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

  He’d met Willow on a lad’s holiday in Ibiza where the boys’ collective plan had been to booze and bonk the night away, then recover under a sunshade on the beach during the day. Charlie had spotted Willow two sun loungers along from his, laying on her back. Her Rapunzel-gold hair was fanned out around her head before spilling down on to the wet sand. She’d looked almost like a mermaid with her shell-coloured bikini struggling to contain two magnificent breasts that gently rose and fell as she snoozed. A pretty but not-so-ample brunette had been on the sun bed next to the blonde vision. The brunette had caught Charlie looking. He’d smiled helplessly and the girl had got up and come over.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ she’d said, doing exactly that. ‘Is it me or my friend you’re interested in?’

  Charlie had been mildly amused at the brunette’s frankness.

  ’You’re very lovely,’ he’d said, smiling disarmingly. ‘But I do rather favour curvy girls.’

  ‘What you really mean is that you’re a boob man,’ she’d tutted.

  ‘Yes,’ he’d grinned. ‘But you’re definitely Stuart’s type’ – he’d pointed to his mate crashed out under the sunbrella to his right – ‘so go and wake him up and tell him to buy us all some ice-cold beers.’

  Charlie had later found out that the brunette was called Emma. As he’d predicted, Stuart had immediately hit it off with Emma and they’d ended up inseparable for the remainder of the holiday, just like Charlie and Willow. But, in Charlie’s case, instead of the holiday romance coming to a natural end, he’d reconnected with Willow once home and been with her ever since. He should have taken a leaf out of Stu’s book and waved good-bye to her at the airport but, at the time, Willow’s golden hair and shapely figure had mesmerised him. Apart from anything else, he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her. Willow was like a puppy. Very, very sweet.

  Charlie wasn’t prepared to risk his car being spotted by anyone who might – no matter how unlikely – know him, so he parked two streets away. Walking towards the house, he found the door on the latch.

  ‘Darling,’ she purred, pulling him into the hallway. ‘You came.’

  ‘Not yet, but I will shortly,’ he quipped, scooping her into his arms.

  And the rest was kiss-tory.

  A lack of sleep had cast a pallor over Charlie’s usually glowing complexion. Poring over a merger and acquisitions report, he heard rather than saw Ben – a longstanding colleague and now long-time friend – pulling out his chair at the next cubicle along.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ said Ben with a grin as he flicked on his screen. ‘You’re in very early. Trouble at home?’

  ‘Course not,’ said Charlie, looking up.

  He made sure his expression conveyed innocence. Ben might be one of his best buddies, but there were some secrets you kept to yourself. Especially when they were so close to home.

  ‘I should’ve done this wretched report on Brown & Humphrey before going home on Friday,’ Charlie explained. ‘Consequently, I spent the whole weekend worrying about it. I decided to set the alarm for five and get in before the phones started ringing.’

  Charlie added some figures to the on-screen spreadsheet.

  ‘What’s your excuse to be in so early with such enviably white eyeballs?’

  Charlie was aware that a marathon sexy stint and lack of sleep had left his pretty blue eyes shot through with pink lines. Early night tonight. He’d give Willow a ring in a bit and make placatory noises and suggest spag bol in front of the telly. It would give him the chance to assess her mood, make peace if required, and practice dodging the “M” word if she brought it up again. Calling her at work also meant she wouldn’t be able to have hysterics of the unfunny kind.

  ‘Ditto,’ said Ben, interrupting Charlie’s thoughts. ‘I’ve got a report of my own to finish. Incidentally, my eyeballs are always white. Even if I get bladdered.’

  ‘It’s not natural.’

  ‘What, getting bladdered?’

  ‘No, having such white eyeballs.’

  ‘Here,’ said Ben, reaching into his jacket pocket.

  He extracted a small oblong box and lobbed it in Charlie’s direction.

  ‘Eyedrops. White eyeballs guaranteed. Have them on me. I have more at home.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Charlie.

  He pocketed the box with a grin, then leant back and stretched.

  ‘Go and make us both a coffee.’

