My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (16 page)

‘Right.’ I shrug, picking up my rucksack, not feeling businesslike in the slightest. I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. But Faulkner. The name rings a bell. Why? I wonder.

Shit. It’s not some friend of my mother’s, is it?’

‘Sit down.’ The manager indicates an orange plastic chair in front of her desk. Classy.

I look up expectantly. Who starts first? I have no idea what to expect. But buggery fuck. Where have I seen that face before? At least it’s not one of my mother’s friends. She’s too young for that. She’s tall, extremely smart and with hair drawn into a tidy French pleat. Perhaps she used to work in Safeway’s. Or Victoria Wine. That’ll be it.

‘Hello, Ms…?’

‘Simpson,’ I remind her. God. She could have at least bothered to do her research. ‘As in Edward and Mrs.’

‘And you want a loan for?’

‘I want to start up my own business.’

She looks
at me derisively, as though I’ve just told her I want it for Bacardi and Cokes and stocking up on blue mascara.

‘Well, yes.’ She picks up a pencil. ‘That is usually the idea.’

‘And I really want to make it work,’ I sputter.

‘Don’t they all?’

I ignore her. Because the moment I’ve said it, I realise that I really, really do. I want to make a go of this, come hell or high water.

She looks back at me and chews on the end of her pencil. Then she looks at me again, looks away and looks back, startled.

‘I think we know each other, don’t we?’

‘I thought so, yes,’ I gabble, pleased. Perhaps this will give me some sort of advantage over the other loan seekers. ‘Were we at college—?’

‘Oh no,’ she interrupts. ‘I think it’s a little more recent than that.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t…’

‘Oh yes. I’d recognise your face anywhere,’ she sneers.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I only have to look through my wedding photos to see you and your friend flashing your pants at all and sundry.’

And then it clicks. Of course. I know exactly who this is.

Buggery fuck.

It’s Basildon Bride.

‘Nice souvenir of my wedding, that was,’ she snarls. ‘The only one, as it turns out.’

‘Oh right,’ I sputter. ‘And how is your…er…husband?’

‘Ex-husband,’ she spits. ‘We’re getting divorced. I caught him humping one of the bridesmaids not three days after we got back from honeymoon. I’m going for half of everything, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘So what was it like?’ she asks me.

‘Your honeymoon? How should I know?’

‘Fucking my husband?’

How the fuck she expects me to know that, I don’t know. I was rendered. Completely off my face. So I don’t respond. Instead I
stand up pulling my jacket down to cover the curry stain and feeling my cheeks burn.

‘I think I should go.’

‘You got that right.’

As I get to the door, I decide it’s worth one last-ditch attempt at least.

‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a loan then?’

‘You got that right too,’ she says. ‘Now fuck off.’

W
hen I tell Sam I didn’t get the loan, he’s sympathetic.

Ish.

‘Come on, you.’ He gives me a hug. He’s just been playing football and he smells of outside.

‘I’m a failure.’

‘You’re not.’

‘I am. I didn’t get the loan.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He looks worried. ‘Was it…?’

‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure him. ‘It wasn’t your business plan. Just my luck, I’m afraid, that the loans adviser was that woman from the wedding.’

‘Poppy’s wedding?’

‘Nope. The woman whose wedding I gatecrashed. Whose husband I boffed.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Don’t look as though you’re trying not to laugh.’

‘Oh. OK.’

‘You’re still doing it.’

‘I can’t
help it.’ Sam’s wide grin explodes onto his face once more. ‘Only you could fuck up something like that so professionally, Simpson. And with such style.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Sorry.’ He smirks. ‘But it is funny. Would you like some tea?’

‘I’d prefer a pizza,’ I confess.

‘Things must be bad.’

