My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (5 page)

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ David laughs. ‘But I live on my own.’

‘How very unpatriotic of you.’ I lurch over to the chalkboard and choose another flavour. ‘We’ll have two, no, four raspberry vodkas and a couple of butterscotch ones please.’

By eight o’clock, we’re both off our tits. And we have so much in common that I decide I can really see us as a couple. I mean, obviously I don’t want to rush things. I haven’t got us moving in together, or purchasing joint electrical items yet. And I am supposed to be off monogamy this year. But you never know, do you? Perhaps the right man just hasn’t
come along before. Either that, or he did come along and he was George, and therefore unavailable to someone like me.

Perhaps David is the right one. Who knows?

Who cares, I think drunkenly, pouring more booze down my neck. This is funnnnn.

At half eight, my mobile rings. It’s Janice.

‘Where the fuck are you, you witless bee-atch?’

‘In a bar,’ I say gleefully. ‘With vodka. Lotsha vodka. Why? Wanna come?’

‘You were supposed to be meeting me,’ she yells, clearly pissed off. ‘I stood at the sodding tube station freezing my flaps off for an hour. You were supposed to come to the Evergreen Club with me.’

‘The what?’ I shout. ‘Well, where is it? We’ll come now.’

Drunkenly I decide that the thought of David and me dancing beneath an enormous glitterball in some tacky South London nightclub is the thing I’d most like to do in the whole world right now. And because I’m drunk, I can do exactly what I want. I’m cleverer, richer and more beautiful than anyone else in the bar. And I’ll have anyone who dares to say otherwise.

I’m also probably a lot more shitfaced than anyone else here. But they…

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Janice snaps. ‘It’s too late now. It’s not a nightclub it’s a social club.’

‘Oh. Nemmind. Might be fun, doan’tcha think? Doesshit have a late lishensh? Isshit dead posh? You a member?’

‘It’s for the over-sixties, you dappy cow. I’ve been out sharking for Filthy Rich.’

‘Well, be careful.’ I laugh, the effect of the vodka causing circuit failure in my brain and a subsequent lack of any contrition whatsoever. ‘You’ve heard of the dangers of getting pubes in yer teeth.’

‘What?’

‘Imagine what it’s like to get teeth caught in your pubes.’ I giggle
as David brings something purple and noxious-looking to the table. ‘Beware.’

I find that last ‘beware’ so hilarious that I start giggling. And then I can’t stop. Janice flips her mobile off in disgust and I giggle some more. I’m having so much fun I don’t care that she’s pissed off with me.

‘Shalright when iss her.’ I grin at David, taking my purple drink and downing it in one. ‘Ss muff before matesh every time when she’s with a bloke she’shh shafting. Not that we are, you know, shagging.’

‘No.’ He looks grave. Probably a bit nervous. I give his leg a squeeze to put him at his ease.

‘But we are having fun, aren’t we?’ I hiccup.

‘We are.’

By the time the bar closes, I’m so pissed that David, bless him, worries that I won’t be able to get home on my own. Perhaps, he says, looking concerned, I should stay at his.

‘Aye aye,’ I joke. ‘I know your game.’

He laughs. It’s nearer, he says. It’ll save me rattling all the way home on the Northern Line. And it’s easier to get into work in the morning from his. He walks it. Besides, he wants to prove to me that he doesn’t have to share a bed with a hundred other antipodeans.

It’s midnight by the time we arrive back at his. And before I slump into the elegant banana-coloured couch in his kitchen, I have time to notice that his pad is distinctly un-bloke-like. Lots of Alessi kitchen equipment. A shiny chrome Dualit toaster. A gleaming Waring blender…

‘Nice shutff,’ I slur as he hands me a cup of Lapsang.

‘Thanks.’

We loll on the banana sofa for a while, then David, suddenly serious, looks at his watch.

‘We’ve got an editorial meeting tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I think we should go to bed.’

Just as I thought. He’s
gagging
for it.

