The Accidental Honeymoon
Portia MacIntosh
‘Delightfully romantic, light-hearted and charmingly entertaining.’ What’s Better Than Books?What happens in Vegas…When Georgie discovers that her fiancé has been cheating on her, only a few days before her cousin’s wedding, her whole world explodes. Facing a romantic trip to Vegas alone, she decides to go out and have some fun……but Georgie never expected to wake up wed! And even worse, she can’t remember who to. So when gorgeous Jack reveals himself as her husband, she can’t believe her luck – he’ll act as the perfect wedding date!Even if it is their very accidental honeymoon, surely the newlyweds can keep their emotions in check for just a few days more? Don’t miss the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from the author of It’s Not You, It’s Them. Perfect for fans of Rosie Blake, Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk.Praise for The Accidental Honeymoon:‘Wow, this book has it all! The perfect feel-good novel that’ll have you laughing out loud.’ Annoushka Reads‘Feel-good and ever so funny!’ Rae Reads‘A fun, light-hearted story… will have you laughing out loud!’ Artistic Bent‘Delightfully romantic, light-hearted and charmingly entertaining.’ What’s Better Than Books?‘A laugh-out-loud comedy that will make you swoon.’ The Blossom Twins‘A laugh-out-loud, perfect night in, type of read! had me giggling for days.’ The Writing Garnet‘A perfect summer read!’ Urban Book Reviews
What happens in Vegas…
When Georgie discovers that her fiancé has been cheating on her, only a few days before her cousin’s wedding, her whole world explodes. Facing a romantic trip to Vegas alone, she decides to go out and have some fun…
…but Georgie never expected to wake up wed! And even worse, she can’t remember who to. So when gorgeous Jack reveals himself as her husband, she can’t believe her luck – he’ll act as the perfect wedding date!
Even if it is their very accidental honeymoon, surely the newlyweds can keep their emotions in check for just a few days more?
Don’t miss the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from Portia MacIntosh, author of It’s Not You, It’s Them. Perfect for fans of Rosie Blake, Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk.
Also from Portia Macintosh (#ulink_c1cb38da-636a-5b1f-ad83-f294a5881047)
Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place
How Not to Be Starstruck
Bad Bridesmaid
Drive Me Crazy
Truth or Dare
It’s Not You, It’s Them
The Accidental Honeymoon
Portia MacIntosh
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Contents
Cover (#u450da44e-3eaf-5101-9a29-9f195f793438)
Blurb (#ue3b3dd79-0399-5a58-a9ea-dc037786509c)
Book List (#ulink_38711c5f-894e-5754-a4b1-17b3f9dd8dae)
Title Page (#uaeab2c6b-f535-5cf0-8cea-6308f03ec045)
Author Bio (#ue453040b-b4bb-54c5-9c0a-011aee078efd)
Dedication (#u864a4a7b-8799-56dc-bb44-a747ee07e51e)
Acknowledgements (#u5262258e-e593-5795-9f3c-bd9856fff381)
Chapter One (#ulink_025119ec-0a6c-5d79-9294-f4a43e3b4f22)
Chapter Two (#ulink_781410da-af63-589e-93e4-9af8a12d523b)
Chapter Three (#ulink_4a77644e-7205-5efa-bd46-e17c1326a955)
Chapter Four (#ulink_4f40ad97-52e4-55a7-b98d-29b87d924b04)
Chapter Five (#ulink_de5b32c6-c2de-5446-bd9e-0f5742dc0b1f)
Chapter Six (#ulink_7e54f52a-bdca-590e-a3c2-f49b95f4946a)
Chapter Seven (#ulink_1d97647c-5277-58b9-a61c-c1648d4dd21f)
Chapter Eight (#ulink_bb78a39e-4de4-5480-91a8-116663de782a)
Chapter Nine (#ulink_420c5918-cf79-5e7a-aada-b6cf3bccfd72)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PORTIA MACINTOSH
has been ‘making stuff up’ for as long as she can remember – or so she says. Whether it was blaming her siblings for that broken vase when she was growing up, blagging her way backstage during her rock-chick phase or, currently, coming up with whatever justification she can fabricate to explain away those lunchtime cocktails, Portia just loves telling tales.
After years working as music journalist, Portia decided it was time to use her powers for good and started writing novels. Taking inspiration from her experiences on tour with bands, the real struggle of dating in your twenties, and just trying to survive as an adult human female generally, Portia writes about what it’s really like for women who don’t find this life stuff as easy as it seems. You can follow her on Twitter at: @PortiaMacIntosh (https://www.twitter.com/@PortiaMacIntosh)
For BAE, my family & my doggos.
It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been at it, it never truly sinks in that I get to write books. To finish them, to see them published and the fact that people actually read them still blows my mind. I don’t think the shine will ever wear off – I wouldn’t ever want it to.
None of this would be possible without the hard work, help and support of the people around me.
Thanks, as always, to my editor, Charlotte, for her continuing hard work and support. Without her guidance and the seemingly endless work of everyone at HQ, you wouldn’t be reading this now.
A massive thank you to everyone who reads and reviews my books. To have the support of so many wonderful readers and reviewers blows me away. An extra special shout-out to my wonderful friend Helena for all her help and to the beautiful Blossom Twins for going above and beyond with their support – grazie mille.
Thank you to my parents for all of their love and support. If it weren’t for my wonderful, beautiful, supportive mum, I wouldn’t be writing. Thank you for always believing in me. They say you can’t choose your family, but I couldn’t have asked for two more incredible brothers. They’re not just my siblings, they’re my best friends. Without them, I’m not sure I’d be the person I am today – I owe them so much that I’ll never be able to repay them for. A huge shout-out also has to go to my beautiful granny and my wonderful doggos. I love you all so much.
Last but not least, thank you to my other half. I’ll never know what I could have possibly done to deserve him, but I do know how lucky I am to have him. Sometimes I have to pinch myself because there’s this incredible, gorgeous man, and he’s always around, always looking out for me, making my life better every day. He’s my world, my best friend and the love of my life.
Chapter One (#ulink_0caad518-98a9-52e3-a17b-d87898797d15)
‘What have you got in here, a body?’ the hotel porter asks as he places my suitcase on the floor.
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ I laugh politely, but the worried look on his face suggests he would actually like an explanation.
‘I did a bit of last-minute holiday shopping on my way here,’ I tell him. Well, what I actually did was buy myself the best part of a whole new wardrobe. In an inexplicable moment of madness I bought everything I could get my hands on that was distinctly ‘not me’. I left home for my trip without the suitcase I’d already packed with my usual, demure, conservative clothing. Instead, I bought a new one and overstuffed it with short, low, brightly coloured, cheaply made alternatives.
‘Good for you,’ he replies. ‘I thought maybe your fiancé was in there.’
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ I laugh again, this time a little more genuinely as I fantasise about John being stuffed in a suitcase.
‘So, let me show you around the room.’
I glance around my corner suite at the Black Diamond Hotel. It’s still daylight, but even so, the view is amazing. The first thing I do is head towards the window to take it all in.
‘First time in Vegas?’ the porter asks.
I nod my head.
‘I figured so when I heard your accent. Well, you’re in for a treat when it gets dark. This is one of our best rooms for admiring the view. This over here is your bathroom.’
The porter gestures towards a door. I pop my head inside. Both the floor and wall tiles are black, flecked with colourful sparkles that twinkle the second he flicks the light on. There’s a huge rainfall shower and an even bigger bath. Even the toilet is fancy with its silver mosaic finish, resembling a disco ball.
‘It’s very nice,’ I tell him.
‘And back in the bedroom, the mini bar and safe are down here.’ He gestures to a cupboard. ‘And the TV is inside this cabinet.’
‘Awesome,’ I reply, struggling to hide my indifference.
‘And here is your bed, obviously. It’s a super king, with Egyptian cotton sheets. The rose petals were a request by your fiancé – you’re a very lucky lady.’
I smile as I reach for my purse to tip the porter.
‘Thank you for all your help,’ I tell him, handing him some money.
The porter takes it and thanks me, but he doesn’t leave the room. Instead, he hovers in the doorway.
‘Is everything OK with your room, Miss… er…?’ he asks.
‘Georgie,’ I reply. ‘And it’s great. Thank you.’
Still, the porter lingers.
‘It’s just… you don’t seem very happy with it,’ he persists.
‘Honestly, the room is perfect.’
He furrows his brow, unconvinced.
‘Well, OK then.’
‘OK then,’ I echo.
I force a smile, holding it only as long as it takes the porter to close the door behind him. Finally alone, I crouch down on the floor next to the inviting-looking bed and start picking up the pink and red rose petals that have been scattered around the room. I place the ones from the floor on top of the bed before scooping them all up together. I glance around for a wastepaper bin, but it turns out that’s the only thing this room doesn’t seem to have. There isn’t a bin in the fancy bathroom either. I just need these rose petals out of here. The sparkly toilet literally catches my eye, so I dump the petals inside and flush. I’m walking out of the bathroom when the sound of the toilet spluttering catches my ear. I glance back at it and realise I’ve blocked it, the water having risen all the way to the top. Brilliant, wonderful, marvellous. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.
I massage my temples for a moment, wracking my brains for a solution. I am a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a man. Glancing into the toilet, full to the seat with water, completely out of my depth, I realise I might not need a man, but I definitely need a plumber, and it could well be a bloke. First, though, I need a drink.
Seeing as I’ll be spending the entire evening in here alone, I may as well pillage the mini bar. I grab all of the tiny bottles of booze and line them up on the desk in front of me.
I tap a finger on the bottles one at a time, trying to figure out which one to have first. I land on a miniature bottle of gin, remove the lid and toss the contents down the hatch. ‘Argh!’ I say out loud. I’m not usually one for drinking spirits neat.
