Someone Else’s Bride Val was in high demand. He’d never advertised in papers or on TV, but his name and number spread by word of mouth – the kind of old-fashioned grapevine you can’t buy. Need an MC for a concert? No problem! Want someone to host a birthday or a wedding? Brilliant! He’d even once hosted a graduation at a local nursery school, charming not just the children but the mums as well. It all started simply enough. A close friend was getting married, but the hired toastmaster never showed – as it turned out later, he’d simply gone on a bender. No time to find a replacement, so Val took the microphone himself. Back at school he’d been involved in amateur dramatics, acted with the “Logos” theatre troupe, and at university was a mainstay of Student Spring and the comedy league. The impromptu hosting was a hit, and right there at the reception, two people came up and asked him to lead their own events. After uni, Val took a job at one of the city’s research institutes, earning peanuts. His first gigs on the side inspired him; the pay was good and it was fun. Soon, event work was bringing him almost ten times his researcher’s salary. After a year, he quit the institute, spent his savings on quality AV gear, set himself up as a sole trader, and launched officially into showbiz. At the same time, he started singing lessons – he already had the voice and ear. Soon he was a singing MC, gigging three nights a week as a singer in a restaurant. So by 30, Val was handsome, fairly well-off, known as a talented singer, DJ, and all-around master of ceremonies who could liven up any event. He wasn’t married – why bother? Women practically threw themselves at him; any girl, a snap of the fingers, and she’d agree to anything. But his mates started settling down, kids arrived, and Val slowly began to yearn for the love and comfort of a family. Only trouble was, he just didn’t know where to look! The easy-come crowd was only ever good for one thing; he wanted a wife for life. “You need to meet a girl at school age,” he’d joke to his friends, “raise her up just right, and marry her when she turns eighteen. The perfect wife!” He started taking school graduation gigs, hoping to find the right girl, but the modern young ladies disappointed him – not at all how he’d pictured his future match. But Val wasn’t downhearted, always surveying the young crowd, “on the hunt for rare game,” as he put it. That’s when fate, or the gods, decided to play a little trick on my cousin once removed… At first, nothing seemed unusual. A woman rang, name-dropping some mutual acquaintances: “We need someone to host our wedding. Are you free on June 17? Wonderful! Can we meet?” They did. And, as Val later put it, for the first time in his life, he knew what it meant for the ground to vanish from under your feet. Introducing herself as Xenia, the woman was dazzling; he’d never seen anyone like her in real life. Articulate, clever, self-assured. Not just beautiful, but clearly intelligent – a rare combination! At first glance, he thought she was about 25, maybe a bit older, but the conversation revealed she’d been a Young Communist League member – so she had to be at least 40. They discussed everything, came to an agreement, signed a contract (despite Xenia’s protests that she trusted him based on references). Val always kept things official – not just for his own security, but for tax records too. While they chatted, a text pinged on Xenia’s phone: “Aha! My fiancé’s here to pick me up. Need a lift?” Val declined but saw her out – partly out of habit, partly out of curiosity, but mostly out of jealousy. The groom, he’d imagined, would be a mature man in his forties. But from the car jumped a lad, clearly younger than Val himself. “Xenia, everything alright?” he called. She smiled: “When is it not?” She climbed in, and her fiancé turned: “Are you the MC for our wedding? Brilliant! I’ve heard you’re the best – Slava told me. Sorry, I’m Robert – the groom.” Val shook his hand. From that day on, Val barely slept. He found excuses to ring Xenia, to hear her voice, see her. The wedding drew closer; Val was beside himself. His mate, the only one he confided in, teased him: “What about all those schoolgirls you wanted to raise as the perfect wife?” Val waved him off: “Forget schoolgirls, Xenia is perfect. I need no one else.” “So tell her!” his mate said. “Are you mad? She’s getting married. Clearly she loves him. Why would she want me with my daft feelings?” Sometimes Robert would pop in, grinning ear to ear: “Here, Xenia asked me to drop this to you…” Val seethed, barely civil. He considered dropping out as host – but then he’d never see Xenia again. He always chickened out. Two days before the big day, Xenia came round to ‘polish off the script’ – at Val’s flat, since his office was being refurbished. They chatted, laughed, everything agreed. Val poured some fizz: “To a perfect wedding.” Xenia grinned, “With pleasure!” The champagne fuelled courage; he kissed her, she kissed him back. The world spun. Val woke up in confusion. Had he just dreamt the best night of his life? But her perfume lingered on the pillow – it had really happened. Now what? The wedding couldn’t possibly go ahead? He rang Xenia. “Hi,” she answered breezily, “Sorry I slipped out – so much to do, the big day tomorrow and all!” “So…the wedding is still on?” Val asked, hollow-voiced. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s perfect!” Were all women this cynical? How could she go through with the wedding, look her fiancé in the eye after last night? Val was in torment – should he call it all off, ruin the wedding? But he knew he’d take her, even if she was an ice queen. Next day, Val arrived early to the hotel. Decorators gave him sly little glances. And then… Xenia appeared. “Hi. I dashed here right after the register office – I just had to see you,” she beamed. “What’s wrong, Val?” “I don’t get it,” mumbled Val. “You had the registry? And then ran off?” “Well, obviously, silly. Why ride round town with all the youngsters when I’d rather be with you? Or would you rather I left?” “Wait, what youngsters? I thought you were the bride?” Xenia stared, dumbfounded, then burst into pure, bubbly laughter. Val couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! My daughter’s the bride – Katie! She just flew back from uni in Edinburgh yesterday,” she sobered, “Did you really think I was marrying? And slept with someone else two days before my own wedding? Cheers for the high opinion!” Finally, Val twigged. Xenia had never said “I” or “we” – always “the bride and groom.” Robert never called her Katie, always Xenia, always in the polite form. How had he never noticed? Then came the real question: “And you? Are you single?” She nodded, and he blurted out, “Marry me! Please…” The wedding was a triumph; the MC outdid himself, the guests raved. The happy couple thanked him: “We don’t know how to thank you enough!” Xenia joined them, “I’ll take care of him. Off you go, your limo’s waiting. I’ll handle things here.” Word soon spread that Val was marrying a woman nine years older than himself. Some were doubtful at first, but then they met the bride. “Who could not fall in love with her?” Katie and Xenia gave birth just two weeks apart.

