– Husband delivery! Good evening! Fancy taking one home?
Vivienne eyed the wobbling man on her doorstep, still half-asleep and not at all sure if this was some daft joke.
– Was there really no one more sensible available? – she asked.
– Madam! – the courier announced grandly. – You, madam, have the rare pleasure of being assisted by the most sensible courier of all! Luck is smiling upon you!
His flowery speech was baffling. At three in the morning, brains are generally asleep, not deciphering nonsense.
– Well then, would you like your husband, or should we leave him on the step? – the courier asked. – I swear, madam, hell sleep like a loyal hound right outside your door!
– Seeing as youve gone to the trouble, – Vivienne mumbled, struggling to clear her head, – bring him in!
The courier stepped aside, revealing a trio. Well, two walked, but the third was suspended between them.
– And which one’s my husband, exactly? – Vivienne wondered aloud.
Truly, she didnt recognise her own spouse in any of the swaying specimens.
– Why, madam! – the courier, aghast, scolded her. – The shining star in the very centre of this merry tableau, naturally!
– I cant say I see anything merry about it, – Vivienne replied. – And the fellow in the middle isnt my husband.
– Not your husband? – the courier now looked worried. – Im terribly sorry, we are quite precise in what we do!
– How precise can you be if the bloke in the middle, – she pointed out, – is bald? My husband has never sported a bald patch, whether by fate or design!
– Madam! – the courier grinned, – Not everyone is fortunate enough to win at the office party games! – He pulled off his own cap, revealing a tragic pairing of bald spots and random clouds of hair.
Clearly, someone had been at them both with clippers and malice.
– Just like your humble servant! – the courier added with a sigh.
– Has the whole lot of you lost your minds? The bosses, the games, the lot! – Vivienne exclaimed.
– Oh, but madam, this is nothing! Spare a thought for poor Mrs Margaret Neville, our assistant chief accountant at the tender age of fifty-six! She simply couldnt manage the pencil-and-bottle game!
– They shaved her too? – Vivienne gasped.
– With all due effort! – the courier nodded sorrowfully. – But she was the only one lucky enough to win a hundred-thousand pounds worth of wig vouchers! Satisfied your curiosity yet? Recognise your husband now?
– Not even close, – Vivienne said darkly. – With this impromptu stage makeup, his own mother wouldnt claim him! Was that a contest as well?
– More of a lark! – the courier replied. – Face paint, you know! Dunk him in a basin and it’ll all come off!
– And whats with him being dressed like that? – Vivienne asked.
– Ah, that well, more contests, – the courier said. – our management are rather “creative”, shall we say. But dont fret, once everyone comes round, all clothes will find their rightful owners!
– Would you call that a spontaneous round of exchange therapy? – Vivienne enquired dryly.
– More like a release of inner well, soul and body, – and seeing her eyes widen, the courier hastily added, – within the bounds of decency, madam! Strictly so!
– After shaving heads and face paint? – Vivienne shook her head. – If you say so.
– Madam, I only make the deliveries! All complaints to management, please.
And as for your husband, we dressed him ourselves. We just picked what fit!
After the holidays, everyone will swap back and all shall be well!
Vivienne just knew letting Henry go to that office party was a bad idea and had told him so repeatedly! But no, he insisted the bosses would be upset.
– So, are you taking him or what? – the courier asked. – Ive got three more husbands to deliver tonight!
– Bring him in, – Vivienne sighed, resigned.
She could already picture how delightful the morning would be. And thats not counting the rest of the night, which could well devolve into a relay between the bathroom and
– Take him to the lounge! Sofa! I dont intend to be gassed all night! – she instructed.
The parcel was left face-first on the sofas back.
– Madam, theres your filtration system, – the courier said, bowed, ushered out his porters, and left.
– Oh, you just had to go to that blasted office party! – Vivienne muttered at Henrys snoring form.
He, of course, did not reply.
– Fine. Well talk in the morning
Vivienne padded to the bedroom, desperately hoping for some last shreds of sleep.
Heaven knows, shed probably be up at the crack of dawn rescuing her husband from his reckless night. And there would certainly be something to rescue.
Shed never seen Henry in such a state before. The man was practically a slab of meat.
– Told you so! Did you listen? Not a bit!
Thinking that the newlywed bliss phase of marriage will stretch on forever is, at best, tragically naïve. Its not just routine, eitheryears together bring habits, grievances, and the survival instinct to carve out a bit of your own space.
Hence all those wedding cards awkwardly wishing happiness in your family and personal life.
Indeed, over time, personal life develops. No, it doesnt always mean an affair. It just means there are activities, friends, even TV programmes you refuse to share with your spouse.
Hobbies, mates, maybe just Beech Grove on the telly.
Psychologists call it personal space and act as if they invented it.
Henry and Vivienne were no exception. Nineteen years married, with a sonAndrew, now eighteen and poised to flee the nest any week now.
Their personal space started about seven years ago. Vivienne dove into paint-by-numbers, which let her escape the world, decompress her mind, and produced some oddly cheerful wall art.
Henry tried computer games for a while but got bored. Nature walks bored him, too. Popular history fascinated him, then infuriated him when it got absurd.
In the end, he never settled on anything. This didnt mean he was glued to Viviennes side, mind youhe always found something to disappear into. After work, off to the pub for one pint (translation: three hours), a fishing trip with the lads, just nipping round to Mikes and back after midnight.
