The Runaway Bride
Oliver stepped off the train, said goodbye to the conductor, and walked toward the old single-story station building. Inside was one large hall. Along the walls stood a ticket booth, kiosks selling newspapers and drinks, and in the center, rows of bolted-down metal chairs. To the left of the entrance was a small café with a plump woman behind the counter. About ten people sat waiting for their trains.
“Lad, spare twenty quid? I’m short for my ticket,” said a woman of indeterminate age as she approached him. Her face was flushed, makeup smudged. The sour reek of alcohol hit him.
“Maybe I could buy you a snack instead?” Oliver suggested, taking her elbow to steer her toward the café, but she yanked her arm free.
“Let go of me! And you look like a gentleman,” she shouted loud enough for the whole hall to hear. Conversations paused briefly—every face turned toward them—then just as quickly, people looked away, the hum of voices resuming.
“You can sod off,” the woman muttered, stepping back.
Oliver smirked and approached the café attendant.
“Good on you for not giving her money,” the woman said, shaking her head. “She begs here every day. Used to be lovely, too. See what love does to people?” She sighed. “Fancy a cuppa and a pasty?”
“No, thanks. I need to get to Mayfield. Where’s the bus stop?”
“Last bus to Mayfield’s already gone. Next one’s at half five tomorrow.” The woman noticed his disappointment. “There’s usually blokes outside doing rides for cash in the evenings—though they charge a fortune.”
“Cheers.” Oliver adjusted his grip on his bulky duffel bag and headed for the exit.
Outside, dusk had settled quickly. He fished his phone from his jacket pocket, dialed, and pressed it to his ear. No answer.
Suddenly, a silver Vauxhall pulled up beside the station, and a girl sprinted past Oliver into the building. Something about her seemed vaguely familiar. But how? He’d never been here before. Oliver followed her back inside. She was already chatting with the café attendant.
“Fancy some tea?” the woman asked.
“No thanks, Auntie Liz. I’m off.” The girl turned—and collided with Oliver. “Sorry, didn’t see you.”
Oliver was met with eyes like blue lakes and dimples in soft, rosy cheeks. He was certain he’d never seen anyone prettier.
“Oh! Jack’s heading to Mayfield. Jack, give this lad a lift,” the woman said.
The girl studied Oliver carefully.
“Bye, Auntie Liz. Let’s go,” she said, striding toward the exit.
Oliver hurried after her. Jack—short for Jacqueline—opened the passenger door and hauled out a large bag.
“Here, let me help.” Oliver reached for it.
“No. It’s my veil and flowers,” she said, smiling as the dimples reappeared. “Just open the back door.”
She set the bag on the seat and turned to him. “Hop in.”
“Wait… You’re Jacqueline! No wonder you looked familiar.” Seeing her puzzled expression, he quickly added, “I’m here for your wedding—with Stephen. We served together. He was supposed to meet me but isn’t answering his phone.”
“He’s at his stag do tonight.” The dimples flashed again.
“I’ve seen your photo,” Oliver said. “Stephen showed me.”
The car wound through a narrow forest road. The headlights pushed back the dark, forcing it behind the trees.
“Not scared driving alone at night?” Oliver asked.
“No. Rarely do, anyway. Stephen couldn’t come with me to town today.”
“Couldn’t you get flowers in Mayfield?”
“Could’ve. But I wanted something special.” Jacqueline kept her eyes on the road.
“You’re marrying quick—just a year after the army.” He winced, realizing he’d overstepped.
“Stephen and I agreed before he enlisted—we’d marry when he got back,” she said brightly.
Oliver couldn’t stop staring at her dimple.
“So… you’re marrying out of obligation? Not love?” he murmured.
“That too,” she replied, missing his tone.
Silence settled between them.
“You drive well,” Oliver finally said.
“Stephen taught me in school. Where in Mayfield should I drop you? Hotel?”
“I suppose.”
“Tell you what—I’ll take you straight to the pub. Sort things out with Stephen there,” she offered.
“Bit awkward with a duffel bag,” he hesitated.
“Leave it at mine. Collect it in the morning. Pub, then?”