I cast an eye over the snacks in the mini bar, umming and aahing over whether to eat the honey-roasted nuts, the vegetables chips or one of the many bars of chocolate. I shrug my shoulders, grab them all and dump them down on the bed, but as I go back for the tiny bottles of booze, I notice something else in the mini bar. I take the can from the inside door and examine it. It’s some energy drink-looking thing called Ecstasy. I hate energy drinks, so I quickly return it, except, as I place it back down, I hear the contents rattle. What could it be? Not drugs, surely. This is a beautiful hotel, and they couldn’t guarantee their guests would keep quiet about such a thing. I cock my head with curiosity, taking the can back out. It’s black, with fancy red writing on it, and not a whole lot of other information. Curiouser and curiouser, I pop the top off and peep into the rabbit hole. Unable to make anything out, I pour the contents into my hand, only to cause them to spill out all over the desk. It all happens so quickly, but as the silver bullet inside bounces on the desk a couple of times, it activates the power and causes it to vibrate. The bullet pauses on the edge of the desk, but only for a second before the powerful vibrations send it flying off behind the furniture. As I take stock of the other items – a condom, a small tube of lubricant and a blindfold – I realise this is some sort of sex kit, and that the vibrator that came with it (no pun intended) is currently lodged behind this big, heavy desk, vibrating loudly against the wood.
I move quickly, but it’s no use. I can’t reach it. Damn this stupid bodycon dress I bought today, that I can’t bloody move in. Thinking fast, I slip the dress off, allowing me my usual full range of body movements, and lean over the desk, reaching behind it to try and grab the offending vibrator.
There’s a knock on the door.
‘Just a sec,’ I call back. I can feel the vibrator with the tips of my fingers, but I just can’t get a hold of it. Just one big stretch and… oh God, my hand is stuck. My bangle is caught on the back of the desk. When I took off my clothes to try and reach, I never even thought about my tacky new accessories.
Whoever is at my door knocks again.
‘Coming,’ I snap loudly, in case they didn’t hear me the first time.
If I can just wiggle my hand free and turn this thing off…
‘Hello? Miss… Georgie?’ I hear the porter call as he opens the room door.
‘Oh my God, what are you doing in here?’ I call back.
‘You said “come in”,’ he replies. ‘I…’
He falls silent the second he lays eyes on me.
‘I said “coming”,’ I say softly, attempting to bury my probably very red face in the desk.
‘What’s… er…’
The porter is clearly lost for words.
‘I’m stuck,’ I tell him simply.
He rushes over and pulls the desk out from in front of the wall. I free my hand before snatching the vibrator, turning it off and quickly grabbing the bed sheets to save me any further embarrassment – as though that might be possible.
‘“Come in”, “coming” – I guess it’s the accent,’ he says awkwardly. He glances around the room, taking stock of all the alcohol, junk food and sex aids scattered around. Having just seen me bent over the desk in my underwear, trying to retrieve a loudly buzzing vibrator, I can only imagine what he’s thinking. ‘Erm, anyway, I have some good news. I know you said everything with the room was fine. Anyway, I don’t know if that’s good old English manners or what, but I told the manager something wasn’t right and he asked me to give you this voucher for a fully comped three-course meal in our restaurant tonight, for you and your fiancé – and a bottle of champagne for now.’
He smiles widely and theatrically.
‘Thank you so much,’ I reply, touched by his gesture. I tighten the bed sheets around my body – lest he see me in my underwear again – before taking the vouchers in one hand and the champagne in the other. I place them down on the desk before wrapping my arms around my body self-consciously.
‘And here are some chips – on the house. We wish you and your fiancé the best of luck in our casino.’
I take the chips from him. As I glance down at the numbers, I realise I’m holding $1,000 worth of chips.
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you having your champagne now, or are you waiting until your fiancé gets here?’ he asks.
‘Oh, now,’ I reply, a little quicker and more keenly than I probably should have.
‘Would you like me to pour it for you?’ he asks, although I can tell he wants to get out of this room just as much as I want him to.
‘It’s fine, thank you. I can handle things from here,’ I reply.
‘I’m sure you can,’ he replies – probably sarcastically. ‘Well, I promise not to bother you again in another ten minutes.’ Bloody hell, is that all it was?! ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘No, thank you,’ I reply. ‘Actually, yes, wait…’ I call after him. ‘I blocked my toilet.’
Chapter Two (#ulink_403dfa81-4780-5ef6-b5f1-dd34e218d628)
Trust is a funny, fragile thing. You know what they say about trust? How it’s hard to gain, easy to lose and impossible to win back? There’s a lot of truth in this. We take our time getting to know potential partners, holding back from fully handing ourselves over to them until we feel as confident as we possibly can that they won’t break our hearts. And then, if they do… well good luck trying to have a healthy relationship after that because those things can never be mended – least of all by the people who broke them. Even when it comes to friends, we don’t trust them immediately. We wait until we’ve achieved expert-level BFF status before we share our deepest and darkest secrets with them.
Yes, trust is hard to earn… unless you’re a hairdresser. A hairdresser is basically a very cheap therapist who can somehow simultaneously solve your problems while telling you exactly what you want to hear to feel better, and they can give you a self-esteem boost not even the most talented, most qualified therapist could achieve.
The hotel salon is exactly like every other salon I’ve ever been in. The decor is modern, the lighting is kind, the music is whatever is in the charts – playing a little too loudly, but it’s being drowned out by the usual hairdresser chatter.
One of the girls who works here is telling the room she’s worried her boyfriend might leave her.
‘Have you tried talking to him?’ one customer with rollers in her hair asks.
‘A little, but you know what men are like,’ she replies. ‘He’s always been quiet, not really into sharing feelings.’
A heavily pregnant hairdresser chimes in: ‘You can’t just ask men questions and expect answers, everyone knows that.’
As she says this, she gesticulates a little too wildly for my liking, given she’s working with scissors so close to a lady’s eyes.
‘So, what do I do?’ the girl asks.
The pregnant lady is probably the oldest stylist here – probably only in her mid thirties, but she seems like the mother hen of the place. I scoot forwards on my seat a little, ready to listen to her advice.
‘I’ll tell you exactly what you do,’ she starts. ‘Go to the store, buy a pregnancy test, bring it here – I’ll pee on it for you – then take it to him and see what he says. If he’s a good man, he’ll stand by you. If not, you’re better off without him.’
I don’t know what I find more alarming – that this lady is willing to give her pee to anyone who wants it to manipulate their man, or that no one else seems to find this advice weird.
The girl with the problem nods thoughtfully.
‘You think you’ve got problems,’ the lady with the rollers starts, ready to one-up the girl with boy problems. ‘Eighteen years I’ve been with my lousy husband and he forgets our anniversary.’
Her strong New York accent commands the room, and suddenly her problems take precedence.
Pregnant hairdresser thinks thoughtfully, tapping her comb on her pursed lips.
‘No sex,’ she concludes. ‘It’s the only way to teach him a lesson.’
‘Honey, didn’t you hear me? I said we’d been married eighteen years. We don’t have sex!’ she replies with a cackle.
In the mirror in front of me, I see the lady behind me twirl around in her chair.
‘This is men for you,’ she shrugs, her French accent strong, but her English perfect. ‘My boyfriend, he just gambles all the time, he has no time for me. Right now he is in the casino and he thinks that he can just give me money, send me here, and it will be fine. It’s not fine.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Liv, the lady who is about to do my hair, agrees.
We all live thousands of miles apart, but we all have the same stupid man problems. That said, I think I can top all of them. In the age-old words of the internet: hold my beer – or my third glass of complimentary champagne, more accurately.
‘I caught my fiancé cheating on me,’ I say quietly. ‘Literally, like I walked in on him doing it. With his assistant.’
For the first time since I arrived, no one is saying anything. Nothing but the whirr of a hairdryer and the dulcet sound of Justin Bieber’s latest hit can be heard. Then the responses come all at once. Gasps, expletives and questions from all angles.
‘His assistant?’ Liv shrieks.
I nod.
No one ever really stops and thinks about what they’d do if their significant other cheated on them, do they? No one has a contingency plan in place, in case of adultery. Some might say cheating is cheating, whereas others might see the difference between a drunken one-nighter and full-blown affair. Not only was my fiancé stone-cold sober, but he was at it in my bed – probably still warm from my getting out of it.
‘What happened?’ Liv enquires gently.
‘I got up for work, had my breakfast, got dressed and left the apartment with my fiancé fast asleep in bed. He doesn’t work office hours, so when I go off to work, he’s always still in bed. While I was on the way to work, not long after I left actually, I just decided I’d go home. I had loads of things I needed to do before this trip, but that wasn’t the reason. I just decided I didn’t want to go to work that day.’
The women look at me, puzzled.
‘You were suspicious?’ Liv asks.
‘I wasn’t,’ I tell her honestly – at least, I don’t think I was.
I should have known that moving to LA with dreams of becoming an actress was a long shot, but I had big dreams when I was younger. Instead of becoming an actress, I simply wound up becoming someone’s other half.
I work temp jobs, just taking whatever I can get whenever I can get it. A short-notice job came in for yesterday morning, filling in for a receptionist in a law firm. Work has been in short supply recently, so I accepted it, safe in the knowledge I could finish at lunchtime and then go home to pack our bags, ready for travelling today.
Perhaps on a subconscious level I knew something wasn’t right, but I don’t think so. I really did think we were happy.
‘I just didn’t want to go to work,’ I say softly.
‘Well, thank God you didn’t, honey,’ New York lady says. ‘You’re so lucky.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply, although I don’t feel it.
‘So you thought you’d come to Vegas to forget about him?’ she asks.
‘Not exactly,’ I reply. ‘We were supposed to be flying to England in the morning. I’ve been a bit nervous about it, so my fiancé booked us a romantic night here, to get the trip off to a good start. The plan was to fly from LA to here, spend a night having fun and then head back to the UK for a family wedding. But now it’s just me, and the hotel and flights were already booked, so here I am.’
‘So you’re on a romantic trip alone?’
‘I am on a romantic trip alone,’ I repeat. ‘And open to whatever you suggest as far as my hair goes.’