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 1

Another Mans Bride

Harry was in constant demand. He never once put out an advert in the paper or on TV, but his name and number were passed around, as they say, by word of mouth, that peculiar English grapevine. Needed an MC for the village fete? Easy! A master of ceremonies for an anniversary or a wedding? Brilliant! He once even emceed a primary school leavers’ party and won over not only the children, but their mums too.

It had all started quite simply. A close mate was getting married when the booked master of ceremonies failed to turn uplater, it turned out he’d gone on a three-day bender. There was no time to find someone else, so Harry grabbed the microphone.

Hed always enjoyed performing at school, thrown himself into the drama club, later ran sketch nights at universityyou couldnt host a Student Spring or a quiz night without Harry stepping on stage. That impromptu performance at the wedding was a triumph, and right there, in the reception hall, two more couples asked if he could do their dos as well.

After university, Harry landed a job at one of the citys scientific institutes, but the pay was peanuts. The extra money from events was a revelation; he took on any gig, not only reaping proper cash, but genuinely enjoying himself. Soon, his events earnings dwarfed his research assistants salary tenfold.

After a year, Harry took the plunge: he left the institute, spent his savings on a decent sound system, opened a sole proprietorship, and launched himself professionally into the world of events. He took singing lessons, thanks to his natural ear and pleasant voice. Before long, he was a singing MC, picking up extra shifts as a restaurant crooner three nights a week.

