Don't Tell the Groom

by Anna Bell

  ‘So where are we going then? Or do I not want to know?’

  ‘Relax, relax,’ says Lou. ‘Here.’

  She passes me a blindfold as we get into the car.

  ‘No way. I’m not being blindfolded. I know what your driving is like. I want to be able to see.’

  ‘Really? I would have thought you’d find it preferable to the eye-scrunching you usually do.’

  The woman has a point. I take the blindfold and put it on over the veil. Please, dear Lord, do not let us break down.

  By the time we reach our destination I feel thoroughly sick. It turns out wearing a blindfold while in the car with Lou is a lot like seasickness. Speaking of seasickness, is that the sea I can smell?

  ‘Here we are,’ says Lou.

  From what I can tell from the blindfold she is now at the passenger side door. I can feel her leaning over me and then I hear the pop before my seatbelt pings undone.

  ‘Can I take the blindfold off yet?’ I ask.

  ‘OK, then.’

  Ripping off the blindfold I suddenly have to cover my eyes as for once the sun is shining. Of course the sun is shining today. This means that it will be raining next week on my wedding day, as we all know that you can’t have two nice weekends in a row with British weather.

  ‘Where are we?’

  I look up to see we’re parked next to a static caravan. A caravan? For my hen do? Really? Mark gets to stay in a hunting lodge and I get a caravan?

  I look at Lou for some explanation for this.

  ‘Don’t kill me. This is your sister’s idea, but they’re apparently luxury caravans and there’s a spa on site.’

  I’m trying not to project my sceptical feelings on to my face. I’m reminding myself that people are here for my enjoyment and I should stop being such a princess.

  ‘Great. Let’s get in there then. I could do with a glass of water,’ I say.

  ‘Glass of water? I may not be drinking, but there will be none of that.’

  I walk into the caravan and I hear a champagne cork pop.

  ‘Surprise,’ shouts my sister Becky.

  The caravan is a lot roomier than it looked from the outside; it is positively a Tardis. Instead of having the makeshift seats and the annoyingly restrictive fixed tables that I remember of caravanning when I was a child, there is a giant L-shaped leather sofa and a kitchen that is actually big enough to cook in.

  ‘Wow, this place is great.’

  I go over and give my sister a hug before taking a glass of champagne and saying my hellos to the rest of the crew that are here.

  ‘This is suddenly very exciting,’ I say, sipping on my champagne. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We figured we’d chill out in the hot tub for a bit before we get ready for our night out tonight,’ says Becky.

  ‘Hot tub?’ I ask. Did I really hear that right?

  ‘Out the back,’ says Becky, as she opens up the patio doors.

  I poke my head outside to see the wooden veranda with a hot tub on one side and patio furniture on the other. Caravanning has suddenly gone up in my estimation.

  The hot tub turns out to be just what I need to relax after the week I’ve had. The tension caused by worrying whether Nanny Violet was going to spill the beans has well and truly left my body. Now I am in a relaxed state of bliss. I will just have to channel this Zen when we go on our night out, as I don’t think somehow it is going to be as calm and tranquil.

  ‘Right, time to play Mr and Mrs,’ says Becky, clapping her hands.

  Oh God. I hate Mr and Mrs. OK, maybe hate is the wrong word; I hate the thought of me having to play it. I don’t want people to know what Mark’s favourite sexual position is or which of my friends he fancies.

  I sit down on the sofa and I’m amazed at Becky when she pulls out an iPod projector and a laptop and suddenly there on the wall of the caravan is my lovely Mark. Oh Mark, what have you done?

  A horror unfolds on the screen. There is my father dressed in a tuxedo introducing the Mr and Mrs game.

  ‘Really? You got Mum and Dad involved in this?’ I hiss at my sister. I try to rack my brains to think what we did at her hen do and I don’t think we humiliated her that much, did we? An image of her dressed as Little Bo Peep in Brighton flashes in front of my eyes; maybe I could be in trouble after all.

