How To Marry Your Husband

by Anne Brooke

  She’s going to be Kieran’s wife, not just any wife. And being Kieran’s wife is special, as special as he is. It’s all about them, it isn’t about glitter and lace. What really matters is the two of them getting married, and anything else is just icing on the cake. Pun intended, sort of, she thinks.

  Yes, they will still have things to organise, but now they will be second fiddle to the importance of their marriage. This approach makes everything a lot clearer.

  Kieran certainly has his plus points. Marrying him can’t come soon enough.

  Chapter Eleven: The Groom

  It’s odd how once a couple us engaged to be married, from that moment on the focus is almost entirely on the bride, and never on the groom. Who decides this? And whoever it is, haven’t they woken up to the modern age? Everything is equal now, or supposed to be. So it annoys Olivia that everything she reads or listens to is focused on things bridal, and not on things groomal – if that’s even a word. And even then it’s always about either the groom’s waistcoat or his speech. Don’t the men have anything else to do?

  “Do you want a waistcoat, darling?” Olivia asks her loved one at the next opportunity. Which is a Friday night with their usual pizza and Pepsi take-away.

  Kieran swallows his slice of garlic bread and frowns. “Why? Is it the latest thing? Do you want me to look like a waiter?”

  “No! You’re mad. You know that, don’t you? No, it’s all being a groom seems to be about: waistcoats and speeches. Would you like a waistcoat at the wedding?”

  “Not really. Do you need me to be colour-coordinated or something?”

  Olivia shakes her head. “No way. I think it should be up to you what you want to wear at your own wedding. Though I suppose it would be nice to have something in green. To go with my eyes.”

  Kieran turns pale. “I don’t think I’m modern enough for a green suit. I was hoping for something classy in dark grey.”

  “Sounds good,” Olivia agrees. “What about a green cravat, or a handkerchief in your top pocket?”

  “I’ll take the handkerchief. Now, I know in Girl World, green comes in different shades. Which sort of green did you want?”

  “Dark green. Maybe olive green. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect,” he nods. “I’ll get on to it.”

  Olivia smiles and a few moments of happy pizza munching pass by. She still wants Kieran to feel part of it all though, and it’s possible the choice of suit and handkerchief may not be enough.

  “Is there something else you’d like to be involved in? This wedding is about both of us, not just me.”

  He smiles. “Well, now you mention it, there is one thing I’d be happy to organise.”

  “Great! What is it?”

  “The photographer. It’s what I’m interested in, so it makes sense.”

  It does indeed. Kieran has been fascinated by photography ever since she’s known him and in fact has a degree in Photographic Sciences from one of the London Universities. His dissertation focused on the use of light and darkness on the streets of London, and he’d spent several evenings photographing her in a series of interesting hooker outfits draped in a sexy manner around the local lampposts. They’d been doing fine until the police car drove past just as Olivia was thrusting her chest out as far as she could (which isn’t actually that far) whilst clutching the lamppost in what she hoped was a provocative fashion.

  She must have been doing okay with it as a few minutes later the police car drove round again. And then again. At which point it stopped and the door began to open.

  “Darling?” she piped up. “I think we’ve been spotted.”

  “What? Who?” he muttered back, intent on getting as many shots as he possibly could. Once Kieran started taking photographs, he couldn’t be interrupted at any level. Not even by herself.

  “Over there.” She pointed at the two policemen making their way across the road towards them. “I think they might be wanting a word.”

  Kieran sighed as she started to try to make herself look more presentable. This wasn’t easy in a pair of 1970s hot pants and a top so skimpy it could have been gossamer, but being a trouper she did her best.

  “Hello!” she trilled in her most welcoming and normal tone of voice just as Kieran stood upright from his crouching Professional Photographer position and turned round. “Can we help you?”

  Half of her hoped one of the officers would say something really clichéd like “what on earth do we have here then?” Sadly, they didn’t so there was another dream shattered, oh well.

  “Good evening, sir, miss,” the taller one said. “May we ask what you’re doing?”

