My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (15 page)

In desperation, I call Sam.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Watching TV.’

‘In bed?’

‘Yep.’

‘Oh.’

‘Why?’

‘Feel like coming over?’ I try to keep the edge of panic from creeping into my voice. I can still see the spider. It’s crouching disgustingly in the middle of the carpet. Sodding thing has the gall to enter my flat and plonk itself in front of Channel 5. I have to keep it in sight, no matter how traumatic, because if it hides before I can get rid of it, I’ll never be able to set foot in the flat again.

‘Now?’ He sounds surprised. ‘At half past eleven?’

‘Uh huh.’ I inch back as the revolting creature flexes a spindly leg.

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Oh,’ I try to sound as flippant as possible,’ thought you might want to hang out for a bit. Share a bottle of wine. I’ve got some Pinot Grigio chilling nicely in the fridge.’

‘But it’s a school night. And I’m knackered after all that splendid maître d’ stuff I did last night.’

‘God,’ I scoff. ‘You’re so square.’

‘I am not.’

He is, actually. He never goes out in the middle of the week any more. He’s so busy with Freeman PR he doesn’t have time for hangovers.

‘We could watch
Donnie Brasco
.’

‘But I’ve got a really important meeting in the morning.’

‘How
important?’

‘Very. I’m pitching. It’s a really big client.’

‘Are you going to have to be all bumlicky and everything?’

‘And everything,’ he says firmly. ‘So I’ll have to give Al Pacino a miss this time, I’m afraid.’

‘Spoilsport.’

‘You OK, Simpson?’

‘Yes.’

‘No you’re not. You sound all shaky.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say firmly.

‘You don’t sound fine. This isn’t about us watching a video at all, is it?’

‘No.’

‘So you’ve finally decided you want my body.’ He laughs. ‘Is that it?’

‘In yer dreams, Sam Freeman.’

‘Then I guess there’s only one thing it can be,’ he says.

‘Guess so.’

‘OK.’ He sighs, and I hear crinkly, crunkly sounds as he pulls back the duvet and hauls himself out of bed. I imagine him reaching for his jeans, which will probably be strewn across the back of the sofa in his bedroom. Pulling a white T-shirt from the pile by the door over his tanned chest.

‘How big is it this time?’ he asks.

‘What?’ I snap my head up. God, what am I doing, thinking about Sam’s chest like that? Haven’t I learnt anything from Max? Christ, Simpson, have some sense. Back away.

‘The spider.’ I can tell he’s trying to keep from laughing. ‘I assume that’s what all this is about.’

‘Massive,’ I whimper. ‘Can you hurry up?’

‘How massive?’ he asks, a chuckle bouncing about somewhere in the back of his throat.

‘The size of a dinner plate.’

‘Not a tractor wheel this time then.’ He laughs. ‘Don’t worry. Chuck a yoghurt pot over it or something and I’ll see you in ten.’

I do as he
says, grabbing the yoghurt pot from beside my bed, dashing downstairs with it before the spider scuttles away and gingerly placing it over the top of the hunched form. Then I curl up on my squishy sofa awaiting rescue. By the time Sam actually lets himself in, I’ve fallen fast asleep.

‘Great.’ He pokes me in the ribs. ‘You’re asleep after all. I needn’t have bothered.’

‘Yes you had.’

‘So where’s the culprit?’

‘There,’ I quake, pointing a finger in the direction of the yoghurt pot. ‘And if you say it’s more scared of me than I am of it, I’ll punch your lights out. Check me out. I’m shaking like a jelly. My legs have turned to sponge fingers.’

Sam shakes his head, pretending to be serious. ‘And I thought this was no trifling matter.’

‘Oh God. Spare me your Dad jokes,’ I grumble. And I’m not being funny but I do feel all wobbly. It’s a relief when Sam, casual as you like in jogging bottoms and a faded red T-shirt, saunters back in through the kitchen door, shaking his head at me and grinning.

‘All gone,’ he says. ‘Condom and all.’

‘Oh God…’

‘So who was he?’ he teases. ‘One of those hundreds of one-night stands you’ve been planning, I suppose.’

‘None of your business,’ I snap.

‘Well, at least you’re having safe sex,’ he says.

