A Sham Marriage.
So, John and I are in a sham marriage.
It all began because John urgently needed to tie the knot for a boost up the corporate ladder. He works for a very proper company run by an absolute champion of family values, one Edward Benedictpatriarch of a sprawling clan, father to five adult daughters, thus father-in-law to five sons-in-law and grandfather to nine energetic grandkids.
He takes immense pride in his gigantic family tree. To Edward, bachelor is a form of profanity. In his mind, an unmarried employee isnt so much second-rate as utterly disposable, regardless of talent or job performance.
When John found this out, he realised that an official marriage was crucial if he ever wanted a job worthy of his skills and ambitions.
He considered his options, weighed the pros and cons, and popped the questionto me. Not exactly risky for him, given that weve known each other since the days of sandpits and juice cartonsour mums are lifelong friends, and still natter over tea. We even sat together through all our school years. He coached me through maths, I proofread all his essays.
So basically, he knows me better than he knows himself. No chance of me trying to grab his flat or his savings should we ever part ways.
As for me, I was more than happy to oblige, given that I was in the throes of a post-breakup crisis after my three-year romance ended in spectacular fashion. I desperately needed a new distraction, lest I tumble headlong into the pit of everlasting misery. Plus, it seemed a delightful way to one-up my ex: Ive married someone clever, successful, has a snazzy motor and a swish three-bed in central London. Take that! Also, it felt good to flash the ring in front of friends: Look, Im thriving!
In short, our plans and interests dovetailed perfectly, and John and I registered our thoroughly unromantic marriage at the Islington registry officeno pomp, no big crowd, no white limo screeching up, and certainly no doves released into the sky. No wedding dress, no veil, and definitely no starched black suit.
We simply left work a bit early on a Thursday, nipped into the registry, scribbled our names in the big book and exchanged rings. Of course, I changed my surname temporarilyTurchin sounds a touch more exotic than plain old Daniels.
I must say, our modest expectations were completely exceeded.
Within a month, John was handed the directorship of his departmenta well-earned promotion.
My married status instantly elevated me in my friends eyes. The best moment was when I got a string of texts from my ex along the lines of, I wish you happiness, but Id hoped wed have another chance. Well, mate, life moves onserves you right. Regret is always a day late and a pound short.
In other words, our calculated plan was a resounding success.
Oh, and I even moved in with John for a whilefor appearances, of course. He insisted.
Saturday morning.
Im rustling up breakfast in the kitchen. Omelette, scones, and a big mug of milky coffeeJohn likes a hearty start to the day.
I sneak a look out the window. A glorious April morning is unfolding.
Springhands down my favourite season.
Todays a busy one. I need to visit Mum and Dad, do some proper cleaning, get the washing on, and whip up a Saturday afternoon feastmaybe pork chops, a stew, a homemade pizza, and a Caesar salad. The to-do list seems never-endingabsolutely typical for anyone running a household.
You know, John and I have now been in this little arrangement for thirteen years. Our daughter, Rosie, is about to start Year One, and our lad, Harry, is finishing up Year Fivestar pupil, just like his dad, sharp as a tack.
Honestly, his dad is clever and a proper role model.
Not like my husbandhes a completewell, sham.
