A Girl Walks Into a Wedding Page 2

  Finally, it’s over. You scrabble out of the awful garment, get dressed and join the others.

  Cee Cee narrows her eyes at you. ‘You haven’t told me who you’re bringing to the wedding.’

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ you say. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  Jane and Cee Cee exchange glances.

  ‘But it’s next weekend,’ Jane says. ‘Can you let me know by this evening? The calligrapher needs to do the name cards for the tables.’

  Calligrapher? Oh dear. This is not the laid-back Jane you know and love. Truth is, you haven’t decided who you’re going to ask to be your plus-one. You haven’t told her about Steve yet.

  You met him online – one of the few guys who contacted you who didn’t have a cocky moniker containing the number 69 – and you have to admit that if you showed up with him, you’d create a stir. Steve has the kind of good looks that cause whiplash. And therein lies the problem. On your one and only date with him, you were so busy trying to figure out what the catch was, you barely had a chance to get to know him.

  Still, he’s a massive improvement on some of the blokes you’ve been out with lately. He has all his own teeth, laughed at your jokes, and when you went for a quick coffee after the movie, he over-tipped the waiter (always a good sign). Better still, he wasn’t pushy or grabby, leaving you with a chaste but spine-tingling goodnight kiss at the end of the evening. Is he just too good to be true?

  Or you could go on your own. The wedding wouldn’t grind to a halt if every guest wasn’t paired up. You know that in spite of her wedding panic, Jane only wants you to be happy, date or no date. And Cee Cee’s concern is limited to your plus-one’s dietary requirements, shoe size, and whether his personality is suitable for sitting next to the bride’s deaf granny or the groom’s alkie uncle.

  ‘I’d better get going,’ Jane says. ‘I’ve got a meeting with DJ Salinger.’

  ‘Who?’ you ask.

  ‘The DJ for the reception. Word is he’s extremely hot.’

  ‘And I’d better head to the airport,’ Cee Cee says. ‘Bruno and his date are arriving this afternoon. It’s the first time he’s been home in years.’

  ‘Bruno’s bringing a date to the wedding?’ you say, remembering the relentless teasing Jane and Cee Cee’s brother subjected you to when you were kids. ‘Who is this woman – some kind of masochist?’

  Jane laughs. ‘Bruno’s changed – you’re going to be surprised.’

  ‘Huh,’ you say. ‘Remember when he set my hair on fire? I’m not sure I’m ever going to get over that.’

  You say your goodbyes and leave the bridal shop, feeling slightly blue. After that catastrophic bridesmaid’s dress, you need cheering up. You send an emergency text to your friend Lisa, and she replies within seconds, promising to pick up a takeaway and bottle of wine en route to your place.

  Lisa pours the dregs of the wine into her glass and stuffs the last of the naan bread into her mouth. ‘Weddings!’ she says. ‘Why do people put themselves through all that crap?’

  You sigh. ‘It is supposed to be the most important day of your life.’

  Lisa snorts. ‘The most stressful day of your life, more like. The whole industry is a giant wedding-planner and florist conspiracy.’ She runs a hand through her bright pink hair. It’s lucky Jane didn’t ask her to be a bridesmaid – she’d clash terribly with the new nightmare outfits and the décor palette. ‘So tell me more about this Steve guy.’

  ‘Not much to tell,’ you say. ‘He seems nice.’

  Lisa grimaces. ‘Nice? Ugh. Sounds boring.’ Lisa doesn’t do nice – or boring. Her last girlfriend was a stuntwoman with more piercings and tattoos than a biker convention.

  Your mobile beeps with a text from Jane: ‘Plus one? I NEED TO KNOW!!!!’

  What to do? Is your best friend’s wedding really the place for a second date with Steve? He certainly fits the part; he’s handsome and polite, and taking him along would stop Jane’s relatives bombarding you with questions about your love-life. But you’re not sure if you’re in the mood for spending the wedding babysitting a bloke you barely know, introducing him to everyone and explaining how you met. And you don’t really want to tell everyone you’ve only been on one date with him before. Maybe you could be vague on that point. But more importantly, do you want Steve to see you in that horror of a bridesmaid’s dress? It’s likely to put him off you forever.

