It′s Not You, It′s Them
It's Not You, It's Them
Portia MacIntosh
An irresistible, feel-good romance, perfect for fans of Rosie Blake, Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk.First comes love. Then comes family…After a lifetime of kissing frogs, Roxie Pratt has given up on finding her own fairytale romance. That is, until she meets her very own Prince Charming, Mark Wright, and he sweeps Roxie off her feet!So when Mark finally gets down on one knee and pops the question, there’s only one thing left to do: meet the family! And when everything has been picture-perfect so far, what could possibly go wrong…?What readers have been saying about Portia MacIntosh:‘Hilarious and refreshingly brilliant all the way through…this is my heart-warming humorous book of 2016!’ – The Writing Garnet‘I just couldn't put it down!’ – Sweet Is Always In Style'A light-hearted and fun read…highly enjoyable.' – By The Letter Book Reviews‘A funny, light-hearted read ideal for reading on the beach.’ – Sal’s World of Books‘A great, laugh-out loud, British contemporary romance novel…I guarantee it will put a smile on your face.’ – What’s Better Than Books‘Truth or Date is a quirky, hilarious read packed full of fun and drama that is guaranteed to make you smile.’ – The Chick Lit Whore
First comes love. Then comes family…
After a lifetime of kissing frogs, Roxie Pratt has given up on finding her own fairytale romance. That is, until she meets her very own Prince Charming, Mark Wright, and he sweeps Roxie off her feet!
So when Mark finally gets down on one knee and pops the question, there’s only one thing left to do: meet the family! And when everything has been picture-perfect so far, what could possibly go wrong…?
An irresistible, feel-good romance, perfect for fans of Rosie Blake, Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk.
Also by Portia MacIntosh (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1):
Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place
How Not to Be Starstruck
Bad Bridesmaid
Drive Me Crazy
Truth or Date
It’s Not You, It’s Them
Portia MacIntosh
PORTIA MACINTOSH
has been ‘making stuff up’ for as long as she can remember – or so she says. Whether it was blaming her siblings for that broken vase when she was growing up, blagging her way backstage during her rock chick phase or, most recently, whatever justification she can fabricate to explain away those lunchtime cocktails, Portia just loves telling tales. After years working as a music journalist, Portia decided it was time to use her powers for good and started writing novels. Taking inspiration from her experiences on tour with bands, the real struggle of dating in your twenties and just trying to survive as an adult human female generally, Portia writes about what it’s really like for women who don’t find this life stuff as easy as it seems. You can follow her on Twitter at: @PortiaMacIntosh
Thank you to everyone at HQ Digital and HarperCollins for all of their hard work. From my beautiful cover to all the brilliant guidance and support from my wonderful editor, Charlotte – a huge thanks to everyone who has worked to make this book what it is.
To be having my sixth book published is a dream come true – I still pinch myself every day. Massive thanks to everyone who reads, reviews and spreads the word about my books, with an extra special thank you to the beautiful Blossom Twins (Lucy and Kelly), Kirsty, Helena and all of my fellow HQ Digital authors for being so supportive.
Huge, huge thanks to my incredible family, for their never-ending support and for being my biggest fans. My mamma, A, my boys and my puppers - I’d be lost without you all.
The biggest thank you of all goes to my amazing boyfriend for his endless love and support. From keeping me sane while I listened to Christmas music at the height of a summer heat wave to help me write this book, to doing anything and everything to make my life easier and happier – I am an infinitely better writer, adult and human since I met you, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.
For JWN
I love you like Marie loves purple
Contents
Cover (#uaff9c1b6-8cd8-5651-a43c-cc3774701196)
Blurb (#ucbdcec85-f738-52b4-bdd9-58a57185eed3)
Book List (#u8498a032-0f43-5ba4-8308-f8aefd2aed48)
Title Page (#ub9cf7291-8cf3-5733-aeba-e0314c68fec3)
Author Bio (#u041f0548-6a7c-569a-b39b-acec616ef72e)
Acknowledgement (#ue1934d19-c275-541c-8b2c-2170b1afb4c1)
Dedication (#u02759d4b-46b1-5edb-a8b1-3bafe6a300f0)
Prologue (#ubdab0e79-a07e-5579-8185-892b36ff5212)
Chapter One (#ubdddb4ef-7366-5cf5-808b-605223820930)
Chapter Two (#ud8d20c2a-d499-5657-88c7-73bc3fec82ab)
Chapter Three (#ufe941a15-31c9-57c0-b808-0a04d844800d)
Chapter Four (#ufd89ca13-badc-54ae-be68-67e398cb5705)
Chapter Five (#u2eb5b6c3-4ca3-5efb-8cae-b844c5117609)
Chapter Six (#ubd3dff24-ef77-5bd2-9df0-d48f77f66a37)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
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 my 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 (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
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).
‘Roxie,’ he continues, as his hand finally emerges from his pocket with a small black box in it. ‘Will you marry me?’
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wondered about how my future husband would pop the question to me. I’ve thought about the location, the words he would use, what the ring would be like. What I never gave much consideration to was how I would react – but what’s important is for me to be cool, calm and ladylike, right?
‘Fuck off,’ I blurt out, my London accent having never sounded stronger.
Mark laughs.
‘I’m going to assume you’re saying that in disbelief and not as a firm “no”,’ he says with a nervous laugh.
I don’t know why, but I crouch down on the floor in front of him, so we’re at eye level again.
‘Of course it’s not a “no”, it’s a “yes” – it’s a “fuck yes”,’ I babble.
‘You haven’t even looked at your ring,’ he tells me.
I take the box from him and place it to one side.
‘Whatever it is will be perfect, I’m sure. But all I want is you,’ I tell him sincerely. Sure, it would be nice to have a pretty rock on my finger, but if there’s one thing I am always telling people, it’s that Mark is way too good for me, and I don’t mean that because I don’t think much of myself. I just cannot believe my luck. How did I wind up with a man this perfect?
‘The plan was to wait until Christmas Day and ask you then, but I’ve been carrying this ring around for two days and the thought of waiting a few more weeks seemed liked torture. I did have this big romantic thing planned out, but… sorry,’ he laughs awkwardly.
Tears of happiness fall from my eyes, ruining the perfectly applied make-up I spent a chunk of the morning on.
‘No, don’t cry, how will you take a selfie?’ he teases.
I wipe my eyes with my hands.
‘We’ll just have to take one later and pretend we took it now,’ I half joke.
Mark jumps to his feet and offers me a hand.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more gorgeous,’ he tells me, despite the sniffling noises I’m making. ‘Now, sorry to ruin the moment, but sex was briefly mentioned about five minutes ago and I’ve been desperate to get my hands on you since.’
I laugh as Mark lifts me up from the floor before pinning me down on the sofa.
‘Ooh,’ I squeak. ‘Something is going in my butt.’
‘Well, if you insist,’ Mark replies as he kisses his way down from my neck to my stomach, tugging at my dress with urgency until I’m down to my underwear.
‘That wasn’t a demand,’ I laugh. ‘There’s something under me on the sofa.’
An explosion booms through the surround sound, causing us both to jump in fright.
‘Oh, shit, you must be on the controller. You’ve started a new game,’ he laughs.
‘Oops,’ I giggle. ‘Quick, turn it off, you’ve still got your headset on.’
Mark grabs me by the thighs and pulls my body closer to his, laying me flat on my back.
‘Let the nerds listen.’
I gasp as he presses down on top of me.
‘You are a bad boy,’ I whisper into his ear.
‘I’m just trying to change your opinion of Sundays,’ he tells me. ‘And while I’m around, I promise you, all of your Sundays are going to be this amazing.’
Another explosion booms through the living-room speakers.
I close my eyes and bite my lip in sheer pleasure.
‘Don’t you want to pause your game?’ I ask him.
‘Why?’
I glance at the screen.
‘Someone keeps blowing you up,’ I half say, half moan.
‘Roxie, I could be on fire in real life and I wouldn’t stop having sex with you,’ he laughs. ‘We’ll just have to drown out their explosions with a few of our own.’
‘My kind of video game,’ I reply breathlessly.
‘There’s only one thing left to do now,’ he begins, struggling to form sentences as he gets ready to focus on the mission at hand. ‘You need to finally meet my parents.’
Chapter Two (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
Being in a relationship with a lifestyle writer must be absolute hell, because everything we do is for an article – and even if it isn’t, we’ll most often realise we can get an article out of it anyway.
I am as guilty of this as the next writer, plagiarising my real life for my work. From the very first time I picked up a pen (or a Macbook, as I started taking my career more seriously), I was dipping into my real life for my work, and I found that’s when I wrote my best material. If you’ve ever tried to do anything creative, whether it’s writing a story or painting a picture, you’ll often find people drawing upon what they already know, because what better way to create something genuine than to inspire yourself with genuine experience?
I like to think Mark is used to this now, but it’s not something he’d ever considered before he met me and it took him a little getting used to. It’s not so bad when I’m writing about places we visit or things we do for fun, but I will often write about things I’ve experienced in my personal life and what I learned from it all. I can justify this, of course, because if sharing my relationship mistakes can prevent someone else from making the same error, then I’m making a difference. The same cannot be said for my other avenue of inspiration, where I do things in real life just so I can write about them. That’s actually what I’m writing about today.
Sitting at my desk at work, I crack open a packet of chocolate buttons, stretch out my fingers and get ready to write.
‘You look like you mean business,’ my friend Polly, who sits at the desk opposite me, says. ‘What are you writing about today?’
I met Polly when I started working here; we were both hired by the news website we write for in the same week, so we were newbies together. Well, I say news website, but don’t think you’re getting the hard-hitting journalism of the Guardian. We write for one of those contemporary online news sources that present news, lifestyle advice and other miscellaneous content in a humorous and relevant format. My focus, here at Viralist, is on all things dating, romance, relationships and love. I told Mark what my job was on our first date, but I don’t think he realised when he started dating me just how honest I was in my articles, and just how heavily he would feature in them.
‘“10 things I did to see if my boyfriend noticed”,’ I tell her.
‘Ooh, tell me more,’ Polly demands, leaning over to grab a handful of chocolate. She drops them into her mouth all at once before sitting comfortably, ready for all the details.
‘Well,’ I start, laughing to myself as I consider everything I’ve done over the past couple of weeks in the name of journalism. ‘I just made a few subtle changes to our day-to-day life to see how he’d react – or if he’d even notice. First up, I didn’t wear make-up for a day.’
My original idea was to do it for a week, but then I realised I desperately need make-up to look like a living human female. If I’d gone without any slap for an entire week, people might’ve worried I was seriously ill.
‘And did he notice?’ Polly asks, completely into the idea.
‘Well, he didn’t say anything at the time, but the day after, when I was winging my eyeliner in the bathroom mirror, he hovered behind me. I could tell he was thinking about saying something; the anguish on his face was impossible for him to hide. Eventually he blurted out: “You know, you look better when you don’t put all that… stuff on your eyes.” I asked him if he meant eyeliner and he nodded.’
Polly pulls a thoughtful face.
‘Well, that’s almost a compliment,’ she reasons. ‘What next?’
‘I bought a skirt that was not me at all – it was floor-length,’ I say, stressing the last three words for emphasis. I’m what you might call a follower of fashion, always keeping on top of the latest trends and wearing whatever is cool at the time, even if others might find it questionable. My mum, however, would tease that my wardrobe is far too revealing. Today I’m wearing a short black skirt, with one of Mark’s white shirts, tied in a Daisy Duke-style knot at the stomach – low down enough to ensure full coverage for work. ‘Well, he told me he liked it – he rarely comments on my clothes. But he still didn’t really twig that much was different.’
‘Another compliment,’ Polly laughs. ‘Next?’
‘I started deep-cleaning the flat every day. The kitchen was spotless, there was never a dirty dish, I would clean the bathroom each day without fail.’
‘And?’
‘Of course he didn’t notice,’ I laugh. ‘Next up: I didn’t shave my legs for, like, two weeks – not a word from him on the matter.’
‘So did he actually notice anything?’ Polly enquires.
‘I stopped wearing knickers.’
‘And he noticed that?’ she asks sarcastically, faking shock.
I wiggle my eyebrows.
‘You better believe he did,’ I giggle. ‘The first time he was like: “You’ve no knickers on!” and it made him pounce on me even quicker than he usually does. On the third day I came in from work and I was getting changed, and he just let out a casual observation: “You don’t wear knickers any more.”’
Polly grabs more chocolate, eagerly listening to my story with the level of attention and volume of snacking you’d usually reserve for the cinema.
‘Should’ve known he’d notice that one – you guys are like horny teenagers.’
Still sitting at my desk chair, I attempt to take a bow. It’s only as I wave my hand theatrically in front of my face that my friend finally notices the engagement ring on my finger. Getting Polly to notice my ring without me telling her has taken three hours of constantly reaching for things from her desk, gesticulating wildly when I speak and hammering the keys on my computer as hard as possible to try and draw attention to my hands. I thought that letting Polly notice my ring on her own would be a much cooler way for her to find out, rather than me just telling her, but as the hours have ticked away, my patience has been growing thin. It’s almost a relief she’s finally spotted it. I thought I was going to have to give in and just tell her.
‘Oh, my God,’ she squeaks. ‘Is that an engagement ring? Are you and Mark getting married?’
I nod my head, unable to contain my smile for a second longer.
‘Oh, my God,’ she squeaks again, climbing on her desk chair. ‘Everyone, listen up: Roxie is engaged!’
Applause fills the Viralist office.
‘Thank you,’ I say with an awkward wave. My relationship with self-confidence is a strange one because, while completely happy with who I am, I am uncomfortable being the centre of attention and will do anything to avoid the spotlight. That’s why I like being a writer; I can get my message to people while still hiding behind my words. Writing about lifestyle and relationships isn’t so bad, but when I was reporting on celebrity stuff, and I would dare to say something that wasn’t entirely complimentary about Justin Bieber’s hair, that would be it: war would be declared in the comments on my posts, death threats would be issued – the works. One time I jokily referred to Liam Payne as the fifth sexiest member of One Direction, and one girl threatened to hit me in the face with a sledgehammer. So, yeah, hiding behind a computer is not only preferable when it comes to dealing with, shall we say, constructive criticism, but it also protects me from the crazies.
Kath, our editor, pokes her head out from her office door.
‘You’re engaged, Roxie?’
‘I am,’ I reply, my smile stretching from one side of the office to the other.
‘That’s great, there’s got to be an article in that.’ She pauses thoughtfully. ‘We’ll figure it out.’
‘OK,’ I laugh. That’s Kath for you; everything is an article. She’s probably already working out what GIFs I should use to accompany my words.
As the buzz from Polly’s announcement dies down, and everyone gets back to their work, we resume our conversation.
‘God, that’s not an engagement ring, that’s a deposit on a house,’ she jokes, admiring my bling. ‘Hey, maybe Mark will finally introduce you to his parents,’ she adds cheekily.
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ I say, nervously. ‘I was on top of the world when he asked me; then, as soon as he mentioned me meeting them, I freaked out.’
‘Just be on your best behaviour,’ Polly reminds me. ‘If you have a “best behaviour”,’ she adds with a giggle.
I widen my eyes with horror. My friend doesn’t take this as her cue to go easy on me; instead she persists with her teasing.
‘Maybe he hasn’t let you meet them because he’s worried they won’t like you. So it’s just safer to keep you from them. Except, now he’s popped the question, it’s forced his hand.’
Mark is not purposefully keeping me from his family, but it is true that I haven’t met any of them yet. His family all live in the middle of nowhere, in the Yorkshire Dales. He’s been to visit them a few times while I’ve known him but at first it was too early in our relationship, and then, when he did start inviting me, I wasn’t able to get the time off work. He hasn’t been to visit them since, but they do know I exist, so that’s encouraging.
‘Oh, my God, stop, have mercy. I’m already freaking out as it is,’ I remind her.
‘Do you know much about them?’ Polly enquires.
‘Erm, not really,’ I tell her, honestly. ‘I know that they live kind of out of the way of civilisation – and from what Mark has told me about their house, it sounds amazing. It’s just his mum and dad living there now, but he has two sisters, one older and one younger. I know their names and stuff, but not really much about them. I’ve seen the occasional photo of his siblings on Facebook, but his parents don’t use it.’
‘That’s weird, I think,’ Polly says, pondering the issue.
‘It is and it isn’t,’ I laugh. ‘I suppose almost everyone is on there now, so it seems weird when people don’t use it, but it’s probably not that weird…’
‘Well, I think it’s weird,’ she laughs. ‘Like they’re dinosaurs who haven’t embraced modern technology.’
‘Maybe,’ I laugh.
