The Great British Break-Up

The Great Divorce

It has been quite some years since the Bakers marriage unravelled. After four years of wedded life, they could no longer pretend at eternal love or cultivate those little roots of family bliss. The prospect of divorce loomed ever closer.

So, youre just going to divorcejust like that, and thats it? asked Dasha Bakers friend one evening, when Dasha invited her out for some Italian-style sandwiches to ease the sting of it all.

Thats right. What else can we do? Weve both discussed it. Its for the best, reallybetter for both of us…

Oh, I dont mean the divorce itselfthe event! Arent you going to properly see it off? You know, mark it with a celebration and all that.

Ive been so on edge lately, is it necessary to rub salt in the wound? Dasha retorted, gloomily working her way through one pizza with pineapple and then another with seafood.

No, no, love, not you! I mean the divorce itself! Your wedding was a lavish affairIm still paying off my part of that cake, would you believe! So why not treat the divorce with just as much fanfare? Find a nice restaurant, a cortege, a toastmaster. Maybe even a ceremonial burning of bridges! Id love a party right about now.

Is that really allowed?

It ought to be!

I havent got much money for that. Well have to split all the possessions now, probably tear the duvet covers in half.

I know someone wholl organise the lot for a bag of potatoes. Besides, youll make up the rest in presents. Lets at least plan the hen party. Something homely and respectable to say goodbye to family life.

You mean the usual? We all agree to meet, but no one actually turns up because theyre all tied down with husbands and children?

Couldnt be more perfect!

The next day, Dasha and her friend visited the organiser, a woman called Julia. Strangely, Julia met them behind the counter of a pancake café in the middle of a bustling shopping centre, serving customers as she spoke.

Will you help? Dashas friend asked, explaining the situation.

Of course! Ive already pictured it, Julia replied, eyes sweeping the ceiling as she conjured ideas. The bridelooking marvellous in a black mourning dress, swearing shell never again. The groom, gloriously in his embarrassing tracksuit bottoms hes finally free to wear at all hours, utters a definitive No. Then everyone traipses to the pawnbroker and turns in the wedding rings with much pomp. The guests chant, Sweet! Bittersweet!… Well, Ill iron out the details, Julia said, before raising her voice to the whole café, Order number sixty-four is ready!

To Dashas surprise, her husband David was utterly delighted with the idea, though both sets of parents were scandalised.

You young people and your modern follies. In our day, couples divorced in silence and nursed a lifelong grudge, grumbled both families. We wont give you a penny for this nonsense.

A week later, everything was in place. Julias plan called for a ransom to kick off the festivities. The groom was to leave the flat only after passing a series of light-hearted trialsquizzes, songs, forfeits. Helpers could either join in or pay a little fine if they held things up. With twelve flights of stairs to descend, David was permitted to use the liftcrammed in there with his remaining personal effects and his best man.

On Julias say-so, her cousina retired Met officerhired a scene-of-crime photographer to meticulously record the proceedings. By the end, nine of them had their photos logged for posterity.

Off to the Registry Office! Julia cried proudly, as everyone converged downstairs.

By new custom, the Bakers rode together in one car, before separating and going their own ways post-divorce, while the other revellers were handed bus tickets, pocket change for the journey and squeezed into the photographers car, where mock interrogations and playful fingerprinting contests broke the ice. They strode into the registry singing a popular tune, Im Free, at the top of their voices.

Once the stamps in their passports were inked and the household dissolved, the crowd spilled out onto the steps. Julia produced a great cage and challenged everyone to catch a pair of pigeons. There was singing and raucous laughter as well-wishers congratulated the newly-separated. The men earnestly toasted the ex-husband and enviously hoped for a similarly independent future, while their wives gave them side-eye and argued on the spot, later vying to catch the bouqueta boisterous arrangement of council tax bills.

What a do! Must have been waiting ages for this announcement, remarked someone from another wedding party watching the goings-on.

Nahheard these two are splitting up, came the reply.

Watching the happy Bakers, many couples that day called a pause, postponing their ceremonies.

After the lock on the bridge was ceremonially sawn off and the rings exchanged at the pawnbrokers to cover part of the cost, the procession moved to the restaurant. There they were greeted by Julias old mates in a ceremonial band, a business lunch and stacks of pancakes drizzled with honey. The feast was sponsored by Pancake House No. 8, Julias current place of employment. The cake, accordingly, was made entirely of layered pancakes.

This feels like a wake… Dasha sighed, glancing at the bittersweet spectacle surrounding her.

But we are saying goodbye to married happiness, quipped Julia, doubling as master of ceremonies, then urged the not so young anymore to take their last dance.

To Chopins sonata, Dasha and David circled the floor.

You know, this hasnt turned out too badly, Dasha said as they waltzed at the centre of the hall.

Agreed, responded David. Ive never seen our parents get along this well.

As they turned, Dasha glimpsed both her father and her ex-father-in-law, locked in a laughing embrace, quietly singing and weeping, though once upon a time they had been sworn foes.

The tables groaned under the weight of presents: single-bed linens, concert tickets, a set of dumbbells, solitary crockery, and certificates for yoga studios, the gym, and even a day at a dance show. At the end, the ex-spouses received hotel keys for separate lodgings across town, discount vouchers for Pancake House No. 8, and taxi certificates for rides in a famous London cab.

The grand finale offered fireworks and the discounted sale of the pancake cake. Happy guests all went hometo their wives, husbands, and childrenwhile the Bakers set off, each on their own way.

Three weeks later, the photo album was finished. David turned up one afternoon to collect his nail clippers.

These turned out well, Dasha remarked, thumbing through black-and-white prints of grinning faces and comic evidence photos.

Yes, not bad, agreed David. Are you going back to your maiden name?

No. Im rather attached to Baker by now. Besides, Bottomley hardly rolls off the tongue.

True, David smiled. Well, Id best be off.

Wait! Dasha stopped him.

He looked at her, eyebrow raised.

Would you care to join me for a bite at the pancake house? Our vouchers expire todayitd be a shame to waste them

A real shame, David agreed. Did you know the pancake is a symbol of new beginnings? Maybe its our chance. Are we calling this a date, then?

You think she hesitated, we wont be making another mistake, after such a grand divorce? I heard there was even a piece about us on the news

Who cares? Were freeno one to answer to. Oh, by the way, the best man and maid of honour are divorcing next week. Weve been invited. Care to come along?

Ill think about it, Dasha smiled. Ive still got their single bedsheets set, so at least Ive a gift at the ready.The two of them strolled out into the light London drizzle, Dasha clutching the well-worn pancake vouchers. As they passed the bridge where the lock once hung, she glanced up at David, laughter in her eyes. You know, next time, well skip the chains and just bring some syrup.

David grinned, offering his arm. They walked together, not as husband and wife, nor as strangers burdened with regret, but as something newcompanions unburdened, quietly hopeful, a little braver. Behind them, the city rumbled on, indifferent yet full of stories like theirs: endings mourned, beginnings improvised, love found in unexpected afters.

Pushing open the café door, the warm scent of honey and batter greeted them. Julia waved from behind the counter, a conspiratorial smile lighting her face as she prepared two plates. For a moment, as pancake steam curled in the air, Dasha thought: perhaps, in the end, all you really need to celebrate freedom is someone beside you who understands why you want to.

She raised her fork in a little toast, grinning at David. To single bedsheets, to old names, to very grand goodbyesand to breakfasts for two.

And as laughter mingled with the clatter of plates, the rain beyond the glass softened, the street outside shining with possibilities.