THE MARRIAGE

All's well that ends will, I suppose.

“There's not much left to say,” thought Angus. “I might as well keep my mouth shut. Amelia's said quite enough for the two of us.”

“The b*****d!” thought Amelia, “the way he's just standing there like some superior being while I burst into tears at any moment...”

“And to think I thought I loved her,” mused Angus, “everything about her, the way she wears that tartan skirt of hers, those glorious long legs...”

“As if I'm anything like good enough for the likes of him!” scowled Amelia, “My mum warned me, she really did, but I chose to take no notice because I reckoned I knew better. But no! He's turned out to be a right b*****d, thinking he can get away with a trick like that on a night like this! He must think I'm some sort of moron!”

“I should have been fore-warned when she introduced me to that mother of hers,” Angus told himself. “Talk about opinionated, and I could tell she never liked me. She looked down that long nose of hers at me as if I was a speck of dirt on the mirror of her life! I knew I wasn't good enough for her precious daughter … but, well, I loved her... I'd have done anything for her, anything at all...”

“I thought he cared for me, but look what he's said!” thought Amelia angrily. “I thought we had something special between us. I thought we'd be together forever, through winters with snow piled outside our windows and then summers in the sun, on beaches, me in my bikini, he loved me in that bikini, and him in his shorts. He looked good in his shorts, in the summer, sturdy legs, strong, manly...”

Angus scowled. “To think I thought we'd go through life together,” he thought disgustedly, “to think I really believed she was a special angel for me, that I treasured every movement she made and every word she said... and it came to this!”

“Just take a look at the bad-tempered curl on his face,” mused Amelia, “as if looking at me hurt him! Yet it's not so long that he whispered to me that he wanted to stay with me for ever " just because he had a yen to make love to me! And I use the word love advisedly because I can see there wasn't much love in it, just two bodies in a bed and then the vacuum of reality...”

Angus shook his head as if to dislodge something. “We were all right together, the two of us, and it wasn't just the sex! We talked about stuff, we agreed or happily disagreed, we were as one with the important things in life, the future, our dreams, our hopes, our needs. And when we did disagree it was about the trivial stuff, the little odds and ends that came our way. Like which side of the wall to put the dustbin, which supermarket to buy our vegetables in, which pub to go to on a particular evening. But the important stuff... we were as one.”

Amelia almost snorted. “Thinking I would be happy going to see Rovers when all I wanted to do was stay at home and have a romantic night in with him, wearing a lovely frock or that skirt of mine he likes, short to fascinate him when I catch him eyeing the way its hem contrasts with my thigh and yet modest for my own sake... the bloody cheek of it! He knows I don't see any point in football, just twenty-two overpaid twerps chasing an over-inflated pig's bladder round a muddy field in the cold! He knows I like to sit all cuddled up to him with a romantic candle flickering on the mantelpiece and a glass of wine, good red wine, delicious … and maybe a film on the telly, something equally romantic, something we could both feel all warm inside to...”

Then Angus started. “I suppose it's too much to expect a girly creature like Amelia to enjoy a good game of soccer..,” he thought, “though some girls do, I know they do, Sandy did, with her lovely fair hair and high-pitched giggle and.... and … all the other stuff I didn't find so wonderful...”

Amelia took a step back, and thought “I think I'll go and get changed. I think I'll show him what he's going to miss for the rest of his days! There's that tartan skirt, the one mum says is far too short on me, and I know he likes my legs. Damn it, I like my legs! Then we'll see what's what!”

She turned to go, but Angus cleared his throat. “Maybe we should stay in,” he said at last, almost contritely. “Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to go to the footie, not tonight, it might rain and then we'd get wet, and, well, maybe you're not so keen on the beautiful game as I am...”

She was going to say I don't like it at all, then changed her mind. Maybe one concession deserved another. “What do you want, then?” she asked, almost civilly. But not quite. It was too early for true civilities.

“We could watch a film...?”

“What film?”

“You choose.”

“Any one?”

“Any one.”

“Then I know what. I'll change into that skirt you like...”

“The Scottish one?”

“That one.”

“You're right. I love you in that skirt.”

“Only because you can see my knickers!”

“Not at all! It's because you've got the loveliest pair of legs...”

“All right, then. I'll wear that skirt. But because it's comfortable, not because you want to perv at me! And you can sort out some wine, and then we'll snuggle up nice and close...”

“Not Bridget Jones' Diary,” he said, suddenly.

“Why not? What's wrong with Bridget Jones' Diary? I like it!”

“And I like the footie!”

“Then go and watch it! Of all the selfish people! I've surrendered, and you still want to go out into the cold and wet.”

“It's not wet!”

“It is, then! Look at the raindrops on the window!”

“Oh.”

“But go and get wet if you want to.”

“Oh.”

“I'm going to put that skirt on anyway. The one you say you like, but I'm going to wear it for me, not for you because you say you won't be here!”

“But it's raining...”

“You're a man, aren't you? Not scared of a drop of rain, are you?”

He looked at the splattered windows and then back at her. “Bridget Jones' Diary?” he sighed. “All right. You get changed and I'll open a bottle of white.”

“What's wrong with red?”

“Red, then.”

“And you can, let me see, if I'm changing you can change too! You wanted footie, so why not put your footie shorts on. I like you in those, not that you ever play football in them!”

“What, at my age?”

“You never did!”

“Red, then. Hurry up! And I'll sort out the DVD.

“Bridget Jones' Diary?”

He sighed. “Bridget Jones' Diary,” he agreed. “And a bottle of red...”

She looked at him coyly. “I know one thing,” she whispered.

“You do?”

“I won't wear Bridget Jones' knickers!”

“I should hope not!”

“And I know something else...”

“You do..?

“I … I love you.”