  ‘Blimey, I’ve been here two minutes and already you’ve whipped my eyedrops and started giving orders.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve had a heavy weekend,’ said Charlie, yawning.

  ‘Thought so,’ Ben murmured. ‘Hope she’s worth it.’

  Charlie tutted, feigning annoyance. He watched Ben go off to the fancy kitchen at the far end of the floor where Beryl, coffee-maker extraordinaire, usually presided between the hours of nine and five. The hour was still too early for Beryl to make an appearance.

  Charlie turned back to his screen with Ben’s words echoing in his head. Hope she’s worth it. The truth of it was, she wasn’t. Not really. She wasn’t even his type, dammit! So why did he find himself repeatedly risking everything he had with Willow? Did he subconsciously want Willow to find out and be the one to do the dumping, saving him the trouble? Not really, because he didn’t want to end it with Willow. He might not wish to marry her, but he didn’t want to let her go either. So why did he behave like this?

  Because… because…

  His mind struggled to find reasons why.

  Willow was pretty. She turned heads. He knew that, even if she didn’t. His girlfriend was kind. She was also very efficient on the home front. The house always looked nice, she was a good cook and she ironed his shirts. Ben’s girlfriend didn’t do that. Usually it was Ben ironing her stuff. Was Charlie, perhaps, staying with Willow out of habit? Maybe. But, then again, he couldn’t imagine life without her. His thoughts looped in circles. He was too young to remember Prince Charles’s embarrassingly awkward moment when asked if he was in love with Princess Diana, or the famous reply of “Whatever in love means”, but like the future king, Charlie presumed that whatever love was it was that that kept him by Willow’s side. He comforted himself with the thought whilst squirting eyedrops in his tired eyes, then thanked Ben for the coffee.

  He took a noisy slurp as he mentally ran through what he’d say when he called Willow… preferably without Ben overhearing.

  Three

  ‘For goodness sake, Willow,’ snapped Jean. ‘Whatever is the matter with you this this morning? That’s the third time you’ve misdirected a member of the public. That lady was asking you to help with IT access. Not a tooth abscess.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Willow mumbled.

  ‘We have an author due in shortly. She’s giving a talk to the public. Perhaps you could help her set up her display table without losing concentration.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And try and look enthusiastic and smile.’

  ‘Okay,’ Willow repeated.

  She must pull herself together. But it was hard when you’d wrecked your own birthday mentioning the M word to a boyfriend with a bachelor mindset.

  Willow had devoted hours to privately analysing the whole thing. She’d been too forward. She should have let Charlie do the talking. She’d emasculated him… been too presumptuous… frightened him… scared him off… made him feel trapped. And then she’d got angry and berated herself. She hadn’t been forward enough… she should have grimly hung on to Charlie’s hand thereby denying him escape… then concisely listed reasons to get hitched. Like proving they were committed to each other… publicly celebrating their devotion in front of their family, friends and loved ones… because, dammit, it was also romantic and wonderful and gorgeous, and surely every girl’s dream to feel – just for one day – like a fairy-tale princess in her Cinderella dress, a tiara glittering away in her hair as her very own Prince Charming promised to love her for ever.

  Oh. My. God, sneered the little v
oice in her head. You don’t truly believe all that sexist rubbish, do you?

  ‘Excuse me–’

  Do you think women burned their bras and fought for independence so that the likes of you could carry on playing the little woman? What century are you living in?

  ‘Hello? Er, I wonder if–’

  Geez, Willow, if Charlie wore slippers, you’re the sort of idiotic female who’d have warmed them by the fire ready for him to step into when he was home from work. Man up, girl! Be indignant! Be strong! He turned you down. How DARE he!

  ‘Um, can you hear me–?’

  If he doesn’t want to marry you, that’s his loss, BUT for heaven’s sake start having some respect for both yourself and the sisterhood and get HIM to iron YOUR stuff, occasionally walk the vacuum around the house, put a wash on, oversee the online shop, ask if he can run YOUR bath, and generally scamper after YOU! Do you hear me?

  ‘Can you hear me–?’