I am of the generation where we rely too heavily on being able to cyber-stalk people we’ve just met, or are yet to meet, to try and figure out what kind of personality they have. It sure would make my life easier if I knew what his parents were like – what kind of people they were, how they dressed, what their interests were. You can tell a lot about a person from stuff like that.
I am what my mum sometimes describes as an ‘acquired taste’. I am the very definition of a millennial – although that might have a lot to do with my job, too. Sometimes my parents think I’m speaking a second language – because they don’t know their YOLO from their FOMO – and my passion for fashion often leaves them scratching their heads. But I think it’s important to be current, and move with the times. Take my hair, for example. In the summer I had it longer and lighter, but now that we’re in December, in the midst of winter, I’ve opted for a honey-coloured lob – because that’s what is in fashion right now. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to be cool, even if people don’t really get it, but it would be nice to get a heads-up on whether or not his parents are more on the conservative side of the spectrum, because even though I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not, I do really want to impress them. I care what they think, but only because I love Mark so much, and I want his family to see that and want me to be a part of their family because they like me, not just because I’m marrying into it. You hear all these stories and watch all these movies about evil in-laws, but that’s not the reality, is it? Mums who think no woman is good enough for their son – that’s just a clichéd character.
Still, it’s not like I have to worry about that right now, is it? I only got engaged yesterday. As fast as we’ve been flying through the motions so far, I’m just taking this engagement a day at a time.
I think to myself for a moment. That’s it! The idea for my next article: ‘10 Things to Consider Before You Meet Your Boyfriend’s Parents for the First Time’.
Chapter Three (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
What is the quickest way to get back in a man’s good books? I know the fastest way to a man’s heart is via his stomach, but I’ll bet the quickest way to his good books is via his pants. To make sure I have all bases covered, my plan of attack involves both. You see, my article went live this afternoon, and judging by the number of times it’s been shared already, and the number of comments it’s had on Facebook, it’s only a matter of time before Mark sees it. You know what they say: it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission – that’s my strategy with Mark because, if I told him what I was planning on writing, I don’t think he’d be down for it, but once I’ve finished the article and it’s live, he always tells me what a great job I did.
Mark has never once been mad at me for writing about our relationship, and yet I always have this little mini panic between hitting the ‘publish’ button and him reading it and telling me that he still loves me, even though I share our most personal relationship details (arguments, sexual malfunctions, etc.) with everyone who has an internet connection. This article is a little different, though, because I’ve been messing with him for weeks, testing him, and that does sometimes feel just a little dishonest, even if it is all in the name of journalism. That’s why I stopped at Ann Summers on my way home and bought myself the most alarmingly intimidating set of underwear I could find, in an attempt to disarm and confuse him, so that by the time I’m done with him, and I tell him what my latest article is about, he’ll be too happy and tired to care.
I walk up to my full-length mirror to admire my new underwear, but for some reason it doesn’t compliment my body quite as well as it did the mannequin in the window. I imagine that’s because she was made of hard plastic, whereas my normal, slightly squishy body is harder to contain with all these peepholes. Trying to wrangle my natural boobs in this cupless bra is proving more difficult than I thought it would, but if I make sure I’m lying down when Mark gets home, he won’t notice the fighting battle I’m losing with gravity. It doesn’t matter than I’m only twenty-nine years old; real boobs are a law unto themselves.
That’s the plan of attack on his boxers sorted; now all I need to do is dash to the kitchen and grab a can of whipped cream so I can carefully apply it to my body and then wait on the bed for him to come home and devour me.
I open the fridge and glance around a few times, but I can’t find the whipped cream anywhere. I only bought it last week, and I know I haven’t used it. Dammit, what can I use instead? So long as it’s something I can spread on my body that Mark loves the taste of, it’ll be fine, right?
Hmm, somehow I don’t think a tub of Philadelphia is the best option, even if it is Mark’s favourite kind of cheese. Ditto that jar of passata. Spying another jar on the shelf, I grab it, reading the nutritional information, as though that has some baring on whether or not I’m going to smother it all over my nipples – I’m just trying to think of a better idea. That’s when I spy another jar on the worktop and, with no alternative options popping into my head, I take them both to the bedroom with me.
I lie back on the bed, strategically positioning my body in just the right way so that my boobs don’t disappear under my arms and my thong at least covers something, because I’m suddenly a little dubious about whether or not crotchless underwear looks sexy or terrifying. Then I grab my two jars. Well, peanut butter and jam sandwiches are Mark’s favourite… so I can’t go wrong, can I? I don’t imagine mixing them together to make a kind of sticky, cloudy paste is going to look all that great, so I do what any sensible, sound-minded, sexy woman would do and smear strawberry jam all over one boob and peanut butter all over the other. Glancing down at my handiwork I can confirm that – as delicious I smell – this doesn’t look as sexy as I had imagined. I wanted to swirl big dollops of whipped cream straight from the can that my lover could wrap his lips around as he devoured it – instead, he’s going to be alternating trying to eat crunchy peanut butter from around one nipple, and picking strawberry seeds from his teeth after having a go at the other. Well, this doesn’t look sexy or appetising, so I guess I’ll wash it off and just hope the sexy underwear does the trick, except…
‘Hello,’ I hear Mark call, closing the front door behind him.
Fuck.
‘Hi,’ I call back. ‘I’ll be out in a second.’
‘It’s OK, I’m coming to get changed,’ he calls back.
Double fuck. I’ve got about thirty seconds, during which I decide that, as awful as this looks, the only way I could make it look worse would be for Mark to see this vertically. Probably best I just stay lying down and hope for the best.
‘You had a good… oh, my God,’ Mark exclaims, dumbstruck as he walks through the bedroom door. ‘What… er… what is that all over you?’
‘Peanut butter and strawberry jam,’ I say, owning it.
‘Of course it is,’ he replies, laughing at me with his eyes. God, I love it when he does that. His deep-brown eyes just light up and I can tell exactly what he’s thinking – it’s usually: ‘what the hell is going on in this girl’s head?’ But it isn’t a judgemental laugh; it’s warm and eternally forgiving, and I just know that, no matter how daft I am, Mark isn’t going anywhere.
Mark unbuttons his shirt and kicks off his trousers before jumping on the bed.
‘Well, I am starving,’ he laughs, kissing his way from my ankle to my thigh.
I gasp and wiggle involuntarily, the way I always do the second I feel his lips on my body.
‘OK, seriously, this was misjudged, I look ridiculous, and I do not expect you to have sex with me while I look like this,’ I tell him.
‘Have you seen that underwear you’ve got on?’ he asks me, gently kissing his way up my body until he’s on top of me. ‘You could’ve smeared mud all over yourself and I’d still have sex with you. You look sexy as fuck.’
‘Even with the jam?’ I laugh.
‘Especially with the jam,’ he replies, kissing my chest, covering his face in it. As he looks into my eyes, he smiles, and even though it’s sticky with strawberry jam, it still takes my breath away how handsome he is. I run my hand through his hair and sigh.
‘I love you,’ I blurt out.
‘I love you, too,’ he laughs. ‘But I hope this isn’t my tea…’
I laugh and roll my eyes.
‘I bought stuff for dinner, too,’ I assure him. ‘The plan was to cover myself in whipped cream, but we didn’t have any – I thought we did.’
‘We did, I ate it,’ he tells me casually. I feel his body tense up as he presses down on me harder – Mark’s tell that he’s too turned on to think straight.
‘Oh, OK,’ I reply. ‘Wait, when did you eat it?’ I ask. ‘With what?’
‘Just on its own,’ he tells me breathlessly, grinding his body against mine.
‘What, like straight from the can?’ I persist with my questioning.
‘Yeah.’
‘You ate the entire can?’
‘Yeah,’ he laughs. ‘While I was watching Match of the Day. Now will you just shut up and kiss me, please?’ he demands impatiently.
I laugh quietly to myself at the image of my sexy boyfriend sitting on the sofa, squirting whipped cream straight into his mouth as he yells at the TV in protest at an unjustly given yellow card.
As he passionately kisses me on the lips, I feel jam transfer from his face to mine. As sticky as it is, I’m too turned on to care right now. Our white bed sheets be damned.
Mark jumps to his feet, offering me his hand to pull me up.
‘Stand up. I want to get a proper look at this underwear,’ he demands.
As self-conscious as I feel in my awkward undies, I own it, and stand up proudly.
‘Wow,’ Mark exclaims as he takes it all in. ‘OK, no more snacking. I’ve got to have you.’
Grabbing me by the hips, Mark pushes me up against the wall. I lock my legs around his waist. Suddenly I can appreciate the plus points of crotchless, peephole underwear – I can keep it on and still have sex, and it does just enough to hide my small body hang-ups.
***
Lying on the bed, exhausted, elated and covered in a gross mixture of strawberry jam, peanut butter and sweat, I exhale deeply.
‘That was amazing,’ I tell him. ‘You’re amazing.’
‘You weren’t so bad yourself,’ he tells me. ‘And you shaved your legs for the occasion.’
‘I did… wait, you notice stuff like that?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ he laughs. ‘You really think I didn’t feel how prickly your legs were every time I ran my hands up and down them for the past two weeks?’
‘I really did think that,’ I tell him.
‘I know you did,’ he laughs, rolling onto his side, resting his head on his hand as he faces me. ‘I read your article.’
I sit up straight.
‘Oh, you’ve already seen it?’ I ask, pointlessly. ‘Erm… what did you think?’
‘That I’m more observant than you give me credit for,’ he replies.
‘So you’re not mad?’
‘Am I ever?’ he laughs. ‘So is that what all this was in aid of?’
‘Kind of,’ I reply. That’s what the extra effort was for, but it’s not exactly out of character for me to jump on him the second he walks through the door after work of an evening. I think I’m freaking out today more than usual, though, because I can’t get the thought of meeting his parents out of my head. I’m scared to put a foot wrong – although somehow I don’t think my seducing their son by smothering my body with spreads usually reserved for toast would buy me much favour with them, do you?
‘You’re too good for me,’ I tell him. ‘Right, I suppose I’d better make you some dinner.’
As I make the grand gesture of pulling myself to my feet, Mark grabs my wrist and pulls me close, squeezing me tightly.
‘Before you go, I spoke to my mum today – she’s invited the family to visit for Christmas. I figured we could go see your mum and dad, then head up to the Dales, spend the night there – give everyone the good news about us getting engaged!’
‘That would be awesome,’ I tell him, smiling widely like I do every time I remember we’re engaged.
‘We’d be travelling back on Christmas Eve, but we’re all prepared for Christmas anyway, right?
‘We are indeed.’
I glance at my engagement ring, only to realise it’s covered in jam.
‘OK,’ I laugh, ‘I really need a shower. Then I’ll make dinner.’
Wriggling free of Mark’s grasp, I slip my expensive, spread-covered underwear off, throwing my bra and kicking my knickers to one side.
‘I could do with a shower, too. I feel dirty,’ he calls after me. ‘Whack it up to full, I’ll be right behind you.’
Chapter Four (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
‘You’re not going to need… all that this weekend,’ Mark tells me as he carefully places balled-up pairs of socks into his overnight bag.
I glance up from clipping my stocking to my suspenders.
‘Erm, I do need “all this” because I have to wear stockings on my super-white legs, because someone won’t let me use fake tan any more.’
‘To take a leaf out of your book, here’s a list of three reasons I won’t let my girlfriend use fake tan any more… Number one: it smells so bad – like you ate a spice rack and then threw it up on your legs. Number two: our white sheets and towels are no longer white. Number three: you…’
‘All right, all right.’ I wave a pair of Mark’s white boxers in the air to show surrender. ‘I get it, you think I’m gross.’
‘If you’ll allow me to finish,’ Mark starts, sitting down on the bed behind me. ‘Number three: you’re perfect as you are.’
‘Even with my ghostly white, white legs?’ I ask, a huge grin spreading across my face.
‘Yes,’ he replies, taking my chin between his thumb and finger as he kisses me gently.
My grin dissolves into a sigh.
‘Come on, what’s up?’ Mark asks me as he gets back to packing.
I sit down on the bed and cross my legs, running a hand through my hair as I try to find the right words.
‘I… I’m nervous about meeting your family,’ I admit.
‘What? Why?’ he asks, surprised. ‘They’re going to love you.’
I know he’s right. It is his family, after all, so he knows them better than anyone. I guess I’ve just watched too many movies.
‘That said…’ he starts, ‘are you sure you’re packing the right kind of clothing? They keep saying it’s going to snow. Shouldn’t you pack some flat boots of some kind?’
‘I haven’t weather-proofed my new Uggs yet, so I can’t wear those’.
‘So you’re just going to wear heels?’
I shrug casually. He knows I am. But I only need to get to the car and back, it’s no big deal.
As I stuff the last few things into my overnight bag, I struggle with the zip.
‘Help me out here, buddy,’ I demand, pouting my lip a little. ‘I’ll hold it tightly, you pull it.’
‘That’s what she said,’ my cheeky fiancé jokes. ‘OK, here we go.’
Mark’s bulging biceps come in handy all the time. If I need a jar opening, he pops the lid off like it’s nothing. When it comes to bedroom antics, he can throw me around the room with ease. And it’s pretty much guaranteed that no one will dare harass us in the street because he looks like he could crush someone’s brain with one effortless headlock. I know that he’s a sweetheart, who probably wouldn’t really know what to do in a fight, but the hours he spends in the gym deceive everyone and he looks as tough as he is strong. Yep, usually Mark’s strength is useful, but not today. Today my hubby-to-be pulls the zip with such strength it rips clean off my bag.
‘Oh, shit, I’m sorry. It just came off in my hand.’
‘That’s what she said,’ I reply, echoing his cheeky joke. He was only trying to help; I can’t be mad at him. I do have a problem now, though. ‘Erm, OK, so I’ll…’
‘No, you stay there – I’ll go grab you another one. You finish getting ready,’ Mark insists, grabbing his keys before kissing me on the forehead and dashing out of the door.
‘Thank you,’ I call after him.
Living in the city centre has its perks, like being able to go out and buy whatever you need, whenever you need it. I’ve lived in London my entire life so it’s all I know, but Mark still finds it amazing when he can get a pizza delivered to his flat at three o’clock in the morning.
I can’t wait to see where he grew up. As much as Mark prefers city centre life, he talks fondly about growing up in Rippledale – a village in the Yorkshire Dales I’ve never even heard of. Apparently it’s tiny, remote and in the middle of a valley, so the mobile phone signal is sparse.
I’ve never actually been to Yorkshire before so, in my head, I’m only going on what I’ve seen in Emmerdale – not sure how accurate that is. I’m happy to admit that, being born and raised in London, I’m one of those people who thinks it is the greatest place, and that nowhere else in England compares. It’s just that everything happens here; it is the capital, after all. If I need a break, I go abroad; I don’t drive over two hundred miles to sit in a field. I’ve just never had any reason to head up north, that is until now. I’m excited to meet Mark’s family, I just can’t begin to imagine them. All I know are the stereotypes; that northerners are tight and pour gravy on everything – I’m also smart enough to know that stereotypes are not a realistic representation of a county. Anyway, Mark isn’t tight at all, and I’ve never noticed his gravy consumption to be anything other than average…
So maybe signal-free, gravy-rich Yorkshire wouldn’t be my first choice of places to get away to, but I’ve been under so much pressure at work lately, it will just be nice to take a break – even if it’s only for a couple of days. I know what you’re thinking: but Roxie, don’t you just write about how to get a boyfriend and crack dick jokes all day? And, yes, you’re right – the work I produce may not be particularly important in the grand scheme of things; but I do work hard on it, and I do have an editor breathing down my neck, and deadlines to hit, and – do you know what? – my dick jokes are fire, and I won’t let anyone tell me otherwise.
Unable to pack until Mark arrives with my bag, I lie back on my bed, stretching out, ready for a relaxing few days. I think a bit of solitude will do me good. I feel my muscles slowly begin to relax, one at a time, my body slowly slipping into holiday mode until my phone rings, and all at once every inch of me tenses up again. Shit, it’s Kath, my editor. I know I’m supposed to be on holiday, but I can’t exactly swerve her call, can I?
‘Hey, boss, how’s it going?’ I ask cheerily, hoping she hasn’t called to bollock me for something or, worse, revoke my holiday for some reason that I haven’t had chance to start panicking about yet.
‘Oh, you know,’ she says in reply. I’m not sure I do, but we’ll leave it at that. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Just about to hit the road,’ I reply. ‘I’m going away with Mark for a few days.’
Just in case Kath was thinking of asking me to head into work for something, I pretend to shout to Mark in the next room.
‘What’s that, babe?’ I call – and, no, I don’t ever call him babe. ‘Sure, I’m ready to go.’ I turn my attention back to Kath. ‘Sorry, Kath, Mark is nagging me to hit the road; apparently we’re going to be late to meet his parents.’
