Free Talking It Over by Julian Barnes

way, just in case you can’t cut the etymological mustard, has only in recent times come to denote a nuptial holiday involving the purchase of duty-free goods and the taking of too many colour prints of exactly the same scene. Dr Johnson, in his intermittently droll Dictionary , was for once not attempting to stir mirth when he defined it thus: ‘The first month after marriage, when there is nothing but tenderness and pleasure.’ Voltaire, an altogether more sympathetic figure, who incidentally used to serve himself the best Burgundy while giving his guests vin ordinaire , observed in one of his philosophical tales that la lune de miel is followed the next month by la lune de Vabsinthe .])
    You see, I suddenly felt that I couldn’t bear it, not knowing where they were going to be for the next three and a half weeks (though in retrospect I doubt whether the location of the groom much perturbed me). So when, towards the end of lunch, Stuart lurched to his feet and informed the table – why this confessional urge that comes upon people at such times? – that he was ‘Just going to decant’ (and the awful phrases they come up with: from which beagling divisional manager did my chum filch that one?), I slipped from my own chair without a word, kicked away the detritus of my previous life which was posing as champagne foil, and followed him to the Gents.
    There we stood, side by side at those hip-high porcelainscoops, each staring grimly ahead at some Mexican firing-squad in the way that Englishmen do, neither dropping his gaze for a squint at the other’s tackle. There we stood, two rivals as yet quite unaware they were rivals, each grasping his membrum virile – should I offer the groom some tips as to its deployment? – and peeing virtually unamended, rebottleable Mumm NV on to a little violet cube of toilet-freshener. (How would my life change if I had a great deal of money? I return constantly to the same two luxuries: having someone to wash my hair every morning, and peeing over crushed ice.)
    We seemed to be peeing more than we could possibly have drunk. Stuart gave a little embarrassed cough, as if to say, ‘Don’t know about you, but I’m not even halfway there.’ It seemed the moment to enquire into the planned whereabouts of the hymeneal rough-and-tumble. But all I got in reply was a squinty smirk and the hiss of piss.
    ‘No, really,’ I insisted a minute or so later, as I laundered my fingers and Stuart needlessly scraped a fetid plastic comb over his cranium, ‘where are you going? You know, just in case I need to get in touch.’
    ‘State secret. Even Gillie doesn’t know. Just told her to take light clothes.’
    He was still smirking, so I presumed that some juvenile guessing-game was required of me. I hazarded various Stuartesque destinations like Florida, Bali, Crete and Western Turkey, each of which was greeted by a smug nod of negativity. I essayed all the Disneylands of the world and a selection of tarmacked spice islands; I patronised him with Marbella, applauded him with Zanzibar, tried aiming straight with Santorini. I got nowhere.
    ‘Look, something might happen …’ I began.
    ‘Sealed envelope with Mme Wyatt,’ he replied, laying an uncharacteristic finger against his nose as if this was what he’d been to spy-school for.
    ‘Don’t be so bloody bourgeois,’ I shouted. But he wouldn’t tell me. Back at the table I was in crepuscular mood for a few minutes, then bent once more to the task of diverting the wedding guests.
    The day after they left for their honeymoon I telephoned Mme Wyatt, and guess what? The old vache wouldn’t tell me. Claimed she hadn’t opened the envelope. I said I missed them, I wanted to telephone them. It was true, I did miss them. I may have cried down the telephone, but Mme Dragon wouldn’t unbend.
    And by the time they came back (yes, it was Crete: I’d guessed, but he hadn’t flickered, the duplicitous bastard), I knew I was in love. I got a