Read William Walkers First Year of Marriage for Free Online Page B

surprise while ‘looking for the toilet in my study’ but that he hoped this handcrafted work would be a lasting memento of what he was sure would prove to be a long and happy marriage.
    ‘Ahhh,’ goes Isabel, thumbing through the infinitely detailed photo montages. Yes, he’s made mosaics of our faces, thousands of intricate combinations of heads and hands and more heads, all touching and overlapping and linking up.
    ‘It’s incredible. Like a beautiful stained-glass window,’ opines Isabel.
    ‘It looks like a Hieronymus Bosch version of Hell. Hasn’t the guy got anything better to do?’ opine I.
    Isabel looks genuinely upset. She says I really should stop being so difficult about Alex. He clearly wants us to be happy. He’s gone out of his way to make our wedding special. It’s important that I don’t stop her having friends. I have to promise to behave like a grown-up. So I do, with my fingers crossed behind my back.
Wednesday 15 June
    Alex is not a psycho. Alex is not a psycho. Alex is not a psycho. If I say it enough times, I might believe it.
    Isabel, home late and glowing, has found a new yoga class in Holborn. Says she received new energy from the ground or something. Astrid, the yoga teacher, uses crystals to help centre her pupils. Argument ensues when I look sceptical.
Thursday 16 June
    A banker and his girlfriend came to look at the flat today. We hid up the road, behind the Man and His Dog Were Knifed incident board. Someone has graffitied ‘A cat person?’ underneath the can-you-help? bit. Arthur Arsehole calls afterwards to say they loved it, loved the space, the light, the angles, the dynamic, the touch. But they wanted a garden.
Friday 17 June
    It’s been a long week. I get home late from work, am grumpy, am hot and bothered, am looking forward to a nice bath.
    ‘Don’t have a bath, have a shower.’
    Here we go again.
    It is only because Isabel is hugging me when she says this that there is no immediate bloodshed.
    I consider a bath with a whisky after a long week at work to be one of man’s inalienable rights—a period of quiet reflection, contemplation and the making of amusing bubble-bath hats. But I considered sugar in goat’s-milk-free tea with a similar reverence until only a few days ago and look what happened to that.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘It’s a waste of water.’
    ‘I want a bath though.’
    ‘One bath is the same as four showers.’
    ‘I’m having a bath.’
    But as I sat in the bath, trying to enjoy my inalienable right, I knew its days were numbered. From the speed-date to the wedding, Isabel had never attempted to change me: it’s one of the reasons I love her. But now we’re married, we both sense a change.She is my wife, she has the power, she just doesn’t know quite how much power yet. Like a young Jedi knight, she will learn.
Saturday 18 June
    What a brilliant day: went to what may be the worst wedding ever. Jess, horrible property developer, marrying poor Tony—creative, sensitive, artistic, in-touch-with-his-feminine-side Tony. In short, he’s gay, she knows it, but she wants kids and he’s the best she can find. And he just needs a wife so he can pretend he’s straight forever. It was the wedding you always dream about, one that unravels before your very eyes.
The service
    They had written their own vows. Tony said, ‘With my arms, I will cradle you.’ Jess said, ‘With my arms, I will encircle you.’
    For what has to be a virtually sexless marriage, they really were laying it on a bit thick.
    Best man composed and performed an electric piano piece for their exit. Almost entirely atonal, it was quite upsetting and made three babies cry. Brilliant. 3/10.
The meal
    Some sort of mutton offcut, cooked for 10,000 years in the hellish furnaces of Gomorrah. Served on a bed of what might have been risotto but was in actual fact mashed potato. Isabel has Banker Man on her right, all pink shirt and big hair. I have Acronym Man on my left. He’s in IT, setting