Willow's Wedding Vows: a laugh out loud romantic comedy with a twist!

  Debbie Viggiano

  Willow’s Wedding Vows © Debbie Viggiano 2020

  Kindle Edition published worldwide 2020 © Debbie Viggiano

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author.

  The moral right of Debbie Viggiano as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  www.debbieviggiano.com

  Unicorn Publishing Limited

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Epilogue

  Eighteen months later

  Also by Debbie Viggiano

  Acknowledgements

  For Debbie Brown, a true friend.

  There aren’t many people willing to share a gall bladder and liver cleanse!

  One

  ‘Did you have a good weekend?’ Willow asked her superior, Jean.

  The two women were huddled over the staff room kettle on this bleak Monday morning in early September.

  ‘I’ve had better,’ Jean replied, pulling her cardigan around her ample bosom. ‘Our Julie broke her wrist.’

  ‘Oh no. How did that happen?’ asked Willow, pouring boiling water over coffee granules.

  ‘Believe it or not, she did it when trying to open a jar of jam. The lid wouldn’t come off, so she gave it some welly and the wretched thing flew up sending Julie’s wrist smacking into an overhead cupboard. She’s now in plaster.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Willow, sympathising. ‘Nothing worse than being in plaster.’

  Except, she thought privately, getting plastered. Which was exactly what she’d done on Saturday night. But it hadn’t been in a jolly let’s-get-tipsy kind of way. Instead it had been in a let’s-blot-out-the-misery way.

  It had been her thirtieth birthday and boyfriend Charlie had taken Willow out for a slap-up meal at the local pub. She’d almost stuffed herself to a standstill on the huge plate of tender slow-cooked lamb, green beans and divine buttery mash. Throughout, Charlie had entertained her with anecdotes about work, including some rather bitchy criticisms of staff.

  ‘It’s about time everyone realised what a plank the MD is. I could do that job with my eyes shut.’

  There’d also been a dig about the scatty new receptionist who Charlie had nick-named Ditzy Di on account of how she always cocked things up. Last week’s faux pas had been booking the boardroom for twelve different clients… all at the same time.

  ‘Gorgeous looking girl, and sweet enough, but nothing between the ears.’

  Willow had privately tutted thinking that, much as she loved her clever accountant boyfriend, it wasn’t a nice trait to be so quick to put people down.

  Sometimes Charlie put Willow down too. Not nastily, but in such a way as to let her know that being a library assistant wasn’t rocket science, and no matter how irritating or rude some members of the public could be, Willow’s days were surely never as stressful as Charlie’s. But she forgave him this flaw, and one or two other niggles because, after all, nobody was perfect.

  Or quite so good looking, eh? the little voice in Willow’s head had piped up.

  Willow had quietly sighed in agreement. There was no doubt about it. Charlie was a “babe”. His rugged blond looks and come-to-bed blue eyes played havoc with her heart –– and that of other women too. At times he was an unashamed flirt, but Willow told herself it was excusable given the amount of female attention Charlie received. He was like a particularly glorious golden sunflower that towered over everything –– and everyone, in his case.

  But flirting didn’t mean anything, did it? After all, Willow’s good-looking postman had winked at her last week. He’d made her smile and blush, but she hadn’t run after him, scattered his letters in all directions and panted, “Quick, deliver me to Heaven”, had she? And as far as she was aware, Charlie had never taken his flirting any further.

  Are you sure about that? the little voice had sneered.

  She’d ignored it. The little voice was always taunting her, probably because she had body issues and lacked self-confidence.

  Willow was a curvy girl. Friends said she looked just like Amanda Seyfried but with hips and boobs, and a bum that meant she always needed the next size up in jeans which left the waistband gaping. She hated standing next to her bestie, Emma, who had a metabolism faster than Usain Bolt, and almost disappeared whenever she stood sideways. Emma had recently come out of a disastrous long-term relationship and was living back home with her mother. There had been many tears, with Emma sobbing that she felt like a failure.

  Emma had been sure her boyfriend was going to pop the question. Instead he’d asked Emma if they could take a break. An indefinite one. It had been Emma’s situation that had prompted Willow to start thinking about her own long-term relationship with Charlie. Wasn’t it about time the two of them got married?

  When Willow had opened her birthday cards and found every single one of them sporting the numbers “three” and “zero”, it had set something off in her brain, as if to remind her she’d reached a significant landmark in her life. The sneery little voice in her head hadn’t wasted a second in pointing out that Willow’s biological clock was now ticking. Whilst having a baby before marriage wasn’t an issue, she was old-fashioned enough to want a wedding band and loads-of-sex honeymoon before stretchmarks and nipple shields.