I’m
tingling with anticipation as he leads me up the stairs. He seems to spend an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, brushing and flossing his teeth, but I tell myself it’s nice to meet a man who takes care of his appearance, and concentrate on checking my own teeth for spinachy bits.

By the time he comes out, a tiny white towel wrapped round his delectable, nipped-in waist, I’m already in bed, my clothes in their usual crumply heap on the floor. Cursing myself for not wearing matching undies, I’ve taken my dirty grey bra off and hidden it under my shirt. I contemplated just leaving my purple bikini knicks on but then decided to be bold and let it all hang out. Under the sheets I’m starkers.

How bold is that?

He looks surprised.

‘I was going to say you could have the spare room,’ he says. ‘But…’

‘Oh, that’s OK.’ I grin boldly. After all, we both know why I’m here. ‘Why dirty another lot of sheets? Not that I am, of course.’

‘Not that you are what?’

‘Dirty.’ I laugh, leaning dangerously towards him as he sits on his side of the bed and pouting for all I’m worth.

‘Katie, I…’

‘What?’ I lean so far forward that, in my pissed state, I collapse with my head in his lap.

‘I…’

‘Oooh,’ I say, putting my hand on his penis and giggling. ‘Is this a cucumber or are you just… Oh.’

Let’s just say he’s either hung like a grasshopper or he’s in no state of excitement.

‘Look,’ he says firmly, removing my hand.

‘It’s OK,’ I rush to reassure him. ‘I’m not expecting marriage, you know.’

‘Katie…’

‘Is thish because you have to sit opposite me at work?’ I try. ‘Because we can completely forget about the whole thing in the
morning, you know. You won’t have to go out with me. Or buy me fancy goods of any sort whatsoever. I’ll let you off scotfree. I won’t tell a shoul.’

Although I might ask to borrow one of his T-shirts to wear into work, of course. One he’s worn before. So that Melanie and Serena will know.

They’ll be furious.

‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s not because of that.’

‘Then what?’ I’m stumped.

‘Well…’

‘Oh, I get it,’ I say. ‘You’re married. You’ve got some Sheila baking you Lamingtons back at home. Well, you know what they say. What the eye doesn’t see…’

God. I can’t believe I’m being so flippant.

‘It’s because I’m gay.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I say.

‘Katie, I’m gay.’ He takes my hands firmly. And suddenly I get it.

The beautiful kitchen. His immaculate appearance. His wonderfully bitchy sense of humour.

Of course he’s sodding gay. Whenever was a straight guy that perfect?

Buggery buggery fuck.

Everything stops. I can hear traffic hooting outside but it all seems strangely far away. Has he just said what I think he’s just said? It all feels surreal. Like some weird dream.

‘It’s not you,’ he rushes to comfort me, seeing my look of horror.

How could I have made such a basic error?

Again.

‘You can’t be…’ I make a quick salvage attempt. I’ve come this far, after all. I’m buggered if I’m letting him slip through my fingers.

‘Why not?’

‘You hate ABBA.’

‘
Y-yes…’

‘Steps completely passed you by.’

‘I’m Australian.’

‘You don’t even know the actions to “YMCA”.’ I’m sobbing now. ‘I s-s-saw you at the Christmas party. You didn’t have a clue.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘You’re a fucking Australian, for fuck’s fucking sake. You’re supposed to be a sexist wanker. A slab of beefcake. A red-blooded fuck monkey. You don’t mind drinking beer out of cans. And you actually like pork scratchings. I don’t believe you. This is just an excuse not to shag me, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you, I wouldn’t shag you anyway. Not if the end of your excuse for a dick was covered in Ben & Jerry’s. You’re bound to be crap. So. So there.’

God. Now I’m making a complete tit of myself. Snot is coming out of my nose and everything and I don’t even care.

Buggery, buggery bollocks.

Why does this sort of thing always, always happen to me?

I leap out of bed, acutely aware that all my bits are on display. My cheeks flame with humiliation. It seems absurd for him to be seeing me naked after what he’s just told me.

‘Look, Katie, come on, don’t be like that,’ he pleads as I pogo ridiculously round the room with one foot through the leg hole of my lurid violet knickers, trying to yank them up for all I’m worth.

