Last Stop on the Winter Wonderland Express

Chapter 1

Wedding Day

I have the sudden urge to run.

That would be OK if: a) I was the running type and b) it wasn’t my wedding day.

No one mentions wedding jitters are this intense, do they?

My bridal party excitedly chatter ten to the dozen, while I lock a rictus smile into place that hides my inner angst. It takes a surprising amount of effort to get facial muscles to cooperate.

My laissez-faire expression can’t be fooling anyone because my make-up artist, Rox, says, ‘Blink twice if you need help.’

A burst of hysterical laughter escapes me. ‘Whaaat…? I’m fine. I’m good! I’m great.’ Her eyes narrow. Have I overdone it? I dig myself in deeper. ‘I’m marrying the man of my dreams in a Christmassy winter wonderland wedding. What’s not to like?’

Rox narrows her eyes but doesn’t probe further. Phew.

Truth be told, my fiancé Miles has been a little distant in the lead-up to the wedding, but then so have I.

Life’s been chaotic helping clients with their last-minute Christmas travel itineraries, while tying up loose ends for our wedding and dream honeymoon.

Miles hasn’t involved himself with any of the planning, until a month ago when he insisted on changing our intimate wedding into an extravaganza of epic proportions, so now I’ll be walking down the aisle with a lot more eyeballs on me than I’m comfortable with.

Miles is the type who likes the spotlight. I’m the other type. Opposites attract though, and isn’t marriage all about compromise?

There was a point I thought I’d remain single forever, because travelling the globe working remotely for years made it hard to find a soulmate. A summer fling here and there, sure, but those were only seasonal.

It’s not as if I didn’t want to find true love, it just never found me.

Until it did. In the shape of handsome, athletic Miles, an old high school crush, who blindsided me with his confident swagger and high-octane energy after I’d returned home for a ‘quick’ visit to see my family.

Here I am, a year and a half later, having said yes to the dress!

Putting down roots, of all things. Although I quietly worry that the travel bug will bite once more – staying put has never been my thing but Miles assures me we can deal with any forks in the road together as a team. A team of two!

‘I can handle a nervous bride,’ Rox says. ‘It’s the criers I find difficult.’

‘The criers?’ So it’s not just me? Do all brides feel this same seesaw of conflicting emotions on their wedding day? A mix of excitement and trepidation. Why doesn’t anyone mention this? It seems rather pertinent to know.

‘The criers are the worst and won’t be told, y’know?

Mascara is the bane of every make-up artist’s life.

Even waterproof isn’t infallible and once the eyes are bloodshot, there’s not a lot I can do.

I’m not a miracle worker, am I?’ Rox shakes her head and continues with a litany of complaints about brides who’ve ruined her cosmetic artistry.

Right now, bloodshot eyes are the least of my concerns.

It’s my escalated heart rate I’m worried about.

Just how long can it beat double time before it gives up the ghost completely?

It’s strange that I can confidently explore a foreign country where I don’t speak the language or know a single soul, but just the thought of a church full of hometown locals is enough to send me spiralling.

‘Like, why are they so overwrought? You’ve got the blubbering mess type…

’ As Rox rambles on denigrating former clients, I picture holding my hand over her mouth until she runs out of breath and her face goes blue.

Probably an overreaction but here we are.

At least I know this panicked feeling is not unique to me.

‘I suppose they’re happy tears though?’ my mum interjects as she sits beside me getting her make-up done by a much less bitter make-up artist, the lucky thing.

‘Yes, tears of joy .’ Rox emphasises the word as if it tastes sour.

‘Be warned, once the mother of the bride starts, it all kicks off.’ She shoots Mum a withering glare in the reflection of the mirror.

It’s all rather threatening but I bite my tongue against a retort because that would not be fitting under the circumstances.

Rox locks her gaze back on mine. ‘You do not want puffy eyes in your wedding photos.’

‘That’s what photoshop is for, dear,’ Mum says with a shrug. ‘If we cry, we cry.’

Rox sticks me a little harder than necessary with eyeliner while I try to control the spike of adrenaline coursing through me as I envision myself snatching the pencil from her fingers and snapping it in half. ‘Ow!’ I say as she gouges me once more.

‘Soz.’ Her eyes glitter with triumph as if she’s enjoying this.