Liv teases my shoulder-length, mousy-brown hair with her fingers and pulls a face.
‘It’s not that this isn’t nice,’ she says tactfully. ‘It just doesn’t go with that smoking-hot outfit you’re wearing.’
I glance down at the gown I’m wearing to protect my clothes and cringe as I think about what’s lurking underneath.
When your heart has been broken, you don’t think straight, do you? Bad ideas seem like good ideas. Perhaps it’s a way of protecting ourselves, but we immediately snap into this ‘I have to show him what he’s missing’ mode. Whether it’s to prove a point to our exes or ourselves, I don’t know, but that’s what we do.
John is a well-known orchestral pianist (well, well known if you’re into that sort of thing). I played the role of his girlfriend perfectly, dressing and acting the part, which is probably why I’m acting out now.
I’m wearing a little red cocktail dress I’m now certain was intended for someone with fewer curves than I have, but, like I said, I was grief-stricken. I wasn’t thinking straight. And now, here I am, sitting awkwardly in my dress that is possibly too tight (and short, and low), in my heels that are probably too high, about to let Liv loose on my hair, which definitely has to be my worst idea yet. Oh, and for the first time since John gave it to me, I am out without my engagement ring.
‘So, you wanna know what I’m doing or you want me to just do it?’ she asks.
I think for a moment. When I started seeing John, the spontaneity slowly drained from my life. Everything had to revolve around his schedule, everything we did for fun was always on his terms. As a teenager I was a total wild child, but now… I don’t know what I am. I need to be spontaneous again.
‘Just do it?’ I reply. It was my intention to sound confidently decisive, but as my voice went up in pitch at the end, it just sounded like a nervous question.
‘You sure?’ she asks, giving me another chance to back out.
‘Yes,’ I reply confidently.
‘You in a rush?’ she asks, causing me to wonder what the hell she’s planning.
‘No…’
‘OK then, let’s get started.’
Chapter Three (#ulink_37146777-3226-5e84-9e87-b0c839261f0b)
I glance at the $1,000’s worth of chips, fascinated that such little, unremarkable pieces of plastic could be worth so much money. They’re so gold I can see my reflection in them, and every time I look at them and catch sight of myself, it reminds me how different my hair looks now.
After what felt like a lifetime in the chair, I am now the proud wearer of very long, very blonde hair, or ‘Playboy Bunny hair’ as the lady from New York described it. With my light, bright, fresh peroxide colour, the long length curled at the ends, combined with my hastily bought midlife quarterlife thirdlife-crisis outfit (I am nearly thirty after all) – I can see what she means. From the new clothes, to the hair extensions, to all the new make-up I bought from the hotel shop, I look nothing like myself right now, and that’s fine by me.
Casinos are bizarre places, really. The room is split into sections, one end littered with green felt tables and the other home to rows and rows of brightly flashing, very noisy slot machines. It’s such a nice, sparkly, glamorous place at a quick glance. I’ve noticed a few people on winning streaks and, as miserable as I am, it cheers me up to watch people winning. A bit of good luck and they come alive, jumping up and down, victory dancing, grabbing their nearest and dearest (or just the nearest random person sometimes) in celebration. But when you stop and look, you can see the darker side to these places, those with anguished looks on their faces and just a few chips on the table in front of them. As their luck runs thin, so does their money. Just one good hand will turn things around for them, but sometimes it simply doesn’t come. It’s kind of depressing to watch and makes you wonder how much they’ve lost and what it will mean for them in the real world, after they leave the flashing lights and the free booze of timeless Las Vegas.
Without windows or clocks, it’s impossible to tell what time of day it is, or how long you’ve spent here without keeping an eye on your own watch. I can understand why people spend so much time here.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I’ve been hovering by this Blackjack table for a while now – the only card game here I actually know how to play. John was going to bring me here tonight, teach me how to gamble, have me as his lucky charm, blowing on his dice like you see in the movies.
I watch as a forty-something, dark-haired man runs a hand through his hair as he waits with bated breath for the dealer to reveal his hand.
‘Blackjack,’ the dealer announces casually as he turns over his other card to reveal an ace. With the king the dealer was already showing, this hand is lethal and, with no chips left, the dark-haired man skulks off.
The dealer takes no joy from winning, effortlessly moving everything back into its place on the table, ready for the next player. The dealer looks over at me and raises his eyebrows, silently asking if I’m planning on playing. If I don’t do it now, I never will, so I climb onto the stool as gracefully as possible in my short dress and place my chips on the table.
‘Place your bets, please,’ the dealer says robotically.
I glance down at my golden chips, and take one final, long, hard look at myself in them. When the porter handed them to me, there was a little note with them saying they were complimentary chips and therefore could only be played, and not simply cashed out, otherwise I’d be spending this $1,000 on room service right about now.
From what I’ve observed, Blackjack is an amalgam of luck and skill. Luck comes from being dealt the right cards, but you need some skill to know what to do with them. But what if you left it entirely down to fate?
Confidently, I bet my entire $1,000. It was only yesterday I caught John cheating on me, and I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to do. On the one hand, if he could hurt me, betray me and completely obliterate my trust like he has, then how can I be with him? On the other hand, we were engaged, we lived together and we loved each other… is that really something I should just throw away in an instant?
The dealer places my cards down in front of me, giving me an ace and a four.
I stare at my cards a moment too long.
‘That’s five or fifteen,’ he tells me, suspecting I can’t count. ‘Aces are one or eleven.’
He loves me, he loves me not.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, although I knew that. ‘Hit me please.’
If the next card is a winner, he loves me.
‘Queen – so that’s fifteen,’ the dealer tells me.
‘Hit.’ He loves me not.
‘A five – that’s twenty.’
The dealer is showing a queen, so if he gets another ten or an ace then I’ll lose… or, I could see if luck is on my side, hit one more time, and if by some miracle I get my five-card trick, then John loves me, this was all a big mistake, and everything will go back to the way it was.
‘Hit,’ I tell him.
The dealer goes to turn his card before stopping himself just in time.
‘I’m sorry, miss. Did you say hit?’
I nod.
‘Miss, you have twenty.’
‘Hit,’ I repeat.
He looks at me for a moment, puzzled. I think he’s trying to work out if I know what I’m doing or not.
‘Seriously,’ I add.
He shrugs his shoulders and does as I wish.
‘King – thirty – bust,’ he says, sighing deeply in an I-told-you-so kind of way. Of course it turns out to be the king of hearts delivering this final blow to my love life. I don’t know what I thought I was going to achieve with this silly game.
So that’s that then. I hop down from my stool and stroll off, conscious of the dealer’s eyes on me. I guess he’s never seen anything like that before.
As I make my way towards the casino exit, I wonder what to do with myself now. Other than the brief mutterings of the dealer, I haven’t really spoken to anyone since I was in the salon. Now I think about it, I’m glad. I don’t really want to speak to anyone. A free dinner in a beautiful restaurant seems like a silly thing to waste, but I cannot think of anything sadder than sitting there on my own, ploughing my way through three courses of Vegas’s finest on the off-chance it makes me feel better.
I step into the lift and take a look at the map of the hotel. I don’t really want to be around too many people, but I definitely don’t want to go back to my room alone. I browse the list until the perfect place pops out at me: the rooftop garden. It’s not exactly the warmest evening, so hopefully there won’t be too many people there. I can get some air, clear my head and try and think about what the hell I’m going to do.
Obviously breaking up with someone you live with causes a lot of upset, both emotionally and in your day-to-day life, but I have problems that are more immediate: going home to England for my cousin’s wedding without a fiancé. I know what you’re thinking – why can’t I just be honest with everyone? Well, the truth is, I made no secret of the fact I was moving to LA for a bigger and better life, but it hasn’t exactly worked out that way. My mum and my auntie have always measured me and my cousin against each other – they had us months apart, after all. They’ve always had this rivalry about whose daughter was doing the best. I never managed to bag the job I wanted, but I had John… and now, suddenly, I have nothing. No job, no home, no fiancé. My cousin, on the other hand, has it all. She’s marrying the man she loves in a wedding that is sure to be spectacular, her fiancé is a rich businessman who gives her everything she could possibly want – he’s even started her own business for her, selling candles. So you can see why I don’t want to go home with nothing, in the midst of all this wedding stuff. Not only would it be so embarrassing, having to admit it to everyone, but everyone would pity me. And it would certainly take the focus away from my cousin, which my auntie would no doubt think I’d done on purpose. No, I’ll have to lie. Tell them John is away for work or something.
Looking at my reflection in the mirrored lift doors, I can’t get over how different I look. Hair, make-up and clothes can make such a huge difference. Whether I look better or not, I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go. Ever. Just up in this lift to a rooftop garden where no one in their right mind would be hanging out.
Seeing the sadness in my own eyes only upsets me more. How could he do this to me? Even if you decide you don’t love someone anymore, you break up with them. You don’t do this to them.
As fast as I wipe my tears, more fall from my eyes, streaking my foundation. It was probably a little too dark for me anyway, which only enhances the white pathway each tear has left on my cheeks.
As the lift grinds to a halt, I hurriedly wipe my tears, but it doesn’t matter. The doors open to reveal nothing but plants and fairy lights.
It’s beautiful up here. As I make my way towards the edge to look at the view, my new stupidly high heels keep getting stuck in the pebbles. I can’t help but feel mad at myself for buying them as I kick them off.
Once I get to the glass fence and take in the sights properly, it’s worth it. The view from up here is even more stunning than the one from my room. God, every inch of this trip has been so romantic to far – well, it could have been. A beautiful room with a gorgeous view, champagne, dinner, this stunning garden… it would all be so nice with someone to share it with.
Tears leap from my eyes again.
The more I think about it, the more I’m sure it will be fine to tell people John is away for work. Well, he does work away a lot, touring with different orchestras. But we’ve had this trip planned for months, and I spoke to my mum about our flight times the night before I caught him… Maybe a work emergency? Are pianist emergencies even a thing?