‘Look, if I were straight you’d be the first person I wanted to shag. Honestly.’

‘Oh, spare me,’ I beg. ‘Please don’t try to make me feel better. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll leave my job. You’ll never have to see me again.’

‘You don’t have to do that. Come on, let’s have another cup of tea and—’

‘No.’ I pull on my pink shirt, which, after a night on the booze, is all scrunkled up in a teeny ball on the floor, before rushing
down the stairs, out of the front door and into the street before he can utter another word.

I stagger towards the tube station, just managing to hail a taxi and telling the driver to take me to Balham.

Once inside, I stare moodily out of the window.

‘Bastard,’ I hiss.

‘Are you referring to me, miss?’ asks the taxi driver.

‘Oh no, sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve just found out that the bloke I thought I was shagging is gay. I was referring to him. Pretty understandable, don’t you think?’

‘Oh yes, love,’ the taxi driver says. ‘Nothing short of disgusting, what they get up to. Unnatural, I call it. I mean it’s not what the Good Lord intended, is it, at the end of the day?’

Bile rises in my throat. It’s the vodka, I think, though the awful hiccuppy crying hasn’t helped. I swallow hard. I really don’t want to have to park my lunch in a taxi. There’s no handy receptacle. No bin. No scrumpled up Sainsbury’s bag even. I could always use my jacket pocket, but I think that’s going a bit far, even for me.

Luckily, I manage to hold on to my stomach contents until we finally pull up outside my front door, when the taxi driver looks at me so kindly I think I might be going to burst into tears again. ‘Here you go, luvvie.’ He smiles. ‘You let yourself in and have a nice cuppa tea, eh?’

I wake up next morning feeling almost normal. Absolutely hanging, but not too embarrassed, considering. And then I realise two things.

Firstly, once again I’ve attempted to bag and shag yet another screaming great queen. George will have hysterics when he finds out I’ve made eyes at what he—and only he—would fondly term a ‘cock jockey’.

And secondly, it’s half nine. I was due at the office half an hour ago.

I dial my work number. It’s obvious I can’t go in. It’s far too late,
for starters, and I’d really rather not have to face up to the fact that I’ve actually made a complete twat of myself, thank you very much. I’ll have to speak to Imogen and make some excuse.

I say I’ve got food poisoning. Not very original, I know, but the roof of my mouth honestly feels like a canary has just shat all over it and I really can’t move without thinking I’m about to barf.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come in.’ Imogen’s voice seeps down the phone line like hydrochloric acid. ‘We’ve an editorial meeting.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Katie, just make sure you’re here for once, will you?’ she spits, and slams the phone down.

‘She hung up,’ I tell Graham and Shish Kebab in astonishment, before lugging my carcass out of bed and looking for some cleanish clothes to put on.

I hate the whole twatting lot of them.

How on earth am I going to face the world?

I
finally crawl
into work at ten thirty-seven.

Marsha looks at me as though she knows something I don’t.

‘Imogen wants to see you immediately.’ She looks pleased as punch. ‘She’s waiting in her office.’

‘Is it about the
crème brûlée
piece?’

She shrugs. ‘Search me.’

‘Come in,’ barks Imogen as I teeter on the threshold of her football pitch-sized office. I’m so nervous that I temporarily forget the shame of last night, which has been rollicking around in the pit of my stomach all the way here. Instead, I twiddle my fingers in terror. God, I’m hungover. The need to race to the loo for a big alcopoo is almost overwhelming. I feel absolutely rancid.

‘You were late yesterday,’ she snaps, swivelling her powder-blue chair round and narrowing her yellow eyes at me disconcertingly.

‘Sorry.’ I try to make light of it. ‘The train came and I wasn’t there.’

Imogen shoots me a look that leaves me in absolutely no doubt
that she finds me about as funny as liver failure, before motioning for me to sit down in one of the bevy of powder-blue suede chairs opposite her kidney-shaped desk. She’s lowered mine, I note, by about four inches so she can enjoy looking down on me and watching me squirm.