‘You’re not my dad,’ I tell him. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

‘OK, OK.’ Sam holds up his hands in defeat. ‘I won’t ask. Now are you making me a cup of tea or not?’

‘Not,’ I say. But I make it anyway and bring it over to the sofa where he’s crashed out upside down, head on my best chocolate-coloured cushion and bare feet slung over the back.

‘So d’you think I did OK yesterday then?’ I ask. Now that revolting Max and the horrible spider have both gone, I can think about
yesterday’s achievements. The food was pretty damn good. Everyone said so. I’m actually feeling quite proud. Perhaps I’m not such a non-achiever after all.

‘You know you did.’ He rumples my hair affectionately. ‘You did brilliant.’

‘I’ve got another two lined up, you know,’ I say proudly. ‘Just from last night.’

‘That’s excellent.’

‘Thing is,’ I say, ‘that wedding cost me a fortune. When can I send them the bill?’

A chuckle starts rollicking around in Sam’s chest and bubbles quickly to the surface.

‘God, you really are crap at the real world, aren’t you?’ He guffaws. ‘Do you know how businesses work or not?’

‘Not,’ I say decidedly. ‘I really haven’t a clue. You’ll have to help me with all that book balancing and stuff.’

‘Send the bill now,’ Sam says. ‘Then you’ll at least get paid in sixty days.’

‘What?’ I shriek. ‘But I need the money now. Otherwise I can’t even buy a loaf, let alone all the stuff I need for this christening I’ve got to do. It’s in three weeks. Shit, Sam. How can I make some money quickly?’

He looks me up and down. ‘Topless model?’

‘Have to get implants first.’

‘True. Lottery?’

‘Too touch and go.’

‘
Millionaire
then.’ He smiles, pulling me towards him and giving me a sympathetic hug. ‘Charm the pants off Chris Tarrant and win yourself a cool million. The questions are easy.’

‘No they’re not,’ I say gloomily. ‘Not for someone like me they aren’t.’

‘You’re bright.’

‘But I don’t have any general knowledge,’ I mooch. ‘I only know the answers to questions like “What’s the price of Rimmel nail varnish in Superdrug?” and “How many colourways do Nike
Air Max trainers come in?” That’s not going to be much help, is it?’

‘Possibly not,’ he says. ‘What about a loan? A small business loan. All you need is a clear business and marketing plan and you’re home and dry. That’s how I’ve managed to start up Freeman PR.’

‘God,’ I groan. ‘You sad bastard. Why do you have to be so bloody sensible?’

‘One of us has to be. And it’s never going to be you, is it?’

‘Guess not. Anyway, I haven’t got a clue how to go about doing one of those plan things. The only thing I ever plan is what I’m having for dinner. Can’t
you
do it while
I’m
watching
Coronation Street
?’

‘No.’

‘Thanks,’ I grump. ‘Fat lot of use you are. This whole catering thing was your idea, you know.’

‘Calm down.’ Sam pats my shoulder and takes a noisy gulp of tea. ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. I just said I wouldn’t do it for you. You have to learn, otherwise you’ll have no idea how it’s all supposed to work.’

‘You’ll help then?’ I brighten.

‘Course.’ He hugs me quickly before standing up and draining his tea in one last gulp. ‘You might be sodding useless but you’re practically my sister. Look, give me a ring in the week and we’ll sort it out.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, seeing him to the door. ‘Oh, and Sam?’

‘Yes?’ He spins round, an odd look on his face. It’s the same look I saw through the darkness when we shared a bed at Poppy’s mum and dad’s and for a second I feel distinctly funny inside. I’m not sure I like it.

‘Thanks for getting rid of that spider.’

‘Any time, Simpson.’ He shrugs, rummaging for his car keys.

I
bet Max is a complete
Mummy’s boy. Over the next few weeks, as I try to plan menus for my next two bookings, he calls me no less than fourteen times. Honestly! It’s enough to make you spit. Still, I call-dodge quite successfully, until one Thursday when I completely forget myself and snatch up the phone. Sam lent me enough money to tide me over, so I could provide the food for the christening of Baby Ellis of Lewishan and I expect this is Mrs Ellis calling to confirm her views on the cake.

‘Katie?’

It’s him.

‘No,’ I almost shout, slamming down the phone. Then I ring Janice at her office. If the line’s busy he’ll have no chance of getting through again. I’m going to have to be more careful in future.

