Don't Tell the Groom Page 2

  I glance down at the ring on my finger. It’s perfectly weighted so that I know I have something ever so special and precious on my left hand. It’s like my whole life my left ring finger has been lacking something, and finally it’s lost its virginity and it feels complete.

  I’m just starting to drift into a wedding fantasy where I’m shopping for the perfect dress to match my ring, when I realise Mark is talking to me.

  ‘We’ll have to get out the bank statements for the wedding fund to see just how spectacular our wedding can be.’

  Uh-oh. My cheeks suddenly feel heavy as I push every muscle I can to hold my fake smile in place. Mark can’t see the bank statements, as that’s linked to my bingo account. He’d be able to see all my bingo win payments going in. Even though I’ve probably topped up the account with thousands of pounds of winnings by now, he would never approve of me playing bingo.

  ‘How about I plan the wedding, honey? I can make it my present to you? Then all you have to do is turn up. It will be like that TV programme, Don’t Tell the Bride, only I won’t tell the groom.’

  ‘Sounds even better. To us,’ he says, taking a sip of champagne.

  ‘To us,’ I echo. Oh, bloody hell. There suddenly seems a lot already that I can’t tell the groom.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just go straight to bed?’ I ask. ‘I mean, aren’t we supposed to consummate our engagement? Won’t it not be binding if we haven’t done it?

  I look up at Mark in the hope that the lure of getting me naked will be stronger than the urges of the accountant inside him.

  ‘Come on, we didn’t open them yet so that we could have the big surprise when we got engaged. I want to know just how big this wedding you’re going to plan will be.’

  I fail to correct Mark, that we didn’t open the statements because I didn’t want him to see my bingo winnings going in.

  ‘OK,’ I say reluctantly.

  This is not how I imagined the night of our engagement ending up. I imagined we’d spend the time after the proposal screaming down the phone at our nearest and dearest, but as it was after ten o’clock on a Monday night we thought we’d save that pleasure until the next day. Then after shouting from the rooftops, I’d envisaged that we’d probably be so amorous when we got over the threshold that we’d end up having sex on the stairs. Not that I imagine it would be a) very comfortable on our wooden staircase or b) very warm in our poorly heated house. But surely when you get engaged you’re supposed to have acts of passion like that. Checking bank statements did not appear in any of my fantasies. I guess that’s what happens when you’re going to marry an accountant.

  I sit on the bed in the spare room in my sexy dress, holdups and Mark’s dressing gown, as he hands me the envelopes for our bank statements.

  I take a deep breath. You see, with weddings the difference of five hundred pounds is mammoth. It’s the difference between having, or not having, luxuries like a magician to entertain the guests, or a candyfloss machine and sweetshop stand at the evening reception.

  I find the most recent statement from the franked date on the envelope, and I almost wince at it through closed eyes. Does that say fifteen thousand three hundred and fifty-five pounds? A smile breaks out over my face. Fifteen thousand is OK, although I was expecting it to be around twenty thousand. But fifteen thousand will still get me my Vera Wang dress, right?

  ‘So how much are we talking?’ asks Mark.

  I’d almost forgotten he was in the room. I’d been imagining how I was going to eat candyfloss without getting it on my Vera Wang gown.

  ‘I’m not telling you, Mark. We said we were going to do this “Don’t Tell the Groom” thing, and I think we should take it seriously. Besides, you’d probably do a spreadsheet, and it would be like the whole household expenses fiasco.’

  Mark makes an all-singing, all-dancing spreadsheet for our household budget every year. It was depressing enough to discover that we spent £3.50 on toilet rolls every two weeks, but then he manipulated the data into a graph that showed me that it cost £91 a year, and that it literally went down the toilet. That’s a pair of boots!

  ‘OK,’ says Mark sulkily.

  I look down at the statement again and I’m about to drift off into a wedding fantasy once more when I look at the total. I’m sure it said £15, 436.50 the last time I looked, only now it seems to be missing ten thousand pounds. That can’t be right.

