How to Marry Your Husband

by Jacqueline Rohen

  ‘My treat.’ She hustled them both out into the street.

  They finished the afternoon in a sex shop. Not on the high street; Eva directed Rachel to a back alley. They entered through an unmarked door, which added a sinister feel to their shopping experience.

  ‘Welcome to Tassie’s Tassels!’

  The shop owner, Graham Tassie, a heavily tattooed Mediterranean hunk of a man, greeted Eva by name. He was wearing a kilt, adorned with a studded leather sporran. Rachel wondered: Did men really not wear underwear beneath their Scottish skirts?

  Graham said Eva’s order had come in but she shushed him; today was about Rachel. Eva explained that they needed something enticing, but innocent-seeming. No leather, no PVC, no chains, no bolts.

  ‘Lace and silk, with holes and straps. Think: classy role-play, not dungeon dominatrix.’ Eva had suggested Rachel pay more attention to common bedroom proclivities. She’d used a horrid analogy about milk and cows, and then reiterated it using burgers and steak to hammer home the point. Rachel couldn’t help but stare at the wondrous items on display. Big, sexy, oppressive, potentially harmful, downright odd … She looked at a few things and wondered where some of the toys would go.

  ‘What’s his thing? What does he like?’

  ‘He likes shoes.’

  ‘Foot fetish?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ Rachel gave a haughty chuckle.

  ‘He’s not a weirdo. Normal shoes. He likes it when we go out … when I dress up.’

  Graham replied with a knowing smirk. He whizzed around the space and picked out items from the rails and out of drawers.

  Even Eva was impressed with his choices. He was the master of his domain; a sexy fairy godfather. Rachel’s blushes had subsided by now and she examined the chosen items.

  Lace-topped black stockings

  A pearl choker

  A pair of six-inch scarlet patent heels

  A black silk negligee with a lace trim

  A maroon push-up bra with matching suspender belt and thong.

  Well, Graham said it was a thong, but who did he think he was kidding? The practicalities of having to move while she wore cheese-cutting underwear made Rachel feel apprehensive, and that was before she’d even donned the flimsy garment. She would definitely need to do some serious work on her bikini line.

  ‘Listen, the great thing about men,’ Graham confided as if disclosing the world’s biggest secret, ‘is that they are simple, visual beasts.’

  Simple and visual … For Rachel he had curated the median between what a man would find stimulating and she would see as elegant. Graham said that often what men bought for their wives was in no way what the women wanted to wear. He had introduced a system whereby a man could buy his wife (or girlfriend/lover/prostitute/friend/other – no judgement!) an afternoon with Graham, inspecting and trying on the items that pleased them. It was meant to be empowering rather than degrading. In business terms it resulted in fewer refunds and a healthy stream of repeat visits. Rachel blushed at the thought of the cheap French Maid’s outfit discarded at the back of the wardrobe.

  She had to hand it to Graham, he knew his stuff. The touch of the silk felt soft and luxurious; she envisioned being cocooned in the expensive lace and felt her erogenous zones awaken.

  She thanked Eva for her support and for the new … well, everything!

  At home, Rachel drew herself a bath and washed, shaved and buff-puffed herself to within an inch of her life. Addressing her bikini line, she tried to leave a landing strip but it was a bit skew-whiff. It looked almost like a wink. When she finally drained the water, it looked like she had shaved a yeti.

  She’d never felt so naked as when she perched delicately on the sofa, in her negligee and the assorted undergarments and accessories from Graham’s erotic grotto. She was transformed and didn’t recognise herself in the mirror. She couldn’t wait for David to see her like this. She prepared a gin and tonic, turned on the television and selected the next episode of Game of Thrones. It was a box set she was sharing with David on Sunday nights like clockwork. It had helped that she had read the books. However, she found she enjoyed watching the series without him rather than having to pause every five seconds to explain the storyline and many characters and their respective backstories. It was the beginning of the final season. The sex and violence washed over her as the thong string became less comfortable and more intrusive. She kept checking her phone. She wondered where her never-husband was. She resisted the urge to call him.

