The Accidental Honeymoon Page 7

  As we pass my little brother’s room, my mum knocks on his door, waiting for a reply before she opens it.

  ‘Teenage boys,’ she says, by way of an explanation.

  ‘Come in,’ Jacob calls from behind the door.

  ‘Your sister is here, thought you’d want to say hello,’ my mum says in that sickly sweet tone she uses when talking to her youngest child.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, giving him a half-wave.

  ‘Hey,’ he replies unenthusiastically.

  ‘This is my fiancé, Jack,’ I tell him.

  My super-smart brother is straight in there with an inquisitive reply.

  ‘I thought his name was John?’

  ‘Well, we call him Jack for short,’ I reply.

  ‘But it’s the same number of letters,’ Jacob replies. ‘Both have four letters.’

  ‘All right, Rain Man.’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘He just prefers to be called Jack. Jack, this is my little brother, Jake.’

  ‘You know I prefer to be called Jacob,’ he says, a faux exhaustion in his voice for having to correct me for the millionth time on the matter.

  ‘There, there, love,’ my mum coos, before turning to Jack. ‘He works so hard, always revising. You’re trying to get us those As your sister never managed, aren’t you, love?’ she says as she closes his door.

  It doesn’t matter that I got four Bs and then a degree from UCLA, or that my older brother, Olly, didn’t even take any A-levels. Nope, I’m the family failure.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll get chance to talk properly while I’m here,’ Jack replies politely.

  ‘I’m sure,’ my mum replies. ‘So, the bathroom is in there. I’ve put the guest towels out for you, Jack – the fancy lilac ones with the embroidered orchids on them. Gigi, there’s a white one for you.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I say, semi-sarcastically. My mother always goes full-on Hyacinth Bucket, putting on airs for the company.

  ‘This is mine and Paul’s room on the left and here, behind this door, is Gigi’s room – just as she left it,’ my mum says, pushing open my door before ushering Jack inside. My walls are adorned with thousands of pairs of eyes, all belonging to the pin-ups of my teenage years.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ Jack blurts as he walks into the room, dumping his bag down on the bed before spinning around slowly, taking stock of all the faces on the wall. ‘Big Matthew McConaughey fan, huh?’

  ‘The biggest,’ my mum answers for me. ‘She was always shutting herself in here alone, watching his movies.’

  ‘I bet,’ Jack sniggers. ‘Lots of Zac Efron, too.’

  I had a huge crush on Zac Efron circa 2006–7 – I still do. However, the posters of Zac on my walls are from his High School Musical/Hairspray days, and I feel like a huge pervert as his baby face stares down at me. The thing is, when I found this version of Zac Efron attractive, we were the same age.

  ‘I’ll give you kids some time to settle in and freshen up,’ my mum says, heading for the door. ‘I’m going to get started on dinner.’

  My mum closes the bedroom door behind her.

  I look over at Jack, who gives me that cheeky smile of his before falling back onto the bed.

  ‘Oi, get your feet off my bed,’ I insist.

  ‘Don’t you mean “our bed”?’ he chuckles.

  ‘Laugh all you want, but I’m not sharing a bed with you.’

  ‘Come on, they’ll get suspicious if we don’t,’ he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows. I grab a heart-shaped cushion from my desk chair and throw it at him with a little too much force. ‘Look, seriously, you’re the one who wants to convince everyone we’re in love. I don’t care who sleeps where. But we’re grown adults and it’s a double bed. It’s not a problem for me if it’s not a problem for you.’

  It’s been so long since I shared a bed with anyone but my fiancé – I just can’t imagine it. John liked his space in bed, and cuddling wasn’t really his thing. He said he couldn’t sleep with someone leaning on him. Still, craving his warmth and his touch, I would accidentally gravitate towards him while I was sleeping, draping my arm across his stomach or intertwining one of my legs between his. He would often wake me up or try to roll me over while I was sleeping, so I imagine my sleep-cuddles were not so gentle, to the point where I would actually wake him up. What if this happens while I’m sharing a bed with Jack? I can’t think of anything worse than accidentally hugging him while I sleep – I’d never hear the end of it. His head is big enough already, it doesn’t need making any bigger.

