The Honeymoon Hijackers, page 1
The Honeymoon
Hijackers
By
Natasha West
Copyright © 2023 by Natasha West
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
One
Sasha Malone’s bum was going numb.
This was what she hated about traditional church weddings. Wedging her arse into these hard, wooden church pews. Why were they like this? Were bottoms so different a few hundred years ago when the church was originally built? Did everyone have cubed posteriors? Because this seating wasn’t fit to be sat on beyond ten minutes, and it had been longer than that.
Sasha checked her watch—forty-five minutes now. She needed a wee, she was cold, and she couldn’t feel her left bum cheek anymore.
‘Just get hitched already,’ she muttered to herself. The mother of one of the brides, Sasha’s Aunt Tuppence, turned from the first row, one down from Sasha, and gave an anxious look around. That was when Sasha knew something was up.
When Sasha was eight, the school know-it-all had told her that Tuppence was a nickname for an intimate part of the female anatomy. Since then, she tried not to say Aunt Tuppences’ name in mixed company unless it was strictly necessary. Which Sasha had a feeling it was. ‘Tuupppeeennnccce!’ she hissed.
The tired-looking man next to her gave her a look. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Sasha sighed. ‘That’s my aunt’s name. Mother of the bride?’
‘Which bride?’ he asked.
‘Claire.’
‘Clara?’
‘Claire,’ Sasha repeated.
‘Oh.’ He paused. ‘I’m on the wrong side.’ He looked around him. ‘I wondered why I didn’t know anyone.’
‘Easily done,’ Sasha assured him. Sasha felt keenly, today more than any other day, that you needed to be careful about the name of your partner. Claire and Clara were going to have a nightmare of a time in that department. They were impossible to portmanteau, just for starters. Claira? Pointless.
Though it could be worse in the name department, just look at poor Aunt Tuppence, who was now heeding the call of her name, approaching Sasha’s row.
‘Sasha, hi. So glad you could come,’ Tuppence warbled, adjusting her bra sweatily.
‘You look a bit… Is everything OK?’ Sasha asked.
‘Funny you should ask,’ Tuppence said with a strained smile.
‘What’s up?’ Sasha asked, a bad feeling growing.
‘Tell you outside.’ Tuppence urged through what was starting to become a rictus grin.
Sasha stood and began to exit the crowded row, pins and needles rushing to her bum cheeks. She almost fell over but steadied herself on her second cousin Jack on her dad’s side’s head.
‘Oy!’ he complained.
‘Sorry, Cuz. Your head was the steadiest thing to hand,’ Sasha apologised.
Jack smoothed his hair, pretending not to check the size of his head while he was at it.
Tuppence hustled Sasha out of the church, and once they were on the steps, the veneer dropped. ‘Oh, Sasha! Oh! It’s just terrible!’
Sasha wasn’t one for histrionics. ‘Spit it out.’
‘Claire’s not coming!’
Sasha spun, looking around like this might be a practical joke. Like Claire was going to pop out from behind a gravestone and shout ‘Surprise!’ But of course, no one was jumping out from behind graves today. Probably for the best.
‘What’s going on?’ Sasha asked.
‘She and Clara … I don’t know, it’s all gone wrong!’
‘What do you know, Tuppence? Cold hard facts,’ Sasha demanded.
Tuppence gathered her strength. ‘I just got a text from Claire. She says she’s not coming.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘I don’t know. She said something about… she’s decided to move to Scotland. She said she’s going to open a bakery in the Hebrides?’
‘That’s an interesting pivot for her wedding day,’ Sasha noted, baffled. ‘Wait, can she even bake?’
‘I don’t believe so, no,’ Tuppence said, wringing her hands anxiously. ‘She tried to bake me scones once and set the oven on fire. I didn’t even know you could do that.’
‘So, this is possibly just a freakout?’ Sasha asked.
Tuppence nodded hopefully. ‘But she’s not here.’
‘But nor is Clara,’ Sasha pointed out.
Tuppence looked as though that were news. ‘Oh. No. She’s not, is she?’
Suddenly, there was a man among them bearing a dyed black beard that was probably supposed to make him look younger. ‘Hello,’ he said uncomfortably.
Sasha thought he might be Clara’s dad, Simon. Everyone who ever mentioned him had followed it up with a whispered, ‘The one with the money.’
‘Simon!’ Tuppence cried. ‘I’m so sorry!’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ he said, his eyes glistening.
‘No, I’m sorry.’
Sasha resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the pair. ‘Simon, is it?’
He turned to Sasha. ‘Oh, yes. Hello…’
‘Sasha. Claire’s cousin.’
‘More like a sister,’ Tuppence said emotionally.
‘Though very much still a cousin. So, where’s Clara?’ Sasha said, cutting to the heart of the matter.
