Rocher ads. As Isabel pointed out, he wasn’t actually an ambassador but doesn’t everyone in the diplomatic corps have tact? No, nerves destroyed his judgement and he never recovered from his choice of opener (‘What’s the difference between a bridegroom and a cucumber?’). His attempt to regain momentum involved raising all three topics he’d specifically been told not to (my scatological university tragedy, the vastly differing weights of the bridesmaids and my Hyde Park Corner fling with a floozy). It wasn’t pretty.
3 The dance. Two lessons hadn’t been enough to master the foxtrot. Isabel’s toe crushed in the first verse of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ and an elephantine triple-trampling in the second. I considered stopping in the third to summon a paramedic or podiatric specialist but she blinked away the tears, squeezed my shoulder very, very hard and whispered, ‘Keep going.’ I did, we finished with a twirl, great aunties sighed, friends said how beautiful we looked and I decided to take that at face value.
4 The consummation. Bridesmaids always ask the bride if you did or you didn’t. If you didn’t, they tell their boyfriends and husbands. Who tell all their friends. Who all snigger. So, despite fatigue and room spin and a frankly terrifying corset, we did.
Now it’s Sunday and we can relax for the first time in six months.
Lunch was fun. No ribbons or corsages or speeches or Windsor knots or place mats or chauffeurs or confetti or wish-they-hadn’t-come extended family. Just thirty of us at a pizza restaurant in Highgate going over the post-nuptial-mortem.
THE POST-MORTEM
One Boris Becker. Andy and a waitress—in a cloakroom, though, not a cupboard. He loves her. She loves him. He’s moving to Sydney when her work visa runs out next Thursday. Already started Googling for flats on Manly Beach this morning. It won’t happen.
One hospital admission. Not the vicar. He made a miraculous recovery. It was Johnson, emboldened by ‘It’s Raining Men’, who needed medical attention after he stage-dived into an adoring crowd. There was no adoring crowd. There wasn’t even a crowd. Witnesses say he scored a perfect belly flop, and in so doing broke his nose and his fifth metatarsal, and severely bruised his right testicle. Why not his left? Because it doesn’t hang as low as the right one. I wished I hadn’t asked.
One run-in with the law. My father showing love-sick Andy how to down a bottle of red wine, on the way back to the hotel at 2 a.m. ‘Evening, gentlemen, everything all right?’ ‘Yes, officer.’ ‘On our way home are we, gentlemen?’ ‘Yes, officer.’ ‘A long way, is it?’ ‘Just over there, officer.’ ‘Best be on our way then, hadn’t we, gentlemen?’ ‘Yes, officer.’ ‘Will you be taking the bollard with you?’ ‘No, sir.’
One storming out. Surprise, surprise, Watzerface who is the girlfriend of Alex who is the best friend of my wife who clearly isn’t always a good judge of character.
Why did Watzerface storm out?
Official reason from Alex, while sadly not choking on his goat’s-cheese pizza (amazing, he can even manage to find a pretentious flavour of pizza): ‘She wanted marriage, but it felt too soon. You can’t rush such an important decision, can you? Marriage should be for life, not a month or two. I’m so upset that she couldn’t give me more time.’ Misty-eyed nods from bridal group, eye-rolling from me, Andy and Johnson. He’s confusing marriage with rescue dogs, and the girls lap it up.
Real reason: she’d had to find her own way to the church and reception because Alex, after much begging, had been given the job of chauffeuring. He’d been told ‘nothing flash’ then turned up with a white coach and six horses, none of which he could properly control. He had worn tailored tails and a waistcoat strikingly similar to mine except not from Hong Kong. He’d spent the whole service muttering gloomy imprecations, especially during the vows, which meant the vicar, sensing possibilities, had repeated the ‘Can anyone see any lawful impediment?’ question … twice.
Even before our first dance had finished, he’d tapped me on the shoulder, then refused to give Isabel to anyone else for the next three dances. And, once prised away, he’d marched up onto the stage, handed out sheet music to the band, declared how much he loved his best-friend-in-all-the-world Isabel, spat out how delighted he was she’d found the perfect man, then sang Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’. If I hadn’t been so busy vomiting, I would have stormed out too.
