Wanderlust (n.) A strong desire or urge to wander or travel and explore the world
It was my wedding day. A day I’d been fantasising about since I was a little girl, a day I had spent the last twelve months planning and organising. It was going to be a rustic English country wedding, complete with homemade bunting strung from the beams of an outrageously expensive manor house and a billowing marquee set up in the perfectly manicured grounds. The harpist would pluck a simple but charming set as we glided into the grand reception room with our nearest and dearest cheering and clapping our arrival as Mr and Mrs Doherty. That was the part I was cacking myself about the most; all those people staring at me, expecting a radiant blushing bride, when really I was terrified I would go arse over tit on my train. Being the centre of attention made my stomach churn and my sweat glands go into overdrive, but I’d limited the numbers as much as I could and technically I was only half of the centre of attention.
I should be in my creamy, laced, fishtail gown by now. As I glanced at my watch, I realised the hand-tied bouquets of soft powder blue forget-me-nots, complemented by the sweet scent of freesias, should have been delivered ten minutes ago. I should be preparing to sink into the plush chair at the pricy hairdresser’s as they transformed my limp locks into a work of art.
Except that I was sat on an uncomfortable plastic sun lounger trying to hide the big fat tears falling down my slightly sunburnt face, as my best friend Marie passed me yet another dodgy watered-down sex on the beach punch from the all-inclusive pool bar.
In one hour’s time I would have married my fiancé, Alex, but this had all changed fifteen days earlier when I was half-watching a re-run of Don’t Tell the Bride whilst triple-checking the seating plan matched up to the 3D replica Alex’s sister-in-law Francesca had loaned me. She was the one who’d been to school with Kate Middleton, and managed to bring it up into every conversation I’d ever had with her. Waiting for him to arrive home after yet another late shift at work, I had become so engrossed in this episode in which the henpecked husband-to-be had got it oh-so-wrong by choosing a size eight dress for his blatantly curvy size sixteen bride, that I hadn’t realised Alex was standing in the doorframe chewing his fingernails and loosening his tie.
‘We need to talk.’ His voice sounded strangled and distant. His tie had an ink stain that no doubt I’d get chastised by his mother for not being able to scrub off. She’d pursed her lips many a time at my lack of domestic goddesstry. Alex had rebelled against it at the beginning, being the last single man in a family of smug married older brothers. I had been the breath of fresh air next to his Martha Stewart sisters-in-law. Five years later that sweet scent had soured into country air.
We’d met at a dodgy Indie nightclub in Manchester, having been dragged there by our respective best friends one wet Saturday night. Bonding over cheap lager in plastic pint pots, chatting like long-lost friends to the strains of the Smiths and the Kaiser Chiefs, as our two ‘besties’ got off with each other. After sharing a deep appreciation of cholesterol-clogging cheesy chips in the taxi ride back home, and a mutual love for garlic mayo, I knew this was something special.
The years passed, the clubbing stopped as focusing on climbing the career ladder became a priority. After years of renting mould-filled hovels with dodgy landlords, we had saved up enough to buy our own home. Alex had proudly turned down his parents’ offer of financial support, so we couldn’t live in Millionaires’ Row rubbing shoulders with WAGs like the rest of his family, but he’d revelled in our bohemian charm even if it meant our neighbours were often more likely to be guests on Jeremy Kyle. I’d loved how steadfast he was to his morals, even if at times we could have done with a helping hand.
So