How to Marry Your Husband

by Jacqueline Rohen

  Rachel thought back to Bali. The memories had lodged in her mind. ‘It was gorgeous. Idyllic.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Stefan Stratos allowed Rachel to spend a moment in quiet reflection.

  ‘The thing is, we can’t see anywhere that the marriage was, how should I put it, validated by either the Indonesian or the British government.’

  Rachel frowned.

  ‘Let me be clear: you were under the impression that you were entering a legal marriage contract?’

  ‘It was an official ceremony,’ Rachel insisted defensively as she watched Stefan Stratos scribble notes. ‘David paid the fee and there were witnesses. The local priest even sacrificed a chicken in honour of our union.’

  The moment that the words left her lips, Rachel realised how absurd this sounded. Absolute lunacy. There was a pained silence in which Stefan Stratos nodded and adopted a carefully non-judgemental expression.

  There was no correlation between a chicken, dead or alive, and the completion of a legal procedure.

  ‘Are you sure there’s no other paperwork?’ he asked gently. ‘Could you maybe double-check your records?’

  ‘I can certainly check,’ Rachel said, although she was certain there was none.

  ‘We’ve seen this problem before, not only with Indonesian islands. And it’s not always for nefarious reasons.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but in the eyes of the law you are not actually married.’

  ‘Not what?’ Rachel was stumped. ‘Say that again?’

  Stefan Stratos pushed a box of tissues towards her. He didn’t repeat himself but let the words sink in. Rachel stood up and paced the office, her heels imprinting on the thick carpet.

  ‘I’m not …’ she thought she might explode ‘… married?’ she whispered.

  Rachel looked at the delicate ornaments displayed around the stylish room. She imagined throwing the paperweight through the window and pushing the computer from the desk.

  ‘I’m not married,’ she repeated. ‘I’m not married.’ She laughed when Stefan Stratos moved a crystal vase out of her reach.

  ‘This is a lot to take in. Please come back to see me when you’re ready to talk about next steps. Until which time – I’d advise you not to leave the marital home …’

  Rachel scoffed.

  ‘… and as well as collating firm evidence of adultery. And to help with dividing the assets, it would be good to start pulling together proof that you are Mrs Chatsworth, according to common law.’

  This was like a bad dream. Too much for her to take in. Too many questions and home truths were flying at her. But the bottom line, however she framed it, was that she and David were not married.

  Rachel had never officially changed her name – had that been her idea? She was young, David said. It was good to keep a sense of her own identity, he had said. They thought it would be better for business reasons. David Chatsworth and Rachel Keatley. He said it sounded more professional. This was at the beginning when the two of them were working together from their kitchen table.

  How had she been so stupid?

  Rachel was Mrs Chatsworth to all intents and purposes – except the bloody legal ones! She was determined not to cry. Until she did. And then, finally, she accepted the proffered tissue from the box on Stefan Stratos’s desk.

  David

  10

  One Week Earlier

  David had the day off to take full advantage of their wedding anniversary. It was terrible timing, what with the sale of his company rapidly approaching, but he wanted to give Rachel his full attention for at least one weekend. He always looked forward to their anniversary – the little rituals they honoured, Champagne cocktails and a romantic dinner, the retelling of their stories. This year was a special one too, their fifteenth celebration. It’s true: time flies when you’re having fun.

  He set a brief and vague out-of-office and allowed himself to sleep in. When he had exhausted the news his iPad had to offer he got out of bed, stepped into a cold shower, then made a start to the beautiful day ahead. He began by grinding coffee beans. He poured himself a glass of grapefruit juice and breakfasted on granola with low-fat yoghurt. It was going to be a good day, David could feel it. He had spotted a hidden anniversary surprise in Rachel’s side of the chest of drawers. It was wrapped in cream tissue paper and felt light and soft; underwear, he imagined excitedly. That was one of the things he loved about Rachel. Even when she was organising everyone else and playing host to dozens of people, she would always plan something private for the two of them. David would enjoy the day a little more, if that were possible, in the knowledge that he had this extra present waiting for him.

