My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (19 page)

‘Oooh, can’t you?’ George says. ‘I can.’

‘So can I,’ I say cheerfully, trying to smooth things over. ‘Lots and lots of things,’ George carries on wittering. ‘Silk flower arrangements, for one. Lambrusco, there’s another. Anything grape-based in a screw-topped bottle, come to think of it. Erm…’

‘People who say doofer. And doobrey,’ adds David.

‘And malarkey,’ Janice agrees.

‘Menthol fags’ (George again).

‘Being fat’ (Pussy).

‘Being poor’ (Janice).

‘You do know they’ll ask you the colour of his toothbrush, don’t you?’ Pussy pulls on a teensy-weensy angora sweater and shivers prettily. ‘I saw it on
Green Card
.’

I’m tempted to whack her one round the face but I don’t want her running to the Home Office or something ridiculous and spoiling everything, so I simply explain that we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

‘And it’s all going to be fine,’ I assure them. ‘For George and David, yes,’ Sam mutters ‘What about you?’ ‘What about me?’ I ask. ‘Don’t ask me if I’m sure I love him, for God’s sake. It’s not like we’re getting married for real, anyway.’

‘You are getting married for real, you silly girl.’ ‘Only on paper. And it’s not like I’m going into this with my eyes shut. I know exactly what I’m doing.’

‘Are they paying you?’ I can practically see the pound signs going Kerching! across Janice’s eyeballs.

‘No,’ I say. ‘But it is a mutual arrangement. I get to benefit too.’

‘Well, I hope you’re not going to be wearing that.’ Pussy looks
at my outfit in distaste. ‘I hope one of these boys is going to take you in hand and get you something decent to wear.’

‘She can get her own clothes, thank you,’ George snaps. ‘And I certainly don’t think she needs advice from the likes of you, love. You with your prissy little name and your little dolly clothes. I bet your mother’s called something really common like Cheryl.’

Pussy’s bottom lip starts to wobble. George, as usual, has obviously hit the nail right on the head.

I rush to appease Sam, who is looking furious.

‘No.’ Sam holds up both his hands and I can’t help noticing how huge they are. Big, safe hands. ‘What was that you were saying about you getting to benefit as well?’

‘Well,’ I say slowly, ‘I’m going to be moving house. It makes sense, anyway, for me to be living with David if we’re going to be married. It’ll look more realistic.’

‘I thought you didn’t want to move out of your flat,’ he says coldly. ‘What was it? You didn’t want to “lose your independence”. Well, I hate to say it, Simpson, but I think you’ve bloody well gone and done that now. So George’s pad is good enough for you, is it? But not mine.’

‘Oh Sam, please try and understand.’ I go to hug him but he pulls away.

‘Understand what? That you’re making the biggest mistake of your life? You do realise you’ll end up regretting this, don’t you?’

‘Of course I won’t. And if I do, this is the twenty-first century. There is such a thing as divorce now. We don’t have to stay together until we cark it.’

‘That’s the general idea, isn’t it?’ Sam points out. ‘I mean this isn’t exactly what you’d call romantic, is it?’

‘And what would you know?’ I ask him. ‘Your idea of romance is bringing home a takeaway and asking your girlfriend to warm it through.’

‘I’ll come,’ Janice offers. ‘I’ll be there for you, hon.’

‘Thanks, mate.’

‘As long as I
can bring Jasper.’

‘OK.’

‘I’ll come too if you like,’ Pussy says. ‘If Kirsty—”Katie.’ ‘Sorry.’ She flashes me a smile that’s about as genuine as a moody Vuitton bag. ‘If Katie here wants to get married then we should surely all go along to support her. And I love weddings.’ She looks at Sam petulantly.

‘I bet you do,’ George says. ‘Let’s face it, love. Nice wedding on a Saturday’s probably your equivalent of a weekly whip round Sainsbury’s. Who knows what you might pick up? Or who, to be more exact.’

‘That’s not fair, George,’ Sam says quietly. I shiver. I hate Sam’s quiet voice. It means he’s internally combusting. I think we should go before he explodes. He does this very rarely, but when he does he goes up like Sydney Harbour on Millennium Eve.

‘Oh, come off it,’ George says. ‘The little cow’s in it for all she can get. Her mother’s probably been waiting forever to palm her off onto some successful blokey like yourself. And she won’t stop at you. Do you think for a minute she’d be hanging round you if Richard Branson glanced twice in her direction? Oh no, darling. She’d be off like Linda Lusardi’s bra.’

‘Right.’ Sam’s lips are white with fury. ‘Get out.’

Then he turns to me.

‘And as for you,’ he says in the disappointed tone of voice my mother reserves for occasions when she wants to make me feel extra guilty, ‘I’d have thought you’d have had more sense. I just hope you realise how selfish these two are being before it’s too late.’