‘Erm… hey,’ I hear a man’s voice call from behind me.
I don’t want him to see my face, so I keep looking over the edge of the terrace.
‘Hi,’ I reply coolly, not exactly pulling it off.
‘Everything OK up here?’ he asks.
‘Fine, fine,’ I reply. ‘Thank you.’
‘Erm…’
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why can’t people just leave me in peace?!
‘Want to come over here and have a chat about stuff?’
I furrow my brow. What the hell is this guy’s deal? Is he hitting on me?
‘I’m fine where I am, thank you,’ I say politely, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me alone.
‘Look, that money you lost… it might have meant a lot to you, but it’s not worth getting upset over.’
For a moment I laugh, because that’s the least of my problems. But then it occurs to me this person has been watching me. Streaming eyes and messy make-up no longer matter to me as I turn around.
‘Are you following me?’ I ask accusingly.
‘I saw you, at the table. I saw you lose, I saw that you were upset and then I saw you come up here. And now you’re standing too close to the edge for my liking, so…’
‘You think I’m going to jump?’ I shriek.
‘When you took your shoes off…’
‘Oh, yeah, I took my shoes off. I’m definitely going to kill myself.’
I can’t exactly see the person I’m talking to. He’s standing in the shadows under a particularly tall plant that blocks the light above it.
I wouldn’t normally be so outspoken; this is not me at all. I feel like I’m spectating someone who isn’t me because she doesn’t look like me, sound like me, or act like me. Perhaps my new look is empowering me – then again, maybe it’s the champagne.
‘All right, there’s no need to be sarcastic,’ he replies. ‘Just… won’t you come over here, sit down and talk to me for a second?’
If I want to shake this one, I’m going to have to convince him I’m not suicidal. Things might be bad, but they’re not that bad.
I wipe my eyes and walk over to where he’s standing.
‘See, not jumping,’ I tell him, finally coming face to face with my stalker.
He’s tall – 6’2” maybe – with broad shoulders and huge arms. I can’t see under his T-shirt, but I can tell from the way it clings he’s an absolute unit of a man. He has stylish brown hair and strong facial features, but his sharp jawline contrasts with his adorable dimples, which, in spite of his hulking muscles, give him this soft, approachable look. He must be a security guard of some kind, given his size and the fact he’s up here and on my case.
‘That’s better,’ he says softly. ‘So, go on, what’s his name?’
‘Whose name?’ I ask.
‘The guy who’s driven you to crying on the rooftop.’
‘What makes you so sure it was a guy?’ I ask angrily.
The man gestures at the outdoor sofa in front of us, instructing me to sit down. I do, but only because I suspect I’m about to be placed under hotel arrest for something.
‘Look, I’ve seen it a million times. Pretty young thing like you, you come in with one of the high rollers, he tries to keep you sweet, gives you a few of his chips to play with…’
‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, my frustration with this man increasing.
‘I saw you, playing with the golden chips, the complimentary ones we give to high rollers. And I saw you playing badly, so you’re obviously not a gambler. I’ve seen it countless times, pretty girls come in with rich guys who are definitely going to leave their wives.’
I can’t help but notice the sarcasm in his sentence – I thought Americans weren’t into that?
‘So, you think I’m some pissed-off mistress wasting my boyfriend’s money?’
Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any worse. I’m not just upset, though, I’m angry, and I think the slow and steady stream of alcohol I’ve consumed today has made me seriously sassy and outspoken.
‘Do I look like an adulterer’s piece of arm candy to you?’ I ask genuinely.
‘I mean…’
Oh. I’d forgotten about my makeover. But even so, how dare he judge me.
‘Well, what are you, some meathead, jumped-up member of security who stalks vulnerable young women?’
He laughs.
‘Not security, as such.’
‘No? Then let me guess, you dress up as a cop in some kind of budget Magic Mike show?’
He splutters a laugh.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asks, clearly equal parts offended and amused.
‘You’re not the only one who can make snap judgements. You’ve go to be one or the other – what are you, fifteen per cent body fat?’
‘Fourteen,’ he replies casually. ‘My goal is twelve, but have you tried the crème brûlée here?’
‘Are you always this arrogant?’ I ask.
‘Only when provoked,’ he laughs.
His cheeky smile infuriates me.
‘So, what?’
‘So, I watch the games on CCTV, keep an eye out for cheaters. I saw you, playing your weird hand with chips usually reserved for high rollers – it’s my job to keep an eye out for things like that. But I saw something else: I saw that you were upset. I saw you crying in the elevator, I saw you approaching the edge on the terrace, taking your heels off… It sounds stupid now,’ he laughs, ‘but I thought you were going to do something stupid. I was worried about you and couldn’t just leave you to it.’
‘Thanks,’ I tell him, finally softening. ‘I’m sorry I thought you were a stripper.’
‘I’m sorry I thought you were a prostitute,’ he laughs. ‘Kidding,’ he adds quickly, probably having seen the unimpressed look that is no doubt on my face.
I let out a little laugh. It’s hard not to be charmed by him, even when he’s being cheeky.
‘Just remember that whatever life throws at us, we can fix it,’ he tells me casually.
He’s over simplifying things, but I appreciate the thought, and there is some truth to it. Things are bad sometimes, but we deal with them.
‘Well, I’d better get back to work. I’m Jack, by the way,’ he tells me, offering me his hand to shake.
‘I’m Georgie,’ I reply. ‘I’ll be sure to remember your name for my Tripadvisor review – this hotel’s suicide prevention service is second to none.’
As our hands separate, Jack pulls a bouquet of artificial flowers seemingly from the thin air between our hands.
‘For the lady,’ he says jokily, adopting an English gentleman’s accent.
‘Wow…’ I laugh. ‘Aren’t you a cool guy.’
Jack wiggles his eyebrows at me.
‘I’ve always got something up my sleeve. See you around, Georgie.’
‘See you,’ I call after him.
‘I’ll probably see you first… because of all the cameras…’
I examine the artificial flowers he gave me – rainbow-coloured carnations. As flowers go, they’re pretty ugly, but I can’t help smiling at them. Jack hasn’t just given me flowers, he’s given me a tiny shred of hope in the biggest mess I’ve ever been in – a far more impressive trick than pulling flowers out of thin air, don’t you think?
Chapter Four (#ulink_bf8a5ab8-c22c-55fe-8d8d-545057c8712f)
Make-up is a wonderful thing. Not too long ago I watched a video of a Korean teenage boy doing make-up tutorials on YouTube. He gave himself a Kardashian-style makeover with nothing but a few beauty products. His lips were fuller, his cheeks perfectly contoured and his eyebrows seriously on fleek – it almost made me feel a little inadequate, that a boy could effortlessly wing his eyeliner, but whenever I try to do mine, in an attempt to make them even, I apply too much and end up looking like Amy Winehouse circa ‘Rehab’.
I might not be as skilled as that guy is, but I’ve done a pretty good job at patching up my face so I can go back out – yes, you heard me, I am taking myself out. As much as I want to curl up in a ball, drink myself stupid and cry myself to sleep, that’s not what I’m going to do. I’m going to keep a smile on my face, go and enjoy my freebie three-course dinner (for two) and I’m going to do it all without a man by my side.
It’s a nice idea, to think I can take a couple of hours off from my heartache, but considering it’s been on my mind every second of the day since it happened, I’m not going to hold my breath – but I am going to go for dinner.
I check that I’m ready in the floor-length mirror. My eyes look a little red still, but my make-up is fixed. Liv did a great job with my extensions; I’d believe this were my real hair, had I not just paid a lot for it and endured the lengthy process of having it fitted.
My dress is red, short, strapless and tight. My thighs are probably a bit too big to be so exposed, this strapless bra isn’t doing much to support my boobs and I feel like I hold my tummy in on autopilot when I suspect someone is looking at me. I’m probably only a few pounds overweight, but I just don’t think my short arse is carrying it well. Stepping back into my heels goes a long way to making my legs look longer and a bit slimmer, taking me from 5’5” to 5’9”, but they’re shoes, not liposuction.
My outfit is as on as it can be, my make-up is fixed, my hair is still salon-perfect and I’m ready to go.
I walk out of my room with my head held high and head for the lift, ready to negotiate the map of the massive Black Diamond Hotel. This place really does have everything under one roof, I’d much rather stay here than head home to Blackpool for a family wedding.
I trace the map with my finger, following the route I’ll need to take to get to the restaurant. Luckily it doesn’t seem too complicated. Despite the size of this place, I’m not going to be needing a compass.
I’ve got the lift to myself, so I adjust my outfit in the mirrored doors. Walking seems to have driven my dress up a little too high.
As I make the short trip from the lift to the restaurant, I take my time, careful not to stumble over in my high heels or pop out of my dress, or anything else that might embarrass me. Between flashing the porter and Jack thinking I was a prostitute who was going to jump off the roof, I think I’ve felt as mortified as I can possibly feel today.
Tottering through the bar in my heels, the muscular figure of a man propping up the bar catches my eye.
‘Jack?’
The man turns around.
‘Georgie, hey. Buy you a drink?’ he asks.
‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ I ask. I didn’t expect to see him ever again – let alone so soon.
‘Bourbon,’ he replies, raising his glass. ‘Want one?’
I scrunch my nose as I take a seat on the stool next to him. It doesn’t seem like this is his first drink, and – I know I don’t know the man – but he doesn’t seem himself.
‘Not really a fan,’ I tell him. ‘I’d love a Sea Breeze, though, please,’ I tell the barman.
Jack takes a generous sip of his drink.
‘They let you drink on the job?’ I ask curiously.
‘Nope.’
‘No more work tonight?’ I persist. That cheeky charm I witnessed earlier seems to be in short supply.
‘No more work ever,’ he corrects me casually. ‘I was fired.’
‘What? But it’s less than an hour since I saw you. What’s changed since…’
My voice trails off into silence.
