The Accidental Honeymoon

by Portia MacIntosh

  Jack strokes my cheek gently with the backs of his fingers and gives me a big, reassuring smile. I know it’s an act, but it does make me feel better.

  ‘Oh, I wish mum and dad were here to see all this,’ my mum says, her voice thickening with emotion.

  ‘Oh, don’t start with all that sentimental rubbish, please, Elizabeth,’ my auntie replies harshly.

  I find myself taking Jack’s hand and squeezing it for comfort.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the waiter chimes in. ‘I’m just about to bring the drinks for the table over. If you guys know what you want, I can bring them together.’

  The waiter makes his way around the table taking the last of the orders before getting to me and Jack.

  ‘Just an orange juice, please,’ Jack orders.

  ‘Boring,’ I tease him. ‘I’ll have a Negroni, please.’

  Well, when in Rome (or an Italian café that serves cocktails, at least), why not? It’s lunchtime, and it’s been ages since I had a cocktail with Campari in. I may not be a big drinker, but when I do drink it’s all about the flavours. On a hot summer’s day like today, I can’t think of anything better.

  ‘So, where are you getting married?’ I ask.

  ‘The Majestic,’ Dougie replies. ‘Costing a bloody fortune.’

  ‘Is it new?’ I ask – yet another place I haven’t heard of.

  ‘Relatively,’ he replies. ‘They’re taking a leaf out of Vegas’s book, everything under one roof. It’s got an epic casino.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Jack jumps in, suddenly very interested. ‘Yeah. You a gambling man?’ Dougie asks.

  ‘I, er, don’t mind the occasional hand of poker,’ Jack says casually.

  ‘We’ll have to play sometime,’ Dougie suggests.

  ‘Sure,’ Jack replies.

  As people begin talking among themselves, I lean in to whisper to Jack.

  ‘Don’t you dare play him at poker,’ I say, disguising it with a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘It would be too easy,’ he whispers back as he tucks my hair behind my ear.

  ‘Aww, aren’t you too cute,’ Fliss coos. ‘I hope you’ve got matching twenties outfits for the wedding.’

  ‘Twenties outfits?’ I ask.

  We’re interrupted by the waiter, serving our drinks. As he places cups and glasses down on the table, I notice that everyone seems to be drinking tea or fruit juice. Finally, he places my cocktail down in front of me, complete with a fancy orange-peel garnish and a big, pink umbrella.

  ‘Bit early, Georgie,’ Auntie Di observes.

  Shit, I didn’t realise no one else would be drinking. Now I look like an alcoholic. The thing is, it’s lunchtime – it’s not that early.

  ‘Sorry, I figured because it was lunchtime,’ I reason.

  ‘Brunch,’ my auntie corrects me.

  ‘I’ve got a vodka in this,’ Jack lies.

  ‘Well, I wish I’d had the same as Gigi,’ Fliss says. ‘In fact, bring me one, too, please. Anyone else want one? Mum? Auntie Liz? Sara?’

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ Sara reminds her.

  ‘So, what, you want two?’ Fliss jokes, laughing so hard she snorts. ‘Relax, it was a joke. I guess just bring four more, and we’ll see who drinks them,’ she tells the waiter. ‘Don’t worry, brunch is on us.’

  I appreciate both Jack and my cousin’s efforts to make me seem like less of an alcoholic.

  ‘Fliss, what were you saying about twenties outfits?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, yeah, well, so all the best weddings have a theme,’ she tells me, gesturing wildly with her hands as she explains. ‘So we thought a Prohibition thing would be good.’

  ‘Careful, Felicity, Georgina will have a heart attack if she thinks she can’t get a drink,’ my auntie teases.

  I laugh sarcastically.

  It’s going to sound horrible, but I’ve always felt like my auntie doesn’t have much time for me – I’m not even sure she likes my mum sometimes. How can she, when she’s so cold and so competitive? It’s like she doesn’t care that Fliss is doing well – just that she’s doing better than everyone else. Fliss is her living, breathing Ferrari.

  ‘So it’s like a twenties thing – you should see my dress. Did you not get your invitation? It said all guests had to adhere to the dress code.’

  ‘Did it?’ I reply, sipping my drink anxiously.

