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Benni, head of Science, smiled at me, then gave me a hug. ‘Don’t tell the Head about the prosecco. Anyway, I’ve given them a blow-by-blow of the actual wedding, so everyone can pretend they were actually there. I told them about the ceremony, your outfit, how drunk the priest got, how you punched a barman, how that fire spread so fast—’
‘I’m sorry you guys couldn’t all be there,’ I laughed.
‘You didn’t invite us!’ called Miks.
‘But that’s it now. We eat this cake, we open these gifts – thank you, by the way – and then all of life is as before. Ok?’
A look passed between Benni, Miks and the dozen other Science teachers and technicians.
‘What? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened,’ soothed Benni. ‘But, darling, we’d all just like to take a moment to remind you what a great sport you are.’
‘Oh god.’
She led me back around to my space in the Science office, where the computer screen, keyboard, back and top of my desk were papered with ‘Mrs Bestwick’ signs, in a hundred different fonts and colours. I wanted to cry and set the desk alight immediately, but I threw my hands up and shrieked, laughing and shaking my fist at them. I left most of it there for the rest of the day.
I managed to escape comment throughout the day, but in my Year 11 class after lunch, my most promising and least delivering student put her hand up and said, ‘Miss Lewis! Miss Lewis! I heard you got married, Miss.’ At least my students didn’t think it was funny to call me by Jack’s surname, even if he did.
There was a buzz around the classroom: teachers aren’t supposed to have lives, eat meals and go shopping, let alone get married, which is so inextricably linked with sex. The thought of your teacher doing it with someone is enough to start a riot.
‘I did, Michaela.’
‘Why, Miss?’
Of all the questions, this was the last one I was expecting. I’d expected a barrage of Did I take a helicopter? Did I go in a carriage? Did I have a bridezilla meltdown? Was there a fight? But this …
‘That’s enough, Michaela. This is a Physics lesson, not a Facebook status update.’ The class hissed its approval.
‘Ooh, you got burnt by Miss …’
And that was the only mention I got all day. I felt like I had somehow got away with something.
By six o’clock, everyone had gone except me and Benni. She came over and perched at the edge of my desk, fingering the tattered ‘Mrs Bestwick’ print-outs.
‘You did well.’
‘Did I leave them up too long?’ I asked, indicating the celebratory remnants strewed around my desk. ‘Should I have taken them off sooner?’
‘No, that would have been too obvious. If I had medals to give, you’d be next in line, darling. After my mother, obviously, and possibly after my poor sons, but you’d certainly be on the shortlist.’
‘If I open my mouth can you tell me if I’ve any teeth left at all, or just stumps?’
‘It’s fine. People just like to make assumptions, particularly after something as black and white as a wedding. Give it another week and they’ll all be expecting the patter of tiny feet.’
‘And “oh my god, your babies would be beautiful” …’
‘I know, I know, we had the same. But with added, “And which one of you would be the mum?”’ She took my hand. ‘And yes, I know you haven’t changed your name. It was just Miks’s little joke. Ok?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Now, are you coming for a Monday night cocktail or do you need to ask your hubby for permission?’
‘You might have been my “mentor” – your words, not mine, I might add – since I started teaching, but—’
‘If you don’t know I’m joking then I’m going to have to put you up for a very long and boring disciplinary procedure.’
‘Drinks are on you then.’
‘Drinks are on me, darling.’
It was half ten before Benni and I had finished at the bar – departmental stuff had come up that required intense discussions over many glasses of melon daiquiri – and my entry into the flat was noisier than I’d intended. Smash! The front door. Crash! A low bookcase falling over. Crunch! The pile of recycling I was going to lie on for juuust a second.
‘Shhh,’ I recommended.
‘Zo, is that you?’ Jack called from the sofa.
If I stay quiet, he won’t know it’s me, I thought.
‘Zo, if that’s not you, it’s a woefully clumsy burglar and I’ll need to actually get up and do something about it.’
Shhh, I thought again.
Suddenly, Jack was standing over me.
‘Come on, you, let’s get you to bed.’
‘Bossy,’ I muttered, as he pulled me up and half walked, half carried me to bed. He removed my clothes, but as he tried to tuck me in I wrapped my arms around him, suddenly amorous.
‘Stay with me,’ I groaned.
‘I’ll get you a pint of water, then I’m coming to bed, ok?’
‘I don’t want a pint of water, I want you.’