So by age thirty, Harry was not only dashing, fairly well-off, and known locally as a canny DJ, charming singer and stellar host, but also unattached. He saw no reason to marrygirls seemed to throw themselves at him, and it was all too convenient. Yet friends paired up, had kids, and, gradually, Harry began to yearn for a piece of quiet family life himself. Trouble was, he hadnt met anyone. The easy options were never for keeps; he wanted a love that would last a lifetime.

Meet a sixth-former, he once joked to a mate, raise her how you want and when shes eighteenmarry her. Perfect wife!

He even started accepting school-leavers’ parties, hoping to spot someone suitable. But modern girls disappointed himthey werent what hed imagined. Still, Harry kept hunting, as hed say, stalking rare game. And it was around then, the fates decided to have a laugh at my cousins expense.

At first, there was nothing unusual. A woman called, dropping a friends name for reference:
We need an MC for our wedding. You free on June 17th? Marvelous! Could we meet?

They arranged it. And there, according to Harry, was the first time he truly understood the phrase, the ground disappeared from under my feet. The woman, introducing herself as Victoria, was stunninghed never met anyone like her up close. She spoke clearly, to the point, outlining all she needed. Harry, spellbound, caught himself simply gazing at her. She wasnt just beautiful but clearly intelligenta rare mix.

She looked about twenty-five, maybe a few years older, but as they chatted, she mentioned being in the Young Conservatives back in the day, making her at least forty! They sorted every detail, reached agreement, and signed a contracteven though Victoria gently objected:

Why bother? I trust you, the recommendations were top notch!

But Harry always worked by contract, not only keeping his side but expecting the same from others. He insisted:

Ive taxes to declare, dont need trouble.

If he was honest, part of him just wanted solid proof she was realnot a dream.

Victorias mobile buzzed with a text. Ah, theres the groom come to collect me. Need a lift?

Harry declined but walked her out. Normally, he did this if bride and groom arrived separatelygood to size up the dynamics. But this time, what drove him was pure jealousy. The groom, to Harrys shock, wasnt the older gent hed pictured, but a lad younger than himself.

Victoria, everything alright? the chap asked, springing from his Mini.

She just smileda look that said, When is it not?

She got in, and he turned to Harry.

Youre the host for our wedding? Lovely to meet you. Steves told us youre the best man for the job. He thrust out his hand. Sorry, Im David, the groom.

All Harry wanted, more than anything, was to deck David, the groom, and wipe the grin off his face. Instead, he simply shook his hand.

Harry. Pleased to meet you.

From that day, Harry was in turmoil. Any excuse to ring Victoria, hear her voice, see her againhe grabbed it. The wedding drew closer, and, maddened by longing, he confided in his only close friend.

What about those schoolgirlssupposed perfect wives? his mate teased.

Harry just waved him off, Dont be daft. Victorias the perfect woman. No one else matters.

His friend urged, Tell her, then.

You mad? Shes getting marriedmeans she loves him. Why would she even look at me?

Sometimes, grinning David would show up, passing on messages from his wife-to-be. Harry loathed him in those moments, struggling not to snap. He even considered pulling out of hostingnever mind his reputation. But he realized if he did, hed never lay eyes on Victoria again. That thought always made him back down.

Two days before the wedding, Victoria came over to polish the scriptwant everything flawless. The office was under renovation, so they met at Harrys flat. Their chat rambled beyond business; there were laughs, quick wit, easy warmth between them. When the last detail was ironed out, Harry offered a glass of champagne.

To the perfect wedding, he toasted.

Victoria grinned, Gladly!

The laughter sparkled; Harry thought shed never looked lovelier. The champagne fuelled courage, and suddenlyhe kissed her. More astonishingly, she kissed him right back. His head spun.

Harry awoke with a jolt. Sitting up in bed, he looked about. Had he dreamt the best night of his life? No sign of Victoria, yet her scent clung to the pillow. Soit really had happened? Still doubting, Harry got up, then realised, no, it hadnt been a dream. And now? Would the wedding be called off? Frantic, he rang Victoria.

