Game Over - By Adele Parks Page 0,126

agree that we had better get up and start telling people. I freeze. Telling people that I’m marrying Darren necessarily means telling them I’m not marrying Josh. I’m terrified and horrified. I can only imagine the pain and disappointment I’m going to cause. I turn to Darren and consider confessing everything to him. I’m sure he’ll guide me, and advise me on how best to handle this awful situation. But the words don’t fall out of my mouth. Instead we agree to negotiate a late checkout. I try to thrust Josh to the back of my mind. We order champagne and drink it in our room. Later we order lunch, ‘our meal’ (because we already have ‘our’ things) – cheese on toast which I can’t eat. So instead we celebrate with more loving. At four o’clock the chambermaid and the manager hover, then hammer outside our door, insisting that the room has to be cleaned, as it is booked by someone else for tonight. Reluctantly we drag ourselves out of bed and into our clothes.

We say goodbye to one another in the hotel lobby, but then can’t quite separate, so Darren walks me to the tube even though he is catching a bus. We say goodbye again at the ticket barrier but then decide to buy a ticket for him, just so that we can say a final goodbye on the platform. We wouldn’t have parted at all but I have arrangements to meet my mum and Issie at my flat to do a final fitting of the wedding dress. The wedding to Josh, that is.

‘I expect his reluctance to let you out of his sight was because he isn’t sure when, or indeed if, he’s ever going to see you again,’ snaps Issie.

‘Of course he knows he’ll see me again. He trusts me. I trust me. We’re going to see each other every day for the rest of our lives.’ I giggle and do a small on-the-spot jig. I’m just so full of energy! My mother and Issie stare at me from their seats on the settee. Their faces sort of spoil the moment.

‘Aren’t you pleased for me?’

They exchange looks.

‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me on my engagement?’

Issie tuts, ‘Which one, Little Miss Changie-Mindy?’ I notice my mother put her hand on top of Issie’s in a futile attempt to calm her.

‘It does seems a little sudden,’ comments my mum. Trying to walk the tightrope between tact and instruction.

‘It’s not sudden, I’ve felt like this for a long time, I’ve just found the courage to admit it. I haven’t changed my mind, just my heart. I am still sure that infidelity, shallowness and cruelty are out there. I just no longer believe they are my only option.’

‘You know, you’re right. Infidelity, shallowness and cruelty are out there,’ shouts Issie. ‘And do you know something else? They are right here too. You epitomize them. What about Josh?’

Of course I haven’t forgotten him. I admit that I’ve worked hard in the last twenty-four hours not to think of him, but he’s been with me all the time. He’s the shadow on my intense euphoria. Which is heartbreaking, because I do believe that all he ever wanted to do was make me happy.

‘I can’t marry Josh,’ I state sadly.

‘Well, I realized that you weren’t planning on becoming a bigamist,’ screams Issie. Her mouth is wide open and her face is the same colour as her tonsils.

I kneel in front of them, hoping, rather than expecting, they’ll understand. Issie flings herself back against the settee; my mother moves a fraction closer to me. Although it’s hardly a herald of angels, I take this as a sign of encouragement.

I try to explain. ‘I didn’t believe in love – I couldn’t understand why anyone would. When people talked about love it was like reading reports about war in a faraway country – it just didn’t seem real. And then I… well… I guess… I…’ Issie and my mother are staring at me, which is a bit offputting. ‘Well… fell in love.’

‘Visited the war zone, so to speak?’ says my mother. She sounds unsure.

I plough on regardless. ‘But it was really scary, so I… well… I…’ Bugger – when did I start stuttering? ‘Ran away.’ Issie tuts like a budgie. ‘But once I knew the war zone was real, really real, I found it impossible to ignore. Marrying Josh would be a halfway measure, like sending food parcels.’

‘You want to be a foot soldier rather than

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