‘You’ll want a pint of water when you wake up in three hours’ time, Zo.’
‘Yes, but I want you now,’ I said, closing my eyes to give them a rest.
When I woke up again at 2 a.m., my mouth tasted like the sole of my shoe, and Jack was snoring next to me. There was a time, even a month ago, when he would have been with me tonight. He’d have been out, I’d have been out, we’d have eventually met up on our routes and we’d only just be getting in now. There might even have been dancing, Monday night be damned.
I wanted to wake him up and ask him why that hadn’t happened tonight, but when I rolled over into a sitting position I realised I wanted to die instead, and any heart to hearts would just have to wait until I was able to sit up without vomiting, or had actually died, whichever came first. In my Magic 8-Ball brain, I thought about work tomorrow and came up with ‘OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD’. I’d email Benni and see if she’d mind telling the Head I’d passed on.
At 7 a.m., Jack was shaking me, shouting and shining a torch into my eyes like a friendly interrogator. I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head, but he kept on. Eventually his words translated, and I heard, ‘Zo, wake up, you’re going to be late. I’ve made you a coffee and toast. Do you want me to turn the shower on?’
‘What the ever-loving fuck is this?’ I groaned again, trying to turn away without having to move my body. ‘What are you doing?’
Jack lifted the pillow off. ‘Zo, time to get up. You’ve only been back a day. You can’t call in sick.’
‘I was out with Benni, she’ll be the same.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Come on, once you’re up you’ll feel much better.’
I pulled the pillow over my head again. Jack pulled it off again, and tried to lift me up.
‘Jack, just piss off, alright?’
There was a shocked moment of silence, then Jack lowered me down and put both his hands up. ‘Fine. Fine. I’m off to work, you do what you want.’ I caterpillared under the duvet and heard him pack up and slam the front door. I’d made one discovery already that morning: if there was ever a hangover tip to make you feel even worse, it was being a total bastard to your boyfriend. Husband.
I knew he was right though, and after a minute or two of checking my limbs were still attached, I crawled on all fours to the bathroom, threw up for a while, then got into the shower. I found a coffee and banana under the mirror when I got out again, once the water was running completely cold.
In the kitchen, Jack’s toast for me was also cold in the toaster. I mashed the banana on top with a little cinnamon, and sat chewing thoughtfully until the shakes had subsided. This was a bad one. I’d already sent a text to Benni to warn her of the state I was in (I’d just got a Ugh. Me too in response), but I needed something more than just a text for Jack. Looking at the scattered remains of my breakfast, I realised that this was why I loved him – his thoughtfulness, his commitment, his kindness. But this morning I had a killer hangover and I just wanted to lie in bed and suffer. Why couldn’t he just leave me be, if only for five more minutes?
I’d overreacted, but I couldn’t bear being treated like a wayward child by someone insisting on what was best for me.
Staggering through the school gates as the bell rang, I was sure we could fix it.
TWO
Seven years earlier
Zoe sat at the bar and picked at her nail polish, something both Ava and her mum told her not to do whenever they caught her. She flaked off big chunks of deep blue onto the napkin on the copper-topped bar, then folded the napkin over to keep them from scattering. She took another swig of her salt-rimmed margarita and checked the clock on the wall. He wasn’t coming.
She’d had to be convinced about this date in the first place, by the Chemistry course-mate who had set her up with this guy at a recent party – yes, he was good-looking, but she hadn’t got a good vibe from him. Not at all. When they’d been introduced, he’d given her the kind of smile that made her feel like a mirror, that he was just looking at her to get a tab on how great he looked that day. And when he’d nodded a casual Yeah, sure to her course-mate’s suggestion that he and Zoe should get a drink some time, she’d wanted to back away from the whole thing, hitting undo.
She might only be twenty-two, but she knew enough to listen to her gut on things like this. Glancing round the empty bar, she realised she’d just learned that the hard way. But she hadn’t been on a date in ages, and if nothing else, she was reasonably sure he’d have put out at the end of the night. She sighed, and drained the final dregs from the glass.
The barman took the glass and the folded paper napkin, and wiped down the counter. ‘Another?’
Zoe realised she felt slightly giddy from her margarita.
‘What do you recommend?’ She folded her chipped fingernails inside her fists and rested them on the bar.
‘Maybe a better date, from the look of things? Otherwise, I make a mean Bloody Mary.’
She speared three olives in the little dish by the napkins, and ate them, one by one.