  Now that I think about it, I do kind of remember reading something about a dress code and decided to ignore it. I didn’t think it would be a big deal. Bloody hell – the twenties! I love my cousin, but I’m not even sure she knows what the Prohibition era is.

  ‘What inspired that?’ Jack asks curiously.

  ‘Oh, I saw it in a wedding mag,’ Fliss explains. ‘Someone had a Gatsby thing, like the Leonardo DiCaprio movie. So we decided on that. All weddings have to have a theme these days.’

  The theme of my weddings was vodka and regret.

  ‘That sounds cool,’ I reply. ‘We didn’t bring twenties-themed clothing. We did bring some gorgeous outfits, though.’

  ‘Gigi, everyone else will be wearing twenties stuff. You have to,’ my cousin insists.

  ‘I’m just not even sure where we’d find something at such short notice,’ I start, looking over at Jack whose eyes seem to agree with the sentiment.

  ‘Have something made?’ she suggests.

  ‘Erm, I’m not sure that’s in my budget,’ I admit honestly – something that’s hard to do surrounded by comfortable-to-very-well-off people.

  ‘OK, I know what we’ll do,’ Fliss says, calming down from the tantrum she seemed very close to throwing. ‘My dressmaker custom made our outfits. I’ll have her make some for you guys – we’ll pay.’

  ‘We’ll pay?’ Dougie laughs. ‘We’ll pay for brunch, we’ll pay for outfits…’

  He sounds like he’s joking, except I don’t think he is. The last thing I’d want my family to think is that I was a money-grabber.

  ‘Fliss, that’s very kind of you, but it’s too much,’ I insist.

  ‘Gigi, please. It can be your wedding gift to us, to match everyone else.’

  I know she means well, but now I look awful.

  ‘Please,’ she persists gently.

  All eyes are on me. Wearing my own clothes isn’t an option, clearly. Trying to find appropriate outfits over the next couple of days wouldn’t guarantee success. Paying to have outfits made, at short notice, will be so expensive, and although $10k might seem like a lot of money, it isn’t. Not now I’m homeless and between jobs – which is really just a nice way of saying I’m unemployed. That only leaves one option…

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Fliss,’ Jack says. ‘Thank you.’

  Still holding hands under the table, I give Jack one more squeeze. By accepting the offer on our behalf, it means I didn’t technically do it, which means my auntie can’t lord it over my mum. He’s so in tune with what’s going on, it’s nice – shame he’s such a bighead.

  ‘Perfect,’ Fliss says victoriously, clapping her hands. ‘It’ll be like you’re an honorary bridesmaid. I’m sorry for not asking you. It just seemed like it would be so hard, what with getting an outfit sorted in time, with you living in America.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I tell her, although there’s clearly enough time to sort an outfit for me – not that I wanted to be a bridesmaid. I’m actually relieved she never asked me, because I don’t know how I could have said no.

  ‘Wait,’ Fliss squeaks, flinging her arms in the air. My cousin is so bright and full of beans, 24-7. When she talks, she struggles to keep her hands still, and she’s incapable of indifference, with everything being oh-so incredible or the worst thing to ever happen in the world. We’ve always looked similar – people used to think we were sisters at school, not cousins. Both kind of short, both with mousy-brown hair. We’re looking very different today, but that’s a combination of my makeover and Fliss’s blatant wedding diet paying off. ‘Be a bridesmaid.’

  ‘I don’t want to mess up your plans. I�
��m sure you’ve got things all figured out,’ I say, hoping she’ll leave it at that.

  ‘No, I insist. It’s no trouble. Plus, it will be practice for your big day.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I say, praying she backs down.

  ‘I’m certain,’ she tells me, sipping her drink.

  ‘Well, thanks,’ is about all I can manage to say. ‘Just let me know what I need to know.’

  ‘Dance lessons are tomorrow, I’ll text you the address,’ she says, grabbing her iPhone.

  ‘Dance lessons?’ I echo.

  ‘Yes – you need to come, too, Jack. We’re having a choreographed routine,’ she says proudly.

  Of course they are, and it sounds like hell.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I walk out of Primark and look around for Jack and Olly but they’re nowhere to be seen.