‘That’s why I’m calling you,’ Kath tells me.
‘Oh?’
‘Oh, indeed. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to meet your fiancé’s parents for the first time?’ she asks.
I think for a moment. Why would I tell her?
‘I…’ I start, but no more words come out. Luckily for me, Kath makes her point clear.
‘I want you to write an article about it,’ she tells me.
‘About meeting Mark’s family?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ she replies casually. ‘This is a golden opportunity. You need to make the most of it.’
Writing about my personal life is something I do all the time, and I’m happy to do it, but when it comes to writing about my love life, I’m very careful. I would never mention Mark by name, or just straight up write about him. I will often mention ‘my boyfriend’ in relation to things that I am saying and doing, but that’s it. He’s just a nameless, faceless character in my life that people don’t really think too much about when they read the articles, because they’re not reading to find out about my life, they’re reading to work out how to learn from my mistakes to make their life better. Writing about meeting Mark’s family, though – that’s a completely different thing. He might be able to forgive me for writing about our bedroom antics, but dragging his family into my work isn’t something he is going to be OK with – well, who would?
‘Well, I just finished a piece on things to consider before you meet your boyfriend’s parents for the first time – I don’t want my readers to think I’m rehashing old material, or bragging about how engaged I am, you know?’
‘Who is your editor?’ she asks me pointlessly.
‘You are,’ I reply. ‘But…’
‘But you’ll do it?’ she asks. Well, it sounds like a question, but we both know it isn’t. ‘I’m thinking we can cover the whole engagement, wedding – beyond that, even. “How to choose your bridesmaids” to “Thoughts you’ll have while walking down the aisle” – there’s just so much material here.’
I think for a second. Appealing to Kath’s better nature might be a long shot, but it’s worth a try, right?
‘Mark has been pretty cool when it comes to what I write about, but I think writing about his family will be a step too far, Kath,’ I tell her frankly.
‘It’s too good an opportunity to waste, Roxie. Readers will love this. You’re a smart girl; find a way and turn it in next week – no excuses, OK?’
‘But Kath…’
‘I said no excuses,’ she snaps. ‘Have a wonderful few days.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘See you soon.’
I hang up and lie back on my bed, completely unable to relax now. There’s just no way I can write about something like this. Endless silly things, yes. But I can’t review his family and then tell people how to ‘cope’ with such an ordeal. That’s so disrespectful.
When I started working at Viralist, I knew how lucky I was to land a job there, and when I finally bagged my own virtual column, I really couldn’t believe my luck. But my success has come at a cost, like Kath thinking my private life is public property. Sometimes it feels a little like I’ve sold my soul to the devil, but I couldn’t imagine being happy in any other job. In situations like this, I usually find that I can compromise my way out of having to reveal too much about my real life. My only real option is to write a completely different article – but an even better one; that way, when Kath reads it and thinks it’s the best thing I’ve ever written, she won’t even care about the fact I went off topic and completely ignored her orders.
I know I’m only going to be away for a day/night, but I’ll be travelling back on Christmas Eve, and with this being mine and Mark’s first proper Christmas together, I promised him I wouldn’t work. I’m going to have to take my laptop with me and write either in the car, or through the night, when I’ll most likely not be able to sleep for worrying about this.
‘I’m back,’ Mark calls to me from the living room.
‘Hey,’ I call back to him.
‘Here we are, one new overnight bag, and in the lady’s favourite colour, too: black.’
‘Like my heart,’ I tease.
‘So, we’re good to go? Nothing else to stress about?’
‘Nothing,’ I lie.
‘OK, then,’ Mark says excitedly with a clap of his hands. ‘Let’s hit the road.’
Chapter Five (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
I’ve been thinking about the answer to a pretty straightforward question recently: would I describe myself as a materialistic person? I’d like to say that the answer is no, but I’m not so sure. My parents didn’t raise me with a taste for the finer things in life; they’re a very easygoing couple. Joseph and Juliet met at stage school when they were in their teens, and if I had to describe their relationship in one word, if would be ‘easy’. Realising they had everything in common, they started dating and fell hard and fast for each other. They had a small, simple wedding. They had one (probably perfect and impossible to better – although I am biased) child and that was enough for them. They have both always worked in theatre, whether they were acting, teaching, directing or composing, which gave me the most culturally diverse upbringing I could’ve hoped for. I have met people from all different backgrounds, in front of the backdrop of an industry that embraces diversity, and for that I am thankful. They brought me up to be accepting, tolerant, and to embrace what I loved, even if what I loved was dressing as a cat for the eight months that followed my watching Cats for the first time when I was a child. But being materialistic is one thing they didn’t encourage, so I guess any bad habits I’ve picked up along those lines, I only have myself to blame for.
Before I met Mark, I lived in a pretty small flat above a shop that sells e-cigarettes, which I shared with my friend Gilgamesh who I met through my parents’ theatre company. I have always suspected Gil chose himself a stage name before we met, because when I quizzed him about having such an unusual name he went on to insist his parents named him that, and I feel like, from that moment on, he made a conscious effort to hide all forms of identification from me. Still, it is possible; my parents did name me Roxie, after all.
Back when I was a struggling writer – still just an office junior at Viralist – and Gil was a struggling actor, our vape-stinking flat was all we could afford, but we were happy there. Still, I’m sure my parents were wondering about what my life intentions were, given that I was living like a student with a forty-something gay guy, so when I moved in with Mark they were delighted. It’s not that I can’t look after myself, but I think they worried about me less, knowing I had Mark taking care of me, rather than a wild-child Peter Pan who would convince me to go out drinking with him several nights a week.
Moving in with Mark was a change, and one that I quickly adapted to. I’ve always been a pop culture junkie, whether I was lusting after the celebrity lifestyles I saw in Starstruck magazine, or just trying to keep up with whatever the Kardashians were telling me to smear all over my face to stay ‘on fleek’. Moving in with Mark, who is in charge of public relations for a huge children’s charity, meant moving into the lifestyle I had dreamed of. I’d finally been promoted to staff writer the year before I met Mark, but I’d kept living where I was – mostly because life with Gil was just such a great source of material for my lifestyle column. This meant lots of extra income for all the silly stuff I was certain I needed to be happy. Moving into a big, flashy apartment with my devastatingly sexy boyfriend made my life complete; so, yes, I guess you could say I’m materialistic. I know that the most important things in life cannot be bought, but I acknowledge just how happy ‘things’ make me.
I would say that Mark is less materialistic than I am, but he’s always had more material. From his comfy furnishings to his cinema screen to the BMW with the matte black finish that we’re currently travelling to my parents’ house in, Mark has it all. And yet, I don’t think he’d care if he lost it. He doesn’t love his car like many men do; he just thinks it’s cool. When I jokily asked if I could learn to drive in it, he said yes, whereas most men would’ve uttered a two-word reply and the second word would have definitely been ‘off’.
I do like to be stylish, but I don’t necessarily have to spend a lot of money to do that. I could when I lived in my cheap flat with Gil, but now that I’m living with Mark, my contribution to the bills costs me way more, which means less to spend on lip kits and manicures, but I’m OK with that. I am so happy and so in love with Mark, and as much as he tells me I don’t need to contribute as much to our bills, I do. I couldn’t not; it wouldn’t sit right with me. Lucky for me, I bought most of my expensive clothing, shoes and accessories when I had a lot of spare cash, and this stuff lasts a lifetime. Unlucky for me, the overnight bag that Mark panic-bought for me is significantly smaller than its predecessor, so I’ve had to pack less than I intended to take with me – plus my laptop. I know I’m only going to be away a couple of days, but I figured I’d be able to make notes if an idea came to me, or I can work in the car… I just need to make sure I have something to turn in. Something so good, my editor won’t miss an exposé piece on the Wright family.
‘God, I’m bored,’ I whine, like a petulant child. ‘I hate long car journeys.’
Mark laughs.
‘We’re five minutes from home, Roxie,’ he reminds me. ‘And fifteen minutes from your parents’ house. Still nervous?’
‘Still nervous,’ I reply.
It just feels so strange to be meeting the parents after getting engaged, like we’re doing things in the wrong order.
‘They’ll love you,’ Mark tells me for the millionth time. ‘It’s a long journey; you can’t spend it worrying.’
‘I know, I know. At least we’re making a stop to see my parents, then we can get a nice, warm coffee in us. It’s freezing!’
‘Oh, no, I know how this goes,’ Mark laughs. ‘You’ll drink too much, and we’ll have to stop so you can use the loo every ten miles…’
‘Oi,’ I laugh. ‘I’m a grown-ass woman. I’ll be thirty next year. I’m fully in control of my bladder, thank you.’
I shudder a little, at the thought of turning thirty. ‘Next year’ makes it sound like it’s a long way away, but it’s December now, and my birthday is in February. Mark doesn’t think it’s a big deal – he’s thirty-two, and assures me that nothing changes when you hit the big 3-0. He’s promised me that my face won’t instantly wrinkle, that I won’t become boring overnight, and that I won’t suddenly be turned away from night clubs for looking too old. While I fear that, as I grow older, things are only going to go downhill for me looks-wise, Mark only gets better with age. Mark is the very definition of tall, dark and handsome, and even though a few grey hairs are starting to creep in on the sides of his head – my God – it looks so sexy. My newly cut blonde lob might have a few greys in there, maybe, but I wouldn’t know because I have my hair routinely highlighted. If I did have grey hair showing, though, it would not look good. On Mark it looks hot and this is beyond unfair. Like he’s not already out of my league; as we grow older, the fact we’re in different leagues is only going to seem more obvious. Can’t wait for the day he’s walking around all George Clooney and I’m looking like Mrs Doubtfire.
‘Here we are,’ Mark announces, pulling up outside my mum and dad’s house. ‘So, how are you going to play this?’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘How are you going to announce it to them? Have you got some big thing planned?’
‘I already told them,’ I reply. ‘I called them the same day while you were in the shower. I told you that they said congratulations when… oh, my God, you were ignoring me because you were playing Call of Duty, weren’t you?’
‘Woman, have you ever tried doing two things at once?’ he jokes. ‘It’s hard work.’
I roll my eyes. How can he be so annoying and so cute at the same time?
As Mark makes a move to get out of the car, I put a hand on his arm to stop him.
‘Wait. You’ve told your family, right?’
‘Erm, no,’ he replies with a cheeky laugh. ‘I thought we’d surprise them.’
‘But they’ve never even met me,’ I squeak. ‘You can’t just turn up with me and be like: OK, we’re here, meet my girlfriend for the first time – by the way, we’re engaged.’
‘Why not?’ he laughs.
‘Oh, God.’ My stomach churns as I somehow find a way to feel even more nervous. ‘At least they know they’re finally going to meet me.’
As I go to get out of the car, it’s Mark’s turn to stop me.
‘Except…’ he starts.
‘Mark Wright, please tell me that you told your parents that you’re taking me to meet them. Please tell me you’re not just going to turn up with me and be like: ta-da, this is my bird…’
‘I thought it might be a nice surprise,’ he laughs awkwardly, except I can tell he’s maybe starting to think that he’s done the wrong thing.
‘Oh, my God, call them right now and warn them that you’re bringing me with you. I can’t just turn up to stay at their house uninvited.’
‘I invited you,’ he tells me, suddenly straight-faced. ‘We’re a team. You go where I go, I go where you go.’
I pull a face.
‘Your smart, easy way with words isn’t going to get you out of this one,’ I tell him as we walk up the driveway. ‘Call them, now.’
‘No way, I want to surprise them,’ he insists, opening the front door for me.
‘You’re an idiot sometimes, do you know that?’ I ask rhetorically, around the same time my parents both yell ‘surprise’ and fire party poppers in our direction.
I watch as their faces fall, their beaming grins slipping away into nothing. The room falls silent, but only for a second.
‘Hello,’ I say warmly. My parents follow suit and greet me with a hug.
‘Everything OK?’ my mum asks.
‘Oh, we’re fine,’ I reply honestly. ‘I’m just teasing Mark over a questionable decision.’
I give my hubby-to-be a playful nudge. He’s impossible to be mad at.
‘We’ll ask no more,’ my dad says before pulling Mark in for a handshake/hug. ‘Come here, you. Congratulations. And thank you, we didn’t think anyone would be taking this one off our hands.’
‘Hey,’ I laugh. ‘What do you mean “off your hands”? I moved out when I was eighteen.’
I’ve always wanted to be independent, even when I was a little kid. My mum, liking to think she’s a bit of a psychologist, puts this down to my being an only child. I don’t know what the reason is; all I know is that I feel more comfortable doing things for myself. That’s why I can’t let Mark pay for everything. That’s why I spent years living in that tiny hellhole with Gil, so that I could take care of myself while I was working my way up the career ladder. It’s good, though, because I can be proud of everything I’ve worked for, and know that I’ve done it all on my own.
‘Yeah, we just never thought you’d be the marrying kind,’ my dad explains. There’s a smile on his face, but it sounds like there’s a little truth in there. ‘You know, being so career-minded, your wild nights out… We’re just so pleased you’ve got Mark and that he takes care of you.’
I feel my brow furrow at the thought of needing someone taking care of me, but I suppose he’s right that Mark does do his best to take care of me, and I wouldn’t change the way he is for anything. To have someone give so much of a shit about you feels amazing.
‘I’d say we should crack open a bottle, but with Mark driving… I’ll put kettle on?’ my dad suggests, clapping his hands as he jumps to his feet.
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Mark replies. Being a typical Yorkshire lad, Mark loves a good cup of tea, whereas I’m more of a coffee person.
As soon as the men are out of the room, my mum sits on the sofa next to me and grabs my hand.
‘That is one beautiful ring,’ she gushes.
As I examine my hand, I can’t help but agree. My boy not only has great taste, but he knows me so well. So well, that he knows I’ve been on a rose-gold kick for as long as I can remember, and when I happened to mention that I liked the look of champagne sapphires – my boy was listening carefully.
At the time, he laughed. He said that some girls demanded platinum rings with a big rock of a diamond in there, but I told him I didn’t care about that. Well, I don’t. If I’m going to wear a ring every day, it should be something that I actually want to wear every day, because I think it looks cool, not because it’s expensive. It would seem that, as a compromise, Mark opted for a rose-gold ring with a big, champagne sapphire, surrounded by diamonds. I might not have wanted a ridiculously expensive ring (mostly because I’m so clumsy and forgetful), but Mark insisted I deserved it. I’m wearing it right now, because I imagine it would look pretty bad if I didn’t, but as soon as we’re back home I’ll probably just lock it away in the safe and wear something cheap as a placeholder. Something I can accidentally leave in a bathroom or fling straight off my finger as I gesture wildly while I’m telling a story at work.
‘So, time to meet the in-laws,’ my mum says, pulling a face.
‘What does that face mean?’ I laugh.
‘I just remember meeting your dad’s family for the first time,’ she recalls. ‘Your Grandma Pratt did not like me at all. Straight away, from the moment she met me, that was it – instant dislike.’
‘I never knew that,’ I reply.
‘Well, while she was alive, it didn’t seem fair to badmouth your gran to you, and we did eventually find a way to tolerate each other…’
‘Mum, this is not helping at all.’
My mum thinks for a moment, like she’s wracking her brains for some words of comfort for me.
‘Your Uncle Ben’s wedding was only a few weeks before you were born. Now, you were a big baby, so by this stage I was huge and I was heavy. I spent ages looking for the right outfit, and some shoes that I could actually walk in because I’d been living in trainers, and there was no way I could wear trainers to a wedding, not without your gran having a pop at me. So I got this long, green dress, and it was nice, but I was just so big, I didn’t exactly look like a Victoria’s Secret model in it, and I got these black shoes that had a bit of a heel on them – best I could do if I wanted to be able to walk.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ I reply. ‘Who would criticise the outfit of a pregnant woman?’
‘Your gran,’ my mum says with a laugh. ‘She told me that I looked like a hill, and that my shoes looked like orthopaedic aids for correcting what she called “wonky feet”.’
‘That’s harsh,’ I admit, suddenly not finding things so funny.
‘It was OK, though,’ my mum continues. ‘Because later that night your gran took a tumble in the ridiculously high heels she was wearing and ended up with a shiner of a black eye. So whenever she was horrible to me, to cheer myself up, I would watch the video of her gliding face-first across the dance floor. Suddenly, things wouldn’t seem too bad.’
I gasp.
‘Mum, I can’t believe you’re saying that.’
‘What? She was an old bag. She suggested I put you on a diet when you were two years old. God rest her soul,’ my mum hastily adds.
‘Whose soul are we resting?’ my dad asks, carrying a tray of mugs into the room, Mark not far behind him with a plate of biscuits.
‘Your mother’s,’ my mum replies, taking a cup of coffee from him.
