The Runaway Bride
George stepped off the train, bid the conductor goodbye, and walked toward the old single-story station building. Inside was one large hall. Along the walls were ticket counters, newspaper stands, and snack kiosks, while rows of bolted-down metal chairs filled the center. To the left of the entrance, a small buffet counter was manned by a plump woman. About ten people sat waiting for their trains.
“Hey, love, spare a fiver? I’m a bit short for my ticket,” said a woman of uncertain age who’d shuffled up to him. Her face was flushed, makeup sloppily applied. The sharp tang of alcohol hit his nose.
“How about I buy you a bite instead?” George suggested, gently taking her elbow to guide her toward the buffet. She yanked her arm free.
“Let go of me! Look at you, acting all proper,” she shrieked, loud enough to hush the room. For a second, all eyes turned to them—then just as quickly, everyone looked away, the murmur of voices resuming.
“Bugger off…” The woman staggered back.
George smirked and approached the woman behind the counter.
“Good on you for not giving her anything, dear. She’s here begging every day. Gone right downhill, she has. And she used to be such a pretty thing. That’s love for you.” The woman sighed and shook her head. “Fancy a tea and a scone?”
“No, thanks. I need to get to Mayfield. Where’s the bus stop?”
“No more buses to Mayfield today. Next one’s at half five tomorrow morning.” She noticed his disappointment. “There’s usually a few blokes outside doing private rides in the evenings, though they’ll charge you an arm and a leg.”
“Ta.” George adjusted his bulky sports bag and headed for the exit.
Outside, dusk had settled fast. He fished his phone from his jacket pocket, dialed, and held it to his ear. No answer.
Just then, a silver Vauxhall pulled up beside the station. A girl hopped out and hurried past George into the building. She looked vaguely familiar. But how? He’d never been here before. Curious, he followed her inside. She was chatting with the buffet woman. George walked over.
“Fancy a cuppa?” the woman asked the girl.
“No thanks, Auntie Lucy, I’ve got to dash.” She turned—and collided with George.
“Sorry, didn’t see you there.”
George was met with eyes like blue lakes and dimples in her plump cheeks. He’d never seen anyone prettier.
“Oi, Sarah’s heading to Mayfield. Sarah, give this lad a lift, eh?” the woman said.
The girl studied George carefully.
“Right then. Let’s go,” she said, striding toward the exit.
George barely kept up. Sarah yanked open the passenger door and hauled out a large bag.
“Here, let me help,” George offered.
“No need. It’s got my veil and flowers,” she said, dimples flashing. “Just open the back door instead.”
She tucked the bag onto the seat and turned to George.
“Hop in.”
“Wait—you’re Sarah! No wonder you looked familiar. You’re even prettier in person,” he blurted, then added hastily at her puzzled look, “I’m here for your wedding. Served with your fiancé, Mark. Only he didn’t meet me, and he’s not picking up his phone.”
“That’ll be the stag do tonight.” Sarah’s dimples reappeared.
“I’ve seen your photo—Mark showed me,” George added.
The car wound along a narrow forest road. Headlights pushed back the darkness, forcing it behind the trees.
“Not scared driving alone through the woods at night?” George asked.
“Nah. Besides, I don’t usually. Just had to pop into town today.”
“No florists in Mayfield?”
“Course there are. But I wanted something special for my bouquet.” Sarah kept her eyes on the road.
“You’re quick with the wedding. Only a year since Mark got out.” George regretted prying.
“We agreed before he enlisted—soon as he was back, we’d marry,” she said brightly.
George couldn’t stop staring at her dimple.
“So you’re doing it because you agreed? Not love?” he asked softly.
“That too,” she replied, missing his tone.
They drove in silence awhile.
“You’re a good driver,” George said finally.
“Mark taught me in school. Where in Mayfield should I drop you? The inn?”
“Suppose so.”
“Tell you what—I’ll take you straight to the pub where the stag’s at. You can sort things with Mark there,” Sarah offered.
“Bit awkward with this bag,” George hesitated.
“I’ll keep it at mine. Fetch it tomorrow. Pub, then?” She shot him a glance.
“Pub it is,” George smiled.
Watching the darkness flit past the headlights, he remembered a different photo he’d once seen in Mark’s bunk.
“Who’s this?” he’d asked, eyeing a striking redhead with a sultry gaze.
“Fancy her, eh?” Mark had smirked. “Dream on.” He’d snatched the picture back.
“Sarah’s lovelier,” George had said.
Mark hadn’t answered. That night, he’d bragged about all the girls he’d had before enlisting. “Just crook my finger, and they come running,” he’d boasted.
Decent bloke, but his bragging grated. George pitied Sarah. Mark would cheat, wreck her life. Then, a month ago, out of the blue, a wedding invite. Why not see his army mate? Especially since Mark kept reminding him.
“Let’s skip formalities—call me George.”
“Alright,” Sarah agreed easily.
She dropped him outside the pub. Light spilled from its wide windows onto the road. Sarah gave her address, begged him to keep Mark from overdoing it, and drove off.
George watched her taillights fade. The evening had turned chilly. A sudden loneliness gripped him. Music thumped from the pub, but all he saw were blue eyes and dimples.
“Sarah—like a fairytale. It’s not right, someone like her marrying that tosser.” He shuddered and pushed open the heavy pub door.
“George! About time!” Mark swayed to his feet, waving. “This is my army mate. We served together,” he announced to the table.
They hugged, and George smelled the booze on him. Mark’s glazed eyes struggled to focus. Someone shoved a shot into George’s hand. Music blared; girls in tight dresses gyrated on the dance floor…
George woke disoriented. No memory of the night’s end, how he’d ended up in a strange flat, undressed. Lifting his head, the room spun like a ship in a storm. A thick lump rose in his throat, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. He needed water.
His watch read 8:50. He sat up, waited for the spinning to stop, and staggered to the kitchen. Glasses clinked as he gulped tap water. Peering into the next room, he thought he saw Sarah in bed with Mark. Rage flared—he wanted to hurl Mark out. Instead, he nudged his shoulder. Mark groaned, smacked his lips, and slept on.
“Get up. You’ve got three hours till the registry office,” George barked in his ear.
The girl turned her head—thank God, not Sarah.
“You know he’s getting married today?” George said. “I’ll step out. Wake him and leave.” He shut the door.
Under the shower’s spray, the pounding in his skull eased. As the water shut off, the front door clicked. The girl was gone. “How can he do this? Three hours from now, he’ll be kissing Sarah at the altar. How can she marry him? Love him? Why do I care? I’ll leave tomorrow and forget—”
“Alright, mate? Think I overdid it last night. Can barely stand,” Mark croaked, shuffling into the kitchen.
He looked dreadful.
“Move.” George forced him into the shower, yanked the cold tap.
“You nutter?!” Mark howled, lunging for the nozzle, but the icy spray made him cower.
George switched to scalding. Mark yelped curses. Another icy drench sent him screeching death threats.
Later, over coffee, they made peace.
“Cheers, mate. You saved me. I feel human again. Wedding was nearly off,” Mark slurred.
“Glad to hear it,” George muttered.
“Bloody hell, it’s my wedding,” Mark snapped.
“That’s what I said—it’s fine now. Who was that girl?”
“Oh—Just Laura, an old flame. Proper firecracker. Want her number? Feeling generous.”
George’s fist itched to wipe that smirk off his face. He clenched it. The doorbell rang. He threw on Mark’s robe and answered.
Sarah stood there, holding his bag. Makeup doneSarah stared at him, her dimples nowhere in sight, and in that moment, George knew their lives had changed forever.
