The Accidental Honeymoon

by Portia MacIntosh

  Oh my God, he’s like a child. I thank the man, exhale deeply and dash inside. Obviously, because we’re in an airport, the toilets are quite busy, and each man greets me with an awkward, uncomfortable gaze.

  ‘You’re, er, in the gents’, love,’ a man points out, as though I hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Cheers,’ I reply.

  I have to admit, it’s nothing like I thought it would be in here. The place is absolutely packed with men, rushing around, brushing their teeth and getting changed. For most, my presence here isn’t startling; they’re in too much of a hurry. It doesn’t smell like I expected in here. It’s unpleasant, for sure, but I expected it to smell like pee instead of the cocktail of strong cleaning products and mixture of deodorants and aftershaves that permeates the air.

  I glance around the crowd for Jack – doing my best to avert my eyes from the urinals – but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Jack,’ I call out, quickly losing my patience and raising my voice. ‘Jack!’

  ‘In here,’ I hear him call back from inside one of the cubicles.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I ask, leaning towards the door.

  ‘I look like a dick,’ he calls back.

  ‘Do you know how much those clothes cost me?’ I ask angrily through the door, but he doesn’t reply. I try a softer approach. ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Is it still busy out there?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  I hear the sound of Jack unlocking the door before it opens just enough to allow a person through.

  ‘Quick, inside,’ he insists, pulling me through.

  Jack exhales deeply as I look him up and down. He’s wearing one of the outfits I gave him, and he’s clean-shaven (but with a piece of tissue stuck to the edge of his sharp jaw where he must have nicked his skin) and his hair is slicked back, just like I told him. He looks so different. Younger and more polished.

  ‘You look good,’ I tell him. Well, he does.

  ‘I look stupid. My cheeks look fat without a beard, not to mention I no longer look thirty, I look about fifteen. And this outfit – where do I begin?’

  I shrug my shoulders. It’s smart and fashionable. I have no idea what his problem is.

  ‘Did I sail here on my yacht?’ he asks sarcastically. ‘Blue and white pinstripe shorts and a matching blazer? You’ve gotta be kidding me, princess.’

  The buzz from outside the cubicle dies down.

  ‘People come and go in waves, we’re probably safe to step outside for a minute,’ he tells me. ‘Soon as the next rush of people comes in, I’m coming back in here.’

  Once we’re out of the cubicle it’s much easier to look Jack up and down properly.

  ‘You really suit your hair like that,’ I tell him honestly.

  ‘It’s not the hair that bothers me,’ he replies. ‘It’s this sailor-boy get-up. No offence, but everything in these bags sucks.’

  I am entirely offended. So much so, I start riffling through the bags to prove to him everything in here is stylish and cool.

  ‘That outfit you’re wearing is straight off a mannequin in Jack Wills,’ I inform him. ‘There is no denying they’re cool. Ditch the blazer if you don’t like it. You look good in shorts and even you can’t take issue with a white shirt.’

  ‘Why don’t I just put that navy jumper on that you bought me?’ he suggests. ‘Oh yeah, because it’s summer and boiling outside and I’d literally die.’

  ‘It’s not for wearing, it’s for draping,’ I tell him patronisingly, although it does occur to me that someone not so into fashion won’t appreciate that.

  Jack stares at me blankly for a second.

  ‘I have no idea what that means,’ he tells me.

  ‘Here, put these on,’ I instruct, throwing him a pair of navy-blue chinos. ‘These with that shirt will look good.’

  I walk over to him and gently pull the piece of tissue from his chin before placing my hands lightly on the sides of his head to smooth his hair down.

  ‘Could I almost pass for a gentleman?’ he asks.

  ‘Did you just quote Titanic to me?’ I reply in disbelief.

  ‘You think I haven’t seen Titanic? It’s a classic,’ he insists. ‘So, could I almost pass for a gentleman?’

  I smile.

  ‘Almost.’

  He laughs as he heads into the cubicle with his trousers.

  He’s no sooner closed the door when the next surge of travellers pours in. The first few do a double-take, the sight of a woman tricking them into thinking they’re in the wrong place.

  ‘This is the men’s toilets,’ one man points out to me.

