The Accidental Honeymoon. Portia MacIntosh
Читать онлайн книгу.
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.’
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