The Accidental Honeymoon

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Georgie, this wasn’t me,’ he insists.

  ‘Of course it wasn’t,’ I reply.

  ‘Princess, I was at the police station. You got here before I did.’

  Oh shit, he’s right.

  ‘You mean we’re really stuck?’ I ask.

  Jack nods.

  ‘Oh shit, oh shit. Maybe I really am scared of smashing to the ground in some kind of freak wheel malfunction,’ I say, grabbing on to Jack – as though that might save me if we plummet to the ground.

  ‘Better get this out of the way then,’ Jack says, wiggling free from my grasp to get down on one knee.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask. ‘That ship has sailed.’

  ‘Georgie, this past week with you has been one of the best weeks of my life. I feel like the chances of us ever meeting were so small, but we did… and then we got married immediately after,’ he laughs. ‘So I’ve brought you up here tonight to ask: will you stay married to me?’

  I feel a lump of emotion in my throat and my eyes slowly fill with tears. I wasn’t expecting this tonight.

  ‘Of course I will,’ I squeak.

  Jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plastic wedding ring.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ he says.

  ‘No way, it got stuck before.’

  ‘Just try it on,’ he insists.

  I hold out my left hand so Jack can slip the plastic wedding ring on my finger.

  ‘Oh my gosh,’ I say, examining my hand. ‘It fits.’

  ‘I got it sized,’ he tells me.

  ‘You got a plastic ring sized?’

  ‘Not really,’ he laughs. ‘I bought it from a tourist shop on the way here. Your real fake wedding ring is at your parents’ house.’

  ‘Phew,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Wouldn’t want to lose that one.’

  ‘I suppose I can tell the guy running the wheel he can make it move again now,’ Jack confesses.

  ‘So this was you,’ I laugh.

  ‘I called ahead,’ he admits.

  ‘Let’s give it another few minutes,’ I say. ‘I like it up here.’

  Jack wraps his arm around me and I rest my head on his shoulder as we look out to sea, watching the beautiful sunset as the day turns into night.

  ‘It’s going to be weird, being myself around your family,’ Jack admits.

  ‘No more pretending to be a pianist,’ I point out.

  ‘No more boat shoes,’ he says happily. ‘And no more pants that crush my junk.’

  ‘No more getting our stories straight before we go out,’ I add.

  ‘No more pretending to be allergic to strawberries because I wanted the chocolate fudge cake,’ he laughs.

  ‘Exactly,’ I reply. ‘Wait, what? You’re not really allergic to strawberries?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘You bastard,’ I laugh.

  ‘That’s me,’ he laughs. ‘A lying, OAP-kidnapping, multiple-orgasm-giving bastard.’

  ‘Hey, we’ve both spent the past week faking it, you pretty sure about that last one?’ I tease.

  Jack pulls a puzzled face before something on the side of my head catches his eye.

  ‘Hey, what’s that behind your ear?’ he asks. As he leans forward to look, he plants his lips on the spot where a coin or artificial flower would usually emerge from and kisses my neck.

  I can’t help but gasp.

  ‘Well, seeing as how we’re stuck up here,’ he says between kisses, ‘we’ll see who’s faking it…’

  If you loved The Accidental Honeymoon, then turn the page for an exclusive extract from It’s Not You, It’s Them, another brilliant, giggle-inducing romance from Portia MacIntosh!

  Prologue

  When I met my boyfriend one year ago, I couldn’t believe my luck.

  You’re probably not going to believe me when I tell you this, but the way we met was like a fairy tale.

  I was covering an event for work: a big, fancy-dress ball hosted by a children’s charity. I’m not much of a comic-book nerd, but the second I saw Margot Robbie dressed as Harley Quinn in the Suicide Squad movie, I knew that was who I wanted to dress up as. I pulled my long, blonde hair into pigtails before temporarily spraying the ends blue on one side, pink on the other. I watched hours of make-up tutorials so that my face was just right and then I slipped on a tight-fitting T-shirt, some hot pants and some Converse and was ready to go. I grabbed my baseball bat, brandishing it at myself in the mirror as I got ready to leave the flat, just as my flatmate Gil walked by me.