  Perhaps you’d be better off going to the wedding on your own. Lisa is going solo after all, and despite her wedding cynicism, she’s so much fun to hang out with. If you went on your own, you could really let your hair down with Lisa, and you wouldn’t have to stress about whether or not your date was enjoying himself. And you never know who you might meet at the wedding: didn’t Jane say something about the DJ being super-hot?

  If you want to take Steve to the wedding as your plus-one, go to page 19.

  If you want to go to the wedding on your own, go to page 176.

  You’ve decided to go to the wedding with Steve

  You can’t help feeling a bit smug. Choosing Steve to be your date was definitely the right decision.

  Here you are, en route to an early summer wedding in a vintage red convertible, a gorgeous guy at your side – the star of your very own romantic movie cliché. You relax back in the car seat, enjoying the feel of the breeze dancing over your skin. It helps that Steve is even better looking than you remembered. Tall, rangy, and with a smile that meets his eyes every time. You can hardly wait to walk into the hotel on his arm. Jane’s eyes will fall out of her head, and even Lisa is sure to be impressed.

  There are a few niggles: you still haven’t nailed down exactly what he does for a living – some sort of training for corporate clients is how he put it – but he’s employed, says he’s well-travelled, and he seems to like you a great deal. Sure, you were a little bit concerned at how eagerly he’d agreed to be your plus-one for the wedding, enthusiastically offering to drive you to the country venue – but that worry evaporated when he pulled up outside your place, right on time, in his spectacularly cool car, and ushered you into the passenger seat. He’d even brought you a silk scarf to protect your hair from the wind, and you felt a little like Grace Kelly as he propelled you through the outskirts of the city – people shooting you admiring glances.

  So far, so good.

  You called the wedding venue – one of those luxury country-manor hotels – to book an extra room for him, but now, as you glance at your date in his sunglasses and tight t-shirt, driving with skill and ease, a sneaky part of you is wondering what it might be like to share a room instead.

  You leave the city and the traffic behind – Steve has programmed the satnav to take you via the scenic route, and soon you’re cruising through rolling countryside along narrow lanes, the hedges full of flowers, the occasional spire of a village church punctuating the valleys folded between the sloping hills. You haven’t said much to each other – content to let the landscape slide by – but it’s a comfortable silence, as if you’ve known him for ages.

  Without taking his eyes off the road, Steve reaches over and weaves his fingers through yours. ‘Hungry?’ he asks.

  You were so busy getting ready this morning, you skipped breakfast. A snack in a charming country pub wouldn’t go amiss. ‘I could eat,’ you say.

  Steve slows and pulls to the side of the road on the outskirts of a small village. This isn’t a cosy country pub. It’s a field.

  ‘Why are we stopping here?’ you ask.

  ‘Wait and see.’ He strides round to the boot and hauls out a picnic basket.

  ‘You packed a picnic?’

  ‘I thought it might be a good plan.’ He points to a large oak tree set in a clearing in the middle of a field of swaying wheat. A stile marks a public footpath that curves up a slope past the tree. This is too picture-perfect to be true. You look around for the hidden orchestra, but all you can hear are birds and the distant burr of a tractor.

  Steve takes your hand and chi
valrously helps you through the stile. You stroll along the path, the soft grasses and dandelions on either side tickling your bare legs. When you reach the clearing under the oak, he lays down a mohair blanket, and you kick off your shoes and sink down next to him as he starts unpacking the basket. Unbelievable – sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Chocolate cupcakes. And a bottle of chardonnay in a cooler sleeve.

  ‘You did all this?’ you ask.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Wow. And you’ve been single for how long?’

  He looks a little bashful. ‘I’m taking my time. But I believe if I put myself out there, stay open to opportunity, the right woman will come along. I just have to keep the faith.’

  He pours you a glass of wine – taking only a splash for himself. ‘Driving,’ he shrugs. Mmm, responsible, too. Next he hands you a sandwich, along with a real linen serviette – it’s delectable, a simple combination of brown bread, butter, succulent roast chicken and a hint of fresh rosemary. You sigh in contentment and sip your wine, which is equally good.

  The cupcakes are even better, oozing decadent dark chocolate filling. ‘Did you make these too?’ you ask, licking your fingers.

