This is a sneak peek at the first chapter of My Summer at The Pink Flamingo.
This is a raw unedited piece of work and I'm sharing it just for fun.
9th June 2018
I can’t believe I’m getting married today. Miss Bella Louise Marshall, soon to be Mrs. Harrison DuVall. I’m going to sound so posh. Actually, I will be posh, my husband to be is a multi-millionaire. Alright for a wee lassie from Glasgow.
As I stand at the altar in my beautiful wedding dress looking at my hotter than hell husband to be, I get the strangest feeling that something isn’t right. He keeps looking past me and at one point even blatantly ignores me.
Harrison DuVall was one of the most eligible men in London when I met him a year ago. I had moved there from Glasgow when I was seventeen in search of my big break as an actress. He was an English Premiership footballer and had women swooning over him wherever he went. I just happened to be working the night he and his teammates came into the exclusive club I worked at to celebrate winning the league. Yes, the dreams didn’t exactly turn out the way I had planned. With the only work I could get being extra work on Eastenders or Casualty, or the occasional TV ad, I had to support myself somehow.
I am beginning to get extremely annoyed with him now especially when I turn around to see what he is looking at and catch my half-sister, my chief bridesmaid, winking at him. When I turn back round, I find Harrison smirking as if there’s nothing going on. I know exactly what is going on.
“You dirty cheating bastard,” I shout and slap him hard across the jaw. My voice echoes high up into the vaulted ceiling of Southwark Cathedral and reverberates off its walls.
The collective gasp from the congregation reminds me of where we are, and I immediately feel like an idiot. The flash of a camera also reminds me that we have allowed OK! Magazine to have exclusive rights to our wedding pictures. Right at this moment I want the ground to open up and swallow this whole church.
“Isabella Louise Marshall, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ah my mother. My east end of Glasgow born mother who married into money after she cheated on my dad and forgot her roots. She talks with the most stupid put on posh Glasgow accent you’ve ever heard and when she found out I was marrying Harrison she was on cloud nine. Her horrible little eyes started spinning like a cartoon character’s that has realised they’re in the money.
“Calling out that bastard for what he is, and as for her,” I point to my sister, “she can rot in fucking hell.”
“Stop this right now young lady!”
I narrow my eyes at her and really take in the sight in front of me. She has gone all out for this one. The outfit she’s wearing probably cost my stepfather more than a year’s golf club membership and, in my mother’s finest, I-don’t-care fashion she has actually decided to wear white to my wedding. I can see from the lack of movement in her face that she’s back on the Botox again. She looks so ridiculous trying to purse her lips at me but failing miserably, instead looking like she’s constipated.
“I am not your ‘young lady’ anymore mother. Maybe it’s her you should be asking that question to. Yeah, go on, ask little miss perfect there what she’s been up to with my fiancé.”
My sister's fake look of shock could win her an Oscar. Maybe she should have been the actress.
“It’s Bella, and you know what,” I turn to my sister, “you’re goddamn welcome to him.” I chance a glance at the minister who looks like he’s going to pass out. “Sorry,” I whisper to him.
“Oh, I can’t believe you could do this to me, you’re embarrassing me.” My mother’s fake tears are the last straw.
“Oh, shut up you stupid woman. How the hell I’m not a better actress with you as a mother I’ll never know. Harrison I hope you’ll both be happy together and I hope it was worth it.” I throw my bouquet at his face and storm off down the aisle right towards the OK! photographer who lifts her camera to snap a picture. As she does, I stick my middle finger up and stick out my tongue. Put that in your magazine you fucking gossipmonger.
Before I get to the doors, I notice a familiar face in the last pew. My dad. My real dad who, because of my horrible mother, didn’t get his invite to his only daughter’s wedding. He gives me a thumbs-up and a huge smile, his body shaking as he tries to stifle his laughter.
I make my way out the door and into the hot June sunshine. Where the hell I’m going decked out in a wedding dress in the middle of London I don’t know, but I need to get away from these people as quickly as I can.
Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think.