The Runaway Bride
George stepped off the train, exchanged brief pleasantries with the attendant, and made his way toward the old single-story station building. Inside was one large hall. Along the walls were the ticket office, newsstands, and snack kiosks, while rows of bolted-down iron chairs filled the centre. To the left of the entrance stood a small buffet counter, manned by a plump woman. About ten people sat waiting for their trains.
“Spare fifty quid, love? I’m short for my ticket,” said a woman whose age was hard to guess, her face flushed and makeup clumsily applied. The sharp scent of alcohol hit George’s nose.
“Why don’t I buy you something to eat instead?” George offered, gently guiding her toward the buffet, but she yanked her arm free.
“Let go of me! And you look like a decent sort,” she shouted, drawing brief silence from the hall before the murmur of conversation resumed.
“Suit yourself,” George muttered, shaking his head as she staggered away. He approached the woman behind the counter.
“You did the right thing, love. She’s always begging here. Fell on hard times—used to be quite pretty too. The things love does to people.” The woman sighed. “Coffee and a pastry?”
“No, thanks. I need to get to Mayfield Village. Where do the buses stop?”
“Last one’s gone for the day. Next isn’t till half five tomorrow,” she said, noticing his disappointment. “But there are private cabs outside. The lads drive for extra cash in the evenings—though they charge a fair bit.”
“Ta,” George said, adjusting his hold on his large sports bag before heading out.
Night had fallen quickly. He pulled out his mobile, dialed, and held it to his ear—no answer.
Just then, a silver Vauxhall pulled up beside the station, and a girl dashed past him inside. Something about her seemed familiar, though he’d never been here before. Curious, George followed. The girl was talking to the buffet lady.
“Fancy some tea?” the woman offered.
“No thanks, Auntie Louise. I’ve got to go.” She turned—and collided with George. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”
George was struck by her blue eyes, deep as lakes, and the dimples in her rosy cheeks. He’d never seen anyone more beautiful.
“Actually, Vicky’s heading to Mayfield. Vic, give this lad a lift, eh?” the buffet lady said.
The girl studied George for a moment.
“Bye, Auntie Louise. Come on, then,” she said, heading for the exit.
George hurried after her. Vicky opened the passenger door and pulled out a large bag.
“Let me help,” George offered.
“No. It’s my veil and bouquet,” she said, dimples flashing. “Just open the back door.”
Once the bag was settled, she motioned for him to get in.
“Wait—you’re Victoria! I thought you looked familiar,” George blurted, seeing her puzzled expression. “I’m here for Steven’s wedding—we served together. He didn’t meet me, though, and isn’t answering his phone.”
“He’s at his stag do tonight,” Victoria said, dimpling again.
“I’ve seen your photo—Steven showed me,” George added as they drove along the narrow forest road, headlights pushing back the darkness.
“Not scared driving alone through the woods at night?” he asked.
“No. Though I don’t usually. Steven couldn’t come with me today.”
“Why go all the way to town for flowers?”
“We have some in the village, but I wanted something special for my bouquet,” she replied, eyes on the road.
“You’re marrying quickly. Only a year since he left the army,” George said, then winced at his bluntness.
“We promised each other before he enlisted—we’d marry when he returned,” she said cheerfully.
George couldn’t tear his gaze from her dimples.
“So… it’s just because of a promise? Not love?” he asked quietly.
“That too,” she said, missing his tone.
They rode in silence for a while.
“You’re a good driver,” George finally said.
“Steven taught me in school. Where should I drop you in the village? The inn?”
“Suppose so.”
“Tell you what—I’ll take you straight to the pub. Sort things out with Steven there,” Victoria offered.
“Bit awkward with this bag,” George hesitated.
“Leave it with me. Fetch it in the morning. To the pub, then?” She glanced at him.
“To the pub,” George agreed.
As darkness swallowed the road ahead, he remembered another photo he’d once seen in Steven’s possession—a stunning redhead with a sultry gaze.
“Who’s this?” he’d asked.
“Whoa, mate, reel it in,” Steven had smirked, snatching the photo back.
“Victoria’s prettier,” George had muttered.
Steven hadn’t replied. That night, he’d bragged in the barracks about all the girls he’d had. “Just crook my finger, and they’re mine,” he’d boasted.
Steven was alright, but his bravado grated on George. Now, he pitied Victoria. Steven would cheat—ruin her life. A month ago, out of the blue, he’d called, insisting George come to the wedding. Why not see an old mate? Especially one who kept reminding him.
“Let’s drop the formalities,” George suggested suddenly.
“Alright,” Victoria agreed easily.
She dropped him at the pub, its windows flooding the street with light, and gave him her address, asking him to keep Steven from drinking too much before driving off.
George watched her taillights vanish. The evening had turned chilly. Loneliness clawed at him. Music thumped from the pub. Blue eyes and dimples filled his mind.
*Victoria. Like something from a fairy tale. She doesn’t deserve a skirt-chaser like Steven.*
He shivered and pushed open the heavy pub door.
“George! Finally!” Steven swayed to his feet, waving. “My army mate, lads!” He clapped George on the back.
They embraced, and George smelled the booze on him. Someone shoved a shot into his hand. The music pounded. Girls in tight dresses swayed on the dance floor…
George woke disoriented, head pounding. He barely recalled the night’s end, how he’d gotten here, undressed. The room spun. He gulped water from the kitchen tap, then peeked into the next room.
At first, he thought Victoria lay beside Steven. Fury surged—until she turned her head. A redhead. Not her.
“Get up. The registry’s in three hours,” George barked in Steven’s ear.
He turned to the girl. “You know he’s getting married today? Wait till I’m out, then wake him and leave.”
In the shower, the drumming in his skull eased. As the water stopped, he heard the front door click shut—the girl was gone.
*How can he do this? In three hours, he’ll be kissing Victoria at the altar. How can she marry him? Does she love him that much?*
“Morning,” Steven groaned, stumbling in. “Think I overdid it.”
“You look it,” George said flatly.
“C’mon—shower. Now.” He shoved Steven under freezing water, ignoring his curses, then switched to scalding. Gradually, sobriety returned.
“Cheers, mate. You saved me,” Steven said over coffee.
“Good,” George muttered.
“It *is* good—it’s my wedding!” Steven snapped.
“Exactly. Who was that girl?”
“Lara. Old flame. Fancy her?” Steven leered.
George clenched his fists. A knock interrupted them.
Victoria stood at the door, makeup flawless, holding George’s bag.
“Fetch your things. How’s Steven?”
George wished she’d asked about *him*.
“Don’t be late,” she called, already descending the stairs.
“Who was it?” Steven yelled from the shower.
“Neighbour. Get dressed,” George lied.
“Do you love her?” he asked as Steven buttoned his shirt.
“Who? Lara?”
“Victoria.”
Steven’s smirk vanished. “Back off. She’s mine.”
At the registry office, Steven grew fidgety, checking his phone.
“Be right back,” he muttered, slipping out.
Time passed. No Steven.
“Next party, please!” a clerk called.
Victoria peeked out, worried. “Where are you going?”
“Be back,” George said.
Outside, he checked the toilets, then heard noises behind another door. He flung it open—Steven, trousers half-down, with the redhead from the photo.
A gasp behind him. Victoria.
George caught her outside. “We go back now, or this wedding’s off. Your choice.”
She shook her head, tears streaking her makeup. “Could *you* forgive that?”
“Let’s go.” He bundled her into their decorated car.
At home, she removed her veil, numbly packing aShe looked at George, her grip tightening on the suitcase handle, and whispered, “Take me away from all this—forever.”