‘Aw, if only she knew how missed she was,’ my dad says wistfully with a smile.
‘If only,’ my mum replies with a smile of her own.
I’d always kind of figured that my mum and my gran didn’t really get along that well, but I never realised she made comments like that to my mum. Is the urban legend of the evil mother-in-law not a legend at all? But that can’t be true. Sure, that’s the way things are in movies, and maybe my gran did make a few remarks to my mum, but maybe her outfit was rubbish, and I was a chubby toddler – I still am, in some ways.
My mum, ever the actress, is obviously embellishing – but with perfect comedic timing, as usual. Growing up with actor parents was interesting, to say the least. For one thing, their poker faces were flawless. When I was misbehaving, and they would pull up alongside the local children’s home saying they were going to give me away, I believed them! They really sold it, and I would instantly cease whatever I was doing that was causing them stress. Their easy confidence wasn’t always my favourite thing either, especially when it came to having friends around or school events. It was like they were always performing, always the centre of attention, always cracking jokes. It did have its plus points, too, though. They definitely told the best bedtime stories when I was younger, often working together to put on a performance at the end of my bed, and they were the ‘coolest’ parents a teenager could hope to have.
‘So, what did Gil make of the news?’ my mum asks.
Gil, a serial player, has never been big on the idea of monogamy, and he couldn’t hide his disappointment when I ‘caught it from Mark’ as he so beautifully put it. While he does adore Mark, and has always been happy for the two of us, we might have a problem…
‘Shit!’ I exclaim. ‘I forgot to tell him.’
‘You didn’t tell your best friend?’ Mark laughs. ‘That makes me even for not telling my parents.’
‘You haven’t told your parents?’ my mum echoes. ‘Why ever not?’
‘I want to surprise them,’ he replies, that cheeky smile of his more persuasive than ever. I don’t know if it’s the cute dimples planted perfectly on his handsome face that just give him this look, like he could get away with murder exclusively because you forgave him, just because he smiled at you. Mark’s smile will be my downfall, I’m just weak for it.
‘Well, that will be a nice surprise for your future mother-in-law,’ my mum tells me. There’s a smug look of warning in her eyes.
I metaphorically bite my lip.
‘I need to call Gil and tell him,’ I say, grabbing my phone.
‘Call him on loudspeaker,’ my dad insists. ‘We miss him.’
As instructed, I call Gil on loudspeaker so that everyone can talk to him, because everyone loves Gil. I find this especially hilarious, because other than me, my family, his family and a very small percentage of his friendship circle, Gil hates everyone. Perhaps it’s an actor thing – and, if it is, it’s very telling of how talented he is – but Gil has the ultimate fake smile, and he uses it to get away with saying whatever he wants, straight to a person’s face, and it confuses them so much, they don’t even realise he’s offending them. I remember when I lived with him, and I was dating this guy who had a bit of a body odour problem, and Gil just couldn’t keep quiet about it. He would spray him with deodorant, that big smile plastered across his face as he did it, asking him if he liked the way it smelt – multiple times, just to make sure he got an informed opinion from him. One time the smelly guy (as Gil has always referred to him behind his back) said that he was tired, so Gil told him to go home and have a nice, long bath. An insult, if you really think about it, but coming from Gil everything sounds charming. I guess you should never underestimate the power of a good smile.
‘Hello, stranger,’ Gil answers.
‘Hey, mister, how are you?’ I ask, holding back my exciting news as best I can for as long as I can.
‘Same old, same old,’ he tells me. ‘You?’
‘Mark asked me to marry him,’ I squeak.
‘Roxie, that’s amazing,’ he replies. ‘You said yes, right?’
‘Erm, obviously,’ I laugh.
As I exchange glances with Mark and my parents, I can not only tell that Gil is sincerely happy for me, but that everyone else that matters to me is happy too. Nothing could ruin this perfect moment.
‘I should’ve known you’d say yes,’ Mark continues. ‘Remember that time you called me up and said he’d made you orgasm, like, eight times in a row? I knew then that you’d never let him go. Plus, when you told me how well-endowed he was…’
I quickly hit the button that takes my phone off loudspeaker, cutting Gil off, but still very much shutting the stable door after the (well-hung) horse has bolted.
I laugh awkwardly.
‘Anyway, call you later,’ I babble, hanging up.
Mark, bless him, looks mortified, but my parents see the funny side. Not only because they’re used to Gil, but because – I told you – they’re cool.
My dad slaps Mark on the back playfully, laughing wildly.
‘I can’t believe you find this funny,’ Mark says, his body still looking a little stiff with fear. ‘Shouldn’t you be punching me in the face?’
‘Why?’ my dad laughs. ‘You clearly make my daughter very happy.’
I laugh, but I still find this embarrassing. I should’ve known the loudspeaker was a terrible idea.
‘Man, you guys are great,’ Mark says, relaxing. ‘My parents aren’t like you guys at all.’
I feel a pang of panic. I’ve been brought up around my parents; they’re the only kind of parents I’m used to.
‘Why? What are you parents like?’ I ask. I can’t believe I’ve never asked, but you know what it’s like when you start dating someone. As fast as things were moving, I still didn’t want to seem like a psycho, asking loads of weird questions.
‘The opposite to yours,’ Mark laughs. ‘You guys are so cool and easygoing. The way you laughed about what Gil said – my parents would not find that funny at all. They’re quite traditional, they don’t swear – I don’t swear when I’m around them. My dad would blow his top if he heard me swear, even now.’
I wouldn’t say that I swore excessively, but I do swear both often and casually – on autopilot, really.
‘So I shouldn’t swear in front of your parents,’ I reiterate.
‘It would be better if you didn’t,’ Mark laughs. ‘Don’t look so worried, you’ll be fine. You have a real adult job where you function perfectly,’ he reminds me.
‘Except I don’t,’ I tell him, anxiously. ‘I know I’ve had a good day at the office if I’ve written some fire dick puns. And I don’t need to worry about swearing in front of my boss because, one time, she genuinely shouted across the office at me to demand I write a top five list of things to put up your butt during sex.’
‘I’d be interested to read that,’ my mum whispers softly, leaning over to me – see what I mean about her perfect comic timing?
‘You don’t need to worry,’ Mark stresses, grabbing a biscuit from the table.
I think for a moment. If he isn’t worried, then why am I? Because he knows what his parents are like, and he knows what I’m like – better than I know myself – and if he thinks I’ll be fine around them, then I’m sure I will be, right?
So why am I still so worried?
Chapter Six (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
I wake up suddenly, cold, starving and disorientated – and with a pain in my back from sitting in a car for too long; but as I look out of my window and take in all the greenery, I have to admit that Yorkshire is beautiful. Despite it being a cold December day, I can still appreciate the scenery.
‘So this is Yorkshire…’ I say, stretching my aching back.
‘No, this is the M1. We haven’t been on the road for an hour yet, Roxie,’ Mark informs me with a chuckle.
‘You’re kidding?’ I reply. ‘Oh, my God, I’m so bored. Car journeys are so boring. And I’m so hungry!’
‘You’re so like a child,’ Mark replies. ‘You ate maybe six chocolate digestives little more than an hour ago. You can’t be hungry.’
‘Well, I am. Hungry and bored. Are we going to stop along the way?’
‘Well, I was going to try and make the entire journey without stopping, so that we had longer to spend with my parents today, but if we do stop, the plan was to be at least half of the way there by then.’
I pull an unimpressed face, tapping my nails impatiently on the dashboard. Ergh, this journey is going to be so long. And what is Mark even listening to? He’s got Radio 4 on; it’s so boring.
I lean over and change the station to Radio 1, but the latest X Factor winner’s single isn’t doing much to lift my mood either.
‘Hey, I was listening to the weather forecast,’ Mark informs me.
‘They’re only talking about how cold it’s going to be – it’s depressing.’
‘Come on, what’s up? Are you still anxious?’
‘I’m very anxious,’ I reply honestly. ‘I’m just so freaked out by all of this.’
‘Maybe it will help if I tell you more about my family. I know I’ve told you bits and pieces before, but I’ll give you a recap. How does that sound?’
‘That would be good, thank you,’ I reply.
‘So we’ve got my mum and dad, Valerie and Oscar, and my two sisters, Millie and Mel.’
‘Millie, Mark and Mel,’ I giggle.
‘Erm, Mildred, Marcus and Melody,’ he corrects me with a laugh. ‘And you thought Roxie was bad.’
‘Will anyone else be there?’
‘Yeah, Millie’s husband, Alex, and Mel’s boyfriend, Ste. Alex is cool – a bit boring, but you don’t worry about the sister that marries a boring doctor, you worry about the one who winds up with twat after twat… which brings me on to Ste.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’
‘I don’t. I’ve only met him once, but he was too confident, too familiar… He and my sister don’t seem to have all that much in common, but she’s the baby of the family, typical youngest child. She can’t stand to be single; she’d rather have the wrong person than no person at all. The opposite of me, really.’
Mark and I have never really spoken too much about our love lives before we met – well, what’s the point? I know he had a serious girlfriend in Yorkshire, before he moved to London, and he always tells me that before he met me he was way too busy for any kind of a love life. When he used to tell me this when we first got together, I didn’t believe him. I’ve seen how women throw themselves at him. But as I’ve got to know him better and fallen in love with him, I’ve realised that he takes things seriously when they are important to him. I can imagine him putting his job first, and he’s so loyal that, when he says he isn’t into one-night stands, I believe him. Who is into one-night stands, anyway? They’re horrible.
‘I’m the only member of the family to have left the county – the village, actually. Everyone else still lives there and no one has any desire to move. You know how we love city living? The fact that the city never sleeps, the bright twinkling lights, Deliveroo?’ he laughs. ‘My parents would hate it. They like peace and quiet, early nights and good home cooking made with locally sourced ingredients.’
‘I see,’ I reply.
Each to their own, but I couldn’t imagine living outside the city centre.
‘Would you ever want to move back there?’ I ask him curiously.
‘Nope,’ he replies quickly and firmly. ‘My mum would love me to – she talks about it all the time – but I’d miss the city. I couldn’t do my job from the village, and I’ve got a thing for foul-mouthed southerners.’
‘I’d better fucking be your favourite,’ I reply jokily.
‘My one and only,’ he laughs. ‘Feeling any less worried now?’
‘No, I’m still terrified,’ I reply honestly.
‘So, plan B is to just distract you, until we get to a service station and I can get you something to eat, thus fixing “bored” and “hungry” – how does that sound?’
I feel my body melt into my chair a little.
‘That sounds great,’ I tell him.
‘OK, so what’s a good distraction?’ Mark wonders out loud.
I clap my hands excitedly.
‘We should play “Would You Rather”.’
‘Really?’ Mark laughs. ‘That’s what the lady wants? OK, sure. You go first.’
‘OK.’ I think for a second. ‘Would you rather… give up football or video games?’
‘Ouch!’ Mark jokes. ‘Going in for the kill straight away. Let me think about it for a second…’
Mark does indeed think this one over for a while. I don’t think I could’ve asked him a more difficult question.
‘Right, I’d have to give up video games,’ he concludes. ‘Because I love football, and I love going to games with my family, and you just never know what’s going to happen. With video games, I know I’ll always dominate.’
‘Nice,’ I reply.
‘OK, my turn,’ Mark starts excitedly, like he’s got a good one for me. ‘Would you rather give up having sex or wearing make-up?’
‘Ah, well, that’s a catch-22 situation right there, because if I gave up wearing make-up, no one would want to have sex with me…’
‘You know I’d rather you went without it,’ he reminds me.
‘Sex or make-up?’ I joke, raising my eyebrows, but I know what he means. ‘OK, well, with that in mind, I’m going to have to say I’d give up make-up – because at least you’ll still have sex with me.’
‘Ah, the winner by default,’ he laughs. ‘Next question?’
‘Would you rather… have a Disney Princess-themed wedding, or only be allowed to drive hot-pink-coloured cars for the rest of your life?’
For five seconds Mark doesn’t say anything, until…
‘Disney Princess wedding,’ he says sheepishly.
I laugh wildly.
‘Buddy, did you pause for just long enough to make it seem like you’re not totally into this Disney Princess thing, when in fact you’re mad for it?’ I tease.
‘OK, OK, if we’re on to the big, life-changing questions – would you rather live in a house decorated by a Star Wars fanatic, or name your first baby Yoda?’
My heart skips a beat. He’s never mentioned wanting kids before.
‘Erm,’ I stall for a moment because I don’t know what to say. Well, I do – it’s that I don’t want kids. But if he’s asking a question like this then he obviously does, right? ‘Probably the second one.’
‘Really?’ he laughs. ‘You’d give our poor first baby that as a name before you’d put up with a bit of geeky wallpaper and a few light sabres on the wall?’
Well, we’re not going to have one, so obviously picking that option is pretty low risk.
I shrug my shoulders casually.
Does Mark want kids? It’s not something we’ve ever spoken about. I guess we were so busy with our whirlwind romance, focusing on how in love we are right now, that we never really thought about our future. I mean, Mark’s proposal was definitely a surprise, but I knew I wanted to marry him – and of course, he asked, so it’s not like neither of us has thought about our future together. We’ve just been too busy being the perfect couple to discuss the details. Perhaps I don’t know Mark as well as I thought I did. I guess I just always figured I’d learn all the things I didn’t know as we spent more time together. All I know is that now is definitely not the time to talk about it.
‘I’m a bit tired, actually,’ I lie. ‘Do you mind if I have a snooze until we hit a service station?’
‘Yeah, sure. You sure you’re OK?’
‘Maybe it’s just low blood sugar,’ I lie again.
‘It’s definitely not low blood sugar given how many biscuits I saw you smash at your parents’ house, but OK,’ he laughs. ‘I’ll wake you when we get there.’
Lying back a little, closing my eyes, I try my best not to think about Mark wanting kids. Well, of course he does; all normal grown adults do, right? Apart from me. The maternal instinct just skipped me, for some reason. It’s not like it’s just the thought of having to take care of a small human for at least eighteen years, what it does to your career, or your social life, or the expense – the thought of carrying a baby for nine months before giving birth actually makes me feel sick. I just can’t handle the thought of it, being ill all that time, irreparably ruining my body, going through the excruciating agony of labour. I have the upmost respect for anyone who chooses to do it, but I choose not to.
I cannot think about this right now. I just need to try and get some rest and concentrate on the task at hand. Getting through a night at my country-bumpkin future in-laws’ place.
I feel my body jolt forwards before my fast-acting seatbelt snaps me straight back into place.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Mark yells at the vehicle in front of us.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask, rubbing my chest under my seatbelt. That’s the thing about boobs and seatbelts; the seatbelt doesn’t stay over your chest so you have to decide between putting it under or over them. I opted for over.
‘I was pulling into the service station when this lorry driver pulled out in front of me. We nearly crashed – it’s a good job my brakes work.’
We pull into the service station safe and sound.
‘There’s the prick who nearly made us crash,’ Mark points out, as a man hops out of a lorry not too far from us in the car park.
Maybe it’s because I’m anxious, stressed or just pissed off, but before I know what I’m doing, I’m getting out of the car and marching over there.
‘Roxie, what are you doing? Come back,’ Mark calls after me, but I’m too far gone. I march over to the bright-yellow lorry. On the side of it the name ‘Starr Haul’ is printed in huge black letters, so I take out my phone and begin googling it to try and get a number to call up so I can report this reckless driver to them.
‘Oi, what are you doing?’ the driver calls out, having glanced back just in time to see me making a note of his registration number.
‘I’m reporting you,’ I inform him. ‘You could’ve killed us.’
‘Could I fuck,’ he snaps. ‘Get on yer way.’
‘What’s your name?’ I ask him.
‘I’m nae telling you,’ he replies firmly in his strong Glaswegian accent. ‘Here you, Jimmy. You want tae control yer lassie.’
Mark takes me by the arm and whispers into my ear: ‘Look, I only understood maybe every fourth word of what he just said but I can tell he’s mad, so let’s just go.’
I shrug him off. As I peer around the front of the lorry, I can see that the driver has a number plate in his window with his name on: Tommy.
‘Tommy, is it?’ I say victoriously. ‘Jog on, mate. I’ve got all I need to report you.’
