Don't Tell the Groom
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Authors: Anna Bell
New York ⢠London
© 2013 by Anna Bell
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.
ISBN 978-1-62365-378-1
Distributed in the United States and Canada by Random House Publisher Services
c/o Random House, 1745 Broadway
New York, NY 10019
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual personsâliving or deadâevents, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Steve:
Without your encouragement the words would never have been written
.
Chapter One
Every woman should feel like a princess on her wedding day; it's practically the law. As I gaze down at myself in my sparkling dress, a dress that would make Mary Berry's meringues weep with jealousy at how light and fluffy it is, that is exactly how I feel: like a princess.
My dad's just about holding it together as we glide into the room to the wedding march. He's choked up and I think there might even be a tiny glint of a tear in his eye. Walking down the aisle I see all of my friends and close family beaming at me. I know what they're thinking: that I'm wearing the most beautiful dress they've ever seen. All except my aunt Dorian. Her face is full of thunder as I've quite possibly upstaged my precious cousin Dawn's wedding.
And then I notice my handsome groom, my most favourite
person in the whole wide world. He's standing there in his bespoke suit looking sexy as hell. To think in mere minutes I'm going to be Mrs Mark Robinson. The Lemonheads' song âMrs Robinson' is playing loudly in my head, drowning out the wedding march.
There's my mum sitting in the front row looking like the cat that got the cream. I can almost imagine what she'll be writing in this year's Christmas-card round robin. All her friends' kids will be made to feel inferior when they're shown the photos of me and Mark looking absolutely stunning, at the most wonderful wedding in the world.
The room in the castle looks even more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. The candles flickering in the alcoves give off a dusky glow, and the simple vases of longstemmed white roses adorning the ends of the rows are like the icing on the cake.
Approaching the end of the aisle, I come to a halt alongside Mark. He leans over to me and whispers that I look beautiful, just like Prince William did to Kate. I smile back and gaze into his eyes, which are easier to see than usual because my to-die-for Jimmy Choos make me only an inch or two shorter than him.
I hand my bouquet back to my friend Lou, my maid of honour, who's dressed in a simple purple empire-line dress, which I love almost as much as my own gown. My sister is standing
next to her with my little niece clinging on to her leg and looking angelic and lovely.
This is the happiest day of my life. I. Am. A. Princess.
It is at that blissfully perfect moment that the computer makes the worst sound imaginable. The synthetic crowdcheering noise snaps me out of my daydream and back to my poky little bedroom. The strategic lighting of the candles is replaced by the dim light of an energy-saving lamp, and instead of Jimmy Choos and a Vera Wang wedding dress, I'm in my baggy boyfriend jeans, an oversized woolly jumper, and a pair of cartoon-character slippers.
The words on the screen are there in Day-Glo pink and yellow: Bingo. I was just about to call it. I only had one number to go. This was
the
game. The game I was going to win. The one which would have allowed me to actually buy the Jimmy Choos. The one that would have got me one step closer to the wedding of my dreams. The wedding in the castle where I'm the most beautiful bride that anyone has ever seen.
And now âLuckyLes11' has won my £500. Goodbye, Jimmy Choos.
There's a feeling of nausea that creeps over my body when I lose a game of bingo. But the feeling is so much worse when I'm so close to winning that I'm practically spending the money.
Not that I do this often, you understand. Just every now and then. It just happens to be now as while I was waiting for Mark to come home from work, I was flicking through the latest copy of
Bridal Dreams
and they had these top ten must-have wedding shoes. I fell in love with pair number two and at £550 I thought a cheeky little go of 90-ball bingo might just get me them; you know, if it was meant to be.
Turns out it wasn't. I bet LuckyLes11 has fat ankles and wouldn't look good in the Choos anyway. Not that I'm bitter.
âShit.' That's the sound of the front door slamming. Mark is home.
I log out of Fizzle Bingo quicker than you can say âgoodbye, Jimmy Choos' and switch off my private browsing. By the time Mark makes it over the threshold and I hear him kicking his shoes off, I'm idly surfing for books on Amazon. God, I'm quick, or well practised. Either way, I still feel like I've just cheated on my boyfriend.
Oh yes, that's right,
my boyfriend
. You were expecting me to say my fiancé, right? Seeing as I've planned the most wonderful wedding in the world and that I was trying to win myself the money for
the
perfect shoes.
The truth is we aren't engaged. But that's not to say we're not getting married, as we are. We just haven't got engaged
yet
, but we will. We have a wedding fund and everything.
Mark, my hopefully soon-to-be-fiancé, is very sensible like that. He has our life planned out in stages and everything.
âPenny?'
âUp here.'
âAre you ready to go?' he says as he opens the door.
He's staring at me with a look of horror.
âYes,' I say, peeling back the covers of the bed to reveal I am fully clothed and not half in pyjamas. âWhat?'
Mark sent me a text at work earlier to tell me he's taking me out for dinner. Which can only mean one thing on a Monday: the all-you-can-eat buffet at our local Indian. For some reason they always have the air-con on, even in winter, and so I'm dressed appropriately, in layers that would give the Michelin man a run for his money.
âThat's what you pick to wear when I'm taking you out for dinner?'
âYes, but I was thinking why don't we just get a takeaway and watch a movie in instead? We could eat in bed?'
I should probably stress at this point that I detest eating in bed. But there are some things you should know: a) it's January, b) our little Victorian terrace does not have good central heating, and c) our bed is the comfiest bed on the planet. Pretty much nothing could drag me from my bed at this point. Not even the thought of unlimited poppadoms.
âIn bed? Are you feeling all right? No, come on, I fancy
going out. We haven't been out in ages. And now I'm not revising for my exams I fancy being spontaneous. You know going out on a work night feels slightly naughty.'
âI could think of other things to do to you if you want to feel naughty.' I'll do anything he wants at this point if I can stay in bed. Well, almost anything â I'm no fan of
Fifty Shades of Grey
.
âPenelope, get out of that bed and put on a dress. We're going out.'
Uh-oh. He's played the Penelope card. I must be in trouble. Before I know it Mark is pulling me off the bed.
âSo if I need to put a dress on, where are we going?' I say, sighing. If we're not having curry, I quite fancy pizza, maybe Pizza Express or Ask.
âI've made us reservations at Chez Vivant.'
âChez Vivant? How on earth did you get us reservations there?'
My voice has gone up an octave. Chez Vivant, for those not in the know, is
the
restaurant around the area where I live. It's the kind of place that the fancy people, who fly in and out of Farnborough in their private jets, eat at before they jet off to their exotic destinations. It has a waiting list as long as your arm and it's got a number of Michelin stars. Mark and I have never graced it with our presence before.
It is the place I'd always imagined that Mark would take
me to pop the question. Suddenly The Lemonheads' song is playing up-tempo in my head. I've started to have palpitations and I'm sure that I'm breaking out in a cold sweat. This is what I've been waiting for.