My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (30 page)

But somehow, at some point, we both must have passed out. Because when I wake in the morning I’m not aware of anything having happened. And I wasn’t
that
pissed.

Over a delicious breakfast of mango and watermelon, which we eat by the swimming pool, I bemoan my fate to Janice.

‘It’s up to you,’ she says. ‘You have to make the first move.’

‘Why?’

‘He still
thinks you’re with Jake, remember? And Nick. He can’t make the first move. It wouldn’t be proper. He’s too much of a gent.’

‘Is he?’ I ask, surprised. Thinking back, I suppose he is. I’ve just never thought of him like that before. I mean, he was prepared to stand by Pussy when he thought he’d got her pregnant, wasn’t he? When he didn’t even love her. I mean, how gentlemanly is that? Pure bloody Jane Austen.

God. Come to think of it, he’s bloody
lovely
.

Why the hell would he be interested in me?

‘I’ll tell him tonight,’ I say.

‘Good.’ Janice gets back to her mango and asks the waiter if they’ve got any pickled onions to go with.

‘You’re rank,’ I tell her.

I spend all day with Sam. George and David are both trying to windsurf and Janice prefers to flobber around in the shallows eating Soleros, so we both stretch out by the pool and read our books. And
still
I chicken out from saying anything. I’m cursing myself later that night. I’ve got one evening left. How the hell am I going to do it?

I don’t, of course. We’re splashing around in the jacuzzi, enjoying a packet of ham-flavoured crisps and a glass of wine before getting ready to go out for dinner, when Sam suddenly looks at me.

‘What?’

‘I need to ask you about Jake.’

‘O
kay
…’ I say cautiously. Hopefully this isn’t the start of one of Sam’s brotherly lectures. ‘Cos if it is, I might just have to get a bit mardy. And that’s hardly a suitable precursor to telling someone you can’t stop thinking about them, is it?

‘Do you love him?’

Wine comes out of my nose.’ God, no,’ I snort. ‘I don’t even think I’ll bother seeing him again when I get back. He’s history, basically. I think I only shagged him to make myself feel better.’

‘What
about the others? Anything long-term going on there?’

I laugh. ‘I got rid of Max,’ I say. ‘He made me feel sick. And Nick’s eighteen, for beggar’s sake,’ I remind him. ‘When he saw
Muriel’s Wedding
on DVD he thought ABBA were an up-and-coming Australian band who were about to hit the big time. I don’t think that exactly lends us much common ground, do you? So there’s no need to rush that morning suit to Sketch-ley’s just yet.’

‘Well, there is, isn’t there?

‘Huh?’

‘You
are
getting married, aren’t you?’

‘What? Oh, shit. Yes. I suppose I am.’

I’ve sort of conveniently forgotten about my forthcoming nuptials. And I’d be lying if I said I’m not having doubts. Because I am. Big, fat, beefy doubts. But I’m not telling Sam that.

He’ll only say, ‘I told you so’.

‘I might be getting married,’ I swallow hard, ‘but I’m not in a relationship. Not with David, not with Max, not with Nick, Jake or anyone else for that matter. Relationships suck. I’ve tried a few and I’ve never found one that matches up to a chunky Kit Kat.’

Even as I say it, I know it’s true. I even hate the beginning part of relationships. The honeymoon period. OK, so it’s the part everyone else loves because it’s new and exciting but it’s also extremely stressful. Perhaps things could be different with Sam.

Or perhaps not.

I think Janice would agree with me about the stress of early relationships. The waiting for phone calls. The agony over what to wear on a date. The expense of having to purchase new items all the time. And Janice couldn’t even bear to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night for a pee when she first stayed at Jasper’s. She couldn’t stand the thought that he might not fancy her any more if he heard her emptying her bladder at full gush into his toilet bowl. So she used to creep downstairs and find some receptacle—more often than not the teapot—to piss into. Then she’d give it a quick rinse round and put it back. And he was none the wiser. I chuckle now at the idea that he must have thought she never needed to wee.

And pooing?
Forget it.

‘But if you were in a relationship with the right person it would be like a chunky Kit Kat and more,’ Sam insists.

‘Yeah, right,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Like life might suddenly become one giant Godiva chocolate just because I had a nice boyfriend. Get real, Sam.’

You see, I’m not like Janice was when she was looking for Filthy Rich. I don’t want a bloke who’ll swathe me in Gucci and take me to the Met Bar every night.

I don’t even really want one who’ll wine me and dine me in restaurants where it’s so quiet you’re afraid to eat because everyone can hear you crunching your food.

I just want to be able to relax and enjoy life.

