The Stag Night
When Charles divorced his wife, he vowed never to marry again. Seven years of marriage had taught him there was little good in itonly quarrels, nagging, and endless rows.
“Charlie, youre being unfair,” his friend Stephen argued. “A wifes good for a mankeeps him fed, tidy, and looked after.” He grinned like a well-fed cat, listing the benefits.
“Dunno about that, Steve. I cooked half the time, hoovered every weekmy duty, that. And as for being ‘looked after’my Lizzie could scald a man with her tongue. Never knew where to hide.”
His wife had been a terror. Nothing pleased her. Gifts? “Couldve spent more,” shed snipe. Holidays? Shed watch him like a hawk, scolding if he glanced at another woman, humiliating him in front of friends.
The last straw came at her friends birthday party. She slapped him for drinking one brandy too many. He left alone that night, resolved to end it.
The divorce was bitter. Lizzie fought tooth and nail, but in the end, he let her keep the flat and cartheir daughter lived there, after all. He walked away and asked for nothing more.
Years passed. Charles bought a new flat and car, paid off the mortgagehis salary was decent enough. He saw women, some even spoke of marriage, but he held firm.
“Not for me. Had my fill.”
That changed at thirty-eight, when he met Daisy. Pure chance, a café in London. He was out with mates celebrating Stephens promotion when two pretty women took the next table. One caught his eyedark blue, almost violet in the dim light.
“Blimey. Drown in those,” he thought but said nothing.
He couldnt stop looking. She felt it, lowering her gaze each time their eyes met.
“Charlie, smitten, eh?” Stephen teased.
“Suppose I am,” Charles admitted, rising.
“Well, go on then,” Andrew winked.
He approached. “Evening. Mind if I join you? Im Charles.”
“Daisy,” said the one whod snared him. “This is Claire.”
They chatted. He offered wine, but Daisy refused. “We dont drink much.”
That night, he drove her homesober, thankfully. Soon, they were inseparable. Daisy had been married once, briefly. “Didnt suit,” she said, and he didnt press. Nor did he speak of Lizzie.
At thirty-five, Daisy was an accountant for a construction firm. Serious work, but she painted for pleasurequite well, too. She dragged Charles to galleries, and to his surprise, he enjoyed it.
Mates ribbed him, but he championed her. “Got a real talent, she has.”
One evening, stroking his cat, Whiskers, it struck him.
“Think Ill ask her to marry me. Daisys… different.” The cat blinked lazily. “You like her, dont you? Soft hands, calm voicenever shooes you off.”
Whiskers, a stray hed rescued six years back, was now a grand, smoke-grey tomwise but idle. Daisy called him “too clever to bother speaking.”
She said yes. They planned a quiet registry do, but family protested.
“Second marriage or tenth, youre not skimping!”
Relenting, they sent invites. Then came the stag night demands.
“Charlie, no way youre skipping it!”
“Lads, were nearly fortypushing fifty soon!”
Stephen scoffed. “Age? Its tradition!”
Charles surrendered. “Fine. Drinks on me, but keep it at mineno prying eyes in pubs.”
The wedding was set for Friday; the stag, Wednesday.
He stocked upwhisky, beer, ordered sushi, prawns, steak. Whiskers eyed the spread hungrily.
“Not for you, greedy.”
The lads arrived, boisterous. But soon, excuses flowed.
“Wifes threatdivorce if Im pissed again,” Andrew sighed.
“Mother-in-laws flight lands at four,” Stephen groaned.
By ten, they left.
Charles sat alone. Whiskers stared at the prawns.
“Oh, go on.”
The cat daintily took one. Charles dozed off, waking to find Whiskers sprawled on the table, king of all he surveyed.
“Cheeky sod.”
The wedding cameloud, joyous. Marriage with Daisy? Hed never been happier.