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ I reply, making no attempt to move.

  The man frowns at me so I tap on the cubicle door.

  ‘Jack, let me in,’ I beg. ‘I’m not getting the warmest welcome out here.’

  ‘Just let me put my pants on,’ he replies.

  ‘Just until the crowd clears out, then I’ll sneak out,’ I plead.

  A few seconds later the door opens.

  ‘Wow, you look great,’ I tell him, a little taken aback. I can’t help but notice he hasn’t zipped up his trousers yet – probably because he rushed to let me in – so I keep almost uncomfortable eye contact with him. He’s right – the pinstripes were a bit much.

  ‘I feel less uncomfortable in this,’ he replies. ‘Kept the boat shoes on, though. I’m assuming your royal family lives on a boat?’

  ‘Far from it,’ I laugh. ‘It’s a semi.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s cold in here,’ he jokes as he does up his trousers.

  ‘Hilarious,’ I reply sarcastically, although I have to admit he is pretty funny.

  ‘Look, can we head back into the clothes store and find something we can both live with me wearing? Marriage is all about compromise, you told me that.’

  I can’t help but laugh again.

  ‘OK, sure.’

  The buzz of the travellers dies down again. Now is my time to sneak out without a scene.

  I’m just about to open the door when I hear a single set of footsteps approach the cubicle door. Seconds after the steps stop there’s a knock on the door.

  ‘Sir, is everything all right in there?’ a deep male voice asks.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ Jack calls back calmly.

  Silence for a few seconds.

  ‘We’ve received reports you’ve got a woman in there with you,’ the man eventually says.

  Jack and I just stare at each other, as though the other might have a plan to get us out of this situation.

  ‘Time to face the music,’ Jack whispers.

  I walk out first, sheepishly.

  ‘I was helping him with his trousers,’ I tell the big, burly security guard staring down at me.

  ‘Of course you were, love,’ he replies, unconvinced.

  ‘Sorry, man,’ Jack says as he follows me before offering up an explanation. ‘We’re newlyweds.’

  Chapter Ten

  With the long flight, the trip from the airport to Blackpool and the epic time difference, evening is approaching as we near my parents’ house – the following day. Jet lag is hitting me hard, as my body tries to understand what’s going on.

  Apart from napping on and off on the plane, it’s been nearly twenty-four hours since I slept in a bed – and nearly twenty-four hours I’ve spent with Jack.

  There’s no plainer way I can say this: my husband is driving me mad. He’s so sarcastic (and popular culture has spent a lot of time and effort convincing me Americans have no concept of this), pedantic and a little full of himself. Yes, OK, I get it, he’s gorgeous and buff, but that’s not the be all and end all. That only gets you so far. He’s so relaxed it’s frustrating, and he’s such a flirt – he’s turned on the charm for pretty much every woman we’ve come into contact with, and that’s a lot because women just flock to him.

  In the hours since we landed, all we’ve been able to do is talk. This seemed like a good idea, as it will be easier to lie if we�
��re at least armed with some facts, but all it’s done is prove just how different we are from each other.

  It sounds like uni-era Georgie and Jack would’ve got along famously. I was so carefree back then, I loved nothing more than going out every night, meeting new people and having fun. But then I met John and I grew up. I became the sensible, mature young woman I knew men settled down with and, although I might be dressed like old Georgie now, I’m still the same sensible girl – or boring, as Jack corrected me. He told me the Georgie he met in Vegas was awesome, but as for the girl I described myself as to him today, it sounds like she’s not really the kind of person he’d want to spend time with – not without the promise of $10k, anyway. Of course, he’s too well mannered to say as much, but when he realised my antics in Vegas were out of character, I could see his enthusiasm for the trip drain a little.

  It seems like we were both mis-sold, because the handsome, charming, hero type I met in Vegas has been replaced with this guy who rubbernecks when girls in shorts walk past, and who teases me because we differ on how we want to live our lives.

  So, he thinks I’m boring and I think he’s a smarmy ladies’ man, and now we have to pretend to be in love in front of the people who know me best. I just hope he starts taking this more seriously, toning his true personality down a little, and trying to tease me less.