  A reasonable request, but Olivia was convinced Kieran’s perfectly accurate explanation wasn’t going to do the trick. Sure enough, after he’d told them what he was doing, neither of them looked as if they believed a word of it.

  She was wondering who she would make her one phone call to from the local police station if they were arrested when the shorter policeman caught sight of Kieran’s equipment. His photographic equipment – it wasn’t that sort of assignment. It was way too cold a night anyway.

  “Isn’t that the latest Nikon?” the officer asked.

  From that moment on, everything was absolutely fine. The camera-loving policeman and Kieran chattered away for ten minutes about light and shadow, perspective and line whilst Olivia and the other officer smiled politely at each other and tried to look like they were both having a good time. Though actually, she thought the other office might be a leg man so he was probably having a better time than her.

  The whole experience ended with the policemen wishing them both luck and driving away to whatever crime might be committed that night. Two weeks later, Kieran got an A* for his “Light and Shadow on London Streets” dissertation and had been dining out on the story ever since.

  Olivia threw away those hot pants and never questioned her loved one’s commitment to his art again.

  Now, the look on Kieran’s face at the prospect of investigating the wedding photography makes her wish she’d raised the subject with him before.

  “That would be great,” he says, eyes shining.

  That’s settled then.

  Once Kieran gets the bit between his teeth, he really runs with it. Within two or three days, he’s gathered a portfolio of work from local photographers, all of whom are free on The Day, and has narrowed them down to a shortlist of three to discuss with her. They all have letters after their names which Kieran says makes them reliable in the world of photography. She can’t for the life of her remember what the letters stand for but she can always rely on Kieran.

  Together the two of them flick through shots of smiling couples posing across sunny lawns and in front of historic homes. One pair even have a moody shot in front of a picture of an ancestor Olivia is absolutely sure has nothing to do with them. Is there a company somewhere who hire out assorted ancestor art? A kind of Ancestors-to-Go? If not, there is an opportunity missed …

  “What do you think?” Kieran asks her as they finish flicking through the last portfolio. “They’re all good, but do you have a favourite?”

  Olivia gives his question a few moments’ thought – this will impress him as usually she responds entirely with instinct.

  “I really love this one’s photos,” she says at last, turning to the second of the portfolios. “They’re quirky and fun, and I love the way the light is.”

  “Yes, you’re right. This man knows what he’s doing, and he’s the one I’d like too, if he’s still free. I’m impressed, by the way. You must have been listening to me or at last something of my photography wisdom is rubbing off on you.”

  “Cheeky devil!” Olivia protests. “I always listen to you. Every word, I promise.”

  His eyebrow rises and Olivia smiles back with as much innocence as she can manage – which isn’t much, but hey a girl still has to try.

  A week later, and the photographer – whose name is Steve - has invited them bo
th to a practice photo shoot in preparation for their big day. He adds that they can use one of the shots as an engagement photo in their wedding album if they want to. Olivia isn’t sure, as they’ve already had their engagement at Christmas, but she can definitely see the sense of a practice run, as can Kieran.

  Olivia has never realised it before – heck she’s never even thought about it – but apparently there is a right way and a wrong way to stand for your wedding photographs. The trick is to stand with one foot slightly in front of the other as if you were about to step forward and then any picture will look much more natural. Steve makes a joke about it when they first arrive at his house and says it’s the best tip he can give them, along with the importance of relaxing and being themselves.

  Olivia is pleased he’s mentioned this as whilst she herself never has any problem with being who she is, Kieran absolutely hates having his picture taken and will do anything to try and avoid the camera. Maybe that’s why he loves taking pictures so much – it’s a way to stay out of the limelight.

  Right now, the two of them are walking through the nearby woods and having their pictures taken every now and again by Steve. It’s very informal but Kieran definitely isn’t as uptight as he’s been earlier on. Whilst Steve was pouring them coffee and trying to get to know them and what they ideally wanted for their wedding day, it was Olivia who’d had to do all the talking. Kieran just nodded a couple of times when she’d turned to him for confirmation or when Steve had asked a question.