“Pub,” Oliver agreed, smiling.
As the dark swallowed the road ahead, Oliver remembered a different photo he’d once seen in Stephen’s locker—a striking redhead with sultry eyes.
“Who’s this?” he’d asked.
“Like her?” Stephen had smirked. “Don’t bother.” He’d snatched the photo back.
“Jacqueline’s prettier,” Oliver had said.
Stephen hadn’t replied. That night, he’d bragged about his conquests. “Just crook a finger, and they’re mine,” he’d boasted.
Oliver liked Stephen—but his bravado grated. He pitied Jacqueline. Stephen would cheat, ruin her. Then, a month ago, an unexpected call: a wedding invite. Why not catch up with an old mate? Even if Stephen kept reminding him.
“Let’s drop the formalities,” Oliver suggested.
“Alright,” Jacqueline agreed easily.
She dropped him at the pub. Light spilled onto the road from its wide windows. She gave him her address, asked him to keep Stephen from overdoing it, and drove off.
Oliver watched her car disappear. The air was crisp. Loneliness gnawed at him. Music pulsed from the pub, but all he saw were blue eyes and dimples.
*Jacqueline—a fairy-tale name. Someone like her doesn’t deserve a womanizer.* Shivering, he pushed open the pub’s heavy door.
“Oliver! Finally!” Stephen stood, waving. “This is my army mate. Served together,” he announced to the table.
They hugged, and Oliver smelled the booze on him. Stephen swayed, eyes glazed. Someone shoved a shot into Oliver’s hand. Music blared; girls in tight dresses danced…
Oliver woke, disoriented. He didn’t remember the night ending, how he’d gotten here, undressed. The room spun like a ship in a storm. His tongue stuck to his dry mouth. He needed water.
His watch read 8:50. He sat up, waited for the room to steady, then stood. In the kitchen, he gulped water from the tap. Peered into the next room—thought he saw Jacqueline in bed with Stephen. A furious urge to drag him out seized him. He prodded Stephen’s shoulder.
“Grmph…” Stephen smacked his lips, rolled over.
“Get up. You’ve got three hours till the registry office,” Oliver barked in his ear.
A girl turned her head—Oliver’s heart leapt. Not Jacqueline.
“You know he’s getting married today?” he asked her. “I’ll step out. Wake him and leave.” He shut the door behind him.
Under the shower, the pounding in his skull eased. As the water stopped, he heard the front door click. The girl was gone. *How can he do this? In three hours, he’ll kiss Jacqueline at the altar. How can she marry him? Does she love him that much? Not my problem. I’ll leave tomorrow and forget…*
“Morning. Christ, I’m wrecked,” Stephen groaned, stumbling into the kitchen. He looked ghastly.
“Come on.” Oliver forced him into the shower, turned the cold tap full blast.
“Are you mad?!” Stephen screeched, thrashing. Oliver switched to scalding, then back to ice. Stephen howled curses.
Later, over coffee, they’d made peace.
“Cheers, mate. Brought me back from the dead. Wedding was nearly off,” Stephen said.
“Good,” Oliver murmured.
“It’s *my* wedding,” Stephen snapped.
“Exactly. Who was that girl?”
“Laura. Old flame. Firecracker. Want her number?”
Oliver clenched his fists. The doorbell rang. He threw on Stephen’s robe and answered.
Jacqueline stood there, holding his duffel bag. Her makeup was perfect, hair styled. Oliver froze.
“Earth to Oliver.” She laughed. “Here’s your stuff. How is he?”
He wished she’d asked about *him*.
“Don’t be late!” she called, already on the stairs.
Her voice seemed to echo long after the door slammed below.
“Who was that?” Stephen called from the shower.
“Neighbor. We’re late. Get dressed,” Oliver ordered.
“You love her?” he asked, pulling a fresh shirt from his bag.
“Who? Laura?”
“Jacqueline.” Oliver barely hid his irritation.
“Fancy her? Hands off—she’sThe train pulled away from the station, carrying them toward a future neither had planned but both now dared to hope for, while the past—like the fading platform—disappeared behind them.