  ‘You’re showing your arse at a children’s charity ball?’ he said, laughing.

  ‘There won’t actually be any children there,’ I replied casually, making a pouty face as I snapped a photo in the mirror. But as I headed to the ball, I did worry that maybe Gil was right. Funny really, considering what a hot mess he is for a forty-something man. That’s actors for you, though.

  Thankfully, when I arrived, there wasn’t a minor in sight – unless you count a guy I recognised from Game of Thrones who had, bizarrely, turned up dressed as a baby. The huge ballroom was packed with celebrities, journalists and people who worked for the charity… and then there was Mark. Mark Wright, head of PR for the charity, was the brain behind this fundraising ball, and very much the man of the hour. People were crowding around him – mostly women, I couldn’t help but notice – just to talk to him, get a quote from him, buy him a drink – or just anything, really, that would capture his attention for a few seconds.

  Amid the chaos, our eyes met across a crowded room – I know, that old one – but they did. My body not having quite the same proportions as Margot’s, I was just starting to feel self-conscious in my hot pants, awkwardly pulling at them – like that was going to make them any longer – when I spotted Mark, sitting at the bar, facing out into the room, people all around him, trying to get a piece of him. He was dressed as The Joker (Heath Ledger’s portrayal, not Jared Leto’s – but that’s not important) so I smiled at him. His reaction was to applaud me, tilting his head down a little and narrowing his eyes, perfectly replicating Heath’s sarcastic clap in The Dark Knight, before turning his attention back to his audience.

  Despite Mark’s temporarily messy green hair, that ghostly white face, black eyes and red, twisted smile, I could tell he was gorgeous. I don’t even think it was the usual characteristics that attracted me to him physically; it was the fact he had a smile on his face every time I looked at him (a real one, not the one painted on so he could tell everyone to ask him ‘how he got those scars’). He had kind eyes and, when he gave people his attention, I saw them light up – that’s Mark, though. With his good looks, charm and kind nature, he makes you feel like the most important person in the world when he talks to you.

  Twenty seconds of attention from him and I was smitten, so I spent the rest of the night subtly following this unconventional Prince Charming around the ball, just trying to find a way to get his attention, but feeling like an unworthy Cinderella and chickening out.

  Growing up around theatre folk, I’d always liked the idea of having a gay bestie. Someone I could have awesome girly nights with and who could give me amazing advice whenever I needed it. Instead, I wound up with Gil, the most alpha-male gay guy I have ever met – and he’s pretty shocking at advice, too. We were texting all night, and as he was getting progressively drunker, his advice was getting progressively worse. As I anxiously shovelled cake into my mouth I received a message from him saying he’d lost his keys and that he was going to climb the fire escape to get into our flat. When Gil drinks he loses control of his senses and his actions (and totally forgets his lack of athleticism) – one time he even lost half of his little finger, so I know that if he says he’s going to try and scale a building, he’s definitely going to do it. I pulled my shorts down one last time before deciding to call it a night – at just 11:45. What a lightweight.

  I made my way outside the hotel, booking my Uber as I took the stairs, before heading outside into the cool air to wait for m
y ride. As I stood there, I felt a hand touch my arse and, before I knew what I was doing, I spun around and struck my attacker with my baseball bat.

  ‘Hey, hey, calm down,’ Mark said reassuringly, his Yorkshire accent instantly soothing me. He took my bat from me and placed it on the wall next to us – I imagine just in case I tried to strike him again. ‘You just… you’ve got some frosting on your shorts.’

  ‘Sorry, I thought you were a pervert,’ I babbled.

  Mark laughed as he rubbed his arm.

  ‘I think you broke my arm,’ he teased.

  Convinced I’d blown my chance to seem cool in front of him, I gave up trying and let who I really was take over.

  ‘Are you kidding me? I think your arm broke my bat,’ I joked as I nodded towards his bicep.