  The first question is tame enough. How did we meet?

  Surely Mark will tell the version of the story we all know and love? Surely he will? I’m going to bloody kill him if he tells the truth. Only Lou knows the actual truth. And that’s if she remembers I told her – we’d had a lot of tequila the night I confessed it to her.

  ‘So, Pen, how did you and Mark meet? Or should I say, how will Mark say you two met?’ asks my dad.

  Becky pauses the video and she and the rest of the girls look at me expectantly.

  He’ll have to give the approved version. Surely he knows better than to tell the truth?

  ‘We met at the gym. He came up to me in the juice bar and asked me out on a date,’ I say as confidently as I can.

  ‘Let’s see what Mark says.’

  Oh no, there’s something in the way Becky said that which makes me think Mark’s version isn’t going to be the same as mine.

  Mark pops up on the screen again. I’m such a lucky girl – he looks amazing.

  ‘We met at the gym,’ says video Mark.

  ‘See,’ I say, with a triumphant grin. I know my fiancé just fine.

  ‘Wait for it,’ says Becky.

  I strain my face to keep the grin as Mark keeps talking.

  ‘You want me to tell you how we met at the gym? Oh boy. So I was walking out of the men’s changing rooms and Penny walked out of the girls’ changing rooms just ahead of me. At first I was looking at her arse as I thought it was cute, and the next thing I saw that she’d dropped something. I bent down to pick it up and called after her. Only when I picked it up I realised it was a pair of knickers. Penny of course was mortified, but I told her if I’d already seen her knickers then I might as well take her on a date.’

  I’m going to kill him.

  ‘That’s it, laugh away,’ I say to the much-cackling witches.

  ‘How did your knickers get on the floor?’ asks Becky.

  I take a deep breath. I’ve lost all my shame at this point anyway.

  ‘They were in my trouser leg. I must have taken my trousers and knickers off at the same time the night before. I guess I picked the trousers off the floor and shoved them straight in my gym bag without noticing, and when I put them on at the gym I hadn’t realised.’

  ‘Oh my God, that’s too funny,’ says Sasha, crying with laughter.

  I roll my eyes. Six years we’ve been telling the juice bar story. Six years. How had he not picked up on that?

  And now everyone at the wedding will know too. Jane’s here in the caravan so she’ll tell Phil, and Phil will tell all of Mark’s friends, and then everyone will know. Heaven help me, if this is what Mark is saying at the hen do, goodness knows what he is going to say during the wedding speeches.

  ‘Question two,’ says my dad. ‘What part of your body does Mark find most lickable?’

  Shoot me. Really shoot me now. It is probably a good job we aren’t on Mark’s stag do as I don’t think it would be wise for me to be around a lot of guns.

  The questions progress from there and send me into a pit of humiliation so deep I think I’ll never be able to climb out. I just about manage to survive without spontaneously combusting, which I thought was a possibility as my cheeks are that hot.

  As the girls, who are all laughed out, start to peel off to the shower I I’ll send Mark a cheeky text about what reprisal he’s going to get when I get back from the hen do.

  PENNY

  Just played Mr and Mrs. I can’t believe you told everyone about the gym. I’m going to have to get you back tomorrow night. I’m thinking those handcuffs you got me are going to come in very handy. Excuse the pun. Hope you’re having
a nice afternoon x x x

  I stare at my phone, willing Mark to text back immediately like he did earlier in the day, but my screen looks blank and motionless.

  Before I can pine over the lack of text a cocktail appears in my hand thanks to Jane.

  ‘Don’t think you’re going to be able to text your munchkin all night,’ says Jane, pointing at my phone.

  I can’t quite believe that Mark would tell everyone that the most embarrassing nickname I’ve ever called him is munchkin. I’m secretly relieved that either he’s too embarrassed or he hasn’t remembered the phase I went through when I called him the muffin muncher. I’m neither confirming nor denying that Mark calls my lady bits my muffin.

  ‘In fact, why don’t I just take that off your hands? I’ll give it back when you get in tonight.’