  ‘If this is what this place looks like in summer, remind me not to come back in the winter,’ he says as he peers out of the taxi window. ‘It’s so dull and lifeless.’

  ‘You can’t compare a town in Lancashire to Las Vegas,’ I point out, irritated. ‘It’s not only the ultimate Sin City, but with all the bright lights and casinos, it’s basically a theme park for adults. This is the quiet little town where I grew up. Obviously, when we head into Blackpool it will be different, but…’

  I stop talking as I notice Jack laughing.

  ‘You have to stop winding me up,’ I tell him. ‘We’re supposed to be in love and that will be hard to convince people of when you’re so very clearly pissing me off.’

  ‘You need to be less uptight,’ he tells me. ‘If I have to get you drunk and marry you again just to get you to loosen up, I’ll do it. But people will have a hard time believing we’re in love when you’re not being lovable.’

  I feel my jaw drop.

  ‘I am lovable,’ I protest. ‘My fiancé loved me.’

  ‘I’m not even going to respond to that,’ he tells me. ‘Just, have a little faith. You might be an actress, but with my skills, I could have made one hell of a con man – and I have an excellent poker face. Trust me, OK?’

  I exhale deeply before nodding. I don’t really have much choice, do I?

  The taxi pulls up outside my parents’ house, an unremarkable three-bedroom semi-detached.

  ‘This it?’ Jack asks. I shoot him a dirty look. ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that,’ he clarifies. ‘I just mean, are we here?’

  ‘This is it,’ I tell him.

  We step out of the taxi and remove our bags. As the car pulls away, it occurs to me I haven’t told Jack much about my parents.

  ‘So, erm, I think you’ll like my dad. He’s very laid-back – a lot like you really. But I should probably warn you about my mum.’

  ‘Mums love me,’ he says confidently.

  ‘She can just be a bit full-on,’ I tell him. ‘She’s probably going to ask you a million questions.’

  ‘Georgie, do you trust me?’ he asks as he takes my hand.

  I feel a jolt of something through my body. I wasn’t expecting him to hold my hand. Then, of course, I remember what we’re here to do, and it makes sense to hold hands… I just wasn’t expecting him to touch me.

  ‘I do,’ I tell him. ‘Just… don’t let me down.’

  Before we have a chance to say anything else my mum and dad come rushing outside to greet us. After both giving me a hug, they turn their attention to Jack and wait expectantly for an introduction. I open my mouth to speak but words fail me, the thought of lying so spectacularly to the people who brought me into the world and raised me suddenly something I’m not entirely sure I’m comfortable with.

  ‘I’m Paul,’ my dad says as he offers Jack a hand to shake. ‘And this is my wife, Liz.’

  Jack gives my dad’s hand a firm shake before turning to kiss my mum on the cheek, a move that makes her visibly swoon.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you both. I’m Jack,’ he says.

  I swallow hard. I cannot believe he’s just fallen at the first hurdle.

  ‘I thought your name was John?’ my dad asks, puzzled. As he furrows his brow I can see that this is an immediate red flag for him.

  ‘It is,’ I say, thinking fast. ‘But, you know how sometimes people shorten John to Jack? It’s like that.’

  ‘So, do you prefer to be called John or Jack?’ my mum asks.

  ‘I prefer to be called Jack,’ he replies, clearly unable to believe his luck.

  ‘Jack it is then,’ my mum says. ‘Come in, let me show you our home.’

  My parents head into the house first with us following not too closely behind them.

  ‘That was a nice save,’ Jack whispers to me.

  ‘I know,’ I reply. ‘It’s probably better in the long run, but you need to focus. We can’t have any more slip-ups.’

  Once we’re inside the front door, my mum fusses around Jack, taking his things from him and setting them to one side.

  ‘I was beginning to think Gigi was keeping you from meeting us,’ she tells him. Jack laughs, although I suspect she’s being semi-serious.

  Jack takes my mum by the hand for a second. When he releases it, she has a single red rose in her grip.

  ‘My goodness,’ my mum squeaks. ‘That’s amazing.’

  As my mum – clearly falling for Jack’s charm – quizzes him about the magic trick, my dad leans in to whisper into my ear.