  How uncomfortable Olivia feels whenever Kieran gets shy. She always fears that other people – people who don’t know them – think she’s a loud-mouthed cow who never lets her fiancé get the proverbial word in edgeways. When in fact all she’s doing is attempting to cover for his silence and give him time to work out the answer he wants to say. But the way conversation is, the moment for Kieran to give his opinion on something once he’s worked it out never comes, as the discussion will have moved on by then.

  She’ll have to learn how to cope with it all when she’s older and wiser – well, wiser anyway. She doesn’t actually fancy older.

  Still, they’re passing through the woods, and the evening is light and warm, and it’s lovely just to walk and hold hands whilst Steve takes pictures. After ten minutes or so, Steve gets them to sit down on a small bench with their arms around each other. While he’s snapping away, Kieran tickles her neck and Olivia gets the giggles, which makes Kieran laugh too.

  “Perfect!” Steve says. “That’s just perfect.”

  When he’s finished, he hunkers down in front of the bench and talks for a while about the kind of pictures they will need on the day, and what he would suggest now he’s met them. Once he moves onto the technical side, Olivia leaves it to Kieran, who is far more animated now he can discuss cameras and lighting and perspective, rather than how many family versus couple pictures they may need.

  By the time they leave, taking the half-hour drive home in comfortable silence, Olivia is thrilled by the way she and Kieran have achieved a task together. It’s one of the most important aspects of getting married, after all.

  “Steve seemed good, I liked him,” she says apropos of nothing as she and Kieran sort out fish and chips for supper. A girl doesn’t have to be on a diet all the time, does she?

  “Yes,” her fiancé agrees as he switches on the kettle and reaches for the mugs. “The shots he had out on the table for us to flick through were very good – though of course he wouldn’t put any bad ones out, would he? But you’re right, I liked him. He understood what we want on the day.”

  She nods. “One less thing to worry about.”

  Kieran turns towards her with a frown. “You’re not worried, are you? Getting married is supposed to be enjoyable, not a chore.”

  She leans forward and kisses him. “It is enjoyable. I want nothing more in the whole damn world than to marry you. That’s why I’d really love it to be perfect – because I love you so much.”

  He hugs her. “I love you too,” he says. “You know that. Always. But the fact is the wedding isn’t going to be perfect. I’m sure at least one or two things will go wrong – they always do. It’s the way the world is. But as long as you’re there and I’m there, plus a priest, then everything else is secondary, as far as I’m concerned. Well, apart from your mother. She has to be there, or I’ll never be forgiven.”

  “Ha! That’s true, thank you for that,” Olivia says. “It’s no show without Mother. Oh, and there’s other good news too – we have a back-up plan.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes, if the vicar doesn’t turn up, don’t forget my uncle’s coming too, which means there’s a spare priest in the congregation, just in case.”

  “All sorted then,” Kieran says. “Absolutely no need for worry.”

  And Olivia can’t help but agree.

  Chapter Twelve: The Hen Night

  Secretly Olivia hates hen nights – they’re full of beautiful drunk women who seem very confident of their sexiness and right to be beautiful, and drunk. Olivia is none of these. She’d much rather stay at home and read a good book, with maybe a glass of wine to accompany her. Ideally she likes doing this with Kieran, so they end up sitting companionably side by side on the sofa, both reading books and drinking wine.

  The only difference in this vision of domestic bliss is that Olivia is reading a witty romance, and Kieran is reading something about tanks. Olivia doesn’t like tanks and considers that if she were ever inside a tank, she would suddenly develop claustrophobia and her head would implode. This is possibly what Kieran feels about witty romance. She’s never liked to ask outright – it would be rude.

  Anyway, a hen night beckons and Olivia is morally bound to do it. She decides on a gossipy evening of wine and Italian food with her three favourite girlfriends, Jo, Anwen and Justine. It will make up for the fact she’s not having any bridesmaids, and even though her friends have expressed no negative opinions on this shocking decision, Olivia wants to be absolutely positive there is no bitterness curdling in the ranks. If bitterness can curdle.