‘I saw Max today,’ she announces, when she hears it’s me. ‘In a planning meeting.’

‘That’s nice for you.’

‘Why are you screening his calls?’

‘He
said that?’

‘Yes. So why? And don’t lie.’

‘Dunno. Because I can?’

‘You’re mad.’

‘I suppose he told you I bonked him?’

‘No, actually. But he does seem pretty keen. Shit. Everyone at work’s going to be so jealous when I tell them.’

‘They can have him if they like. I’m done.’

‘But he’s gorgeous.’

‘You have him then.’

‘I wish.’ She laughs. ‘I’m afraid I’m spoken for, rather.’

‘You shagged him then? Jasper, I mean. No more treating yourself to nice bits of rough?’

‘Had to,’ she announces. ‘Honestly, Katie, you should have seen him. He was so grateful it was pathetic.’

‘Leave him then.’

‘Can’t,’ she says firmly. ‘I nicked a bank statement from the hall as I left this morning.’

‘You did what?’

‘A girl needs to know,’ she defends herself.

‘Did you open it?’

‘Oh yes. And it’s all fine. He’s wadded.’

‘God. Wish I was. My Switch was refused in Safeway last night when I was trying to buy a tin of macaroni cheese. I don’t even have sixty-eight pence. God only knows how I’m going to be able to afford to smoke fags and buy expensive toiletry items. Sam’s loan has pretty much run out.’

‘You think that’s bad,’ she says unsympathetically. ‘I’ve got another pitch coming up and I’m here till ten o’clock every night as it is. I’ll never get a wedding sorted out at this rate.’

‘You’re getting married?’ I gasp. Christ Almighty. She’s kept that quiet.

‘Of course. Why else do you think I’m boffing the silly old sod.’

‘Well, when’s the wedding?’

‘Oh, he
doesn’t actually know about it yet,’ Janice says. ‘But he will. He has to. Check me out. I’m a catch.’

I’m impressed at her optimism. ‘And when he does ask, will you have the full works? The big meringue and the marquee and stuff?’

‘Will I fuck,’ she booms, almost perforating my eardrum. ‘God, if I start inviting loads of people along I’m going to have to ask my mother too, aren’t I?’

‘Oh Janice,’ I say. ‘She is your mother.’

‘Katie, she’d turn up in head-to-foot floral crimplene and smoke Raffles all night. She’d make a holy show of me. I can’t take the risk.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing. Sorry, Katie, but I can’t afford to have her showing me up, complaining that the gazpacho is cold and asking where the “toilet” is in a loud voice. Anyway. Face it. The poor cow just hasn’t got the wardrobe so she’ll have to stay at home. Nope. When we get married it’ll be on some beach somewhere hot. Bastard hot. And I’ll be wearing a white bikini and pink flowers in my hair. No guests.’

‘Oh.’

‘Well, you can come, I suppose,’ she adds generously. ‘Seeing as you’re my best mate.’

‘Thanks.’ I feel better.

‘As long as you can afford it, of course. Flights to Hawaii don’t come cheap.’

‘Oh.’

‘At least I won’t have to worry about you showing me up.’

‘That’s good.’

‘I mean, I won’t have to worry about you having better hair than me or anything, for a start.’

Good old Janice. She always knows how to make me feel better.

‘And you don’t have a hope in hell of getting a better tan than me, either.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Your legs will still be like two milk bottles when we get back.’

‘Thanks,’ I say miserably.’ Oh, cheer up, Katie,’ she says irritably. ‘Whatever’s the matter? You should be happy for me. I think you’re being a bit selfish.’

‘I told you. I’m skint. And that’s not a “can’t afford to buy that Jigsaw white dress” kind of skint. It’s the “can I afford that Tesco’s white sliced?” sort.’ Suddenly, the fizz has gone out of my great success at Poppy’s wedding and reality has started to kick in. What if I can’t afford to start up a business at all? What if this christening I’m catering for all goes to the wall and I’ve wasted a fortune on enough sugar to ice the Millennium Dome?

‘Well,’ she says importantly, ‘I just might have something that’ll cheer you up.’

