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us decided to have a ‘grimmie’ competition at the local dance hall, to see who could pull the grimmest-looking girl. I won. I don’t remember the prize. I do remember how horribly ashamed of myself I felt, as I left the dance hall with a very sweet girl who was, I had to admit, very far from good-looking. The bet didn’t require you to sleep with the girl, only to leave the dance hall arm in arm with your partner, and I did that. Outside it was snowing. I turned and looked at my temporary friend, and removed her spectacles and gave her the tenderest kiss I could manage. Then I left her, lookingconfused but happy, with some mumbled apology and a promise to meet again that I knew I would not keep.
    I wondered whether I would draw a ‘grimmie’ this time. It was quite possible. It didn’t matter, in any case. Once we were married I presumed I would never see my new wife again, which was fine by me: I didn’t think I was quite ready to settle down and I did not share Mr Khan’s faith in arranged marriages. Then again, I had little faith in my own ability to decide which girl to spend the rest of my life with. These days, getting any girl to spend more than a few hours in my company seemed beyond me. I always managed to do something disastrous whenever I met anyone I thought I might like.
    There was a gentle knock on the door and David came in.
    ‘If you will follow me, sir, Mr Khan has offered the use of his study for the paperwork.’
    I followed David downstairs to the hall. This time we turned right, instead of left. David took a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked a door that opened into a small library. There was a mahogany table in the middle of the room on which a few documents had been set out. Two chairs had been pulled up. In the corner of the room was a desk with a flat-screen monitor on it, and a stand-by light glowing on the hard drive underneath.
    The room looked like everywhere else in the house: the books were sets of leather-bound volumes bought, it seemed, more for their array of colour than their content. There were no personal touches in the room: no photograph frames, or papers lying about. Mr Khan was either very tidy, or else he rarely came here. We sat at the table, and David picked up a document, which turned out to be my passport. I looked at him.
    ‘We found a door key in your evening jacket, and we took your address from the driving licence in your wallet. Amir, a colleague of ours, has been to your flat to obtain documents which will give us proof that you are a UK citizen, and proof of residence.’
    I raised my eyebrows. I did not like the idea that these people had been rummaging through my personal things. It gave me a creepy feeling. That was why Mr Khan had asked me whether I had been in the army. They must have seen something in the flat: perhaps the photograph of me at Sandhurst. It was quick work, and resourceful of them. We sat and filled in a couple of forms. I noticed the name of my intended had not yet been filled in.
    ‘Don’t I need to know at least the name of the person I am going to marry?’ I asked.
    ‘Don’t worry, sir – all in good time. We have already informed the registrar of that name in order to give notice. And we have gained exemption from the normal waiting period. We have told them you have unexpectedly been recalled to active service and want to be married before you return to Afghanistan.’
    ‘I’ll have my passport back now, please,’ I said, and took it. David made no objection. Instead, he went to the door and called for someone. A small man in a natty suit appeared.
    ‘If you will just stand up for a moment, Mr Gaunt, the tailor will take your measurements. Mr Khan wishes you to look as smart as possible on the great day.’
    The tailor produced a tape measure and took a few measurements: inside leg, chest, waist and so on. Then he jotted them down in a little black notebook.
    ‘It’ll be a rush job, Mr Gaunt, sir,’ he said.