‘It doesn’t have anything to do with me, does it?’
Jack knocks back the remaining contents of his glass before turning to face me, taking my hand in his reassuringly.
‘This is not your fault,’ he insists. ‘I left my post unattended, something happened, I missed it. That’s that. There are no second chances in this town. The house has to win.’
‘Jack, I’m so sorry. Please, let me speak to your boss, explain what happened.’
I give his hand a squeeze back to show him I’m serious and, for a split second, we just look into each other’s eyes. I can see something in there. Just a glimmer of the guy I met earlier, who turned my bad day around.
‘It’s fine,’ he tells me. ‘Or at least it will be after a few more of these.’
He says this loud enough for the benefit of the barman, who pours another shot into his glass.
‘A wise man once told me that whatever life throws at us, we can fix it,’ I tell him. Jack can’t help but smile at his own words being repeated back to him.
‘All right, all right,’ he laughs. ‘But come on, I’ve earned a bit of a pity party.’
I think for a second.
‘How would you like to upgrade your pity party to a pity meal with champagne?’ I ask. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ he insists.
‘You’d be doing me a favour,’ I tell him. ‘Come on, don’t make me have dinner on my own.’
‘All right, fine,’ he jokily concedes. ‘But I need to drown my sorrows.’
‘Well, so do I,’ I tell him. ‘Plus, someone told me this restaurant has excellent crème brûlée.’
Jack steps off his stool, collects our drinks in his hands and nods towards the hostess.
‘Come on,’ he insists. ‘I still know people that work here. We won’t need to wait for a table.’
Chapter Five (#ulink_8be6ce7d-4f60-59b0-bad0-bc4e01d34a8c)
If you’d told me this time last week I’d be single and having dinner with a gorgeous man who wasn’t my fiancé, I wouldn’t have believed you. And yet here I am, in Las Vegas of all places, sitting opposite Jack.
I’ve been asking him loads of questions about his job. I had no idea there were so many ways to cheat in casinos – well, try to at least.
As Jack explains each technique to me, he demonstrates them with an old, battered playing card from inside his wallet.
I’ve learned about card marking, which is basically what it sounds like: making a mark on cards so you know what they are before they’re turned over. He’s also shown me a multitude of ways to hide cards on your person, or quickly swap them with ones in your pocket, or trade cards with the person next to you.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you this stuff,’ he laughs. ‘You might just go back into the casino and clean up.
‘I won’t, I promise,’ I giggle. ‘I just find this fascinating.’
‘More?’ he offers.
I nod my head eagerly. Jack obligingly takes a poker chip from his wallet.
‘So, if you win, you can cap your bet, which means you sneak more chips onto the table, which means you win more for less risk. You can also try and sneak chips off if you lose a hand – all of this is illegal,’ he reminds me.
When Jack performs these manoeuvres they look effortless. He makes cheating seem easy, but I know this stuff isn’t as simple as it seems.
Once he’s done explaining, Jack rolls the poker chip across his knuckles before making it disappear and then seemingly pulling it out from inside his mouth.
I laugh.
‘Are you a frustrated magician?’ I ask.
‘I’m not really anything,’ he explains. ‘Born and raised right here in Vegas. My dad was a magician, quite a well-known one, too. This playing card is actually signed by him – that’s why I carry it around. I know what you’re thinking, that it’s weird to have my dad’s autograph. But this is a card from one of the last tricks he did before he died.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
Jack bats his hand.
‘It’s OK. It was a while ago now. My dad taught me a lot about sleight of hand and the art of deception. I knew I could use these skills for good or bad, and here we are. Or here we were,’ he corrects himself. ‘So, what do you do?’
I push my few remaining fries around on my plate anxiously.
‘Erm, I’m sort of between jobs at the moment,’ I admit. ‘Moved here from England to study acting at UCLA, graduated. I work a few part-time gigs but my fiancé doesn’t like me taking on too much. He travels a lot for work and said it would be easier for us to spend time together if I worked less.’
Jack’s face falls.
‘You’re engaged,’ he suddenly realises.
‘Not anymore,’ I point out quickly. ‘You were right, on the roof, when you guessed a boy was the reason I was crying. I caught him cheating on me a couple of days ago.’
Every time I say it, it comes out more casually and very matter-of-fact.
‘Bastard,’ Jack says softly. ‘So, you ran away to Vegas?’
‘Just stopping over,’ I tell him. ‘On my way to England for a family wedding.’
‘Your family will help you through it,’ he reassures me.
‘Yeah, I can’t tell them. I’m just going to pretend he has to work, and tell them when it’s easier.’
‘What did you say he did?’
‘He’s a pianist,’ I reply.
‘Yeah, he sounds like one,’ Jack jokes.
‘A pianist,’ I correct him with a chuckle. ‘I don’t know if it’s all that believable, but the truth isn’t an option.’
Jack thinks for a moment.
‘I know you were upset about it earlier, but you seem very… numb right now,’ he observes. ‘Do you think you’re having trouble admitting it to your family because you’re struggling to admit it to yourself?’
‘All right, Magic Psych,’ I cackle. ‘Calm down.’
Jack throws his head back as he laughs.
‘What is it with the stripper comments?’ he asks. ‘And where is your accent from?’
‘Lancashire,’ I tell him. ‘It’s in the north. And if I seem more numb than I did earlier, it’s because of this.’
I give the empty bottle of champagne a little shake.
‘Yes, I do seem to be caring less about being unemployed,’ he reasons. ‘I guess we should keep drinking then, right?’
‘What else have we got to lose?’ I reply.
Chapter Six (#ulink_f46a5222-d24c-5171-8485-97f16a5b42d1)
I wake up suddenly, gasping for breath, but the thumping in my head is too overpowering for me to move.
I open my eyes slowly, one then the other. My hotel-room blinds are open and it feels like the harsh light of morning is dissolving my eyeballs.
My head feels like it’s full, but my memory of last night is almost completely empty. I remember bumping into Jack in the bar, I remember going to dinner with him, and then I remember us deciding to go out and drown our sorrows and… not much else. Oh God, tell me I haven’t had rebound sex with Jack. I’m almost too scared to roll over and check.
The fact I’m in my hotel room is some relief and the reason breathing is so uncomfortable right now is because I not only slept in an underwired bra, but my dress is still on.
I listen carefully, for snoring, breathing or any sign of life coming from the other side of the bed. I just need to roll over and check, but I don’t want to deal with the consequences. Right now, it’s Schrödinger’s one-night stand – if I don’t roll over and see him there, it never happened.
I’m usually so quiet and sensible – some might even say boring since I met John a few years ago. A crazy night for me involves binge-watching more than six episodes in a row of something on Netflix. The height of my wild behaviour involves trying a new topping on my pizza. The only thing unpredictable about me is my menstrual cycle. How have I got myself into this mess? Why did I get so drunk last night? What did I do last night?!
Thinking hard only makes my headache worse, and trying to remember isn’t going to change the facts. I just need to get him out of here.
I roll over slowly, so as not to provoke the bear who is currently living in my head and pawing and heaving at the inside of my skull. But there’s no one there. I’m in bed, alone, fully dressed. Well, of course I am. I don’t know what I was thinking. Jack is so far out of my league, why would he want to sleep with me? A single, cheated-on, skint loser who doesn’t even have the courage to tell her family how bad her life is. They might think I’m living it up in LA with my successful fiancé, but Jack knows the truth, and that’s why he didn’t come back to my room with me.
It’s better this way. Now I don’t need to worry about getting him out of here and getting to the airport before… shit! My flight!
I grab my phone off charge and check the time. I’m officially running late, but not so late I’ll miss it. Thank God I woke up when I did.
I grab my things and stuff them into my suitcase, rushing around the room to make sure I’ve got everything. I might have left behind all the boring clothes John used to suggest I wore, but my mountain of cheap alternatives is taking a lot of cramming in. What I need is someone to sit on the case while I zip it – just another downside to being single.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_4dca7af8-9a63-5849-875f-e45550dbdf21)
After packing up, heading out, racing to the airport and checking in, I was actually just about on time for my flight. Now I’m panicking about something else…
With some time to spare, I popped into a coffee shop to grab a drink, but when I tried to pay, my card was declined. While I’ve been with John, because he’s actively encouraged me not to work so I could travel to gigs with him and hang out with him during the day, he’s been a large part of my financial support. Not long after I walked out on him, I destroyed the card for his account – something I deeply regret because it would have saved me the embarrassment of not being able to pay for my coffee. The clothes I bought for the trip didn’t cost much at all – my hair was the most expensive part of my transformation, but even after that I should have had about $800 left, which is definitely enough money for a drink, even in an airport.
So now I’m sitting on the plane, stressing out, and waiting for it to take off – except it isn’t, because they just made an announcement calling for one last passenger. You can bet that, if it were me who was late, they would have left without me. Instead, whoever this person is has all the luck because we’re not going anywhere until they arrive.
I can’t understand why my bank account is empty. I definitely had money left in there, and it’s my own account so no one else has access to it. I wish I’d taken the time to set up online banking so I could look into my account.
Once I land, what am I going to do for money? Things are just getting worse and worse, and the empty seat next to me is serving as a constant reminder of exactly how empty my life is right now.
‘Our final passenger is on his way, so we’ll be taking off shortly,’ a bubbly blonde air hostess assures us all.
Suddenly, I’m in no rush. As soon as we take off, I’ve got a little over fourteen hours to figure out what I’m going to tell people.
My head is banging. I need some caffeine or some painkillers or… hair of the dog, maybe?
The late passenger must finally be onboard, because there’s a huge roar of applause from the other passengers. My poor, poor head cannot take this right now. Leaning forwards, I rest my head on the seat in front of me and massage my temples.
Just as I dare to wonder whether or not I’ll be able to sleep for part of the flight (probably impossible with my mind racing like this), I feel someone plonk down in the seat next to me. This isn’t fair. The seat next to me is supposed to be empty – I booked it for John, unless…
‘Jack?’ I ask pointlessly, as though I need confirmation it’s really him. I’m just so surprised to see him here.