Hello

She answered lightly, as if nothing was amiss. Hi! How are you? Sorry for slipping out quietly, but you understandso much to do, weddings tomorrow!

Sothe weddings still on? he asked, hollow.

Of course! Why wouldnt it be? Everythings perfect!

Were all women so cold-blooded? How could there still be a wedding, after last night? Could she really face her fiancé without a flicker of guilt? Harry was beside himself. Should he sabotage the wedding? But did he even want a woman capable of such callousness? Then, answering himself honestlyyes, he wanted her, no matter what.

The next day, he arrived early at the hotel. The florists were just finishing the room, sneaking glances in his direction. And then

Harry could barely believe his eyes: Victoria approached him.

Hello. I dashed off straight after the registryI just had to see you, she said with an irresistible smile. Whats the matter, Harry?

He stammered, I dont understand. There was a wedding? Then you left?

Well, yes, silly. Why would I hop round town with a bunch of twenty-year-olds when I could be with you? Dont you want me here?

Waitwhat do you mean, twenty-year-olds? Arent you the bride?

For a few moments, Victoria stared at him, stunned, then burst out laughinga laugh so genuine, Harry couldnt help grinning himself.

Of course not! My daughter, Chloethe bride! Shes at uni in London, only just back yesterday. Her tone softened. Did you really think I was marrying? Andtwo days before the ceremony, Id sleep with another man? High opinion you have of me

Only then did the truth dawn on Harry. Victoria had always said the bride and groom, never once I or we. David, too, had never called her Chloe, just Victoria and always so formal. How had he missed it?

Feeling sheepish, Harry finally asked the only question that mattered.

And you? Are you free? And when Victoria nodded, he blurted, Marry me. Please

The wedding itself was a dazzling affair. Harry outdid himself; the guests were effusive in their praise.

Thank you! We dont even know how to thank you for tonight.

Ill see to it myself, Victoria approached. You two go on, your cars here. Ill keep a watch on things.

News that Harry was marrying a woman nine years older soon rippled through the family. Some were wary at firstbut one glance at the bride resolved everything:

How could you not fall for her?

Victoria and Chloe both gave birth within the same fortnightto the delight and endless amusement of the family.