Why didn’t Miles and I elope? That’s more my speed. We could have married atop a mountain in Peru. Exchanged wedding rings underwater while snorkelling in Tahiti. Shared our vows in a helicopter above Maui. Oh, that’s right, he said no to all of those ideas.

After a close-up inspection, Rox declares me ready.

‘Wait!’ she screeches. ‘Setting spray.’ She unleashes what looks (and burns) like a can of hairspray onto my face.

I cough and splutter, worrying about aerosols and the ozone layer.

You never hear about damage to the ozone layer any more.

Why is that? It’s a problem for another day because right now I’m trying hard to pull oxygen back into my lungs amid the toxic cloud I’m engulfed in.

‘Was that really necessary?’ I eventually choke out.

She arches a perfectly manicured brow. ‘Probably not.’

‘For the record, you are the worst make-up artist I’ve ever met.’

Rox gasps. Mum sighs. My maid of honour Freya shakes her head.

‘Now now, girls,’ Mum says. ‘Don’t argue. Aubrey, it’s nice of your sister to do your make-up on your wedding day, even if she’s a little overzealous with her products…’

‘A little?’

Rox shakes her head. ‘May I remind you I’m doing your make-up gratis and if we’re dropping truth bombs left and right, you’re not exactly the easiest subject to work with.’

I roll my eyes. This is how it always is with us, but the bickering is a good distraction.

Rox suffers from younger sibling syndrome. You know the type: spoiled, petulant, attention seeking. I try to make allowances for her, but it’s not easy.

‘I can hear you, Aubrey. Mum, she’s doing that weird under-breath life narration thing again. Please tell her I do not suffer from younger sibling syndrome. I’m sure she made that up to get back at me because she’s jealous.’

I scoff. ‘Jealous! Of what?’

‘Of not being the cutest since I came along.’

‘Oh please.’

‘Girls.’ Mum gives us a warning glare. Really, I’m too old for this kind of carry on.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ we mutter, but only one of us is contrite and – spoiler alert – it’s not Rox.

Mum thanks her own make-up artist and comes to check out Rox’s handiwork. I don’t like to admit how talented my sister is, but she’s managed to transform me from the clichéd plain Jane I am into a princess. ‘Wow. You’re beautiful, Aubrey, just beautiful.’

Rox beams. ‘You have Charlotte Tilbury to thank for that.’

Mum frowns as if trying to place the name. ‘I don’t know who this Charlotte person is. I’m more inclined to think it’s good genes, complemented by your wonderful cosmetic artistry, Rox.’

‘No, Charlotte is the…’ Rox’s voice peters off as she figures there’s no point educating Mum about make-up brands.

‘Mum’s right,’ I begrudgingly admit. ‘You’ve done a great job, Rox. I’m sure with that amount of “setting spray” the make-up won’t budge for the next millennia or so.’

Freya wanders over, glancing at the time. ‘Let’s get you into the dress!’

They gather around as Freya pulls my dressing gown from my shoulders and I’m left standing exposed in my barely there wedding lingerie, chosen for its claims of no VPL.

Mum helps me slip into the ivory satin gown that’s been cut on the bias and features a low draped back.

It falls around my curves like liquid. There’s a fur stole to complete the look and stop me from freezing to death in the draughty church.

Mum’s eyes glisten with tears. Before I can console her, Rox shoots her a cease-and-desist glare, vehemently shaking her head as if tears are contagious and will somehow jump from Mum’s body to mine and ruin the cosmetics she’s just spent the best part of an hour applying. ‘Don’t do it,’ Rox warns.

Mum fans her face with a hand. Why do people fan their face like that when they cry?

It’s a mystery for later because Mum gulps back tears and sputters, ‘Ma-maybe Rox is right. If I start crying, you’ll soon join in.

Ignore me!’ A fresh sob escapes her, but there is no time for hugs as Freya motions for me to sit on the loveseat, so she can help me slip on my heels.

Heels that now seem perilously high. ‘Why didn’t I choose a more practical shoe?’ I have visions of tumbling down the aisle with all those eyeballs on me as I awkwardly somersault towards my groom.

I’m more of a ballet flat than heels sort of girl, but really I have no one to blame except myself for getting swept away in the romance of wedding planning and choosing shoes normally found on a runway, not real life.

Don’t we all want to be the princess for just one day, even if I do resemble a newborn foal trying to walk in them. Weddings, eh?