  ‘Nah, can’t claim the credit there. I have a really decent baker around the corner from where I live. Their cakes are legendary. I popped in there first thing this morning.’

  Just as you’re thinking that things couldn’t get any better, Steve reaches out and tucks a dandelion flower behind your ear. You feel a tingle of warmth in the pit of your belly, and shift a little closer to him. He trails his hand up your arm, slowly stroking your shoulder and neck, his fingers tangling gently in your hair. Then his hand falls away and you’re momentarily confused, but he’s moving the picnic paraphernalia aside. You shiver with anticipation, the sound of birdsong growing fainter as Steve leans towards you, and there’s that delicious moment of knowing that your first real kiss is about to happen. And it doesn’t disappoint.

  He doesn’t rush in, but he’s not too tentative either, and you melt with pleasure as his tongue slides between your lips. You lean back on the soft mohair blanket, wrapping your arms around his neck so that he follows you down, and give yourself over to being thoroughly kissed. The man is a master of the craft, taking his time, combing his hands through your hair. You feel an impressive bulge pressing against your thigh and resist the temptation to reach for it – at least for now.

  You’re breathless by the time he shifts his mouth to your neck, nuzzling his way down by inches, and as he takes your earlobe gently between his teeth, you explore the honed muscles of his back with your fingers.

  He stops and pulls away for a moment, looking into your eyes. Then he eases one of the straps of your sundress off your shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ you murmur, sliding your hands down his back and up under the edge of his t-shirt. His skin is warm, and you run your fingertips across his waist and onto his stomach, keen to see if his six-pack feels as good as it looks. It does.

  But you’re distracted from your own journey by his, as his mouth drops lower, threading kisses past your collarbone and down to the top of your cleavage. He rolls the fabric of your dress down, cups your naked breast in his hand, and slowly, tantalisingly, trails kisses over your nipple. Then you feel his fingers slip the other strap down, exposing both your breasts to the soft, warm air and the pleasure of his mouth.

  And then his hand drops lower to slip up under your skirt, teasing along the skin of your thigh, brushing your inner thigh with the tips of his fingers while he wraps his tongue around and around your nipple, then moves to lavish attention on the other one. You sigh as a light breeze plays over your now wet nipple, making you shiver with need.

  Then his hand is slipping up over your knickers, which are already soaked through, and you part your thighs a little, giving him access. You let out a long breathy gasp as you feel him rubbing the length of your slit from top to bottom. He starts off softly, then increases the pressure of his fingertips over the fabric. First he strokes with just two fingers, and then with all four, applying extra pressure when he reaches your mound, tapping against your clit on every pass. It feels as if that little slip of fabric is the only thing preventing you from coming on the spot.

  ‘Please …’ you say, tilting up your hips as he rubs the edge of his teeth gently around one of your nipples. At your urging, you feel his fingers just lift the side of your knickers, and you know he’s about to have at you properly, your breath starts coming a little faster …

  Your eyes fly open at the sudden roar of an engine, and a tractor chugs into view. Reluctantly, you detach yourself from Steve and whip the straps of your dress up, pulling down your skirt. Steve gently brushes grass off your back. You’re tempted to ignore the audience – you were so close to complete satisfaction – but you barely know this guy, so maybe it’s a good thing Farmer Brown came along when he did. Who knows how far things might have gone if you hadn’t been interrupted?

  Back in the car, your head is buzzing delightfully from the glass of wine and your body from Steve’s clever fingers and mouth. You’re a little itchy from the grass on your bare skin, but you feel sun-kissed and well-kissed – and you’re anticipating more later. To think you were considering going to the wedding alone!

  ‘Feel like some music?’ Steve asks.

  ‘Sure,’ you say.

  He fiddles with his iPod and, next thing, an eighties soft-rock classic blasts out. Not quite what you had in mind.

  ‘Choose something else if you like,’ he shouts above Foreigner or Chicago or Meatloaf or whatever it is that’s blaring out of the speakers and making your ears bleed.

  You scroll through his iPod. Oh dear. Several ‘best of’ albums – Celine Dion, Jennifer Rush – the soundtrack to The Notebook, and a Westlife compilation. You feel a twinge of unease. There’s no doubt this guy is in touch with his romantic side – maybe too in touch. Still, it’s not as if he listens to panpipe music, is it? It could be worse.