I pull a face. It’s OK for him. He’s good at anything he turns his hand to. People get sucked in by his enthusiasm for everything so they can’t help making life easy for him. All I can muster enthusiasm for is cake. And curry. And crisps. Sam’s natural aptitude for brown-nosing and agreeing with people—he sits there like a nodding dog even when he just wants to punch someone’s lights out—stands him in good stead when it comes to his career. But then he could decide to go into catering tomorrow and he’d make a damn sight better job of it than I ever could. Even though I’m definitely the better cook.

Sam rifles through the pile of junk mail in the knife and fork drawer until he finds a Speedy Pizza menu. Switching the phone to speakerphone, he dials the number.

‘Hello,’ he says, ‘I’d like to order a pizza, please.’

Despite my dark mood, I stifle a giggle. It’s so funny the way people always say that. As though the guy in the pizza shop might be expecting you to tell him you’ve broken down on the M25 and require emergency assistance. Or that you need a taxi to the maternity ward of St George’s Hospital within the next five minutes or else your wife is going to bugger up the soft furnishings good and proper.

‘Oh, large, definitely,’ Sam is saying to the man on the end of the phone. ‘Absolutely whopping if you’ve got it. You have? Marvellous. Well, we’ll have an extra large cheese and tomato then…’

‘Thin crust,’ I remind him.

‘Thin crust, please. With…’

‘Anchovies.’

‘Did you
get that?’ he asks Mr Speedy Pizza. ‘We’ll have some of your finest anchovies for the lady and perhaps some pineapple chunks to go with them.’

We’ve played the pizza game since we were about twelve, each coming up with the most outlandish toppings we could think of and daring the other to order it. And because I’m miserable, I get to do all the choosing. Those are the rules.

‘And chillies,’ I demand, digging at a new ingrowing hair on my knee.

‘Chilles as well, please,’ Sam instructs. ‘And perhaps you could lob on a couple of artichoke hearts for the sophisticated touch.’

‘Parma ham.’ I laugh, setting to work on my other leg. ‘And peppersan’ onionsan extracheese. And capers.’

‘Are you writing all this down?’ Sam asks the pizza guy. ‘No, no, it isn’t a joke .I’ve just got one very hungry young lady here, that’s all. A very hungry young lady indeed. She’s been thinking about working for a living a lot this morning and she’s absolutely worn out.’

‘Fuck off.’ I giggle, forgetting that the pizza guy can hear me.

‘No, that’s me she’s telling to fuck off,’ Sam says. ‘Not you.’

‘Peas,’ I interrupt. ‘I love peas on pizza. And in curry.’

‘Curry? Oh, no, sorry, not curry on the pizza, but we will have some peas, please. And some tuna and some mushrooms.’

‘And goat’s cheese,’ I say. ‘Ask if they’ve got goat’s cheese.’

‘Goat’s cheese then. And some fine tiger prawns sprinkled over the top?’

‘I hate prawns,’ I remind him. ‘Nasty pink commas that taste of sewage.’

‘Right, sorry, hold the prawns. No just rewind a bit and whack those prawns on half of it.’

And so on, until we’ve ordered about twenty different toppings each and the pizza guy is telling us firmly that yes, actually, they do draw the line at bananas and chocolate and that no, we can’t have Smarties sprinkled all over the damn thing.

‘How
come I can never do this with any of my girlfriends?’ Sam asks me later, as we munch and slurp our way through the pizza, which, when it finally arrives, is the size of a dustbin lid.

‘Because you always plump—if you’ll excuse the expression—for the anorexic ones,’ I inform him coolly, taking a rogue prawn off my fourth slice of pizza and lobbing it back into the box. ‘Like that Pussy creature. You can be so thick sometimes, you know. Did you think they all naturally had thighs the width of skipping ropes?’

‘Well, you do.’ Sam brushes his sandy mop into his baseball cap and looks at my legs. ‘The amount you put away you ought to be the size of a tower block by now.’

‘Well, now you come to mention it, I don’t hear the talking scales at the supermarket yelling “No coach parties please”, when I step on them, no.’ I laugh, looking down at my thighs.