‘What?’ Frankly I doubt that anything she can say is going to make me feel any better. Janice’s efforts at cheering me up usually involve spending lots of time in hideously expensive shops, followed by a long sesh in a bar where the drinks are six quid a throw. And the chances of the bank seeing its way clear to financing that one are slimmer than Ally McBeal, so it looks as though I’ll have to wallow in poverty for a bit longer yet.

‘Well,’ she begins. ‘You know I told you Jasper had that flat in Paris?’

‘Mmmm?’ I pick at my big toenail and inspect it carefully. Perhaps I might manage to cheer up after all. A long weekend away before I have to knuckle down and sort out my finances and really get to work on my new business is just what I need. I haven’t been on holiday for ages. It’d be great just to kick back for a couple of weeks. After all, I won’t be able to go for years once I’m running my own catering conglomerate, will I?

For a second, I allow myself to get excited. Gay Paree with Janice, eh? We’ll have a great laugh. And how lovely of her to think of me like that. She’s been spending so much time with Jasper over the past few weeks that I can’t help feeling a bit bereft.
Especially as George and David are so cheesily in love as well. Honestly, it’s enough to make you boke.

And if I’m honest, I have been a bit worried that now she’s in pursuit of a signed and sealed marriage certificate, we’ll drift apart and end up not even knowing where the other lives. But I needn’t have been concerned. Janice is my absolute best mate. I might have known she wouldn’t forget about me.

God. Paris. It’ll be just like the old times. Girlie shopping trips in Galeries Lafayette. Lazy, gossipy afternoons drinking big creamy coffees in pavement cafés. Gorging ourselves silly on huge pains au chocolat and generous slabs of tarte au citron. Glimpsing the view from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Bohemian Montmartre. Les Tuileries. The Sacré Coeur…

‘And guess what?’

‘What?’ I ask, getting so carried away with my imaginings that I’m hardly bothering to listen to what she’s saying. We might even take a boat trip down the Seine. Have a game of boules. And we’ll get slowly plastered on pastis before noshing on snails and steak frites in a lovely, garlicky little restaurant somewhere.

‘He’s taking me there for a romantic weekend. Isn’t it fantastic?’

I come crashing down to earth with a bump. How stupid. Of course she didn’t mean for me to go with her. And I should know by now that Janice’s mind works in mysterious ways. Quite how the prospect of the weekend of biddy sex she’s letting herself in for is supposed to cheer me up, I’ll never know, but that’s Janice for you.

Self-centred to the core.

‘Of course I’m going to have to shag him again, I expect,’ she bubbles. ‘But he’s bound to propose. Isn’t he? I mean this is Paris we’re talking about, mate. Who wouldn’t want to get engaged in Paris. Sooooo romantic.’

God, she’s cracked.

‘Janice, you practically have to prop up his willy with a lolly stick.’

‘But
he’s rich.’

‘And Jake took me to Paris,’ I remind her.

‘He didn’t propose.’ ‘He didn’t take you,’ she points out. ‘He made you pay for yourself.’

That’s true. He did. The disappointment was piercing. I was going through a prolonged period of yearning pathetically after mini breaks at the time. I thought sex would be more exciting somewhere new. And I’d imagined us jetting off from Heathrow to Charles de Gaulle, where we’d jump into a limo and head for the Georges V. We’d have an opulent four-poster, where Jake would do unspeakably erotic things to me with chilled champagne bottles. And it’d be the best holiday I’d ever had. Ever.

In reality, of course, we headed for the Eurostar terminal, where he bought his own ticket then waved me forward to pay for my own. He took me to a Travelodge equivalent near the Bois de Boulogne. Full of prozzies and miles from anywhere. Anywhere nice, anyway. I kept expecting Alan Partridge to leap out of the chipboard closet, brandishing his big plate. We got drunk on halves of lager because the hotel bar didn’t serve pints and the sex that followed was so pathetically mediocre that I actually fell asleep, mid thrust. I only know this because, being somewhat pissed, I cannoned off a couple of huge snores that actually woke me up, only to find that my being deep in slumber hadn’t deterred Jake from his single-minded pursuit of orgasm in the least. I left him to it, drifting off into gentle dreams of rushing waterfalls, flowing rivers and tempestous oceans before coming to in the small hours to the realisation that water was actually dripping on to me.

And, calm as you like, Jake was standing over me treating me to a quality golden shower.

Quite frankly, if I’d wanted watersports, I’d have gone to the Algarve.

