www-independent-co-uk.cdn.ampproject.

org

I ignored warnings from friends and

family and married a stranger

15-18 minutes

When I was 20, a man I barely knew proposed without a

ring. I said yes. 

Our friends were alarmed about our fast decisions to

marry and move from Tennessee to New York City. I got
a handwritten letter from an elder at church suggesting I
wait to get to know my fiance better. His friends held a
tearful intervention. One of our beloved professors
questioned the decision. My mother referred to my
fiance not by his name – David – but by the nickname
“rank stranger.”

But we were in love. After refusing pre-marital

counselling (we didn’t need it, we insisted), David and I
got married and moved to Gramercy Park. We could see
the Empire State Building at night when it was
illuminated, if we craned our necks while sitting on our
creaky fire escape.

Download the new Independent Premium app

Sharing the full story, not just the headlines

My life was as romantic as a love song. Then, after one

week of marriage, the phone rang. “May I speak to
David?” asked a sultry-voiced woman. Reluctantly, I
handed my new husband the phone, which he quickly
hung up. “Wrong number,” he said.

A few hours later, it rang again. Another woman. I dusted

near the phone, so I could eavesdrop. Did my seemingly
loyal husband have a double life? Another wrong
number, he said. I believed him, until the phone rang at
3am. And 4. The calls became more regular, at all hours
of the day and night. It got so common, I was no longer
surprised when the breathy voices on the other end of
the line morphed into sighs of disappointment.

He always got off the phone, exasperated. Or was it an

act? I took messages when he was out. Desiree. Brandy.
Jill. In some cases, they were testy when I said he wasn’t
there. One woman started crying: “We were together just
yesterday.”

“Where?” I demanded.

“In SoHo,” she said. I thought about this. My husband

worked at a Midtown law firm during the day, or so he
told me. Had I made a terrible mistake? My friends were
right; I didn’t even know him. Maybe our relationship was
all a ruse. I’d heard stories of people getting married only
to realise their spouse had a double life.

“Are we talking about the same David? Tall, blond?”

“And handsome,” she added sarcastically. “Are you going

to tell me I have the wrong number? I’m looking at the
note he wrote me now. 212...” She read the number. It
was definitely ours.
I was confused and hurt. Instead of hearing the female
callers’ voices on the phone, I heard only the unheeded
warnings of friends clanking in my head. “What’s really
going on?” I finally mustered the courage to confront
him. “Wrong numbers usually don’t ask for you by name.”

But David was just as confounded as I was. At least he

appeared to be. Finally, a man called.

“Sorry, he’s at work,” I said.

“All work should go through me,” he spat. I wasn’t sure

how law firms allocated cases, but apparently David was
doing it wrong. I began to take a message.

“Who are you?” I asked.

‘I’m his wife,’ I said. The new label felt heavy in my

mouth (iStock)

“I’ve known David for years,” he shot back. “The real

question is: who are you?”

He had a point. I was the new addition. I wanted love so

badly that I ignored any inconvenient details – like barely
knowing the man I married.

“I’m his wife.” The new label felt heavy in my

mouth. Silence for a beat. Then two.

“Why didn’t he tell me about you?” he exploded.

“It was spontaneous,” I said, before launching into a

defence of getting married quickly, but with less
enthusiasm than I would have before the calls started.

“I’ll be right over,” he said. “Don’t talk to anyone. We have

to fix this.”

“I am not a problem to be fixed!”

“Are you...” he paused, then lowered his voice.

“Pregnant? Expecting a little David Lee? A kid will really
hurt our comeback.”

“Lee?” I asked. “My husband’s middle name is Austin.

What comeback?”

“I know my own client’s middle name.”

“Client?” I asked. “I’m talking about David French, the

attorney.”

“I’m talking about David Lee Roth, the singer.”

(MediaPunch/Rex)

Even those who spent the 1980s trying to figure out the
Rubik’s Cube were aware of David Lee Roth leading Van
Halen to worldwide fame. He had a long mane of golden
hair, acrobatic stage moves made possible by his
brightly coloured spandex. The rock star was always
surrounded by gaggles of women. My David wore
glasses and suits and sometimes dressed up for Star
Wars and Lord of the Rings movie premieres.

There’d been a big mix-up. Apparently, the rock star had

changed his number right before we moved to
Manhattan but still gave out his old number to women
he met but wanted to let down easily. Later that year, he
appeared on MTV with Van Halen. When rumours of
them getting back together started flying, our phone
rang with congratulations and invitations to exclusive
parties.

That’s how – for a brief period of time – we became

David Lee Roth’s answering service and romantic
liaison. “Do a lot of other women call here?” a teary
caller asked, but my husband let her down gently. At one
point, we even fielded a call from Roth’s dad.

Once we put this puzzle together, the man on the other

end of the phone line – his agent, I realised – sighed in
relief. Soon, we were both laughing. Neither of us had
been betrayed. But during the short time it took for David
Lee Roth to transition to a new telephone number, I’d
started to doubt the man I married. How precarious love
is, I thought back then. Surprisingly, it turned out to be
quite resilient.

Influencer's surprise wedding proposal turns out to be just a

marketing stunt

Ours outlasted Manhattan; Ithaca, New York;

Philadelphia; two cities in Kentucky; and three cities in
Tennessee. Our love survived a harrowing deployment to
Iraq. It survived two parents with cancer, a lump in my
breast, a chronic disease. It lasted when jobs, friends
and vehicles didn’t. It survived when the months lasted
longer than the paychecks. It’s thrived through one
difficult pregnancy, one premature birth, an adoption that
spanned two continents, horrible heartbreak and
unspeakable joy.

Over the years I’ve learned that our desire for others
does not mean we are an inconvenience or a problem to
be solved. As beautifully described in the immortal
words of Van Halen’s hit song: “You got to roll with the
punches and get to what’s real.”

I’m very glad that, when I was 20, I made the decision to
marry the “rank stranger”.

© Washington Post