  That first night when I met Mark, I took two things from his appearance: first of all, I knew he must have a great sense of humour, because rather than opting for the usual Joker costume of a green and purple suit, he decided on the female nurse outfit from The Dark Knight. The other thing I could tell was just how sexy his body was – yes, even in a dress.

  ‘I’m Mark,’ he told me, offering me a hand to shake. ‘I’ve seen you around all night. Do you work for us? Are you in a girl band?’ he joked.

  ‘I’m Roxie,’ I replied, shaking his hand. ‘I’m a journalist.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he teased.

  Typically, just as I’d finally got Mark’s full attention, my taxi pulled up.

  ‘Well, it was nice to meet you,’ I told him as I opened the car door.

  ‘You’re going?’ he asked, a look of genuine disappointment on his face. ‘It’s only five to twelve.’

  ‘I know, but I have to go,’ I told him, images of Gil lying on the pavement outside our flat with a couple of compound fractures invading my thoughts.

  ‘Does your Uber turn back into a pumpkin at midnight?’ he asked with a cheeky laugh.

  My God, I wanted to stay with him. Every second of my Uber home I wished I had, and then when I arrived home and found Gil fast asleep in bed, having found his keys in his pocket, I metaphorically kicked myself to sleep.

  The next day at work I was just sitting at my desk, thinking about what I could’ve said or done differently, when one of the receptionists came running up.

  ‘There’s a man in reception saying he wants a word with you,’ she informed me.

  ‘Whatever I’m supposed to have done, it wasn’t me,’ I lied instinctively as she literally dragged me to the reception. Mark was waiting for me there.

  ‘Hello,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Hi,’ he replied coolly. ‘So I was at a party last night, and some girl assaulted me with this.’ He pulled my baseball bat out from behind his back. ‘I’ve spent all morning visiting the offices of every media outlet we invited, to see if I could find a girl who could give me a bruise with this bat as impressive as this one.’

  Mark rolled up the sleeve of his white polo shirt, flashing me his bruised bicep.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I told him again.

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ he replied. ‘Just have dinner with me tonight.’

  Chapter One

  Everyone seems perfect when you first start dating them, right? You love everything about them – even their bad habits are cute and amusing. But it’s fine, because they find you utterly charming, too, like when you only shave you legs as much as you need to in accordance with the length of what you are wearing, or how you can’t ever walk along cobbled roads because cobbles and heels just don’t work together.

  When I met Mark it felt like a modern-day fairy tale, and things only got better from that moment on. Now that we’re a year into our relationship, I bet you’re wondering whether or not things are still as romantic as they were when we met…

  ‘I can’t believe you’re on Call of fucking Duty again,’ I say with a big sigh as I stare out of the window, shaking my head.

  Mark laughs.

  I glance over my shoulder and look at him sitting on the sofa, that cheeky smile still there but his eyes glued to the home cinema screen in front of him. He’s clutching a controller in his hands and he’s got his headset on his ear, his microphone hovering just in front of his mouth in case he needs to smack-talk any 14-year-olds playing in America. Trust me, if there’s one thing worse than watching your boyfriend play video games, it’s watching him play them in one-hundred-and-fifty inches with surround sound so immersive, it keeps occurring to me to call my mum and tell her I love her every time I hear an explosion. And if there’s one thing even worse than that, it’s when he watches football on it. But the absolute worst thing of all the things that the love of my life does is play FIFA, because that’s a video game and football combined – and beyond boring for me.

  ‘Is watching me play not piquing your interest in warfare?’ he asks cheekily.

  ‘The only thing that watching you play is doing is making me crave the sweet release of death via a headshot,’ I say wryly.

  Mark throws his head back as he laughs.

  ‘You’re too funny,’ he tells me. ‘This match is nearly over, then we can do whatever you want.’

  ‘Thank God, because it’s Sunday, and you know I hate Sundays.’

  ‘I know you do, but I still don’t understand why, you weirdo.’

  ‘They’re just so boring,’ I explain – for the millionth time. Mark just doesn’t understand my hatred of the day. ‘Everywhere closes early, everyone is miserable about the impending Monday morning, nothing really happens – I’ve never had a good Sunday.’

