How to Marry Your Husband

by Jacqueline Rohen

  They walked along beside the river and ambled in the direction of the Musée d’Orsay. For the first time they found themselves venturing inside the former Beaux-Arts railway station, where they passed the afternoon bewitched by the artworks inside. Having only seen the famous paintings in books, Rachel was amazed at how big and beautiful they were in real life. In the gift shop, she sought out postcards of Van Gogh’s Starry Night Over the Rhône.

  When Rachel’s phone buzzed, David raised his right eyebrow. She was momentarily distracted by the message and apologised to David with her eyes.

  Kevin: I’ve officially asked Eva to be my girlfriend. She still hasn’t responded!

  Rachel: Give her time. X

  She had already added two and two and made ten, knowing Eva would make a great girlfriend for Kevin, not to mention a wonderful future sister-in-law. Rachel mimed turning her phone off and returned it to her handbag. They crossed the Seine to the Île de la Cité, home to the Notre-Dame Cathedral, where they playfully disagreed if it was pronounced dame or dahm; the damage from the recent fire was still heartbreakingly evident.

  They walked, and walked. They found themselves at the bottom of the hill of Montmartre and raced up the steps, trying to beat the funicular to the top. They were both out of breath when they spied a wedding party posing in front of the Sacré Coeur.

  ‘Let’s get married here,’ David said. ‘We could elope again.’ Rachel stared at him. His wide smile faded slowly as he wondered whether he’d broken the spell of their magical day.

  ‘Don’t we owe a proper ceremony to our families? As I recall they weren’t happy being left out the first time around!’ Rachel rebuked him, but lightly. He sighed in relief.

  They stopped at a ticket booth – that evening’s show at the Moulin Rouge was sold out, instead the ticket girl recommended a concert in a small jazz bar tucked away in a nearby alley. She said it was off the beaten track for tourists. A taste of real Parisian life. And Henri would look after them. She told them to tell him Camille sent them.

  A rickety staircase led down to a long room with small tables set either side of the aisle. A jazz quartet was already playing: piano, vibraphone, double bass and drums. David’s French was much better than hers; he glanced at the wine list and ordered fluently. Some time later a bottle of Sancerre, two glasses and a bowl of olives appeared. Rachel tried to imagine this place before the smoking ban. The music was entrancing. She thought of her jazz-loving granddad and they raised a glass to his memory. Rachel reflected that for someone who’d loved the sounds and colours of the world, he’d hated to travel far outside his own front door.

  David mentioned Camille’s name and the bartender, Henri, winked and made them two sublime cocktails. Later David would try to recreate the simple recipe Henri generously wrote down for them.

  FRENCH MARTINI RECIPE

  35 ml Vodka

  20 ml Chambord black raspberry liqueur

  50 ml pineapple juice

  They walked hand in hand back to the hotel. The room door hadn’t closed before David was kissing Rachel. He was grabbing at her coat buttons. The urgency between them mounted. When they stood in front of one another in their underwear, there was a moment of mutual hunger. David wiggled his hips and his boxer shorts fell to the floor. Rachel was distracted by the Marks & Spencer’s label protruding from the dark cotton, together with the acute angle of David’s erection, and she started laughing. David couldn’t see the funny side, and he attempted to reclaim his underwear.

  Rachel had the giggles, she couldn’t stop herself. She thought of Marie Kondo’s advice about minimalism: touch something and ask yourself, does it give you joy?

  She tried to explain through the self-induced hilarity.

  ‘Sorry, David … It’s just … Marie Kondo … does it bring me joy?’ Rachel had to stop talking, she felt a stitch coming on. ‘Yes, it brings me joy. Your penis brings me joy …’

  She took a huge breath and addressed David’s penis in her most serious and formal voice. ‘I want you to know: you bring me joy.’ Then she gave the tip a small kiss.