Home late to the flat. More lugging over the threshold on Isabel’s insistence, accompanied by what I took to be slightly sarcastic clapping from one of the idiots from the upstairs flat. India tomorrow. Tired, so tired.
Monday 2 May
‘Someone’s stolen my passport!’ I was completely sure of it.
‘No, they haven’t.’ But Isabel wasn’t.
‘Yes, they have.’
‘No, they haven’t.’
‘Yes, they have.’
‘No, they haven’t.’
It doesn’t take long for the matrimonial harmony to wear off, does it?
‘Yes, they have, I had it on the Tube and that bloke opposite looked shifty.’
‘So you were pickpocketed?’
‘Yes, he must have followed us.’
‘Thought you said you were like a coiled spring when you were travelling, a coiled anti-pickpocket spring.’
‘Yes, well…’
‘That if anyone tried it on with you, there’d be a blur, a flash and a whimper.’
‘I—’
‘That they’d be picking up their teeth with broken fingers.’
‘Shut up and help me look in these bags!’
‘Don’t snap at your wife.’
‘Yes, well, my wife is being incredibly unhelpful, the flight’s about to leave and someone’s run off with my passport.’
‘Is it at home?’
‘What?’
‘Have you left your passport at home?’
‘Of course I haven’t.’
‘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.
Nevertheless, it is worth one more try. I wait until Isabel is brushing her teeth before mentioning the brazen, harlotish, fornicating women in bars. She says she’s prepared to take the risk, then spits for effect.
Getting a ring next week.
The trouble with asking Johnson or Andy anything about women
Johnson is an expert in the art of handling the opposite sex by virtue of the fact that he is older than me and Andy. He likes to use the standard line on this. ‘Ten years, man, ten years—if I’d killed her instead of marrying her, I could have been out on parole by now.’
Before Johnson ‘went soft’ and came to work on Life & Times magazine with me, he was a hard-bitten crime reporter on the Manchester Evening News. Somewhere along the line, he has muddled his time working the sink estates, covering stories of social decay, organised crime and young lives wasted with marriage. He sees them as the same thing.
‘I know what makes women tick,’ he says. ‘You can’t trust them. Not ever. They will stab you in the back the moment you think they’re your friend.’
‘Are you talking about women or inner-city drug dealers?’
‘Same thing, my son. Same thing.’
He thinks Isabel is the best thing that ever happened to me and can’t understand why I had to ruin it all by marrying her.
Andy, meanwhile, is an expert in the art of handling the opposite sex by virtue of the fact that he has handled an awful lot of them. The only problem here is that he has never handled them for any length of time. He isn’t a womaniser, he is an optimist. He travels the world falling in love when he should be representing Her Majesty’s Government. Then, inevitably, visa issues, flight schedules, language barriers and, occasionally, husbands get in the way. He has now concluded that love transcends the boundaries of time and space. He thinks Isabel is the best thing that ever happened to me but that marriage is nothing more than several signatures on a meaningless piece of paper. ‘True love transcends time, space and institution,’ he says.
‘So how is that waitress from the cupboard?’ I reply.
‘She will always have a place in my heart.’
‘You’re not moving to Manly?’
‘And leave you two? All married and alone? I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.’
Wednesday 25 May
Isabel wants to know what Johnson, Andy and I always talk about at the pub, besides brazen, harlotish women in bars.
‘Stuff,’ I say.
‘What stuff?’ It’s not the first time she has asked but this time she says she has a right to know.
‘I am your wife. You shouldn’t be going out with them any more. Not without telling me what you talk about.’
This is the sort of thing Johnson has been warning me about. I must nip it in the bud.
‘Well …’ I begin with a sharp, scandalised intake of breath.
‘I was joking,’ she says. ‘It’s only that you never seem to come back from the pub with any news about the two of them. I was curious about how you pass the time.’
This could easily be a trick. If I was a better chess player, I’d be able to work out the various permutations before I opened my mouth. I don’t think she’s trying to trick me. She’s simply making conversation. She likes talking to me when we get back from work. She likes it more than watching television. This is obviously a compliment but it does mean I am no longer up to speed with The Bill. It could also still be a trick.