  ‘What’s wrong, Pen?’

  In the horror of realising that I’d read the total wrong, a look of panic has replaced my smile.

  ‘Oh, nothing, I was just feeling a little sad as I realised that my gran wouldn’t be able to see the wedding,’ I say, lying. I’m definitely going to hell after that. Dragging my poor dead gran into things.

  Mark supportively rubs my feet in comfort and I try to force a fake smile on to my face again. It’s the kind of face you pull when you’re opening a present that you can just tell you’re going to hate in front of the person who gave it to you. A smile on the face that grows wider and faker, and gets an accompanying head-bob as you pull out the microwavable slippers that smell like your great-aunt.

  £5,345.50. How can that be? Our combined bonuses last year came to eight thousand pounds. Why is there only just over half of that amount in there?

  Surely Mark hasn’t been helping himself to the wedding fund? What would he have spent the money on? My eyes fall on my beautiful, perfect, sparkly ring. No. Surely not? He wouldn’t have used the wedding fund to pay for the engagement ring, would he? He must know that that was not what the fund was for and that he was supposed to pay for it out of his own account.

  Of course he would know that, and besides, I’ve got the debit card for the account. We just thought that when the time came to it I’d be the one spending the money. Which means there has to be some other explanation for where the money has gone to.

  I start trying to focus on the payments going out and going in, but there are just so many of them.

  Inside I’m freaking out, wondering where the hell my money is, but outwardly I’ve got this painted smile on my face which seems to be making Mark look deliriously happy.

  I slowly open some of the other statements, and read them over, doing a head-nod and a smile as I do. I can clearly see the payments made in from both Mark and my bank accounts, but there are all these other debits made to Carnivore Services. That doesn’t ring any bells with me in the slightest. It sounds like some weird male-blooded dating agency or an upmarket butchers. It does not, however, sound like something that should appear on my wedding bank account.

  And where are all my payments in from my winnings from Fizzle Bingo?

  These are not my transactions. Someone has clearly been stealing from my account and paying this Carnivore company for whatever they do.

  What I need to do is march to the bank and demand they sort out the problem for me, only I’ve got nine hours to wait before it opens, and then there’s the small matter that I have to go to work tomorrow. Somehow, showing up late with an engagement ring on my finger, I’m not going to be able to convince anyone I had an emergency doctor’s appointment, or at least without the rumour mill starting that it’s going to be a shotgun wedding.

  ‘Well, now that we know we’re going to have one great big party, I think we should go and consummate this engagement after all,’ Mark says.

  I look up at him, careful to keep up the fake smile. Sex is now the last thing on my mind. Why couldn’t he have just been like any normal, red-blooded male and we could have had the sex in the first place instead of looking at bank statements?

  I stuff the statements back into their folder just as Mark begins to run his hands up my thighs. While on the one hand I want to go all Nancy Drew and solve the mystery of the meat-eater and the missing money from our account, another part of my brain is telling me that the bank is going to sort the little mix-up out in no time, and that really I should concentrate on the fact that my
fiancé is taking my hold-ups off with his teeth. Yes, I really shouldn’t be worrying. Who knows, the bank might even give us extra money – you know, to compensate for the trauma of what went on. Maybe it will be enough so that I can even have doves released at the wedding.

  It’s depressing enough going to the bank at lunchtime, but it’s even more so when you’ve had to turn down the offer of going to the pub with your work colleagues. They wanted to help celebrate my engagement. Instead I’m having to celebrate it by standing in a queue, along with the whole town of Farnborough, at the bank. I glance at my watch. I’m going to be lucky if I make it to the counter this century, let alone before the end of my lunch break.