Of course, they had birthdays and dinner with friends together. But there were plenty of occasions where one or the other just refused to tag alongand that was perfectly normal.
Sometimes you’re just not in the mood. Sometimes work leaves you shattered. Sometimes you simply have better things to do.
And then, there were Henrys office parties. Spouses rarely invited (mercifully). Frankly, the management were dangerously creative types, the type who believed that staff trauma bonded teams.
Their logic: If the team survives THIS together, they can survive anything!
There was always the option to bow out, but the parties were a break from the grind, a chance for real gossip fodder.
Vivienne never believed Henrys stories about what went on at those bashes.
– So, the winner is the one who smears the most honey on themselves and rolls in the feathers?
– No! – Henry would laugh. – The winner is the one who acquires the most feathers, post-honey!
Feathers were then plucked off and weighedGordon always won, he was nearly seven feet and as wide as a shed door.
– Still dont get the thing about the blow-up dolls, – Vivienne said, wincing.
– Well, anyone can inflate a balloon, – Henry grinned. – This is all about volume! And speed!
– Why not make it a contest for the most balloons or bring along an inflatable mattress? – she suggested.
– Could do, – Henry nodded, – but its more fun this way! And you shouldve heard the commentary! Actually, on second thought, its better you didnt. Even I was mortified!
When Henry said hed be going to the Christmas party, Vivienne suggested he just refuse.
– Viv, its not optional, – he sighed. – Attendance is mandatory! And the boss literally threatened everyones bonus based on party performance! Even the ones who never show up are going this year!
– Henry, no amount of money is worth it if you come back like last time, – Vivienne warned. – If the management are that enthusiastic, it’s a gigantic red flag.
– Nah, Viv, Ill just keep to the background. Show my face, stay out of trouble.
– Somehow I doubt that, – she muttered. – Ive got the sense youre heading for disaster.
– Honestly, Vivyou worry too much. It’ll be fine.
Vivienne started suspecting otherwise by midnight.
– If everything was fine, Henry’d be home by now. Drunk, but at least home.
At one, miserable, she finally went to bed. By three, the doorbell ricocheted her into full consciousness.
***
The night passed in relative peace. The morning, however, began with a blood-freezing shriek.
Vivienne shot out of bed. Instantly, the memory of her husbands nocturnal delivery snapped into focus.
– Mustve seen himself in the mirror, – Vivienne smirked.
But the shrieking began anew, and this time Vivienne realised
This wasnt Henrys voice.
– Where am I? My God! People! Will someone please tell me where I am and how I got here?
Vivienne, heart pounding, wrapped herself in her dressing gown and shuffled toward the commotion.
– Who are you? – she asked the unfamiliar man, glancing about the living room in confusion.
– Where am I? – he whimpered.
– Do you even remember who you are? – Vivienne persisted.
– Im Michael, – he replied, as sadly as possible. – Please, where IS this?
– My place, – Vivienne muttered. – Youre a guest.
– Did you invite me? – Michael blinked, hopeful.
– They delivered you here last night, disguised as my husband from your office do, – Vivienne explained, now thoroughly fed up.
– Thank heavens! – Michael sighed. – At least youre one of my colleagues wife. Means Im still in London! Its justI always end up somewhere bizarre after these things!
Once I woke up on a train to Edinburgh, no cash, no IDtook me two days to get home!
– Well, thats a laugh, – Vivienne said, unconvinced.
– You think? – Michael nodded. – Another time, I woke up on a flight to Aberdeen. At least then I had my wallet. This time, – he took a relieved breath, – seems I got off light!
– Congratulations, – Vivienne replied, deadpan. – But wheres my husband? Youre not him!
– Whos he, then?
– Henry Brooks.
– Oh, he quit two days ago, – Michael replied. – Popped in for five minutes yesterday, said farewell, mentioned he was moving away.
Vivienne, barely conscious, fumbled her phone from her dressing-gown pocket and called Henry. After a few rings
– Morning, Viv! Met Michael? What do you think?
– What IS this? – she demanded.
– Viv, in all honesty, there isnt really an us anymore. We live like housemates. And, well, theres someone else now.
I thought it wouldnt be fair just to vanish. So Ive sent you Michael as a sort of replacement!
Hes all right, you know! No kids, no ex-wife, no baggage. Earns as much as I did!
Hes easygoing, doesnt argue. A bit of a dreamer, but thats just a lack of the right womans touch!
Im sure youll whip him into shape in no time! Give him a chance, Viv. Trust me.
– If this is a joke, Im really not laughing, – Vivienne said, voice trembling.
– No joke, – Henry replied. – The flat and car are yours, for you and Andrew. Dont worry.
Michaels a good egg. Goodbye, Vivienne. Thank you for everything. Ill file for divorce myself.
The phone slipped from her numb fingers. As she started sliding down the wall, Michael caught her.
– So, he wasnt kidding, – Michael said, nodding at her fallen mobile. – You had him on speaker.
– Who wasnt kidding? – Vivienne managed.
– Henry. Told me hed found the perfect match for me. Promised to introduce us. Though, to be fair, he said that a month ago
Vivienne did not keep Michael, nor did she stay alone. She found a good man eventually.
As for her ex-husband, she made a point never to remember him. That kind of replacement was one thing she could neither forgive nor forget.
A fair exchange, no complaintswhat a notion. Only an Englishman would contrive such a thing, and only Vivienne could survive it.