  David pottered in the garden; he mowed the lawn and installed the pop-up gazebo for the weekend’s celebrations. Then he locked the back door and left a note for Rachel:

  Gone to collect the cake x

  He walked along the river towards the town centre, trying to keep up with the rowers practising their lengths. It really was a glorious day. His step fell into the rhythm of the cox’s short sharp shouts – ‘left, right, left, right’.

  The main street was busy with yummy mummies and their extravagant child carriers. His own father, David Senior, had never wanted children and said they ruined his life. The words had haunted David. But he knew he would be ready when his time came. And that time was now.

  David found himself assessing the design of buggies and prams in the same way he used to shop for cars. He spied men dressed in their athleisure dad uniforms with babies strapped to their chests and wondered how long it would be until he was one of them. A man with a baby in tow. A family man.

  He didn’t see the woman approaching him.

  ‘This is a nice surprise!’ she said, and before he had a chance to react, there was a hand cupped around the back of his head and she was kissing him on the lips. Her own pouting mouth was as soft as rose petals and tasted of vanilla. She left behind a creamy pink residue on his mouth when she pulled away and finished with a hug.

  Fuck.

  The girl.

  Fuck!

  David was stunned. His mouth opened and closed but no words formed. She giggled. He held her shoulders; needing to keep her at arm’s length while he tried to execute an escape plan.

  ‘Sorry, David, didn’t mean to startle you.’

  The use of his name unsettled him. ‘What are you doing here?’ He was having trouble comprehending what had just happened. The woman, the street, the kiss … ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Find you?’ Amelia-Rose’s smile faltered. She looked confused.

  David’s phone rang in his pocket. He juggled it like a hot potato and checked the screen – Rachel. Shit! He couldn’t think quickly enough. He sent the call to voicemail and switched the phone off. At school, he had had a good javelin arm; maybe at this distance he could get it into the bin forty metres away. David took hold of Amelia-Rose and ushered her into a narrow lane between two high-street shops.

  Her wild red curls bounced when she laughed.

  David looked at Amelia-Rose’s pretty, cherubic face. She was grinning.

  He had never meant to spend the night with her. From the moment he’d met Rachel, he’d never wanted to sleep with anyone else. He married her within months, that’s how sure he was.

  However, last December, on a cold, winter’s day at a mind-numbing bore of a conference, he’d been briefly distracted. He spent the afternoon gazing into the sparkling hazel eyes of a young woman who laughed at his stupid jokes and touched his hand when she asked for advice. When she suggested having a drink afterwards, he was flattered. He should have taken the praise, gone home and boasted to his wife: You’ll never guess who asked me out today? I know! And she’s only twenty-two years old! Ha ha ha! They would have bought a bottle of Champagne and made a toast to the life (still) in the old dog yet! But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d told his first white lie to Rachel and shared a bottle of red wine wi
th the alluring Amelia-Rose. It was only meant to be one ego-boosting drink; he had never thought she would actually be interested in him. Her youth and enthusiasm were captivating and all-consuming. Amelia-Rose was booked to stay overnight at the conference; she had a room upstairs. And she led him there. Thinking back, it was so surreal it was like an out-of-body experience. As if it wasn’t him. Except, of course, it was.

  He felt pathetic when he recalled how alive she’d made him feel. He was weak. He was the physical embodiment of that Robin Williams joke: God gave Man a brain and a penis, but not enough blood to run them both simultaneously. The fact that his mind had even summoned the reference made him feel old. Amelia-Rose probably didn’t even know who Robin Williams was.

  The sex was okay, but not great. It surprised him how difficult it was to discover a new body. He couldn’t get her to orgasm easily. And he suspected that she wasn’t entirely honest when she said she was there. He found women had changed since he was last single. There was no time for exploration; Amelia-Rose knew exactly what she wanted. She was so outspoken. She directed him to her clitoris. It was hard going, like navigating Milton Keynes – full of roundabouts and one-way systems. Left a bit, yes, oooh, right, harder, gently, gentle, back a tad, nearly, nearly, gently, just there, no, you had it a second ago.