Oh, and I think I want Sam.

But what if I
don’t
want him? What if he doesn’t want me? What if I go for it and he rejects me? Or what if I pour my heart out to him and he says he feels the same. And then I find that, with Pussy out of the way, I suddenly
don’t
want him after all? What happens then?

‘What about you, anyway?’ I think it’s only fair he takes a turn in the Mastermind chair. ‘Pussy wasn’t your chunky Kit Kat I take it?’

‘God, no.’ He laughs. ‘She wasn’t even my Milky Bar. And I hate Milky Bars. I couldn’t even take her out to dinner and enjoy it. It’s no fun, Katie, I can assure you, always feeling like you’re eating alone because all the girls you go out with spend their lives on some kind of diet.’

‘If you didn’t expect to go out with girls who look like Bic biros the whole time, you might find a girlfriend you can have fun with.’ I take the stern approach. ‘One who does food and getting her clothes dirty.’

‘I wish.’

‘One
who’ll happily play Dutch ovens in bed on a Sunday morning just for the hell of it.’

‘What, like you, you mean?’ he jibes.

‘Well, no, not like me exactly.’
Yes, yes. Exactly like me. I do farting. In fact, yes, it’s me you want. Just me. Pick me. I love trumps
.

‘I mean, not ginger, anyway,’ I say hastily.

Why the fuck did I say that? God, I’m making one holy fuckup of this, aren’t I? I clearly have the seduction technique of a small pot-bellied pig.

‘Why not?’ he asks. ‘Who said there was anything wrong with ginger?’

‘Half the population?’ I jest.

We go out and get drunk that evening. Again I drink more than usual, probably because Sam is making me so nervous. Janice keeps glaring at me over the table, willing me to get a grip. It’s ridiculous really, the way the presence of my oldest friend who I’ve previously almost brained with a seaside spade, amongst other things, can suddenly have me shredding the skin around my thumbnails as though I’m noshing on spare ribs. And because I’ve had wine, and the odd beer, and a vodka marshmallow shooter and—oh, all sorts of other things, I suddenly realise I feel all squibbly.

I say I want to go home.

‘I’ll come with you.’ Sam jumps to his feet. ‘You OK?’

‘Yep.’ I look at Janice. ‘Will you be OK? Will you boys see her home?’

‘Course we will.’ George raises his glass.

Janice gives me a silent thumbs-up. And, as we leave, Sam’s hand is protectively on the small of my back, making me tingle with anticipation. Perhaps he
does
feel the same.

In which case, this could be it. It really could be it.

When we get back to the hotel, Sam makes me sit on the bidet, the only thing they’re good for in both our opinions as neither of us get the point of them. Then he rinses a fluffy flannel in cold water and smoothes it across my forehead.

‘Save
you getting roomspin. Don’t want your brain going round and round like a helicopter propeller if we can help it.’

‘Sorry,’ I say as he sits me on the crisp linen-covered bed and tucks a bit of damp hair behind my ear.

‘No problem, Simpson,’ Sam says. ‘Lightweight,’ he adds afterwards, for good measure.

‘Bugger off.’ I hit him with my flip-flop.

‘Ow.’

So I hurt him. A bit. But he really should know better. I mean, I’m not the girl who used to make herself chunder in the Student Union toilets in order to fit in more booze for nothing.

‘I’ll show you, Sam Freeman.’ I laugh, chucking my other flipflop in his general direction.

‘Show me what?’ he teases.

‘Don’t be cheeky,’ I scold. But I’m pink with pleasure nonetheless. At least, I think I am. I can’t really tell because although I can see myself in the mirror, I’m having double vision. Or is that treble?

‘OK.’ I pull out a full-size bottle of vodka. ‘What have we here? A nightcap, methinks.’

‘Simpson, are you sure?’

‘Course I’m sure.’ I unscrew the top and pour us both a more than generous slug. ‘Down the hatch, old boy.’

And Sam, good as gold, joins me in drinking half the bottle.

I don’t remember going to sleep. But I wake with my jeans pulled down around my ankles so I must have tried to get undressed. I open my eyes slowly.

‘Who took the floor away?’ I grumble, struggling out of bed. Bugger. We have to leave so soon and we haven’t even kissed, let alone bonked. We’re back to cold old Blighty this evening.

‘Not me.’ Sam, delicious in nothing but a pair of faded denim shorts and a tan brings in a tray.

‘What’s that?’ I ask him. ‘And why are you so disgustingly bright this morning?’

‘Breakfast,’ he says. ‘And you talk in your sleep.’

