A Marriage of Convenience.
I happen to be in a marriage of convenience with George. You see, George desperately needed to be married if he had any hope of climbing the career ladder at the rather stuffy firm where he works. The company chairman, Sir Edward Bingham, is an ardent champion of family valuespatriarch of an age-old English clan, father to five grown daughters, father-in-law to five sons-in-law, and the very proud grandfather of nine lively grandchildren. His chief pride is his grand, bustling family. To him, the word bachelor is about as appealing as a cold cup of tea. Any unmarried employee is, in his eyes, barely fit for the canteen queue, let alone any meaningful role, whatever their actual talent or commitment.
Once George sussed this out, he understoodif he actually wanted the position his talents and ambitions deserved, hed need some sort of wife. After weighing up the pros and cons, he pitched his proposal: a fake marriage, with me. It wasnt exactly a gamble for him, since hes known me since we were both building sandcastles at nurseryour mums are best friends, still gossiping over tea to this day. We sat at the same desk throughout schoolhe waded through my punctuation, I muddled through his sums. He knows Im the least grasping person alive and wouldn’t run off with his flat, his money, or even his favourite mug if (when?) we split.
For my part, I jumped at it. Id just had a painful breakup after a three-year fling, and needed a distraction to keep me from dissolving into a soggy heap of existential angst. Besides, it was a tidy way to show my ex Id moved onto someone dashing, successful, with a snazzy car and a three-bed flat in central London. And it didnt hurt to give my friends something to gossip about (Look at me, still got it!). Our needs dovetailed beautifully.
We registered our less-than-genuine marriage quietly at the local town hall; not a single trumpet or overfed relative in sight. No vintage Bentley, no doves released, and thank goodness, no starchy white dress or choke-inducing veil. Just two people on a random Tuesday, slipping out of work early, popping in to scribble their names in a very official-looking book. We did put rings on one anothers fingers, thoughone has standards.
I even decided to change my surname for a bit: Tomlinson has a certain ring to it, far more interesting than plain old Smith.
And you know what? The plan worked out better than we could have fantasised. Within a month, George had been promoted to Director of the whole Department. Thoroughly deserved, the gaffer wont have it that way, but I know better. And me? My new Mrs Tomlinson status did wonders. I was walking taller at family gatherings, and got several pointed texts from my ex: Wish you happiness, but I thought we might still you know. Well, well! Funny how you appreciate what you had when its off the menu. Suck it up, love.
So yesour marriage exceeded all expectations.
Small detail: I moved in with George for a while, just to keep things looking above board. His suggestion, and impressively dedicated to the charade.
Saturday morning. Im in the kitchen making breakfastomelettes, pancakes, a proper pot of tea. George insists on a big breakfast on weekends. The day outside starts with that crisp, English April sunlightits spring, my absolute favourite.
Lots to do. Must visit Mum and Dad, power through the inevitable housework, pop a wash on, and then whip up something suitably Saturday-ish for lunch: maybe a nice roast, a homemade pizza, or a Caesar salad. My minds buzzing with chores. Show me a domestic goddess with her feet up and Ill show you a unicorn.
Its funny, reallyweve been at this pretend marriage for thirteen years now. Our daughter, Molly, is starting Year One in September, and our son, Ben, is finishing Year Fiveand hes a straight-A student, just like his dad. George might be my fake husband, but it turns out, hes the real deal in all the ways that matter.
Not like my husband is *actually* fictitious…