  Two weeks before her totally civilised hen night, she asks Kieran for the hundredth time (at the very least) if he wants to have a stag night. He looks at her, his face pale, as if she’s asked him to ski naked down Mount Kilimanjaro with a thorn in his bottom.

  She smiles. “Ok, then, no stag night. Do you want to come with us? You know the girls anyway, and it’s no big issue. We’re just doing dinner.”

  Actually, Olivia says this more out of politeness than anything romantic. Though she has started off thinking a hen night is weird, now she thinks it will be nice to have a proper event with her few close friends to mark the turning point from being single to being married. She’s not sure if feeling this way makes her into some kind of 1950s housewife, but that’s just the way it is. She can’t help her feelings.

  Thankfully, when she asks him if he wants to join in with the girls, Kieran looks even more horrified. Maybe the thought of accompanying her on her hen night is even worse than being asked about a possible stag night. It certainly seems so.

  She lets him off an answer; she likes to think she’s good that way. On the evening of her big hen night, Olivia is catching the 6pm train to get to London at around 7pm – Charing Cross to be precise, where she and the girls always meet for a few drinks before going to dinner. She hopes the restaurant is fairly quiet tonight – there’s nothing worse than having to lean over the table to hear what her friends are saying. Often in the past, Olivia has found herself nodding agreement to stuff she hasn’t heard properly in the hope it’s the right thing to do.

  Before she gets dressed, she’s got a few domestic things to get sorted out. She needs to turn the electricity off to sort out the oven, but she’s not great at anything technical. Kieran’s not there – he’s staying at a friend’s tonight and she doesn’t want to ring him to ask his advice because she hates sounding wimpy, especially on her hen night.

  Instead, she pops
next door to ask the neighbour.

  “Turn off the electrics and then rewire it,” the neighbour says. “Do you want me to come in and do it for you?”

  Yes, Olivia does, but she doesn’t like to admit defeat so pretends an expertise she doesn’t have. “No, it’s fine, I’m sure I’ll manage, thank you.”

  At home, she stares at the oven plug on the wall. How hard can it be? She turns the switch off and then tries to sort the wires out which have been lurking at the back for way too long.

  The next minute she’s flying across the kitchen and lands sprawled on her bottom near the waste bin. Her hair feels wild and she’s shaking.

  Hmm, that wasn’t exactly turned off, was it? When she’s feeling less shaky – which takes a lot longer than she has time for – Olivia trots next door again.

  When the neighbour opens the door, he stares at her. It’s embarrassing she can never remember his name, but this is downtown suburbia, and remembering your neighbour’s name isn’t a key priority.

  “What happened to your hair?” he says, still staring at her.

  “I don’t think I understood what you meant,” she admits, feeling one hundred times a fool but she doesn’t have the time to stand firm for her feminist beliefs. “Can you help me?”

  He does. He doesn’t laugh that much either as he explains that ‘turning off the electricity’ doesn’t mean just at the wall switch, but she should have gone and turned it off at the mains in the cellar instead. Oh well, the cause of feminism may have turned back fifty years, but the good thing is she’s not dead. Apparently, according to the neighbour, she’s been lucky.

  The neighbour kindly sorts her oven out, in ten minutes. She thanks him profusely, gives him a couple of beers before he leaves, sends a quick prayer of gratitude skywards and gets ready for her night out.

  In some ways, Olivia hates going up to London and wishes her friends live more locally, but they don’t. They either live or work in the big city and it’s easier for her to go up to them rather than all of them to come to her. Halfway through the train journey to Charing Cross, she does wonder why it is she’s the bride but she’s so easily fitted in with what they usually do. Maybe now would have been a good time to throw a Bridezilla fit and demand everyone comes to her? The thought makes Olivia laugh as she’s never had the balls to be honest about what she wants – except with Kieran.