A kiss is still a kiss...even with a fake wife

There’s more to this romantic travel tale than meets the eye.

The Australian’s Richard Ferguson and his “wife” Lucy in Egypt.

I love Lucy. I’ve loved her since I was 17.

Since the moment I saw her dancing in the sun as we and the other students streamed out of our O-Day presentation at the University of Western Australia’s paradise of a campus on the banks of the Swan, she was the girl for me.

But why on Earth do half of Egypt and a shipload of Americans seem to think she’s my wife?

Granted, Lucy was there for every party, every dance, every merry moment.

But she’s also had to listen to me for hours on end on how yet another idiot homosexual male broke my heart.

And she insists the “dancing in the sun at O-Day” moment never happened, by the way. The first lie of our marriage I suppose.

My Ma – very loving, very forward-looking – did always say a part of her wished I had hopped on the other bus and married Lucy. Well, for one week among the pyramids, it all came true.

I’d been offered an assignment for this august organ: a 10-day cruise on the Nile, with a plus-one on the ship to boot.

I had two immediate problems – taking a boyfriend to authoritarian, Islamic Egypt may land us both in trouble with the authorities.

The second problem? I can’t get a boyfriend for love nor money.

The lie began the moment I asked Lucy – now living in London – to come with me.

“How glamorous, they’ll all think I’m a travelling reporter’s beautiful wife,” she exclaimed.

She wasn’t wrong.

We heard it at the temples, we heard it at the stalls, we were greeted with it at every restaurant.

“You’re a lucky man,” every Egyptian fella told me, time and time and time again. I was a gentleman and made sure to reply with: “Don’t I know it!”

From the busy streets of Upper Cairo to the sleepy villages of Lower Nubia, my luck was pointed out.

Lucy slightly basked in the indirect appreciation of the Egyptians, who often winked her way at the same time.

I wondered if the lie would settle down on the boat with the other passengers.

These were people with broad minds, many of them had travelled all over the world on these types of cruises. Surely they could spot a gay boy and his girl bestie from a mile away.

Nope. Even in Texas and Arizona, I am considered a lucky man.

“How long have you and your hubby been married?”

“What does your wife do?”

“Great choice for a honeymoon!”

None of these very fine people assumed we were married out of some latent homophobia or ignorance. And we wouldn’t fear telling anyone the truth that we were living (separately, far away from each other) in sin.

But we just loved being married.

Richard and Lucy pose in front of one the pyramids.

Of course, there were pitfalls to our lie. How did we explain that we lived in separate parts of the world?

Why was she flirting with the waiter in the cruise restaurant?

Never mind wondering why I was flirting with the same waiter.

For most people, we quickly realised, marriages are complex and take on all sorts of shapes.

But also, most people were into their fourth glass of wine on a luxurious boat and not thinking too deep about our relationship.

As Lucy and I sauntered through the ancient temples of those great heavenly couples, like the mother goddess, Isis, and the god of the dead, Osiris, sun god Horus and love deity Hathor, I wondered why I didn’t just say: “Oh no, no, no, she’s not my wife.”

Instead, as we waded through a market full of enthusiastic stall owners or the ruins of some Roman battlement, I would find myself saying: “Where on Earth has my wife gone off to?”

And when we sat atop the ship at the little pool, watching the Nile go by as the sun glistened, I may have had a moment when I envisioned us as Antony and Cleopatra sailing down that great river. Before all the bad stuff happened to Tony and Cleo, of course.

Like the innocent couples we were travelling with, it wasn’t fear or shame of being open or anything like that.

And I wasn’t lingering in some alternative universe where Lucy and I were actually together.

It was simply nice to be married for a brief moment. It’s nice to be Mr and Mrs (or Mr and Mr). It’s pleasant to be a team.

But the ruse was up. We were about to be found out at the Pyramids of Giza.

The pyramids themselves have a note of romance about them, with Khafu building mighty tombs for his queens.

We were going on the obligatory camel ride across the sand dunes; our marital camels side by side.

The dashing camel master, of course, says: “This is your wife? You’re a lucky man.”

The camel master was pretty handsome so I think Lucy felt less lucky this time being stuck with me.

As the camels stopped for our pyramids in the distance pic, the moment of danger arrived.

“Come on, give her a kiss.”

I hadn’t prepared for this eventuality. I kissed this woman once at a party when I was 18 as part of a game of Spin the Bottle after drinking two litres of cider, and never again.

I breathed in, gave her a peck on the cheek.

“What was that? A proper kiss. She’s not your sister,” the camel master barked.

“Sister”? Damn, that would have been a better cover story.

So we smooched. Not too long, but we tried our best, our love consummated in the Giza sun.

The cruise came to an end, as did the marriage.

We did well out of it – won the ship quiz night, got the odd marital discount at hotel restaurants, shared around the dysentery almost everyone on the ship ­suffered.

I’ll love Lucy till the day I die, probably, and I’ll always look fondly on the brief time I was her husband.

Back here, away from the Nile and stuck in Australia, the truth of the dating market is a lot less pleasant than my fraudulent Egyptian union.

Come on, Lucy. Should we make a go of it?