A Girl Walks Into a Wedding Page 6

  Meanwhile, the couple have picked up the pace. You gaze hypnotised at JD’s muscular buttocks as they rise and fall, faster and harder, imagining that you’re the one he’s thrusting into, that you’re the one giving short, cut-off cries as he drives into you again and again. Your skin is on fire, and you’re circling your fingers helplessly around your clit – you’re so aroused you can’t touch it directly. As JD pulls almost all the way out and then drives deep back in again, you groan audibly. You afraid you’re going to give yourself away, but it’s much too late to stop.

  At that second, JD draws himself all the way out, and the waitress cries, ‘Please, please—’, her protest cut off by a moan of ecstasy as he shifts down and drops his face between her legs. The sight of his dark head moving rhythmically between her thighs takes you to the edge, pleasure rising in sharp, frantic waves as you rotate the flat of two fingertips around your clit.

  The waitress starts coming, her voice rising to a hoarse near-scream as she convulses under JD. It’s a moment of pure primitive energy, and he rears up over her heaving body, plunges his cock back into her, thrusts deeply, cries out, and then collapses onto her, panting.

  At the same second, you have to shove your fist in your mouth as your own orgasm rips through your body so powerfully, it’s close to pain. Luckily, your muffled shout is masked by the gasps and murmurs of satisfaction from the couple on the lounger.

  Your heart is thundering, and your legs are wobbling, but it’s now or never, if you’re to make your escape. You dart out in the direction of freedom, bending as you run. You think you hear surprised sounds behind you, but you put your head down and belt across the lawns at top speed. You can’t believe what you just saw and did – it must be wedding fever combined with the full moon, you tell yourself.

  You pause at the entrance to tug at your dress and catch your breath. Hopefully Steve will long since have gone to bed. All you want now is the sanctuary of your room – and maybe a quiet minute to replay the image of those magnificent bodies twining around each other in the candlelight – and then a good night’s sleep, so that you won’t have bags under your eyes at tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner.

  Go to page 105.

  You decide you have to get out of there

  You’re hoping that JD and the waitress are just going to exchange free and frank views on the economy, but no such luck. Your plans for a speedy escape are dashed as he pulls her shirt off over her head. Wow, he moves fast, you think with a little stab of jealousy. You feel a forbidden rush – if you were really daring, you might step out of hiding, announce your presence and offer to join them. Wait, where did that idea come from? You feel a little hot and bothered by your evil thoughts. You shift, and your foot knocks against one of the chairs.

  The couple freeze. ‘What’s that?’ whispers the waitress, covering her breasts.

  ‘Hello?’ calls JD.

  Oh Lord, the embarrassment if you’re caught. You hold your breath.

  ‘See, it’s nothing, just nature,’ he says. ‘Now, where was I?’ And he slides a hand up under her skirt.

  The waitress moans in a rather dramatic fashion.

  Urgh, you think, she’s a screamer. It’s definitely time to get out of here.

  You wait until the waitress has her eyes closed, her mouth open, and JD’s head is buried in her lap, then you make a run for it. You’ll never be able to look either of them in the face again, but you can’t worry about that now. All you want is to get back to your room. And rinse out your eyes. Preferably with disinfectant.

  Hopefully Steve will have given up the hunt and gone back to his own room by now. After the assorted dramas of the day, you’re hoping for a good night’s sleep, so that you’ll be fresh for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night.

  Go to page 105.

  You’ve decided to sneak down to the bar for a nightcap

  As you head through the entrance hall, you see a couple locked in an embrace on the steps outside the front door. You recognise JD and one of the waitresses who was serving champagne at the get-together earlier. They disappear into the night, hands joined. You smother a jab of regret and slip into the bar, which is empty except for the receptionist, who looks to be closing it up for the night, and a man sitting at a table in the corner.

  It’s Mikey, Tom’s disreputable best man. ‘Hey,’ he calls. ‘Join me for a drink?’

  You hesitate. But while Mikey may have the morals of Charlie Sheen, he’s never boring. You’ve probably had enough alcohol for one night, so you order an orange juice and join him.