  I haven’t really given the bank statements much thought since last night. I went to sleep pretty quickly, thanks to the naughty things that Mark did to me and the amount of alcohol we’d consumed. Then today, I’ve barely had time to think of anything other than how lucky I am to have the best engagement ring in the world. Colleagues from all over my office have been coming to admire the diamond dance I’ve now perfected with my hand. But shuffling forward in the queue, I’m growing ever more nervous about the statements. By the time I’ve shuffled all the way to the counter, I’m feeling quite sick. Now I know this could have everything to do with the amount of alcohol Mark and I had last night, but somehow this feels different.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asks the woman behind the counter in a way that makes me think that she’d rather stab her own eyes out with a fork.

  ‘I’ve noticed some unusual activity on my account and I think someone’s been spending my money.’

  ‘Right. Can I have your account details?’

  I hand over one of the crumpled bank statements and she taps the number in.

  She scrolls down her screen for what seems like hours.

  ‘Which bit of it is unusual activity?’

  ‘There are some transactions to Carnivore Services on there and I don’t know who they are, and they’ve taken out an awful lot of money from my account and it’s our wedding fund. I’ve just got engaged, you see.’

  ‘Ah, that’s sweet.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, flashing my left hand so that my engagement ring catches the light. It seems to have become a default spasm that I do when I announce my engagement to anyone.

  ‘It appears to be a regular payment,’ the cashier says. ‘And it has been happening since last August. Have you not noticed before now?’

  ‘No, I don’t usually open the statements,’ I say quietly.

  The woman rolls her eyes at me.

  ‘You know that you’re legally obliged to open them,’ she says sternly. ‘Right. I don’t think I can sort this out. I think I’ll have to make you an appointment with the bank manager. Are you free next week?’

  ‘No,’ I practically scream. ‘I’ve got to get it sorted today. I mean, it’s imperative. If someone’s been stealing my money, how do I know they’re not going to steal more? You’d think you as a bank would take this seriously.’

  I look round to make sure that the other customers are looking, which they are.

  Clearly embarrassed at the potential for bad PR, the cashier mutters that she’ll go and see if the manager is free.

  A few minutes and a lot of tuts from customers behind me later, the cashier returns. ‘Miss Holmes, would you step this way, please?’ says the bank manager, emerging from the back office.

  I give him the biggest smile I can muster. I want to give him the best possible impression of myself to counteract the fact that I probably still stink like a brewery from last night.

  ‘Now, I’ve had a very quick look at this bank statement and it all seems very standard. It doesn’t really count as unusual activity,’ he says as we sit down in his office. I needn’t have worried about the smell of alcohol coming from me – this office smells of nothing but egg and cress sandwiches, the stinky kind that is not helping with my sick feeling.

  ‘But I don’t know who Carnivore Services are,’ I say in frustration.

  If a company like Carnivore Services doesn’t sound unusual then I don’t know what does.

  He sighs so loudly that he causes the papers on his desk to lift and fall. He taps away at his computer. That’s what always disconcerts me with banks. I’m always terrified that they have secret information on there. Or that they’re analysing your account to see whether you buy your knickers from Ann Summers or M&S. Whatever they do on their computers, I always feel like I’ve been violated.

  ‘Oh,’ says the bank manager.

  ‘Oh’ is never a good sign. He gives me a look up and down and then he gives me a look of pity. Is it just me, or is he now avoiding eye contact too?

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  I put my arms on the chair rest and grab hold of the handles as if I am in an aeroplane during take-off. My knuckles have started to turn white and I start to feel sick again, and this time it isn’t due to my hangover, or the egg smell.

  I know exactly what he is going to say. My fiancé Mark has been using a vampire-impersonating escort agency, Carnivore Services; it is the only logical explanation. It had come to me on the drive into town.

  The bank manager now knows that I have a cheating fiancé and he is feeling sorry for me. Will I break down in tears right here in this office?

  ‘It looks like Carnivore Services is …’

  Why’s he pausing? This isn’t like the bloody X Factor. There’s no audience here to hold their breath in anticipation. There aren’t going to be any ticker-tape-fuelled explosions and there will be no Dermot O’Leary to wrap his arms around me in consolation. He just needs to spit out the ugly truth.