  The following morning Rachel awoke with David’s hardness pushed into her back. She turned to face him. They kissed. It was a small peck. And then another. Rachel wasn’t sure who was first to slip in a tongue. This would usually have been the point where one or both of them would have scrambled out of bed to brush their teeth, but neither of them wanted to break the spell. Tongues and hands moved freely; there were gasps for air as they moved closer to each other. Rachel cupped David’s balls in one hand while the other stroked the base of his shaft. He pushed down her knickers. She pulled at his boxer shorts and undid the button, releasing his cock through the fly of the cotton. She circled the tip with her thumb. He groaned ‘Oh, God’ into her ear. He used his knee to gently nudge hers apart. They kissed as he removed his boxer shorts and finally her knickers escaped from her legs and onto the floor.

  He asked if she was sure she wanted this. She nodded, she wanted him, and urged him to continue. Soon Rachel could feel the orgasm build inside of her. David’s face was alight with pleasure.

  ‘I’m not done with you yet,’ he said as he thrust, fast, then slow, then fast, then slow.

  There was unspoken satisfaction in the musky post-coital air; a surreal call-back to their former sex life. Their legs remained intertwined as they silently exhaled deep post-orgasmic breaths of release. The physical reconnection had shaken her to the core. Rachel thought she might cry.

  The return journey to London was slow and full of signal delays. Rachel allowed the rhythm of the train to lull her to sleep with her head resting against David. He woke her to say goodbye to France.

  David fumbled and dropped something and Rachel saw him pick up the familiar turquoise ring box. On his knees in the aisle, he opened the box and asked if Rachel, the love of his life, would consider marrying him. He told her that he felt compelled to propose to her again now everything was out in the open. And it wasn’t because he was scared of losing her. And not because he didn’t want to start again at forty-six.

  ‘I know this isn’t perfect. I’m sorry I’m not outwardly romantic. I wish I could be your Prince Charming. But what I do know is that I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So here goes: Rachel Norma Keatley, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part … Will you marry me? For the first time, and the second?’

  She allowed a comedy pause before exclaiming, ‘Yes! I mean, oui!’

  Their neighbouring passengers couldn’t believe their eyes. They cheered and applauded. Someone offered to take a photo.

  David told her he was the definition of a middle-aged idiot. He told the entire carriage that he thanked his lucky stars he hadn’t lost this wonderful woman and urged them to keep their own loved ones close.

  They were falling in love (again) and, Rachel decided, it would be okay. They would file the last year as the bad one amongst fifteen good years. That was enough for her. She stared at her reflection in the glass and wondered if she should have added some colour to her lips. It didn’t matter. She was happy. From the bottom of her heart she could say: this was all she wanted.

  Epilogue

  Eight Months Later

  Norma was fussing with flowers.

  Hilda, the genial wedding planner, announced: ‘Ten minutes.’ However, her softly spoken words made it clear they could wait all day if they had to – it was Rachel’s day.

  ‘That’s enough, Mum. You’re going to destroy the bouquet.’

  ‘I’m guessing bossy pants,’ Norma nodded towards the door, ‘has a spare.’ Norma didn’t know what to do with empty hands. There was a silence that couldn’t be filled.

  ‘Leave Hilda alone – she’s lovely. Have you thought about where you and Roger will get married?’ Rachel deflected her.

  ‘I thought maybe a little register office. We’ve both had the proper weddings and, you know, lon
g marriages. And …’ Norma paused. ‘And we’ve both lost spouses. But now, here, seeing all these flowers, I think maybe a church wedding in front of God would be nice after all. A small church, mind. He’s God-fearing, you know, Roger is. What do you think? Would you mind?’

  Who was this woman in front of Rachel? Would she mind?

  ‘Do you mean, you want my blessing?’

  Norma gave a movement so small Rachel doubted it could it be categorised as a nod.

  ‘I just want you to be happy, Mum.’

  Her mother was wearing less makeup these days. She still looked perfect (as Norma would add – ‘for a septuagenarian’) but Roger had thawed the ice queen, brought out a new, warm and caring woman. One Rachel wasn’t quite ready for.

  ‘He’ll never replace your dad, I know.’