  ‘Why aren’t you at the stag party?’ you ask.

  He shrugs. ‘We ended up in a pub full of ancient farmers who were all roaring drunk. Not my scene.’

  You hear the faint sound of Steve’s voice: ‘Ba-a-abe!’ Without hesitating, you duck under the table.

  ‘While you’re down there …’ Mikey says.

  ‘Shhhh!’ You count backwards from twenty, then stick your head out from beneath the table. ‘Is it all clear?’

  ‘Yes. He’s gone. What’s going on?’ Mikey asks.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ you say.

  ‘He seems like a good guy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure. He’s a real laugh.’

  Clearly Mikey is as bad at sizing people up as he is at having grown-up relationships. ‘Thanks for not giving me away.’

  ‘So how about doing me a favour in return?’

  ‘What kind of favour?’ You shoot him a sceptical look.

  ‘Something fun, I promise.’

  He gets up. Curious, you follow him outside, your feet crunching across the gravel.

  ‘What are we doing out here?’ you ask.

  ‘This way,’ he laughs. He’s heading for the wedding car – an exquisite silver vintage Rolls-Royce. He opens the passenger door and waves you inside.

  You pause and he gives you one of his lazy grins. He’s sexy, there’s no doubt about it – he saves lives, and goes rock-climbing in his spare time, so he has that wiry, chiselled physique. But you know it wouldn’t lead anywhere – except maybe to a highly regrettable one-night stand, and you’re not that kind of girl.

  Or are you?

  If you decide it’s time to go to bed – alone, go to page 94.

  If you decide to see what Mikey has in mind, go to page 95.

  You’ve decided to go to bed

  You creep along the corridor to your room, praying that Steve has given up for the night. You really are a coward. Why not just tell him you’re not interested instead of sneaking around like a schoolgirl?

  Nope. He’s still prowling around outside your bedroom door. You tiptoe away again, cursing both him and yourself. This time, you flee to the grounds outside. It’s the most beautiful night; the earlier clouds have cleared, and the lawns are silver in the moonlight.

  You wander down to the lake, making your way to the summer-house that stands at the water’s edge. There are chairs stacked against the walls, and a pool lounger that looks over the lake. You stretch out on it to admire the big round moon.

  Peace at last.

  Go to page 83.

  You’ve decided to see what Mikey has in mind

  Mikey drives the Rolls across the lawn and parks it under a tree next to the lake.

  ‘What the hell are we doing?’ you ask.

  ‘Wait and see.’

  He gets out, opens the boot and removes several boxes of what appear to be shaving-cream canisters, empty tin cans and women’s underwear.

  He thumps them down next to you and hands you a can of shaving foam, shaking another in his hand. ‘Let’s go for it.’

  ‘Are you crazy? You’re only supposed to trash the wedding car on the day of the wedding.’

  ‘Thought we could give it a trial run.’

  ‘Is this just an excuse to cover me in shaving cream?’ you ask.

  ‘Maybe. I like the idea of getting you all lathered up.’ Before you can react, he points a can at you and sprays. You squeal
, then dive into the box to arm yourself with a second can.

  Five minutes later, you’re both panting, giggling and covered with foam. ‘This is ridiculous,’ you say. ‘I’ve got this stuff everywhere, even in my hair. And I’m supposed to look my best this weekend.’

  ‘No worries,’ says Mikey airily. ‘I know a way to get us both clean.’

  He grabs your hand and drags you towards the lake. You dig in your heels at first, but it’s a glorious night, and a midnight swim might be just what you need to clear your head.

  Kicking off your shoes, you both charge into the water. It feels shocking but exhilarating, and soft mud blooms between your toes as you splash each other. You launch yourself backwards, kicking up sprays of water. A waterfowl scolds somewhere in the reeds.

  Even in the moonlight, you can see that Mikey’s eyes are riveted to your chest – the combination of clinging foam and cold water has rendered the thin fabric of your dress entirely superfluous: every ridge on your bullet-hard nipples is clear. He floats over to you. ‘Is it cold, or are you happy to see me?’ he says, nodding at your chest.