A Promise Kept Denis steered calmly and confidently along the motorway; his friend Kirill sat beside him as they returned from a business trip to Manchester, sent by their boss for two days. “Kirill, we really pulled it off! The contract is signed for a huge sum – the boss will be thrilled,” Denis grinned. “Absolutely, we’re lucky,” Kirill agreed. They worked in the same office. “It’s great going home to someone who’s waiting for you,” Denis said. “My Arisha’s pregnant and suffering from morning sickness. I feel for her, but we wanted this baby so badly, she said she’ll endure anything for our child.” “A baby – that’s wonderful. Marina and I haven’t managed it yet… She can’t carry a baby. We’re about to try IVF again; the first round didn’t work,” Kirill confided. He and Marina had been married seven years and desperately wanted a child. Denis had married late, at thirty-two. He’d had other relationships, but none swept him off his feet – until he met Arina. He fell in love so deeply he couldn’t imagine anyone else. When Denis introduced Arina to Kirill and then married her, Kirill, as his best man, had felt a twinge of envy. Arina was beautiful and gentle; he understood Denis’s feelings. A fine autumn drizzle spattered the windshield and the wipers flicked now and then as they chatted cheerfully. Denis’s phone rang and he answered. “Hi, Arisha! Yes, we’re driving home now, should be there in a couple of hours. How are you? Same old, huh? Don’t lift anything heavy; I’ll do everything when I get back. Love you, see you soon.” Kirill listened and pictured Arina waiting, worrying. He thought: “Marina never calls or worries. She thinks I’m bound to her, and she’s nothing like Arisha – everything is tidy, work and home.” Suddenly Denis swerved; a delivery van was careening towards them. The collision was inevitable but they managed to hit a post on Denis’s side and spun off the road. Kirill came to with a throbbing head and blood on his arm. The car sat upright but his door was open. Denis wasn’t moving. Bystanders rushed over; cars stopped. Kirill lay on the wet grass, waiting for an ambulance. Denis was stretchered away; Kirill bent over his friend and heard him whisper, “Help Arisha…” Both were taken to hospital. Kirill had a broken arm and concussion. He anxiously questioned the medics: “How’s Den, my friend?” A nurse finally told him: “Denis passed away…” Kirill was devastated and couldn’t attend the funeral. Marina told him Denis’s widow wept uncontrollably, barely able to stand by his coffin. After discharge, Kirill visited the cemetery with Marina, lingering by Denis’s grave and promising silently: “Don’t worry, mate, I’ll look after your wife, as you asked…” Two days later, he went to Arina’s place. She burst into tears on seeing him. “How do I go on without him? I can’t accept that Den’s gone.” “Arisha, I promised to help you. We’ll manage together. Call me for anything; I’ll visit,” Kirill assured her. Time passed. Arina tried to adjust, fearing her grief might end the pregnancy. The doctor also warned her to stay calm. Kirill visited twice a week, bringing groceries and vitamins, driving her to appointments. Arina didn’t take advantage; she asked for help only as needed. “Kirill, I feel bad that you spend your time on me.” “I don’t mind. I promised Den.” Kirill felt mixed emotions for Arina: she was his dream woman, but the situation overwhelmed him. While Arina endured her sickness, Kirill and Marina pursued more fertility treatments, facing familiar disappointments. Marina was unaware of Kirill’s help for Arina; on his phone, Arina was saved as ‘Charity’ to avoid suspicion from Marina. After another failed IVF attempt, tension grew between Kirill and Marina. She thought he was to blame; he simply stopped caring. Marina became suspicious—her husband seemed distracted, sometimes irritable, off running errands. An affair seemed unlikely; they hadn’t lost that spark. Despite personal troubles, work went well: Kirill returned to the project he’d started with Denis and landed a big contract. Arina’s pregnancy advanced, making her more helpless. Her parents lived far away in Scotland; she had no close friends in London. She suffered headaches and swollen feet but rarely complained. One day, Kirill arrived to find Arina on a stepladder, hanging new curtains. “I just cleaned the window,” she said cheerily, “and I’m putting up new drapes.” “Get down right now,” Kirill barked, eyeing her large belly. “If you fall, it’s no joke.” He helped her down and, standing close, felt a tremor. “Thanks, Kir,” she said, then quickly dashed to the bathroom, morning sickness returning. Kirill wiped his brow, thinking, “Is Denis watching from somewhere? He did ask for my help.” Next, Arina asked, “Kirill, could you help me set up the nursery? I’ve found some wallpaper I like.” Kirill had to tackle the nursery renovation. He couldn’t let Arina strain herself. They worked together; she helped and cheered him on. Between his depressed wife, always upset over infertility, and Arina nearing her due date, Kirill felt torn. Marina sensed their marriage was in jeopardy, threw herself into work, landed a magazine column, and brought home treats and wine to celebrate. “Ooh, what’s this? A party?” Kirill asked, arriving home. “Yes, I landed a big contract—let’s celebrate!” Their favourite movie played on TV; snacks and wine filled the room as they tried to rekindle the old warmth. Kirill’s phone rang. Marina glanced over his shoulder: ‘Charity’ on the screen. He hurried to the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” he whispered. “Kir, sorry, but I think I’m going into labour… Already called an ambulance.” “But it’s early!” “Seven months—it’s possible,” she said, fighting pain. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.” He dressed quickly; Marina eyed him with concern. “You’re leaving?” “Yes,” he improvised. “The boss called about charity work, needs me urgently. I’ll explain later.” But Marina didn’t buy it. “What charity, what boss, what rubbish?” Kirill sped to the hospital; Arina had already arrived. After two hours, the nurse brought news—Arina had a baby boy. Kirill breathed a sigh of relief. At home, Marina eyed him coldly. “That charity work’s worn you out,” she said scornfully. Kirill sat heavily, still dressed. “Yes, Marina, yes… Arina gave birth to a son. I promised Denis I’d help her. She’s completely alone.” “Now I understand… Next, you’ll help Arina with her newborn son, right?” “Yes,” Kirill replied sincerely. “Well, you know me—I won’t tolerate you giving time to someone else’s child, especially when we can’t have one, and probably never will. So I’m filing for divorce. Maybe I’ll meet someone else and have a baby after all.” Kirill looked at her, realising she blamed him for their childlessness. “That’s your choice, Marina, I won’t argue. I need to help Arina and her baby.” In time, Marina filed for divorce. Kirill moved in with Arina to help with baby Danny. Later, they married—and, two years on, welcomed a daughter. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life!