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Portia MacIntosh
An irresistible, feel-good romance, perfect for fans of Rosie Blake, Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk.First comes love. Then comes family…After a lifetime of kissing frogs, Roxie Pratt has given up on finding her own fairytale romance. That is, until she meets her very own Prince Charming, Mark Wright, and he sweeps Roxie off her feet!So when Mark finally gets down on one knee and pops the question, there’s only one thing left to do: meet the family! And when everything has been picture-perfect so far, what could possibly go wrong…?What readers have been saying about Portia MacIntosh:‘Hilarious and refreshingly brilliant all the way through…this is my heart-warming humorous book of 2016!’ – The Writing Garnet‘I just couldn't put it down!’ – Sweet Is Always In Style'A light-hearted and fun read…highly enjoyable.' – By The Letter Book Reviews‘A funny, light-hearted read ideal for reading on the beach.’ – Sal’s World of Books‘A great, laugh-out loud, British contemporary romance novel…I guarantee it will put a smile on your face.’ – What’s Better Than Books‘Truth or Date is a quirky, hilarious read packed full of fun and drama that is guaranteed to make you smile.’ – The Chick Lit Whore
First comes love. Then comes family…
After a lifetime of kissing frogs, Roxie Pratt has given up on finding her own fairytale romance. That is, until she meets her very own Prince Charming, Mark Wright, and he sweeps Roxie off her feet!
So when Mark finally gets down on one knee and pops the question, there’s only one thing left to do: meet the family! And when everything has been picture-perfect so far, what could possibly go wrong…?
An irresistible, feel-good romance, perfect for fans of Rosie Blake, Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk.
Also by Portia MacIntosh (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1):
Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place
How Not to Be Starstruck
Bad Bridesmaid
Drive Me Crazy
Truth or Date
It’s Not You, It’s Them
Portia MacIntosh
PORTIA MACINTOSH
has been ‘making stuff up’ for as long as she can remember – or so she says. Whether it was blaming her siblings for that broken vase when she was growing up, blagging her way backstage during her rock chick phase or, most recently, whatever justification she can fabricate to explain away those lunchtime cocktails, Portia just loves telling tales. After years working as a music journalist, Portia decided it was time to use her powers for good and started writing novels. Taking inspiration from her experiences on tour with bands, the real struggle of dating in your twenties and just trying to survive as an adult human female generally, Portia writes about what it’s really like for women who don’t find this life stuff as easy as it seems. You can follow her on Twitter at: @PortiaMacIntosh
Thank you to everyone at HQ Digital and HarperCollins for all of their hard work. From my beautiful cover to all the brilliant guidance and support from my wonderful editor, Charlotte – a huge thanks to everyone who has worked to make this book what it is.
To be having my sixth book published is a dream come true – I still pinch myself every day. Massive thanks to everyone who reads, reviews and spreads the word about my books, with an extra special thank you to the beautiful Blossom Twins (Lucy and Kelly), Kirsty, Helena and all of my fellow HQ Digital authors for being so supportive.
Huge, huge thanks to my incredible family, for their never-ending support and for being my biggest fans. My mamma, A, my boys and my puppers - I’d be lost without you all.
The biggest thank you of all goes to my amazing boyfriend for his endless love and support. From keeping me sane while I listened to Christmas music at the height of a summer heat wave to help me write this book, to doing anything and everything to make my life easier and happier – I am an infinitely better writer, adult and human since I met you, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.
For JWN
I love you like Marie loves purple
Contents
Cover (#uaff9c1b6-8cd8-5651-a43c-cc3774701196)
Blurb (#ucbdcec85-f738-52b4-bdd9-58a57185eed3)
Book List (#u8498a032-0f43-5ba4-8308-f8aefd2aed48)
Title Page (#ub9cf7291-8cf3-5733-aeba-e0314c68fec3)
Author Bio (#u041f0548-6a7c-569a-b39b-acec616ef72e)
Acknowledgement (#ue1934d19-c275-541c-8b2c-2170b1afb4c1)
Dedication (#u02759d4b-46b1-5edb-a8b1-3bafe6a300f0)
Prologue (#ubdab0e79-a07e-5579-8185-892b36ff5212)
Chapter One (#ubdddb4ef-7366-5cf5-808b-605223820930)
Chapter Two (#ud8d20c2a-d499-5657-88c7-73bc3fec82ab)
Chapter Three (#ufe941a15-31c9-57c0-b808-0a04d844800d)
Chapter Four (#ufd89ca13-badc-54ae-be68-67e398cb5705)
Chapter Five (#u2eb5b6c3-4ca3-5efb-8cae-b844c5117609)
Chapter Six (#ubd3dff24-ef77-5bd2-9df0-d48f77f66a37)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
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 my 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 (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
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).
‘Roxie,’ he continues, as his hand finally emerges from his pocket with a small black box in it. ‘Will you marry me?’
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wondered about how my future husband would pop the question to me. I’ve thought about the location, the words he would use, what the ring would be like. What I never gave much consideration to was how I would react – but what’s important is for me to be cool, calm and ladylike, right?
‘Fuck off,’ I blurt out, my London accent having never sounded stronger.
Mark laughs.
‘I’m going to assume you’re saying that in disbelief and not as a firm “no”,’ he says with a nervous laugh.
I don’t know why, but I crouch down on the floor in front of him, so we’re at eye level again.
‘Of course it’s not a “no”, it’s a “yes” – it’s a “fuck yes”,’ I babble.
‘You haven’t even looked at your ring,’ he tells me.
I take the box from him and place it to one side.
‘Whatever it is will be perfect, I’m sure. But all I want is you,’ I tell him sincerely. Sure, it would be nice to have a pretty rock on my finger, but if there’s one thing I am always telling people, it’s that Mark is way too good for me, and I don’t mean that because I don’t think much of myself. I just cannot believe my luck. How did I wind up with a man this perfect?
‘The plan was to wait until Christmas Day and ask you then, but I’ve been carrying this ring around for two days and the thought of waiting a few more weeks seemed liked torture. I did have this big romantic thing planned out, but… sorry,’ he laughs awkwardly.
Tears of happiness fall from my eyes, ruining the perfectly applied make-up I spent a chunk of the morning on.
‘No, don’t cry, how will you take a selfie?’ he teases.
I wipe my eyes with my hands.
‘We’ll just have to take one later and pretend we took it now,’ I half joke.
Mark jumps to his feet and offers me a hand.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more gorgeous,’ he tells me, despite the sniffling noises I’m making. ‘Now, sorry to ruin the moment, but sex was briefly mentioned about five minutes ago and I’ve been desperate to get my hands on you since.’
I laugh as Mark lifts me up from the floor before pinning me down on the sofa.
‘Ooh,’ I squeak. ‘Something is going in my butt.’
‘Well, if you insist,’ Mark replies as he kisses his way down from my neck to my stomach, tugging at my dress with urgency until I’m down to my underwear.
‘That wasn’t a demand,’ I laugh. ‘There’s something under me on the sofa.’
An explosion booms through the surround sound, causing us both to jump in fright.
‘Oh, shit, you must be on the controller. You’ve started a new game,’ he laughs.
‘Oops,’ I giggle. ‘Quick, turn it off, you’ve still got your headset on.’
Mark grabs me by the thighs and pulls my body closer to his, laying me flat on my back.
‘Let the nerds listen.’
I gasp as he presses down on top of me.
‘You are a bad boy,’ I whisper into his ear.
‘I’m just trying to change your opinion of Sundays,’ he tells me. ‘And while I’m around, I promise you, all of your Sundays are going to be this amazing.’
Another explosion booms through the living-room speakers.
I close my eyes and bite my lip in sheer pleasure.
‘Don’t you want to pause your game?’ I ask him.
‘Why?’
I glance at the screen.
‘Someone keeps blowing you up,’ I half say, half moan.
‘Roxie, I could be on fire in real life and I wouldn’t stop having sex with you,’ he laughs. ‘We’ll just have to drown out their explosions with a few of our own.’
‘My kind of video game,’ I reply breathlessly.
‘There’s only one thing left to do now,’ he begins, struggling to form sentences as he gets ready to focus on the mission at hand. ‘You need to finally meet my parents.’
Chapter Two (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
Being in a relationship with a lifestyle writer must be absolute hell, because everything we do is for an article – and even if it isn’t, we’ll most often realise we can get an article out of it anyway.
I am as guilty of this as the next writer, plagiarising my real life for my work. From the very first time I picked up a pen (or a Macbook, as I started taking my career more seriously), I was dipping into my real life for my work, and I found that’s when I wrote my best material. If you’ve ever tried to do anything creative, whether it’s writing a story or painting a picture, you’ll often find people drawing upon what they already know, because what better way to create something genuine than to inspire yourself with genuine experience?
I like to think Mark is used to this now, but it’s not something he’d ever considered before he met me and it took him a little getting used to. It’s not so bad when I’m writing about places we visit or things we do for fun, but I will often write about things I’ve experienced in my personal life and what I learned from it all. I can justify this, of course, because if sharing my relationship mistakes can prevent someone else from making the same error, then I’m making a difference. The same cannot be said for my other avenue of inspiration, where I do things in real life just so I can write about them. That’s actually what I’m writing about today.
Sitting at my desk at work, I crack open a packet of chocolate buttons, stretch out my fingers and get ready to write.
‘You look like you mean business,’ my friend Polly, who sits at the desk opposite me, says. ‘What are you writing about today?’
I met Polly when I started working here; we were both hired by the news website we write for in the same week, so we were newbies together. Well, I say news website, but don’t think you’re getting the hard-hitting journalism of the Guardian. We write for one of those contemporary online news sources that present news, lifestyle advice and other miscellaneous content in a humorous and relevant format. My focus, here at Viralist, is on all things dating, romance, relationships and love. I told Mark what my job was on our first date, but I don’t think he realised when he started dating me just how honest I was in my articles, and just how heavily he would feature in them.
‘“10 things I did to see if my boyfriend noticed”,’ I tell her.
‘Ooh, tell me more,’ Polly demands, leaning over to grab a handful of chocolate. She drops them into her mouth all at once before sitting comfortably, ready for all the details.
‘Well,’ I start, laughing to myself as I consider everything I’ve done over the past couple of weeks in the name of journalism. ‘I just made a few subtle changes to our day-to-day life to see how he’d react – or if he’d even notice. First up, I didn’t wear make-up for a day.’
My original idea was to do it for a week, but then I realised I desperately need make-up to look like a living human female. If I’d gone without any slap for an entire week, people might’ve worried I was seriously ill.
‘And did he notice?’ Polly asks, completely into the idea.
‘Well, he didn’t say anything at the time, but the day after, when I was winging my eyeliner in the bathroom mirror, he hovered behind me. I could tell he was thinking about saying something; the anguish on his face was impossible for him to hide. Eventually he blurted out: “You know, you look better when you don’t put all that… stuff on your eyes.” I asked him if he meant eyeliner and he nodded.’
Polly pulls a thoughtful face.
‘Well, that’s almost a compliment,’ she reasons. ‘What next?’
‘I bought a skirt that was not me at all – it was floor-length,’ I say, stressing the last three words for emphasis. I’m what you might call a follower of fashion, always keeping on top of the latest trends and wearing whatever is cool at the time, even if others might find it questionable. My mum, however, would tease that my wardrobe is far too revealing. Today I’m wearing a short black skirt, with one of Mark’s white shirts, tied in a Daisy Duke-style knot at the stomach – low down enough to ensure full coverage for work. ‘Well, he told me he liked it – he rarely comments on my clothes. But he still didn’t really twig that much was different.’
‘Another compliment,’ Polly laughs. ‘Next?’
‘I started deep-cleaning the flat every day. The kitchen was spotless, there was never a dirty dish, I would clean the bathroom each day without fail.’
‘And?’
‘Of course he didn’t notice,’ I laugh. ‘Next up: I didn’t shave my legs for, like, two weeks – not a word from him on the matter.’
‘So did he actually notice anything?’ Polly enquires.
‘I stopped wearing knickers.’
‘And he noticed that?’ she asks sarcastically, faking shock.
I wiggle my eyebrows.
‘You better believe he did,’ I giggle. ‘The first time he was like: “You’ve no knickers on!” and it made him pounce on me even quicker than he usually does. On the third day I came in from work and I was getting changed, and he just let out a casual observation: “You don’t wear knickers any more.”’
Polly grabs more chocolate, eagerly listening to my story with the level of attention and volume of snacking you’d usually reserve for the cinema.
‘Should’ve known he’d notice that one – you guys are like horny teenagers.’
Still sitting at my desk chair, I attempt to take a bow. It’s only as I wave my hand theatrically in front of my face that my friend finally notices the engagement ring on my finger. Getting Polly to notice my ring without me telling her has taken three hours of constantly reaching for things from her desk, gesticulating wildly when I speak and hammering the keys on my computer as hard as possible to try and draw attention to my hands. I thought that letting Polly notice my ring on her own would be a much cooler way for her to find out, rather than me just telling her, but as the hours have ticked away, my patience has been growing thin. It’s almost a relief she’s finally spotted it. I thought I was going to have to give in and just tell her.
‘Oh, my God,’ she squeaks. ‘Is that an engagement ring? Are you and Mark getting married?’
I nod my head, unable to contain my smile for a second longer.
‘Oh, my God,’ she squeaks again, climbing on her desk chair. ‘Everyone, listen up: Roxie is engaged!’
Applause fills the Viralist office.
‘Thank you,’ I say with an awkward wave. My relationship with self-confidence is a strange one because, while completely happy with who I am, I am uncomfortable being the centre of attention and will do anything to avoid the spotlight. That’s why I like being a writer; I can get my message to people while still hiding behind my words. Writing about lifestyle and relationships isn’t so bad, but when I was reporting on celebrity stuff, and I would dare to say something that wasn’t entirely complimentary about Justin Bieber’s hair, that would be it: war would be declared in the comments on my posts, death threats would be issued – the works. One time I jokily referred to Liam Payne as the fifth sexiest member of One Direction, and one girl threatened to hit me in the face with a sledgehammer. So, yeah, hiding behind a computer is not only preferable when it comes to dealing with, shall we say, constructive criticism, but it also protects me from the crazies.
Kath, our editor, pokes her head out from her office door.
‘You’re engaged, Roxie?’
‘I am,’ I reply, my smile stretching from one side of the office to the other.
‘That’s great, there’s got to be an article in that.’ She pauses thoughtfully. ‘We’ll figure it out.’
‘OK,’ I laugh. That’s Kath for you; everything is an article. She’s probably already working out what GIFs I should use to accompany my words.
As the buzz from Polly’s announcement dies down, and everyone gets back to their work, we resume our conversation.
‘God, that’s not an engagement ring, that’s a deposit on a house,’ she jokes, admiring my bling. ‘Hey, maybe Mark will finally introduce you to his parents,’ she adds cheekily.
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ I say, nervously. ‘I was on top of the world when he asked me; then, as soon as he mentioned me meeting them, I freaked out.’
‘Just be on your best behaviour,’ Polly reminds me. ‘If you have a “best behaviour”,’ she adds with a giggle.
I widen my eyes with horror. My friend doesn’t take this as her cue to go easy on me; instead she persists with her teasing.
‘Maybe he hasn’t let you meet them because he’s worried they won’t like you. So it’s just safer to keep you from them. Except, now he’s popped the question, it’s forced his hand.’
Mark is not purposefully keeping me from his family, but it is true that I haven’t met any of them yet. His family all live in the middle of nowhere, in the Yorkshire Dales. He’s been to visit them a few times while I’ve known him but at first it was too early in our relationship, and then, when he did start inviting me, I wasn’t able to get the time off work. He hasn’t been to visit them since, but they do know I exist, so that’s encouraging.
‘Oh, my God, stop, have mercy. I’m already freaking out as it is,’ I remind her.
‘Do you know much about them?’ Polly enquires.
‘Erm, not really,’ I tell her, honestly. ‘I know that they live kind of out of the way of civilisation – and from what Mark has told me about their house, it sounds amazing. It’s just his mum and dad living there now, but he has two sisters, one older and one younger. I know their names and stuff, but not really much about them. I’ve seen the occasional photo of his siblings on Facebook, but his parents don’t use it.’
‘That’s weird, I think,’ Polly says, pondering the issue.
‘It is and it isn’t,’ I laugh. ‘I suppose almost everyone is on there now, so it seems weird when people don’t use it, but it’s probably not that weird…’
‘Well, I think it’s weird,’ she laughs. ‘Like they’re dinosaurs who haven’t embraced modern technology.’
‘Maybe,’ I laugh.
I am of the generation where we rely too heavily on being able to cyber-stalk people we’ve just met, or are yet to meet, to try and figure out what kind of personality they have. It sure would make my life easier if I knew what his parents were like – what kind of people they were, how they dressed, what their interests were. You can tell a lot about a person from stuff like that.
I am what my mum sometimes describes as an ‘acquired taste’. I am the very definition of a millennial – although that might have a lot to do with my job, too. Sometimes my parents think I’m speaking a second language – because they don’t know their YOLO from their FOMO – and my passion for fashion often leaves them scratching their heads. But I think it’s important to be current, and move with the times. Take my hair, for example. In the summer I had it longer and lighter, but now that we’re in December, in the midst of winter, I’ve opted for a honey-coloured lob – because that’s what is in fashion right now. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to be cool, even if people don’t really get it, but it would be nice to get a heads-up on whether or not his parents are more on the conservative side of the spectrum, because even though I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not, I do really want to impress them. I care what they think, but only because I love Mark so much, and I want his family to see that and want me to be a part of their family because they like me, not just because I’m marrying into it. You hear all these stories and watch all these movies about evil in-laws, but that’s not the reality, is it? Mums who think no woman is good enough for their son – that’s just a clichéd character.