  ‘I suppose, given our borderline negative feelings towards one another, sharing a bed will probably be quite easy,’ I say, although I’m not entirely sure I mean it.

  ‘Surely it’s harder to share a bed with someone you don’t like than someone you do like? Unless…’ Jack pauses for thought. ‘You think you’re gonna take one look at me with my shirt off and fall hopelessly in lust, don’t you?’

  I feel my cheeks flush with a combination of embarrassment and anger.

  ‘Get over yourself,’ I snap.

  ‘You do,’ he continues, placing his hands behind his head to get more comfortable on the bed, his cheeky smile slowly morphing into a wide grin. ‘I’m flattered, but I’m not that sort of girl.’

  ‘It’s going to be fine,’ I say, mostly for my own benefit, as I look in the mirror on my desk.

  On the flight over, I thought this was going to be easy. Now, I’m not so sure.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jack and I take our seats at the dinner table, like two contestants ready to take part in a bizarre game show. We’ve spent the past hour trying to get our stories straight, ready to face my parents because, sitting at the dinner table, there will be no escape from their inevitable questioning.

  ‘Jacob is having his in his room, he’s got an essay to finish – he apologises,’ my mum tells Jack as she places a bowl of carrots down on the table.

  ‘Mum, you really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,’ I say, my eyes widening as I glance around the table at the sheer volume of food.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she says, batting her hand. ‘I thought Jack deserved a proper English meal. I know it seems like a lot of food, but Olly and Sara were supposed to be coming, too. Sara isn’t feeling well, though, so they’re coming over in the morning instead.’

  ‘Sara is eating for one, so she hardly would’ve cleared the table,’ I say sarcastically.

  ‘Georgina Parker!’ my mum shrieks.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Jack whispers to me.

  ‘Sara is Olly’s wife, and she’s pregnant. Except she’s tiny and hardly eats. She’s on some kind of pregnancy diet so she doesn’t gain weight. And for some reason, she’s never liked me.’

  ‘What she’s doing is perfectly safe,’ my mum insists, finally sitting down at the table. ‘And it’s not so she doesn’t gain weight. She just wants to eat what’s best for mum and baby.’

  ‘Can we eat?’ my dad asks impatiently. ‘I’m bloody starving.’

  ‘Language, Paul,’ my mum ticks him off, before turning her attention back to Jack. ‘Jack, let me serve you. Anything you don’t fancy?’

  ‘Just a bit of everything,’ he says excitedly, glancing around the table until something catches his eye. ‘What are those?’

  ‘Yorkshire puddings,’ my mum tells him. ‘You never had them?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ he says.

  In full mum-mode, my mum cuts a piece of Yorkshire pudding and offers it to Jack to taste.

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ he says, his mouth full as he speaks. ‘I can’t believe it took me so long to come to England.’

  He says this as a compliment, but my mum picks something up.

  ‘I thought Georgie told me you studied here for a year?’ she says, puzzled.

  ‘Back to England,’ he belatedly corrects himself. ‘I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to come back to England.’

  My mum thinks nothing of this and carries on serving.

  Elizabeth Parker is the model
housewife – always has been. It’s like she read one of those 1920s etiquette books that teach ladies how to be ladies, or watched The Stepford Wives and thought the robots really had it figured out. Her home is perfect, this dinner is perfect – even her hair is perfect. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her with a hair out of place. Not only does she wake up with her sleek, brunette ‘do perfectly coiffed and salon-perfect (I think she works on it while she sleeps), but even when you’d think she couldn’t help but look rough, she looks great. I remember going to see her a matter of hours after she’d given birth to Jacob, and she looked flawless. She isn’t as skinny as she was in her younger years, but she’s still trim. I hope I look half as good as her when I’m her age. My dad, on the other hand, has embraced middle age. His body seems to have picked up the middle-age memo that says he should gain weight and lose his hair, and his penchant for spending time in his shed and watching boring things like Countdown and cricket has only increased with age. Even so, they’re just one of those couples who look right together, and other than occasionally bickering with one another, I don’t have a single memory of them ever seeming anything but completely in love. That said, this might have something to do with my dad being so laid-back, and my mum definitely wearing the trousers in the family.