  Sipping her birthday champagne while Charlie chatted away, she’d quietly weighed things up. She and Cha
rlie had lived together for almost a decade. It wasn’t like they didn’t know each other’s little foibles. Okay, he drove her slightly mad with his habit of leaving clothes inside-out and dumped on the floor, but she irritated him by nicking his socks and borrowing his razor. Charlie’s flirting had never got out of hand – other than when she’d gone on a girly night with Emma to a club where Charlie just happened to also be. He’d been snogging another girl. But Willow had mentally shaken the memory away. That was waaaay back, and not long after they’d met. They hadn’t been living together. They hadn’t even been “exclusive”. And he’d never done it since, had he?

  I wouldn’t trust him, sniffed the little voice in her head.

  Good, she silently replied, because you’re not the one who wants to marry him, so why don’t you just bog off, eh?

  Willow had decided to broach the subject of getting hitched whilst out celebrating her birthday with Charlie. Finishing her lamb, Willow had put her knife and fork together. At that moment, Charlie had leant across the table and romantically taken her hand in his. As he’d smiled at her, the soft candlelight had flickered across his handsome face, lending a golden glow. It had seemed like the perfect moment.

  ‘So,’ she’d beamed, aware that birthday champagne had made everything deliciously fuzzy as well as emboldening her. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  Charlie’s smile had expanded. The last time Willow had used that very suggestive tone of voice, she’d been faintly drunk – like now – and feeling randy. She’d later gone on to initiate some mind-blowing sex which had been amazing, especially as most of the time their love life was not an earthmoving experience. He supposed they’d been together too long for her to stir his loins more than a perfunctory once-a-week coupling. Charlie allowed himself a little daydream. Perhaps his girlfriend was going to suggest something outrageous, like… having a threesome. Wasn’t that every man’s fantasy? He knew that Willow’s bestie was back on the dating market. Perhaps the girls had been gossiping behind his back whilst sharing a bottle of wine between them. Maybe Emma had tipsily confided that she’d always fancied Charlie, and what about they shared him for one night of no-strings passion? Charlie wouldn’t mind that at all. Her boobs weren’t as big as Willow’s, but her lean and wiry body indicated a capacity to crawl all over a man’s body like a spider on amphetamines. Willow was now squeezing his hand, her tongue flicking over her lips to wet them. How suggestive and delightful.

  ‘What is it?’ he’d murmured huskily. ‘Tell me, darling.’

  ‘How do you feel–?’

  Willow had paused, suddenly looking awkward.

  ‘Go on!’ he’d smiled encouragingly.

  ‘About getting married?’ Willow had blurted.

  Charlie had frozen. There’d been a moment of stunned silence and then he’d whipped his hand away from hers.

  ‘Married?’ he’d yelped, loud enough to have the couple at the next table turning to look at them speculatively.

  ‘Y-Yes,’ Willow had quavered, her bravado popping as quickly as the champagne bubbles in the ice-bucket on the table.

  ‘I thought you were going to ask–’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If I fancied… dessert,’ Charlie had blustered.

  ‘I do,’ Willow had said.

  Those two words had further unnerved Charlie. Help. Was she saying her wedding vows already?

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Don’t want dessert, or don’t want to get married?’

  ‘Neither,’ he’d said, aghast.

  Willow had promptly burst into tears. The ear-wigging couple at the next table had looked upset on her behalf.

  ‘Give him time, love,’ the lady had said, leaning across and patting Willow’s arm.

  ‘I’ve already given him well over nine years,’ Willow had sobbed.

  She’d pushed back her chair and stood up, leaving Charlie frantically summoning the waitress for the bill.

  Willow had cried all the way home. Charlie had sat silently beside her as he’d steered the car. Once home, he’d feigned a headache and disappeared upstairs. Willow had stayed downstairs and popped the cork on a birthday bottle of Prosecco. She’d drowned her sorrows while watching old re-runs of Friends. Willow had known exactly how Rachel had felt about wanting to marry Ross, but not being able to have him.

  At some point Willow had fallen asleep. Upon waking, cold and stiff on a Sunday morning, she’d discovered Charlie had gone out. There was a note beside her.

  Sorry about last night. I’ve gone to Mum’s. She’s feeling down. See you later xx

  Charlie’s mum had recently been widowed. Grace was, understandably, grieving and sad. When Charlie didn’t come home Sunday evening, Willow tried not to mind. Nor did she text Charlie to ask if his mum was okay. Better to wrap her dignity around her like the duvet she was later huddled under, alone.