‘Well, you can come.’
‘What?’
‘Come to the pub.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Er, yes.’ Suddenly, I’m not. I should have just moved the pawn. That would have been fine.
‘Okay, but you have to talk about the things you always talk about. No chatting about art and poetry and horse-riding just for my benefit.’
These are the things she really does like to talk about, which is sometimes a problem. I don’t know very much about art but she does, on account of her highly arty family upbringing. The poetry of the Romantic Period was her special subject at university and, unlike everyone else who went to university, she still remembers it. And made me go to several poetry recitals when we first met just because she really, really wants to share the joy of it all. I almost got it. I almost did. I could see why she loved it and why I was a useless philistine for not loving it as much.
Horse-riding, though. That’s where we really come unstuck. She loves horse-riding. When we’re tired of London (about five years) and we’ve won the lottery, she wants to move to somewhere remote and horsey like North Wales. She wants to ride and muck out stables and give out carrots and blow in horses’ nostrils because they love it. She likes smelling of horse.
We’ll never see eye to eye on the joy of horses.
I phone Andy and Johnson, both of whom are suspicious, even when I tell them we don’t have to talk about poetry. Reluctantly, they agree to meet me and Isabel in the pub on Friday—and pretend she’s a bloke.
Thursday 26 May
Woke up with absolutely no idea of the eureka moment about to occur in the bathroom. Bath, teeth, flossed a little bit, nothing out of the ordinary. Attempt to shave, but last razor is on last legs. I’m busy hacking away like a tired peasant in a cornfield when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot another option lying provocatively on the shelf: Isabel’s pink leg-razor. Isabel is still in bed and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Amazing. It’s all over in a flash, a clean shave, my skin all silky smooth. Pink girly razor: the best a man can get … I put it back, so no one will ever know. Skip to work, delighted that the years of hacking away and patching up cuts with bits of loo roll might be over.
Friday 27 May
Isabel found dark stubbly hair in her razor. Firmly told not to do it again or she’ll tell Johnson.
‘Evening, boys.’
‘Evening, Isabel.’
The four of us are in the pub. Johnson is behaving like he’s in an interrogation room. He squints suspiciously at Isabel.
‘Well, since I’m the honorary bloke, I’ll get the first round.’
While we sit in silence, she goes to the bar, returning minutes later with four pints of bitter, four whisky chasers and four packets of pork scratchings. Everyone starts to relax.
Three pints later, we are playing one of Isabel’s traveller drinking games. A pint after that, Andy is explaining to us how breasts vary from one nation to the next. Then, Isabel tells everyone that I use a Ladyshave. Then Johnson tells us his post-pee dribble trick.
Johnson’s post-pee dribble trick
You have to trick it. Finish the pee, shake as usual, put away, zip up, pretend you’re leaving then retrieve when it thinks it’s in the clear and have another shake. I tried it and it works. Andy did too. Can’t believe I’m almost thirty and only now have I truly mastered the art of urinating.
Rest of evening spent discussing where to hold the door handle on the way out of the toilet. I always hold it at the top corner, where other people don’t touch it. Johnson reckons that doesn’t work because it’s the bit least likely to be cleaned properly. Even though it’s touched less, the germs have longer to prosper. Andy uses his shirtsleeve or waits for someone else to come in. Isabel thinks we should get out more.
Saturday 28 May
Andy is unconscious, perhaps dead, on our sofa. Johnson called to say he fell asleep on the night bus and woke up in a depot near Hounslow. I feel as sick as I did on the third day of our honeymoon after eating the warm lamb rogan josh.
Isabel, on the other hand, is eating toast and contemplating a fry-up.
‘I think I’ll skip the next few pub outings. You three are lightweights.’
‘Fine by me.’
‘And it really is true, isn’t it? Blokes can spend a whole night in a pub talking about absolutely nothing whatsoever. No “how was the honeymoon?” or “how’s work?” or “sorry things didn’t work out with the waitress” or “terrible what’s going on in Bangladesh”.’
‘Blokes don’t need to natter on the whole time.’
‘Oh, I see. Okay. Still, at least I know how to shake my willy.’
Johnson was right—women should not be allowed to gatecrash bloke-nights.
