Married Ones

by Matthew J. Metzger

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in the dullest drone that Mike had ever heard. “Welcome to this happy occasion.” He could have sounded a lot happier about it. “If you could all please rise for the bride.”

  They rose as one.

  And Mike knew it was going to be a lot better than the dull vicar when Amy Burke stepped into the church, wearing a bright pink tailor-made suit, a double-helix clip holding up her hair, and her imminent mother-in-law sat down with a stunned bump.

  * * * *

  The pink-suited new Mrs Donohue led the way back round to the stadium, holding her bouquet aloft like a tour guide with an umbrella. The atmosphere was enormously amused. Cars kept slowing down to cheer and shout at them, and a lorry driver hauled on his horn with a great crowing laugh. Mrs Donohue Sr. needed to be supported by two of her sons, her face still shell-shocked.

  “I don’t know how she didn’t realise that was going to happen,” Sue said a little prudishly, and Mike guffawed.

  “I’d have been more shocked by a sodding wedding dress, personally.”

  “Exactly!”

  The stadium had given over the great conference rooms and boxes that looked down onto the empty pitch. By the time they gathered around circular dining tables, each named after a Sheffield Wednesday player, the grey clouds had burst. Amy simply toasted the rain as ‘proper match weather’ and insisted on food before speeches.

  The empty seat at Mike’s elbow, where Stephen would have been, attracted him even more attention. He finally stopped mentioning the appointment at all, and started saying Stephen had been simply busy instead. That, unfortunately, only made things worse. An elderly Irish lady asked after his wife, only to tut when told that his wife was in fact a man, and say, “I see, so you’re the wife. Well, where’s your husband, then, dear?” Mike squinted at her, unsure if she were joking or dementedly serious, and opted for not answering.

  He was saved by speeches. Amy’s mother told them all about her purple-haired punk of a daughter, who’d fought tooth and nail to never go to school again only to walk straight back in once she’d left university. Darren’s brother, who was called Josh, told them about a bull-headed twat of a boy who had changed only in that he’d gotten bigger. He ended by telling them all that thirty years ago, Mr and Mrs Burke had been sending Amy off to bed with a dummy, and now history was repeating itself. In true Darren form, the best man’s speech was ended by said best man being seized in a headlock by the groom and generally abused to gales of laughter.

  And then Amy got to her feet, raised her glass, and made a toast that struck home.

  “To our futures.”

  Future.

  Mike found himself smiling uncontrollably as they echoed the toast. Future. The very thing he and Stephen had been chasing, in their last-minute registry office do. A future, together, no matter what. Even as the Blacks had been trying to stop them. Even his own mam had said it had been a bad idea.

  Both wrong as wrong things could be wrong.

  And as he lowered his glass and one of the staff said they would have to clear out into the next conference room to let them clean up, Mike’s phone lit up on the table, courtesy of the best decision of his life.

  Stephen: All sorted at Jez’s. How is…

  Mike plucked the phone up, and wrestled his way through the crowd to the bright splash of pink. Amy beamed at him, and the hug was tight and warm.

  “You look great,” Mike said. “And you’ll do great, too, keeping this bloody great idiot in line.”

  “Oi!” Darren objected.

  “Naff off, Daz, he’s right,” Amy said, grinning widely. “Thank you, Mike. No Stephen?”

  “Just texted,” Mike said, waving the phone. “Should be up shortly.”

  “Good, I want to see his face when he sees this,” she said, smoothing down her suit.

  Mike laughed, and ducked out into the corridor. The moment the background noise dulled to a bearable level, he unlocked his phone and called back, without even reading the message.

  “Everything alright?”

  “Sodding hell!”

  Someone laughed in the background.

  “Now I owe Jez a tenner, you tit.”

  “Shouldn’t have taken a stupid bet then, should you?” Mike said. The bitching said it all. Jez was a loud and obnoxious sod at the best of times, just like his fiancée Jo, but he wasn’t completely crass. Making daft bets and Stephen calling him a tit? The appointment had gone fine.