  ‘Oh give me a flipping break,’ Willow snapped.

  ‘O-Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean–’

  Willow turned scarlet as she realised that a little old lady had been trying to get her attention.

  ‘Omigod, I’m so sorry,’ she gabbled. ‘I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to–’

  A pair of cloudy blue eyes bored into hers, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Myself,’ said Willow, nodding away. ‘I’m in… amateur dramatics. Just rehearsing my lines.’

  ‘You’re very believable,’ said the little old lady.

  ‘Good.’

  Willow gave a shaky laugh. Thank goodness Jean was busy talking to Fiona and Theresa, the other two members of staff. If Jean had overheard Willow snapping at a library visitor, there would have been hell to pay.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I want to give a talk about my latest book. I can do it now, if that’s okay.’

  Ah. This must be the author Jean had mentioned.

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Willow, dredging up a smile. ‘What’s it called.’

  ‘Free Willy.’

  ‘Really? Hasn’t that already been done? I’m sure a guy wrote it. What was his name?’ – she clicked her fingers, waiting for the info to drop into her brain – ‘got it. Keith Walker.’

  ‘Oh no, dear’ – the little old lady shook her head – ‘that became a movie and was about a whale. My book is about how to have a successful and rewarding sex life in your eighties. Perhaps your partner can’t perform. Or you’re widowed and don’t have anyone to perform. Or you don’t have enough pension to pay for someone to perform. Free willy. Literally.’

  Willow blinked. Was this conversation actually happening?

  ‘I self-published the book,’ said the little old lady proudly.

  ‘W-Wow. Amazing,’ said Willow faintly.

  What the hell was Jean playing at not properly vetting an author promotion?

  ‘Where are your paperbacks?’

  ‘It’s one of those new-fangled e-books. My granddaughter sorted out the techie side, but I have plenty of visual props.’

  She shook a grocery bag, and Willow caught a glimpse of cucumbers, courgettes and aubergines.

  ‘Um, could you wait here a minute? I need a word with my superior.’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ said the little old lady cosily.

  Willow shot over to Jean who was manning the enquiries desk.

  ‘Jean, can I have a quick word? You know that author you were talk–?’

  The phone rang. Like a traffic cop, Jean’s palm shot up.

  ‘A member of the public is ringing this library,’ she said reverently, for all the world as if it was Her Majesty on the line. ‘Therefore, that member of the public takes priority.’

  She picked up the handset, chest swelling importantly.

  ‘Mosley Library, good morning. How can I help you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said a voice.

  Willow turned to see a pleasant looking middle-aged woman standing next to her.

  ‘My name is Mary Rogers. I’m a writer and here to talk about my book.’

  Willow looked at the woman blankly. How many authors had Jean booked?

  ‘Um, could you to take a seat over there,’ said Willow, pointing to a row of hard-backed chairs. ‘My colleague will be with you shortly.’

  Willow turned back in time to see Jean’s face darkening with displeasure.

  ‘This call is for you. It’s Charlie.’

  ‘Oh,’ squeaked Willow, in both fear and delight.

  ‘One moment, please,’ said Jean to Charlie.

  She put down the handset and turned to Willow.

  ‘Can I remind you’ – she hissed – ‘that personal calls are not permitted during working hours, especially on the library’s phone.

  ‘I-I’m sorry,’ Willow stuttered.

  She really wasn’t having a great Monday morning.

  ‘It must be an emergency.’

  ‘Let’s hope so, otherwise I might have to consider giving you a verbal warning. Now what was the problem with the visiting author?’

  ‘We seem to have two of them. The first is over there.’

  Willow pointed to the little old lady who was now busily making a vegetable display on a side table. Jean’s face instantly morphed into a bulldog chewing a wasp.

  ‘What on earth–?’

  She marched off leaving Willow to grab the handset and take Charlie’s call.

  ‘Hello?’ she quavered.

  What could possibly be so important for Charlie to call her in his working hours and at the library? Her blood ran cold. Perhaps there had been a family emergency. Or… now her blood was turning to ice… perhaps he couldn’t stand the thought of going home to her tonight and wanted to give fair warning? Could today get any worse? Maybe, in the next five minutes, she’d have been sacked by both her boss and her boyfriend.

