Marry Me (4 page)

One thing led to another, and a year later I found myself in a white suit, riding a bejewelled ostrich across a castle drawbridge and into an enormous room packed with guests, plenty of whom neither of us particularly liked.

Shortly, an eighteen-horn fanfare heralded the arrival of my bride. She rode in on a white horse with what looked like an ice cream cone stuck to its head in an attempt to make it look like a unicorn.

‘What would Goethe have made of all this, then?' I asked her, as we dismounted and prepared to exchange vows.

‘Ah, who cares?' she said, glowing with delight.

When it comes to matters of romance, my fiancée is a firm believer in destiny. ‘If fate has decreed that I end up married to you,' she'll sigh, ‘then there's not much I can do about it, is there?'

My wife's final wish was to be cremated in her wedding dress, and when she slipped away I tenderly prepared her body just as she had asked.

When I carried her into the funeral parlour, the undertaker took one look at her and shook his head. With impeccable politeness, he explained that even though the dress was very small, the black rubber it was made from would cause a terrible mess in the furnace, as well as sending an acrid aroma through the surrounding streets. ‘I am afraid, sir,' he said, ‘that there are rules about this kind of thing.' He saw the dismay on my face. ‘Perhaps,' he suggested, ‘madam had something in her wardrobe which was comparably whorish, but rather more likely to conform to council regulations?'

My wife told me she had turned herself inside out trying to find a way ahead for us as a couple, but no matter how hard she looked she just couldn't see one. She knew in her heart that our marriage had run its course. I didn't know what to say, and just stood there looking really sad. In an attempt to cheer me up, she started tickling me. ‘Tickle tickle tickle,' she said. It didn't work; I just carried on looking despondent. She tried again. ‘Tickle tickle tickle.' I remained downcast. ‘Wow,' she said. ‘You're taking this even worse than I thought you would.'

Six months into our marriage, my wife told me she was leaving. ‘It's not going to be easy for you,' she said, ‘but there are plenty of positives you can take from the situation. Mainly, you should just be grateful that you had me at all—most men don't get near a girl like me their whole lives.' She handed me a photograph album containing page after page of pictures of herself in erotic poses, and explained that she had been compiling it over the preceding weeks, with the intention of helping to soften the blow of her departure. ‘It's all very tasteful,' she said. ‘There's no split beaver, or anything like that.'

I leafed through it, and there she was, draping her bikini-clad body across a motorcycle, pouting in high heels and lingerie on a mountaintop, and fondling her naked breasts under a waterfall. She told me I was welcome to show it to my friends and family, and brag to them about having had repeated sex with someone as hot as her. ‘I did one for my last husband when I left him,' she said, ‘and I know it really helped.'

The trouble is, she's nowhere near as attractive as she thinks she is; if anything she's a bit funnylooking, and the photographs amounted to something of a horror show. As she picked up her holdall and walked away, I didn't have the heart to tell her I had only ever loved her for her personality.

Along with the traditional vows, my bride and I promised one another that we would always remain on cordial terms. As I gazed into her beautiful eyes and slipped the ring on her finger, it felt so wonderful to know that if things were to go wrong, even to the extent of a third party becoming involved, we would at least be civil about it.

When my ex-girlfriend called and suggested we meet up in her home town, I agreed straight away. It was wonderful to see her again; she was looking prettier than ever, and when she gave me a hug it felt just like the old days. After a little small talk, she took my arm and guided me towards a lavishly decorated open trailer, with a large and diverse group of dazedlooking men standing on it. ‘I've invited all my former lovers here today,' she explained. ‘Everyone in town has heard so much about you lot, and I thought it would be nice for them to get to see you; the carnival parade is the perfect opportunity. So,' she said, pointing at the float, ‘on you get.'

I clambered up, then watched as she ushered several more ashen-faced men on board. When, at last, we were all accounted for, she addressed us through a megaphone, instructing us to smile and wave at the people lining the streets. ‘And here's the best part,' she continued, her amplified voice reverberating through the summer air. ‘I've decided that it's time for me to settle down—and one of you boys is going to be my husband. I haven't decided which yet, but I'm going to be making somebody a very, very happy man today. Now let's be realistic,' she said, looking serious, ‘only one of you will hit the jackpot . . .' She pointed at herself. ‘. . . but I want you to know that by making it this far you're all champions to me.'

She put down her megaphone, and gracefully hopped up onto the float, where she sat high above us on a gilded throne. Pulled by a tractor, we joined the cavalcade, every man smiling and waving at the crowds as if his life depended on it, each of us hoping with all his heart that her gaze would settle on him, that he would be the one to hold her hand again, and stroke her hair, and laugh at her jokes, and surprise her with flowers. As one, we ached to gaze into those incredible eyes, and kiss those soft, soft lips, and tell her over and over again how much we loved her.

My wife told me she was leaving. ‘But you can't,' I said. ‘Don't you remember our vows? You promised to love me forever.'

‘Vows?' she said. ‘Promises?' With a hollow laugh, she asked me what century I thought I was living in.

A few years into our marriage, my wife told me there was something she had always wanted to try. I asked her what it was, and she told me straight out. I had no idea what to say. ‘Don't look at me like that,' she said. ‘Every­one's at least a little bit kinky. I bet there's something
you
really like.' She looked at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Well?'

Stammering, I told her I had always rather enjoyed it when she had gently nibbled my ears.

‘So, there you are,' she snapped. ‘You're in no position to judge.' I supposed she was right. It would have been hypocritical to refuse to cooperate, and I was left with no choice but to prepare the apparatus, hold my breath and brace myself.

