William Walkers First Year of Marriage (2 page)

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 nipplepiercing 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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.’

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.

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, forni
cating women in bars. She says she’s prepared to take the risk, then spits for effect.

Getting a ring next week.

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.’

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.