‘The whole point is that she’s being completely unselfish.’ Janice tries, not very successfully, to back me up. Unfortunately her attempt cuts no ice with Sam. He ignores her completely, stabbing a finger at me instead.

‘It’s rude to point,’ I say childishly.

‘Don’t be facetious.’

‘Don’t pretend
you’re my dad then.’

‘You haven’t thought this through at all, have you, Simpson?’ he lectures me. ‘What happens in five years’ time when you suddenly decide you want children before it’s too late and you’re married to a Jaffa?’

‘A what?’ George booms.

‘A Jaffa,’ I explain. ‘You know, seedless.’

‘Oooh,’ George spits. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the quality of David’s seed, thank you very much. My God. I never had you down for a homophobe, darling. Still, you know what they say. He who doth protest too much and all that. Takes one to know one.’

‘Look, if I ever do change my mind about having children, I’ll come to you, Sam, for a sample of your quality heterosexual semen, OK? So there really is no need for you to worry. I’ll be OK. Really.’

‘I think you’ll live to regret it.’ He looks at me sadly.

‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘And you’ll probably understand when you’ve had time to think about it. I told you already. I don’t want to get married. Ever. So I’m really not losing out.’

‘Aren’t you?’ ‘What?’ ‘Leave her alone.’ George pulls on my arm. ‘Come on, Katie darling, let’s go. Why do you have to try and spoil everything, Sam? Just because you have no idea what it’s like to be in love.’

‘Oh, but I do,’ Sam says quietly, as Pussy gazes up at him besottedly. ‘I know perfectly well, thank you.’

‘Being in love with yourself doesn’t count.’ I flounce off without turning back to look at him, so I won’t see the hurt look I know will cross his face as he shuts the door in mine.

‘Onwards and upwards, eh boys?’ I crank up the volume on my ancient car stereo and smile as we turn onto the Balham High Road and drive north towards Clapham Common.

George has obviously been awaiting our arrival. Clad in his favourite violet shaggy coat and a pair of enormous black boots, he clops out through the front door the moment I putter to a halt by the kerb. He’s waving and signalling hysterically. I have no idea what he’s after so I merely shrug my shoulders and switch off the ignition. He motions for me to wind down the window.

‘Park a bit further up,’ he hisses.

‘Why? I’m not in
anyone’s way.’

‘We don’t want that sodding wheelie bin right outside the front door, darling. What’ll the neighbours think?’

I ignore him, clambering out of the passenger door and opening the back to let Graham and Shish Kebab out.

‘You haven’t brought
them
?’ George looks horrified.

‘Of course I have.’ I put Graham’s basket down on the pavement and hand Shish Kebab to George. He shrinks away and the cat, sensing a possible rival, mewls indignantly.

‘What did you think I was going to do with them?’ I say, hurt. ‘Put them up for adoption?’

‘You can sling them in the Finsbury Park reservoir for all I care.’ George picks up my ghettoblaster and walks, wiggling his hips in exaggerated disdain, towards the house. ‘You do realise I’m dangerously allergic, don’t you? I could go into anaphylactic shock in seconds with these little buggers around. I just hope they’re toilet trained. I don’t want them spraying the soft furnishings.’

‘Of course they are.’ I bend to stroke Graham’s nose through the bars of his travel basket and jump back as he goes to scratch me.

‘Vicious little bastard as well, that one, isn’t he?’ George tuts.squashed up for too long ‘He’s just upset,’ I protest. ‘He’s been squashed up for too long.’

‘God, you sad bitch.’ George puts the cat basket down in the hall, making absolutely no attempt to free its occupant. ‘You’ll be thinking the little bags of shite are your own children next.’

Despite the fact that they are most unwelcome, Graham and Shish Kebab seem to like their new home. And I can’t really complain. My new bedroom is twice the size of my old one. Plus, I get to use all the latest mod cons in the kitchen.

My first week is taken up with preparing for the christening in Lewisham and for the wedding of some ghastly girl called Marina who I met at Poppy’s bash. But then I’m free to spend the next week happily painting my new office a rather
delicious shade of dark pink. And when it’s finished I decide I love it so much I could live in it. David generously lends me his laptop so I don’t have to use my ancient Mac any more and I place advertisements in all the local papers, next to ads for comedy nights and articles on the threatened closure of local nurseries, which have indignant Hermès-clad mothers leaping out of Mercedes people carriers all over Canonbury to waggle clipboards and petitions in the faces of perfectly innocent passers-by. Then I sit back in my lovely pink office and wait.

The first caller on my new business line is—quite predictably—my mother.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks, hurt.

‘I was going to tell you when I’d settled in,’ I sigh, ripping the paper off a Pepperami with my teeth and jamming the end in my mouth. ‘I only moved in a week ago.’