‘I won’t bother offering you coffee,’ she spits. ‘I don’t imagine you’ll be staying long.’

‘Die soon,’ I mutter under my breath.

‘Which do you want first?’ she asks. ‘The good news or the bad news?’

‘Er…the good news?’ I stammer. God. I hope she’s going to be quick. I really, really need the loo.

‘OK.’ She pushes the sleeves of her immaculately cut black jacket up to her elbows and looks at me levelly. ‘The good news is that I’ve been promoted. Again. To the board this time.’

‘That’s good,’ I say, nearly adding, ‘So you haven’t worn away your tastebuds with arse-licking for nothing then.’

‘Isn’t it?’ She screws up her nose with laughter. ‘Of course I’ll have to find a replacement for Audrey.’

‘Audrey’s leaving?’

‘No.’

‘Then?’

‘She’s left. Not ten minutes ago.’

‘Why?’

‘I fired her. She was becoming unreliable. Always racing home early to get back to those snotty brats. Falling asleep in meetings. And she was forever leaking milk over the boardroom table. When she damn well knows I’m allergic to dairy products.’

Any small flicker of maternal instinct is an indication of fatal weakness, in Imogen’s opinion. According to her, it’s on a par with quiche-eating in males.

So poor old Audrey getting the boot is the bad news. But why is she telling me? Unless… Of course. She’s hoping I’ll take on Audrey’s job. As well as my own, no doubt. And probably for less money, knowing this bloody place.

But
if I am doing two jobs, there’ll have to be more money, won’t there? And if there is more, I’ll be able to afford somewhere nicer to live. Somewhere with a garden, perhaps. And a cat flap for Graham and Shish Kebab.

And if I am doing Audrey’s job, I probably won’t have to sit opposite David any more. Which’ll be a major relief after last night.

‘You’re probably wondering what all this has got to do with you,’ Imogen says matter-of-factly.

‘Well, I was kind of wondering.’

‘You’ll be wanting the bad news, no doubt.’

‘I thought…’

‘What?’ Her eyes gleam triumphantly. ‘You thought that my sacking that lactating sap was the bad news? Oh no, darling, you don’t know the half of it.’

She stretches lazily, like a cat in the sun, enjoying the fact that she’s keeping me hanging like a fly in a web. I’m slightly put out. Not because I particularly care what she’s got to say but because I’m desperate to get out of here and go for a wazz.

‘The bad news,’ she grins, ‘is that you’re fired as well.’

It takes a second for what she’s just said to sink in. When it does, I feel winded.

‘I would say I’m sorry,’ she says, as I stare at her, mouth lolling in disbelief. ‘But I’m not. And you know me. I don’t mince my words.’

No indeed.

She gets straight down to business. ‘If you have any personal belongings in the office, can I suggest you take them with you now, because I’ll be giving strict instructions to Marsha that you are barred from the building with immediate effect. Got it?’

‘B-but you can’t.’

‘I can, I’m afraid. I’m the big boss now.’

She’s taking the piss.

‘I could become a freelancer if it would help…’

‘Freeloader, more like,’ she scoffs. ‘No thanks, love. This isn’t a
cost-saving exercise. I’ve already hired someone else on a higher salary to do your job. It’s your attitude that’s the problem.’

‘You what?’

‘You’re about as reliable as a condom with a pin stuck through it. If it wasn’t for your vast personal phone bill I’d be hard put to know whether you actually bothered to come into work at all.’

‘But I won’t have an income.’

‘No, honey, you won’t.’ She treats me to a cyanide-dusted smile. ‘But this is a profit-making organisation, not a charity. We don’t think much of paupers in here, sweetcakes, so you’d better sling your hook before I call Security. Oh, and I’m off to the editorial meeting now. You can see yourself out.’

And with that, she spins on her heel, leaving me all alone in her office. I pull a lump of hour-old chewy out of my mouth and chuck it on her chair. That’ll be a nice treat for the old bitch’s Prada later on.

