**The Runaway Bride**
George stepped off the train, exchanged a quick goodbye with the conductor, and headed toward the old single-story station building. Inside, the hall was vast—a ticket booth and kiosks selling newspapers and drinks lined the walls, while rows of bolted-down metal chairs filled the centre. To the left of the entrance stood a small café, manned by a portly woman behind the counter. About ten passengers sat waiting for their trains.
“Young man, spare a few quid? I’m short for my ticket,” said a woman of indeterminate age, stepping into his path. Her face was flushed, her makeup hastily applied. The sour reek of alcohol hit him.
“Maybe I could buy you a bite instead?” George suggested, taking her arm to guide her toward the café, but she yanked free.
“Let go of me! And you look like a decent bloke too,” she shrieked, loud enough for the whole hall to hear. Conversations halted for a second—every head turned—then just as quickly, they all looked away, murmurs resuming.
“Sod off, you…” She staggered back.
George smirked and approached the woman at the counter.
“You did right not giving her money, love. She begs here every day. Gone right downhill, she has. Used to be a looker, too. See what love does to people?” The woman sighed and shook her head. “Fancy a cuppa with a pasty?”
“No, thanks. I need to get to Mayfield. Where does the bus stop?”
“No more buses to Mayfield today. Next one’s at half five tomorrow.” She noticed his disappointed frown. “Mind, there’s usually a few blokes outside doing private lifts in the evenings—though they charge a pretty penny for it.”
“Cheers,” George said, adjusting the grip on his large sports bag before heading out.
Dusk had fallen quickly. He fished his phone from his jacket, dialled a number, and held it to his ear—no answer.
Just then, a silver Vauxhall pulled up beside the station. A girl dashed out, brushing past George into the building. Something about her seemed vaguely familiar. But this was his first time here—how could he know her? George followed her back inside. She was already chatting with the café woman as he approached.
“Fancy some tea, love?” the woman asked.
“Thanks, Aunt Linda, but I’m off.” She spun—and collided with George. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”
Blue eyes like lakes, dimpled cheeks—he’d never seen anyone so lovely.
“Oh, here’s Ben—he’s heading to Mayfield. Ben, give this lad a lift, will you?” the café woman said.
The girl studied George carefully.
“Ta-ra, Aunt Linda. Come on,” she told him, already walking back toward the exit.
George struggled to keep up. Ben opened the passenger door and yanked out a bulky bag.
“Let me help,” George offered.
“No, it’s fine. It’s my veil and bouquet,” she said with a smile that deepened her dimples. “Just open the back door, yeah?”
She set the bag on the rear seat, then turned to him. “Hop in.”
“Wait—you’re *Bethany*? No wonder you looked familiar. You’re even prettier in person,” he blurted, then, seeing her startled look, quickly added, “I’m here for your wedding—me and Steven served together. Only he didn’t meet me and won’t answer my calls.”
“Oh, he’s at his stag do tonight.” The dimples reappeared.
“I recognised you from a photo Steven showed me,” George added as the car wound through a narrow forest road, headlights pushing back the dark.
“Not scared driving alone through the woods?” he asked.
“Nah. Rarely do, though. Steven just couldn’t come with me today.”
“Couldn’t get flowers in Mayfield?”
“Course. These are special—bridal bouquet. Wanted something nice.” She kept her eyes on the road.
“Quick, marrying so soon after he got back. Only been a year,” George said, then winced at prying.
“Promised each other before he enlisted. Said we’d wed when he came home,” she answered cheerfully. George couldn’t tear his eyes from her dimple.
“So… you’re marrying because of a promise? Not love?” he asked quietly.
“That too,” she replied, missing his disapproval.
They drove in silence for a while.
“You handle the car well,” George finally said.
“Stevie taught me in sixth form. Where in Mayfield should I drop you? The inn?”
“Suppose so.”