‘I feel pretty bloody. Go on then. Please.’
He didn’t talk while he was making her drink, but once he’d served it he stayed at her end of the bar and chatted to her, in between serving other people. It was a quiet Tuesday in October, and there weren’t that many people to serve, so they were mostly talking. He was a student too, doing a design degree. He was into shoes, he said, planning to make a break from behind this bar at some point to actually start his own shoe shop, shoes that he’d designed and created himself. She asked him if he’d make his escape tonight. He said he was now considering hanging around for a better offer. She said she was considering making one.
The next morning, Zoe woke up to a strange and empty bed. Fair enough. She’d only had one more drink after the Bloody Mary and could remember everything well enough to know she’d be disappointed that this was only a one-night thing, but it was a pity he hadn’t even hung around long enough for a little small talk, perhaps a brief replay of last night. She stretched, got up, dressed – debated leaving a note, but thought there was little point. She found her handbag and shoes – one under the bed, one balanced on the dripping tap in the corner sink – attempted to shape her hair into something presentable, and headed out, pulling the door until it locked, heading down the corridor that looked just like every college hall corridor in the country, and out into the street. Her bus arrived almost immediately and she headed back to her student house to take a long bath and have a good long think about what she’d done. In fact, what they’d both done.
Five minutes later, there was a soft knock-knocking at the bedroom she’d so recently vacated. A key in the door, and the barman opened it from outside, juggling two coffees and two bags of pastries.
‘I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got one of—’
He stopped, saw the empty bed, the vanished shoes and bag.
‘Bugger.’
Two weeks later, Zoe stood waiting outside a workshop at the design college with a tote bag over one arm. After a quarter of an hour, the doors opened and the students streamed out.
‘Hey!’ she called. Half the class looked around. ‘Barman!’
He joined the half of the class who were looking, and smiled. ‘It’s Jack, actually,’ he called back.
She nodded. ‘Jack. Ok. Bit out there, but I can work with it.’
He walked over, stood in front of her. ‘Zoe.’
‘You remembered.’
‘I did.’ He smiled a little more. ‘I remembered where you were at uni, too, and your course, and I was actually going to come and find you there, but I thought how would I actually find you—’
‘There are literally three black students on my whole course.’
‘And I didn’t know if it would be a bit weird, me just pitching up at your lectures—’
‘In front of my whole class? Like this?’
‘Yeah – oh, no, I mean – this is different. It’s charming when you do it. But it’s a bit weird if this barman you just had a one-night stand with turns up, even if he’s brought flowers—’
‘You were going to buy me flowers?’
‘Yeah, of course. I mean, I had such a great time with you. And then you’d bolted, and I didn’t really know how to find you.’
‘Again. Literally three black students on my whole course.’
‘But here you are!’
‘Ruining our romantic reunion.’
Jack laughed. ‘A little bit. And I don’t even have your flowers.’
Zoe opened her tote bag. ‘But I have shoes. Can you fix them, please?’
He took the bag and offered his arm. ‘But first. A drink?’
That second date was as good as their first, if that bar conversation could be counted as their first. For their second date, they made an effort: Jack wore a new jacket, Zoe wore the heels Jack had fixed for her, and the pair of them left their film early. They never made it to their restaurant booking, but later found one of the few obliging pizza delivery places still willing to deliver to university halls.
The third date was with Jack’s parents.
On the morning after their pizza-in-bed date, Jack had waved Zoe off at the bus stop and headed back to his room to get ready for his day. Zoe, rummaging in her bag on the top deck of the bus, found that she’d picked up his student ID by mistake. She looked at her watch. Dammit, she didn’t have time to return it now, but she’d swing by and drop it off later.
By the time she was free, it was early evening. She knew she could get buzzed in by anyone, and she’d just slip it under his door if he wasn’t about. Outside his room, however, she could hear muffled voices. She knocked. Jack opened the door in nothing but a towel and face mask, and he stared at her for a moment before he gave a small scream.
‘What are you doing here?’
She held out his ID. ‘Sorry. I picked this up this morning. Good to see you too, Jack.’ Zoe raised an eyebrow.
‘Who’s that, Jack?’ A woman’s voice came from behind the door.
Zoe crossed her arms in front of her and took a deep breath.
‘Jack?’ The same voice, more insistent.
Jack had jammed his foot on the inside of the door, and it was shaking with the effort of the person behind it trying to open it wider. ‘Look, can you just – stop being so silly – can you—’
Zoe switched to her other hip and re-crossed her arms. The door was finally yanked open.
