My thoroughly modern and fiercely feminist friend is getting a prenup. We talk about it often: she tries to convince me it’s a tool for equality, and I try not to look too unconvinced.
She argues that prenups don’t just cover what the exes can’t have, but what they can; that such decisions, made with a head leveller than it would be during a divorce, can help women keep their independence and get what they’re owed.
But we are all products of our own experience, and mine gives me doubts. I can’t fully understand the desire to protect inherited money from a spouse – to ensure the family legacy survives the marriage – because my family have no money nor legacy (unless you count “greatest hagglers of Dagenham”). And when you grow up without money, a sign of love is to give it, to split £20 into a tenner each and live off pasta together.
I argue that a contract written in advance can’t compensate women when so much of our labour in the home goes unpaid. “It’s like when you quote a customer for work, and midway through the project realise you’ve underbudgeted,” I say. “You can’t guess how much you’ll spend, monetarily, physically or mentally, in a marriage.”
“So update your prenup periodically, to reflect the latest circumstances,” my friend advises, as I groan loudly.
Still, I’m happy my friend found what works for her. As for me, I needn’t worry: I’m not getting married. But I can’t help but chuckle at the thought that, although I may miss the milestone of marriage, I reached another far quicker than I’d imagined: shaking my head and letting out a sigh about the madness of “kids these days”. It is a new experience to feel old-fashioned; I suspect it won’t be the last.