“Tell you what—I’ll take you straight to the pub for the stag do. You can sort it with Steven there,” Bethany suggested.
“Bit awkward with my bag,” George hesitated.
“Leave it with me—fetch it in the morning. Pub then?”
“Pub it is,” he agreed, smiling.
Watching the dark road, George remembered a different photo he’d once seen in Steven’s locker—a sultry-eyed redhead.
“Who’s this?” he’d asked.
“Fancy her?” Steven had smirked. “Pipe down.” He’d snatched the photo back.
“Bethany’s better,” George had said.
Steven hadn’t answered. That night, he’d bragged about all the girls he’d had before enlisting. *”Just crook my finger, and they come running.”*
Decent lad, but the boasting grated. George pitied Bethany. Steven would cheat—ruin her. Then, a month ago, he’d called out of the blue, insisting George come to the wedding. Why not catch up with an army mate?
“Let’s switch to first names,” George suggested in the car.
“Alright,” Bethany agreed easily.
She dropped him outside a lively pub, light spilling onto the pavement. She gave her address, asked him to keep Steven from drinking too much, then drove off.
George watched her go. The chill air bit. Suddenly, loneliness ached in his chest. Music pulsed from the pub; all he could see were blue eyes and dimples.
*Bethany. Like something from a fairy tale. Wasted on a womaniser like Steven.* Shivering, he pushed open the heavy pub door.
“George! Finally!” Steven lurched up, waving. “Lads, this is my army mate—served together!” They embraced. Steven was already drunk—glazed eyes struggling to focus. Someone shoved a shot into George’s hand. Music blared; girls in tight dresses swayed on the dance floor…
He woke disoriented, unsure how he’d ended up in a strange flat, undressed. His head throbbed like a drum. The room swayed. A thick nausea rose. His tongue stuck to his dry mouth. The watch read 8:50.
After gulping tap water in the kitchen, he peered into the next room. At first, he thought Bethany lay beside Steven. Rage flared—he wanted to hurl Steven out. He nudged the man instead. A drowsy grunt was his only reply.
“Get up. Registry office in three hours,” George barked in his ear.
A girl turned—not Bethany, to his relief.
“You know he’s getting married today?” George said. “I’ll step out—you wake him, then leave.” He shut the door behind him.
Under the shower, the pounding in his skull eased. Hearing the front door click, he knew the girl had gone. *How can he? Three hours from now, he’ll be kissing Bethany at the altar. How can she marry him? Love? What’s it to me? I leave tomorrow…*
“Alright, mate? Properly wrecked last night,” Steven groaned, stumbling into the kitchen. He looked ghastly.
“Come on.” George forced him into the shower, turning the nozzle to freezing.
“You mad?!” Steven howled, thrashing.
Alternating scalding and icy sprays, George sobered him up.
“Ta, mate. Saved my life,” Steven gasped later over coffee. “Wedding was nearly off.”
“Yeah,” George muttered.
“My wedding, you knob!” Steven snapped.
“Exactly. Who was that girl in bed?”
“Just Lara—old flame. Fancy her? I’m in a good mood.”
George clenched his fists, fighting the urge to wipe that smirk off his face. A knock interrupted. He shrugged into Steven’s robe and opened the door.
Bethany stood there, perfectly made up, holding his bag.
“Cat got your tongue?” she laughed. “Brought your things. How is he?” Her eyes flickered with worry.
George wanted her to ask about *him*.
“Don’t be late!” she called, already descending the stairs. Her voice echoed long after the door slammed.
“Who was that?” Steven called from the shower.
“Neighbour. Hurry up,” George lied, tossing him a fresh shirt.
“Do you love her?”
“Who? Lara?”
“*Bethany*,” George bit out.
“Back off. She’s *mine*,” Steven snarled, pausing mid-buttonThree years later, as he held his daughter in his arms and watched Bethany laugh in the sunlight, George knew that sometimes the best chapters begin with a runaway bride.