‘Jake,’ I yelled, scrabbling around to escape.

‘On the toilet,’ he yelled back, clearly fast asleep. ‘Out in a minute.’

Even though
I know that Janice’s Paris weekend probably won’t be much more romantic than my own, I can’t help feeling a bit cheesed off at my own state of affairs in comparison to hers. I can’t even afford a day trip to Bognor. And I don’t have a clue what the hell I’m going to do about it. So when I’ve put the phone down, I fashion myself a rough cheese, chilli and peanut butter sandwich and tune into
Trisha
to watch women in polyester leggings discuss wayward teenage daughters and dysfunctional acne-riddled sons.

Sam is as good as his word though. On Saturday morning, he calls me to make sure I get up, then he loafs round in his new Levi’s Twisted jeans, a grey V-neck T-shirt and a New York Yankees baseball cap to explain how grown-ups apply for loans.

‘Looking good.’ I tweak the hat. ‘Like the weekend outfit. Very Father of Two.’

‘Not looking so bad yourself.’ He gives me a hug and laughs at the fact that I’m still in my pink and white stripy pyjamas, all muzzy with sleep. ‘Come on, bed breath. Let’s sort out this mess.’

And bless him. He spends the whole of the morning and most of the afternoon helping me define my objectives. Actually, he practically has to tell me what my objectives are, but he’s a great help. By four o’clock, I have what he tells me is a sound business plan. And I’m feeling so optimistic that I offer to cook him dinner tonight as a sort of thank you.

‘It’ll have to be beans on toast, mind,’ I tell him. ‘Unless you want to pay for it.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He looks kind of embarrassed.

‘Why?’ I can’t help asking him, even though it’s none of my business really.

‘Well, I’ve got a date.’

‘I see.’ For some reason I’m completely pissed off. It’s not often Sam turns down my dinner invitations. He’d rather bite off his foot at the ankle and throw it to the dogs than miss one of my slap-up feasts.

‘With
Pussy. The girl from the wedding. She phoned me a while ago. We’re going to some trendy new club in the West End.’

‘Oh,’ I say dismissively. ‘Sniffing after Slinky Malinky No Boobs, eh? But you hate clubbing.’

‘I don’t.’

‘With me you do. You always refuse to come.’

‘Because you and George always make me go to gay clubs. And I always get hit on.’

‘Don’t be such a homophobe.’

‘I’m not. I just—’

‘Anyway.’ I shrug. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘But I don’t have to go now.’

‘You might as well,’ I say, finding it necessary to add, ‘I’m probably busy anyway. Very busy actually. Many thanks, though, for all your help.’

‘But—’

‘Bye.’

When he’s gone I flop onto my bed, looking up at my big silver glitterball and wondering what the hell made me behave like that. I’m just a bit pissed off that he must have known about this date for a whole week. And he hasn’t bothered to tell me. I tell him everything. Well, almost everything, And I’m feeling protective, I suppose. I don’t like Pussy. I suspect she’s really not a very nice person. And Sam’s like a big brother. I don’t want him to get dumped on.

Even though he’s usually the one who does the dumping.

The bank schedules my appointment for next Wednesday. And when the day comes, I pull on my smartest trouser suit. There’s a small chicken madras stain on the left thigh, but if I keep the jacket on it won’t show.

After all, this loan is really my last chance. A chance to make Mum proud of me. It’s the least she deserves, after all. God knows, since Dad left, she’s made enough sacrifices for me. The least
she can hope for is a daughter who doesn’t lounge around the house watching hospital soaps all day.

Mind you, life would have been a hell of a lot easier for me if she had just bloody well given up on me. I could have been a complete failure in peace then. Damn her. Why couldn’t she have rejected me at birth? Held up her hand and announced to the midwife, ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t bond. Put it up for adoption.’ Or left me in a bin bag in a phone box outside St Pancras. Why does she have to be so bloody, irritatingly supportive all the time? She’s no idea of the pressure it puts on me.

At the bank I have to wait for a good hour outside the Loans Adviser’s office. I’m just thinking about sodding right off out of there and lying to Sam about it when the door opens and a man pokes his head out.

‘Ms Faulkner will see you now.’

Bugger.

‘Sorry.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘It’s not Faulkner any more. It’s back to Brisco now. Keep forgetting, you know?’