A middle-aged couple stood in Jack’s room, the man stretched out on Jack’s bed reading the Telegraph, the woman, slight and well-dressed, with glossy brown hair, her hand still on the inside door handle.
‘Well, Jack,’ the woman said. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
THREE
Now
When Jack got back that night, the flat was filled with the smells of jollof rice, his favourite of my mum’s dishes and one of the few I managed to get even close to Mum’s quality. I’d lit candles, drawn the curtains (you only make that mistake once – thanks to one amorous night when we forgot to close them, our blushing neighbours opposite now ran like rats whenever they saw us) and poured the wine. As he dropped his bag and coat, he said, ‘Well, someone should have hangovers more often, if this is the result.’ I laughed, then he added, ‘I thought we were married already – do we still have to keep trying to seduce each other?’
I didn’t laugh, although I knew it was a joke; it seemed too close to what I’d been worrying about in the small hours this morning. Why couldn’t we keep seducing each other? What was the alternative – that we’d come back each evening to find our other half in an egg-stained fleecy dressing gown watching EastEnders and picking the hardened bits of a Pot Noodle out of the bottom of the cup?
Jack saw my face and came over. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and kissed me.
I sighed. ‘No, I’m sorry. I was doing this to apologise for this morning, and now you’re apologising to me.’
‘Ok, we’re both sorry. Although not as sorry as you looked this morning—’
‘Thank you.’
‘But we’re both sorry.’
‘I’m sorry for being so vile this morning.’
‘And I’m sorry for the ill-judged joke. This smells and looks amazing.’
‘And for trying to lift me out of bed?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘And you’re sorry for trying to physically lift me out of bed this morning, even though I didn’t want you to?’
‘Zo, you were going to miss a whole day!’
‘Of course I wasn’t! I made it to school.’
‘Eventually. I didn’t know that though, did I?’
‘You didn’t ask. You can just take it as read from now on that you’re free to treat me as an adult, able to make my own decisions about my own life, ok?’
‘I know that you’re capable, I just don’t know if you always do.’
‘I’m twenty-nine, Jack, I managed an awfully long time without you telling me what to do.’
My last comment hung in the air between us.
‘I’m sorry. Again. I’m still hungover, and you know it makes me a bastard. Let’s just stop. Let’s have this nice meal, and … who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky.’
‘Maybe you will.’ Jack brought our glasses over, still misted with cold, and cheers-ed.
When I arrived home the next day, our post was waiting on the table; Jack must have picked it up. Junk mail, junk mail, junk mail – and then one that was addressed to ‘Mr and Mrs Bestwick’. Jesus Christ, the ink wasn’t even dry on our marriage certificate yet. How the hell had – what was this, an insurance company – managed to get our names? Was this it, now? The choice to keep my name – which, let’s not forget, is an absolutely fucking absurd thing to even make a choice about – didn’t even matter, because everyone would just assume I was Jack’s chattel, to be named and catalogued along with his other possessions. This was why I’d always felt so uncomfortable with the idea of marriage. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, per se, it’s just that all the assumptions and faff that came with it, including the name-changing rigmarole, wasn’t something I’d ever seen myself having to put up with. And yet here I was.
I tore it in half with an ugh of despair. Jack came around the corner, carrying two cups of tea with a plate of salted-honey toast on top. ‘Bad day at school?’
‘No! Good day. I love my work. And I should clearly enjoy it while society still permits married women to actually hold down jobs that men could be doing.’
‘I’m sensing … this isn’t about your day at work.’
I held out the two pieces of the letter. ‘Awww,’ Jack said in a mock-touched voice. ‘That’s nice. How did they know?’ He looked at me, saw I wasn’t smiling, then said, ‘No, that is creepy. I get your ugh now.’ He screwed his face up. ‘How did they know?’
I relaxed slightly, realising that this wasn’t Jack’s fault. ‘I’m feeling slightly … disappeared when that happens.’
Jack put on a soft, exaggeratedly soothing voice. ‘Does Hulk want to smash the patriarchy?’ I nodded. ‘Does Hulk want to come and smash the patriarchy on the sofa with some tea and toast?’ I nodded again. ‘Does Hulk want to do that on the sofa while a man cooks and cleans tonight as a token gesture of patriarchy-smashing?’ I nodded again, smiling and giving him a kiss on the nose as I took the plate and a mug and lay full length on the sofa.
