The Bachelor Party
When Cyril divorced his wife, he vowed never to marry again. Seven years of marriage had taught him there was little good in itjust squabbles, shouting, and endless rows.
“Youre wrong, Cy,” his friend Stephen insisted. “A wifes good for a mankeeps him fed, tidy, and fussed over,” he said with a grin, like a cat basking in the sun.
“Dunno, Steve,” Cyril muttered. “I did most of the cooking, always hooveredthat was my job. And as for being fussed over… my Kate had a way of fussing that made me want to bolt.”
His wife had been a right terror. Nothing pleased her. Gifts? “Couldve spent more.” Holidays? Shed watch him like a hawk, scolding him if he so much as glanced at another woman, humiliating him in front of friends.
The final straw came at her friends birthday party when she slapped him for having one too many brandies. He left alone that night, resolved to end it.
The divorce was a battle. Kate fought tooth and nail, but in the end, he let her keep the flat and cartheir daughter lived there, after all. He walked away without a fuss.
Time passed. Cyril bought a new flat and car, paying off the mortgage with his decent salary. He saw women, some even suggested settling down, but he held firm.
“No more marriage. Been there, done that.”
Everything changed at thirty-eight when he met Daisy. It was in a caféhed gone with mates to celebrate Stephens promotion. They were laughing when two lovely women took the next table. One caught his eyedark blue, depthless, maybe the dim lighting played tricks.
“Blimey, proper drowning pools those,” he thought but kept it to himself.
He couldnt stop staring. She felt it, lowering her gaze whenever their eyes met.
“Cy, smitten, are we?” Stephen teased.
“Suppose I am,” Cyril admitted, deciding to approach her.
“Well, go on then,” Andrew winked.
He stood, walking over. “Evening. Mind if I join you? Names Cyril.”
“Evening,” they replied. “Im Daisy,” said the one whod caught his eye. “Xenia,” added her friend.
“Lovely to meet you,” Cyril said, laying on the charm. “Care for some wine?”
“No, thank you,” Daisy said. “We dont drink.”
That night, Cyril drove her homesober. Soon, they were inseparable, kindred spirits. Daisy had been briefly married.
“Didnt suit,” was all she said, and he didnt press.
At thirty-five, no children, she worked as an accountant for a construction firm. Quiet, seriousbut she painted beautifully, loved galleries. A hobby. She got Cyril into it too, though hed never thought art his thing.
Mates ribbed him, but he adored her talent, even if she rarely painted. Theyd go sketching in the countryside.
One evening, telly on, his cat Smudge purring beside him, it struck him.
“Suppose Ill ask Daisy to marry me,” he mused aloud. “Shes perfect.”
He stroked Smudge, who listened intently.
“Well live the three of us. Shes kind, calmyou love her too, dont you?” The cat blinked lazily.
Smudge had been a stray kitten, mewing at his heels till Cyril tucked him into his coat. Six years on, he was a grand, smoky tom, slow and dignified. When Daisy met him, she said:
“Smudge is cleverjust too lazy to talk.”
Cyril proposed. She said yes. They planned a quiet registry do, but family and friends erupted.
“Skimping? Shame on you! Doesnt matter if its your secondwe wont have it!”
Not wanting to seem stingy, they relented. The guest list grew, invites sent. Then came the next demand: a stag do.
“Cy, no stag? Outrageous!”
“Lads, were nearly fortypushing fifty soon!”
“Rubbish! Youre bidding farewell to bachelorhoodits tradition!” Stephen bellowed.
The wedding was set for Friday, the stag for Wednesdaytime to recover. Cyril imagined lads letting loose, maybe a stripper.
He took the week off, stocked up on booze, ordered restaurant platterssushi, prawns, meats.
Wednesday, he set the table. Smudge grew restless, sniffing the seafood.
“Not for you,” Cyril scolded, moving him to a chair. The cat squinted, plotting.
The lads arrived, roaring.
“Dig in!” Cyril said, popping bottles. “Beer first, or go hard?”
“Im out,” Andrew sighed. “The missus said one more drunk night and shes off. Plus, Im driving.”
“Wives,” Stephen agreed. “Im dry toomother-in-laws flight lands at four.”
“Steve, youre the one who insisted!” Cyril laughed, though he understood.
“Marry, and youll see,” Andrew muttered.
“My future mother-in-laws in Cornwall,” Cyril said cheerfully. “Visits for the wedding, then gone.”
“Rub it in,” grumbled Paul, whod lived with his for twenty-five years.
They drank, ate, praised the spread. Talked politics, weather, work.
“Thinking of a new motor,” Andrew said, sparking a car debate. Paul bragged about his daughters volleyball trophy.
By ten, they were leaving.
“Thats it?” Cyril blinked.
“Lads have families, work tomorrow.”
Alone, Cyril sat as Smudge eyed the prawns.
“Go on then.”
The cat daintily took one, then another. Cyril dozed off on the sofa, waking to find Smudge lounging on the table, smug.
“Cheeky bugger,” Cyril chuckled.
So went the stag. The wedding was lively, the marriage happy. Cyril never regretted ithis second go was everything the first wasnt.
