BETTSY
I blink several times to check my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.
Ellie Kitchener.
Yep. It’s definitely her and fuck me, she looks good.
Big brown eyes and pouty lips … not to mention she’s filled out with a fantastic rack and curves that have me wanting to sneak a peek at her ass, just to see—but I don’t. I maintain some level of decorum.
“I—” She clamps her mouth shut.
“Hey, you,” I say.
I can’t stop myself from grinning, but when she doesn’t beam back, my smile drops.
I get the feeling she’s pissed at me. Her shiny lips are in a straight line and she pulls her eyebrows together, like she’s trying to hold in some anger.
“Is everything okay? What are you doing here? Not that I’m not pleased to see you or anything but?—”
“Here.” She swallows hard before holding out a business card. “I’ve been in touch with a solicitor, and he said I should contact you. To figure things out.”
I frown and take the card from her, my brow pulling tight. “Figure what out?”
I glance down at the text.
Greg Jamison. Conveyancer.
“I’m sure if you wanted me to consider him for my future house purchases, you could have called me.”
She scoffs. “Ignore the conveyancer bit—besides, I don’t have your number, and you apparently don’t check your messages. I’ve lost a full day of earnings coming to find you.”
“You say that like you’ve been trying to track me down or something.”
“I have. I had no choice but to trawl the internet. By the way, your address is online. You may want to fix that.”
“What the—” I dip my hand into my pocket to pull out my phone but I can feel her glaring at me, so I decide that’s a problem for later.
I have no idea what’s going on. I haven’t seen this girl in, what, seven or eight years and she turns up out of the blue and hands me a card for a solicitor—one who specialises in property—and has a pop at me for loss of earnings.
It makes zero sense.
“I’m really fucking confused,” I say.
“I thought you’d say that.” She folds her arms over her chest and looks down at the pavement.
“Well, maybe if you told me why you want to?—”
“That wedding experience?” she says. “Ring any bells?”
Wedding experience?
I let my mind wander back to the last time I saw Ellie.
Ellie and some friends of hers came to visit when me and my old hockey buddy Sam were in Germany on a training camp.
Everyone sort of paired off and Ellie and I were left alone.
I remember taking a ferry over to a Danish Island—‘AEr?’ or something like that. We’d only planned to go to the beach, but we ended up making a day of it. What started out as a guided tour led to a few drinks … and?—
It clicks.
That wedding experience.
“I—”
“I think it was real,” she says.
“What?”
“I think it was real, Mike. I think … we’re actually married. And the only logical conclusion I can come up with is that you must have known. Don’t tell me you didn’t because?—”
I actually feel my jaw drop .
She’s flushed red, her arms drop to her sides as she clenches her fists, like she’s gearing up to punch me.
I hold my hands up in surrender.
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That bit of paper they gave us … oh, I bet you found it hilarious. A ‘right laugh’.” She does the air quotes.
“I’ve had that document for eight years, Mike.
Eight years. Thought nothing of it. But what did I see online a few weeks ago?
Someone showing the world that exact same piece of paper which they too, thought was part of an experience … ”
I can’t stop myself. I burst into laughter, because the thought alone sounds completely ridiculous. But the redder Ellie gets, the more I’m inclined to conclude that she’s taking this very fucking seriously indeed.
I give a nervous chuckle.
“No way, that was a pretend thing. People do shit like that all the time. Me and a mate got fake ‘Vegas’ married in a nightclub once … it’s not real.” I laugh again, but Ellie’s face stays sombre.
I try to elaborate.
“Just like our ‘experience’ wasn’t real. We queued up and played along with getting married. There were like … ” I think for a moment, “… two other couples doing the same thing.”
“Two other couples who are also married without knowing about it,” she says. “I’ve been googling it.”
My heart picks up speed. And without hesitating, I pull my phone from my pocket and start typing in search terms.
Weddings AEr?
Can you accidentally get married?
How do you know if a wedding certificate is real?
I skim read as quick as I can before jabbering.
“Nah, it’s impossible. It says here that you need to apply to the Danish Agency of something or other …
and we’d have had to pay them.” I flash my phone screen at Ellie.
“See—it says they take up to five days to approve things, and we didn’t give them ID or whatever.
I don’t think you can get married without ID.
Or banns being read or something like that. ”
I skip back to the search results page before spotting a video posted to a social media site.
Ellie says something, but I’m not listening. I’m focused on this damn video. The woman talking is basically describing the same experience we had. Word for word. The same date and everything.
I chuckle again.
“Nah, stuff like this doesn’t happen in real life. It’s like … something out of a film or whatever. She probably put the video up for views. Click bait, you know.”
But when I catch her expression, a pang of something hits me in the chest.
Fuck.
“You knew all along, didn’t you?” she says. “Did you submit a request or something? Did you?—”
“No. How could I? I don’t even?—”
“Then why the hell did you ghost me the very next day? You disappeared, and you weren’t anywhere to be seen—right up until I had to fly home. You knew, and you were probably laughing at my expense.”
“I had camp. I was in an intensive training schedule with the kids. I texted you when I got home, and you never texted me back.”
I can’t even fathom this. Because I definitely did not know, and why would I do such a thing? Why would I lure someone into marriage?
Yeah, I was massively into this girl, but there’s an enormous difference between wanting to sleep with someone and forcing them to marry you without their knowledge.
But Ellie’s reeling.
“Then you were going out with Julie Goldsworthy. You got back from Germany, and you were hooking up with her…” she says .
Julie Goldsworthy? I don’t even remember a Julie Goldsworthy.
“Honestly, I wish I never—” She stops. Instead of finishing her sentence, she sniffs loudly and wipes her hand over her eyes as she steps backwards.
Shit. Is she crying?
“I thought you ghosted me,” I say, but she’s not listening anymore.
“Contact Greg. He’s expecting you to reach out,” she says before backing away.
And for the first time in my entire life, I’m genuinely lost for words.