‘Quick, we need to get off the plane,’ he insists, just as the ‘fasten your seatbelt’ sign comes on and the captain begins his announcement.
‘We can’t, it’s about to take off,’ I tell him.
‘Well, they can just open the doors quickly and let us off – I can’t believe you were just going to leave like this.’
The cool, calm, charming Jack from last night is nowhere to be seen. This Jack is panicked and intense.
‘Look, erm,’ I wrack my brains for the right words – I’m not exactly rejecting guys on a daily basis. ‘I’m flattered and everything. You’re an attractive guy, but I’ve just come out of a relationship and, let’s be honest, you’re way hotter than I am, you can do way better than me.’
Oh God, I’m babbling. And Jack is just looking increasingly confused.
‘What? Wait, you’re dumping me? I’m here to dump you,’ he corrects me.
‘You stalked me onto a plane just to dump me? Wow, what a gentleman,’ I say sarcastically.
‘Look, can we just get off the plane and sort this out?’
‘Jack, you can’t just get off a plane – look, we’re moving. Sit down, fasten your seatbelt and quiet down before an air marshal fastens your wrists with a zip-tie for the next fourteen hours,’ I snap. ‘Wait, now that I think about it, you can’t just get on a plane either.’
Jack pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and places it in my hand.
‘You can when someone gives you a ticket,’ he tells me.
I unfold the piece of paper and read the crudely scribbled note aloud. It’s my handwriting, but it’s my drunk handwriting.
‘“Here’s your ticket. Flight is at 9 p.m. Can’t wait for my family to meet you, Hasband…” Hasband?’ I ask, puzzled.
‘That isn’t an A, it’s a U,’ he corrects me.
I run my hands through my hair and exhale deeply.
‘Look, I have no idea what’s going on,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t remember giving you that ticket.’
As the plane picks up speed on the runway, Jack’s expression changes again. He looks petrified.
‘You OK?’ I ask him.
‘Just a bit nervous. Probably because I’ve never flo… oh my God,’ he says as we take off. As we climb, Jack grabs my hand and squeezes it, so hard his fingers turn white, but once we’re up in the air and going steady, he releases me and relaxes. ‘Holy shit, this is awesome.’
‘I’m so glad you’re having such a wonderful time,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Now we’re up in the air, please tell me what’s going on. I’m so confused.’
‘How much do you remember from last night?’ he asks.
‘Not much,’ I confess. ‘I’m not usually a big drinker.’
‘I don’t remember it either, but the blanks were filled in for me when I woke up,’ he tells me. ‘Turns out we got married last night.’
Jack takes something else from his pocket. A photo of us, kissing at the altar in a very Vegas-looking chapel.
‘We… we can’t have,’ I reply.
‘Georgie, do you see the photo in your hand and the ring on your finger?’
I glance at my left hand and sure enough there’s a cheap gold ring with a big, fake, red ruby sitting on my ring finger. I’ve been in such a rush, I didn’t really stop to look at my hand, and I don’t usually take my engagement ring off, so I’m used to always having a ring there. I forgot I took my engagement ring off before I went out last night.
‘And then there’s the marriage certificate I woke up with in my pocket,’ he adds.
I immediately go to pull the ring off but it won’t budge.
‘Oh God,’ I blurt, unable to hide the panic in my voice.
‘Why do you think I wanted you to get off the plane? We need to get a divorce, ASAP. Shit, if you hadn’t left me a ticket, I never would’ve found you.’
‘Oh God,’ I say again, yanking hard on the ring that still won’t come off.
‘OK, calm down,’ he says pointlessly. ‘Your finger is probably just a bit swollen. The ring will come off. We can sort this out, we just need to get the next plane back to Vegas and figure out how to get a divorce.’
I ignore Jack’s reassurance and jump from my seat, clambering over him before dashing to the plane bathroom. I run my hand under the cold tap to try and reduce the swelling in my finger so the ring will come off, but it’s not working. Minutes later, Jack joins me. That will teach me not to lock the door behind me.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I had no idea you didn’t know, this must be a horrible shock,’ he starts, suddenly much calmer. ‘I thought you were just bailing on me.’
Jack squeezes an overly generous amount of soap from the dispenser before massaging it into my finger around my cheap, poorly fitting wedding ring. Sure enough, the ring pops straight off.
‘Done this before?’ I ask with a half laugh.
‘Removed my wife’s wedding ring in an airplane bathroom?’ he laughs. ‘I’ve never even flown before – never even left Nevada.’
‘And yet they just let you on a plane to England?’ I ask curiously.
‘I have two passports,’ he tells me. ‘One of them a UK one – I’m English on my mom’s side. Still got a great aunt in the UK I’ve never met. I’d visit her, but I doubt I’ll have time,’ he laughs.
I examine the ring in my hand, and little bits of the night start coming back to me.
‘Tell me more, please,’ I say softly, hoping I’ll remember.
‘So, after dinner we drank in the hotel bar for a while. We chatted. You told me all about your cousin who is getting married, and the bastard who cheated on you. Then we went to the casino.’
‘Oh God, I didn’t try my hand at gambling again, did I?’ I laugh – until I remember my bank account is empty. ‘Oh my God, I did, didn’t I?’ Shit! That’s why my bank account is empty. Why did you let me do that?’ I ask him angrily, as though it had been his job to look after me last night.
Now Jack has mentioned it, I do kind of remember going back to the casino. Oh shit, yeah, I remember now, I went to the ATM and emptied my account, like an idiot. And then… Jack! It was Jack! He gambled my money.
‘I didn’t gamble my money, you did,’ I say, raising my voice slightly.
‘Georgie, quiet down before an air marshal fastens your wrists with a zip-tie for the next fourteen hours,’ he insists, mocking my accent.
‘How am I supposed to be quiet?’ I ask through gritted teeth. ‘That was all of my money.’
‘Because – you’re right. I did gamble for you, because you asked me to. And you won.’
‘I won?’
‘Yes, well, I did anyway’ he replies smugly. ‘What can I say, I’m good at poker. I played until you got bored and asked that we stop – plus you were really happy to be on a winning streak. After that, the alcohol really started flowing. We were hitting the champagne pretty hard, we went to a club, I think… that’s where my memory stops.’
This does sound familiar…
We’re interrupted by a knock on the door.
Jack opens it to see two angry-looking air hostesses.
‘What’s going on in here?’ one asks.
‘Sorry, we’re newlyweds,’ Jack explains. ‘We’ll go back to our seats.’
‘Can I get drink, please?’ I ask them. ‘A vodka and something. Anything really. Orange, lemonade, soda – more vodka. Thank you.’
They both look seriously unimpressed, but one of them nods in agreement.
‘So we won?’ I ask Jack, once we’re sitting back down again.
‘We won,’ he tells me proudly.
‘How much?’
‘$20k,’ he replies, so casually I think I must have misheard it.
‘Twenty-what?’
‘K,’ he replies. ‘Twenty grand. Twenty Gs. Twenty thousand…’
I roll my eyes in disbelief.
‘And where is this $20k, huh? In my handbag?’
Jack laughs.
‘Well, yeah. You can’t exactly stuff it down your bra, can you?’
Does he really expect me to believe there’s $20,000 in my handbag? I’m not even going to humour him by looking. Actually, I am going to look, because then he’ll have to start telling me the truth.
I unzip one side of my bag to see the usual suspects: my purse, a notepad, four different lip glosses, loose change, empty food wrappers and a couple of rogue M&Ms. Women’s handbags are strange creatures, aren’t they? Just a Mary Poppins-style bottomless pit of all kinds of things from the useful to the bizarre to the gross. They do not, however, house $20,000.
I show Jack inside – only for as long as he needs to look to see there’s no money in there, but not long enough for him to take stock of what I’ve got. Then I open the other side, ready to do the same… except there are two wads of hundred-dollar bills in there.
‘There’s money in my bag,’ I whisper to him, as though he didn’t already know.
‘Yeah. $20k,’ he laughs.
‘I just… I thought it would take up more space. Oh my God, thank God I got this past customs,’ I laugh, unable to hide the joy in my voice. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he laughs. ‘Thank you for my first time on an airplane, I guess.’
I’m about to tell him he’s welcome – selling my lying, cheating fiancé’s ticket for $20k seems like a pretty sweet deal – but then I remember I’ve just married a stranger and it’s a sobering thought.
The air hostess places my drink down on the table in front of me. I immediately knock it back. Well, getting drunk is the best way to banish sobering thoughts, isn’t it?
‘You have two passports and yet you’ve never left Nevada?’ I ask. Is this guy for real?
‘Hedging my bets,’ he says with a cheeky laugh. ‘I told you this last night.’
‘There’s a lot I don’t remember from last night,’ I remind him. With each little piece of the puzzle Jack gives me, I see the bigger picture a little more clearly. ‘I don’t usually drink so much.’
‘So you keep saying,’ he laughs. ‘And yet you were drunk when I met you, we spent all night drinking together, and here you are now, in the a.m., drinking.’
‘So?’
‘So, if it looks like a party girl and acts like a party girl…’
‘You think this is who I am?’ I ask. ‘This isn’t me. I don’t look like this or act like this. I don’t marry strangers. This is just a weird reaction to losing my fiancé.’
‘So, when we were chatting and you were telling me how you and your cousin have always been compared to one another, and how you were never going to hear the end of it if she got married first, and that if you could only get married first…’
‘Wow,’ I shriek. ‘You think I tricked you into marrying me so I could spite my cousin?’
Jack shrugs his shoulders.
‘Maybe you tricked me into marrying you so you could get your hands on my $20k.’
‘I don’t want your money, Georgie. I want to get off this plane, on the next one back and get a divorce.’
‘We don’t need a divorce, we need an annulment,’ I tell him.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘We can get it annulled immediately. It’s like cancelling it out – so long as we didn’t have sex.’
