YOU ONLY NEED TO CALL
I now pronounce you husband and wife! declared the registrar with an air of ceremony, but then she suddenly choked and coughed frantically, as if the words themselves curdled in her throat.
Well… thats a bad omen, my mother remarked, her comment mostly lost as the guests murmured and whispered in little groups. My bride, Alice, and I glanced nervously at each other. We were both only eighteen, barely adults, really just children. Ours was a hasty wedding, brought on by circumstances rather than planning. Alice was getting married with a little dowry of her own; in just two months, our unplanned baby would arrive.
There was no time to buy a dress, so Alice rented one, and she borrowed her best friends shoes. Oddly enough, in years to come, Id have a fleeting affair with that same best friend, as if fate had planted the seed already.
But for now, we were young and happy.
Once, Alice and I were strolling down the avenue in Oxford, the kind where old trees drip mist and the air feels sleepier each step. I held my wife gently by the waist, feeling the tremble of her breath. Out of nowhere, a strange little man sidled up and whispered in my ear, Hold tight to your missus else someone will nick her He spat the words and wandered off, his coat trailing the shadows. We laughed, dismissing it as the sort of warning that doesnt stick. The future stretched ahead of us, shimmering, untouchable. Who could ever separate us? Let them try.
My old mate, who witnessed our wedding and wore a suit he borrowed from his father, ribbed me a week later: Tom, couldnt you pick a better wife? Look at all the gorgeous lasses about!
I waved it off. Maybe they’re waiting for you.
And indeed, in time, they did. He found himself married four times each to clever, beautiful women the kind that seem to float in and out of dreams.
Our daughter, Florence, was born. Sweet, pink Florence, all quiet and calm in her cradle.
But soon after, the call of duty led me to serve in the military, posted far from home in Newcastle. I ached for Alice and Florence, and Alice sent a photograph to relive her smile. I slid it beneath my pillow, hoping her image would seep into my dreams.
One day I came back to the barracks, and Alices photo lay exposed on my bedside table someone had doodled crude things over her face and scrawled filthy words. Rage bloomed in me; I leapt at my bunkmate and beat him ferociously. The punishment left me stewing in confinement for days. The photo, ruined, I tore and threw away. The one who did it got his fair share of trouble.
When my army days ended, I returned harder, embittered, a man twisted by suspicion. For reasons I couldnt explain, I seethed at Alice. My mind conjured up the conviction that surely she had a lover while I was away. When I left, Alice was timid, mousy, unsure. Now, as she greeted me, she was transformed radiant, brimming with an urgent, voluptuous energy. Are you really Alice? I murmured as I embraced her, a strange pride swelling within me, but doubt worming deep. Theres always flies where theres honey, they say, and I prepared myself took a lover of my own, just in case.
Rumours of my conquests reached Alice in three months. Begging and bargaining followed, desperate attempts by me to delay the divorce. She handed down her verdict: Well, Tom, now you can’t complain.
Alice burned all my army letters, once cherished then read, now consigned to memory and flames. Our bed became forbidden; even the dinner table was denied to me. We talked only of the ordinary bills, groceries, the time of day.
You could say, for every day I made Alice suffer, I mourned for a year myself. By way of apology, I whisked Alice and Florence off to Brighton for a proper holiday: wine, sea, sun, and the scent of distant promises. There, we forged peace again.
Upon our return, I parted ways with my illicit lover.
For seven years, Alice and I lived quietly, in a little house of calm an island in the English mist. But something gnawed at Alice; perhaps she longed for something wild, something Mediterranean.
There was a joker at my workplace Benny the sort who revived dull meetings and soothed the hearts of troubled men. Colleagues arrived at Bennys desk to vent about wives, mothers-in-law, or the wild world outside. Benny listened and doled out advice, solid as old oak. Why not invite Benny to Alices birthday? I thought, naive to how fate would twist things.
Benny accepted and brought his wife, a cheerful duo. That evening, Benny sparkled jokes flying, quick toasts, uproarious laughter not quite waking the sleeping stars. Alice glowed, bustling between guests, filling plates and babbling, delicate as a wren. It was a birthday that shimmered in memory. But weeks later, a havoc began to unfold.
A call came from Bennys wife: Tom, are you aware? Our spouses are seeing each other. Tell your wife to keep her hands off whats not hers! Weve got two young children!
I hadn’t suspected anything! Was Alice really getting revenge for my old mistakes?
I wont recount every dreadful moment. Bennys wife tracked Alice everywhere, threatened to overdose, to die in dramatic fashion. I locked Alice inside, disconnected the phone, threatened divorce. Nothing worked, nothing helped. They say love, fire, and coughs cant be hidden. In my panic, I turned to Alices best friend for help.
She spoke quietly, like steel: Tom, its love. Alice wont come back. The way to her is closed.
So there it was, fate striking me from every angle. I spent half a year with her friend, sheltering in borrowed warmth. She soothed me, briefly.
Alice and Benny married, forming their own paradise, so absorbed in each other that their breath seemed shared. I despised them, cursed them, my heart howling like a wounded dog. How could this happen? My wife spirited away! As they say, happiness and misery ride in the same carriage.
They tell you time heals. I dont believe it. My wound became a delicate crust thin as the first frost but always aching. Friends carefully arranged a second wife for me a beauty and I married quickly, lest I change my mind. Seventeen years passed. I tried to settle in her loveliness, but couldnt. I pretend at happiness without hope. If anyone might peek into the cellar of my weary soul, theyd find my Alice still dwelling there, forever waiting for a call. Would you answer?