Taking a bite of the toast, I said, ‘How’s your week going?’
‘Fine. Good. Nice and busy today, which is unusual for this time of year.’
I could hear cupboards being opened and closed as Jack got things out to make dinner.
‘Jonjo thought it was funny to tease me about not being allowed out anymore, when I said I wanted to get back here tonight after closing up.’
I pulled a face. ‘Jonjo’s a dick.’
Jack stopped, and looked at me through the kitchen hatch, mouth agape. ‘Oh my god! That’s exactly what I said to him.’
‘We’re like two peas in a pod.’
Jack laughed. ‘Well anyway, besides the small matter of me abusing my employees, everything’s been fine. January sales still going well.’
‘We’re still going through the cake and prosecco I got on Monday.’
‘You teachers. Always living the high life.’
‘And I didn’t have to swear at any colleagues.’
‘Enough, enough. Alcohol and cake, and not forcing you to mistreat co-workers? They’ll be giving you the vote next.’
I threw my toast crust at him, which landed perfectly in his hair. Jack reached up, deadpan, and slowly drew it down and popped it in his mouth in one bite. ‘That’s some good toast, though I say so myself.’
‘You’ve got to have some skills if you want women to keep you guys around.’
‘Not women. Just woman. You’ll do me, thanks.’ Jack gave me a panto wink.
I found an old New Yorker stuffed down the side of the sofa and read a piece about Malala Yousafzai, while the smells of Jack’s cooking filled the flat. Maybe married life wasn’t the absolute worst thing in the world after all.
After a quiet weekend, I headed to the bar. It was crowded for so early in the week, but I found a table before Liz had arrived. She brought drinks over and hugged me.
‘So, how is life as a married woman?’ The question from her was tender, rather than wry. We clinked glasses.
‘Fine.’ She looked at me. ‘It is fine, really. Do you want to talk about Adam?’
She’d been seeing him on and off for a few years; they’d repeatedly talked about living together, but she’d always backed off. Going by his absence at our wedding, she must have backed off pretty far this time. She shrugged. ‘I dunno. Seems like a bit of a downer.’
I laughed. ‘Given the downers you’ve had from me, Liz? Please. What happened?’
She shrugged again, a bit brisker. ‘No, not tonight. Is that ok? I just … I want to think about something else.’ She stopped. ‘You know, I’ve always wanted something like you and Jack have. Is that weird?’
‘Us?’ I yelped. ‘Liz, you know better than anyone how I’ve been feeling—’
‘Yeah, but that’s just you. It’s not the two of you. You two have a better relationship than most people I know. And me and Adam, I just kept thinking, what if there’s something better, just around the corner, and I … No. Listen. I really don’t want to start on this tonight. Please. Save me from myself. Tell me about your school. Your sisters. International military policy. Anything.’
‘Well, Kat’s got a new job, which everyone’s delighted about. I still don’t really get what it is though. Some ad agency thing. We’re all going to Mum and Dad’s on Sunday to have a big meal – toast Kat, toast us, that kind of thing.’
‘That’s great news about Kat. How will you cope with the toasting to you too, though?’
I laughed. ‘You’ve met Kat, haven’t you? I don’t imagine Jack and I will get much of a look in there.’
‘Which suits you fine, I imagine.’
‘Exactly.’ I took a sip of my drink. ‘This job of hers might turn out to be the best thing that’s happened to me recently. Between Esther’s toddler, whatever spirit-lifting social-work case Ava’s currently on and the Job of the Century from Kat, I don’t think I have to worry about the focus being on us at all.’
Liz and I clinked glasses again.
By our second week of marriage, things felt completely steady again between me and Jack, enough that we spent the evening semi-ironically filling out a questionnaire Jack had been sent by his stepmum: What’s Your Newlywed Score? We had to answer things like ‘Where do you see yourself in ten years’ time?’ and ‘What’s your happiest childhood memory?’ – topics which neither of us had the courage to point out are maybe things you should discuss before the wedding, rather than after, but whatever. We opened a fancy bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a leftover from the wedding, and sat curled up together on the sofa.
Jack started. ‘Ok, what would you save in a fire?’
‘Besides you, of course?’
‘Thank god. I think you get some bonus points for that.’