Still, it’s not like I have to worry about that right now, is it? I only got engaged yesterday. As fast as we’ve been flying through the motions so far, I’m just taking this engagement a day at a time.
I think to myself for a moment. That’s it! The idea for my next article: ‘10 Things to Consider Before You Meet Your Boyfriend’s Parents for the First Time’.
Chapter Three (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
What is the quickest way to get back in a man’s good books? I know the fastest way to a man’s heart is via his stomach, but I’ll bet the quickest way to his good books is via his pants. To make sure I have all bases covered, my plan of attack involves both. You see, my article went live this afternoon, and judging by the number of times it’s been shared already, and the number of comments it’s had on Facebook, it’s only a matter of time before Mark sees it. You know what they say: it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission – that’s my strategy with Mark because, if I told him what I was planning on writing, I don’t think he’d be down for it, but once I’ve finished the article and it’s live, he always tells me what a great job I did.
Mark has never once been mad at me for writing about our relationship, and yet I always have this little mini panic between hitting the ‘publish’ button and him reading it and telling me that he still loves me, even though I share our most personal relationship details (arguments, sexual malfunctions, etc.) with everyone who has an internet connection. This article is a little different, though, because I’ve been messing with him for weeks, testing him, and that does sometimes feel just a little dishonest, even if it is all in the name of journalism. That’s why I stopped at Ann Summers on my way home and bought myself the most alarmingly intimidating set of underwear I could find, in an attempt to disarm and confuse him, so that by the time I’m done with him, and I tell him what my latest article is about, he’ll be too happy and tired to care.
I walk up to my full-length mirror to admire my new underwear, but for some reason it doesn’t compliment my body quite as well as it did the mannequin in the window. I imagine that’s because she was made of hard plastic, whereas my normal, slightly squishy body is harder to contain with all these peepholes. Trying to wrangle my natural boobs in this cupless bra is proving more difficult than I thought it would, but if I make sure I’m lying down when Mark gets home, he won’t notice the fighting battle I’m losing with gravity. It doesn’t matter than I’m only twenty-nine years old; real boobs are a law unto themselves.
That’s the plan of attack on his boxers sorted; now all I need to do is dash to the kitchen and grab a can of whipped cream so I can carefully apply it to my body and then wait on the bed for him to come home and devour me.
I open the fridge and glance around a few times, but I can’t find the whipped cream anywhere. I only bought it last week, and I know I haven’t used it. Dammit, what can I use instead? So long as it’s something I can spread on my body that Mark loves the taste of, it’ll be fine, right?
Hmm, somehow I don’t think a tub of Philadelphia is the best option, even if it is Mark’s favourite kind of cheese. Ditto that jar of passata. Spying another jar on the shelf, I grab it, reading the nutritional information, as though that has some baring on whether or not I’m going to smother it all over my nipples – I’m just trying to think of a better idea. That’s when I spy another jar on the worktop and, with no alternative options popping into my head, I take them both to the bedroom with me.
I lie back on the bed, strategically positioning my body in just the right way so that my boobs don’t disappear under my arms and my thong at least covers something, because I’m suddenly a little dubious about whether or not crotchless underwear looks sexy or terrifying. Then I grab my two jars. Well, peanut butter and jam sandwiches are Mark’s favourite… so I can’t go wrong, can I? I don’t imagine mixing them together to make a kind of sticky, cloudy paste is going to look all that great, so I do what any sensible, sound-minded, sexy woman would do and smear strawberry jam all over one boob and peanut butter all over the other. Glancing down at my handiwork I can confirm that – as delicious I smell – this doesn’t look as sexy as I had imagined. I wanted to swirl big dollops of whipped cream straight from the can that my lover could wrap his lips around as he devoured it – instead, he’s going to be alternating trying to eat crunchy peanut butter from around one nipple, and picking strawberry seeds from his teeth after having a go at the other. Well, this doesn’t look sexy or appetising, so I guess I’ll wash it off and just hope the sexy underwear does the trick, except…
‘Hello,’ I hear Mark call, closing the front door behind him.
Fuck.
‘Hi,’ I call back. ‘I’ll be out in a second.’
‘It’s OK, I’m coming to get changed,’ he calls back.
Double fuck. I’ve got about thirty seconds, during which I decide that, as awful as this looks, the only way I could make it look worse would be for Mark to see this vertically. Probably best I just stay lying down and hope for the best.
‘You had a good… oh, my God,’ Mark exclaims, dumbstruck as he walks through the bedroom door. ‘What… er… what is that all over you?’
‘Peanut butter and strawberry jam,’ I say, owning it.
‘Of course it is,’ he replies, laughing at me with his eyes. God, I love it when he does that. His deep-brown eyes just light up and I can tell exactly what he’s thinking – it’s usually: ‘what the hell is going on in this girl’s head?’ But it isn’t a judgemental laugh; it’s warm and eternally forgiving, and I just know that, no matter how daft I am, Mark isn’t going anywhere.
Mark unbuttons his shirt and kicks off his trousers before jumping on the bed.
‘Well, I am starving,’ he laughs, kissing his way from my ankle to my thigh.
I gasp and wiggle involuntarily, the way I always do the second I feel his lips on my body.
‘OK, seriously, this was misjudged, I look ridiculous, and I do not expect you to have sex with me while I look like this,’ I tell him.
‘Have you seen that underwear you’ve got on?’ he asks me, gently kissing his way up my body until he’s on top of me. ‘You could’ve smeared mud all over yourself and I’d still have sex with you. You look sexy as fuck.’
‘Even with the jam?’ I laugh.
‘Especially with the jam,’ he replies, kissing my chest, covering his face in it. As he looks into my eyes, he smiles, and even though it’s sticky with strawberry jam, it still takes my breath away how handsome he is. I run my hand through his hair and sigh.
‘I love you,’ I blurt out.
‘I love you, too,’ he laughs. ‘But I hope this isn’t my tea…’
I laugh and roll my eyes.
‘I bought stuff for dinner, too,’ I assure him. ‘The plan was to cover myself in whipped cream, but we didn’t have any – I thought we did.’
‘We did, I ate it,’ he tells me casually. I feel his body tense up as he presses down on me harder – Mark’s tell that he’s too turned on to think straight.
‘Oh, OK,’ I reply. ‘Wait, when did you eat it?’ I ask. ‘With what?’
‘Just on its own,’ he tells me breathlessly, grinding his body against mine.
‘What, like straight from the can?’ I persist with my questioning.
‘Yeah.’
‘You ate the entire can?’
‘Yeah,’ he laughs. ‘While I was watching Match of the Day. Now will you just shut up and kiss me, please?’ he demands impatiently.
I laugh quietly to myself at the image of my sexy boyfriend sitting on the sofa, squirting whipped cream straight into his mouth as he yells at the TV in protest at an unjustly given yellow card.
As he passionately kisses me on the lips, I feel jam transfer from his face to mine. As sticky as it is, I’m too turned on to care right now. Our white bed sheets be damned.
Mark jumps to his feet, offering me his hand to pull me up.
‘Stand up. I want to get a proper look at this underwear,’ he demands.
As self-conscious as I feel in my awkward undies, I own it, and stand up proudly.
‘Wow,’ Mark exclaims as he takes it all in. ‘OK, no more snacking. I’ve got to have you.’
Grabbing me by the hips, Mark pushes me up against the wall. I lock my legs around his waist. Suddenly I can appreciate the plus points of crotchless, peephole underwear – I can keep it on and still have sex, and it does just enough to hide my small body hang-ups.
***
Lying on the bed, exhausted, elated and covered in a gross mixture of strawberry jam, peanut butter and sweat, I exhale deeply.
‘That was amazing,’ I tell him. ‘You’re amazing.’
‘You weren’t so bad yourself,’ he tells me. ‘And you shaved your legs for the occasion.’
‘I did… wait, you notice stuff like that?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ he laughs. ‘You really think I didn’t feel how prickly your legs were every time I ran my hands up and down them for the past two weeks?’
‘I really did think that,’ I tell him.
‘I know you did,’ he laughs, rolling onto his side, resting his head on his hand as he faces me. ‘I read your article.’
I sit up straight.
‘Oh, you’ve already seen it?’ I ask, pointlessly. ‘Erm… what did you think?’
‘That I’m more observant than you give me credit for,’ he replies.
‘So you’re not mad?’
‘Am I ever?’ he laughs. ‘So is that what all this was in aid of?’
‘Kind of,’ I reply. That’s what the extra effort was for, but it’s not exactly out of character for me to jump on him the second he walks through the door after work of an evening. I think I’m freaking out today more than usual, though, because I can’t get the thought of meeting his parents out of my head. I’m scared to put a foot wrong – although somehow I don’t think my seducing their son by smothering my body with spreads usually reserved for toast would buy me much favour with them, do you?
‘You’re too good for me,’ I tell him. ‘Right, I suppose I’d better make you some dinner.’
As I make the grand gesture of pulling myself to my feet, Mark grabs my wrist and pulls me close, squeezing me tightly.
‘Before you go, I spoke to my mum today – she’s invited the family to visit for Christmas. I figured we could go see your mum and dad, then head up to the Dales, spend the night there – give everyone the good news about us getting engaged!’
‘That would be awesome,’ I tell him, smiling widely like I do every time I remember we’re engaged.
‘We’d be travelling back on Christmas Eve, but we’re all prepared for Christmas anyway, right?
‘We are indeed.’
I glance at my engagement ring, only to realise it’s covered in jam.
‘OK,’ I laugh, ‘I really need a shower. Then I’ll make dinner.’
Wriggling free of Mark’s grasp, I slip my expensive, spread-covered underwear off, throwing my bra and kicking my knickers to one side.
‘I could do with a shower, too. I feel dirty,’ he calls after me. ‘Whack it up to full, I’ll be right behind you.’
Chapter Four (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
‘You’re not going to need… all that this weekend,’ Mark tells me as he carefully places balled-up pairs of socks into his overnight bag.
I glance up from clipping my stocking to my suspenders.
‘Erm, I do need “all this” because I have to wear stockings on my super-white legs, because someone won’t let me use fake tan any more.’
‘To take a leaf out of your book, here’s a list of three reasons I won’t let my girlfriend use fake tan any more… Number one: it smells so bad – like you ate a spice rack and then threw it up on your legs. Number two: our white sheets and towels are no longer white. Number three: you…’
‘All right, all right.’ I wave a pair of Mark’s white boxers in the air to show surrender. ‘I get it, you think I’m gross.’
‘If you’ll allow me to finish,’ Mark starts, sitting down on the bed behind me. ‘Number three: you’re perfect as you are.’
‘Even with my ghostly white, white legs?’ I ask, a huge grin spreading across my face.
‘Yes,’ he replies, taking my chin between his thumb and finger as he kisses me gently.
My grin dissolves into a sigh.
‘Come on, what’s up?’ Mark asks me as he gets back to packing.
I sit down on the bed and cross my legs, running a hand through my hair as I try to find the right words.
‘I… I’m nervous about meeting your family,’ I admit.
‘What? Why?’ he asks, surprised. ‘They’re going to love you.’
I know he’s right. It is his family, after all, so he knows them better than anyone. I guess I’ve just watched too many movies.
‘That said…’ he starts, ‘are you sure you’re packing the right kind of clothing? They keep saying it’s going to snow. Shouldn’t you pack some flat boots of some kind?’
‘I haven’t weather-proofed my new Uggs yet, so I can’t wear those’.
‘So you’re just going to wear heels?’
I shrug casually. He knows I am. But I only need to get to the car and back, it’s no big deal.
As I stuff the last few things into my overnight bag, I struggle with the zip.
‘Help me out here, buddy,’ I demand, pouting my lip a little. ‘I’ll hold it tightly, you pull it.’
‘That’s what she said,’ my cheeky fiancé jokes. ‘OK, here we go.’
Mark’s bulging biceps come in handy all the time. If I need a jar opening, he pops the lid off like it’s nothing. When it comes to bedroom antics, he can throw me around the room with ease. And it’s pretty much guaranteed that no one will dare harass us in the street because he looks like he could crush someone’s brain with one effortless headlock. I know that he’s a sweetheart, who probably wouldn’t really know what to do in a fight, but the hours he spends in the gym deceive everyone and he looks as tough as he is strong. Yep, usually Mark’s strength is useful, but not today. Today my hubby-to-be pulls the zip with such strength it rips clean off my bag.
‘Oh, shit, I’m sorry. It just came off in my hand.’
‘That’s what she said,’ I reply, echoing his cheeky joke. He was only trying to help; I can’t be mad at him. I do have a problem now, though. ‘Erm, OK, so I’ll…’
‘No, you stay there – I’ll go grab you another one. You finish getting ready,’ Mark insists, grabbing his keys before kissing me on the forehead and dashing out of the door.
‘Thank you,’ I call after him.
Living in the city centre has its perks, like being able to go out and buy whatever you need, whenever you need it. I’ve lived in London my entire life so it’s all I know, but Mark still finds it amazing when he can get a pizza delivered to his flat at three o’clock in the morning.
I can’t wait to see where he grew up. As much as Mark prefers city centre life, he talks fondly about growing up in Rippledale – a village in the Yorkshire Dales I’ve never even heard of. Apparently it’s tiny, remote and in the middle of a valley, so the mobile phone signal is sparse.
I’ve never actually been to Yorkshire before so, in my head, I’m only going on what I’ve seen in Emmerdale – not sure how accurate that is. I’m happy to admit that, being born and raised in London, I’m one of those people who thinks it is the greatest place, and that nowhere else in England compares. It’s just that everything happens here; it is the capital, after all. If I need a break, I go abroad; I don’t drive over two hundred miles to sit in a field. I’ve just never had any reason to head up north, that is until now. I’m excited to meet Mark’s family, I just can’t begin to imagine them. All I know are the stereotypes; that northerners are tight and pour gravy on everything – I’m also smart enough to know that stereotypes are not a realistic representation of a county. Anyway, Mark isn’t tight at all, and I’ve never noticed his gravy consumption to be anything other than average…
So maybe signal-free, gravy-rich Yorkshire wouldn’t be my first choice of places to get away to, but I’ve been under so much pressure at work lately, it will just be nice to take a break – even if it’s only for a couple of days. I know what you’re thinking: but Roxie, don’t you just write about how to get a boyfriend and crack dick jokes all day? And, yes, you’re right – the work I produce may not be particularly important in the grand scheme of things; but I do work hard on it, and I do have an editor breathing down my neck, and deadlines to hit, and – do you know what? – my dick jokes are fire, and I won’t let anyone tell me otherwise.
Unable to pack until Mark arrives with my bag, I lie back on my bed, stretching out, ready for a relaxing few days. I think a bit of solitude will do me good. I feel my muscles slowly begin to relax, one at a time, my body slowly slipping into holiday mode until my phone rings, and all at once every inch of me tenses up again. Shit, it’s Kath, my editor. I know I’m supposed to be on holiday, but I can’t exactly swerve her call, can I?
‘Hey, boss, how’s it going?’ I ask cheerily, hoping she hasn’t called to bollock me for something or, worse, revoke my holiday for some reason that I haven’t had chance to start panicking about yet.
‘Oh, you know,’ she says in reply. I’m not sure I do, but we’ll leave it at that. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Just about to hit the road,’ I reply. ‘I’m going away with Mark for a few days.’
Just in case Kath was thinking of asking me to head into work for something, I pretend to shout to Mark in the next room.
‘What’s that, babe?’ I call – and, no, I don’t ever call him babe. ‘Sure, I’m ready to go.’ I turn my attention back to Kath. ‘Sorry, Kath, Mark is nagging me to hit the road; apparently we’re going to be late to meet his parents.’
‘That’s why I’m calling you,’ Kath tells me.
‘Oh?’
‘Oh, indeed. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to meet your fiancé’s parents for the first time?’ she asks.
I think for a moment. Why would I tell her?
‘I…’ I start, but no more words come out. Luckily for me, Kath makes her point clear.
‘I want you to write an article about it,’ she tells me.
‘About meeting Mark’s family?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ she replies casually. ‘This is a golden opportunity. You need to make the most of it.’