  You splash him again and paddle away, chuckling, ‘In your dreams.’ You wade into the shallows and pick your way up the sloping lawn towards the car. The night is balmy, but you’re dripping wet and goosebumped, your dress plastered to your body.

  You turn to watch as Mikey rises out of the water and starts moving towards you. In the silvery glow of the night, he looks like a classic sculpture of a minor god come to life. No matter how hot, he’s not your type – he’s not any sane woman’s type – but you still can’t help staring as he slowly undoes his shirt buttons and peels off the wet fabric, his rock-hard pecs so clearly defined you could chisel something with them. Perhaps it’s time for a cold shower, you think, since the fresh splash of the lake doesn’t seem to have cooled you down.

  Mikey, now only in painted-on jeans, joins you at the car and roots around in a box. ‘Here,’ he says, pulling out a bottle of amber liquid. ‘Something to warm you up.’

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Try it.’

  You sniff it – it smells lethal. ‘You first,’ you say.

  Mikey takes a mouthful, grimacing as he swallows it.

  You take a sip. It burns as it goes down. ‘What is this, moonshine?’ you ask.

  ‘Mampoer. It’s from South Africa. Got it on my last trip.’

  You take another sip, feeling its heat blossoming in your chest. It’s definitely doing the trick.

  He turns the car radio on. ‘Want to dance?’

  You’re about to make your excuses when the unmistakable rhythms of a tango start up. You love the dance – it’s so sexy and somehow filled with yearning at the same time. But wouldn’t it be more sensible to go back to your room, get out of your wet dress, and get some sleep?

  If you decide to dance with Mikey, go to page 99.

  If you head back to your room for a good night’s sleep, go to page 105.

  You decide to dance with Mikey

  ‘Okay, you’re on,’ you say. ‘But if I’m going to dance with you, I’ll need another swig of that moonshine.’

  ‘Coming right up!’ Mikey hands you the bottle, and you take a long swig, feeling it flame all the way down and flood your veins with courage.

  ‘Right, let’s see if you know what you’re doing.’ You step closer to Mikey, laying one hand in his and curling the other round onto his shoulder, and you’re pleasantly surprised when he takes the correct position, drawing you close, sliding his hand onto the proper part of your back and moulding his body to yours.

  You feel him rocking gently to the music before taking a step, drawing you into the rhythm. Then, in perfect time with the plaintive violins, you begin to move, walking together, falling into the old familiar rhythms of gliding forward, then back, then to each side.

  You’re both a little rusty, but Mikey’s balance is good, and the lessons you took from an Argentinian maestro at university come back to you, your body remembering the shapes and patterns of the dance.

  ‘How on earth do you know how to do this?’ you ask, as Mikey steers you into the typical tango cross.

  ‘My mother was a huge tango fan,’ he says. ‘She even taught it at some stage. I’m a rubbish dancer in general, but some things stuck.’

  For a while, you concentrate on his lead, wondering where he’ll take you next, then you relax and grow bolder, trusting Mikey to steady you as you swivel your hips and shoulders, even trying out those sexy little back kicks.

  He blocks your foot, you throw it back in in response. ‘Nice!’ he says, sliding his leg between yours and hooking you into a leg wrap. You can feel the heat of his body through the wet fabric of his jeans, and as your chests press together, you might as well be naked. As you break the embrace to move backwards, swinging this way and that, your nipples graze his bare skin, and you both shiver – it’s the cool night, you tell yourself.

  You’d forgotten how sensuous the tango is, the way the sweeping rhythms lead you into swift, bold steps, punctuated by momentary hesitations – like courtship, you remember your teacher once telling you.

  You feel Mikey’s breath tickling your ear and throw caution to the winds. When he gives the signal, you bend recklessly all the way backwards, your hair almost touching the ground. He steadies you with one hand, balancing you with his hips and braced thigh, then places the flat of his fingers on your breastbone and runs them slowly down to below your navel. Then he sweeps you back upright, hard against his chest, and the dizziness is too much, and you stagger, forcing him to stumble.