  ‘Your mum has washed the curtains, make sure you mention it.’

  I can’t help but laugh. My mum has no chill whatsoever. She’s the kind of mum who makes her kids’ business her business. She’s the kind of wife who nags her husband into doing everything she thinks is best and the kind of housewife who can’t go to bed on Christmas Eve until she’s ‘done the staircase carpet down’ – whatever the hell that means. But, as a result, her house is beautiful, her marriage is still going strong and two thirds of her children are perfect. If she knew what a state my life was in right now, I imagine she’d put it down to my living in LA for so long, without her positive (read: meddling) influence in my life.

  The redbrick house I grew up in is nothing special, but my mum and dad keep it nice. It’s got a really homely feel that instantly makes you feel better the second you step through the door. I might have left this place in hopes of bigger and better things, but I have to admit – especially in times of trouble like now – it feels so good to be home.

  ‘No offence, Gigi, but I didn’t expect you to bring home someone so handsome,’ my mum says casually.

  ‘Thanks, mum,’ I say sarcastically. Wow, even my mum thinks Jack is out of my league.

  ‘You moisturise?’ my dad asks him.

  This question completely takes me aback.

  ‘I’m sorry, am I in some kind of parallel universe where my dad asks other men if they moisturise?’

  ‘Well, look at the lad,’ my dad says, gesturing at Jack with a hand. ‘He doesn’t look anywhere close to thirty-six.’

  I see Jack’s eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘Nope, well, that’s what I am, apparently,’ he says in a faux upbeat manner. ‘Thirty-six years old.’

  I wait until my mum and dad aren’t looking at me to mouth the word ‘sorry’ to him. I should have told him John was a little older than him. It’s not that I thought he could pass for thirty-six; it’s just that he was the only actor up for the role and, without prosthetics or mo-cap, I’m working with what I’ve got.

  ‘Well, your room is ready for you if you want to take yo
ur bags up,’ my mum says, struggling to tear her gaze from Jack. I should be happy everyone thinks he’s so dreamy because it makes me look good, but for some reason it just annoys me.

  ‘So, is Jack sleeping on the sofa or in the conservatory or—’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ my mum laughs, cutting me off mid question. ‘You’re nearly thirty, Jack is your fiancé – your dad and I are under no illusions. We were young once, too, you know. And we assume you’re being careful – although a grandchild wouldn’t go amiss. You’re not getting any younger, you know.’

  Jack sniggers.

  There’s so much to take issue with there, I don’t know where to begin. I decide to gloss over her comments about my soon-to-be-useless ovaries, because having to share a bed with Jack is a far more pressing issue.

  ‘No, no, no. Jack is very respectful,’ I insist.

  ‘So are we,’ my dad chimes in. ‘You’re engaged, don’t be daft.’

  Protesting any more about sharing a room with my fiancé is only going to seem weirder, so I shut up and wrack my brains for a way round the situation. Growing up in a three-bedroom house with two brothers meant my parents got one of the large bedrooms, my brothers shared the other and I was left with the smallest one. It isn’t tiny – I have a double bed in there – but other than a few pieces of furniture there isn’t much room for anything else. There definitely isn’t enough space for Jack to sleep on the floor.

  ‘So, shall we?’ my mum asks, nodding towards the staircase.

  The staircase wall is littered with framed photos, from the dado rail to the ceiling. There are pictures from when my parents met, right up until pictures from last Christmas. My mother has a system in place for deciding which pictures get demoted in order to put new photos up – it’s a very important task, one no one else can be trusted with. I might make fun of her for it, but it’s nice to see the history of our family laid out like this. I notice Jack eyeing up the photos as he walks up the stairs, stopping for a few seconds to laugh at a photo of me on a beach in Spain when I was twelve. It’s funny because I was in a bad mood, so I wore a full tracksuit to the beach. It was boiling hot and everyone else in the photo is dressed for the beach in swimsuits and trunks, and then there’s me, with a face like thunder, dressed head to toe in black. My mum knows I hate it, but it makes everyone else laugh. She’s promised to replace it with a photo from my wedding, as per her system. But that’s not going to happen now, is it?