  Ever since that night, David had been consumed by self-loathing. He didn’t deserve a lovely wife, a house, a job, or even his life. He had since taken to watching Rachel sleep in the morning and couldn’t believe he had been this close to ruining their marriage over a silly fling, a one-off. He wanted to confess all and be absolved. He wanted Rachel to rap him on the knuckles and tell him what a fucking idiot he had been. David returned home riddled with guilt, but he was adamant he wasn’t going to let one terrible mistake ruin his life.

  ‘Do you want to go for a coffee?’ Amelia-Rose asked

  David was stuck. No, he didn’t want to have a coffee. He wanted to invent a time machine, travel back in it and erase any interaction with this woman. But he found his voice saying yes. The truth was, he wanted to know why she was here, and what she wanted from him. Amelia-Rose then actually apologised, with absurd British politeness, for not calling him after their night together, before she told him about going through a tough time at work recently. David didn’t point out that they hadn’t in fact swapped numbers, and then panicked that she would ask for his now. The idea of stamping on his phone in front of her to prove his commitment issues towards technology was probably the only way to get out of coffee unscathed; either that or he could hand over his number and then immediately change it or else fake his own suicide.

  It turned out Amelia-Rose didn’t want anything. She’d seen him and had time to kill before her train. The relief was stupendous. He didn’t know what there was left to say between them. He was petrified that anything nice he said would be misconstrued as flirting.

  With the realisation that Amelia-Rose had not been hunting him down, was not pregnant, nor threatening to ruin his life, David panicked he was having bloody coffee with a woman where anyone could see them together. What if Rachel walked in? And why had she just called him? David hurried Amelia-Rose along. Drink up, he motioned. He threw a tenner down, and told the waitress to keep the change and instantly regretted his rudeness. The bill came to £9.97, she probably thought he was taking the piss, or else he was a smug arsehole, or both. In fairness, she’d be right.

  David held Amelia-Rose’s elbow as he walked her to the train station. She had less than ten minutes left to catch her train. He dithered. Should he wait with her? No, that would seem over the top. But if he didn’t, he wouldn’t know she had actually left. Maybe Amelia-Rose was like the Glenn Close character in Fatal Attraction and only playing cute and casual to get him to relax before she boiled his bunny!

  David waited with her, asking more questions in those seven minutes than during the entire evening they had spent together. He wanted to know where she lived (Kingston – six stops on the train), where she worked (Teddington – four stops on the train), how often she came to Richmond (every couple of months) and, finally, all the places she liked to frequent. Coffee houses (Costa), supermarket (Tesco), department stores (House of Fraser). David made a mental list of all the establishments he would never set foot in again.

  The train arrived, she reached over to kiss him on the cheek, and he stepped sharply out of range of her mouth and shook her hand instead. He waved her off like a child being evacuated in the Blitz.

  Amelia-Rose gave a feeble wave goodbye, and as David retreated, called through the window, ‘I’ll send you a LinkedIn request.’

  Fuck, NO!

  David forced his face into a sort-of-smile and half-nodded, resigned to his fate. This was karma. He searched the platform for anyone he knew, and more importantly, anyone who knew Rachel. He saw a blonde with a horsey ponytail and wondered if she could be Rachel’s assistant, but without his glasses he couldn’t identify the young woman’s features. Still, he turned away quickly and walked off, in case it was Lydia and she recognised him. He sloped out of the station, having to produce his credit card to exit.

  Once on the street, he realised he had just paid to escort Amelia-Rose to the station platform. What if Rachel saw the amount on their bank statement? What if she questioned where he was on their anniversary? He made a mental note to intercept the post. What if someone saw them, put two and two together, told Rachel, and she left him? He was spiralling again. Nothing in his life worked without Rachel. She was his true north, his guiding star. She was his soulmate. Whenever anything bad happened, there was Rachel to help him through; whenever anything good happened, there was Rachel to celebrate with. The one person he could rely on, day in, day out, was Rachel. And that was without mentioning the way she did everything necessary to keep him in clean clothes, whole-some food, and regularly caffeinated.

