How Not to be a Bride. Portia MacIntosh

to pick up dropped bikinis,’ I reply.

      ‘Good,’ he replies cheekily.

      As we approach the beach house back door, I let go of Leo’s hand.

      ‘Listen, I’m going to go and smarten up and repaint my nails because if any photos are taken to remember this special day, I don’t want to be looking like this in them,’ I say, pointing down.

      ‘OK,’ Leo replies, grabbing me for one last kiss. ‘You go get changed and then we’ll tell everyone the good news together.’

      ‘OK,’ I reply. ‘Won’t be long.’

      ‘OK, fiancée,’ he calls after me jokily.

      I can’t help but grin, like the Cheshire Cat that got the cream.

      I reach the top of the stairs and slowly make my way towards our bedroom. Thankfully, although I didn’t have time to paint my nails before we left, I did have the foresight to chuck a bottle of deep-purple varnish into my make-up bag, with the intention of hopefully painting over the chipped blue stuff at some point. This is a move I often pull, to save time. In fact, under the chipped blue polish is chipped red polish that I covered with blue. The blue will cover with this dark purple shade but after that the only colour that will save the day is black, and when that looks messy I’ll have to finally make time to strip off the six months’ worth of polish that has built up. LA Mia always had perfectly manicured nails but Mia now doesn’t have the time or the money for that.

      ‘Hey,’ Mike calls out as he leaves his room.

      ‘Hey,’ I reply.

      As I reach out to open the door, the light bounces off my beautiful ring, catching Mike’s eye.

      ‘You said yes?’ he asks, sounding surprised.

      I nod.

      ‘Oh, man. I owe Leo ten pounds,’ he tells me. I hope he’s kidding.

      ‘So everyone knew?’ I ask him.

      ‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘But I didn’t think you were the marrying kind.’

      ‘I could say the same thing about you,’ I point out.

      Mike is a tall and skinny guy. He’s had spiked, dyed-black hair for as long as I’ve known him, and with the exception of his wedding suit on Belle and Dan’s big day (which didn’t really look quite right on him), he’s always wearing scruffy clothing. He’s kind of stylish with it, though, so I assume it’s intentional. He has a very unkempt beard now, which makes me think he’s moving with the trends, not that I think he’d ever admit it. Mike likes to act like he doesn’t care about things, but I’m sure he does or he wouldn’t be getting married.

      ‘Yeah, well, we all fall eventually, right?’

      Mike’s use of the word fall reminds me of a conversation Leo and I had before we got together. It was just before Belle’s wedding, when I thought I was heading back to LA in a few days and was doing everything in my power not to fall in love with Leo, because we lived so far apart, and because it had been so long since I’d had a proper relationship I was scared I wouldn’t know how to be in one at all – least of all with someone who lived on a different continent to me. Back then I was writing romantic movies for a living – despite not being very romantically inclined myself – so, after I tried to cool things off with Leo, he countered my decision with some of my own words about love, taken from one of my films. I told him love wasn’t really like walking on air, that it was like jumping off a building, and that it didn’t matter how long you were falling for, it was always only a matter of time before you hit the ground and got really hurt. After bickering for a few minutes Leo finally agreed with me, that falling in love was like jumping off a building, because it was scary and because it took your breath away, but that real love was the person on the ground, waiting to catch you. It’s been four years since he said those words to me, but I recall them all the time because Leo is the person who always catches me. So, even if Mike is right, and I’m ‘falling’ like we all do eventually, I know there’s an amazing man waiting to catch me in his big, fireman arms. I’m not falling, I’m jumping.

      I just smile at him. There’s no point trying to explain it.

      ‘See you at lunch,’ I tell him, disappearing into my room to try and smarten myself up. I’ve got an engagement to celebrate – but what do I wear?

      I blast my hair with dry shampoo before applying my make-up and quickly applying a fresh coat of nail polish over my current severely chipped coat – it’s the best I can do at short notice.

      I grab a few outfits from my case and try them on in front of the full-length mirror. As I examine my body, I can’t help but sigh. The girl looking back at me is not the girl who looked in this mirror four years ago. Sure, I’ve changed a lot in many good ways, but I’ve put on a little bit of weight, and it’s all in places that show under certain outfits. I used to wear whatever I wanted, but now I have to think about what doesn’t show off the parts I’m self-conscious about. I was a fat teenager, bullied by Belle and her friends for being quiet and a bit weird, which is why I felt so empowered and confident when I moved to LA and transformed myself into someone it felt good to be. Still, everyone goes on a diet before their wedding to look their best in their dress, right? So I might as well start getting in shape now. Actually, I think I’ll start tomorrow. After all, my mum is making a special lunch today, and my life won’t be worth living if I don’t eat it.

Chapter Five

      I gently tap my fingers against the keys of my MacBook – not because I’m typing, because I’m stressed. I have just two chapters left to write and then I can send this book to my editor, and I really can’t wait to see the back of it.

      When I was living in LA I was part of a team of screenwriters responsible for all the big romcom hits of our generation, but leaving LA meant leaving my job too, and back here in Kent there’s not much call for big-screen romcom writers. I looked into other writing jobs, but writing romantic comedies is what I’m good at, so I transitioned from writing movies to writing novels. Working with a team of screenwriters, I’d be in a sunny city, in a big, fancy office, with a well-stocked table of fresh food put out every morning. I could grab a Starbucks on my way to work, do my job with ease, flirt with my boss’s latest handsome assistant and plan the night’s social events with whichever movie stars were hanging around the office that day. Writing novels is not as social as writing movies. It’s October, so Kent is pretty cold, and instead of being in an office I am in my living room. I’m wearing a onesie because I’m freezing, I’m all alone because, other than emailing my editor or my agent, I work entirely by myself, and I don’t really eat properly, I just grab things when I can.

      It’s been three months since Leo proposed, which means it’s been three months since I made the decision to get back to my LA diet and exercise regime, and I’ve snapped right back into shape. I’m happy to admit that LA Mia was maybe a bit too skinny, but thanks to all my hard work I’ve lost that stubborn stone everyone warned me I’d put on when I got a boyfriend – although I think the weight gain was more to do with the fact that I was eating too much junk while I was working. I’m really happy with the way I look again – I’ve even been taking these vitamins and using special conditioning treatments to try and encourage my hair to grow back again, because now I’ve got my body back, I want my hair back too.

      It’s Saturday night and the street outside is abuzz with students. Leo is at work and I’m here alone, trying to work, but I’m getting so easily distracted.

      I walk over to the living-room window to see what’s going on outside. There’s what I’d guess is a nineteen-year-old man, holding a traffic cone to his crotch as he chases near-naked young girls across the street, prodding them in the butt with his plastic appendage. Our house sits in the middle of a long road that leads from the university right into the centre of town, which is why there are so many students around. Our house is also situated right in the middle of the Merry Mile, a famous pub