- Used Books
- Staff Picks
- Gifts & Gift Cards
- Sell Books
- Stores & Events
- Let's Talk Books
Special Offers see all
More at Powell's
Recently Viewed clear list
Used Trade Paper
Usually ships in 5 to 7 business days
available for shipping or prepaid pickup only
More copies of this ISBN
Honeymoonby Amy Jenkins
We're in this white limo purring through crowded Saturday-night streets. Like in Hollywood. Although it's not Hollywood. This great big fuck-off ridiculous stretch limo is in London's West End - although it's hardly the West and nowhere near the end. This limo is so stretched you can't understand why it doesn't sink in the middle and drag its belly on the ground. This limo is so long you think it can't turn those tight Soho corners without sweeping café society into the gutter.
But imagine this. Imagine it does have to stop at one of those corners. To avoid killing someone. And when it stops, there's this young man - looks like he might be from out of town, all fresh-faced. And he is drawn to one of the limo's open windows, leans down to the window, becomes involved in conversation with the limo occupants, leans into the window, further and further, until finally he is sucked through the window into the limo, head first. The last you see of him being his tattered red sneakers as they disappear from sight.
Because the thing is - you see - this limo does not contain one lonely pop-star riding along in state. This limo contains more girls than you could shake a stick at. Wall to wall feminine flesh, crammed in we are. Girl sardines. I'm in a great white tin of girl sardines. Or that's what it feels like.
And this witless piece of fresh-faced masculinity is wedged into the seat opposite me, squeezed between thighs. And all the girls in the limo - they want me to get off with him. That's what you do at your hen party.
Oh my God. Or, Oh! My! God!, as my sister Ven would say - she's twenty-one. Left to my own devices, I would never have had a hen party. "Honey," Della had said, "sweetheart, left to your own devices you would never be getting married. And now look." And now look. Well, quite.
Honey, by the way, is my name. Della is given to terms of endearment but not that given. Not two-in-one-sentence given.
So Della went ahead and arranged a surprise hen party. And, actually, I'm quite enjoying it. I mean, I never like the idea of just being girls together - like I never like the idea of a salad for lunch - but when it comes to it, it can be quite pleasant. At least they didn't hire a male stripper or truss me up and put me on a plane to Amsterdam. Del rented the stretch limo and invited everyone and we've been driving round London drinking champagne. Or, rather, they have. Champagne gives me a headache.
After a bottle or five, they'd got all girl-powerish, which is how they came to be hanging out of the windows trying to pick up blokes. I wasn't that interested. West End pickings on a Saturday night are notoriously slim. Besides, I'm not really interested in anybody at the moment. Not a foreign body at any rate. They'd been telling me you have to be unfaithful at your hen party, make-out unfaithful at the very least. Della said the French have a word for it - she'd just spent six months in Paris on assignment, she works for Marks & Spencer. She couldn't remember what the French word was exactly, but roughly translated it means "last gasp before dying."
"Charming," I said. "Believe it or not," I said, "I don't want to be unfaithful."
Copyright © 2001 by Amy Jenkins
What Our Readers Are Saying
Other books you might like