The Marriage Act(39)



‘June,’ Arthur snapped. ‘Her name is June.’

Mr Warner closed his eyes and held his hands up. ‘My apologies. June.’

‘What if they don’t believe me? How much will I be fined?’

‘I’m afraid there is the potential for a custodial sentence if found guilty.’

Arthur’s face paled. He must have misheard. First his wife had been taken from him and now his freedom was at risk. Mr Warner made his way to the corner of the room, opened a refrigerator and returned with a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap and handed the drink and a glass to his client. Arthur took several gulps.

‘Mr Foley,’ Mr Warner began tentatively. ‘Arthur. There is one route we might be able to take to prove to the court that you want to make amends for this oversight.’

‘Which is?’

‘Your relationship status remains widowed, I assume?’

‘Of course.’

‘If you were to perhaps consider signing up to a Government-approved repatriation programme, the court would likely take that into account when sentencing.’

‘Repatriation?’

‘There are several sanctioned websites designed for men and women in your situation to meet others in similar positions. Single people.’

‘You . . . want me to start dating?’

‘From experience, I am merely suggesting the CPS prefers, where possible, not to separate couples. So if you are in a relationship when the outcome of your case is due, you might receive a more favourable judgement. Have you read the small print in the marriage upgrade contract you signed?’

Arthur shook his head, so Mr Warner explained that, as June had been dead for at least six months, his Grace and Grieving period had expired and he could immediately begin to open himself up to ‘new relationship opportunities’. Mr Warner handed him a copy of the contract.

‘ “Those living alone in their advancing years are more likely to suffer anxiety, social alienation, sensory deficits, fragility and a more rapid mental and physical decline than their married counterparts”,’ read Arthur. ‘So that’s it?’ he said. ‘Because I’m widowed and single, there’s only one way this is going to end for me?’

Just the notion of being with anyone aside from June gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was already a monumental struggle to no longer hear her voice or wake up each morning without her head on the pillow next to him. To have a stranger there instead was unimaginable. However, it might be his only chance of a non-custodial sentence.

‘When . . . when would I need to start . . . meeting people?’

‘To make it work in your favour, the sooner the better. A marriage or engagement would be even more beneficial.’

‘But June is my wife!’

‘As difficult as this is to hear, in the eyes of the Act, she is no longer your wife. I’m afraid she no longer counts.’

Arthur dabbed at his brimming eyes again. ‘She does to me.’





30


Anthony




Anthony slowed his pace as he ran along the street outside his house and made his way up the drive. It had been weeks since his last run and he knew that, by morning, his aching legs would be quick to remind him of that fact.

Streetlights behind him illuminated the quiet suburban street in New Northampton as his neighbours readied themselves to retire for the night. Anthony, however, was wide awake, his restless mind in conflict with itself. It was proving impossible to silence the resounding voice in his head reminding him his next project was unethical and unfair and just plain wrong on so many levels. However, he was aware none of those concerns had stopped him before with Jem Jones and it was unlikely to stop him now.

He’d hoped a run might help to put his muddled thoughts in order, or at least might help him escape his conscience for a time. It hadn’t worked. He couldn’t silence his newly discovered principles. And he became frightened that the longer he continued living this life, the more his original self was going to become irrecoverable.

‘Oh hey,’ he began, entering the house, surprised to see Jada. She was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand, her head tilted towards him. ‘I thought you’d be in bed.’ At least he hoped that’s where she would be, fast asleep so that he didn’t have to lie to her when she asked him about his day.

‘We’ve hardly seen each other lately so I thought I’d wait up.’ She smiled and patted the seat next to her. She poured a second glass of wine and handed it to him.

‘I should probably shower first,’ Anthony replied.

‘It can wait.’

‘Oh, right.’ She smelled so good, he thought; her signature scent, a pomegranate and citrus perfume she had worn ever since they first met in a university hall. His lips barely brushed her cheek as he took a seat.

‘Babe, I’m not your grandmother, you can do better than that,’ Jada replied and kissed him properly, her lips lingering on his. He missed how Jada tasted, how soft and inviting her mouth was. More than anything, he wanted to make love to her there and then: spontaneous, raw, passionate sex sprawled out across the sofa like they used to before parenthood and work became passion-killers. These days, he was too exhausted and preoccupied to even take charge of her vibrator.

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