The Accidental Honeymoon. Portia MacIntosh
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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