‘We didn’t,’ he insists, a little too quickly for my liking. ‘So let’s just get this done and go our separate ways.’
I think for a moment. I want to get an annulment as soon as possible – of course I do – except… I’m supposed to be arriving in England today and pre-wedding forced-fun starts tomorrow. If I don’t turn up, I’ll be in so much trouble. My auntie will probably think I’m doing it to ruin my cousin’s big day week. And then there’s my problem of not having a fiancé… The cogs in my head are turning.
‘OK, we both just need to calm down and think about what’s best for everyone. Marriage is about compromise, right?’ I joke.
Jack pulls an unimpressed face.
‘Sorry. So, I can’t get the first plane back because I need to be around for my cousin’s wedding. You’ve heard my story, you know I need to be there. And you know everyone is expecting me to turn up with my fiancé.’
‘So, what, you think turning up with a random husband is going to show you in a better light than admitting you got cheated on and broke up?’ he asks in disbelief.
‘No, of course not,’ I reply. ‘But the last time my parents visited was not long after John and I got together and he was away on tour, and his passionate hatred of social media means he would never let me upload photos of him.’
‘Your ex was a dick. So?’
‘So, no one knows what he looks like,’ I point out. ‘So, you can come with me and pretend to be him. It’s only a week, it’s a free holiday with a fancy wedding – it’s not like you’ve got work, is it? Plus, if you do this for me, I’ll give you half the money. I’m sure that will come in handy while you look for a job.’
Jack laughs.
‘Let me get this straight – you’re going to pay me $10k to pretend to be your fiancé for a week? Then what?’
‘Then we’ll head back to the US with our already-paid-for return tickets, get our annulment and I’ll make something up about how I dumped you for having a small penis.’
Jack laughs.
‘You’re really serious, aren’t you?’
‘I didn’t ask for any of this,’ I tell him. ‘I’m just playing with the cards I’ve been dealt.’
‘Oh, well, I can’t resist a gambling pun,’ he laughs. ‘OK, fine. But it’s one week, and then home to get this annulled, OK?’
‘Oh, definitely,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t want to be married to you any more than you want to be married to me.’
‘Easiest $10k I’ll ever make,’ he says, leaning back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head.
I pull an unconvinced face at him.
‘You won me $20k playing poker,’ I remind him. Surely that’s easier?
‘Yeah, but you need money to gamble in the first place. I couldn’t afford to gamble that kind of money, even if I am a great player. Do you know how much it costs to live on your own?’
My face falls as I realise I’m going to be finding out very soon. It takes Jack a moment to realise what he’s said.
‘OK, so, you’re the mastermind of the plan. Talk me through it,’ he says, almost excitedly.
‘Well, now that horrible ring is off… no offence…’
‘None taken,’ Jack replies. ‘I’m pretty sure that one came from a vending machine.’
‘Nice. Well, I’ll put my engagement ring back on.’
I take the ring from the little pocket in my handbag where I hid it and slip it back onto my ring finger, where it used to belong.
‘Holy shit,’ Jack exclaims, grabbing my hand for a closer look. ‘You’d win $20k a whole bunch of times if you flipped that thing, if you know what I mean.’
‘Sell it?’ I ask, because I’m not entirely sure I know what he means. Jack’s Nevada accent is strong, and he talks like he’s a cool guy – or at least, someone who spends a lot of time around cool guys. ‘I’m not selling it. Once this week is over, I’m giving it back. I want nothing from him. I don’t even want to talk about him.’
‘Well, that’s unfortunate,’ Jack laughs. ‘If I’m going to pretend to be him, I’m going to need to know all about him.’
I sigh deeply and massage my temples.
‘My head is still banging, how is it you look so bright-eyed?’ I ask.
‘Maybe I’m just more used to drinking,’ he laughs. ‘Why don’t you get some sleep? It’s going to be a long flight. We can talk when you wake up.’
I think for a moment.
‘OK, sure. Thanks,’ I reply.
I really do need to get some sleep, but as I make myself comfortable I carefully and discreetly tuck my handbag at the side of my seat, keeping my money out of his reach. I’m not exactly sure how Jack could possibly steal it while we’re flying at 40,000 feet, but I’m not entirely sure I trust him yet…
Chapter Eight (#ulink_ec2aae3e-d449-53f8-9c05-59b6f7d5ac41)
The smell of maple syrup hits my nose before any of my other senses have chance to wake up. My ears soon follow, although the plane chatter is slightly muted, which means my ears must need to pop. Finally, I open my eyes slowly, just as I hear Jack roaring with laughter next to me. That’s when I realise that, at some point while I was asleep, I must have rested my head on his shoulder.
I sit up quickly, wiping the little bit of drool from my chin before he notices.
‘Having a lovely time?’ I ask sarcastically.
Jack notices me out of the corner of his eye and removes his headphones.
‘Huh?’ he asks.
‘I said, are you having a lovely time?’
‘Oh, you bet,’ he replies, smiling widely.
Jack is sitting comfortably, watching one of the in-flight movies while he tucks into a breakfast of French toast and bacon, covered with lashings of sweet-smelling maple syrup. His choice of tipple for washing his breakfast down? A glass of champagne, no less – not his first, I’d imagine, given how funny he’s finding this movie about a talking horse detective – Prancing Justice III.
‘You want a drink?’ he asks.
‘Not for a long time,’ I reply. ‘Y’know, lest I do something stupid like get married again.’
My husband laughs wildly.
‘You know what, I have a good feeling about this,’ he says.
‘That’ll be the champagne,’ I reply.
‘No, I’m serious. And it’s not just about the money – the money helps, don’t get me wrong. It will keep me going until I find another job, but… I don’t know. I don’t really have any family left so I don’t get invited to big family events like weddings.’
I pause for thought. When I moved to the States for uni, the truth is I couldn’t wait to leave life in Lancashire behind. I grew up in a small town just outside Blackpool, where everyone knew everybody’s business, and no one really had much going on. You’re born there, you grow up there, you marry someone from there and then you die there, leaving your kids to follow in your footsteps. I never wanted that to happen to me, so I got out of there as soon as I could, and avoided coming back like the plague. Sure, I’ve visited home over the years, but since John came on the scene, I’ve seen less and less of my family. The last time I visited, everyone was on my case about why I hadn’t brought John to meet them (I think my auntie might have been peddling a theory I’d fabricated him). The truth is, I was embarrassed. John is from a very well-off family and everyone in his line of business seems to be cut from similar cloth. He’s quite serious, bordering on stuffy sometimes, and I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t a snob. Taking him back to the town I grew up in, showing him the three-bedroom semi I lived in with my blue-collar dad and dinner-lady mum… It’s not that I’m ashamed of them, it’s just… I worried John would love me less if he knew where I came from. I know what you’re thinking: how did I manage to keep who I am from him? Well, let’s just say that even though I’m not a successful actress, I’m still a talented one.
‘Coffee then?’ Jack persists, snapping me from my thoughts.
‘Please,’ I reply.
As Jack calls over an air hostess and orders my drink, I examine his body language. He’s not like John at all. He’s so cool, with his relaxed demeanour and easy, charming way with everyone he speaks to. He reminds me of how I used to be, or how I thought I was, at least. The day I met John I was on my way back from an audition for the role of a rich, suburban housewife. I’d wasted a lot of time and a lot of effort on a lot of failed auditions, but I still wasn’t ready to give up, so I decided to take the clichéd, ‘dress for the job you want’ advice and wore exactly what I imagined a snooty housewife would wear. Turning up in the type of outfit I usually wore, like a plaid shirt-dress and pair of Converse teamed with bright-red lipstick and too much eyeliner, wasn’t going to cut it. From my pastel lemon twinset to my pearls, to my minimal make-up and newly trimmed bob, I looked nothing like myself and everything like the kind of girl who would catch John’s attention, it turns out. I was walking down the street, the weight of the world on my lemon-clad shoulders after yet another rejection, when a man sitting outside a café struck up a conversation with me.
‘How can someone be so sad when it’s so sunny outside?’ he asked me from over his cappuccino, which, I suppose, is just a posh person’s way of saying ‘cheer up, love, it might never happen’. As we sat and chatted I learned all about the kind of person he was, and having realised it was the temporarily classy-looking me who’s caught his eye, I kept the image up when he asked me on our first date, and then our second, and then it just stuck. Dating an orchestral pianist, going to his performances and the swanky events that go with them, hanging around with his fancy friends… I had to keep it up, or I never would’ve fitted in. His friends would mock girls in yoga pants and boys in flip-flops, and I would keep my head down, my mouth shut, and the door to my flat full of offending outfits closed, because I loved John, and I wanted his people to accept me.
Around the time I met him, I was starting to consider whether or not I should move back home. Not just because I missed my family, but because things weren’t really working out for me career-wise. Not only did he convince me I should stay because he’d help me find work (he’s worked on a few movie scores and said that he could introduce me to the right people in the industry – although that never happened), he promised me we’d start our own family someday.
I shouldn’t be thinking about this right now; I should be filling Jack in on all the info he needs to pretend to be my elusive fiancé. It used to really upset me he wouldn’t let me put things on Facebook – I thought he was ashamed of me. But right now I couldn’t be more thankful, because the fewer people know about him, the fewer facts Jack and I will need to stick to. We can ad-lib the whole thing, and there will be no one with a dated timeline of information to fact-check any of it.
I explain to Jack that no one knows too much about John, so it shouldn’t be too hard for him to keep up the act.
‘So, you’re an orchestral pianist,’ I remind him. ‘We live together in LA but you travel around a lot for work, and most of the time I go with you. I work different temp jobs, so it’s easy for me to take time off. I’m between jobs at the moment.’
‘Pretty sweet life you’ve got going on,’ he observes through a mouthful of breakfast.
‘Had going on,’ I correct him. ‘So, you love classical music, pop culture makes you angry, social media makes you furious—’
‘Do your family know this stuff?’ he interrupts.