WHY BRITISH MEN DON’T NATTER ON THE WHOLE TIME
It’s exhausting.
We’re not Italian.
Life is too short.
We spend our (too short) lives being nattered at by women. It is therefore only sensible to think of male company as a pause between bouts of nattering. Isabel can’t see this because she is a woman. While she made a good honorary bloke last night, she has reverted to type this morning by nattering. Even if she did make an excellent fry-up.
Monday 30 May
Met Isabel four years ago today. Seems like much, much longer. Not in a bad way.
Dinner at Andrew Edmunds (note for next time, refuse downstairs table if upstairs full and go somewhere else instead because left smelling like lamb chops), then a tour of all the bars we’d got drunk in back when we were all excited and unfamiliar with each other. Isabel gets super-nostalgic: ‘We sat on this sofa, you ordered those drinks, you tripped on that step and ruined the dress of a girl sitting at that table. And you were wearing that horrible off-centre skintight jumper.’
I explain, as I did at the time, that it was bias-cut, very fashionable, chosen by a fashion PR who’d felt sorry for me. She explains, as she did at the time, that I will never be fashionable with my sticky-out ears and my sticky-out nose and my pointy little head. And I remember why I fell in love with her. And how we met on a speed-dating evening neither of us had planned to go to.
What if she hadn’t gone along to support her recently dumped friend? What if my mate Tom hadn’t forced me to go along with him because he wasn’t going to turn up on his own ‘like some creepy pervert’?
The speed-date girls I could have ended up with
‘Hello, I’m William.’
‘Hello, William. I’m Alison. Isn’t it hard to meet people these days? Just so busy at the firm…working all the hours. Not a min, simply not a min to meet a man. Wouldn’t be here otherwise, course. If I had some sensible job, you know. Not going to meet someone between my flat and the office, am I?, which is the only time I ever get out these days. I’m not going to fall in love with the fat middle-aged guy who looks up my skirt on the Tube every morning, am I? That’s why I’m here. Not because I’m desperate.’
‘Hi, my name is William.’
‘Right, William. I’ll be straight with you. I’ve been mucked about by men far too much and I’m sick of you lying bastards. Yes, I’m blonde and yes, I have very large breasts but that doesn’t mean I’m a tart. I want to know, right now, before we go a single second further, if you’re seriously looking for love, if you want to have a relationship. You know, with actual dating and cinemas and walks in the country. I’m not interested in wasting any more time with no-hopers. Capiche?’
‘Good evening, I’m William.’
‘William. Charlotte. Do you ride? Horses, that is. Hahahahaha. I love riding. I’m still talking about horses. Hahahahahahahaha-haha-snort. I ride three. Still horses, William, you filthy-minded man. Hahahahaha. Another glass of ssshampypampy? Oh go on. Oops. Spilt it. Bit squiffy, which is odd because I’ve only had two glasses. We should go riding sometime. Not talking about horses any more, William, hahahahahaha.’
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Matt Rudd
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: For anyone who has ever dreamed of finding true love only to discover that happy endings are just the beginning comes this brilliantly comic novel about marriage, ex-girlfriends, ‘performance anxiety’, and what it takes to make happily ever last beyond the honeymoon.William Walker has just married Isabel, the girl of his dreams. The happy couple live in a small flat in north London while William labours away at his magazine job, revelling in his recent promotion from a column for which he was required to taste different brands of cat food to more dignified reportage. So far, so perfect.But William has a Bridget Jones-ish knack for messing up the happiest of situations – he can’t help shouting at the obnoxiously precocious work experience girl and has an embarrassing tendency to forget names of women he has previously tried to sleep with. It doesn’t help that Isabel’s creepy best friend Alex is very obviously in love with her. Nor that Saskia, a vixen-ish old flame of William’s, has just moved in downstairs. As Alex slithers his way into Isabel’s heart, Saskia seems intent on resuming relations with William – or at least giving Isabel that impression.Increasingly beset, increasingly unlucky and increasingly hilarious, William battles his way through a series of comic disasters that threaten to destroy his relationship and reduce him to a state of sad bachelorhood – a fate, he soon realises, worse than death.