‘I just got a text from her. She’s not coming.’
‘Training to be an architect in the Welsh valleys, I take it?’ Sasha asked scornfully.
Simon blinked. ‘What? No. She’s simply decided this isn’t the right day for it.’
‘Not the right day for it?’ Tuppence repeated, suddenly deciding she was the aggrieved party now that her daughter wasn’t the only fuck-up. ‘NOT THE RIGHT DAY FOR IT?! We’ve done all this, all this, all this…’ Sasha gave Tuppence a gentle clap on the back, and the record broke. ‘All this work, for her to decide that it’s…’
‘Now, look,’ Simon bristled. ‘I’ve spent a lot of money on this wedding. I paid for the honeymoon too, which was almost as expensive…’
‘Money?!’ Tuppence screeched. ‘I’ve been working every hour god sends for months to set this up. I have a yacht waiting at the marina to take them away at midnight on a dream holiday straight from the reception! I’ve got their bloody bags packed and waiting at the venue!’
‘Yes, I know. I wrote the cheque for it,’ Simon said smugly.
Sasha couldn’t stand here listening to these adults having a who’s-the-most-wronged competition. It was giving her parental divorce flashbacks. ‘Tuppence, Simon… They’ve both ditched the wedding. You both got screwed.’
Simon was agog. ‘Both of them! What on earth?’ He shook his head. ‘What is wrong with this generation? They’ve got the attention span of gnats.’
‘You could probably pin it on social media if you need a scapegoat,’ Sasha offered.
Sasha didn’t think she should be involved in this, but somehow, when an adult was needed, she always got dragged into things. ‘Right, so what now?’
‘I suppose we’ll have to tell the congregation,’ Simon said. ‘Yes,’ Tuppence agreed. Sasha realised they were both looking at her.
‘No. No! You two do it!’ Sasha exclaimed.
‘You’ve always been good at that sort of thing, Sasha,’ Tuppence whined.
‘When have you ever seen me announce an aborted wedding?’ Sasha demanded.
‘I just mean… Taking charge. It’s always been your thing. I know you’re not the oldest one, but somehow, it always seemed like you were.’
‘Watch it,’ Sasha warned.
‘You’re the confident one,’ Tuppence rerouted. ‘People will prefer to hear it from you. I’ll just collapse into tears.’
‘Me too,’ Simon agreed. ‘Well, not tears. But I might have a heart attack from the pressure.’
Sasha groaned, giving up the fight. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ She looked at them. ‘What shall I say?’
‘Keep it vague,’ Tuppence said. ‘We don’t need any more stress with people getting angry and such. The girls will need time to recover.’
‘Recover? From being flakes?’ Sasha asked.
‘We don’t want them bombarded with phone calls,’ Tuppence added.
‘I don’t think she’ll have much signal in the Hebrides,’ Sasha said.
‘We both know she’s probably just at home,’ Tuppence said with a tut.
‘But what about the reception?’ Sasha asked.
Simon put his hands in his suit pocket. ‘Well, it’s paid for.’
‘And organised,’ Tuppence stated. ‘Might take the edge off for the guests that travelled from afar. It can just be a big party for everyone,’ she added, cheering up.
‘With the extremely weird theme of celebrating the “love” of two people who aren’t there,’ Sasha said. She took a deep breath. ‘Better get it over with then.’ She turned to the church. She realised the parents weren’t following. ‘You coming?’
‘I th
‘Yes, we’ll go on ahead. Get things… Set up,’ Tuppence jumped in.
Sasha glared at the pair of them. ‘Un-fucking-cool,’ she declared.
She turned and marched into the church, headed for the altar. Unfortunately, the extremely elderly organist misread the situation and cranked up the wedding march. Everyone turned, expecting to see a bride.
‘No, no, no! It’s not that!’ Sasha called. ‘I’m not…’ She waved at the organist. ‘Can you stop!?’
The organist broke off. ‘I do beg your pardon,’ she muttered, pushing her glasses up her nose, embarrassed.
Sasha ran up the aisle to get to the front quickly.
The vicar, leafing causally through a bible while she waited, looked Sasha up and down. ‘You’re not one of the brides, are you?’ she asked, squinting.
‘No, just a cousin. Wedding’s off,’ Sasha whispered.,
‘Thought as much.’ The vicar slapped her bible shut. ‘Right then. I’m off to watch football.’ She left through the back.
Sasha turned to the crowd, muttering amongst themselves. ‘Sorry, everyone!’ The murmuring crowd went quiet. Sasha took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, but there won’t be a wedding today.’ The reaction was an unnerving silence. Sasha felt she had to say more. ‘There’s been… a change of plans. But the reception is going ahead.’