I thought for a moment. ‘My picture of Grandma. Easy.’ It was the first thing I’d put up when we’d moved into this flat: a colour photo of my grandma from when she was in her thirties, back in Nigeria, in a pair of black slacks and an emerald green sweater, laughing over her shoulder at someone just beside the photographer. Although I wouldn’t be born until a few decades after that photo was taken, it was how I remembered her: smiling, beautiful, with the same dark bronze skin my mum, sisters and I had all inherited, and the same long arms. I remembered them wrapped around me when I was little, when she’d tell me stories and teach me about life, chuckling through her soft accent and keeping me safe from everything in the world.
I’d had the photo mounted in a frame to match her sweater, and the feeling of her looking over us as we’d moved into that little flat had felt like a blessing she could no longer give in person. She’d died when I was eleven, and I still thought of her almost every day.
‘Right!’ I shook myself. ‘My turn. What’s your dream job?’
‘Honestly? Probably this one. I love the shop. It took me a long time to get it all together, to get Henderson’s to where we are now. So … this. You?’
‘Same. I love my job. I don’t know if I’ll do it forever, but it’s certainly the thing that gives me the most pleasure.’
Jack coughed.
‘Except you, of course?’
‘Better.’
I offered him the list to take his turn. ‘Right. Where would you like to live in the world, if not here?’
‘Berlin!’ I said, without hesitation.
‘Of course. Your favourite.’
‘Would you? Live there?’
‘Yeah.’ Jack thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, I definitely would, although I can’t imagine how that’ll ever come about – I can’t imagine how I’d ever leave the shop. But of all the places in the world, besides London, Berlin is probably where I’d most like to go.’
‘Maybe when we’re old, then?’
‘Deal.’
We carried on with the list for another hour or so, and it was a strangely enjoyable time. We talked about children (we both want a couple, but not for a few years), films (the fact that he picked neither The Godfather nor The Shawshank Redemption reminded me how much I loved him), religion (him: lapsed Catholic; me: pretty agnostic, despite Mum’s best efforts), food (him: my mum’s rice; me: beef wellington followed by chocolate mousse) and houses (we both dream of a magic house with a garden and a big bright kitchen and large windows, and which never raises any concerns about leaky guttering or cracking plaster or subsidence. Like I said, magic). The whole questionnaire forced us into enough of that emotional intimacy stuff that by the time we went to bed, let’s just say I didn’t have to undress myself.
On Saturday, I could hear Jack clattering about in the living room, moving all the wedding gift boxes around.
‘Zo, what are we going to do with all this stuff? We don’t want any of it.’
‘Except the coffee machine.’
‘Yes, except the coffee machine.’ I could hear it humming away in the background as I joined him, and we looked at the endless repacked boxes of someone else’s wedding presents.
‘What if we return all this stuff and find out no one’s bought us anything?’ I was beginning to regret the pact we’d made not to look at what gifts had been picked off our wedding list.
‘Zo, I’m reasonably sure that at least one of your sisters will have got us something. And Iffy. So that’s two. Liz?’
‘Fine. So will you call the place and have them come and collect it?’ I pleaded, batting my eyelashes at him.
Jack winked at me, and a few minutes later I could hear him speaking in his most charming tones to someone in customer services, explaining the confusion about the boxes and how, in all the mix-up, the coffee machine had been opened and used before we’d realised the mistake.
‘Oh, really? Really? Wow, that’s awfully kind. Are you sure? Wow, that’s really, really kind of you. Thanks so much. Yes, tomorrow would be absolutely fine, we’ll make sure at least one of us is in. Yup, thanks so much. Ok. Bye.’ He hung up, and did a tiny dance.
‘Well?’
‘They said we should keep the coffee machine as an apology from them for their error, and they’d make sure all the other gifts and a new machine made it to the other couple.’
‘Sweeeeeeet.’
‘I know. What can I say – the gods were smiling on us for our wedding day.’
I looked at the boxes again. ‘But who is this other couple? How can they have so much need for tweed sofa cushions and garden kneelers and – oh my god. Do you think they’re old?’
‘Uh-oh. Have an older couple married? Ugh, maybe they’re doing it. That’s gross. I’ll call the police – quick, pass me your phone.’
‘No. It’s nice. It’s nice that an older couple might be still so …’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know, marrying when you need a garden kneeler. Optimistic?’
‘Maybe they’re not an older couple. Maybe they’re Tories.’
‘Nah, I don’t have the energy for the sabotage of the boxes that particular truth would warrant. Let’s just imagine they’re a happy couple of indeterminate age who enjoy gardening and rabbits and tweed.’
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