  I can’t help but yawn wildly, causing my mum to tut at my poor table manners.

  ‘This is delicious,’ I tell my mum. I’m sucking up by telling her, but it’s true. You cannot beat your mum’s home cooking. Glancing over at Jack, who appears to be eating as though someone were about to try and take the plate from him, I can tell he’s enjoying it, too.

  ‘Someone needs to mention the elephant in the room,’ my mum says, placing her cutlery down quickly.

  ‘What elephant?’ I ask.

  ‘You,’ she replies.

  My mum calling me an elephant causes Jack to choke on his carrots a little. He grabs his water and quickly drinks to clear his throat.

  ‘Oh, cheers, mum,’ I reply, placing my cutlery down, too.

  ‘Not literally, Gigi,’ she insists. ‘If anything, you’ve lost a bit. No, I’m talking about this identity crisis you’re obviously having.’

  ‘Mum, I’m not having an identity crisis and, even if I were, can we not have it out over dinner on the day I’ve arrived home, please?’

  My mum purses her lips.

  ‘It’s just,’ she persists, ‘I thought you’d done a lot of growing up over the past few years – you were looking so sensible and mature. Then you turn up looking like you did when you left. The hair, the make-up – that dress,’ my mum practically shrieks.

  The last time my mum saw me, I was full-blown Stepford, and she wholeheartedly approved. When I was a teen I wore whatever I felt like – much to the disgust of my family. I once got kicked out of a school disco because my outfit was deemed too provocative, and my cousin Fliss was furious with me because, as my best friend, she felt she had to leave, too. I wasn’t trying to be provocative. I was going through a bit of a hippy phase, so I wore this black crochet jumper over my dress. It was a really loose knit, which, I suppose, made it a little bit see-through, but I had a dress under it so I don’t see why that should’ve mattered. However, one of the other mums said it was ‘tantamount to fishnet’ and I was asked to leave.

  ‘What’s wrong with my dress?’ I ask defensively. I know exactly what’s wrong with it as far as my mum is concerned, though. It’s too short, too low and a colour I have previously heard my mother describe as ‘whore red’.

  ‘I imagine if I were a less polite mother, I’d probably say something like: that dress is just asking for trouble. But I would never say that,’ she adds, quickly.

  ‘Wow,’ I blurt, looking over at the men to see my dad wince and Jack stifling a snigger.

  ‘Liz, she looks beautiful,’ my dad says, and it sounds almost like a reminder.

  ‘Of course she does, she’s a Parker,’ my mum says, softening a little. ‘But, Jack, come on now, you met her before this… Miley Cyrus phase she’s going through…’ I don’t waste my time correcting my mother on her severely dated pop culture reference. I’m just impressed she’s heard of Miley at all. ‘Didn’t you prefer how she looked before?’

  Jack ponders my mother’s inappropriate question for a moment.

  ‘The first time I laid eyes on Georgie, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was,’ he says, reaching for my hand as he gazes into my eyes. ‘It wasn’t anything to do with her hair, her make-up or her clothes. It was her twinkling eyes and her beaming smile. I just knew, from the second I saw that smile, that I could never let it fade from her face again. Everything else may change, but so long as that smile is beaming back at me…’

  I sigh a little.

  ‘Wow,’ my mum replies. ‘Jack, that’s lovely.’

  I internally snap myself out of whatever gooey coma his little speech just put me in, reminding myself that he doesn’t mean it. My God, I can only imagine how incredible it must feel to have a man actually feel that way about you.

  ‘Well, if you’re happy, I suppose it’s fine,’ my mum gives in, clearing the last of the food from her plate. ‘Jack, we don’t usually do this, but would you like dessert in the family room where you can relax?’

  We do this all the time.

  ‘That would be great. Thanks, Mrs Parker.’

  ‘We’ll have none of that,’ she replies quickly. ‘You’re family. We’re Liz and Paul to you.’