  After brunch everyone went home. My parents took Sara with them because she was tired, so Olly said he’d give Jack and I a lift because we needed to grab some shopping – most notably, underpants.

  Here I am, standing outside Primark under Blackpool Tower where we said we’d meet, with my large brown paper bag most definitely at capacity. I bought Jack underwear, shorts and a replacement tracksuit, given I threw his away – and thanks to Primark’s pricing, it hasn’t made much of a dent in my winnings.

  I’ve upheld my side of the deal, but my brother and my husband/fake fiancé are nowhere to be seen. I should have known those two would be trouble together.

  I glance down the street one way, then the other – that’s when I spot the crowd of people and curiously wander over.

  I can hear a male voice speaking theatrically from the centre of the crowd. I push my way gently through the people to see Jack and Olly talking to a street performer.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘Not too bright is this one, is she, fellas?’ the performer says to Jack and Olly. I frown. ‘We’ve got a bet going. This fella is going to pick a card, shuffle the deck, and then I’m going to find it. I’m so confident I’ll win, I’ll double your money,’ he calls out to the crowd.

  ‘Olly, come on, this is a scam,’ I tell him pointlessly. He’s already handed over £10.

  ‘Don’t listen to women, mate, nothing but trouble,’ the obnoxious performer tells him. ‘OK, here we go.’

  I watch as the performer shuffles the deck before fanning the cards out in front of my brother.

  ‘Pick a card,’ he demands. ‘Then show the crowd before putting it back in the deck.’

  Olly does as he’s told. He shows the crowd the six of spades before putting it back in the deck.

  ‘OK, now, shuffle this for me, mate,’ the performer insists. Olly gives the cards a slow and careful shuffle, making sure they’re as jumbled up as possible.

  ‘Come on, pal, it’s not rocket science,’ the performer laughs at him – the audience join in. ‘If brains were dynamite, eh?’

  ‘There.’ My brother hands the deck back and we watch as the street performer waves a hand over the deck magically, wiggling his fingers, humming as though he’s summoning the card from the deck. Finally, he thumbs through the cards before pulling out the six of spades.

  ‘Is this your card?’ he asks.

  ‘Shit,’ Olly blurts.

  The performer snatches Olly’s £10 from the table, along with the £10 he put down to match it.

  ‘Some of us get looks, some of us get brains – this fella got neither, ladies and gentlemen,’ he tells the crowed, who all laugh.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ I insist.

  ‘Actually, I think I might have a go,’ Jack says.

  ‘Jack, come on, it’s clearly impossible to win or he wouldn’t be doing it in the first place.’

  The smug performer shrugs his shoulders and smiles. What an arsehole, tricking people in the street so he can win money from them. He’s no performer, he’s a con man.

  Jack ushers me to one side and whispers in my ear.

  ‘Can I borrow £20 please?’ he asks quietly. ‘You’ll get it back. I just haven’t had chance to get any English money yet, but I want to try and win Olly’s money back for him. And some extra, to teach this guy a lesson,’ he laughs.

  ‘Jack, he’s a con artist,’ I point out. This guy has a scam going, I really don’t want to give him any more money or confidence.

  ‘Trust me,’ Jack laughs.

  ‘Fine, if it means we can go home quicker. My God, you two are like children,’ I say as I hand Jack £20.

  ‘Wow, another go?’ the performer laughs. ‘You must all be feeling lucky – I’ll gladly take your money.’

  The performer repeats the procedure, placing the £20 note on the table, matching it with £20 of his own money and shuffling the cards before fanning them out in front of Jack for him to select one.

  ‘You know the drill,’ the performer says. ‘Pick a card.’

  Jack pulls the three of diamonds from the deck, shows it to the crowd and then replaces it in the deck.

  ‘All done?’ the performer asks. ‘OK, big guy, give them a shuffle. Don’t hurt yourself.’

  Jack takes the deck from him and hesitates for a second.

  ‘All muscle and no brains,’ the performer tells the adoring crowd. ‘I said shuffle them.’

  He speaks to Jack in a slow, patronising tone. If I had Jack’s guns, I’d probably punch him – then again, his fist would probably go straight through his face.