‘Do I?’ I
look at the plump, flaky croissants, fresh strawberries, orange juice and fragrant coffee laid out on the tray.

‘You really shouldn’t do that, you know,’ he teases, poking my arm. ‘A girl can reveal a lot of secrets that way.’

Shit. I didn’t. Did I? But Sam’s face is giving nothing away. So I guess I’ll never know. I bite into a croissant and change the subject.

‘I wish we didn’t have to leave today,’ I sigh. ‘I could get used to this.’

‘Me too.’ He flicks through the TV channels. I don’t know why he’s bothering. Neither of us can understand a word anyone is saying. It’s gobbledegook.

Suddenly, I realise I’m going to have to say something. But I can’t. My tongue is like wet cement. Then Sam suddenly speaks.

‘What we were talking about last night,’ he says. ‘Before you started snoring…’

‘Mmmm?’

‘Do you think you’ll ever settle down? With the right person, I mean.’

‘I don’t know, Sam.’ I shrug. ‘I got hurt, you know.’

‘I know.’ He strokes my cheek and my loins almost explode.

‘What about you?’ I ask him the same. ‘Don’t you want to get married? Settle down?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’ I’m flabbergasted. ‘Surely not. Sam Freeman? Casanova of Clapham?’

‘It’s still Balham, actually,’ he points out. ‘And why not? All my friends are doing it. Joff’s got engaged to that girl he met at your birthday party.’

‘What, Jabba?’ I ask in disbelief. ‘Chantal, I mean?’

‘Mmm. The big girl.’

‘But…when… Why?’

‘You think he wouldn’t want her because she’s fat?’ he asks me. ‘We’re not all that shallow, you know.’

‘I didn’t… I mean… I didn’t know.’

‘Well, it’s true. Apparently she gives the best blow jobs he’s ever had. He’s totally smitten with her. I don’t blame him either. I’ve been out with them a couple of times. She’s brilliant fun.’

‘You’ve been
out with them. When?’

‘Like I said. A couple of times. She’s great. Wicked sense of humour.’

‘I’m glad,’ I say. And I am. Chantal’s one of the few people I actually liked when I worked at the magazine. I hope Joff makes her happy.

‘Even George has settled down,’ he adds. ‘And now you’re getting married.’

‘Only pretend married,’ I remind him.

‘No,’ Sam starts, then sighs. ‘Actually married. I mean, God, Katie. You look on this as some kind of game. Like two kids playing at weddings. But you will be legally married. It’ll affect everything you do for the rest of your life. And you could get into serious trouble, you know, if the Home Office find out.’

‘God, don’t be so square.’

‘Sorry.’ Sam holds up his hands in surrender. ‘Anyway, all I was saying is that, yes, one day I would like to get married. To the right girl, I mean.’

‘Not some pigshit-thick bird who looks like a lollipop then?’ I say.

‘Pussy, you mean?’

‘Of course.’ I laugh. ‘Do me a favour, will you? Next time go out with someone normal. Someone who likes pies.’

Oh look! There I go, fulfilling all the criteria again.

He laughs. ‘OK. I’ll give it a go. I need to go out with someone who’s my type for a change.’

‘Well, who
is
your type?’

‘Who’s yours?’

‘Well,’ I say carefully, ‘I suppose if the right person really did come along, I’d have to reconsider my status on relationships. But it would really have to be Mr Right. Mr OK For Now can just sod off. I haven’t got time for him. Even Mr Very Bloody Nearly can get the hell out. Life’s too short.’

‘How
do you know you haven’t met him already? And what would he be like, your Mr Right?’

‘Well,’ I say thoughtfully, popping in a Revel from the packet he’s suddenly found in his flight bag, ‘he’d make me laugh, obviously. Until I actually wet myself sometimes. And he wouldn’t be shocked if I did. He’d just clear it up.’

‘OK.’ Sam looks highly amused. ‘Anything else?’

‘He’d like having baths with me, instead of saying I got in the way, like Jake always did. And he’d always take the tap end.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And he’d let me sit at the front of the top deck on the bus without calling me a baby.’

‘Yes?’ ‘And he’d let me eat jelly beans in the bath. And he’d always eat the orange Revels, even if I’d already bitten into them first. Because you can never tell, can you? Between the orange ones and the Maltesers, I mean? You see, the orange ones make me feel sick. Like, really really sick. And he’d bring me Brannigans roast beef and mustard crisps for breakfast in bed on Valentine’s Day because he knew they were my favourite. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t expect it to be a bed of roses all the time. I know that heady feeling wears off after a couple of years. But there should be something left, shouldn’t there? Otherwise, what’s the fucking point? Oh, yuck.’