‘Dear Mum and Dad, Gordon and I are having a lovely time. Enjoying lots of honeymoon fun! Talk soon,” read the postcard. That was a big fat lie — my honeymoon was miserable. I had spent virtually every day of our break sobbing my heart out on a hotel bed. Here I was ruining my gorgeous pre-wedding facial with streaming puffy eyes and a snotty, red nose. Thank goodness he had forgotten the camera.
What awful deed had my new husband performed to induce such a reaction? Nothing, apart from placing a ring on my finger and muttering, ”I do.” But I was terrified. In the build-up to the wedding I was too caught up in the romance to worry about the happily ever after. Yet here it was hitting me smack bang in the face — my future.
When I looked at him, it was through a stranger’s eyes. I was no longer enjoying the company of my boyfriend; I was stuck in a hotel room with a man I would have to speak to every day for the rest of my life. Would he make me happy? Is this what I really wanted? Whatever the answer, there was no going back.
Of course, I’m not the only one to blame. I think it’s only right that Amsterdam should take a little of the flak. My sun-shy husband felt that Holland was the perfect place in which to begin the rest of our lives. And so it was that despite my bid for the French Riviera we spent a fortnight in the only European city where it rained last August.
A visit to the Anne Frank museum, as worthy as it is, should never be the highlight of anyone’s romance, and when counting prostitutes becomes a pastime, it really is time to go home. For my husband, those brief glimpses of tired lingerie-clad women were the closest he came to a sexual encounter all holiday. Towards the end, we even gave up speaking.
Although our relationship healed over time, I was scarred by the shame that in some way I had failed the first step in my marriage. As far as my friends were concerned, we had had the most fabulous time. Our spin machine went into overdrive, pumping out propaganda about romantic canalside strolls and sumptuous candle-lit suppers.
The end of the pretence coincided with a particularly excessive cocktail night. One Manhattan too many, and the world knew exactly what happened when good honeymoons turn bad. To my surprise, my friend Carla choked on her martini before confessing that her Spanish husband had placed an emergency call to his mother mid-honeymoon in a bid to discover why his new bride was so despondent. I was overjoyed — somebody had shared my misery.
We were not alone. They say the majority of newlyweds fail to get up to any wedding night shenanigans, although few would admit it. How many couples actually enjoy their honeymoons?
A year on, we are a happily married couple. Apart from the odd squabble over who used the same knife for the margarine and marmalade, we are decidedly functional, and not a tear has been shed since we returned from our ill-fated break. A second honeymoon has been scheduled for later this year in the sunshine resort of St Tropez. I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed. — Â