Matt Rudd - William Walker’s First Year of Marriage - A Horror Story

Isabel changed that. I suddenly got it. Even though I was only twenty-nine, I knew immediately that she was someone I’d be glad to spend the rest of my life with. Mainly because she’s different from all my other girlfriends.

In that she’s beautiful rather than somewhere between pretty and elephantine. She has short dark hair with red bits in it. She is tall but not alarmingly so. She has freckles in the summer. She has a cute dimple where she used to have a nose ring. And she would have had a cute dimple where she used to have a nipple ring but she sobered up before it was her turn in the Mexican nipple-piercing shop.

[No, that’s too shallow. It’s not about looks.]

In that she’s funny.

[Still no. Sounds like something you’d write in a personal ad (Must have GSOH).]

In that she does things impetuously. She isn’t on the conveyor belt. She’s lived in Paris and Buenos Aires; she’s spent a year teaching in the Andes and three months as a beer wench in Munich; she quite fancies showing me her favourite bar in Quito one day; she wonders if the campervan we will one day drive to Bangkok should be a classic rust-bucket or one of the rather nifty new ones. Now, she works for a charity and she loves it. But next year she might decide to become a policewoman. Who knows? She’s spontaneous.

[Still no. And I hope she doesn’t become a policewoman.]

In that we were mates within five minutes of meeting, that it felt completely natural when we moved in together, that the thought of her and me getting hitched seemed like the most exciting idea in the world ever without any question, and that I can’t wait to get on with married life. Johnson is wrong about women and I didn’t completely understand that until I met Isabel.

Back from honeymoon, which I don’t want to talk about. Ever. Except to say India wasn’t my idea. Just so pleased to be home, even if home is a one-bedroom flat at the wrong end of the mean streets of Finsbury Park.

Marmite toast, tea, hot bath, bed, sleep, lovely sleep.

Wake to a message left on the answer machine from Alex. ‘Great you’re back, Izzy babes. Can’t wait to hear all about India, babes. Hope you loved it as much as I told you you would. Give us a call, babes. Bye babes.’ Accidentally deleted.

Slept for a whole day in lovely bed with lovely wife who still loves me despite honeymoon, then got dragged to John Lewis to rearrange wedding list. It’s a shame they let you do this. Suspect Isabel knew all along. Lets me put lots of stuff on before the wedding, lets me get all excited when people buy them for us, then switches it all around as soon as I’ve signed the marriage certificate. Clever.

Gas barbecue: ‘We don’t have a garden.’ ‘We will one day.’ ‘We need something to eat off before then.’

Croquet set: same.

Black beanbag: ‘We’re not living in a bachelor pad any more.’

Rothko prints: same.

Chef ’s blowtorch: same. ‘But what about crème brûlée?’ ‘You’ll use it once and get bored.’

Juicer: ‘Boy’s toy. Pointless gadget. Kitchen clutter. No.’

Coffee machine: same.

Twelve dinner plates: I thought the seven we’d got would do.

Ditto side plates, bowls, spoons.

Towels: boring.

Toastie-maker: ‘Isn’t that a pointless gadget?’ ‘No, every kitchen needs one.’

Duvets: ‘But darling, we’ve got two already.’ ‘Does that include the one with the candle burn from when you were trying to impress Saskia in your horrible Acton bedsit? When you lit a hundred tea lights and she thought you were terribly sophisticated and it was all perfect until the bed caught fire? I can’t believe you told me that. I want that duvet thrown out. It’s horrid.’

Yoga mat, hairdryer, pair of Birkenstocks: ‘But darling, these aren’t even on the original list.’ ‘I don’t care, I’m still annoyed about the duvet.’ The shop assistant gives her a go-girl look and types B-I-R-K-E-N-S-T-O-C-K-S into her annoying wedding-list computer with a triumphant flourish.

Saskia. The one crazy fling of my life. The only example of me behaving like a total cad. Ever. Pretty much. I still feel bad about it but that was a long time ago. And it’s still coming back to haunt me, even now I’m married, even here at John Lewis, even though it had nothing to do with Isabel. Why did I ever tell Isabel about the bloody duvet?

I expected some sort of fanfare, going back to work. To be treated differently. I feel different. Very grown-up. 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.

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.’

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.

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.