Stag
I was at my best
mate, Red’s stag and was half-way blitzed, trying to work out if one of the
stripper’s breasts was slightly lower than the other. Red was loudly arguing
with his brother about politics.
A man
sat next to me and offered his hand. ‘Hi, I’m Ian.’
I
shook his hand. ‘Zach. How do you know Red?’
He
sipped his scotch. ‘We’re workmates. You?’
‘Cousins
and mates.’
‘Do
ya know the fiancé at all?’
‘Beatrice?
Not that much. I mean, we’ve been in the same company plenty of times,
birthdays, Christmases, et cetera, but I can’t say I know her that well. My
wife does. She’s at Beatrice’s hen party tonight.’
‘I hardly
know her either,’ Ian said. ‘Thing is, and I don’t know if I should tell you
this, you can keep a confidence, right? I need to tell ...’
‘Mate,
get to the point.’
‘Right.
I was in Sydney last week when I saw her in the hotel swimming pool. It had a
glass wall and I could see she was getting passionate with a woman. They were
the only ones in the pool, and they were all over each other. Do ya think I
should tell him?’
I was
shocked. ‘You reckon she’s a les? Nah, she’d have to be bi. Damn straight you
should tell him. Wouldn’t you want to know?’
He
picked at a cardboard coaster. ‘You wanna back me up?’
The
barmaid topped up my glass. ‘Not really. I didn’t see her.’
‘I’d
appreciate it. I have a photo. The glass wall had some condensation on it, but
you can clearly see that it’s Beatrice. You wanna look?’
‘Shit,
no. It’d be too much like perving.’ I looked at the clock behind the bar,
downed my drink and stood. ‘Okay, I’ll back you.’
Red
broke from his argument and joined us.
Ian’s
words rushed out. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this but I saw Beatrice getting it on
with some woman in Sydney. I thought you’d want to know.’
Red
took the information calmly. ‘How sure are you, Ian? That doesn’t sound right
to me. How much have you had to drink?’
‘I
have a photo.’
While
Ian fiddled with his phone, Red turned to me. ‘You seen this?’
I
shook my head. ‘Nope.’
Red
laughed, then looked at Ian’s phone. ‘Holy shit!’ He grabbed the phone and used
a thumb and forefinger to enlarge the picture. ‘Why didn’t …?’ He turned and
shouted to the room, ‘The wedding’s off. Let’s all get smashed.’
He
turned to me again. ‘Unfortunately, you’re already married, Zach.’ He put the
phone in my hand. ‘Good luck with that.’
There
she was, the love of my life, pashing Beatrice. My stomach dropped and I
started to sweat. I loved Paula, and I wanted to keep her. I wanted to block
the photo from my mind. If I said anything to her, would she leave? Could I
live in pretended ignorance? Paula, Paula. Why?
Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.
about the Author
Peter Lingard, , born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.
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