‘They say they can’t do it tomorrow. The papers haven’t come.’ Catriona, just back from the village, was shouting up the stairs.
‘Oh?’ I said. ‘Who can’t do what? What papers?’
‘You know. Our marriage papers. For the ceremony.’
‘Papers? Marriage? Ours? Ceremony?’
‘Well, not exactly marriage. Of course not. It’s a civil partnership. For tax purposes.’
‘With a ceremony?’
‘A signing. Just our signatures, to be witnessed by the mayor and another. That’s all.’
‘Ah. And who’ve we got?’
‘I was thinking the foreign correspondent and Mel [his wife].’
‘We’d better take a bottle.’
‘Champagne.’
‘To celebrate our marriage.’
‘Our civil partnership.’
‘For tax purposes.’
‘Yes. For tax purposes. Or else the state grabs 60 per cent of everything after you die.’
‘Robbing buggers.’
‘Steady. You’ve done pretty well out of the Republic so far when you think of the taxis alone.’
‘And afterwards I can call you Madame Clarke?’
‘I’d like to be Madame Clarke.
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