Someone Else’s Bride Val turned heads everywhere—never advertising in print or on TV, yet his name and number spread by word of mouth, the talk of the town. Need an MC for a concert? Done! A host for an anniversary or wedding? Sorted! He even hosted a kindergarten graduation once, charming not just the little ones but their mums as well! It all began simply enough. A close mate was getting married, but the hired master of ceremonies failed to turn up—later, it emerged he’d embarked on a bender. With no time to find a replacement, Val grabbed the microphone himself. Back in school, he was centre-stage in amateur dramatics and the “Logos” theatre club; at university, he was always taking the lead in Student Spring and the comedy KVN team. That first impromptu gig went brilliantly, and right there in the banqueting hall, two guests asked him to host their upcoming events. After university, Val landed a junior role at a city research institute, earning peanuts. His first foray into running events proved inspiring—he took any job going, relishing not just the financial rewards but the thrill of it all. Soon, his event earnings far outstripped his official salary. After a year, Val made a bold decision: left the institute, spent his savings on professional kit, registered as self-employed, and made entertainment his day job. He even took singing lessons—turns out he had a voice and talent for music. In no time, he was the singing host, and moonlit as a club singer three nights a week. Now thirty, Val was handsome, comfortably off, and a sought-after musician, DJ, and event MC—the life and soul of any party. He wasn’t married—why bother? Women flocked to him, ready to say yes to any invitation. But his friends were settling down and starting families, so he found himself longing for quiet domestic happiness. The only snag: with whom? The easy options held no real appeal; he dreamed of meeting the one—for a lifetime. “You’ve got to meet a schoolgirl, bring her up to your standards, and marry her when she comes of age—the perfect wife!” he quipped. He even started accepting jobs at school proms, hoping to find a future girlfriend, but modern girls weren’t what he’d pictured. Still, he didn’t lose heart, forever on the lookout—as he put it, “on the hunt for a rare catch.” Then fate decided to play a joke on my cousin Val. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A woman rang, citing mutual friends: “We need a master of ceremonies for a wedding. Are you free on the 17th of June? Wonderful! Could we meet?” They met. And, as Val later put it, for the first time in his life he understood the meaning of “the ground shifting beneath your feet.” The woman, introducing herself as Christine, was dazzling—Val had never seen anyone like her. Confident, bright, intelligent—clearly both beautiful and smart, a rare combination. On first glance, she looked about twenty-five, maybe a little older, but in conversation she mentioned being a member of the Young Communists, so she must be at least forty! They discussed the details, came to an agreement, and signed a contract, although Christine objected: “Is it necessary? I trust you; I’ve heard great things.” But Val always insisted on paperwork: “It’s for my accounts, I don’t need any trouble with the taxman.” Though, truthfully, he just wanted tangible proof she existed. Christine’s phone pinged with a text. “Oh, there’s my fiancé come to collect me. Can I give you a lift?” Val declined but saw her out. He always did, especially if the engaged couple arrived separately—good to observe their chemistry. But this time it wasn’t curiosity but envy and jealousy that drove him. The fiancé surprised him—Val expected a man around forty, but out sprang a guy clearly younger than himself. “Christine, all good?” She just smiled, as if everything was always fine. She got in the car; the fiancé shut the door and turned to Val: “So, you’ll be hosting our wedding? Delighted. Slav has sung your