  It is worse. The next track swells to its crescendo and he starts singing along. He shoots you a meaningful glance while warbling that he really wants to knooow what love is. And with taste in music this bad, you’re not sure you want to show him.

  You smile back tentatively, squirming in your seat. He’s just messing with you, surely? Pretending to be cheesy. That has to be it. Thankfully the song changes and he stops singing.

  The road weaves past the high gates of several country estates, each more lavishly scenic than the last – you’re really in weekend wedding territory now. You crest a hilltop and round a corner, and your destination slides into view, laid out below you in all its panoramic glory. You knew it would be gorgeous – Jane exploited all of Cee Cee’s wedding-planner connections to the max – but this is breathtaking.

  A stone mansion basks in the sunshine, with that settled look that comes from being centuries old. The grounds stretch in all directions, manicured lawns sweeping towards clumps of trees. A stream running beside a wall divides the gardens from a pasture of grazing sheep. An artfully constructed folly leads the eye up one rise, and behind the mansion you can see the tower of a chapel made of the same golden stone. As you crunch down the long, gravelled drive, the glimmer of a lake behind a row of willows catches your eye. And are those swans on the water? They are.

  Steve brings the car to a halt in front of the steps that lead up to the entrance of the manor house, now one of those tremendously exclusive hotels. He leaps out and jogs around the car to open your door. You get out and stretch, gazing out at the lake, enjoying the scent of roses and the quiet. Which is shattered by a cacophony of children’s voices, followed by a woman yelling, ‘Paris! Take your finger out of your nose right now!’

  You turn to see Jane’s cousin Noeleen and her husband Dom – for obvious reasons, the pair of them have been Brangelina’d into Domino – and their brood approaching. ‘Hi!’ Noe calls, a toddler wrapped around her ankle. Dom follows, a child clinging to his back like a chimp. You have no i
dea how they manage their three children – all of whom are under seven – without resorting to tranquillisers.

  Noe pauses, eyes widening as she takes in Steve. While he shakes hands with Dom, Noe mouths ‘Wow!’ at you. You can’t help feeling a flush of pride.

  ‘Mummy! Yodabell wants to go see the swans!’

  ‘Yodabell?’ you ask dubiously. Domino’s kids all have ridiculous names – you can’t remember if the ankle-biter currently tugging at Noe’s dress is called Manhattan or Tokyo – but Yodabell is an outrageous moniker, even for this family.

  ‘Yodabell is their pet rat,’ Dom sighs. ‘They insisted on bringing him.’

  On cue, a piebald rat scrambles onto the oldest child’s shoulder. You’re not a fan of rodents in general, but you feel sorry for this one; it’s wearing the same long-suffering expression as Dom.

  ‘Everyone’s meeting in the bar for drinks,’ Noe calls as she and Dom are swept away on a tide of children. ‘See you in a bit.’

  ‘Why don’t you check in? I’ll park the car around the back and bring the luggage,’ Steve says.

  You smile at him, and as you turn, he seizes your hand and tugs you back towards him, snaking his arms round your waist. ‘What, no goodbye kiss?’ he murmurs, and your giggle turns into a gasp as he presses his mouth down on yours, his tongue searching for yours once again, his kiss so passionate it takes your breath away. You almost wish you had an audience: here’s you, being kissed like a fifties film star, against a classic convertible outside a magnificent country hotel. And sure, he’s got terrible taste in music, but nobody’s perfect – and he’s a fabulous kisser, who makes a mean sandwich.

  Eventually, after kissing you thoroughly, twice, Steve lets you go and disappears in the direction of the discreet ‘Parking for Guests’ sign. You float up the wide stone stairs and into reception.

  Okay, if Cee Cee was responsible for finding this place, you might have to revise your opinion of her taste. The décor is country-house charm, all polished antique furniture and muted chintz, gleaming copper jugs and china vases spilling old-fashioned roses and hydrangeas on every table. A grandfather clock ticks, and sunlight streams through leaded glass onto the Persian rugs on the floor. Down the hall, you catch a glimpse of a Victorian-style bar, complete with wood panelling, dark oil paintings and a deer’s antlered head mounted above the baronial fireplace.