  With every minute that passed, she felt increasingly foolish about being dressed up as the proverbial mutton. She checked her phone again in case he had messaged in the ten seconds since she’d last checked. She used the GPS app to locate his phone; he was somewhere near the station. Finally, she gave into temptation and phoned his number but the call didn’t connect, sending her straight to voicemail.

  You’ve reached David …

  She finished the gin and tonic and the episode. She would be done with her marriage quicker than finishing the entire Game of Thrones series. Rachel switched on the Bluetooth speaker David had surprised her with, wondering if it was perhaps a gift to ease his guilty conscience? It was voice-activated, which meant for the first few days she’d thought the house was haunted. Alexa was her only constant companion.

  ‘Alexa, play “Ladies and Gentlemen”.’ She made herself a second drink and danced just as she pleased. No one was watching. George Michael’s ‘Jesus to a Child’ brought her to tears.

  ‘Alexa, turn down the lights.’

  ‘Alexa, turn up the lights to half.’

  ‘Alexa, why am I such a pathetic excuse for a wife?’

  ‘Alexa, please let me know when my wayward hus-

  band finally gets home.’

  ‘Alexa, is the gas off?’

  ‘Alexa, what should I listen to, to mend a broken heart?’

  ‘Alexa, please never let me listen to Al Green again.’

  ‘Alexa, no! Stop playing Al Green.’

  ‘Alexa, delete Al Green’s Greatest Hits.’

  ‘Alexa, have you ever been married?’

  ‘Alexa, don’t get married.’

  ‘Alexa, have we run out of gin?’

  ‘Alexa, can cooking sherry be used in case of emergencies?’

  ‘Alexa, I’m so tired. Are you tired? Do you get tired?’

  ‘Alexa, did you know?’

  ‘Alexa, did he bring her here?’

  ‘Alexa, have you met her?’

  ‘Alexa, who is she?’

  ‘Alexa, do you know …’

  Rachel fell asleep on the sofa and woke a few hours later. The earth was cooling as it patiently waited for the sun to reappear. In her semi-dressed state, she shivered. The television glared its fuzzy nothing-to-see-here shine.

  The sexy lingerie was stuck to her and the thong had reached the unreachable. She was alone and remnants of her eye makeup were smudged all over a plush cushion. She assumed David had left her to sleep. Rachel clambered up the stairs to discover the bedroom was eerily empty. She checked her phone again. There were no messages to explain or account for David’s absence. She removed her costume, for that’s what it was. Alluring plumage. The role of tonight’s try-hard sex kitten was played (unconvincingly) by Rachel, a soon-to-be-cat-lady from Richmond. It was a desperate parade of attempted sexiness worn to grab the attention of a faux-husband with a short attention span. She changed into her PJs, and folded the delicate items and put them in a hatbox in her side of the wardrobe. She felt a fool. All of it had been for nothing. She had played along with Eva’s plan, with no result. She wanted to get David to fall in love with her; she wanted them to renew their vows and live happily ever after. Fat chance of that.

  It was over an hour later that she felt him crawl into bed beside her. She pretended to be asleep but lay awake for hours, unable to face the false dawn of her shattered dreams.

  David

  21

  David woke up fully dressed. He c
alled Barry to ensure that he wasn’t the only one suffering from a painful hangover.

  ‘Great night, mate! Banging head … nothing a few Dioralytes couldn’t fix,’ Barry boomed from the end of the line.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dioralyte – blackcurrant flavour. Get them from the chemist. Helps with the electrolytes.’

  Barry might as well have been speaking in tongues. David asked why no one had mentioned that his shirt was buttoned up wrong.

  ‘Didn’t notice. But even if I had, I probably wouldn’t have said anything – you’ve got enough on your plate.’

  ‘Thanks – but next time, tell me. I might be a mess but I don’t want to look like one.’