‘You’ve
moved
?’ she screeches.

‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘I assumed that’s what you meant.’

‘Katherine Simpson, you’re not telling me you’ve moved house and not even thought to mention it to your own mother?’

‘I’m sorry, Mum, I—’

‘You know Jeff was right,’ she huffs into the receiver.

‘What’s Jeff got to do with it?’ I raise my eyes to the ceiling and chew off another bit of sausage.

‘We had Sam coming round the other day, all upset about some row or other you’ve had, the pair of you. Honestly, you’re worse than you were as kids. And don’t think I don’t know what you did to him with that spade. If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times. I’ve got eyes in the back of my head.’

‘I was four.’ ‘Old enough to know better.’

‘Did he say what the row was about?’ I’m suspicious. Bugger Sam. If he’s mentioned the wedding I’ll bloody well rip his balls off.

‘Refused, apparently,’ Mum says. ‘It was the girlfriend, I think.

Nice little thing. Lovely
manners. Yes, it was she who brought the whole thing up in the first place.’

‘Along with most of her dinner, I bet,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ I sigh. ‘It’s just all really silly. Anyway, Mum, I’m living at George’s to save some money so I can start up my catering business properly. I’m going to make a real go of it this time.’

Obviously, I don’t tell her about my end of the bargain. That’s going to have to be a closely guarded secret. But I’m much better off now I’m not paying rent, and Poppy’s dad, bless him, has paid my invoice early, so I’m hoping I won’t let anyone down.

‘Good for you, darling.’ She sounds delighted. ‘I know you’ll make a success of it.’

Christ Almighty. There she goes again, with her bloody care and support.

Now I’m going to sodding well
have
to make a success of it, aren’t I? Otherwise I’ll be had up for cruelty to menopausal old women. I’m lining her up for disappointment, of course. It’ll be even worse when she
is
disappointed and tries really hard not to show it. Cue guilt trip from hell.

Bloody hell. Why on earth can’t she just laugh in my face like her mate Gloria would? Tell me no daughter of hers is swaddling herself in overalls and rolling out pastry for a living, no better than a common kitchen maid.

Still, two days after the free papers containing my ad have been pushed through letterboxes all over London, the phone calls start for real. I can’t believe how easy it is. A woman in Totteridge wants to know if I can make red food for her ruby wedding anniversary. A TV gardener needs a ‘green finger’ buffet when he opens the grounds of his manor in Hertford-shire to the public for charity. And a Sloane Ranger from Battersea (only, needless to say, she pronounces it Batterseaar) wants me to ‘do’ her hen night.

I suppose I’d better not let on about my record for doing husbands as well.

Slowly, with
each booking, my confidence, along with my contacts book, starts to grow. And during the next few weeks, I’m so busy, sitting in my pink office planning menus and seating arrangements, that I don’t even have time to think about the wedding. Even Sam’s disapproval over the whole affair pales into insignificance when I think about how much I have to do. I’m spending every single minute cooking. Baking mini banoffee pies and tiny tiramisus, designed to be scoffed in one mouthful for Mr TV Gardener. Making podgy pink babies out of marzipan for a christening cake in Nappy Valley. Or strawberry flans the size of paddling pools for Mr and Mrs Ruby Wedding. One afternoon, I’m slaving over phallic vodka jellies for Battersear’s hen night when the doorbell rings. I put down the Smirnoff bottle. It’ll be the lard-arse from the bakery, delivering the basket of fresh hereby focaccia, the fat loaves of olive ciabatta and the sundried tomato bread I’ve ordered. I open the front door.

Blimey oh Reilly!

It isn’t lardy at all. It’s a new chap altogether. And let’s just say that the last time I saw thighs like those, I was gawping at an advert for Calvin Klein pants. Before they got those bag-o’-bones Jarvis Cocker lookalikes to drape themselves all over the show likes great big strings of snot, that is.

Oh yes. This one’s what Janice would call a ‘nice bit of rough’.

Not quite her Driver Eating Yorkie type, of course, but close.

Cyclist eating Curly Wurly, say.

He’s younger than me, probably around twenty-five. He wears an ageing, possibly cheesy, pair of Adidas old school trainers and has eyes the colour of espresso. And a quick glance at his skin-tight cycling shorts reveals that his thighs aren’t the only attractive bulge he possesses. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for farting, that’s for sure.

I rootle through my purse. On a normal day, I’d have taken one look at a bloke in cycling shorts and thought, ‘Ew, all
sweaty,’ and moved on. But there’s something about today that makes me think twice. Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s such a beautiful day. I can practically smell the pheromones bouncing around in the air. Or perhaps it’s just the way his browny gold hair is knotted into deliciously scruffy dreads. Or the way he drapes himself languidly against the doorframe, looking so utterly carefree.