‘Just walk slowly,’ Freya advises. ‘Or pretend it’s the aisle of a plane; you can walk down those just fine!’

Mum laughs. ‘I’m happy you’ll have a lifelong travel buddy for all those adventures around the world.

It puts my mind at ease.’ Mum always frets about me travelling solo.

Now I’ll have Miles along for the ride. Even if we settle here in the village for good, that doesn’t mean we can’t zip off when adventure calls.

‘That’s if Aubrey lets him tag along,’ Freya jokes as she absently rubs her bump, which is a bit of a misnomer as she’s eight and bit months along. ‘You’ll be too busy, moving in together and making babies…?’ She lifts a questioning brow.

‘My nomadic days might be on pause but I’m not so sure about the baby part just yet.’ When I picture my future, I don’t see gurgling toddlers with spaghetti-sauce-stained faces. That clock has never ticked for me. And Miles is happy to wait and see.

Mum’s fussing with my veil. Freya’s fluffing my hair. When they finally step back, the room falls silent.

I turn to face the mirror and gasp in surprise. In the dress, the transformation is complete, despite my slight wobbling in the heels. Mum bites down on her lip as tears slide down her cheeks.

‘Don’t mind me,’ Mum says. ‘You’re just so… so…’

Freya hands Mum a tissue and throws a comforting arm around her. ‘Breathtaking,’ Freya finishes while my poor mum blinks back tears. ‘Today, you’re the main character, Aubrey. You’re stunning, like a golden age of Hollywood movie star.’

Rox gives Mum’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Get it together, Mother. We don’t want panda eyes.’ At that she abruptly turns away and dips her head.

‘Are you welling up too, Rox?’ Freya teases.

Rox spins back to face us, her eyes glassy as she snatches a tissue from Freya. ‘So what if the ice queen melts every now and then. Blame global warming. It’s not every day your big sister gets married, is it?’

‘Let’s cheers to that. A glass of champagne is in order; well, I’ll have sparkling apple juice…’ Freya goes to the ice bucket and returns with a bottle of bubbles and three glasses. Mum goes to the kitchen to find Freya a drink.

Once we all have a glass in hand, Mum gives a speech about finding true love, which makes us all well up, make-up be damned. ‘Here’s to Aubrey!’

‘Cheers!’ We clink glasses. ‘Here’s to the honeymoon of my dreams!’ Oops, it just slipped out. I forget that most people hold the whole wedding part in much higher regard, whereas for me, it’s the stepping stone to the fun part, the romantic holiday, with my brand-new husband.

Mum frowns. ‘You’ll enjoy the wedding first though, won’t you, darling?’

I guzzle champagne too fast, my mouth parched as if I’ve run a marathon and not simply sat there all morning being pampered. ‘Yes, yes. But the honeymoon is what I’m most looking forward to. Just me and Miles…’

I run an online travel agency curating exotic itineraries for loved-up couples. Now it’s my turn to experience romantic travel with my soon-to-be husband. Having been a solo shoestring nomad for so long, our bougie honeymoon seems so wildly glamorous, I’m practically vibrating with excitement.

Tonight, we’re staying in a swanky hotel in London with a view of Tower Bridge.

And tomorrow we’ll catch the Eurostar to Calais to board the famous sleeper train, the Winter Wonderland Express.

While the train has been offering five-star holidays for decades, this is the first time they’ve curated a Christmas-themed tour, highlighting all the festive markets along the European Arctic Circle route.

We disembark in Lapland and enjoy an igloo stay in the hopes of catching the spectacular Northern Lights.

Luckily, I got our tickets for a song. One of the perks of being a travel agent is generous discounts, so even Miles had to agree it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that we had to grab with both hands.

‘The cars are here!’ Freya calls just as my dad knocks and enters.

My dad is the taciturn type, so I don’t expect any blubbering from him.

I envelop him in a hug and hold tight, like I have so many times in my life when I needed reassurance, needed comfort.

He shores me up and reminds me that today is special, but marriage doesn’t mean I lose my identity simply by taking on a different surname.

‘I love you, Dad.’

‘Love you too, Poppet.’

‘Are you ready to get married?’ Mum asks.

‘I’m ready.’ All my worries evaporate as I consider marriage for what it really is, once you push the pomp and ceremony to one side.

A promise to each other.

And what more can I ask for, except a promise from the man I adore that he’s committed, that he wants to do life with me as his sidekick?