  ‘Righto! Gotta go speak to a man about a land disagreement.’

  David made a coffee and paced the garden. He had found a box of cigarettes in his jacket pocket and lit one. He knew Rachel would love to have a birdbath in the garden, but it was impossible with Oscar and Neville’s predatory instincts. They’d be human accomplices to the mass slaughter of local sparrows, tits and robins.

  He dialled Jojo’s number.

  His sister was an illustrator of children’s books; she worked from home in a small fusty shed at the bottom of her garden, which was her pride and joy. She loved her (wo)mancave.

  Jojo had travelled the world before her degree and the gap year changed her thinking. She was once on track to read Classics at university with the intention of going into politics. After much deliberation, she’d decided the world wasn’t ready for a gay woman in government. Jojo didn’t want to hide who she was or the woman she loved. Times had since changed and sometimes she thought about pursuing a second life in public office.

  David loved his sister but she had the ability to annoy the hell out of him. He knew he’d have to suffer a self-righteous spiel and some harsh home truths once he confided in her. Then, and only then, would she give up the golden nuggets of advice David needed in order to win back his wife.

  ‘Whassup?’ The voice at the end of the phone was amplified. He was on speakerphone.

  ‘Can you talk?’ This was code for: please let me know if your other half is within earshot.

  ‘Shoot.’ Jojo gave him the go-ahead to speak openly.

  First David tried to ask after Beth, and the proposal, and the baby, in an attempt at polite conversation. Jojo told him to cut straight to the chase.

  ‘I have something to admit. I’ve fucked up. Really fucked up.’

  ‘Woah, bro, where’s the fire?’ Jojo asked.

  ‘Promise to hear me out before you say or do anything,’

  he whispered.

  ‘Slow down, and start from the beginning.’

  David gave her the bare bones of his predicament, omitting all the damning evidence and concentrating only on the necessary facts. He opened up to her and laid his ugly cards on the table. He was a bad man, who had made bad decisions, which now left him to face the bad consequences. Jojo was intrigued. He could hear she had stopped working and picked up the handset.

  ‘Say that again?’ she asked.

  ‘The thing is … Rachel and I may not … well, I know for a fact we aren’t actually married … not in the legal sense. I, well, never got round to telling her, but I think that she may have found out and … Jojo, the truth is that we’re not—’

  ‘Married, yes, I heard you the first time. I just didn’t believe my ears. You’re not married? Is this some sort of game to you? Why? How could you do this to Rachel? To me? You made a promise. You vowed to me on Mum’s life you wouldn’t hurt my best friend. I trusted you!’

  ‘Yes, I made a mistake. Big time. But it was simply an administrative error. I didn’t find out until … Long story short, I need your help. I can’t lose her over this.’

  ‘What did Barry say?’

  David said that Jojo was his first point of call.

  ‘I’m flattered. So he was useless, I presume. And I’m the second choice? Shit husband of the DECADE award aside—’

  David winced. ‘Yes, but it’s not as bad as it sounds.’

  ‘As an outsider, it doesn’t sound good.’

  Jojo lectured him for a solid ten minutes about how he should not, SHOULD NOT, and would not be allowed to take wonderful Rachel for granted.

  David explained sheepishly that the not-being-married might not be his immediate problem. Not the one he’d called Jojo about anyway. He told her Rachel was acting differently. Explained about Stefan Stratos and the separation agreement.

  ‘What does it mean? I mean, I’m not stupid – I know that it means Rachel is almost definitely going to leave me – I think I’m gonna be sick.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I can feel her distancing herself and it’s only a matter of time before she finds out it’s not a legal marriage and then she won’t have to divorce me, she can simply walk away.’

  Jojo disagreed. This wasn’t about Rachel. This was about how David made Rachel feel. It wouldn’t be the albeit big fuck-off misunderstanding about the filing of a wedding certificate that finally drove her away; it would be David taking her for granted.