Writing about my personal life is something I do all the time, and I’m happy to do it, but when it comes to writing about my love life, I’m very careful. I would never mention Mark by name, or just straight up write about him. I will often mention ‘my boyfriend’ in relation to things that I am saying and doing, but that’s it. He’s just a nameless, faceless character in my life that people don’t really think too much about when they read the articles, because they’re not reading to find out about my life, they’re reading to work out how to learn from my mistakes to make their life better. Writing about meeting Mark’s family, though – that’s a completely different thing. He might be able to forgive me for writing about our bedroom antics, but dragging his family into my work isn’t something he is going to be OK with – well, who would?
‘Well, I just finished a piece on things to consider before you meet your boyfriend’s parents for the first time – I don’t want my readers to think I’m rehashing old material, or bragging about how engaged I am, you know?’
‘Who is your editor?’ she asks me pointlessly.
‘You are,’ I reply. ‘But…’
‘But you’ll do it?’ she asks. Well, it sounds like a question, but we both know it isn’t. ‘I’m thinking we can cover the whole engagement, wedding – beyond that, even. “How to choose your bridesmaids” to “Thoughts you’ll have while walking down the aisle” – there’s just so much material here.’
I think for a second. Appealing to Kath’s better nature might be a long shot, but it’s worth a try, right?
‘Mark has been pretty cool when it comes to what I write about, but I think writing about his family will be a step too far, Kath,’ I tell her frankly.
‘It’s too good an opportunity to waste, Roxie. Readers will love this. You’re a smart girl; find a way and turn it in next week – no excuses, OK?’
‘But Kath…’
‘I said no excuses,’ she snaps. ‘Have a wonderful few days.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘See you soon.’
I hang up and lie back on my bed, completely unable to relax now. There’s just no way I can write about something like this. Endless silly things, yes. But I can’t review his family and then tell people how to ‘cope’ with such an ordeal. That’s so disrespectful.
When I started working at Viralist, I knew how lucky I was to land a job there, and when I finally bagged my own virtual column, I really couldn’t believe my luck. But my success has come at a cost, like Kath thinking my private life is public property. Sometimes it feels a little like I’ve sold my soul to the devil, but I couldn’t imagine being happy in any other job. In situations like this, I usually find that I can compromise my way out of having to reveal too much about my real life. My only real option is to write a completely different article – but an even better one; that way, when Kath reads it and thinks it’s the best thing I’ve ever written, she won’t even care about the fact I went off topic and completely ignored her orders.
I know I’m only going to be away for a day/night, but I’ll be travelling back on Christmas Eve, and with this being mine and Mark’s first proper Christmas together, I promised him I wouldn’t work. I’m going to have to take my laptop with me and write either in the car, or through the night, when I’ll most likely not be able to sleep for worrying about this.
‘I’m back,’ Mark calls to me from the living room.
‘Hey,’ I call back to him.
‘Here we are, one new overnight bag, and in the lady’s favourite colour, too: black.’
‘Like my heart,’ I tease.
‘So, we’re good to go? Nothing else to stress about?’
‘Nothing,’ I lie.
‘OK, then,’ Mark says excitedly with a clap of his hands. ‘Let’s hit the road.’
Chapter Five (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
I’ve been thinking about the answer to a pretty straightforward question recently: would I describe myself as a materialistic person? I’d like to say that the answer is no, but I’m not so sure. My parents didn’t raise me with a taste for the finer things in life; they’re a very easygoing couple. Joseph and Juliet met at stage school when they were in their teens, and if I had to describe their relationship in one word, if would be ‘easy’. Realising they had everything in common, they started dating and fell hard and fast for each other. They had a small, simple wedding. They had one (probably perfect and impossible to better – although I am biased) child and that was enough for them. They have both always worked in theatre, whether they were acting, teaching, directing or composing, which gave me the most culturally diverse upbringing I could’ve hoped for. I have met people from all different backgrounds, in front of the backdrop of an industry that embraces diversity, and for that I am thankful. They brought me up to be accepting, tolerant, and to embrace what I loved, even if what I loved was dressing as a cat for the eight months that followed my watching Cats for the first time when I was a child. But being materialistic is one thing they didn’t encourage, so I guess any bad habits I’ve picked up along those lines, I only have myself to blame for.
Before I met Mark, I lived in a pretty small flat above a shop that sells e-cigarettes, which I shared with my friend Gilgamesh who I met through my parents’ theatre company. I have always suspected Gil chose himself a stage name before we met, because when I quizzed him about having such an unusual name he went on to insist his parents named him that, and I feel like, from that moment on, he made a conscious effort to hide all forms of identification from me. Still, it is possible; my parents did name me Roxie, after all.
Back when I was a struggling writer – still just an office junior at Viralist – and Gil was a struggling actor, our vape-stinking flat was all we could afford, but we were happy there. Still, I’m sure my parents were wondering about what my life intentions were, given that I was living like a student with a forty-something gay guy, so when I moved in with Mark they were delighted. It’s not that I can’t look after myself, but I think they worried about me less, knowing I had Mark taking care of me, rather than a wild-child Peter Pan who would convince me to go out drinking with him several nights a week.
Moving in with Mark was a change, and one that I quickly adapted to. I’ve always been a pop culture junkie, whether I was lusting after the celebrity lifestyles I saw in Starstruck magazine, or just trying to keep up with whatever the Kardashians were telling me to smear all over my face to stay ‘on fleek’. Moving in with Mark, who is in charge of public relations for a huge children’s charity, meant moving into the lifestyle I had dreamed of. I’d finally been promoted to staff writer the year before I met Mark, but I’d kept living where I was – mostly because life with Gil was just such a great source of material for my lifestyle column. This meant lots of extra income for all the silly stuff I was certain I needed to be happy. Moving into a big, flashy apartment with my devastatingly sexy boyfriend made my life complete; so, yes, I guess you could say I’m materialistic. I know that the most important things in life cannot be bought, but I acknowledge just how happy ‘things’ make me.
I would say that Mark is less materialistic than I am, but he’s always had more material. From his comfy furnishings to his cinema screen to the BMW with the matte black finish that we’re currently travelling to my parents’ house in, Mark has it all. And yet, I don’t think he’d care if he lost it. He doesn’t love his car like many men do; he just thinks it’s cool. When I jokily asked if I could learn to drive in it, he said yes, whereas most men would’ve uttered a two-word reply and the second word would have definitely been ‘off’.
I do like to be stylish, but I don’t necessarily have to spend a lot of money to do that. I could when I lived in my cheap flat with Gil, but now that I’m living with Mark, my contribution to the bills costs me way more, which means less to spend on lip kits and manicures, but I’m OK with that. I am so happy and so in love with Mark, and as much as he tells me I don’t need to contribute as much to our bills, I do. I couldn’t not; it wouldn’t sit right with me. Lucky for me, I bought most of my expensive clothing, shoes and accessories when I had a lot of spare cash, and this stuff lasts a lifetime. Unlucky for me, the overnight bag that Mark panic-bought for me is significantly smaller than its predecessor, so I’ve had to pack less than I intended to take with me – plus my laptop. I know I’m only going to be away a couple of days, but I figured I’d be able to make notes if an idea came to me, or I can work in the car… I just need to make sure I have something to turn in. Something so good, my editor won’t miss an exposé piece on the Wright family.
‘God, I’m bored,’ I whine, like a petulant child. ‘I hate long car journeys.’
Mark laughs.
‘We’re five minutes from home, Roxie,’ he reminds me. ‘And fifteen minutes from your parents’ house. Still nervous?’
‘Still nervous,’ I reply.
It just feels so strange to be meeting the parents after getting engaged, like we’re doing things in the wrong order.
‘They’ll love you,’ Mark tells me for the millionth time. ‘It’s a long journey; you can’t spend it worrying.’
‘I know, I know. At least we’re making a stop to see my parents, then we can get a nice, warm coffee in us. It’s freezing!’
‘Oh, no, I know how this goes,’ Mark laughs. ‘You’ll drink too much, and we’ll have to stop so you can use the loo every ten miles…’
‘Oi,’ I laugh. ‘I’m a grown-ass woman. I’ll be thirty next year. I’m fully in control of my bladder, thank you.’
I shudder a little, at the thought of turning thirty. ‘Next year’ makes it sound like it’s a long way away, but it’s December now, and my birthday is in February. Mark doesn’t think it’s a big deal – he’s thirty-two, and assures me that nothing changes when you hit the big 3-0. He’s promised me that my face won’t instantly wrinkle, that I won’t become boring overnight, and that I won’t suddenly be turned away from night clubs for looking too old. While I fear that, as I grow older, things are only going to go downhill for me looks-wise, Mark only gets better with age. Mark is the very definition of tall, dark and handsome, and even though a few grey hairs are starting to creep in on the sides of his head – my God – it looks so sexy. My newly cut blonde lob might have a few greys in there, maybe, but I wouldn’t know because I have my hair routinely highlighted. If I did have grey hair showing, though, it would not look good. On Mark it looks hot and this is beyond unfair. Like he’s not already out of my league; as we grow older, the fact we’re in different leagues is only going to seem more obvious. Can’t wait for the day he’s walking around all George Clooney and I’m looking like Mrs Doubtfire.
‘Here we are,’ Mark announces, pulling up outside my mum and dad’s house. ‘So, how are you going to play this?’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘How are you going to announce it to them? Have you got some big thing planned?’
‘I already told them,’ I reply. ‘I called them the same day while you were in the shower. I told you that they said congratulations when… oh, my God, you were ignoring me because you were playing Call of Duty, weren’t you?’
‘Woman, have you ever tried doing two things at once?’ he jokes. ‘It’s hard work.’
I roll my eyes. How can he be so annoying and so cute at the same time?
As Mark makes a move to get out of the car, I put a hand on his arm to stop him.
‘Wait. You’ve told your family, right?’
‘Erm, no,’ he replies with a cheeky laugh. ‘I thought we’d surprise them.’
‘But they’ve never even met me,’ I squeak. ‘You can’t just turn up with me and be like: OK, we’re here, meet my girlfriend for the first time – by the way, we’re engaged.’
‘Why not?’ he laughs.
‘Oh, God.’ My stomach churns as I somehow find a way to feel even more nervous. ‘At least they know they’re finally going to meet me.’
As I go to get out of the car, it’s Mark’s turn to stop me.
‘Except…’ he starts.
‘Mark Wright, please tell me that you told your parents that you’re taking me to meet them. Please tell me you’re not just going to turn up with me and be like: ta-da, this is my bird…’
‘I thought it might be a nice surprise,’ he laughs awkwardly, except I can tell he’s maybe starting to think that he’s done the wrong thing.
‘Oh, my God, call them right now and warn them that you’re bringing me with you. I can’t just turn up to stay at their house uninvited.’
‘I invited you,’ he tells me, suddenly straight-faced. ‘We’re a team. You go where I go, I go where you go.’
I pull a face.
‘Your smart, easy way with words isn’t going to get you out of this one,’ I tell him as we walk up the driveway. ‘Call them, now.’
‘No way, I want to surprise them,’ he insists, opening the front door for me.
‘You’re an idiot sometimes, do you know that?’ I ask rhetorically, around the same time my parents both yell ‘surprise’ and fire party poppers in our direction.
I watch as their faces fall, their beaming grins slipping away into nothing. The room falls silent, but only for a second.
‘Hello,’ I say warmly. My parents follow suit and greet me with a hug.
‘Everything OK?’ my mum asks.
‘Oh, we’re fine,’ I reply honestly. ‘I’m just teasing Mark over a questionable decision.’
I give my hubby-to-be a playful nudge. He’s impossible to be mad at.
‘We’ll ask no more,’ my dad says before pulling Mark in for a handshake/hug. ‘Come here, you. Congratulations. And thank you, we didn’t think anyone would be taking this one off our hands.’
‘Hey,’ I laugh. ‘What do you mean “off your hands”? I moved out when I was eighteen.’
I’ve always wanted to be independent, even when I was a little kid. My mum, liking to think she’s a bit of a psychologist, puts this down to my being an only child. I don’t know what the reason is; all I know is that I feel more comfortable doing things for myself. That’s why I can’t let Mark pay for everything. That’s why I spent years living in that tiny hellhole with Gil, so that I could take care of myself while I was working my way up the career ladder. It’s good, though, because I can be proud of everything I’ve worked for, and know that I’ve done it all on my own.
‘Yeah, we just never thought you’d be the marrying kind,’ my dad explains. There’s a smile on his face, but it sounds like there’s a little truth in there. ‘You know, being so career-minded, your wild nights out… We’re just so pleased you’ve got Mark and that he takes care of you.’
I feel my brow furrow at the thought of needing someone taking care of me, but I suppose he’s right that Mark does do his best to take care of me, and I wouldn’t change the way he is for anything. To have someone give so much of a shit about you feels amazing.
‘I’d say we should crack open a bottle, but with Mark driving… I’ll put kettle on?’ my dad suggests, clapping his hands as he jumps to his feet.
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Mark replies. Being a typical Yorkshire lad, Mark loves a good cup of tea, whereas I’m more of a coffee person.
As soon as the men are out of the room, my mum sits on the sofa next to me and grabs my hand.
‘That is one beautiful ring,’ she gushes.
As I examine my hand, I can’t help but agree. My boy not only has great taste, but he knows me so well. So well, that he knows I’ve been on a rose-gold kick for as long as I can remember, and when I happened to mention that I liked the look of champagne sapphires – my boy was listening carefully.
At the time, he laughed. He said that some girls demanded platinum rings with a big rock of a diamond in there, but I told him I didn’t care about that. Well, I don’t. If I’m going to wear a ring every day, it should be something that I actually want to wear every day, because I think it looks cool, not because it’s expensive. It would seem that, as a compromise, Mark opted for a rose-gold ring with a big, champagne sapphire, surrounded by diamonds. I might not have wanted a ridiculously expensive ring (mostly because I’m so clumsy and forgetful), but Mark insisted I deserved it. I’m wearing it right now, because I imagine it would look pretty bad if I didn’t, but as soon as we’re back home I’ll probably just lock it away in the safe and wear something cheap as a placeholder. Something I can accidentally leave in a bathroom or fling straight off my finger as I gesture wildly while I’m telling a story at work.
‘So, time to meet the in-laws,’ my mum says, pulling a face.
‘What does that face mean?’ I laugh.
‘I just remember meeting your dad’s family for the first time,’ she recalls. ‘Your Grandma Pratt did not like me at all. Straight away, from the moment she met me, that was it – instant dislike.’
‘I never knew that,’ I reply.
‘Well, while she was alive, it didn’t seem fair to badmouth your gran to you, and we did eventually find a way to tolerate each other…’
‘Mum, this is not helping at all.’
My mum thinks for a moment, like she’s wracking her brains for some words of comfort for me.
‘Your Uncle Ben’s wedding was only a few weeks before you were born. Now, you were a big baby, so by this stage I was huge and I was heavy. I spent ages looking for the right outfit, and some shoes that I could actually walk in because I’d been living in trainers, and there was no way I could wear trainers to a wedding, not without your gran having a pop at me. So I got this long, green dress, and it was nice, but I was just so big, I didn’t exactly look like a Victoria’s Secret model in it, and I got these black shoes that had a bit of a heel on them – best I could do if I wanted to be able to walk.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ I reply. ‘Who would criticise the outfit of a pregnant woman?’
‘Your gran,’ my mum says with a laugh. ‘She told me that I looked like a hill, and that my shoes looked like orthopaedic aids for correcting what she called “wonky feet”.’
‘That’s harsh,’ I admit, suddenly not finding things so funny.
‘It was OK, though,’ my mum continues. ‘Because later that night your gran took a tumble in the ridiculously high heels she was wearing and ended up with a shiner of a black eye. So whenever she was horrible to me, to cheer myself up, I would watch the video of her gliding face-first across the dance floor. Suddenly, things wouldn’t seem too bad.’
I gasp.
‘Mum, I can’t believe you’re saying that.’
‘What? She was an old bag. She suggested I put you on a diet when you were two years old. God rest her soul,’ my mum hastily adds.
‘Whose soul are we resting?’ my dad asks, carrying a tray of mugs into the room, Mark not far behind him with a plate of biscuits.
‘Your mother’s,’ my mum replies, taking a cup of coffee from him.
‘Aw, if only she knew how missed she was,’ my dad says wistfully with a smile.
‘If only,’ my mum replies with a smile of her own.
I’d always kind of figured that my mum and my gran didn’t really get along that well, but I never realised she made comments like that to my mum. Is the urban legend of the evil mother-in-law not a legend at all? But that can’t be true. Sure, that’s the way things are in movies, and maybe my gran did make a few remarks to my mum, but maybe her outfit was rubbish, and I was a chubby toddler – I still am, in some ways.