  It all happens in slow motion and I reach for the phone but Jane really is quick as lightning. I should have known – I’ve lost enough times to her and Phil when we play tennis doubles. Under duress, I may add. Who actually likes playing tennis doubles? Except Jane and Phil, as they always win.

  ‘But what if there’s an emergency?’ I plead.

  ‘Well, then I’ll sort it out.’

  ‘What if I lose you?’

  ‘Then one of the other girls will help you.’

  ‘What if I lose you all?’ I know I’m whining but without a phone I feel like my arms have been chopped off.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re going to be handcuffed to one of us all night as we know how you just walk off when you’re drunk.’

  Dammit. The problem with being on a hen do with your friends is that they know every move you’re going to make and they’re just one step ahead of you.

  ‘You’d better go and get ready anyway. Your clothes are on your bed,’ says Jane.

  Those are the words I’ve been dreading. When I asked about what I needed to bring clothes-wise they said not to worry. So of course all I have done since then is worry.

  I slowly get up from my seat; there is no point delaying the inevitable.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ I say, clapping my hand over my mouth. There on the bed is a full-on toga dress.

  ‘We’re all wearing them,’ says Lou. ‘Look, you can’t even tell I’m pregnant.’

  I am going to ask whether togas are a safe choice to be wearing to go drinking but I think better of it. Instead I down the cocktail I’m holding; it seems like my only option.

  I wake up the next morning to the sound of tiny drums beating in my head. It takes me a minute to work out where I am, but as I roll over, I see Lou on the other side of the bed with green leaves falling out of her hair.

  It hurts to think back to last night. I can only just remember leaving the caravan; details after that are pretty hazy. Either we’ve been to a Greek restaurant or I must have got into a lot of trouble as I have very vivid recollections of smashing plates.

  Jane was true to her word though – my mobile phone is next to my head. I pick it up expecting to see a text waiting for me from Mark, but there is no little message symbol.

  Maybe Jane gave me back the phone last night and I read it and in my drunken state forgot about it.

  I open up my messages from Mark and I’m confronted with all my texts from the night before. It seems like I was having a very one-way conversation.

  PENNY

  HELLLOOOOOOOOOOO

  PENNY

  Where’s my finance at?

  I have to read it a couple of times but I’m guessing that was supposed to say fiancé. That’s clearly down to the winning combo of fat thumbs, drunk texting, and the dreaded autocorrect.

  PENNY

  This time next week we’ll be sealing the deal.

  I really wish that phones didn’t show you what you sent any more. Remember the phones that only allowed you to have ten text messages in your inbox? Oh, those were the days. Now you get two years’ worth of conversations in black and white.

  PENNY

  I’ll be Mrs Robinson now!!!! Next week obvs.

  PENNY

  Had the best night. LOVE YUUUUU

  And then I get back to the original text I sent him before I went out. Why hasn’t he replied? I know that I didn’t contact him when he was on his stag do. I figured that I should leave him alone as he was with the boys, aka he didn’t have any signal in his country lodge. But still, it is probably Mark just being nice and not wanting to get in my way of having a good time.

  Yes, that’s it. He’s giving me space to let me get on with the hen do. There is really no other plausible explanation, unless he’s lost or broken his phone. Oh, I like that idea so much better. He dropped his phone down the toilet and he doesn’t know he has all these messages from me.

  That is the only explanation. Not to worry, I’ll be home in a few hours. I can tell him all about my weekend then and I’ll just skip over the part where I sent him all the stalker-like text messages. After all, if he’s lost his phone he’ll never know, and what’s one more secret in the grand scheme of things?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lou tells me on the drive home that it’s best if she doesn’t fill me in on the blanks I had from last night. From the flash-backs I’ve had, that include me dancing round a pole and shimmying on a podium, I think she might be right.

  It seems sad to leave our caravan; I’d grown quite fond of it in the end. My sister Becky is staying in it for the rest of the week with her husband and their two little rug-rats. I hope she can get the smell of tropical punch out before they arrive. They’d get drunk just walking in.

