William Walker’s First Year of Marriage: A Horror Story. Matt Rudd
Читать онлайн книгу.
Last time I saw everyone, I was Single Man, now I’m Married Man. I speak the language of Married Man. I’m part of the Holy Order of Married Men. I know the Code. I can do mother-in-law jokes.
Favourite mother-in-law joke
My father-in-law was pulled over by the police the other day. The policeman said, ‘Sir, your wife fell out of the car five miles back.’
My father-in-law replied, ‘Thank God for that, I thought I’d gone deaf.’
Second favourite mother-in-law joke
A guy brings his dog into the vet and says, ‘Could you please cut my dog’s tail off?’
The vet examines the tail and says, ‘But look here, there’s nothing wrong with his tail. Why do you want it off?’
The man replies, ‘Because my mother-in-law is coming to visit, and I don’t want anything in the house to make her think she’s welcome.’
I deserve some sort of recognition. A plaque? But all Johnson and the other blokes want to know is if I managed to consummate the marriage on the night (‘None of your business but yes’), and the girls only ask about the dress (‘It was white’), the confetti (‘Yes, there was some’) and the honeymoon (‘I don’t want to talk about it’).
Then they all see I’m not wearing a wedding ring.
‘You’re not wearing a wedding ring.’
‘No.’
‘Want to keep your options open, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Why aren’t you wearing one then?’
‘Because it’s not traditional for men to wear jewellery. And I don’t need to wear one to make sure I’m faithful. Our relationship is based on a bit more than a meaningless bit of platinum. And I looked stupid with a ring on.’
Can’t wait to get home to my wife. Got home and she’s out with bloody Alex. When she comes back, she says, ‘Well, why aren’t you wearing one?’
‘We’ve already discussed this a thousand times. It’s not traditional for men to wear jewellery.’
‘Not traditional in your family.’
‘I’ll wear one if you want.’
‘It’s up to you but I think it would be nice. You know, I’m really, really proud to wear my wedding ring.’
This is something Isabel is good at: twisting an argument so that what a minute ago sounded fair and reasonable coming out of your mouth sounds like something about as acceptable as kitten-stamping. If you were cynical, you’d interpret this as manipulative. I know Isabel though: it’s only 20 per cent manipulation, 25 per cent misguided reasonableness and 55 per cent being typically female.
Tuesday 24 May
Pub crisis meeting with Andy and Johnson. Johnson starts, as he always does, by sucking in his cheeks, crossing his elbows and rocking back on his bar stool authoritatively. He reminds me, as he also always does, that he’s been married for ten difficult years; that if he can do it, married to the woman he is, then anyone can. What he doesn’t know about patching up quarrels, dodging marital bullets and ducking domestic pincer movements isn’t worth wasting good beer time discussing.
‘Come on then,’ Andy and I say in unison, ignoring, as we always do, the fact that Johnson’s hard-working, sensible, intelligent, patient and long-suffering wife Ali has almost certainly had a harder time putting up with ten years of the infant Johnson than he has putting up with her.
‘It’s not traditional,’ he offers at last.
‘Said that.’
‘How’s a piece of jewellery going to make any difference whether you’re faithful or not?’
‘Said that too.’
‘If you’re going to shag someone, a ring won’t stop you. You could just take it off.’
‘Yep, didn’t say that.’
‘And besides, there’s a certain type of woman who goes for men because they’re wearing wedding rings. Predatory women who want sex. Terrible women, these. They come at you in a bar, you’re sitting there having a drink, minding your own business, wearing your wedding ring, and they strike. These wanton, brazen, ravishing women with their short skirts and their stockings and their completely amoral attitude to fornication. The wedding ring is no defence. “Look, I’m married,” you say. “I don’t want a relationship, you sexy, sexy man,” they purr, running their filthy-temptress fingers down your tie. “I want you. And I want you now.”’
Johnson is running his fingers down my chest seductively.
‘I’ve got the idea.’
‘And before you know it, you’re waking up in the wrong hotel room with some brazen harlot in some filthy negligée ordering postcoital petit déjeûner.’
Andy says a ring to him is like a symbolic chattel, a sign of ownership—a ring-cuff, if you will. Love, if it’s true, doesn’t need symbols of repression. I point out that Isabel has a wedding ring. Andy nods sagely and, not for the first time, I wonder why I ever bother asking my two best friends anything.
Nevertheless, it is worth one more try. I wait until Isabel is brushing her teeth before mentioning the brazen, harlotish, fornicating women in bars. She says she’s prepared to take the risk, then spits for effect.
Getting a ring next week.
The trouble with asking Johnson or Andy anything about women
Johnson is an expert in the art of handling the opposite sex by virtue of the fact that he is older than me and Andy. He likes to use the standard line on this. ‘Ten years, man, ten years—if I’d killed her instead of marrying her, I could have been out on parole by now.’
Before Johnson ‘went soft’ and came to work on Life & Times magazine with me, he was a hard-bitten crime reporter on the Manchester Evening News. Somewhere along the line, he has muddled his time working the sink estates, covering stories of social decay, organised crime and young lives wasted with marriage. He sees them as the same thing.
‘I know what makes women tick,’ he says. ‘You can’t trust them. Not ever. They will stab you in the back the moment you think they’re your friend.’
‘Are you talking about women or inner-city drug dealers?’
‘Same thing, my son. Same thing.’
He thinks Isabel is the best thing that ever happened to me and can’t understand why I had to ruin it all by marrying her.
Andy, meanwhile, is an expert in the art of handling the opposite sex by virtue of the fact that he has handled an awful lot of them. The only problem here is that he has never handled them for any length of time. He isn’t a womaniser, he is an optimist. He travels the world falling in love when he should be representing Her Majesty’s Government. Then, inevitably, visa issues, flight schedules, language barriers and, occasionally, husbands get in the way. He has now concluded that love transcends the boundaries of time and space. He thinks Isabel is the best thing that ever happened to me but that marriage is nothing more than several signatures on a meaningless piece of paper. ‘True love transcends time, space and institution,’ he says.
‘So how is that waitress from the cupboard?’ I reply.
‘She will always have a place in my heart.’
‘You’re not moving to Manly?’
‘And leave you two? All married and alone? I couldn’t.