  “You at the stadium?”

  “Yep,” Mike said. “You missed some good speeches. I made notes for mine.”

  Mumbling.

  “Jez says he wants to come to your mam’s wedding to hear your speech.”

  “Vikki’s will be better.”

  “He says both.”

  Mike laughed. “Don’t think Jo would be up for that, in the middle of their honeymoon.”

  The mumbling broke off into mutual laughter, and Mike strongly suspected Jez had weighed up his chances of getting out of his honeymoon, and found them lacking.

  “Anyway, still want me to?”

  “To what?”

  “Come up.”

  “If you’re up for it,” Mike said, glancing back at the conference room. “Might convince them I’ve not made you up.”

  “Eh?”

  “Well, you’ve never shown up to a work do before.”

  “You barely show up to the work dos.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Do I need to do the full suit and tie?”

  “Suit, skip the tie,” Mike advised. “You haven’t got the legs for a miniskirt anymore.”

  Jez, by the sound of it, lost a drink. The dull, echoing sound of spluttering made Mike smirk.

  “Sod off, I’ve got bloody perfect legs.”

  “I’m just saying don’t get them out. Nobody needs to see that much hair.”

  “Alright, Baldilocks, rein it in. Take it you don’t want me in a kilt anymore, then?”

  “Oh hey now, I never said that…”

  “Fat chance, you prick.”

  Mike laughed as he was hung up on, and slid the phone into his pocket.

  “Was that Stephen?”

  Sue, again. Good Lord.

  “Yep.”

  “Is he coming, then?”

  “Yep,” Mike repeated.

  Her face brightened. “Oh, it’ll be nice to meet him at last!”

  “I don’t know what you’re expecting,” Mike admitted.

  “Neither do we,” came the slightly tart reply. “You never talk about him.”

  Mike shrugged. “Not much to tell.”

  She gave him a sceptical look.

  “You’ll see,” Mike said. “He’s nothing special.”

  “He must be, you married him.”

  Mike chuckled. “Been a long time since my wedding, Sue. You won’t be catching me having those feelings too often.”

  “Mm, no, you have them. You just won’t admit to them.”

  It was closer to the truth than Mike would have given her credit for. He hastily made for the bar to cover his surprise, and made conversation with a stranger by the pumps just to avoid the armchair psychology that he was sure was about to be aimed his way. Bloody teachers. He ought to have seen that coming.

  Thankfully it was a big wedding. Both Amy and Darren were popular, in different circles, and Mike had plenty of people to talk to. He found himself soon embroiled in a United versus Wednesday argument—which Mike, thinking both teams were shit, could referee with ease—and was persuaded out onto the dance floor with one of his lab assistants for a terrible, lively waltz before his phone beeped again.

  Stephen: Here. I think?

  “Sorry, Lizzie, husband calls,” Mike said.

  “Will he dance with me?” she asked, refusing to let go of his hands.

  “Er, maybe?”

  “Go and get him then,” she said imperiously, releasing him.

  Mike mentally prepared his apology, and wormed hi
s way out of the throng. The corridor was quiet. The stairs were empty. The lone attendant at the entrance was reading a magazine, headphones in, and merely waved cheerily at Mike as he headed out of the building.

  Stephen had found the car, and was sitting on the bonnet in the suit he wore for parents’ evening: nicer than his work trousers and rolled up shirt sleeves that he perpetually donned in the classroom, but not so fancy as the four piece suit he’d worn to Beth’s wedding. It was a good compromise, and he slid down off the bonnet only when Mike was within arms’ reach for a hug.

  “Oh, hello.”

  “Shove off, I can have a hug if I want one.”

  “Not if you’re going to be a prick, you can’t.”

  “Going off prick, are you? I get dibs on shagging the divorce lawyer.”

  Mike laughed and slapped his arse to propel him towards the doors. “Come on, you daft sod. Free bar. All the soft drinks you can handle.”