The first thought that crosses my mind as I step over the threshold of her top floor office and make my way to the lift is that at least I won’t have to face David. The editorial meeting must have started by now, so he’ll be safely ensconced in the boardroom.

And, much to my relief, he’s not at his desk. As Melanie and Serena watch me pack up my highlighter collection and emergency Kit Kat supplies, I feel strangely detached. I’m upset, yes. Of course I’m upset. I’ve just lost my job. But a tiny part of me feels relieved. Relieved that the decision has been made for me. I don’t have to decide to leave and find out what I really want to do. Now, I’m going to have to look for another job. I really don’t have any choice in the matter.

I feel oddly elated as I leave the IBS building for the last time. Here I am, in the middle of the morning, with absolutely bugger all to do.

How fanbloodytastic is that?

Of course there’s only one thing I can do.

Shop.

But
first, I need to make a pit stop at McDonald’s in the King’s Road.

I’m walking past Whistles when I see David the Gay Homosexual strolling along past the Body Shop on the other side of the road. A hot wave of shame rolls over me and I duck into a shop so he won’t see me. As I do so, a niggle of doubt gnaws away at my brain. Is he really gay?

Or was the thought of having to poke me so utterly repulsive that he had to pretend?

‘Sod you,’ I say out loud.

‘Sorry? Can I help you?’ asks the lemon-lipped shop assistant.

‘No,’ I say without thinking. ‘You’re a shop assistant, not a relationship counsellor. Frankly, I doubt it very much.’

I leave the shop without another word and trot towards the golden arches feeling glum. Bloody David. Who the hell does he think he is, strutting down the road, gayness unashamedly on display, completely spoiling my day of freedom?

The bastard.

I clatter into McDonald’s and order a Filet-O-Fish and a Big Mac Meal. Who needs men when there’s junk food to be had? Eh? After all, if brown can be the new black and staying in can be the new going out, who’s to say that McDonald’s can’t be the new sex?

Huh?

‘What drink would you like with that?’ asks the acne-riddled assistant.

‘Fanta. No. Coke.’

I forget all about David and losing my job and concentrate on the matter in hand: chuffing down my burger in double quick time. When I’m through, I turn my attention to retail therapy. I take a trip to Lush to drool over jewel-coloured slabs of soap, piled up like Lego bricks, and fizzy bath bombs, heaped on the counter like scoops of sorbet. I spend a fortune on bottles of violet-scented bath oil and orange juice flavour shower gel.
I buy blue and white swirled cakes of bubble bath the size of bricks and cutely packaged talcum powder shakers. When I’m done there, I hotfoot it to Georgina von Etzdorf to choose a velvet scarf to see out the winter in. I can’t decide between black and sugar-pink or black and mint-green so I buy both. I deserve it, after all. This is no time for economising. Then it’s time for some more toiletry sniffing in Boots before selecting several CDs, scented candles, Whittard mugs, a jumper from Kookai and four complete sets of underwear.

It’s not until I get home that I realise just how much I’ve spent. Totting it all up, I estimate that I’ve probably shelled out over six hundred quid on mere fripperies in an afternoon. All for the sake of cheering myself up.

And now I’ve lugged it all home, I suddenly don’t feel quite so cheerful any more.

In fact, I’m downright miserable. I look at myself in the mirror, making my ‘come to bed’ face, just to see how pathetically sad I must have looked when I was trying to pull David last night.

Holy fuck.

Do I really look like that when I’m pouting?

The poor bastard must have thought I was constipated.

I call Janice’s mobile. She’s just leaving work.

‘What’s up?’

‘I just lost my job.’

‘You think that’s bad,’ she humphs. ‘You should have seen the mothballed selection I was faced with at that sodding custard cream fest last night.’

‘What?’

‘At the Evergreen Club.’ She sounds mildly irriated. ‘Honestly, Katie, after standing me up I’d have thought you could at least pretend to be interested.’

‘I lost my job.’

God, she can be so insensitive at times.

‘So you said. But presumably you got laid last night to make up for it.’

‘No,
actually.’

‘You didn’t?’ She brightens.

‘No.’

