The Stag Night
When Charles divorced his wife, he vowed never to marry again. After seven years of marriage, hed decided there was nothing good about itjust endless squabbles, shouting, and rows.
“Charlie, youre talking nonsense,” his mate Stephen tried to convince him. “A familys important for a blokealways fed, looked after, cared for.” He grinned like a cat, listing the benefits.
“Dunno, Steve. I did most of the cooking, always hooveredthats my joband as for cared for my ex, Cathy, cared for me so much I didnt know where to hide.”
His wife had been a right nightmare. Nothing he did pleased her. If he bought gifts, shed complain”Couldve spent a bit more, couldnt you?” On holiday, shed watch him like a hawk to make sure he wasnt eyeing up other women, humiliating him in front of friends.
The last straw came at her friends birthday party when she slapped him for having one too many brandies. He left alone that night, dead set on divorce.
The split was messy. Cathy fought tooth and nail, so he let her keep the flat and cartheir daughter lived there, after all. He walked away without a fuss.
Time passed. Charles managed to buy a new flat and car, paying off the mortgage thanks to his decent salary. He dated, and some women were upfront about wanting marriage, but he held firm.
“No family. Been there, done that.”
Everything changed at thirty-eight when he met Daisy. A chance encounter in a café. He was out with his mates celebrating Stephens promotion, laughing over drinks, when two lovely women walked in and sat nearby. When his eyes met one of theirs, he frozestunning, deep blue eyes, piercing even in the dim light.
“Blimey, proper drowning pools,” he thought but kept it to himself.
He couldnt stop glancing her way, and she noticed, lowering her gaze whenever their eyes met.
“Charlie, smitten with the bird next to us, are ya?” Stephen teasedalways observant.
“Honestly? Yeah,” Charles admitted, deciding to make a move.
“Well, get on with it then,” Andrew said with a wink.
Charles stood and approached their table.
“Evening. Mind if I introduce myself? Im Charles. Hope Im not interrupting.”
“Evening,” they replied. “Im Daisy,” said the one whod caught his eye. “Emma,” added her friend. “Not interrupting at all.”
“Pleasure,” Charles said smoothly. “Fancy if I join you?”
“Go on,” Emma agreed.
The women werent drinking winejust juice. He offered to order a bottle, but Daisy declined.
“No thanks. We dont really drink.”
That evening, Charles drove Daisy homehe was sober behind the wheel. Soon, they were dating, realising how well they clicked. Daisy had been briefly married but divorced.
“Just didnt get on,” she said shortly, changing the subject. Charles didnt presshe didnt talk about his failed marriage either.
Daisy was thirty-five, no kids, an accountant at a construction firm. Serious but with a passion for paintingshe was brilliant at it, loved art galleries. A hobby she got Charles into, though hed never thought hed enjoy it.
His mates ribbed him, but he was proud of her, convinced she had real talent. She rarely painted, but theyd go out to the countryside just so she could sketch.
One evening, lounging with his cat, Smokey, it hit him.
“Think Ill propose to Daisy,” he mused aloud. “Shes perfect.”
Smokey, sprawled on the sofa, blinked lazily as Charles stroked him.
“Well all live together, eh? You like her tooalways climbing into her lap when shes over.”
Hed found Smokey as a scrawny stray six years ago, mewing pitifully. Now, the cat was a sleek, lazy tom who Daisy swore was “too clever for his own goodjust cant be bothered to talk.”
Charles proposed. She said yes. They planned a quiet registry office do, but family and friends kicked up a fuss.
“Whats it matter if its your second wedding? Tenth, even! Youre not skimping on us!”
Not wanting to seem stingy, they caved. The guest list grew, invites went outthen came the next demand: a stag do.
“Charlie, no way youre skipping a proper send-off!”
“Lads, were nearly fortypushing fifty soon! Bit past all that,” Charles argued.
“Rubbish! Youre saying goodbye to bachelor lifestags sacred!” Stephen insisted.
The wedding was set for Friday, so they scheduled the stag for Wednesday”Plenty of time to recover,” Charles reasoned.
He took the week off to prepare, stocking up on booze and ordering posh nibblessushi, seafood salads, meats. On the day, he set the table carefully. Smokey, smelling the prawns, prowled closer, ears twitching.
“Not for you, mate,” Charles chuckled, lifting him away. “My day, not yours.”
The lads arrived in high spirits.
“Get stuck in,” Charles said, popping bottles. “Beer first, then stronger stuff?”
“Not me,” Andrew sighed. “Wifes threat level: nuclear. One more drunken night this month, and shes divorcing me. Plus, Im driving.”
Stephen groaned. “Same. Mother-in-laws landing at 4 a.m. Got to fetch her.”
“Steve, you were loudest about this!” Charles laughed but understoodmother-in-law duty was no joke.
“Mine lives in Cornwall,” Charles said cheerfully. “Coming for the wedding, then shes off.”
“Lucky git,” muttered Paul, whod lived with his in-laws for twenty-five years.
They drank, ate, chatted politics, work, cars. Paul bragged about his youngest winning silver in a regional volleyball match. By ten, everyone was leaving.
“Thats it?” Charles asked, baffled.
“Mate, weve got jobs. And families.”
Alone, Charles sat at the table. Smokey stared pointedly at the prawns.
“Go on, then,” he relented, pushing the plate forward. Smokey daintily helped himself.
Charles dozed off on the sofa. Woke to find Smokey sprawled across the table like he owned it.
“Cheeky bugger,” Charles muttered fondly.
And so the stag passed. The wedding was lively, joyous. Married life with Daisy? Charles never regretted it. His second marriage? Pure happiness.