praises—said you’re the best!” He offered his hand. “Sorry, didn’t introduce myself—Christine will give me an earful. I’m Rob, the groom.” All Val wanted was to sock Rob, wipe that grin off his face, but he simply shook his hand: “Val. Pleasure.” From that moment on, Val lost his peace of mind. He sought any excuse to call Christine, to hear her voice, to see her. The wedding day drew nearer; Val thought he was losing his mind. The one friend he confided in asked mockingly: “What about those schoolgirls—the ‘ideal wife’ project?” Val just waved him off: “Forget that! Christine is the ideal woman, and I don’t need anyone else.” “Tell her!” the friend suggested. “Are you mad? She’s getting married—she must be in love. Why would she care about my feelings?” Occasionally, a beaming Rob would pop in: “Christine asked me to drop this off…” At those moments, Val had to bite his tongue to avoid a sharp retort. He contemplated pulling out of the wedding, reputation be damned! But then he’d never see Christine again—and he always chickened out. Two days before the big day, Christine visited once more, “to polish the script and make sure it’s perfect.” The office was undergoing renovation, so they met at Val’s flat. They chatted, joked—on top form. Finally, the last detail was settled; Val suggested a glass of champagne. “To a perfect wedding!” Christine agreed playfully: “Gladly!” Christine laughed, impossibly beautiful. Emboldened by champagne, Val kissed her—and she kissed him back. Their heads spun. Val woke up suddenly. He sat up in bed. Had he just dreamt the best night of his life? But the pillow beside him had her distinct perfume—so it had really happened. Was the wedding still happening? Val called Christine. “Hi…” She greeted him as if nothing had happened: “Hello! How are you? Sorry I slipped away, but you know, so much to do before the wedding tomorrow!” “So, the wedding’s still on?” Val asked hollowly. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s fine!” Are all women so cold? How could the wedding still go ahead? How could she look her fiancé in the eye? Val was beside himself—should he crash the wedding? Did he really want such a callous woman? He asked himself honestly: Yes, he did. Whatever happened. Next day at the restaurant, decorations were being finished, and Val spotted Christine. “Hi. I left straight after the ceremony—couldn’t wait to see you,” she said, beaming. “What’s wrong, Val?” “I don’t get it—so the registration went ahead? And then you left?” “Of course, you silly man. Why should I go traipsing round town with the youngsters when I can spend time with you? Or don’t you want me to?” “Wait—‘youngsters’? Aren’t you the bride?” Christine stared, then burst out laughing, so joyfully that Val couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! It’s my daughter, Chrissie! She’s at uni in Edinburgh—just flew in yesterday.” Christine suddenly went serious. “Did you really think I was the bride?” “And that, two days before getting married, I’d sleep with someone else? What must you think of me?” Only then did Val realized: Christine had never said “I” or “we”—always “the bride and groom.” And Rob had never called her Chrissie, just Christine, and always been formal. How did he not notice? It was all rather hilarious… Then he asked the most important question: “And you? Are you single?” When she nodded, he blurted out, “Marry me, please…” The wedding was a triumph—the host surpassed himself, the guests were thrilled. The newlyweds thanked Val at the end: “Thank you! We honestly don’t know how to thank you for a magical evening.” “I’ll thank him myself,” Christine chimed in. “You run along; your limo’s waiting. I’ll see to everything here.” The news that Val was marrying a woman nine years his senior spread like wildfire among relatives. There was hesitation at first—until they saw the bride. Then everyone agreed, “How could you not fall for her?” Christine and Chrissie both gave birth two weeks apart.