A Chance Marriage, or How I Became a Husband Due to Underwear and Plain Stubbornness
“Put your knickers on and come down! I’ll be outside your door in five minutes!” I barked into the phone the moment she answered.
Truth be told, the bit about the knickers was just for a laugh. Thought she’d chuckle. Instead, she went quiet, then whispered:
“How do you know I don’t wear any around the flat?”
“What?” I froze.
“Well, you just said—”
“Didn’t you know? I can see everyone I talk to.”
“Liar!”
“No. Right now, you’ve got the phone in one hand, and the other’s… covering yourself.”
“OH!”
The line went dead. She’d slammed the phone down. But five minutes later—another call:
“Hello… it’s me… the line cut out.”
I didn’t let her catch her breath:
“Are you sure that lace suits you?”
“OH!”
The phone was hung up again. For a good long while—two hours. Then—
“How do I look now?” Her voice was cautious, teasing.
“How should I know? I was joking earlier…”
“Joking?” A pause. “Joking, were you? Well, I went out specially for you…”
“Right, I’m on my way!” I said, and ten minutes later, I was at her door.
I knocked for ages. No answer. Then I pushed the door—unlocked. I stepped inside. Silence, dim light, not a soul. Just as I thought I’d walked into a trap of loneliness, masked lads in riot gear burst into the flat.
Turned out, the place was under surveillance. “Unauthorised entry,” apparently. They nearly let me off by afternoon—claimed it was a misunderstanding. But, like a fool, I lingered. And since I was stuck, I made the best of it. Played “three-card brag” with the coppers. Won a bit—nothing grand, but with flair. A bottle of whiskey and a couple hundred quid on the way out. Call it a profit.
Left the station limping, groaning, playing the victim of police brutality to the hilt. Her car was parked outside. She was at the wheel, waiting. But I pretended not to notice. Walked right past, groaning louder, ducked into the first building I saw, and hid.
She ran around looking. Didn’t find me. I went home and turned off my phone. Next morning, I switched on the answering machine:
“Hello! I’m in hospital. If I pull through, I’ll call back.”
Later, I heard she rang every hospital in town. Finding nothing, she drove round A&Es. Then someone let slip they’d seen me in the city—cheerful, bottle in hand.
The calls stopped. But then another came—from a mutual friend:
“Hello! Fancy a wedding?”
“Who’s the bride?” I already knew.
“Well… her.”
“Oh, right… Fine, I’ll be there.”
“Bring your passport. In case the witness bails!”
A day till the registry office. The longest day of my life. I brooded, regretted, raged, forgave, brooded again. By evening, I knew I couldn’t live without her. By night, I decided I didn’t deserve her. By morning, I convinced myself: be a man, see it through. Don’t run. Not even if you’d rather flee to Mars.
“The worse, the better,” I muttered, buttoning my shirt.
Outside the registry, forty-odd people milled about—all familiar faces. Staring at me was just another perk of the wedding cake.
We were called inside. Mendelssohn played—that butcher of a man’s nerves. Then the registrar announced our names. I was stunned.
Two minutes later, I was married. Just like that. Then came the reception. A fine, rowdy, costly affair.
Later, when we were alone, she asked:
“Well? Happy?”
“Very…” I said, truthfully. “But… if I hadn’t shown, what would you have done? All that money on the do…”
“Don’t fret. I booked it in your name.”
And that’s how we’ve lived. By chance. But for love.