Sasha’s mother, Erika, stood to her full height of six intimidating feet. ‘What?!’
Sasha tried not to shrink in her glare. ‘It’s… we can… It will all be explained later. Probably. So, let’s all just…’
‘Sasha, explain this to me. Where the hell is your cousin?’ Erika demanded, and Sasha wanted to throttle her.
‘She’s… at large,’ Sasha said, panicked. She hadn’t been expecting the third degree. She thought people would feel awkward enough to just shut their faces and trundle out.
But her mother was never one to let a scene pass her by. She was like her sister Tuppence in that way, albeit a more confrontational version.
‘At large?’ her mother repeated.
Sasha rolled her eyes. ‘Mother. Sit down. No, actually, don’t. We’re all leaving. We’re going to the party.’
‘I just think we deserve an explanation,’ her mother demanded.
‘Yes, probably. But as I’m not the one getting married, should it be from me?’ Sasha asked.
‘You’re in the know. We want to be in the know. So, what do you know?’
‘Not much. The parents of the brides have simply asked me to pass on this message to you.’
‘That Claire and Clara aren’t coming?’ said someone else, standing. Her uncle Toby. He was the youngest sibling and could never bear to be left out.
‘Yes.’
‘Why, though? Was there an accident?’ Toby pressed anxiously.
‘Nothing like that,’ Sasha said quickly.
‘But what have you been told?’ her mother demanded.
‘I’m not on trial here!’ Sasha exploded. ‘So stop haranguing me and bugger off to the venue, would you!’
Her mother put her hands on her hips. ‘Fine. But I bought a hat for this. I will get answers.’ She slid out of the pew and marched up the aisle.
Once she’d broken the seal of seated integrity, everyone duly stood and began to file out. Sasha wasn’t sure how this had turned into a kangaroo court with her in the dock, but she was livid. At Claire, at Clara, at Tuppence, at Simon, at her mother. Even Uncle Toby was asking for a kick in the family jewels. And now she was going to a party with the lot of them, minus the brides. She couldn’t imagine a more miserable social occasion. Oh, for a good funeral.
Sasha knew what the so-called party held for her. People were going to be coming up to her all night, wanting answers Sasha didn’t have. As much as that scenario pissed her off, if she could have somehow known where she’d find herself by the night's end—and the extraordinary mess she’d be in—she’d have taken every stupid question gladly.
Two
Josie Adler was late to the party.
It was worse than that. She’d missed the wedding altogether. She’d woken at ten this morning, looked at the time on her phone, and asked herself very seriously whether she wanted to watch her spoiled half-sister Clara get married enough to drag her hungover self out of bed. She did not.
She decided that she’d just roll up to the reception and make out like she’d been at the wedding the whole time. She was pretty sure she’d get away with it. After all, who would be looking for her? Not Clara. She’d be obsessed with herself more than ever today. Not Stepdaddy Simon. His spawn was all he could ever see. And everyone else would have eyes on the brides. So why break her neck?
So then, just the reception. Only, after she’d had a couple more hours of knocking up zeds and gotten ready slowly because she was still hanging out of her arse from last night, she realised she was not even going to make the pre-meal drinks on time.
OK, if she could just make sure she was at the sit-down meal, it would be fine. She couldn’t fuck around with that; it was the hard line. There would be a specific chair with her name on it. It was a neon arrow pointing to her absence. She had to get her skates on.
She ordered an Uber, selecting the premium service because there was a car nearby. Ordinarily, she was a ride-share girl. She tried not to shudder at the cost of the hour-long drive.
When she arrived at the venue, she had to roll her eyes. It was a manor house, and it was just spiffy. What a perfect demonstration of wealth for the plebs to drink in.
She slid into her chair at table two in the great hall just in time to see knives and forks raised for the starter. ‘Oh Christ, I’m famished!’ she said, stuffing a piece of spinach and ricotta ravioli from a tiny serving bowl into her mouth.
‘Oh, hello,’ said a man with a hang-dog face. ‘Hungry?’
‘I skipped breakfast.’ She checked his name card. ‘Chris? You’re Simon’s brother, right?’
He paused. ‘No. I’m his friend from work.’ He sighed. ‘I’m in the wrong fucking seat again.’ He picked up his plate and went over to table three, where he had a word with a bloke with white hair who looked like Simon. He got up, and Wrong-Chris replaced him in his seat.
Right-Chris came over with his plate, sitting down. ‘Hello, I’m Simon’s brother, Chris.’
‘I’m Josie.’
His eyes widened. ‘Oh,’ he said with alarm and turned to face his plate.
Josie sighed. She wondered what tales Simon had fed him from her youth. The joy ride in his Jag? The time she’d been discovered around the back of the shed with her head up Lily Smith’s skirt? The time she’d set the very same shed on fire?