  “Lucky me,” Stephen deadpanned.

  “They’re all wanting to meet you.”

  “You what? Why?”

  “Told you. Reckon half of them think I made you up.”

  “You couldn’t make up someone this fantastic if you tried,” Stephen said loftily.

  Mike raised his eyebrows.

  “Watch it. I’m the best thing that ever happened to you, and you know it.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re right up there with that appendicitis, you are…”

  Stephen smacked his side on the stairs; Mike caught the offending hand, shoved it up against the wall, and held the rest of him there by sheer weight advantage.

  “Is that a Bunsen burner in your pocket,” Stephen goaded him, “or are you just happy to see me?”

  “If you get anywhere near a toilet stall in the next hour, you’ll find out.”

  “Aw, too old for a bit of a stairwell shag, are we?”

  “Piss off.”

  “Didn’t think thirty was over the hill just yet.”

  “I’ll put you over my knee if you carry on like that,” Mike threatened.

  Stephen cackled with laughter. “You wish. Put me on your lap, more like.”

  “Only if you’re going to do something useful while you’re there.”

  “After that nurse they gave me? Not a chance.”

  “Get your gob on it, then. You can do things with your mouth that don’t involve sounding off.”

  “Sounding’s not really my thing, but if you want to try it, sweetpea…”

  Mike groaned. The tactic worked—he felt himself starting to soften again, and let Stephen go with a grumpy look.

  “I was looking forward to a cheeky wedding screw.”

  “We’re at the hotel for your mam’s, we can shag in a toilet then. I’m not having no public bathroom sex. Bloody unhygienic.”

  “So’s sex.”

  “Yeah, but I know where you’ve been.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” Mike drawled. He patted Stephen’s bum in a proprietary manner as they headed up the rest of the stairs and towards the music. “I apologise in advance for my colleagues.”

  “Are they really that curio—”

  “You must be Stephen!”

  They weren’t even inside the door before a hand shot out, and a beaming Sue was right there at Stephen’s front.

  “Uh.”

  “I’m Sue, one of your husband’s colleagues.”

  She placed a tiny stress on your husband, and Stephen’s eyebrows rose.

  “I’m afraid he’s not said very much about you,” she chirped.

  “Why would he?”

  Stephen’s tone was perfectly polite, but one that Mike recognised as his Black voice. If Stephen had inherited one thing from that bastard father of his, it was that he could mind-fuck with the best of them, and enjoyed it.

  Sue blinked, a little at a loss. Stephen smiled pleasantly, side-stepped her, and made for the bar. Mike carefully kept his face impassive, and followed.

  The interest didn’t stop with Sue, though. Over the next forty-five minutes, most of the female staff came over as though they hadn’t spoken to Mike earlier, and immediately engaged Stephen in bright, false conversation. Stephen’s equally bright, false smile got brighter and falser with each new person, and yet he stonewalled attempts at finding out more about him like an expert. Which, in a way, Mike supposed he was.

  Mike had never been much for keeping secrets. He’d never had to in school, never had a secret worth keeping. University had been far more interested in Stephen than in who he shacked up with. The first time he’d ever come up against a problem had been teaching, when parents suddenly weren’t so okay with biology teachers married to other blokes.

  “It’s not natural,” one had complained—to his face—and Mike had laughed.

  “I have a doctorate in this subject, Mrs Bell, let’s not try telling me what’s natural and what’s not,” he’d said.

  Stephen hadn’t been so lucky. He could have worked for MI5 by the time Mike had met him, the sly little sod. Had taken Mike months to figure out who the heck he was going out with. And over nine years, Mike had come to realise it wasn’t Stephen being a moody, antisocial little git—although maybe ten percent of it was just that—but it was out of necessity. People got funny about Stephen. Shacking up with a bloke hadn’t helped matters.

  And it made Stephen tetchy with questions.

