William Walkers First Year of Marriage by Matt Rudd Page B

p.m. argument, there simply isn’t time. Isabel and I just lay there in moonlit silence, me wishing I hadn’t said the bit about the not trusting, her probably plotting divorce and elopement. The only ice-breaking option I had was the pretend half-asleep roll to leave one of my arms draping over one of her arms. When I tried it, it was parried with the classic half-asleep cold shoulder. In the same manoeuvre, I lost any hope of same-day reconciliation and the duvet.
    This morning, she left without speaking to me, which is a first. So I decide I would have left without speaking to her if I’d had the chance and storm off to work, collecting a really sugary latte on the way in.
    Johnson still thinks Alex is evil, even if Andy has fallen for his lies. ‘You did the right thing.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘He’s a smarmy bastard.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘He’s the sort of person that gives men a bad name.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘I told you marriage was a nightmare.’
    Hang on.
    So then there’s another email from Saskia.
    ‘Hi, sweetie. Have I got the right email address or is this some other big Willy? Would be great to hear from you, even if you’re the wrong William. I need an Englishman again, after all these Yanks. Only joking. Can’t wait to catch up.’
    And I’m all upset and confused and irrational so, without thinking, I type, ‘Sorry, been away. How are ya?’
    And without thinking, I hit send.
    And with thinking, I try to stop it by closing my email, switching my computer off, throwing the keyboard in the bin, hiding thebin under the desk, closing my eyes tightly, praying a bit. But it is too late: I have made contact with the Destroyer.
    ‘Ahhh, there you are! Missed you. What are you wearing? Guess what I’m wearing?’
    I email Isabel, wanting everything to be all right again. No answer. I call her on her mobile. No answer. I get home and my cheery greeting goes unanswered. She’s cooking angrily. I feel sorry for the shitake mushrooms which are being diced to smithereens.
    The situation is grave. I have expressly forbidden her to talk to her best friend who at least one of my two best friends thinks is a really nice guy. I have also struck up an online relationship with the floozy from New York who never wears knickers, and always insists on telling me that.
    I must regain control of things before some irreparable damage is done. I have no option but to employ the fake injury trick.
The fake injury trick
    Origin: Tibet. Twelfth century. A closely guarded secret passed down through the ages to those chosen few ready for the knowledge. The process is simple: pretend to injure yourself, lie there in agony and wait for the angry woman to abandon the stony silence and come to your rescue. But it only works if used sparingly and performed convincingly. If you are not a good actor, it may be safer to do yourself real harm. Injuries, fake or otherwise, must be eye-watering. E.g. bad toe-stubbing, banging of head on a kitchen cupboard corner, standing barefoot on a drawing pin, falling down stairs (then, if argument is serious enough, lying motionless).
    I fall down the stairs between the living room and the kitchen. Isabel stops castrating the courgettes and runs to my aid, helps me to the sofa, makes me a cup of tea and, as soon as I’m focusedenough to speak again, listens to my pained, gasping apology. I trust her, I say. She’s the most special person in the world, I say. I know Alex is just a good friend, I say. And I hope his Moroccan ex-girlfriend sets her Moroccan older brothers on him, I think.
    I am forgiven. More than that, Isabel apologises back. She knows I don’t like Alex but he’s been a friend of hers for years. Still, she probably overreacted.
    Have actually injured myself. Very sore neck. Possible break?
Monday 25 July
    Ignore another email from Saskia even though the cocktail bar Alex took Isabel to has come top in the Evening Standard ’s poll of London’s sexiest bars. ‘Want to guarantee your