‘They know he doesn’t have a web presence. Well, I mean, they’ve noticed he doesn’t.’
‘Do they know he’s boring and kind of a douchebag, though?’
‘He’s not…’ I jump to John’s defence then wonder why I’m bothering. ‘No, they don’t.’
‘Cool, so I can reinvent the guy, make him seem like you have better taste.’
‘Must you?’ I ask with a slight whine.
Jack laughs as he polishes off the last of his meal, washing it down with the last of his champagne.
‘So, what kind of temp jobs do you do?’ he asks.
‘Erm, this and that. Office jobs, dog walking, marketing…’
‘Is that what you wanted to be?’
‘I wanted to be an actress – I still do. Things got put on hold when I met John. He was just so busy with work, and he was already established so…’
It always sounds like an excuse, when I say it out loud.
‘How did your parents feel about you moving thousands of miles away to become an actress?’
‘Well, I moved away for uni, so they were happy I was studying. And they’re happy I’m happy there with John – was happy,’ I correct myself. In the midst of all this make-believe, I mustn’t forget what has actually happened. Life as I know it is over.
Jack rubs his chin thoughtfully.
‘You got brothers or sisters?’
‘Two brothers,’ I reply. ‘Olly, who is a couple of years older than me. He’s like the model son because he’s got a good job and a house and a pregnant wife. Then there’s my little brother, Jacob, who’s currently studying for his A-levels. He’s eighteen.’
‘That’s a bit of an age gap,’ he observes. ‘So, he was how old when you moved to the States?’
‘My parents had Olly and me in their early twenties. My mum calls Jacob her “little surprise”, which I think means accident,’ I laugh. ‘He can’t have been more than nine or ten when I moved out.’
‘Would you say you’re close with your family?’
‘OK, now you’re just being nosey,’ I say with a laugh. ‘You can’t possibly need to know that.’
‘Just wondering,’ he replies.
I’m definitely the unremarkable middle child in the Parker family. They think Olly is wonderful because he got a steady job selling double-glazing, a house, and a wife – and now he’s got a bun in the oven, he’s flying through the motions, just as my parents hoped he would. The thing about Olly is, he was always the most popular guy in school, and he always found it effortless to wiggle his way out of trouble – as far as my parents are concerned, he can still do no wrong. Even now we’re adults, he still tortures me and teases me in the way siblings do. Jacob is Olly’s opposite; he’s very quiet and keeps himself to himself. Studying is his number-one priority at the moment, and it’s hard to tease him for it, really, because he gets results. It seems like the As come easily to him, but I know he studies hard. Still, I wish he’d let his hair down a little bit sometimes. I suppose, because I moved away when Jacob was only ten years old, we haven’t really spent much time together.
‘Do I have any siblings?’ Jack asks me.
I stare at him for a moment, wondering why he’s asking me, before I realise he means the role he’s playing.
‘Oh. No, you’re an only child.’
‘Well, that won’t be hard to fake,’ he says with a slight laugh. ‘I’m an only child.’
‘This is going to be OK, isn’t it?’ I ask him anxiously.
‘Sure. It’s just a week,’ he reminds me. ‘We get on OK, don’t we? Weddings are always fun. I’m still a bit freaked-out about being married, but we can fix that as soon as we’re back.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘It will be fine.’
A jolt of turbulence hits the plane, as though to remind me journeys don’t always run smoothly.
‘I need to stop at a store and grab a toothbrush and change of clothes. I only got on the plane to convince you to get off. Are expenses covered on this trip?’ he asks with a cheeky laugh.
‘I suppose I can’t expect you to fork out for an outfit for a wedding,’ I reply. ‘And you’ll need clothes while you’re here – that hadn’t crossed my mind. I’ll pay for them out of my half, but you have to let me pick them.’
‘You worried I can’t dress myself?’ he laughs.
‘No,’ I reply, pausing to think about a polite way to say this. ‘But, if you’re pretending to be John, you’re going to have to… adjust your look.’
Jack runs a hand through his hair.
‘What’s wrong with my look?’
‘Well… it’s just… it’s a bit scruffy.’
‘Scruffy?’ he echoes, his voice significantly higher than usual. ‘How am I scruffy?’
I examine Jack’s outfit. He’s wearing grey baggy trackies, resting low on his hips, teamed with a tight-fitting vest top and matching hoodie.
‘Well, I mean, look at what you’re wearing. You look like you just got out of bed.’
‘I look like I just got out of bed because I just got out of bed,’ he reminds me. ‘I woke up, realised I was married and that my wife was about to literally take off for ever on a plane, so I grabbed the nearest items of clothing and my passport, and headed for the airport.’
‘Oh,’ I reply. It’s not even that he doesn’t look good – he looks great. The hardest sell of our little lie is going to be convincing people I could pull someone so far out of my league. The problem is, he doesn’t look like a boring John, he looks like a cool Jack. ‘Your hair and facial hair might be a problem, though.’
‘I’m not cutting my hair,’ he says insistently. ‘It’s my hair that helps me pick up chicks.’
‘Speaking as a chick, I can tell you it isn’t your hair that helps you pick up chicks,’ I admit. ‘It’s the fact that your biceps are thicker than my waist.’
Jack wiggles his eyebrows, clearly only taking the compliment from what I just said.
His light-brown hair is only a couple of inches long on the sides, but it’s way longer on top, and right now he’s got it swept to one side, falling down to cover an eye on one side. He’s constantly sweeping it away – and it’s bizarrely sexy to spectate – but, again, it’s not the right look. Neither is his trendy short, well-groomed beard.
‘You don’t look like you’re part of an orchestra,’ I point out. ‘You have to look smart and polished. We don’t need to cut your hair, we just need to slick it back. You do need to shave, though.’
Jack frowns, but his face softens after a few seconds.
‘Who are your mom and dad, the King and Queen of England?’ he asks sarcastically. ‘Are you royalty?’
I exhale deeply
‘You need to be what they’re expecting,’ I reply. ‘Or this doesn’t work. And if it doesn’t work, you don’t get your $10k.’
‘You drive a hard bargain, princess,’ he submits. ‘OK, fine. I guess having a shave and using a bit of hair gel is a small price to pay for ten grand.’
‘Thank you,’ I tell him sincerely. I know exactly what it feels like to be dressed in clothes you’re not used to. I feel two kinds of uncomfortable – firstly because I’d got out of the habit of flashing flesh, and secondly because this outfit is so very, very tight.
I adjust myself in my seat a little, trying to get a bit more comfortable. Jack might be finding flying for the first time fun and exciting, but I’m sick of these long-haul flights. My family might drive me crazy, but I do miss them, so if I want to see them, fourteen hours on a plane is the quickest way. I suppose I could move back home, now John isn’t in the picture any more. As I’m creeping up on thirty, it feels like I’m too old to break into the acting scene now, but I feel equally too old (and too embarrassed) to move back home with no fiancé, no money and a useless acting degree. I’d be starting from scratch, from the point most people are at when they hit their twenties. I might feel like the unremarkable middle child now, but to give in to that, everyone would see me as such a loser…
‘I can’t believe I’m married,’ he laughs. ‘Never even really had a serious girlfriend.’
‘You’ve never had a serious girlfriend?’ I reply in disbelief.
There’s a telling glint in his eye. Obviously he’s not the dating kind, just the hump ‘em and dump ‘em kind. He’s probably broken the hearts of so many tourists. I suppose working in a hotel full of ladies looking to have a good time makes pulling pretty easy – why would he tie himself down?
‘Excuse me,’ a young air hostess says to get our attention. She places two slices of sweet-smelling, delicious-looking red velvet cake down in front of us. ‘These are for you guys. We know you’re newlyweds, so it’s to celebrate that, but also because we appreciate you didn’t go back to the toilets together.’
She giggles nervously as she flutters her eyelashes at Jack.
‘Aw, thanks,’ he tells her before turning to me. ‘Isn’t that sweet?’
‘Thank you,’ I tell her, the smell of the cake causing my appetite to come creeping back up on me.
‘I could get used to this,’ Jack laughs, tucking into his cake.
‘Don’t,’ I reply, a little too quickly. ‘It’s just a week.’
Chapter Nine (#ulink_1d10769e-23c1-5945-893d-1ee68b31893a)
It had occurred to me Jack was taking this whole real marriage/fake relationship for money thing quite well, but I figured it was just because he was a really easy-going (recently unemployed) person. But I’ve been waiting outside the men’s toilets for half an hour now, and I think he might have done a runner.
I gave him two bags to take into the loos with him, one containing several items of smart-casual clothing and another with toiletries. I bought disposable razors and shaving gel, which made Jack wince when he saw them because, apparently, the proper removal of a beard requires an electric razor – something I couldn’t get in any of the airport shops. That said, I didn’t look too hard, because this is coming out of my share of the money, and I’m technically unemployed, too. He should think himself lucky I didn’t just give him one of the razors I’ve brought to keep on top of my leg-hair growth while I’m here. I didn’t cheap out on the clothes, though, I dashed through the clothes shops and picked appropriate outfits straight off the mannequins, so Jack would be smart and on trend. It’s going to be uncharacteristically warm here – even for June – so I made sure I bought things that would be weather-appropriate as well as ‘I’m definitely a refined gentleman who plays piano in an orchestra’-appropriate.
I got him everything he could possibly need, so why hasn’t he come back out?
I pace back and forth outside for a few more minutes before a middle-aged man in a suit comes walking out. He’s glancing around, as though he’s looking for something. When his eyes land on me, he walks over.
‘Excuse me,’ he says, in his Queen’s English accent. ‘Georgie, is it?’
I nod.
‘Ah, well, there’s a gentleman in the toilets asking for you. He wants you to nip in and see him.’
‘He wants me to go into the men’s loos?’ I ask in disbelief.
‘Indeed,’ he says, clearly stifling a chuckle. ‘He said you’d probably refuse, but that I had to tell you he’s not coming out. Ever.’
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.
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