Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Across the kitchen, Georgia mouths the word “Lark?” in my direction. I shrug at her. What the hell else am I supposed to say?
“What do you mean handling it?”
“Annulled. We just haven’t had the time to take care of it.”
“Annulled?” My mother screeches so loud I have to yank the mobile away from my ear.
“Mum, calm down—you don’t have to yell. What time is it there?”
I mentally do the time-zone math and come up with roughly eleven o’clock, London time.
“Don’t change the subject. Your father is having fits.”
My father probably is indeed having fits, but not the same kind as the ones my mother has most likely been having if her semi-hysterical tone is any indication.
“How did you know I got…” I don’t want to outright admit I’ve been lying to them, but Dad already knows about the cash missing from my trust fund. I’m just not sure how they discovered I went and got myself a wife. “…hitched?”
“How did we know? How did we know? We know everything you do. Your father had our barrister follow the money trail. You didn’t think we wouldn’t get to the root of you withdrawing money from your trust, did you? Darling, marriages are public record, and he already knew you were in Vegas.” Mum takes a long, dramatic pause, calculating my transgressions. “Vegas! An annulment. Young man, I could die. What am I supposed to say to the ladies at my club? How am I supposed to show my face?”
I sigh. “No one has to know, Mum. You’re not supposed to tell anyone anything.”
Her long, drawn out silence says it all. She’s told plenty of her friends; the damage has already been done.
“Mum?”
“Does this girl make you happy?”
“That isn’t the point. We were pissed and didn’t think it through. She wants to get an annulment.”
“Who is she? You won’t even tell me her name. My daughter-in-law.” Mum sobs again.
“Her name is Georgia. Please stop crying.”
Georgia, who’s been leaning against the counter listening, makes a sad face.
“Come home,” Mum demands. “Both of you—bring her with you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
“Why? I want to get to know her.”
“Because we’re…” I swallow. “Not going to stay married.”
“Well I want to know what kind of girl my son is willing to marry since you’ve never brought a single woman home. You won’t let me match you up with anyone. Who is this girl?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say She’s just a girl, Mum, but I think Georgia would take issue with that. She is not JUST an anything—I love her and married her, drunk or not. She is my wife.
I hesitate. “It’s not that easy to just hop on a plane and come home, Mum. We have classes still.”
“Well when?”
“A few more weeks.”
“As soon as you have a break. Now. Next week, I don’t care, just get your sorry arse on the next flight and bring your wife.” More sobbing. “Oh I can’t believe I just said that. Your wife. My son is married and he didn’t invite his mum to the wedding.”
When Mum latches onto something, she’s inconsolable, carries on like no other, and this is no different.
Reminds me of the time the Honorable Winnifred Bennett won the Garden Bud Society Patroness of the Year after only being a member for six months when Mum had campaigned to win that title all year long only to have it ripped from her grasp.
Took Dad three weeks and a trip to Fiji to soothe her ruffled feathers—I can’t imagine what it’s like at home for him right now in the wake of my shotgun nuptials.
“Alright. I’ll talk to Georgia.”
And at least one of us can fly home to my parents.
I can do that for them; at this point I owe my family an explanation. Though it may take some serious convincing, I can’t imagine Georgia would pass up an opportunity to visit Great Britain.
“Please do.” My mother’s sniffle carries through the phone. “I still can’t believe you would do this. It’s so unlike you—and taking money from your accounts for vanity purposes without telling anyone? What were you thinking, Ashley Arthur?”
I’m not going to get into it with her over the phone; she and I both know the money is mine, inherited from Mum’s father, and I can do with it as I please.
What I spent was a fraction of what’s in the account, a mere drop in the bucket.
Best not to argue with her though. “I don’t know what I was thinking, Mum.”
That’s a lie.
I know exactly what I was thinking when I drunk-married Georgia, and it goes something like this: As soon as I saw her on the other side of the room at the rugby house, I wanted to know her. If she hadn’t come over to me, I would have eventually gone over to her.