  ‘Of course not, but then maybe you don’t need a replacement either. Roger sounds like an upgrade. As husbands go, that is.’

  Rachel’s wedding dress from all those years ago had not been appropriate after all; it was too short, too white and too translucent.

  Lydia helped her choose a new dress, after Rachel had bookmarked what seemed a million different options on Pinterest, and they quickly narrowed the style down to a Hollywood design in champagne. It was a gown that would have been perfectly modelled by Greta Garbo or Lauren Bacall. It was timeless, but could also be worn to a black tie event. If it was dyed, of course. Who actually ends up dyeing their wedding dress?

  Norma kissed Rachel on the cheek and told her she was going to find Roger. Hilda popped her head around the door again. She wasn’t interrupting, she said, in a voice as gentle as a summer breeze.’ ‘Hilda, tell me …’ Rachel hesitated. ‘Have you ever had a fail? Has there been … anyone not, you know, finished? Not made it down the aisle? I mean, has anyone not gone through with the ceremony?’

  ‘We’ve had last-minute cancellations and such.’ Hilda paused as she took in the possible significance of the question. She looked momentarily like a stricken mouse in amongst a herd of elephants. ‘But you’re already married!’

  Hilda had not planned for this conversation. How could she have? To the outside world, her clients were already married. The renewal of vows was often seen as a saccharine and self-centred gesture, certainly an unnecessary one. Hilda’s brain was working over-time for strategies to solve this unforeseen hitch in proceedings.

  ‘Do you want to …’ she started. Rachel could finish the sentence in any number of ways; leave, go home, eat, drink, sleep?

  On the outside Rachel beamed with radiance – thanks to the hair and makeup. She ignored her own inner turmoil and told Hilda she was ready. The short portly wedding planner let out an audible sigh of relief.

  ‘But first, I need your help.’

  ‘Anything,’ Hilda said sincerely.

  ‘Mr Ahrens is a registrar, isn’t he?’

  Hilda nodded.

  ‘An official one? Legally?’

  Unlike a wedding ceremony, the renewal of vows didn’t require a certificate or witnesses. But Rachel asked if the registrar could prepare a marriage certificate, a real one.

  Hilda’s mouth dropped open; she had seen it all now. She did a strange walk-run as if she wasn’t in a hurry and collided with Kevin as she rushed from the room.

  Kevin sat with his sister and twisted some of Rachel’s hair between his fingers.

  ‘You look smashing. Wait, no, don’t you dare cry, you’ll ruin your face.’

  ‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s been a tough year for you both, but you’ve survived. Better than ever. I reckon David’ll think twice before doing anything that stupid again. And if he doesn’t, he’ll have me and the twins …’ Kevin nodded to his balled fists ‘… to answer to.’

  Rachel laughed at her brother’s protective streak.

  ‘I’ve got something to show you.’ He removed a ring box from his jacket pocket and showed Rachel a solitaire diamond ring.

  ‘For Eva? Does she know?’

  He shook his head. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘She might not say yes. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘I’ve planned for that. I’m expecting a rejection first time round but I’m just going to keep asking until she says yes. Fourth time lucky for us both, I reckon.’

  Rachel tried to hug her brother but her arms were confined by her lace dress.

  ‘Go get her! She’s worth it.’

  For the ceremony Rachel had found a beautiful chapel dating back to the 1300s. The medieval building was near the River Thames. It was small and intimate, with beautiful stained-glass windows and a vaulted ceiling. When there was a cancellation less than a month ahead, David said to book it. Norma demanded assurances that the tone of the long-awaited, overdue matrimonial service was not going to be disturbed by the puerility of his friends, namely Barry. None of them was to make a speech, which was just as well as his friends had been planning a slideshow of embarrassing photos and video.

  Hilda returned, out of breath, and interrupted the siblings’ embrace.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the registrar and it seems that David, Mr Chatsworth, has asked the same thing. It’s all been taken care of.’

  Rachel didn’t think she was waiting for a sign. But if she had been, this would have been it.