  I think I’m possibly the only person in the world who loves Mondays – but it’s exclusively because it means that Sunday is as far away as it can possibly be.

  ‘So, basically, because you can’t shop as much and you have to get up early tomorrow?’ he asks.

  ‘Nailed it,’ I reply.

  Our corner apartment boasts the most incredible view of London. The first time Mark invited me over, I nearly gave myself an RSI Instagramming from the large, floor-to-ceiling, living-room window that looks out over the river. By day you can take in the beautiful buildings, people-watching the buzz of activity on the riverbanks and checking out who and what is travelling along the Thames. By night, the view transforms into this picture-perfect skyline; silhouetted buildings like something from a cityscape photography book, littered with a sea of twinkling lights. Simply breathtaking, no matter what time of day you’re looking out, and all the more enjoyable if you have the time to sit and watch as the afternoon slips into evening, the sky changing so gradually, and yet before you know it, it’s dark, and you’ve been aimlessly gazing out of the window for two hours.

  ‘So, who are you spying on today?’ Mark asks, attempting conversation despite being in the final stages of an especially tough mission.

  ‘There’s a little old lady, sitting by the river,’ I tell him.

  ‘Nice place for a Sunday stroll,’ Mark replies.

  ‘She looks lonely,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Even from up here, I can tell. The only thing that could make Sundays worse would be spending them alone.’

  I don’t even realise Mark has moved from the sofa until I feel his hands creep around my waist from behind me.

  ‘You’re not going to end up alone,’ he assures me.

  ‘I’m already a video game widow,’ I tease him with a laugh, placing my hands on his, which are now resting lightly on my tummy.

  Mark rests his chin on my shoulder and gives me a tight squeeze, because he knows that I love it when he squeezes me. He’s strong, with big muscular arms, and when he locks them around me I feel so safe and adored.

  ‘You know that I love you, right?’ he asks.

  I turn around in his embrace to face him, placing my hands on his cheeks as I look him in the eye.

  ‘Of course I do,’ I assure him. ‘You know I’m only joking about the video-game-widow stuff, right?’

  ‘I do,’ he laughs.

 
Yes, I find it boring watching him play video games, but I’d never tell him not to, because he enjoys it. I reserve the right to tease him about it, though; that’s what girlfriends are for.

  ‘It’s just… fuck it,’ Mark says, wiggling free of my grasp before kneeling down on the floor.

  ‘No, come back and talk to me, give me physical contact,’ I whine. ‘If you’re taking another video game out of that box, so help me God…’

  ‘Roxie Pratt,’ he interrupts me as he rummages around in the pocket of his shorts. ‘You are the smartest, funniest, most beautiful woman I have ever met. I know it’s only been a year, but we’ve spent pretty much every second of that time together and it hasn’t just made me realise that you are impossible to grow bored of, but also that I can’t bear the thought of spending a single second without you.’

  I stare at him, blankly. Unable to do anything but blink.

  ‘More?’ he asks with a laugh. ‘OK. Before we met, sure, I was happy, but I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what I was missing. And this place just didn’t feel like a home until you moved in – and not just because you keep the fridge fully stocked,’ he jokes.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I reply. ‘I remember when I used to stay over here, and I was having to have banana-flavoured milk on my Frosties because that was all you bought – and I was having to eat Frosties for three meals a day because all you had in your cupboards was cereal.’

  ‘Well, that’s because we stopped going out; we just stayed in and had sex all the time.’

  ‘Unlike now?’ I ask as a cheeky smile creeps across my face.

  ‘Well, now we just do both – sometimes at the same time,’ he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

  The first time I slept with Mark, it was so good, I thought I’d died and gone to sex heaven. Seriously. We went out a lot when we first started dating, but as soon as we realised how explosive things were in the bedroom for us (not that we’ve ever thought it necessary to limit ourselves to that one room), that was it; we would just stay in and have sex all the time, breaking only to go to work (give or take a few ‘sick days’) and eat Frosties (and one time, we didn’t even bother taking a break from having sex to eat cereal – we’re still finding Frosties in our bedroom to this day).