The Accidental Wedding, or How I Became a Husband Due to Knickers and Plain Stubbornness
“Put your knickers on and get down here! I’ll be outside your building in five minutes!” I barked into the phone the moment she picked up.
Truth be told, the knickers bit was just for a laugh. I thought she’d chuckle. Instead, she went silent, then whispered:
“How do you know I don’t wear any round the flat?”
“What?” I froze.
“Well, you just said…”
“You didn’t know? I can see everyone I talk to.”
“Liar!”
“No. Right now, you’ve got the phone in one hand and the other’s… covering yourself.”
“OH!”
The line went dead. She just slammed the phone down. But five minutes later, it rang again:
“Hello… it’s me… the line dropped.”
I didn’t let her catch her breath:
“Are you sure that lace pair suits you?”
“OH!”
Down went the phone again. This time for hours. Then…
“How do I look now?” Her voice returned, cautious but teasing.
“How should I know? I was joking before.”
“Joking?” A pause. “Just joking… And here I was, making an effort for you…”
“Right, I’m on my way!” I said and was at her door ten minutes later.
I knocked forever. No answer. Then I pushed the door—unlocked. Inside, silence, dim light, not a soul. Just as I thought I’d walked into a trap of loneliness, masked blokes in bulletproof vests stormed in.
Turns out, the flat was under surveillance. A “breach alert,” apparently. They nearly let me off by afternoon—claimed it was a misunderstanding. But like a fool, I lingered. And since I was stuck, I made the best of it. Played “three-card brag” with the coppers. Won a bit—not much, but with flair. A bottle of whisky and a few quid on the way out. Practically made a profit.
I limped out of the station, groaning loud enough to sell the whole “victim of injustice” bit. Her car was parked outside. She was at the wheel, waiting. But I pretended not to see her. Walked past, turning up the groans, ducked into the first building, and hid.
She ran around searching. Never found me. I went home and turned off my phone. Come morning, the answering machine was on:
“Hello! I’m in hospital. If I pull through, I’ll call you back.”
Later, I heard she rang every hospital in town. Found nothing, so she drove to A&Es herself. Then someone let slip they’d seen me in town—bottle in hand, merry as ever.
The calls stopped. But soon, another came—from a mutual mate:
“Alright? You’re invited to a wedding!”
“Who’s the bride?” I already knew.
“Well… her.”
“Oh, right… Fine, I’ll be there.”
“Bring your passport. In case they’re short a witness!”
The registry office was a day away. The longest day of my life. I stewed, regretted, raged, forgave, stewed again. By evening, I knew I couldn’t live without her. By night, I decided I didn’t deserve her. By morning, I’d talked myself into it: be a man, see it through. No running. Even if Mars seemed tempting.
“Worse is better,” I muttered, buttoning my shirt.
Forty-odd familiar faces loitered outside the registry. My humiliation was just another treat with the wedding cake.
They called us in. Mendelsohn’s march played—that torturer of grooms’ nerves. Then the registrar announced our names. I gaped.
Two minutes later, I was a married man. Just like that. Then came the banquet. Loud, lavish, pricey.
Later, alone at last, she asked:
“Well? Happy?”
“Very…” I meant it. “But… if I hadn’t shown, what would you’ve done? All that money wasted…”
“Don’t fret. I booked it in your name.”
And that’s how we’ve lived since. By accident. But for love.