  As much fun as it was being away with the girls, I have really missed Mark. Yes, I know, I’ve been away one night and it’s pathetic. But I guess I wouldn’t be a very good bride-to-be if I didn’t miss him now, would I?

  Lou has managed to get us home in a speed that I don’t think is quite legal, and it had me wanting to reach for the blindfold again.

  ‘Thanks for a lovely weekend,’ I say, as we pull up in front of my terrace.

  ‘No problem. It was such a fun time.’

  ‘Despite you not drinking?’

  ‘Especially because I wasn’t drinking. I have enough stories to blackmail you with forever.’

  ‘You wouldn’t?’ I say, wincing.

  ‘No, but stand by your laptop. I’ll be popping the pictures up on Facebook later.’

  Ah, the dreaded Facebook tags. Whatever did we do in the days before Facebook?

  ‘Can’t wait. Anyway, thanks again and I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  I can’t wait to get in the house and see Mark again. His phone being out of action has made me feel like part of me was missing.

  ‘Hello,’ I call as I walk over the threshold. The house is far too quiet for Mark to be in.

  I expect he’s gone to see his nan or gone to the gym. He didn’t know what time I was going to be back, so I really can’t blame him for not being here to be the welcome committee.

  To be honest I feel exhausted anyway. I’ll just have a nice long relaxing bath and get into my pyjamas. I’m sure by the time I get out of the bath Mark will be back.

  I always know that it is a bad idea to lie on my bed once I’ve got out of the bath. All those sleepy thoughts going round your head when you’re so relaxed. Yet when I got out of the bath I ignored all those thoughts and got into bed anyway. Of course I fell straight to sleep and now that I’ve woken up I feel groggy and more tired than I did before.

  It’s dark outside and I scramble over to Mark’s side of the bed to see that our alarm clock says that it is just after eight o’clock.

  I bound out of bed as that must mean that Mark is home, yet the house is still eerily quiet and pitch black.

  Now I’m starting to get worried. I’m sure that there is a perfectly logical explanation and if I can just find my phone and call him I’m sure he’ll tell me what it is. When I eventually find my phone still next to the bath I ring Mark and it goes straight to voicemail.

  The hairs on the back of my
neck go up and I start to run through Crimewatch-style reconstructions of what could have happened to Mark and none of them have a happy ending. I wonder if I should phone the police, but even I know that is being far too dramatic. As I wasn’t here last night I don’t know how long he’s been missing.

  Instead I’ll try to find him myself. Now with it being dark outside I can only guess that he isn’t playing golf. I’ll start by phoning his mum just to check he hasn’t snuck off there for a cheeky roast dinner.

  ‘Hello,’ says Mark’s mum, Rosemary.

  ‘Hi, Rosemary, it’s Penny.’

  ‘Oh hi, Penny, I thought you might be calling soon.’

  ‘You did? Is Mark there? Is he OK?’

  ‘Yes, he’s here.’

  Thank goodness for that. I breathe the biggest sigh of relief. I’m so happy that I’m not going to have to be at a press conference crying and making some heartfelt appeal for Mark. At least he wasn’t abducted last night. Although I’m not entirely sure who would want to abduct a thirty-year-old man.

  ‘Can I speak to him?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

  ‘What do you mean it’s not a good idea? Is he OK?’

  ‘Yes and no. I’m not entirely sure what is going on with you two, but Mark is pretty upset.’

  ‘He is? I’ve just got home from the hen do. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know. He arrived here about an hour ago, after he’d been at Mum’s.’

  Nanny Violet. She wouldn’t have told Mark my secret, would she? She’d seemed so sincere when she said she wasn’t going to tell him. I was convinced that she was going to leave it up to me to break the news to him. Not that I was going to but still, it was my secret to tell.

  ‘Did he tell you what had happened?’ I ask.

  ‘No, just that he didn’t want to talk to you and I wasn’t allowed to let you come round.’