The Day I Wished for Rain

I think I might be evil.

She is stood there, every box ticked and then some. Little-to-no makeup needed, but one of her friends clearly has a clue and did the necessary. Somehow she looks more, rather than less natural: Cheeks glowing with the pinkness of a recently finished run round the park; eyes lit with what looks like the rush of recent carnal activity, even though we spent the obligatory night apart. The church is traditional, yet suitably rustic. Out in the middle of nowhere, reasonably close to where she grew up but not somewhere she’d ever worshipped. She’d never done that in the traditional sense, but once she’d taken up yoga and started regular meditation classes she’d clearly found her path. Even her dress bears marks of the lifestyle she’d quickly grown to love. A lotus flower, an Om symbol and various mandalas have been lovingly but discreetly stitched in, lending the event something of a twist on the usual white wedding – and I like that it isn’t a cookie cutter start to our life together. The congregation, however, un-nerves me slightly. Not my side: That is full of the usual suspects. But across the aisle there are all number of non-meat-eating types. Facial hair figures highly, and there are numerous pairs of chunky round glasses, earth mother outfits and flat shoes. What bothers me more, though, is what’s happening in the sky. It just can’t make up its mind. And I need it to, because I am willing the heavens to open up. Beautiful, delicious, torrential rain. That’s what I want. The kind that her friends worship, because rain and sun work together to make flowers bloom and vegetables grow. But that’s not why I want it.

Our honeymoon was meant to be Vegas. I was prepared to throw in some of Mother Nature’s finest to round the edges off: A flight over the Canyon; a couple of other national parks, and maybe a coastal drive south from San Francisco. She likes the wind in her hair, and I wanted to give it to her my way. But we are going to Sri Lanka, and my heart still sinks at the very thought of it. Not the trip itself, but what might follow. Because it will all be good.

I wanted to get over-excited on the craps table at The Bellagio, dressed up like James Bond whilst she stood next to me in a gold lame evening dress having spent the past two hours throwing tantrums because I couldn’t care convincingly enough about how she looked - when in reality she looked amazing in every outfit. And I’d lose too much money, and we’d have a bust-up and fill in the hole with endless, aggressive intimacy. What a way to conceive the spawn of me. Of us!

Would that kind of a start bode well for a happy, lasting marriage? Who knows, but I like the not knowing. And deep down our children, no matter what their age, would understand. They’d understand, because one of the first things they’d be doing once they were old enough to speak and comprehend English would be to sit in front of the TV and watch movies. And at no point during Finding Nemo or the Toy Story series would they be fast-forwarding straight to the end, where – as we all know – everything always turns out OK.

All, that, of course, is some way off. There are more pressing matters, and the ceremony feels like it’s over before it’s even begun. For once I am taking leaves out of her book, practicing conscious breathing, silently but firmly immersing myself in the event, stopping to remind myself that this is the greatest day of my life.

It’s done, and I kiss her. We both mean it. But the first thing I do as I draw away from her lips is look out of the window. What is it doing out there? Still not a drop. A rogue ray of sun penetrates some of the glass panes that aren’t stained, as though the heavens want her to have a halo; as though they’re taunting me. But all is not lost. A quick glance tells me there are dark clouds aplenty up there. That my crew are on the case. We sign the register, and then it’s time for the walk. She revels in its glacial pace, making the obligatory cute faces and giving little waves here and there. It’s her day, lest we not forget. I’m just the punter laying down the money – but when will the dealer’s hand be shown? Will that happen at all? The door gets closer, and eventually it opens. I squint, trying to size everything up. The world is full of infinite possibilities, a zillion outcomes all based on naturally occurring probability distributions that mean no-one, but no-one can predict anything with one hundred percent accuracy. Yet sometimes, for some people, it just has to be a certain way. It feels so utterly right; as though the plot of the movie has been written, and nobody can undo it. As though today is your day, be it a good or terrible thing that’s on the cards. And so it comes to be, that when we emerge it is not blinking into the sunlight. My associates have done me proud: Not only does it start raining, but a couple of top-notch thunderclaps and some lightning crash their way onto the scene as well. Despite my feelings on this matter, I don’t rejoice in what’s falling from the sky. I have a role to play, when all’s said and done. Plus, I love her. I just need to know what it is that I love. The photographer has his hand outstretched, letting the drops settle on his hand a few times before making a decision. But we’d paid him enough and this is the UK after all. These people know what they’re doing. He walks over, the top of one cheek crinkled up as if to say yeah, it’s time for the contingency plan. It’s time to turn over the cards. I look at the face of my bride. She looks impassive. This is not good. And then a wall of rain hits us. The type you normally have to travel many thousands of miles to see; where they pray for the stuff - though I, of course, have not been going through the same channels trying to get my result today. A murmur of concern turns into obvious distress, as the congregation collectively make the decision that we’d have to make ourselves soon enough anyway. It’s her day, but she won’t be getting everything. Enough, but not everything. We move over to stand under the church entrance as quickly as possible, and I take care to make sure she doesn’t fall over in her heels. I look at her:

‘You OK?’

She nods, but her expression is unchanged. This is not what I wanted. For a brief moment I think I see a tear, but it’s just a raindrop. She shakes her head. That’s more like it. And then, finally, my prize is revealed as she breathes in slowly, her head tipped forward, her face stiffening; her eyes becoming hardened, satanic granite. Relief floods through me, nourishing my darkness and loosening my demeanour as though she and I are eternally bound as our own, gloriously perverse interpretation of the yin and yang symbol she has tattooed on her lower back. The one I like to silently laugh at when we make love. Finally, the words. Better than anything dreamt up by my best man in his speech; better than anything just spoken by the vicar; better than the first sentences we ever spoke to each other:

‘This was not supposed to bloody happen…’

Undiluted, irrational, piercing hatred shoots from her eyes. Someone has to be responsible for this. But she’ll never know it is me, if indeed it really is. At that very moment, though, I truly believe that my wish has been granted. It’s not exactly a big ask, after all. Come to think of it, it’s surprising the Powers that Be don’t frown upon weddings more often, given that half the couples doing it are only there to get the holiday of a lifetime courtesy of the guests. It’s all pretty evil when you think about it.

I know what’s coming: She’ll sulk for days, and cleverly, imperceptibly, find a way to blame me for the downpour without explicitly saying as much. A rather delicious irony, given that she’ll never know how hard I wished for it. Then I’ll buy her something. Missoma; Mejuri; Edge of Ember. I know all the brands. Or, should I say, I have not forgotten them. Flowers; underwear, weekends away. And nothing will work, until it eventually does.

I’m looking in awe at my bridezilla, and I am consumed with a mixture of lust, admiration and genuine affection. Another pivotal scene in our own little movie is about to start.