**The Stag Night**
When James divorced his wife, he swore off marriage for good. After seven years together, hed decided there was nothing good about married lifejust endless squabbles, shouting matches, and drama.
“Jamie, youre being too harsh,” his mate Simon insisted, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Marriages got its perksalways fed, looked after, cuddled. What more could a bloke want?”
“Dunno, Si. I cooked half the time, hoovered every weekendthat was my job. And as for being *cuddled*… well, my ex, Emily, had a way of cuddling that made me want to bolt out the door.”
Emily had been impossible to please. If he bought gifts, shed sniff, “Couldve gone for something pricier.” If they went on holiday, shed watch him like a hawk, convinced hed stare at other women, humiliating him in front of friends.
The final straw came at her mates birthday do, when she slapped him for having one whiskey too many. He walked out that night, dead set on divorce.
The split was brutal. Emily fought tooth and nail, but in the end, he gave her the flat and the carcouldnt leave his daughter without. Then he walked away, wanting nothing else.
Years passed. James bought a new flat, a new car, paid off the mortgagehis salary was more than decent. He dated, sure. Some women were upfront, talking marriage, but he held firm.
“No family. Been there, done that.”
Everything changed at thirty-eight when he met Charlotte. Pure chance, reallya cosy café in London. Hed gone with his mates to celebrate Simons promotion, laughing over pints when two lovely women slid into the next booth. One glance at Charlotte, and he froze. Dark blue eyes, sharp as cut glass, catching the dim light just right.
*Bloody hell. Drowning pools, those.*
He couldnt stop staring. She felt it too, dropping her gaze every time their eyes met.
“Jamie, mate, youre properly smitten,” Simon chuckled. Always the observant one.
“Suppose I am,” James admitted.
“Well, get on with it then,” Andrew nudged, winking.
James stood, sauntered over.
“Evening. Mind if I introduce myself? James.”
“Evening,” they replied in unison. “Charlotte,” said the one whod caught his eye. “Sophie,” added the other. “Not interrupting at all.”
“Pleasure,” James flashed a grin. “Fancy if I join you?”
“Go on,” Sophie agreed.
They werent drinking winejust juice. He offered a bottle of red, but Charlotte shook her head.
“No, thanks. We dont do alcohol.”
That night, he drove her homesober, thankfully. Soon, they were inseparable. Same wavelength, same dry humour. Charlotte had been married briefly, divorced.
“Just didnt fit,” shed said, shutting the topic. James didnt push; he wasnt keen on revisiting his own disasters either.
Thirty-five, no kids, an accountant at a construction firm. Serious, but she paintedbrilliantly, actually. Loved gallery crawls. Turned out, James did too. Never knew he had it in him.
His mates ribbed him, but hed defend her to the death. Thought she had real talent, though she rarely painted. They even went sketching in the countryside.
Then, one evening, sprawled on the sofa with Winston, his cat, it hit him.
“Suppose I ought to propose,” he mused, scratching Winstons ears. The cat blinked lazily. “Fancy a third wheel? Shes soft as butteryoud love her.”
Winston, ever the philosopher, said nothing.
James had found him years ago, a scrawny stray mewing at his heels. Couldnt resist. Now, six years on, Winston was a proper grey tommajestic, slow, utterly smug. When Charlotte met him, shed laughed.
“Clever, this one. Too clever to bother talking.”
James proposed. She said yes. They planned a quiet registry office do, but family revolted.
“Second marriage or tenth, youre not skimping!”
Next came the stag night demands.
“Jamie, you cant skip it. Its tradition!”
“Lads, were pushing forty. Nearly fifty, if were being grim.”
“Ages got nowt to do with it! Youre waving off bachelorhoodproper send-offs due!” Simon bellowed.
The wedding was set for Friday, stag night on Wednesday.
*Plenty of time to sober up.*
James booked the week off, stocked up on ale and whisky, ordered posh nibblessushi, prawns, steak bites.
Wednesday evening, he set the table just so. Winston prowled, sniffing at the seafood.
“Not for you, mate,” James said, lifting him into an armchair. “My night.”
Winston eyed him, plotting.
The lads arrived, rowdy as ever.
“Dig in,” James said, cracking open bottles. “Starting with beer or going straight for the hard stuff?”
“Off the booze,” Andrew sighed. “Wifes threat level: nuclear. One more drunk night and Im divorced.”
“Wives, eh?” Simon groaned. “Im dry too. Mother-in-laws landing at Heathrow at four AM.”
“*You* were the one banging on about stags!” James laughed. Still, he understoodmother-in-law terror was universal.
“Marry again, youll see,” Andrew muttered.
“Mine lives in Cornwall,” James said brightly. “In and out for the wedding, no fuss.”
“Rub it in, why dont you,” Paul grumbled. Twenty-five years living with *his* in-laws.
They drank, ate, praised the spread. Talked politics, work, cars. Paul bragged about his youngest winning silver in a regional volleyball match. By ten, they were leaving.
“Thats it?” James blinked.
“Jamie, mate. Families. Work tomorrow.”
Alone, James slumped at the table. Winston sat opposite, staring at the prawns.
“Go on then,” James sighed, nudging the plate. Winston delicately snatched one, then another.
James dozed off on the sofa. Woke to find Winston sprawled across the table like a furry king.
“Cheeky sod,” James muttered.
The stag night was tame. The wedding wasntfull of laughter, toasts, joy.
And marriage? James never regretted it. His second go-round? Pure bliss.