‘That’s all right then. I mean I thought my evening was bad. I turned up expecting a few dashing war veterans and what did I get?’

‘What?’

‘Soggy Nice biscuits, dribble and card games.’ She sounds disgusted. ‘I’m going to have to think again.’

‘Oh.’

‘But at least I didn’t lose my job,’ she says. ‘You must be really pissed off.’

‘Thanks, Janice,’ I say. ‘I can always rely on you to make me feel better.’

‘You’re welcome.’ All irony is lost on her. ‘I have had a bit of good news, by the way.’

‘Oh?’

‘I just got put on a really prestigious account at work. For breakfast cereal.’

‘Is that good?’

‘Really good. This giraffe-legged no-burn called Thalia sucked off one of the client’s sons and got found out. She was lobbed out faster than you can say fuckwit. And I got her job.’

‘Great.’

‘Means I’ll have less time to look for a husband, of course. But maybe now you’ve got bugger all to do, you could look for me.’

‘Oh, cheers.’

‘Well, you could, couldn’t you? Go to a few parties and pick someone up on my behalf. Or you could have a look on the internet. Anyway, gotta go. I really haven’t got time to chat all day. I’m very busy and important now.’

And with that, she hangs up.

In the face of a distinct lack of sympathy from my girlfriend, I try the next best thing.

I
ring George.

Unfortunately, he’s ecstatic. He’s in love. Lurve. The world has turned into a giant pink marshmallow in the space of an afternoon.

‘I met someone.’

‘Oh.’ I bristle. I still can’t help seething with jealousy whenever George declares himself to be in love. After all, David isn’t the first gay man I’ve tried to bag in my lifetime. As I’ve already said, I’ve always had a thing for George. I’ve tried begging. Told him I wouldn’t be offended if he wanted me to put a paper bag over my head and pretend I was Beppe from
EastEnders
. And he still declined.

Ungrateful bastard.

Luckily for me and my green-eyed monster, George’s liaisons are nothing if not brief. He imagines himself to be in love at least twice a week, before realising that he has nothing whatsoever in common with the other person apart from sexual orientation. Consequently, he’s had more brief flings than I’ve owned knickers. And then some.

‘So have you done it yet?’ I ask him.

‘No.’

‘No?’ I echo. ‘God. It must be serious.’

‘I only met him at lunchtime. In the park.’

‘Hasn’t stopped you before.’

‘Ooh,’ George shrieks. ‘Cutty sark. What’s with you?’

‘I met someone too,’ I confess. ‘At work.’

‘Is he nice?’

‘He’s gay.’

‘Oh, Katie,’ he says sadly. ‘You haven’t gone and made a holy show of yourself again, have you?’

‘I’m afraid I have,’ I quaver. ‘And now I’ve lost my job too.’

‘Oh dear.’ He sounds sympathetic. ‘Well, that’s all very sad but I’m afraid I can’t stop to chat now. I’ve got a hot date to get ready for. He’s taking me to Quaglinos for dinner.’

‘Oh.’

I listen
obediently for a good half an hour as George tells me just how great life is now that he’s found that certain someone number four hundred and fifty-three. He’s still talking as I put the phone down as gently as I can and turn to my last resort.

Sam.

Usually, I don’t bother troubling Sam with my tales of torture. And I don’t really know why I’m bothering now. He’s bound to be out with one of the tampon-thin fuckwits he calls girlfriends. I wouldn’t mind but they’ve always got such stupid, sugarpuff names like Coco and Indigo that they get right on my tits before I’ve even met them.

I’m pleasantly surprised. He’s alone. ‘Come round,’ he says.

Sam lives four streets away, in Calbourne Road. He opens the door of his new house, looking scruffy and dishevelled. There’s a paintbrush in his hand and the end of his nose and his fringe are coated in duck-egg blue paint. He looks so familiar and so…so ordinary and Charlie Brown-ish somehow, that I completely forget myself and burst into torrents of tears.

‘TTFN?’ he asks kindly.

TTFN stands for tea, toast and fags NOW.

‘Or perhaps you’d prefer a pizza?’