  Jack smiles warmly.

  ‘Gigi, why don’t we let the men go and put their feet up while we clean the table and prepare dessert.’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply, not very enthusiastically. Growing up with brothers, my mum always made me help out with anything she deemed ‘women’s work’. I think she thinks she’s doing me some sort of favour, preparing me for my wifely duties.

  ‘Can I be completely honest?’ my mum asks the second we hit the kitchen.

  ‘That wasn’t you being completely honest before?!’

  My mum scrapes leftovers from the plates into the bin as she chats.

  ‘Jack is wonderful. He’s got a great job, he thinks the world of you and he’s pretty easy on the eyes.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s why I’m marrying him,’ I reply.

  ‘I just… I don’t know how you’ve managed it, but don’t let him go, OK?’

  I raise my eyebrows in offence.

  ‘Men like him are hard to come by, Gigi. Promise me you won’t let him go.’

  ‘OK, fine, I promise.’

  My mum nods her head.

  ‘OK, dessert. Would Jack prefer chocolate fudge cake or a piece of strawberry tart?’

  ‘Fudge cake for me, please,’ I say, even though she didn’t ask. ‘Tart for Jack.’

  ‘He’s fond of a tart, isn’t he?’ my mum says.

  ‘Was that a joke?’ I ask in astonishment.

  ‘Yes,’ my mum giggles.

  ‘That was pretty good,’ I tell her, lifting the dessert plates from the worktop.

  My mum grabs the other two plates before adding: ‘Thank you. It was inspired by your dress.’

  Once we’re in the lounge, my mum gives my dad his fudge cake before sitting down in the chair next to him. Jack is over on the sofa, so I plonk myself down next to him, handing him his dessert.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, but as soon as he claps eyes on it, his face falls.

  ‘Did dad tell you we bought a hot tub for the back garden?’ my mum says between mouthfuls of dessert. ‘We could all go in it later.’

  ‘God, no,’ I reply quickly, my attention going back to Jack as I whisper to ask him what’s wrong.

  ‘Do you not like your dessert?’ my mum asks, clearly petrified she may have dissatisfied a houseguest.

  ‘It looks amazing,’ he tells her. ‘It’s just, well, I’m allergic to strawberries.’

  ‘Georgie, why on earth would you choose that for him?’ my mum shrieks in horror.

  ‘Oh,’ I reply, wracking my
brains for a believable excuse. ‘There are strawberries in this tart?’

  ‘Yes, Georgie, you can see them,’ my mum replies angrily. ‘And the clue is in the name: strawberry tart.’

  ‘Silly me,’ I reply with an awkward laugh. ‘Must be the blonde hair. Here, let’s swap.’

  I begrudgingly take the strawberry tart from Jack and hand over the fudge cake I was so looking forward to. My mum spots my disappointment.

  ‘Georgie, did you give Jack the tart because you thought there wasn’t enough fudge cake left for you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I reply, horrified. There’s no way I’d feed strawberries to someone who was allergic to them. ‘It just slipped my mind.’

  ‘There’s more in the kitchen,’ my mum says, not entirely convinced. ‘Go grab yourself a slice, and put the kettle on while you’re there, please.’

  I skulk off to the kitchen, picking little pieces off the strawberry tart and eating them as I walk – well, it’s only going to go to waste, isn’t it? Once in the kitchen, I cut myself a generous slice of fudge cake before filling the kettle and clicking it on.

  I had no idea just how hard it was going to be, pretending to be a couple. It’s a nightmare. We keep messing up and neglecting to know important details about one another like, say, for example, which fruits can kill you. I need a few minutes before I go back in there, so I sit down at the kitchen counter and eat my cake. Jack’s the one who seemed so confident when we arrived outside the house, he can hold the fort for a few minutes.

  I eat my cake in silence, putting off returning to the lounge for as long as possible, until I hear Jack laughing wildly. Oh God.

  I dash to the lounge and find my mum sitting on the sofa with Jack, thumbing through one of the many family photo albums. Naturally, the first one she’s opted for is the most embarrassing: Georgina Parker – Teenage Years.