  Yet where usually Stephen got prickly and started acting like an arsehole to put people off, tonight he seemed to be enjoying himself. When they noticed the gossip beginning to spread, he started to feed different women different information. When asked if he was Mike’s husband, he started to say, “Technically, no.” When asked how they met, he offered various stories, all of them complete rubbish. When one woman even dared ask after his clinic appointment, the smile widened and he blithely said, “Just some ongoing treatment, nothing serious.” Mike smirked into his pint as she blinked, wide-eyed, and cast him an uncertain look.

  “You’re enjoying this,” he said, leaning close under the pretence of offering to buy another drink.

  “A little bit, yeah.”

  “Stephen Parry?” a new voice chirped. “Good Lord, really? I’d never have guessed!”

  They turned as one, and Grace Phillips—one of the administrative staff—seized Stephen’s hand to shake it.

  “We met at my son’s parents’ evening!” she enthused. “Jack Phillips, he’s in your Year Ten history class!”

  “Well, Year Eleven as of September,” Stephen said, nodding. “Yes, I remember. I think he was trying to sink through the floor.”

  She laughed, and glanced at Mike. “So this is your mysterious husband, Mike? Do you know, it never occurred to me. I feel a bit daft now.”

  “Parry’s not the rarest of surnames.”

  “It’s not the most common either,” she countered. “You didn’t say he was a teacher, too.”

  “History. Doesn’t count.”

  Stephen rolled his eyes. Grace laughed like a drain.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Stephen said, putting his drink aside, “I’ll exchange the insults for the toilets for a brief moment.”

  As he weaved through the crowd, several pairs of eyes staring after his exceptional arse, Grace took his place and started to laugh again.

  “How on earth did you pull that one off, Mike? He’s gorgeous!” she enthused.

  Mike shrugged. “Chatted him up, didn’t I?”

  “I don’t think anyone was expecting your mysterious other half to be a model though!”

  “He’s not a model.”

  “He could be!”

  “Yeah, once you feed him and stuff him in a suit. Right ugly mug first thing in the morning.”

  Grace tutted. “Oh, I’m sure he’s not.”

  “Fine, you have him for the night.”

  “So how did you do it?”

  Mike blinked. “Eh?”

  “Stephen! How did someone like you catch someone like him?�
��

  Mike frowned. “Someone like me,” he echoed flatly.

  “Oh, I don’t mean it like that! But he’s got to be, what, twenty-four?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Never!”

  “Yes,” Mike said tightly. He deliberately drained the dregs of his pint. “Excuse me, Grace. Have to visit the smallest room.”

  He edged his bulk around the dance floor perimeter, seething quietly. Someone like him, indeed. He knew exactly what she meant. How did a grumpy fat git like him score someone who could have modelled underwear for a living, right? He’d heard it all before. How married life must suit him, as obviously he mustn’t have been so fat when they met. How Stephen must be so nice and sweet, because clearly no mean-spirited type was going to stick around for Mike.

  Well, bugger that for a barrel full of bullion, as his grandpa used to say.

  Mike knew exactly how he’d caught Stephen. University debate club. Had gone without his mate Dave for once, and sat next to one of the semi-regulars that he was on nod-and-smile terms with, but had never spoken to. Turned out to be some posh Scottish twat of a history student. They’d spent the whole evening ruthlessly mocking the motion—which Mike couldn’t quite recall anymore—then Mike had said, “Mason’s Arms? Let’s finish this.”

  “Fine,” Stephen had said. “And if you manage to get a single historical fact right, I’ll drop my jeans then and there, and you can finish me, too.”

  Incentive like that, even Mike could remember when the British navy had been bonking its way around the seven seas. They’d gone back to Mike’s, had a clumsy, slightly crap shag, and Stephen had left his number the next morning. Bingo.

  And now he knew Stephen a whole lot better than that evening nine years ago, Mike knew full well what had really gotten Stephen’s knickers off. It wasn’t the four pints in the pub, or the necking session round the back of the students’ union on the way home.