  David wished he hadn’t called his sister. He’d forgotten how self-righteous she could be. Like she was the encyclopaedia of women, which was, of course, why he had phoned her in the second place.

  ‘Darling brother, you live in a man’s world. Try opening up to your wife. Give her your undivided attention. Take an interest and put all of your energy into that one simple task. Do you have a pen?’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ David checked the conservatory for anything to write with and on. He found a marker pen and a Chinese takeaway menu. ‘Got one.’

  ‘Six words: get Rachel to renew your vows.’

  ‘Funny.’ David rolled his eyes at Jojo’s pomposity. He could have done without the reprimand, but it was a great idea.

  ‘Gently woo her, make her remember everything she fell in love with about you in the first place. And, David? Don’t fuck it up.’

  ‘Thanks, Jojo. I don’t know what I’d do without her. I doubt I’d survive five minutes. I do love her. She’s my everything.’ But if he was looking for atonement he was not going to find it from Jojo. He was greatly relieved they were having this conversation over the phone.

  David asked if she and Beth wanted to come for dinner one night that week. It was the sort of thing he did without thinking to check his diary or Rachel’s plans. Jojo thanked him for the invite but said, to be honest, she wasn’t too keen to waste a precious pre-baby night, especially for one spent smack bang in the middle of a non-marital battlefield.

  David was left feeling despondent; this wasn’t how he expected the conversation to go. He hadn’t even shared the worst of his woes. Jojo’s reaction told him she was unlikely to be sympathetic or understanding about his one night stand with Amelia-Rose. He needed to end the call. He walked to the front door, opened it and pressed the doorbell. He told his sister someone had arrived and he’d see her soon.

  ‘I’m not sure you deserve her,’ were Jojo’s cold parting words.

  David felt chest pains, again. He took a deep breath and exhaled. He let his chest relax, as prescribed by the pretty Cardiac Physiologist. It was more than likely a panic attack, he told himself as he repeated the breathing exercises. Panic caused by the thought that he was having a heart attack. Even Alanis Morissette would call that ironic. Why wasn’t the breathing working? He put his head between his legs. It didn’t help. He lay on the sofa with his legs up against the wall. Slowly his heart rate returned to normal and his chest relaxed. He wondered if it could be heartburn. He chomped on two peppermint Rennies; immediately the bitterness of the pills infiltrated his mouth. Confused, he reached for his reading glasses, and looked at the small print on the rectangular packet to discover he’d taken two paracetamols. At the kitchen sink, he spat out the chalky white remnants and gargled with water. He slumped back on the sofa and chewed an actual indigestion tablet and waited to be cured or die.

 
David called Jojo back and begged her to meet him. He tempted her with strong fruit beers brewed by Trappist monks. Jojo recognised the code red emergency, a secret communication from their adolescence that this was serious enough for her to change her plans.

  Jojo was late. David paced the hall restlessly as he waited. He checked the window in response to every noise from the street. But he was going to have to come clean with her. Jojo hadn’t rung the bell when David opened the door and rushed her inside, through to the conservatory. He gently closed the door behind them.

  ‘I have one question – why?’ Jojo asked, immediately on the offensive.

  David was trying to remember the words he’d prepared while he was pacing. Instead, he echoed, ‘Why?’

  ‘Why are you such a shit husband? I don’t get it. When did you become so lazy? What did you buy Rachel for your anniversary?’

  ‘A fountain pen.’

  ‘A pen?

  ‘It was expensive – Montblanc.’

  ‘What did you get her for Christmas, a bucket of coal?’ Jojo snorted.

  ‘No. I got her an electric toothbrush.’ David’s face crumpled. ‘It had Bluetooth,’ he added, increasing his self-defence perimeter tenfold.

  He tried to justify his utilitarian gifts by saying that Rachel wasn’t into flowers and things like that. He then blushed with embarrassment at the memory of the enthusiasm with which they’d once made love on a rose-strewn four-poster bed in Paris. And how her face had lit up while they were walking through lavender fields in Provence.