How Not to be a Bride. Portia MacIntosh

to me.

      I grab the Playstation controller and fire up Netflix with the intention of putting something on in the background, but you know how it is with Netflix – sometimes you’ll spend longer trying to choose something to watch than you will actually watching something. In the end it’s just easier to put Gossip Girl on for my third re-watch, because there’s no ailment that can’t be cured by a little exposure to Chuck Bass.

      It only takes a few minutes of observing the lavish lifestyles of the Upper East Siders before I start feeling bad about my surroundings. Our living room has looked worse, much worse, but it definitely looks better now we have flooring down and clean white walls, just a blank canvas ready for us to make our own. But I’m surrounded by boxes, most of them being used as furniture, and it’s been so long since we moved in I couldn’t confidently tell you what was in them any more.

      I look over the job listings in the area generally, running a hand through my messy bed hair as I rule out being an army officer (just try and imagine a girly girl like me doing a job like that), a code coordinator (I have no idea what that is) or a bartender (sadly, although I have many hours of experience, they’re all on the wrong side of the bar). My fingers catch in a knot in my hair, which I’m careful to untangle. I need to go and slather my locks in coconut oil because I’m fairly sure that’s what’s helping it grow back so quickly and so much stronger than it was. I’ll probably cover myself in coconut oil, for good measure, because I don’t think I know of a health or beauty problem that coconut oil hasn’t been hyped as the solution for. Chuck Bass and coconut oil – that’s all I need.

      Once again, the listing for a ‘Games Master’ at Houdini’s Escape Rooms comes up. I don’t really know too much about escape games, but I imagine they’re exactly as they sound. You lock people up and they try and escape for fun, right? The listing says its minimum wage and zero hours, but this could be exactly the kind of gig I need to fit in around my writing commitments; it could be fun, and could make me the extra wedding money I need. The application says to send in a CV with relevant experience, but I don’t suppose I have any. I’ve just always been a writer, ever since I graduated.

      I glance at my watch; it’s 17:35. Looking up Houdini’s, I see that they’re open until late, and it’s only a short walk away – why don’t I go scope the place out and see what I make of it?

      After washing my hair and applying my make-up, I open up my wardrobes (cardboard boxes) and see what I can find. An oversize black jumper dress and a pair of black over-the-knee boots seem like the right kind of thing, given how cold it is outside. I grab my leather jacket, pile on the rose-gold accessories (and my engagement ring, of course) and I’m good to go.

      I am just about to walk out of the door when my mobile starts ringing. It’s my agent, Lindsey.

      ‘Hello,’ I say, answering quickly, terrified there’s a problem with the manuscript I stressed myself out to finish on time.

      ‘Hello, Mia, how are you?’ she asks brightly.

      ‘Great, ta. How are you?’

      ‘I’m doing well, thank you. I just wanted to let you know that Tamara is reading your manuscript and she’s really enjoying it, and I’ve already finished it and I think it’s great – maybe your best yet.’

      I let out a huge sigh of relief. I’m pretty sure Lindsey tells me every book I write is my best work yet, but I do feel like she believes in me, and it’s always good news to hear that Tamara, my editor, is enjoying it too. Having a strong team around you, rooting for you and doing everything they can to make your books a success, is just as important as the writing itself – what does it matter if you’ve written an amazing book if no one reads it?

      ‘That’s great news, thank you,’ I tell her.

      ‘So, what are you going to do now?’ she asks. ‘Take a little time off?’

      ‘I wish,’ I reply. ‘I’ve got a wedding to pay for – I’m actually job hunting.’

      ‘What?’ Lindsey squeaks. ‘Mia, you’re an amazing writer, so early in your career as a novelist. The money gets better.’

      ‘In time for my wedding or my next cripplingly expensive trip to Ikea?’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘It’s not just that; I get so bored between books. Everyone is at work and there’s no one to have any fun with…’

      ‘Listen, Mia, I’m putting forward a few of my clients for a job – it’s nonfiction, but I feel like you could be great for it. Shall I put you forward?’

      ‘What is it?’ I ask.

      ‘It’s a ghostwriting job,’ she tells me. ‘It will pay very well – two authors have dropped out already, so it won’t be easy. Let’s leave it at that – I don’t want to get your hopes up.’

      I can’t help but pull a face. There’s no way a romcom writer like me is going to get a nonfiction gig that two other authors have already dropped out of, and even if I could, why would I want to work with someone who sounds so difficult? It would have to pay really well.

      I finish my call and head for the door. Obviously I’d much rather have a writing job but I’ve got a wedding to pay for – and maybe the way to do this is by locking people up.

Chapter Nine

      It turns out that Houdini’s has always been under my nose, but – funnily enough – has always escaped my attention. It’s right in the town centre, above a sports bar I’ve been in a couple of times. You can’t really tell too much about it from the outside so I’ve popped inside to have a look, but the room I’ve walked into looks like a dentist’s waiting room.

      ‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Hello…’

      A young girl pops out from around a corner, causing me to jump out of my skin.

      ‘Welcome to Houdini’s my name is Jezebel how can I help you?’ she sings, without a single pause in her sentence.

      ‘Er, hi,’ I start, unsure what to say.

      ‘Do you have a game booked?’ she asks.

      Jezebel is an interesting character. She’s rocking a scene-queen look I haven’t seen since 2005, with her big, black hair complete with side-swept fringe, punky, ripped clothing and multiple facial piercings.

      She has her septum pierced, you know, kind of like a bull has, and I can’t stop staring at it. It must get in the way, surely? It works with her look, though. I’m not sure I could pull it off. When I was younger I was desperate for a nose ring but my mum wouldn’t let me have one. That’s why, the second I turned 16, I went to the local piercing place with my best friend so we could get matching nose rings done. It was all going so well until I watched my friend get hers done and passed out. I soon changed my mind.

      ‘I just popped in to have a look. I saw the listing for the Games Master job online and I…’

      ‘Oh, sweet,’ she says. ‘I’m the manager, at the mo. The previous guy had to leave, we had to get the police involved – major drama in the office. So I’m just kind of winging it, but we’re short-staffed and looking for cool new peeps. Do you live nearby?’

      ‘Yeah, just up on Prince Street,’ I tell her.

      ‘No way, me too,’ she squeaks, giving my arm a playful punch. ‘What you studying?’

      ‘Erm, I’ve already graduated,’ I tell her honestly.

      ‘Ahh, right. This summer just gone? I’m only a second-year. Wouldn’t have pegged you as much older than I am.’

      If Jezebel is a second-year, that makes her 20 years old, maybe? I know I look young for my age, but if I’m passing for 14 years younger than I am, I’m on to a winner.

      ‘How about I introduce you to the others in the office and then show you around, see if you dig