My mum, ever the actress, is obviously embellishing – but with perfect comedic timing, as usual. Growing up with actor parents was interesting, to say the least. For one thing, their poker faces were flawless. When I was misbehaving, and they would pull up alongside the local children’s home saying they were going to give me away, I believed them! They really sold it, and I would instantly cease whatever I was doing that was causing them stress. Their easy confidence wasn’t always my favourite thing either, especially when it came to having friends around or school events. It was like they were always performing, always the centre of attention, always cracking jokes. It did have its plus points, too, though. They definitely told the best bedtime stories when I was younger, often working together to put on a performance at the end of my bed, and they were the ‘coolest’ parents a teenager could hope to have.
‘So, what did Gil make of the news?’ my mum asks.
Gil, a serial player, has never been big on the idea of monogamy, and he couldn’t hide his disappointment when I ‘caught it from Mark’ as he so beautifully put it. While he does adore Mark, and has always been happy for the two of us, we might have a problem…
‘Shit!’ I exclaim. ‘I forgot to tell him.’
‘You didn’t tell your best friend?’ Mark laughs. ‘That makes me even for not telling my parents.’
‘You haven’t told your parents?’ my mum echoes. ‘Why ever not?’
‘I want to surprise them,’ he replies, that cheeky smile of his more persuasive than ever. I don’t know if it’s the cute dimples planted perfectly on his handsome face that just give him this look, like he could get away with murder exclusively because you forgave him, just because he smiled at you. Mark’s smile will be my downfall, I’m just weak for it.
‘Well, that will be a nice surprise for your future mother-in-law,’ my mum tells me. There’s a smug look of warning in her eyes.
I metaphorically bite my lip.
‘I need to call Gil and tell him,’ I say, grabbing my phone.
‘Call him on loudspeaker,’ my dad insists. ‘We miss him.’
As instructed, I call Gil on loudspeaker so that everyone can talk to him, because everyone loves Gil. I find this especially hilarious, because other than me, my family, his family and a very small percentage of his friendship circle, Gil hates everyone. Perhaps it’s an actor thing – and, if it is, it’s very telling of how talented he is – but Gil has the ultimate fake smile, and he uses it to get away with saying whatever he wants, straight to a person’s face, and it confuses them so much, they don’t even realise he’s offending them. I remember when I lived with him, and I was dating this guy who had a bit of a body odour problem, and Gil just couldn’t keep quiet about it. He would spray him with deodorant, that big smile plastered across his face as he did it, asking him if he liked the way it smelt – multiple times, just to make sure he got an informed opinion from him. One time the smelly guy (as Gil has always referred to him behind his back) said that he was tired, so Gil told him to go home and have a nice, long bath. An insult, if you really think about it, but coming from Gil everything sounds charming. I guess you should never underestimate the power of a good smile.
‘Hello, stranger,’ Gil answers.
‘Hey, mister, how are you?’ I ask, holding back my exciting news as best I can for as long as I can.
‘Same old, same old,’ he tells me. ‘You?’
‘Mark asked me to marry him,’ I squeak.
‘Roxie, that’s amazing,’ he replies. ‘You said yes, right?’
‘Erm, obviously,’ I laugh.
As I exchange glances with Mark and my parents, I can not only tell that Gil is sincerely happy for me, but that everyone else that matters to me is happy too. Nothing could ruin this perfect moment.
‘I should’ve known you’d say yes,’ Mark continues. ‘Remember that time you called me up and said he’d made you orgasm, like, eight times in a row? I knew then that you’d never let him go. Plus, when you told me how well-endowed he was…’
I quickly hit the button that takes my phone off loudspeaker, cutting Gil off, but still very much shutting the stable door after the (well-hung) horse has bolted.
I laugh awkwardly.
‘Anyway, call you later,’ I babble, hanging up.
Mark, bless him, looks mortified, but my parents see the funny side. Not only because they’re used to Gil, but because – I told you – they’re cool.
My dad slaps Mark on the back playfully, laughing wildly.
‘I can’t believe you find this funny,’ Mark says, his body still looking a little stiff with fear. ‘Shouldn’t you be punching me in the face?’
‘Why?’ my dad laughs. ‘You clearly make my daughter very happy.’
I laugh, but I still find this embarrassing. I should’ve known the loudspeaker was a terrible idea.
‘Man, you guys are great,’ Mark says, relaxing. ‘My parents aren’t like you guys at all.’
I feel a pang of panic. I’ve been brought up around my parents; they’re the only kind of parents I’m used to.
‘Why? What are you parents like?’ I ask. I can’t believe I’ve never asked, but you know what it’s like when you start dating someone. As fast as things were moving, I still didn’t want to seem like a psycho, asking loads of weird questions.
‘The opposite to yours,’ Mark laughs. ‘You guys are so cool and easygoing. The way you laughed about what Gil said – my parents would not find that funny at all. They’re quite traditional, they don’t swear – I don’t swear when I’m around them. My dad would blow his top if he heard me swear, even now.’
I wouldn’t say that I swore excessively, but I do swear both often and casually – on autopilot, really.
‘So I shouldn’t swear in front of your parents,’ I reiterate.
‘It would be better if you didn’t,’ Mark laughs. ‘Don’t look so worried, you’ll be fine. You have a real adult job where you function perfectly,’ he reminds me.
‘Except I don’t,’ I tell him, anxiously. ‘I know I’ve had a good day at the office if I’ve written some fire dick puns. And I don’t need to worry about swearing in front of my boss because, one time, she genuinely shouted across the office at me to demand I write a top five list of things to put up your butt during sex.’
‘I’d be interested to read that,’ my mum whispers softly, leaning over to me – see what I mean about her perfect comic timing?
‘You don’t need to worry,’ Mark stresses, grabbing a biscuit from the table.
I think for a moment. If he isn’t worried, then why am I? Because he knows what his parents are like, and he knows what I’m like – better than I know myself – and if he thinks I’ll be fine around them, then I’m sure I will be, right?
So why am I still so worried?
Chapter Six (#u0f9fcdab-6024-58a5-8290-1252fe7d89b1)
I wake up suddenly, cold, starving and disorientated – and with a pain in my back from sitting in a car for too long; but as I look out of my window and take in all the greenery, I have to admit that Yorkshire is beautiful. Despite it being a cold December day, I can still appreciate the scenery.
‘So this is Yorkshire…’ I say, stretching my aching back.
‘No, this is the M1. We haven’t been on the road for an hour yet, Roxie,’ Mark informs me with a chuckle.
‘You’re kidding?’ I reply. ‘Oh, my God, I’m so bored. Car journeys are so boring. And I’m so hungry!’
‘You’re so like a child,’ Mark replies. ‘You ate maybe six chocolate digestives little more than an hour ago. You can’t be hungry.’
‘Well, I am. Hungry and bored. Are we going to stop along the way?’
‘Well, I was going to try and make the entire journey without stopping, so that we had longer to spend with my parents today, but if we do stop, the plan was to be at least half of the way there by then.’
I pull an unimpressed face, tapping my nails impatiently on the dashboard. Ergh, this journey is going to be so long. And what is Mark even listening to? He’s got Radio 4 on; it’s so boring.
I lean over and change the station to Radio 1, but the latest X Factor winner’s single isn’t doing much to lift my mood either.
‘Hey, I was listening to the weather forecast,’ Mark informs me.
‘They’re only talking about how cold it’s going to be – it’s depressing.’
‘Come on, what’s up? Are you still anxious?’
‘I’m very anxious,’ I reply honestly. ‘I’m just so freaked out by all of this.’
‘Maybe it will help if I tell you more about my family. I know I’ve told you bits and pieces before, but I’ll give you a recap. How does that sound?’
‘That would be good, thank you,’ I reply.
‘So we’ve got my mum and dad, Valerie and Oscar, and my two sisters, Millie and Mel.’
‘Millie, Mark and Mel,’ I giggle.
‘Erm, Mildred, Marcus and Melody,’ he corrects me with a laugh. ‘And you thought Roxie was bad.’
‘Will anyone else be there?’
‘Yeah, Millie’s husband, Alex, and Mel’s boyfriend, Ste. Alex is cool – a bit boring, but you don’t worry about the sister that marries a boring doctor, you worry about the one who winds up with twat after twat… which brings me on to Ste.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’
‘I don’t. I’ve only met him once, but he was too confident, too familiar… He and my sister don’t seem to have all that much in common, but she’s the baby of the family, typical youngest child. She can’t stand to be single; she’d rather have the wrong person than no person at all. The opposite of me, really.’
Mark and I have never really spoken too much about our love lives before we met – well, what’s the point? I know he had a serious girlfriend in Yorkshire, before he moved to London, and he always tells me that before he met me he was way too busy for any kind of a love life. When he used to tell me this when we first got together, I didn’t believe him. I’ve seen how women throw themselves at him. But as I’ve got to know him better and fallen in love with him, I’ve realised that he takes things seriously when they are important to him. I can imagine him putting his job first, and he’s so loyal that, when he says he isn’t into one-night stands, I believe him. Who is into one-night stands, anyway? They’re horrible.
‘I’m the only member of the family to have left the county – the village, actually. Everyone else still lives there and no one has any desire to move. You know how we love city living? The fact that the city never sleeps, the bright twinkling lights, Deliveroo?’ he laughs. ‘My parents would hate it. They like peace and quiet, early nights and good home cooking made with locally sourced ingredients.’
‘I see,’ I reply.
Each to their own, but I couldn’t imagine living outside the city centre.
‘Would you ever want to move back there?’ I ask him curiously.
‘Nope,’ he replies quickly and firmly. ‘My mum would love me to – she talks about it all the time – but I’d miss the city. I couldn’t do my job from the village, and I’ve got a thing for foul-mouthed southerners.’
‘I’d better fucking be your favourite,’ I reply jokily.
‘My one and only,’ he laughs. ‘Feeling any less worried now?’
‘No, I’m still terrified,’ I reply honestly.
‘So, plan B is to just distract you, until we get to a service station and I can get you something to eat, thus fixing “bored” and “hungry” – how does that sound?’
I feel my body melt into my chair a little.
‘That sounds great,’ I tell him.
‘OK, so what’s a good distraction?’ Mark wonders out loud.
I clap my hands excitedly.
‘We should play “Would You Rather”.’
‘Really?’ Mark laughs. ‘That’s what the lady wants? OK, sure. You go first.’
‘OK.’ I think for a second. ‘Would you rather… give up football or video games?’
‘Ouch!’ Mark jokes. ‘Going in for the kill straight away. Let me think about it for a second…’
Mark does indeed think this one over for a while. I don’t think I could’ve asked him a more difficult question.
‘Right, I’d have to give up video games,’ he concludes. ‘Because I love football, and I love going to games with my family, and you just never know what’s going to happen. With video games, I know I’ll always dominate.’
‘Nice,’ I reply.
‘OK, my turn,’ Mark starts excitedly, like he’s got a good one for me. ‘Would you rather give up having sex or wearing make-up?’
‘Ah, well, that’s a catch-22 situation right there, because if I gave up wearing make-up, no one would want to have sex with me…’
‘You know I’d rather you went without it,’ he reminds me.
‘Sex or make-up?’ I joke, raising my eyebrows, but I know what he means. ‘OK, well, with that in mind, I’m going to have to say I’d give up make-up – because at least you’ll still have sex with me.’
‘Ah, the winner by default,’ he laughs. ‘Next question?’
‘Would you rather… have a Disney Princess-themed wedding, or only be allowed to drive hot-pink-coloured cars for the rest of your life?’
For five seconds Mark doesn’t say anything, until…
‘Disney Princess wedding,’ he says sheepishly.
I laugh wildly.
‘Buddy, did you pause for just long enough to make it seem like you’re not totally into this Disney Princess thing, when in fact you’re mad for it?’ I tease.
‘OK, OK, if we’re on to the big, life-changing questions – would you rather live in a house decorated by a Star Wars fanatic, or name your first baby Yoda?’
My heart skips a beat. He’s never mentioned wanting kids before.
‘Erm,’ I stall for a moment because I don’t know what to say. Well, I do – it’s that I don’t want kids. But if he’s asking a question like this then he obviously does, right? ‘Probably the second one.’
‘Really?’ he laughs. ‘You’d give our poor first baby that as a name before you’d put up with a bit of geeky wallpaper and a few light sabres on the wall?’
Well, we’re not going to have one, so obviously picking that option is pretty low risk.
I shrug my shoulders casually.
Does Mark want kids? It’s not something we’ve ever spoken about. I guess we were so busy with our whirlwind romance, focusing on how in love we are right now, that we never really thought about our future. I mean, Mark’s proposal was definitely a surprise, but I knew I wanted to marry him – and of course, he asked, so it’s not like neither of us has thought about our future together. We’ve just been too busy being the perfect couple to discuss the details. Perhaps I don’t know Mark as well as I thought I did. I guess I just always figured I’d learn all the things I didn’t know as we spent more time together. All I know is that now is definitely not the time to talk about it.
‘I’m a bit tired, actually,’ I lie. ‘Do you mind if I have a snooze until we hit a service station?’
‘Yeah, sure. You sure you’re OK?’
‘Maybe it’s just low blood sugar,’ I lie again.
‘It’s definitely not low blood sugar given how many biscuits I saw you smash at your parents’ house, but OK,’ he laughs. ‘I’ll wake you when we get there.’
Lying back a little, closing my eyes, I try my best not to think about Mark wanting kids. Well, of course he does; all normal grown adults do, right? Apart from me. The maternal instinct just skipped me, for some reason. It’s not like it’s just the thought of having to take care of a small human for at least eighteen years, what it does to your career, or your social life, or the expense – the thought of carrying a baby for nine months before giving birth actually makes me feel sick. I just can’t handle the thought of it, being ill all that time, irreparably ruining my body, going through the excruciating agony of labour. I have the upmost respect for anyone who chooses to do it, but I choose not to.
I cannot think about this right now. I just need to try and get some rest and concentrate on the task at hand. Getting through a night at my country-bumpkin future in-laws’ place.
I feel my body jolt forwards before my fast-acting seatbelt snaps me straight back into place.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Mark yells at the vehicle in front of us.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask, rubbing my chest under my seatbelt. That’s the thing about boobs and seatbelts; the seatbelt doesn’t stay over your chest so you have to decide between putting it under or over them. I opted for over.
‘I was pulling into the service station when this lorry driver pulled out in front of me. We nearly crashed – it’s a good job my brakes work.’
We pull into the service station safe and sound.
‘There’s the prick who nearly made us crash,’ Mark points out, as a man hops out of a lorry not too far from us in the car park.
Maybe it’s because I’m anxious, stressed or just pissed off, but before I know what I’m doing, I’m getting out of the car and marching over there.
‘Roxie, what are you doing? Come back,’ Mark calls after me, but I’m too far gone. I march over to the bright-yellow lorry. On the side of it the name ‘Starr Haul’ is printed in huge black letters, so I take out my phone and begin googling it to try and get a number to call up so I can report this reckless driver to them.
‘Oi, what are you doing?’ the driver calls out, having glanced back just in time to see me making a note of his registration number.
‘I’m reporting you,’ I inform him. ‘You could’ve killed us.’
‘Could I fuck,’ he snaps. ‘Get on yer way.’
‘What’s your name?’ I ask him.
‘I’m nae telling you,’ he replies firmly in his strong Glaswegian accent. ‘Here you, Jimmy. You want tae control yer lassie.’
Mark takes me by the arm and whispers into my ear: ‘Look, I only understood maybe every fourth word of what he just said but I can tell he’s mad, so let’s just go.’
I shrug him off. As I peer around the front of the lorry, I can see that the driver has a number plate in his window with his name on: Tommy.
‘Tommy, is it?’ I say victoriously. ‘Jog on, mate. I’ve got all I need to report you.’
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Portia MacIntosh
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 17.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: An irresistible, feel-good romance, perfect for fans of Rosie Blake, Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk.First comes love. Then comes family…After a lifetime of kissing frogs, Roxie Pratt has given up on finding her own fairytale romance. That is, until she meets her very own Prince Charming, Mark Wright, and he sweeps Roxie off her feet!So when Mark finally gets down on one knee and pops the question, there’s only one thing left to do: meet the family! And when everything has been picture-perfect so far, what could possibly go wrong…?What readers have been saying about Portia MacIntosh:‘Hilarious and refreshingly brilliant all the way through…this is my heart-warming humorous book of 2016!’ – The Writing Garnet‘I just couldn′t put it down!’ – Sweet Is Always In Style′A light-hearted and fun read…highly enjoyable.′ – By The Letter Book Reviews‘A funny, light-hearted read ideal for reading on the beach.’ – Sal’s World of Books‘A great, laugh-out loud, British contemporary romance novel…I guarantee it will put a smile on your face.’ – What’s Better Than Books‘Truth or Date is a quirky, hilarious read packed full of fun and drama that is guaranteed to make you smile.’ – The Chick Lit Whore