The Road Trip Beth O'Leary (ereader ebook .txt) 📖

‘The Mini is in the car park,’ Marcus says, pointing. ‘Looks like Rodney’s parked up and gone inside.’

Addie swears.

‘What now?’ I ask.

‘Break into the Mini so we can change?’ Marcus says, looking down at his clothes with distaste. ‘I can’t turn up at a wedding looking like this.’

Addie rolls her eyes. ‘We need to get to the venue and find Rodney before he does any damage. If we’re not already too late.’

‘Gah,’ Marcus says, but he follows us as we head out of the car park.

There are signs directing us to the wedding venue itself; they are all intricately hand-drawn with curling calligraphy and watercolour explosions of fireworks at their edges. It takes about a minute of following the trail to clear the towering pine trees around the car park, and as soon as we do, we let out a collective gasp.

Above us is an enormous, ornate castle. It’s definitely not a genuine castle – or rather, it’s a castle, but when it was built, nobody was thinking about defending this area from marauders – but it’s so impressive it doesn’t matter. There are turrets with flags flying, there’s a thickly flowering vine climbing up almost as high as the battlements, and there’s a moat complete with drawbridge.

We cross the water in stunned silence. We all knew Cherry and Krish were planning a large and fairly extravagant wedding, but this is something else.

There are guests already milling on the vivid green lawn at the front of the castle, a cacophony of colour: elaborate headpieces and hats, full-length ballgowns, saris and lehengas. Beside me, Addie looks down at herself, as if just remembering that she’s still in the same white dress she put on this morning, with a shirt collar and a belt at the waist.

‘Shit,’ she mutters. ‘It had to be white, didn’t it?’

I scan the crowd for any sign of Rodney, but there are scores of people here already, perhaps hundreds, and I don’t know what he’ll be wearing. He could easily have changed into his suit, given that he had access to the entire contents of the Mini. Or he could be in Deb’s pyjamas, come to that.

‘Addie!’ comes a voice from behind us.

We all spin. The synchrony is becoming uncanny. I think it must be the two days of poor air conditioning and endless country music: we are united now, as one, having breathed the same stale air for so many hours.

‘Yeah?’ Addie says, bewildered. Nobody nearby seems to be looking at us. We’re near the building, right by a flowerbed overflowing with pink and purple flowers and . . . something . . . white.

‘Addie,’ I say, pointing to the offending patch of white fabric just visible behind a large bush.

‘Addie! Get back here!’ the voice hisses.

It’s Cherry. She’s in full wedding dress with her hair in pins; for a brief moment her face pokes out from behind the bush, eyes wide, cheeks rosy.

We all crowd in around her. Cherry scans us with the expression of a woman who does not have the mental energy to absorb anything that isn’t immediately relevant to the crisis at hand – she barely even blinks as she registers the presence of the burly lorry driver beside Deb, and the large, technicolour bruising around Marcus’s nose.

‘Well? Where’s Rodney?’ she hisses. ‘Is he here?’

‘Happy wedding day,’ I say, leaning to kiss her on the cheek and getting a faceful of leaves. ‘How are you?’

‘Insane,’ she says. ‘I’m insane. Don’t ever get married, Dylan. It turns you into a monster.’

‘OK, noted,’ I say, trying very hard not to look at Addie. ‘Listen, we haven’t found Rodney just yet, but . . .’

Cherry groans, burying her face in her hands.

‘Don’t worry! We’re on it!’ I say, as Addie plucks a leaf out of Cherry’s hair. ‘Can you give us any clues as to what he might be planning? Given what you know about him?’

‘I don’t know him! I just slept with him! Once!’

‘That hardly counts,’ Deb says kindly.

‘He likes romantic gestures, though, right? Hence the poems and stuff,’ Addie says. ‘Don’t you think he’ll try and find you before the ceremony? To change your mind?’

‘Why do you think I’m in this fucking flowerbed?’ Cherry says. ‘This is Vivienne Westwood, you know. And that’s bird poo,’ she says, pointing to a leaf bobbing perilously close to her dress. Her hand is covered in beautiful, intricate henna art, ready for today’s wedding ceremony.

‘We need to lure him out,’ says Marcus. ‘And then pounce.’

He demonstrates pouncing. Cherry jumps.

‘Where would he expect you to be?’ Addie asks.

‘I’m meant to be having my hair done in the bridal preparation chamber,’ she says.

‘That sounds unpleasant,’ Deb says.

‘Yeah, I think they went for “chamber” because of the castle vibe,’ Cherry says, waving a vague hand at the battlements above us. ‘But it’s a bit unfortunate, isn’t it, with all the torture associations?’

‘So let’s go there,’ Marcus says. ‘We’ll hide, jump out on him . . .’

‘And tie him up!’ Deb finishes triumphantly.

Addie and I look at each other. The tying-up plan is sounding like quite a good one, presently, which I think shows how far we have all fallen. I have a feeling that if this journey had been any longer, it would have become progressively more Lord of the Flies, and Marcus probably would have eaten somebody.

‘Addie? Dyl?’ comes a voice from behind us.

Cherry squeals and ducks down again. ‘Get him away from me! Get him away!’

‘Cherry! It’s just Krish,’ Addie says, as we turn.

Krish lifts his hand in a slightly bemused wave. He’s dressed in a traditional wedding sherwani, and looks magnificent in its golds and deep reds. ‘Are you all all right?’ He cranes his head. ‘Is . . . Cherry? Is that you?’

‘You can’t see me! It’s our wedding day!’ she calls. ‘Go away!’

Krish starts to laugh. ‘What are you doing in a bush?’

‘Last-minute crisis,’ Deb says.

‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ Addie says, as Krish’s grin drops. ‘All under control.’ She tucks a corner