  ‘Let me put it another way, Ms Holmes. Have you been using the site Fizzle Bingo?’

  ‘Well, yes I have, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Although that reminds me, their payments are missing from my account. That is one of the reasons why I think that your records are wrong and that my account has got linked to someone else’s by mistake. I think that—’

  ‘Ms Holmes.’

  He’s stopped me mid-flow without letting me explain.

  ‘Ms Holmes, Carnivore Services is the company that runs Fizzle Bingo. I’ve done a Google search and on their site’s FAQs it tells you that Carnivore Services is how it appears on your bank statement.’

  This is all too much to take in. If that was Fizzle Bingo then why was all the money being taken out? Where were my winnings going in? Don’t tell me that they’ve cocked it up their end and I’ve got to try and sort it out.

  ‘But this can’t be. I mean, I win. I win all the time.’

  The bank manager sighed again. ‘Do you also lose?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ I mean, I do lose. I lose most of the evenings I play, you know, the odd game – but then I win. I’m sure I must win more than I lose. But it is so hard to keep track of exactly what is going on as there are all the people to talk to. Like Bride2BKay who I love chatting weddings with, and then there’s bitchySue and we always slag off the other people who win, privately of course. And then added to that I do fantasise a lot about my wedding and sometimes I realise that I’ve been playing multiple games without realising. That’s the problem when you use auto-dab. It just tells you when you win.

  Oh. God. How have I done this?

  ‘So you’re telling me that I really do only have five thousand three hundred and forty-five pounds left in the account?’

  The words are starting to stick in the back of my throat; my throat that has suddenly gone remarkably dry.

  ‘And fifty pence,’ says the bank manager.

  I swallow. Fifty pence? That wouldn’t even get me a packet of confetti.

  ‘But I don’t understand. I really don’t.’

  I look up at the bank manager for words of wisdom. They must have to deal with this stuff all the time, mustn’t they? They are probably like counsellors. The next step will be for him to make me a strong cup of coffee and we’ll work out my options. Maybe I cou
ld invest my remaining five grand in a high-interest bond. Mark and I haven’t even set a date yet; I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time before the big day. And between now and then I could be super-good and not buy anything for myself and the money would be topped up in a jiffy. Or I could try and win the money back by playing bingo …

  ‘Right, Ms Holmes. I’m actually at lunch, so if you wouldn’t mind.’

  He’s pointing at the door. I think he actually wants me to leave.

  ‘But aren’t you going to talk me through what happened? Go through my account with me and tell me what options I have? You know, savings account, high-interest bonds?’

  ‘High interest? You’re having a laugh. There isn’t anything high interest in this economy. Look, if you’re looking for advice you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m not an agony aunt.’

  ‘But what am I supposed to do? I’m supposed to be planning a wedding.’

  ‘Look, love, I’m afraid I can’t help you. If I were you I’d buy a lottery ticket. Or, thinking about it, with your gambling habit that is probably not a good idea.’

  Hey, I scream in my head. I’m not some addict. That makes me sound all seedy and dirty. All I did was play a bit of bingo online while watching TV. That is hardly in the same league as men who spend all day in the bookies’.

  He reaches into his drawer and hands me a business card.

  ‘Citizens Advice?’ I say, reading it out loud.

  ‘Yep, go and see them. They’ll make you feel better.’

  He is actually standing up now and I really can’t stay in the bank any longer. Walking back out I don’t know what I am going to do. How am I going to tell Mark that I have lost over ten thousand pounds on online bingo?

  Mark always laughs when those adverts for bingo come on TV and he says ‘Who would be sad enough to play that?’ I always laugh along, thinking, Just wait until we have the most amazing wedding and then I’ll tell you about the bingo.

  Only there’s not going to be a wedding as we’ve only got five grand. Not unless we elope, but then both our sets of parents would disown us.