  ‘Darling,’ said Charlie.

  Willow was so relieved at the endearment she almost slumped over the enquiry desk’s upper counter.

  ‘I’ve behaved like a dick. Will you accept my apology?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, without hesitation.

  ‘Good.’

  Charlie lowered his voice.

  ‘Can we have kiss-and-make-up-sex tonight?’

  ‘Yes,’ Willow repeated.

  She briefly wished her boyfriend was more romantic and had instead said he’d like to make love to her. But she mustn’t complain. A squawk from Jean fragmented her thoughts. Turning, Willow saw her boss marching the little old lady towards the exit, vegetable props back in the shopping bag.

  ‘I shall look forward to ravishing you later, angel,’ whispered Charlie.

  ‘Me too,’ Willow murmured.

  She’d pull out all the stops tonight and think of an added ingredient to spice things up.

  As if on cue, the little old lady let out a shriek.

  ‘What am I going to do with all these cucumbers?’

  Four

  Willow spent the rest of the day in a manic mood. Charlie wanted to make things right!

  Perhaps the little cogs in his brain had been turning over and over since Saturday night’s fiasco. Maybe Charlie had thought, “Why am I behaving like a wuss? I’m thirty-five years old and have been with the girl of my dreams for years. Let’s do this!”

  You just don’t learn, do you? sneered the little voice.

  I can live in hope, can’t I? she retorted.

  The little voice didn’t deign to reply.

  Willow couldn’t wait for the hands of the clock to signal it was time to go home.

  When Jean finally gave the all clear to leave, Willow was out of the library like Lewis Hamilton screeching off the starting line in the Grand Prix.

  On the drive home, her mobile rang. The name “Emma Everest” flashed up on the caller display. Unlike Charlie’s super-duper flashy BMW, Willow’s little Citroen had neither Bluetooth nor hands-free apparatus. As she was now frustratingly stuck in rush-hour traffic, she committed t
he cardinal sin of discreetly answering her mobile. Holding the phone against the base of the passenger seat, she switched it to loudspeaker. Now she was able to put both hands on the steering wheel and stay on the right side of the law, should a police car cruise up beside her.

  ‘Hi, Ems!’

  Willow had to raise her voice so her bestie could hear.

  ‘Are you driving?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m on my way home.’

  ‘You’re so lucky having a local job and avoiding the London commute. I’ve had to let my usual train go off without me. Getting a seat these days is rarer than my mother not nicking my clothes, but today there wasn’t even standing room. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Poor you,’ said Willow sympathetically. ‘Why not get a job nearer home?’

  ‘Because the pay is rubbish. There’s no choice in the matter. If I want more dosh, I must commute to the City. Anyway, now that I’m saving for a deposit to buy a place, every penny counts. As much as I love my mum, being back home with her is more challenging than when I was living with Jon.’

  Emma and her ex-boyfriend Jon had parted acrimoniously. She’d helped pay the mortgage but, as her name hadn’t been on the deeds and they’d never married, there was nothing Emma could do about claiming a percentage of a house she’d never legally owned. Willow heard her friend give a gusty sigh.

  ‘The sooner I have my own space, the better. My mother is driving me mad.’

  Willow suppressed a giggle as a picture of the very glamorous Karen Everest popped into her head. Karen wasn’t like the average middle-aged mother. At forty-six, she’d only calmed down a smidgen since her teenage years. Back then she’d been something of a wild child but preferred to use the term “free spirit”. But whether a wild child or a free spirit, her wings had been clipped upon discovering she was expecting twins at the tender age of fifteen.

  At sixteen, Karen had become mum to Emma and Noah. At seventeen, she’d married the twins’ dad, Andy. By eighteen, both Andy and Karen had separated. Shortly after their divorce, Andy and his parents had moved to Australia. However, before they’d emigrated, there had been a bitter custody argument. This had been resolved by Karen keeping Emma, and Andy taking Noah.