The Grand Un-Tying
Exactly four years did the Turners last in wedded life. No matter how passionately they tried to play at eternal romance, their roots simply refused to tangle in the loamy bed of domestic bliss. On the horizon, looming large and odd-shaped, stood divorce.
And just like that, youre getting divorced? Sarah Turners friend Martha asked, as Sarah summoned her for a stress-eating session with large, pillowy Italian sandwiches.
Yes. What else can we do? Weve talked it over. Its for the best, truly
Oh, I dont mean the divorce itselfI mean the event. You cant just leave it at signing papers. Youve got to throw a proper do, really mark the end of it all!
Sarah nibbled two types of pizza, solemnly chewing pineapple and seafood, Im just on edge, lately. You dont need to rub salt in the wound.
Darling, Im talking about your divorce, not about your nerves! Your wedding was the bash of the centurymy credit cards still aching from your cake. So why not have a send-off to match? Im thinking restaurant, a parade of cars, a master of ceremonies, a triumphant burning of bridges! Id love a knees-up
Is that actually allowed?
Its required!
But I havent got much money. Well have to split everything. I see us rending pillowcases and duvets in two
My mate can sort the whole thing for a sack of spuds, and youll get enough gifts to make up for the cost. But first, the Hen Do. Something extremely wholesome and homely, so you can properly say fare-thee-well to married life.
So, basically, well agree to meet up, but no one actually comes because everyones got children and husbands?
The perfect Hen Do!
The very next day, Sarah and Martha arrived at the officeor what passed for one. The organisers name was Julie. Julie met them, for some reason, not in an office but behind the till of a pancake cafe in a bustling shopping centre, simultaneously ringing up orders and scribbling on her notepad.
Can you help? Martha explained their surreal mission.
Piece of cake! I can just see it now. Julies eyes rolled skywards, and she began, The ex-bride, a vision in black veiled satin, vowing never, ever again. The ex-husband, finally unleashed in his mortifying flannel pyjama bottoms, delivers his ultimate No. Then everyone parades straight to the pawnbrokers to flog the rings, guests chanting Bitter! Sweet! Well, Ill flesh it out as I go, shouted Julie, before crying out over the hubbub, Order sixty-four! Ready at the pass!
Rather shockingly, Sarahs soon-to-be-ex-husband, Tom, was thrilled at the idea. But the parents? Outraged.
Its your lot and your fads! both sides of the brittle family union complained. In our day, we divorced in silence and despised one another til the grave. Were not funding this nonsense.
A week later, everything was set. Julies blueprint had festivities start with a ransom demand. The groom had to escape the flat, running the gauntlet of bizarre challenges, silly songs, while friends either sang his lines for him or paid tiny ransomsall to hurry him out the door and onwards. Since there were twelve storeys, Tom got to use the lift, crammed with his remaining belongings and his best man.
Through Julies cousin, who happened to be a Major, they even invited a forensic photographer to document the whole thing. By the end, nine attendees had been officially listed for public record.
Onward to the registry office! Julie declared majestically when everyone assembled downstairs.
In the manner of a brand new tradition, the Turners climbed into a car together, only to drive away separately post-ceremony. Everyone else received travel cards, bus change, and the photographers car became a roving stage for party games: fingerprint records, comedy interrogations. They arrived at the marriage registry serenading Iron Maidens Im Free at the top of their lungs.
Once the stamps were pressed and the marriage slot shut tight, the mob poured outside. Julie produced an enormous birdcage and suggested they catch some pigeons. People sang, laughed, rejoiced in the newly-unweds sunny fate. The men congratulated Tom with honest envy, wishing him long years of unencumbered freedom. Their wives staged a scene and later grabbed a bouquet cobbled from old council tax bills.
My, what a party! Looks like theyve been dying for this day, someone from a wedding next door remarked.
Nah, I heardtheyre getting unhitched, a guest replied.
Seeing all this giddy liberty, many couples called a truce and postponed their ceremonies to a vaguer tomorrow.
Once the lock on the bridge had been sawed off and the rings deposited at the pawnshop to pay for expenses, the procession trooped to the restaurant. There, awaiting them, was Julies old pals ceremonial band, a business lunch, and a tower of pancakes with honey. The mighty Pancake Hut No. 8, where Julie served as cashier, was the events sponsor. The cake? A layered pancake affair.
This feels like a wake Sarah sighed, surveying the scene.
Were laying married happiness to rest, love, Julie the MC explained, requesting the no-longer-newlyweds dance one last time.
Chopin played quietly.
Strange, isnt it? It actually worked out well, Sarah said, spinning round the room on Toms arm.
Agreed, Tom nodded. Ive never seen our parents get on so brilliantly.
They circled back and Sarah saw her father and Toms father locked in a gentle embrace, half-singing, half-weeping, sworn enemies now sobbing in alliance.
The table groaned under a strange bounty: single bed linen sets, concert tickets, dumbbells, one-man crockery, yoga passes, gym vouchers, a token for a male dance club In the end, the newly apart received keys to different hotel rooms in different corners of the city, discount codes for Pancake Hut No. 8, and a certificate for two trips in a borrowed police car.
The finale was a dazzling display of fireworks, and the cake slices were flogged at a discount. The guests, delighted, all trundled home to husbands, wives, and children, while the Turners vanished in their own separate, winding directions.
Three weeks later, the photo album was ready. Tom called by to pick up his nail clippers.
Theyve come out well, Sarah said, leafing through black-and-white snaps of glowing faces and strange evidence tags.
Yes, not bad at all, Tom agreed. Then he added, Changing your surname?
No. Im kind of used to Turner, and Smith doesnt sound any sweeter.
True, Tom grinned. Well, should be off?
Hmm Wait!
Tom looked back, waiting.
You fancy dinner at the pancake place? Our vouchers expire tonightit seems a shame to waste them
Would be a shame, Tom smiled. Did you know pancakes are a symbol of renewal? Maybe its our chance. So, is this a date?
You think Sarah hesitated, You think it wont be a disaster after such a fabulously loud divorce? I heard they even did a bit on us in the local news
Who cares? Were free agents nowcan see whomever we like, whenever. By the way, the best man and maid of honour are splitting up too. Theyve invited us along. Want to go together?
Ill think about it, Sarah smiled. Ive just got a spare set of their bed linen for a gift.They stood a moment in the warm hush by the door, grinning despite everything. For just a heartbeat, the whole extravagant unwindingfanfare, sorrow, pancakes, and peacehung suspended between them. Then Sarah found herself laughing, genuinely and without ache, and Tom echoed her.
All right, she said, lets eat pancakes. Divorce cake goes best with extra syrup, dont you think?
He offered his arm, and she took it, as if rehearsing a familiar old dance in a new, lighter world. Side by side, they stepped out into the evening, two people untethered but not lost, weaving forward freelyand if the streetlights shimmered, or the city air tasted a little sweeter than before, perhaps that too was a kind of happy ending.