  Mikey’s hands slide lower and lower, and then his warm mouth fastens on your neck. This really isn’t a good idea, but as he nips gently, you feel a shudder run through your body.

  The violins continue to play their bittersweet, insistent melody, but they sound far away, and the stars in the sky are spinning gently.

  ‘Here, I need warming up,’ you say. ‘Where did that bottle go?’

  ‘Mummy?’ A child’s voice jolts you awake. ‘I can see that lady’s rude parts.’

  You open your eyes and see faces staring down at you. Many, many faces. Most of them wearing expressions of shock or amusement. There’s Aunt Lauren (amused), Tom (shocked), Father Declan (shocked and amused), Jane’s mother (shocked) and the gorgeous JD (amused). Lisa has her hand clamped over her mouth, tears of mirth running down her face. Domino are bootfaced as they attempt to shepherd their fascinated kids away, and there’s Bruno and his girlfriend, trying to stifle their giggles.

  Someone groans next to you.

  You sit up on your elbows, feeling a lurch of nausea as you do so. Your head feels like someone’s taken a jackhammer to it, and the morning light feels like razorblades against your eyeballs. Then it hits you.

  You’re stark naked, lying on the grass on the front lawn of the hotel. You hastily cover your breasts with your hands. You’re surrounded by condoms, their jellyfish bodies scattered about. Your shoes and knickers are nestled next to the empty bottle of Mampoer and several crushed cans of industrial-strength cider.

  ‘Someone switch those bloody birds off,’ Mikey growls. You turn to look at him. He’s also naked, and someone’s written, ‘YES U CAN’ on his stomach in lipstick, with an arrow pointing to his crotch. You recognise that shade of lipstick: it’s yours. You blink: is his penis really that tiny, or is the chilly morning air partly to blame?

  ‘My head,’ another voice moans. You look past Mikey’s prone body and see the receptionist. He’s wearing your dress and a long blonde wig. What the hell did you get up to last night?

  You try to piece it together. You and Mikey were dancing around the wedding car, passing the bottle of South African moonshine between you, giggling and having a great time.

  The rest is a blank.

  ‘Baaaabe.’ You never knew so much sorrow and disappointment could be packed into a single syllable. It’s Steve, shaking his head as he gallantly pulls off his yellow t-shirt (attract
ing a lascivious look from Aunt Lauren), holds it by his fingertips and tosses it to you. You pull it over your head. It’s long enough to cover your nakedness, but nothing will ever be long enough to cover your shame.

  A high-pitched scream, laced with hysteria, cuts through your throbbing head like a rusty hacksaw. The crowd parts and you see Cee Cee screeching and pointing at the lake.

  Oh shit.

  The boot of the wedding car is rearing out of the water, the stuffed stag’s head from the bar bobbing next to it, a tiara hanging off one antler.

  ‘Must’ve knocked the handbrake off at some point,’ Mikey says. ‘Gah. Feel like crap.’

  ‘What have you two done?’ Jane hisses. ‘How could you?’

  ‘Jane,’ you falter. ‘I’m really sorry—’

  ‘You’ve ruined my wedding!’

  Steve is still shaking his head and even Lisa is looking stern.

  ‘Jane, I—’

  ‘Just go,’ Cee Cee snaps.

  Even the stag’s glass eyes glint at you in judgement. You scoop up your underwear and shoes, and race into the hotel, face burning. So much for worrying about Steve embarrassing you. You’ve managed to do that with bells, whistles and brass knobs on – all by yourself.

  You certainly can’t stay in the circumstances – you’d be at risk of death by terminal blushing. So there’s only one thing for it. Pack up and leave. Your disgrace is complete.

  The End

  It’s the night of the rehearsal dinner

  It’s the evening of the rehearsal dinner, and as you slip into your favourite red cocktail dress and don a pair of antique jet earrings, you reflect on what a strange day it’s been so far.

  You’re sure that Steve must have got the message by now (moving into your own room was a big clue, after all), and you’ve been steeling yourself for the inevitable ‘it’s over’ conversation – but you haven’t had a chance to speak to him all day.