She didn’t look to me like a girl who was about to get married. Or maybe she did? It all depended on expectation. There were girls—they were usually the ones who had been good at games—who sort of leapt at marriage with their hair flying and a glint of lasciviousness in their eye. They flew greedily around, buying things to put in their new houses, and hats to put on their heads, and shoes and frocks and knickers and nighties. They were grabbers. They would grab their husband on the wedding night and never willingly relinquish him. They would if they were the first to find someone better, but if they were enjoying him and suddenly caught him straying they would cut up his clothes and follow him to his places of assignation where they would stamp and scream curses, and throw things. If they were driving a car they would try and run him over. I had known several such—the kind who made their own marriages. Then there were the kind whose marriages were arranged for them. Many of my friends fell into this category, but they were not usually Christian and most of them had hated games. They went placidly along with the arrangements and let themselves be wed. Sometimes they lived lives of contentment, and if they didn’t it was just too bad. Margaret looked like someone being led to the wedding. ‘Is everything planned for the day?’ I asked. ‘Who’s coming? Is Derek coming?’ Derek was Monica’s ex.

‘Yes,’ said Monica, ‘Derek’s coming. And his family. Jennifer and Christopher are going to be page and bridesmaid.’ She sounded smug and I looked at her closely. Monica was one of the grabbers. She had written to me when Derek married again—not when he left her but when he married again. She had expressed herself in unguarded terms and I daresay when she’d posted the letter she’d wished she hadn’t. Something must have happened to reconcile her to the situation. On a moment’s reflection it was pretty clear what it was: nothing dramatic like a conversion, a change of heart, a surge of generous forgiveness. No. Looking round at the creamy comfort which characterized Monica’s mode of life I realized that she’d grabbed everything. Derek was a dreary type of man even by Monica’s standards and she’d probably been only too glad to be rid of him, once she’d understood that she could grab and grab and leave him and his new wife to struggle along as best they could, living on alms if need be. She’d kept everything—the knives and forks we were eating with, the tablecloth under the dinner service which could only have been a wedding present, not being the sort of thing you’d buy for yourself. She’d grabbed all the wedding presents and everything that they’d since acquired. I rather admired her. Another thought occurred to me: ‘What’s she like?’ I asked. ‘What’s the new wife like?’

‘A nice little thing,’ said Monica.