The Accidental Wedding, or How I Became a Husband Because of Knickers and Sheer Stubbornness
“Put your knickers on and get down here! I’ll be outside your flat in five minutes!” I barked into the phone the second she answered.
Truth be told, the bit about the knickers was just a joke. I thought she’d laugh. Instead, she went silent, then whispered:
“How did you know I wasn’t wearing any?”
“What?” I froze.
“Well, you 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… covering yourself.”
“OH!!!”
The line went dead. She just hung up. But five minutes later, the phone rang again:
“Hi… it’s me… the signal cut out.”
I didn’t let her catch her breath:
“Are you sure that lace pair suits you?”
“OH!”
She slammed the phone down again. This time, for hours. And then…
“So… how do I look now?” Her voice was cautious, playful.
“How should I know? I was joking earlier…”
“Joking?…” A pause. “Joking, was it? And here I was, dressing up just 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 was open. Inside, silence, dim light, not a soul. Just as I thought I’d stepped into a trap of solitude, masked men in body armour burst in.
Turns out, the flat was under surveillance. A “false alarm triggered by unauthorised entry,” apparently. They nearly let me go by noon—claimed it was a misunderstanding. But, like a fool, I lingered. And since I was stuck, I decided to have some fun. Played a round of “three-card brag” with the coppers. Won a bit—nothing grand, but with spirit. A bottle of whisky and a couple hundred quid walked out in my pocket. Call it a profit.
Left the station limping, groaning, playing the victim of police brutality. Her car was parked outside. She was at the wheel, waiting. I pretended not to notice, marched past, groaning louder. Slipped into the nearest building, hid.
She ran around, searching. Never found me. I went home, switched off my phone. The next morning, I turned on the voicemail:
“Hello! I’m in hospital. If I pull through, I’ll call back.”
Later, I heard she rang every A&E in town. Found nothing, so she drove to every casualty ward. Then someone blabbed they’d seen me in town—bottle in hand, cheerful as ever.
The calls stopped. But soon, another came—from a mutual friend:
“Alright? Fancy a wedding?”
“Who’s the bride?” I already knew.
“Well… her.”
“Oh. Right. Fine, I’ll come.”
“Bring your passport. Just in case the witness bails!”
Twenty-four hours till the registry office. The longest day of my life. I stewed, raged, repented, forgave, raged again. By evening, I knew I couldn’t live without her. By midnight, convinced I wasn’t worthy. By dawn, I persuaded myself: be a man, see it through. Don’t run. Not even if Mars seems tempting.
“Worse is better,” I muttered, buttoning my shirt.
Forty-odd people crowded outside the registry—all familiar faces. Staring at me felt like an extra topping on the wedding cake.
We were called inside. Mendelssohn’s march—that butcher of men’s nerves—started up. Then the registrar announced our names. I gaped.
Two minutes later, I was married. Just like that. Then came the reception. Loud, lavish, expensive.
Later, alone at last, she asked:
“Well… happy?”
“Delighted,” I said, honestly. “But… what if I hadn’t turned up? All that money wasted…”
“Don’t worry. I booked it in your name.”
So here we are. By accident. But in love.