Or perhaps I just need a good shag.

Call it chemistry, call it desperation, whatever it is, I suddenly feel totally compelled to come on to him. I’m getting married soon, for God’s sake. I need to get it while I still can.

OK, so Max is still calling my mobile. Which means I could just shag him and save myself the bother. But Max is
nice
. And nice just gets on my nerves. If Max wanted some kind of relationship when we got it together that day I saw him on the tube, he should have got it from me in writing. I didn’t make him any promises. I am a single, independent woman. I have nothing whatsoever to feel guilty about.

‘I don’t seem to have any money in here.’ I smile, cupping my hand round the crisp tenner I’ve just found and taking a step backwards into George’s immaculate cream-painted hall. ‘Do you mind coming in a moment while I find some upstairs?’

He smiles, a slow, sexy, slightly stupid smile that might or might not be interpreted as open to suggestion. Which is fine, obviously. Stupid is good. I have absolutely no problem with stupid whatsoever. The chances of a reasonably intelligent—albeit slightly ginger—girl like me forming a lasting relationship with anyone who’s thicker than two short planks are verging on nil, so I can drag this chap upstairs right now if I feel like it, without giving a flying fuck about the consequences.

‘Sure.’ He lopes after me into the hall.

‘Whatevva.’ Of course by the time I’ve rolled the note I’ve just found in my purse into my palm, gone upstairs with it and come back down again, waving it between forefinger and thumb, I suddenly realise that I have absolutely no idea how to pull.

Do I just go
straight for it and say huskily, ‘Come in, Notch Number Nine and a half, your time is up’? Should I just slip him my phone number and have done with it? Or would that look a bit Bored Housewife? Then again, I don’t live in my own house, I don’t even live in the dumpy, clarty flat any more either. I live in a house that’s so effortlessly pristine and minimalist it can only be inhabited by gay guys. So I can’t reasonably be mistaken for Mrs Two Point Four Children.

I’m just deciding to sod it and hand him the cash, when I notice he’s glancing into the kitchen, looking vaguely amused. I follow his gaze, to where the first batch of pink jelly willies stand turned out of their moulds, proud and erect—if ever so slightly wibbly—on the kitchen worktop. Buggeroo. He’s probably thinking I’m some sort of pervert serial killer who lures delivery boys into the house so I can have my wicked way with them before boshing them over the head and stashing them in the freezer to do things to with jelly later. I know if I were in his shoes—or even just his skanky trainers— I’d be a smidgen concerned for my personal safety right now.

‘It’s not what you think,’ I stutter. ‘I’m doing them for a hen party, see. Just for fun. I mean I’m not into anything kinky. I’m more M&S than S&M, honest. You can’t beat them for knickers.’

‘Shame.’ He treats me to another lazy, sexy grin, which turns my knees to a wobbling mass of blancmange. Is he laughing at me or not?

‘You’re a chef?’ he asks. ‘Caterer,’ I reply. ‘Weddings and stuff, mainly. Just getting started.’

He grins. ‘And does the caterer get to test the canapés?’ He nods towards the pink willies, which now seem so downright ridiculous, I have an absurd compulsion to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

‘Not really,’ I say.

‘What about the
delivery boy?’ His grin widens. ‘Does he get to have a taste?’

‘He might.’ I can’t help laughing at the mischievous expression on his face. ‘Just the one, mind. These have to be at a party in Battersear tomorrow.’

I should really have known better. I should know that my capacity for alcohol generally tends to exceed the ‘just the one’ that’s good for me. Nick, as his name turns out to be, pronounces my jelly willies so delicious that he has to have another. And I just think sod it and jam in a couple for myself. And after I’ve eaten nine, or thereabouts, I tell myself that not only is he probably the most fanciable, un-uphimself male I’ve seen since I came to live in Islington, I decide he’s also one of the most scintillating I’ve ever met.

And we’re getting on so well.

‘Sheriously,’ he says, finishing off the last jelly and beginning to slur his words just ever so slightly. ‘I might be looking for shomeone like you. I’m a DJ, shee? I’ll be famoush this time next year.’

‘Really?’ I’m impressed. ‘How faschinating.’

I’m so drunk by this time that I’m pouring what’s left of the vodka into shot glasses and liberally tipping it down my neck. It doesn’t really occur to me to wonder why, if he’s such a famous DJ, he’s delivering bread all over North London on a crappy pushbike. And, to be honest, I don’t really care.

‘Me mate’sh organising a party shoon. He needs shomeone to do the food and shit. How ’bout I give him your number?’

In my drunken state, I decide this is a definite attempt on his part at trying to pull me. And, when I scribble my mobile number on the corner of a crumpled-up copy of
Attitude
and he closes his hand over mine as I hand it to him, I just know I’m IN THERE.