The Wedding Story

A conflict of interest

The week before Christmas, we had to finalize the paperwork at the council office and announce the date of the wedding. At the time, only an architect friend of ours knew of our plans. I’d asked him to translate the documents that my husband-to-be had to sign. Although I am highly qualified, the law prohibited me to translate the papers myself since this would have constituted a conflict of interest.

Our friend had trouble finding a car park and arrived late, to find me pale, clutching our passports and close to tears. “Are you crazy!” I screamed. “The office is closing. If we miss this appointment, we’ll have to start the whole paper-chase from scratch!”

We were ushered into the office and it was all very ceremonious. The government official referred to us as the betrothed and treated us with exemplary formality. He asked us to sit side by side in two high-backed chairs and made us fill out the papers using a special fountain pen, reserved exclusively for such occasions. The eyes of the clerk who collected our completed forms were misty. In front of us on the desk, a photograph of a green room was displayed inside a gilded frame. The official pointed at it and raised his chin. “This is the room in which the ceremony will take place.” My husband-to-be and I, mimicked grimaces of fear and giggled.

By the time it was all over, it was midday. The three of us walked into the nearest café and ordered a litre of wine.

That weekend I held my annual Christmas party, which this time, doubled as our engagement party. We were quite shy about making the announcement and whispered the news, one by one, into of our friends’ ears. The reaction was raucous. There was screaming and laughter and lots of vigorous hugging and kissing. Champagne corks popped, the music was turned up and we danced until the neighbours complained about the noise. Before the party drew to a close, our guests made us promise to have a big wedding celebration.

A few days later, I emailed my mother in Queensland to tell her what I was up to. But she wouldn’t believe me. “Is this a joke?’ she asked incredulous. That’s what you get for being a feminist. One night at the local, I ran into M., my old high school friend. I told her the news. “I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous!” She spat. I forgave her. She’d just discovered her new lover, whom she was priming as the future father-of-her-children, was cheating on her. A victim of her ticking Biological Clock.