A Grand Divorce
Exactly four years Tom and I lasted in our marriage. We tried so hard to play at everlasting love, but we simply couldn’t put down roots in the garden of marital bliss. Now, divorce was looming on the horizon.
So thats it, youll just get divorced and move on? asked my friend Alice, when I invited her out to drown my sorrows with round Italian sandwiches.
Yes. What else is there to do? Weve talked it over. Its for the best, really, for both of us…
I dont mean the divorce itselfI mean the ceremony. Shouldnt you mark the occasion somehow? End it with a bang, so to speak?
Ive been so nervous lately, I dont really need any more reminders, I sighed, stabbing another slice of Hawaiian and then seafood pizza onto my plate.
Im not talking about you, darling, Im talking about your divorce, of course! You two threw such a lavish weddingIm pretty sure Im still paying off a chunk of that cake on my credit card. So why not go all out for the breakup? Hire a restaurant, book a limousine, toastmasters, maybe a dramatic burning of the bridge. Honestly, Id enjoy it!
Can we do that?
We must!
I havent got much money, you know. Well need to split the flat, tear the duvet and pillowcases in half…
I know someone who can organise the lot for a sack of potatoesor, better, you can pay back with presents. For now, lets think about your laydees night. Something homely and wholesome so you can properly say goodbye to married life.
You mean the usual: arrange to meet up, but in the end, no one goes anywhere because everyone has husbands and children?
Perfect!
The next day, Alice and I met the organiserJuliaat her office, which turned out to be a till in a crepe café at Westfield. Julia was taking orders and running her event business on the side.
Can you help? Alice asked, explaining the situation.
Easy! I can see it now, Julias eyes gleamed as she started imagining: The bridein a gorgeous black mourning dressswearing never to love again. The groom in those embarrassing old sweatpants he can now wear 24/7 solemnly says no. Then you march to the pawn shop with all your mates for a ceremonial handing-in of the rings. Guests chanting: Bittersweet! Semi-dry!… Ah, well work it all out, said Julia, then she belted out, Order sixty-four ready! so loud it made my ears ring.
Surprisingly, Tom was all for the idea, while our parents were scandalised.
This is just one of your modern fads. In our day, one just got divorced quietly and spent the rest of life seething with resentment, they moaned from both rickety camps. Were not giving you money for a divorce party.
A week later, everything was in place. Julias plan had the festivities begin with a ransom. The groom had to leave the flat, running a gauntlet of challenges and songs, with guests helping or bribing his way out, desperate to hurry him along. As we lived on the twelfth floor, Tom was allowed to use the lift. His remaining things and his best man went in with him.
Through Julias cousin, a police inspector, we even got a crime photographer at the event, carefully capturing every detail. After the ceremony, nine people were officially on recordat least in photographs.
To the Registry Office! Julia pronounced grandly, once everyone was gathered downstairs.
In this new tradition, Tom and I sat together in the car for the last time, then set off in opposite directions after the formalities. Our entourage was kitted out with Oyster cards, spare coins for the bus, and the photographers car, where they held more contests: mock interrogations, fingerprinting and so forth. We all marched into the marriage office belting out Im Free by The Who.
Once the stamps were in our passports and our household, effectively, closed, the party spilled outside. Julia produced a giant cage and suggested we catch a few pigeons. People sang, cheered, and celebrated our freedom. The men congratulated Tom, wishing him decades of single happiness; their wives scolded them, then jostled nearer to catch a bouquet made entirely from utility bill receipts.
Crikey, thats a lively do! Must be a long-awaited engagement, suggested a guest from a real wedding.
No, mate, theyre getting divorced, someone corrected him.
Having watched our merry ending, quite a few couples postponed their own ceremonies upon reflection.
After we sawed through the padlock on the bridge and hawked our rings at the pawn shop (to help with party costs), the whole procession moved to a restaurant. Waiting there was an orchestra hired by Julia, a business lunch, and stacks of crepes with honey. The food was sponsored by Crepe Corner No. 8, which happened to be Julias workplace. Even the cake was crepe-based.
This is like a wake… I sighed, glancing at the oddly mournful atmosphere.
Were sending marital happiness to its final rest! declared Julia, who doubled as master of ceremonies before inviting the formerly young lovers for their last dance.
Chopin played in the background.
You know… this isnt half bad, I said to Tom as we glided across the floor.
I agree, he nodded. This is the first time Ive seen our parents genuinely get along.
As we circled, I saw my dad and Toms dad hugging like old mates, softly singing something and weeping, even though theyd always been mortal enemies.
The table was stacked with presentssingle-bed sheet sets, tickets to concerts, dumbbells, crockery for one, vouchers for yoga, the gym, or even a strip club. In the end, we were given keys to different hotel rooms in opposite parts of London, discount coupons to Crepe Corner No. 8, and a certificate for two rides in the Mets car.
To close, there was a firework display and the last of the cake sold off cheap. Guests headed cheerfully hometo their own spouses and familieswhile Tom and I set out on new paths.
Three weeks later, the photo album was ready. Tom stopped by to pick up his nail clippers.
These turned out well, I mused, flipping through the black-and-white snaps, catching happy faces and spoof crime-scene shots.
Yes, not bad, Tom agreed, then added, Are you going to change your surname?
No. Ive got used to it. Besides, Cabbage isnt much better.
Fair enough, he smiled. Right, I best be off.
Hang on!
Tom looked at me, questioning.
Do you fancy dinner at the creperie? Our vouchers expire tonight. Seems a shame to waste them.
It is a shame, Tom agreed. Did you know, crepes symbolise renewal? Maybe this is our chance. So, is this a date?
Do you think, I hesitated, do you think it would be a mistake after such a public divorce? I heard there was even a bit about us on BBC London…
I dont know, but whos to judge? Were free now and can see whoever we like, whenever we like. Oh, by the waythe best man and bridesmaid are filing for divorce next week. Weve been invited to theirs. Want to come as my plus one?
Ill think about it, I grinned. Ive still got the single sheet set they gave us as a wedding presentitll make a perfect gift.We laughed thenreally, properly laughed, for the first time in months, like fresh air had blown straight through the ashes of everything wed built and burnt and somehow left the room lighter. I shut the photo album and tucked it away next to my stack of single crockery, and for once, I didnt feel empty at all.
Come on then, I said, grabbing my coat. Lets risk scandal and have crepes under Julias watchful eye. If nothing else, we can toast to new beginningsyours, mine, anyones.
As we walked out together, separate but side by side, I realized a grand divorce could make way for a quiet, friendly peacemaybe even a slightly ridiculous tradition. And if crepes could really mean renewal, then perhaps we were due for a few more sweetor savourychapters, whatever shape they took.
London was loud and endless as ever, but for once, neither of us felt lost inside it.
Some endings are fireworks, some are fond farewells, and someif youre luckytaste a lot like honey on warm, thin pancakes.