Sunset told me she was leaving, and I couldn't hold back the tears. ‘I don't know why you're crying,' she said. ‘We've only been married a few weeks—that's no time at all.' She explained that she had been married to her last husband for three whole years, and when she had left him he had taken it like a man. ‘There was certainly none of
this
business,' she said, pointing at my wet, contorted face.

Aqua told me she had started having misgivings about our vows. ‘
Love
is O.K., I suppose,' she said. ‘It's quite weddingy, so it fits in. I'm not really sure what
honour
means, but I'll let it pass. I can't quite get my head around
obey
, though. It just doesn't seem right.'

The vicar asked her to hurry up, because the congregation was starting to get fidgety. ‘I think I'm going to have to say . . .' She bit her lip and clicked her tongue. ‘. . . no. That's my final answer: a definite
no
. And if he's the kind of person who would expect me to say something like that, then I think I should marry somebody else.'

We had already paid for the reception, so it went ahead as planned. Aqua looked lovely in her dress, and spent the evening congratulating herself on her lucky escape, and dancing with handsome single men, every one of whom assured her that he would never ask her to obey him.

I agreed to go clothes shopping with my girlfriend. She went into the changing room, and to my surprise came out a while later wearing a wedding dress. I couldn't believe how beautiful she looked. ‘So,' she said, ‘what do you think?'

I had wanted to marry her for ages, but had never found the courage to ask. Swept away, there was nothing I could do but smile and say, ‘Yes. Of course I'll marry you.'

She pulled a face. ‘Oh God,' she said. ‘I might have known something like this would happen.' She told me she was trying it on for a friend who was the same size as her. ‘What makes you think I'd want
you
as a husband?'

I couldn't think of anything.

When I told my wife I was leaving, she was crushed. I didn't like to see her so unhappy, and I encouraged her to look on the bright side. ‘Just think of all the material it'll give you for your songwriting,' I said.

‘What songwriting?' she sobbed. ‘I don't even play an instrument.'

‘Well, you should start, especially now you've got all this inspiration.'

I convinced her to give it a try. She bought a piano, and before long she had composed a ballad called ‘When You Left (My World Came Crashing Down)'. Unfortunately, it wasn't very good, and I had to tell her so; it wouldn't have been fair to let her think she was doing well. Disconsolate, she vowed never to play again.

Determined to be a good ex-husband, I helped her find a buyer for the abandoned instrument. ‘What about sculpture?' I suggested. ‘You could pour your pain into that instead.' She had a good try at it, but again I had to tell her that the result left an awful lot to be desired. She gave that up, too, and I did what I could to help her get a fair price for her chisels. I'll start her on oil painting next, but I'm not holding out much hope. With all that hurt eating away at her I'd have expected her to have created great work of some kind by now, but it's just not happening. I'm even starting to wonder whether she's really as upset as she says she is.

My fiancée suggested we get married while strapped together and falling ten thousand feet from an aeroplane. I wasn't nearly as interested as she was in that kind of thing, and suggested we have a more conventional ceremony. She dismissed my misgivings. ‘Feel the fear,' she said, ‘and do it anyway. That's my motto.' Not wishing to appear unmanly, I went along with her plan, and I have to admit that in the event it was a lot of fun exchanging vows in mid-air while a vicar plummeted alongside us.

Unfortunately, our parachute has failed to open, and our marriage is looking likely to prove shortlived. She's screaming in terror, and I'm wondering whether this would be a good moment to remind her that it had been her idea.

Without giving her the slightest warning, I told my wife I was leaving.

‘O.K.,' she said. ‘Bye, then.'

In case she had misunderstood, I explained that I wouldn't be coming back.

She shrugged. ‘Fine,' she said. ‘If that's your decision.'

‘Are you going to be O.K.?' I asked.

‘Why wouldn't I be O.K.?'

I had expected there to be at least a little scene after such monumental news from out of the blue, and a part of me was disappointed that she was taking things so calmly. I had even rehearsed a speech in which I told her not to cry, and assured her that she would, in time, find love with somebody else. Instead of delivering it, I just walked away. Halfway down the garden path I realised I'd forgotten to pack my favourite mug, so I crept back inside.

I was relieved to find her curled in a ball on the sofa, hugging a framed wedding photograph, loudly repeating my name, and bawling like a toddler who's left their bear on the train.

As I held her in my arms on our wedding night, Anemone said, ‘You remember all that stuff we said earlier, about staying together forever, and never doing it with anyone else?' I nodded. ‘We're not going to take that
too
seriously, are we?'

My fiancée died. With tears in their eyes, her mother and father told me there had been a tradition in their ancestral village for the bereaved man to marry the deceased's younger sister. Though they understood that we were all leading modern lives, they implored us to respect this ancient code.

I was far too heartbroken to consider a new romance, and to complicate things further her sister and I had never found any common ground. We both knew how much it would mean to her parents, though, and after a private talk we agreed to play along for a while. Inevitably, we got on each other's nerves—she with her free-spirited ways and eccentric fashion sense, and me with my stubbornly conventional lifestyle and wardrobe.

Gradually, we realised we had more in common than we'd thought, and even began to learn from one another—me to loosen up, and she to take a little more responsibility for herself. Together we were able to find the strength we needed to get through this difficult time, and at last we reached a point where we were able to laugh again. With this new familiarity came real fondness, and though we both tried to run from these emotions, they were just too strong. One day, in a scenic location, we found ourselves locked in a romantic embrace.

It's worked out well: her parents are happy; we're now properly engaged rather than just pretending; and we've even sold our story to Hollywood. A bittersweet culture clash romcom,
Marrying May Wong,
is about to open at over three thousand locations, before being rolled out across forty-two international territories. Early research suggests it has a wide demographic reach, considerable prerelease awareness and a good chance of a strong opening weekend.