Early in the morning of their wedding day, James and Catherine went for a walk, directly ignoring their solicitor. The advice had been to sit quietly in the office and discuss financial arrangements ‘like two sensible adults.’
Having been together for eight years, neither had ever shown a trace of maturity.
‘We’re supposed to be signing the pre-nup at eleven,’ James reminded Catherine.
‘I know.’
‘And it’s half past ten.’
‘I know.’
‘And we’re going for a walk.’
‘Yes.’
James looked at her.
‘Why?’
‘Because you said you needed fresh air.’
‘I said I needed courage.’
‘Same thing.’
Their hotel stood at the top of a narrow Mediterranean street where the buildings leaned towards each other as though sharing gossip. Flowerpots hung from balconies, shutters creaked in the breeze, and an elderly woman appeared to be monitoring the entire street from behind a lace curtain.
Catherine took James’s hand.
‘Are you nervous?’
‘About the pre-nup?’
‘About marrying me.’
‘Not remotely.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m extremely nervous about the pre-nup.’
‘Why?’
‘Because every time a solicitor says, ‘It’s only a formality’, I know I’m about to lose something.’
‘You aren’t losing anything.’
‘I had a motorbike.’
‘You sold it.’
‘Under pressure.’
‘You sold it because it had no brakes.’
‘Exactly. Pressure.’
They turned a corner. Above them, stretched between two buildings, was a washing line. It was absolutely covered in underwear. Bras and knickers fluttered in the sunshine like tiny flags celebrating somebody else’s poor laundry decisions.
James looked up. Catherine looked at James. James looked at the washing again. Catherine folded her arms.
‘Go on.’
‘What?’
‘Admire it.’
‘I was looking at the line.’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s a very good line.’
‘Is it?’
‘Strong.’
‘Very.’
‘Well positioned.’
‘James.’
He looked at her.
‘What?’
‘You’re staring at a black lace bra.’
‘I am not staring.’
‘You’ve been staring for ten seconds.’
‘I was wondering whether it’s yours.’
Catherine laughed.
‘You wish.’
James looked offended.
‘I don’t wish. I merely wondered.’
‘Should we put that in the pre-nup?’
‘What?’
‘Clause twelve. James is not permitted to wonder whether mysterious underwear belongs to Catherine.’
‘I think that is unfair. Clause thirteen. Catherine is not permitted to flirt with handsome waiters.’
‘I don’t flirt with waiters.’
‘You smiled at one yesterday.’
‘He smiled first.’
‘Exactly.’
‘That’s not flirting.’
‘What is flirting, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Excellent. We’ll leave it undefined.’
They carried on. A few yards later they passed a café. The waiter outside was young, handsome and wearing an open-necked linen shirt. He smiled at Catherine. Catherine smiled back. James immediately stopped.
‘Clause thirteen.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘You smiled.’
‘So did he.’
‘Yes. He’s clearly in breach of the agreement.’
Catherine laughed.
‘Are you jealous?’
‘Not at all.’
‘You are.’
‘I’m simply protecting my financial interests.’
‘How does the waiter affect your financial interests?’
‘I don’t know yet. That’s why I want the clause.’
Catherine shook her head.
‘You’re impossible.’
‘You smiled at him.’
‘You stared at the underwear.’
‘That is different.’
‘How?’
‘The underwear couldn’t smile back.’
Catherine burst out laughing.
‘That’s possibly the worst defence I’ve ever heard.’
‘It’s the only one I’ve got.’
They walked on. For a while neither said anything. Then Catherine spotted a particularly attractive woman sitting on a balcony above them. She nudged James.
‘Your type.’
James looked up. The woman smiled. James smiled back. Catherine immediately gasped.
‘Oh, very good.’
‘What?’
‘You’re flirting.’
‘I was being polite.’
‘She smiled at you.’
‘So did the waiter.’
‘Exactly.’
James looked pleased.
‘You see? You understand now.’
‘I understand nothing.’
‘Then we’re making progress.’
Catherine narrowed her eyes.
‘Clause fourteen.’
‘What is clause fourteen?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Is it about the balcony woman?’
‘No.’
‘What, then?’
‘The wife is entitled to throw a cushion at her husband if he becomes unbearably holier-than-thou.’
‘That’s very specific.’
‘I’ve been observing you.’
‘Clearly.’
They reached a tiny café at the end of the street and sat beneath a striped awning. Catherine ordered honey cake. James ordered the same.
‘Why honey?’ he asked.
‘Because we’re getting married.’
‘That’s a rather optimistic interpretation of a cake.’
She smiled.
‘Honey is sweet.’
James took a bite. He frowned.
‘This isn’t.’
Catherine tasted hers.
‘Mine is.’
‘Perhaps yours has had a better upbringing.’
She laughed.
‘That’s the problem with honey.’
‘What problem?’
‘It’s sweet until you start thinking about how it was made.’
James nodded thoughtfully.
‘Like marriage.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Marriage is honey?’
‘The marriage is sweet. The pre-nup is the bitter bit.’
James looked at her.
‘That may be the most depressing romantic thing you’ve ever said.’
‘I’m being practical.’
‘You’re sitting in a wedding dress eating honey cake while discussing the division of our assets.’
‘That is practical romance.’
He took another bite.
‘Fair enough.’
Catherine reached across the table and took his hand.
‘The pre-nup doesn’t mean we expect the marriage to fail.’
‘I know.’
‘It means we’re honest about the things that could become difficult.’
‘Money.’
‘Money.’
‘Jealousy.’
‘Jealousy.’
‘Your unreasonable suspicion of handsome waiters.’
‘Your unreasonable interest in underwear.’
‘That was architectural.’
‘Of course.’
She smiled.
‘The sweet part is that we can talk about the bitter parts without letting them spoil everything.’
James considered this.
‘That’s actually rather good.’
‘I thought so.’
‘Still bitter, though.’
‘Only slightly.’
He kissed her hand.
‘Then we’ll have more honey.’
‘That’s not how a pre-nup works.’
‘No, but it may be how marriage works.’
They smiled at one another. Above them, the washing fluttered in the warm breeze. James glanced upwards. Catherine noticed.
‘Sweet or bitter?’
‘Neither.’
‘What, then?’
‘Evidence.’
‘Evidence of what?’
‘That we should never get married beneath a washing line.’
Catherine laughed.
‘Too late.’
James looked at her.
‘Perhaps that’s the point.’
And, for once, neither of them had a comeback.