  Kevin offered to walk Rachel down the aisle.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Kevin said. ‘I know you didn’t want a big song and dance entrance, as you’re meant to be renewing your vows and everything, and I’m not Dad but I’d really like to and you deserve to be walked in. And I’m sure Beth will give me a glowing reference!’

  She nodded and told him he was going to make her cry if he carried on with the sentimental mush.

  He held out his arm. ‘Ready?’

  Rachel nodded.

  She gave her biggest smile to friends and family. In the congregation her eyes sought out Eva. She was reassured when her friend gave a discreet thumbs up. Next to Eva, Beth bobbed Baby Phoebe on her lap, and Jojo held up Phoebe’s chubby little arm to wave at Rachel. Norma smiled as Roger clasped her hand and kissed her palm. Lillian was crying with happiness and searching her handbag for a tissue. Stefan Stratos looked fit to burst with glee; some divorce lawyer he turned out to be.

  David turned and blew Rachel a kiss. He first complimented her face, her dress, and then her in the dress. He told her she took his breath away. The registrar steered clear from religious whatnot, and before long the audience were being asked if they knew of any reason why Rachel and David should not be wed, again. The silence was affirmative. Vows were exchanged and they sealed their union with a kiss. A chaste peck on the lips. Rachel and David were directed to sign the marriage certificate. Kevin and Eva witnessed the signatures. The volume of chatter around them escalated.

  ‘I’ve got something to confess,’ David addressed the room as he raised his glass.

  Rachel nearly choked on the Champagne in her mouth. She looked at Eva with eyes that said, What the f—?

  ‘I’ve been selfish,’ David continued. ‘Many moons ago, there I was on a beach in Bali, and the most beautiful woman in the world had agreed to marry me. I didn’t want to give her a moment to think twice. I was worried she would discover my flaws and change her mind, or worse still, get a better offer.’

  A small cheer came from Barry, followed by a heckle from Kevin: ‘Yeah, she would have done.’

  David cleared the frog from his throat.

  ‘Call me a soppy romantic – but I love this woman and she’s put up with more than her fair share from me. I promise to be a better husband to her from now on.’ There it was again, a crack in his voice and the threat of tears in his eyes.

  ‘When Rachel suggested then that we write our own vows, I was stumped. I had mistakenly given her the impression I was some sort of high-brow Lothario.’

  ‘You wish!’ came another jeer from Barry. Norma glared at him.

  ‘I was caught unawares and the only poem I knew of
f by heart was “If” by Kipling. Somehow I made it work. I think you’ll all agree Rachel is the main reason I can keep a level head. And there’s a line in it that goes: “And so hold on when there is nothing in you/Except the Will which says to them, ‘Hold on!’” Now – I’d like to raise a glass to Rachel.’

  A brief silence followed by a schmaltzy smattering of applause was cut short by the clinking of David’s glass against Rachel’s.

  ‘Rachel, thank you for holding on.’

  The room once again filled with applause. And Rachel’s heart swelled a little as she took a sip of her Champagne to allow a moment to compose herself.

  ‘Thank you David. And to you all – to friends, to family, to those who are both.’

  Her brother stood to take a dramatic bow, which gleaned the attention-seeking laughter he was after.

  ‘Kevin – you can sit down!’ Rachel ordered, setting her glass aside. ‘To everyone … Love isn’t perfect, but then again, neither is life. Who knows if they’re going to make it?’ She looked to David. Her wide eyes looked petrified. ‘But we did and we’re here, and …’

  Rachel wasn’t sure she could continue. David passed her a linen napkin. Rachel smiled at his thoughtfulness.

  ‘What I mean to say is: thank you for sharing our special day, sixteen years on, almost to the day.’ She looked down at the material in her hand and froze as she gazed at the thick cotton. It had discoloured with age. She felt a lump form in her throat. She hadn’t seen this piece of material since the night of their Indonesian faux-ceremony all those years ago. David had kept her vows all these years.