  David’s chest tightened painfully at the thought of losing his wife. What was he to do? His heart noticeably raced. Was this a heart attack? His father had died at the age of forty-five from problems with his heart. Perhaps this was the karmic consequence of infidelity for David.

  He tried to catch his breath but it was impossible. There was nowhere for the oxygen to go. He walked back to the riverside and headed home, switching on his phone as he walked. Five missed calls from Rachel. Shit! He didn’t have any excuse. What could he say? He was tempted to throw his phone into the Thames and tell her he had lost it.

  Rachel looked incredible in a turquoise dress he hadn’t seen before … or had he? Her face was alluring, the red lipstick she wore shone. David wanted to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. He took his time closing the zip at the top of her neck and left behind a small kiss.

  The comfort of the Indian food warmed his body. He allowed the cucumber and mint raita to cool his tongue. Rachel suggested another bottle of wine, but he declined with a small shake of the head. Another drink would have him confessing all. David knew he should make an attempt to woo Rachel into bed, but his libido was well and truly extinguished after this afternoon’s unwanted encounter. Had his wife mentioned something this morning or the day before about coming into her ovulation window? He was stifled by a renewed surge of guilt thanks to the unexpected encounter with Amelia-Rose. David closed his eyes in an attempt to think clearly. What was he going to do? What could he do? He sensed Rachel move away from him and an immediate sense of loneliness engulfed him.

  David opened his eyes and found Rachel staring at him. It was unnerving. Did she know? Could she see into his soul? He quickly closed his eyes again.

  ‘Don’t hate me but I forgot to pick up the cake,’ he said to distract her.

  He felt Rachel bounce off the sofa in a huff, although her words said otherwise. In those few seconds on his own he knew he wouldn’t be able to cope if he ever had to live without her. Don’t leave me, Rachel. Please don’t leave me. What am I going to do?

  David loved hosting parties at home. Rachel oversaw the food and he
was in charge of drinks. Barry arrived early and wanted to get stuck into a six-pack, but David wasn’t in the mood for drinking. Yes, one or two would probably help, but he was scared he would divulge his infidelities and end up losing his wife on their anniversary; a confession still hovered precariously on the tip of his tongue. Loose lips sink ships.

  David didn’t hear Norma arrive, but he saw her pashmina swish past like a dragon’s tail. After the many years of barely disguised hostility he had learned not to expect any warmth from his mother-in-law. He had enough on his mind tonight without attempting to interpret Norma’s not so thinly veiled digs. He would try his hardest to stay out of her way.

  Once he had finished making the cocktails David went outside to pinch one of Barry’s cigarettes. The crackle of the lighter ignited a memory, and the first inhalation re-introduced nicotine to his lungs. Hello, my old friend. David promised himself it was only one cigarette (these were extreme circumstances after all). God, that felt good. It had taken countless attempts for him to quit completely. He had been a smoker for twelve years when he dramatically threw away his last pack on the night of their wedding. He acknowledged he had spent more time as an adult without tobacco than with. Though every so often he was ashamed to admit that he occasionally lusted for a cigarette. There was nothing quite like a warm evening with a cold beer and a smoke. That was before the health warnings on the packets: SMOKING INCREASES THE RISK OF IMPOTENCE and photographs of mouths riddled with cancer.

  He looked back to the house to check he hadn’t been spotted. He saw Rachel and gave his boldest no-I-haven’t-been-smoking wave. Now he was guilty twice over; Rachel hated smoking.

  David needed to talk to Barry, but one look at his old friend’s face told him that Barry had enough on his mind. His wife wasn’t sick – the reason he’d given for Gina’s absence from the party – they’d broken up again. And, apparently, for good this time.