  When Monday morning rolled around, she was surprised to discover that at some point Charlie had come home, showered and gone to work. She must have been out cold not to have heard him. Willow had duly crawled out of bed and into the shower before setting off to work at Mosley Library.

  And now, as she stirred her first coffee of the day in the library’s tiny kitchen, she briefly wished she was colleague Jean’s daughter, recovering in plaster from a broken wrist. Because a broken wrist would heal far more swiftly than a broken heart.

  Two

  Charlie was behind his London desk long before any other staff began filtering into the trendy open-plan office block that overlooked the River Thames. A desire to distance himself from Willow before she was properly up and about had been his number one priority. The last thing he wanted was twenty questions on why he didn’t want to get married.

  He’d spent some of the remainder of the weekend at his childhood home where his widowed mother now lived alone. Grace had expressed surprise upon seeing her son on the doorstep without Willow. She knew it had been Willow’s birthday, but Charlie had made an excuse about his girlfriend having a migraine and needing to be left alone to quietly sleep it off. On Sunday, he’d taken his mother out to lunch at a local carvery. Over coffee, he said that Willow had texted saying she was fine now, so he’d better get back.

  As soon as Grace had waved him off, Charlie had taken advantage of his car’s Bluetooth and rung a number saved on his mobile simply as “Kev”. However, Kev wasn’t a man. Moments later a female answered. It was the same woman he’d spent two hours with prior to turning up on his mother’s doorstep to establish a cast-iron alibi.

  As he waited for the number to connect, Charlie told himself it was unlikely Willow would check up on his movements, but it was best not to take chances, hence using his unsuspecting mother as a means of cover. The number began to ring, and was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Hey, sexy lady,’ he said, making his voice deliberately husky.

  ‘Hey yourself,’ said the woman, clearly pleased to hear from him.

  ‘Fancy a re-run of last night?’

  ‘If you insist,’ the woman giggled.

  ‘I do, I do,’ Charlie murmured, and then blanched.

  God, those two hideous words again.

  ‘The coast is clear for the rest of the day and all of tonight,’ she said.

  ‘In that case, I’ll stay over – as long as you don’t mind me disappearing before the sun comes up. I’ll try not to wake you in the morning.’

  ‘Can’t you go to work from mine?’

  Charlie could imagine her lovely mouth pouting at the other end of the line, and he smiled.

  ‘You are very demanding. In more ways than one.’

  ‘I can’t help it where you’re concerned,’ she said, voice teasing again.

  ‘Good,’ said Charlie smugly. ‘Unfortunately I don’t have a suit with me, so have no choice but to get up with the dawn chorus.’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll take what I can of you,’ she said happily.

  ‘See you in ten minutes.’

  Charlie had hu
ng up and floored the accelerator.

  He hadn’t meant to start an affair. He hadn’t meant to start anything. Their paths had, from time to time, crossed over the years. And yes, there had always been banter. But Charlie bantered with all the ladies. Some women called it flirting. But most of the time it really was meaningless in Charlie’s case. After all, he bantered with the old girl who cleaned the office and vacuumed around his legs if he was still working on a report. Just because he made risqué comments about the sucking power of her nozzle didn’t mean he was hinting at a blow job, for goodness sake.

  That was the trouble with females. They had a propensity to misunderstand things. If Charlie meant business with a woman, then he would leave her in no doubt of his intention. All it needed was a raised eyebrow, a loaded silence, and a few smoulders. There was no need to muck about wasting precious shagging time on meaningless banter if he was planning on going in for the kill.

  Charlie had always been careful not to do the dirty on his own doorstep. Any extra-curricular sexual activity on his part had always been well away from the home base… stag weekends abroad, hens looking for one last fling before saying “I do” – God, those words again – or business meetings at the sister company in Birmingham where the totty was hot even if the accent was not. But this thing with Kev was a bit too close for comfort. It was playing with fire. It was also the longest he’d ever had another woman on the go. Usually he loved them and left them. One-night stands with no strings had been the rule. Except he’d broken his own rule. Somehow he’d let this woman become a lover. Charlie had been in her bed more times than he could now remember, and he didn’t like that. It made him feel uneasy. It also thrilled him.

  If someone had asked Charlie whether he’d cheated on Willow a lot, he’d have looked incredulous and said, “Most definitely not”. The reality was that for every year he’d been with Willow, there had been as many women. It wasn’t a good track record. Charlie told himself that it was purely because he’d not had enough time to sow wild oats before buying a house with Willow and “sort of” settling down.