  Jack gives the deck one gentle shuffle, lulling the performer into a false sense of security before breaking out the tricks. He springs the deck from one hand to the other before performing various other fancy shuffles, his hands almost a blur with movement. At one point he has four separate mini decks that all come together in his right hand. He then hands the cards back to the performer.

  ‘Done,’ Jack announces casually.

  The street performer is dumbstruck. Whatever trick he usually uses to con people out of money, Jack has obviously just made it very hard for him.

  ‘Erm…’ The performer scratches his head. ‘OK, so, is this your card?’

  He pulls the eight of hearts from the deck and presents it to Jack, without any of the theatrics he used when he was playing with Olly. This time he’s straight to the point – and wrong.

  ‘Nope,’ Jack tells him casually.

  ‘This?’ the performer asks, with absolutely zero confidence as he holds up the ace of diamonds.

  ‘Nope,’ Jack replies. He gives the performer’s shoulder a patronising squeeze. ‘Come on, big guy, you can do it.’

  I glance around the audience to see the crowd’s loyalty has shifted. They’re no longer impressed by the performer’s tricks, they’re Team Jack instead.

  ‘This one?’ the performer asks.

  ‘Nope,’ Jack replies. ‘Guess that means I win.’

  Jack picks up the money from the table, returns my £20 note and gives the other to Olly, who is simply gazing at him in silence, like he’s some sort of rockstar.

  We’re about to walk away when the annoyed performer asks: ‘So, come on then, which one was your card?’

  ‘Look in your pocket,’ Jack tells him.

  The performer frowns, puzzled, as he checks his pocket, finally pulling the three of diamonds from there. The audience gasps in amazement.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Olly practically cackles.

  ‘How… how…?’ the performer stutters, his eyes wide with amazement. He looks so angry, he might just explode.

  ‘There, there,’ Jack comforts him. ‘Here.’

  With one swift, seamless movement Jack pulls a handkerchief from the performer’s ear.

  ‘OK,’ he says, clapping his hands. ‘Now we can go.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘…And then, just when I thought you couldn’t get any cooler, you pulled that hanky from his ear and told him not to cry. Amazing,’ Olly gushes as he pulls into my parents’ driveway.

  All the way home, all Olly has done is bang on about how wond
erful Jack is, and Jack is lapping up the attention.

  ‘Do chicks like magic tricks?’ Olly asks curiously.

  I can’t help but scrunch up my face at the thought of my brother talking to ‘chicks’. He’s married and has a baby on the way – no chick is going to talk to him, magic trick or not.

  ‘They sure do,’ Jack replies. ‘That’s how I won your sister over.’

  Olly glances towards the passenger seat so I smile sweetly in agreement.

  ‘Can we stop talking about it now?’ I ask as we walk up the driveway.

  ‘I need to tell Mum and Dad,’ Olly says excitedly, like a kid who has just got back from the zoo and wants to tell everyone every last detail.

  I sit myself down on the garden wall.

  ‘Go ahead, I’m just going to get some air.’

  ‘You OK?’ Jack asks me, obviously faking concern.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I tell him. ‘Go enjoy your moment.’

  As Olly and Jack head inside, the first thing I hear before the door closes is Olly screaming: ‘Hey, Mum, Dad, you’ll never guess what Jack just did…’

  Leaning back I close my eyes and let the sun shine down on me. Fliss is so lucky, to have such a beautiful, sunny week for her wedding celebrations, and I’m so happy to be visiting home at such a glorious time of year. The last time I visited it was winter and the weather was absolutely horrible. LA winters are a walk in the park compared to the battering our isle takes.

  I can’t believe I’ve been roped in to being a bridesmaid – and one who has to learn choreography and wear a costume. I need to stop thinking that things can’t get any worse because someone or something is getting a weird kick out of proving me wrong.

  One thing is for sure, though; Jack might be getting on my nerves, and we may both be fluffing our lines, but he’s doing a great job of being the person I need him to be: a truly enviable fiancé whom my family adore. My mum thinks he’s wonderful, my cousin thinks he’s a babe and Olly thinks he’s the coolest person he’s ever met. If the goal was to come here and pass myself off as happily engaged, then I’ve pretty much nailed it.