‘Or “One at a time please” ‘ Sam joins in, laughing.

‘But I’m not that skinny,’ I say defensively. ‘I mean I haven’t got BHS.’

‘Huh?’

‘BHS. Big Head Syndrome. I mean, I don’t look like a football perched on a javelin, do I?’

‘No-o.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ I say. ‘Dieting’s boring, Sam. Counting fat units is even less exciting than watching Des O’Connor tonight. So I just don’t bother with it. I do treacle roll and Kettle chips instead.’

‘God.’ Sam rolls over on the floor and grins at me. ‘Why can’t all girls be like you? The ones I take out to dinner gnaw on one tiny asparagus spear then say they’re full. Costs me a fortune in wasted food.’

‘And when you think of all those poor starving Africans,’ I say, ‘it’s criminal. Well, I hate seeing things go to waste.’

‘You do?’

‘Absolutely.’ I grin, feeling a lot better now. ‘Which is why I’m having the last bit of pizza.’

‘You
think so, do you?’ Sam’s head snaps towards the box where the last slice is waiting temptingly, oozing with cheese and smelling of fried onions.

‘Oh yes,’ I tell him. ‘That’s mine. S’got my name on it.’

‘You sure?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘I’m having it.’

‘Not if I get there first.’

We both jump to it and fight to snaffle the last slice until I slip on Sam’s polished floor and flip, arse over tit, ending up on my back on top of the pizza box. On my way down, I grab the front of Sam’s sweatshirt and end up taking him down with me. For a split second we find ourselves on top of each other in some kind of farcical clinch.

Quickly, I sit up, shoving him to the floor.

‘Gerroff. Your hair’s tickling my nose.’

He pulls away, laughing.

‘Oh dear.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t think either of us will be eating that pizza now. Most of it’s stuck to the back of your head.’

‘Yuck.’

As I pick the worst of it off, Sam looks really thoughtful, as though some amazing idea has suddenly occurred to him.

‘What?’ I ask him. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found the answer to all my problems in the bottom of a pizza box.’

‘No,’ he says slowly. ‘But I have got an idea.’

‘What?’

‘Why don’t you move in here?’

‘And why the buggery bollocks would I want to do that?’ ‘Not as in move in, move in,’ he rushes to reassure me. ‘Not unless you want to, of course.’

‘You what?’

‘I’m joking,’ he says hurriedly. ‘But you could have the spare room, couldn’t you? It would save you paying rent on your flat while you get started. You could even use the study as an office.’

‘I can
do it myself, thank you.’

‘Simpson, don’t be so stubborn.’ Sam starts to clear away hunks of mozzarella from the floor. ‘You’ve just told me you have no money. And I can’t lend you anymore ’cos it’s all tied up in my house. And the business. But I can share my house with you so you don’t have so many outgoings. Come on, Simpson. There’s not much alternative. Not unless you want to go back to working for someone else. And you know you don’t want to do that.’

‘And who are you to say what I want, exactly?’ I say through gritted teeth. This is typical of Sam, trying to control me like this. He’s done it ever since my dad disappeared with that oriental temptress.

‘Well, I…’ He looks surprised at my tone of voice.

‘Well what?’

‘I just thought it was best.’

‘There you go again,’ I snap. ‘Thinking you’re my dad. Well, I’m several months older than you, Sam Freeman, and don’t you forget it.’

‘Don’t be flippant.’

‘Don’t be a twat then.’

I know I sound ungrateful. But I don’t want to give up my independence. I can’t actually think of anything worse than living in someone else’s flat, cooking my dinner in shifts, creeping around so as not to get in the way and having to miss
EastEnders
because his mates are playing Grand Theft Auto on the PlayStation 2. And the problem with Sam is that he just won’t leave well alone. He’ll take it upon himself to meddle in every aspect of my life, ‘just making sure I’m OK’. And if I want to set up my own business, I need to feel that I can do things alone. Without some father figure always looking out for me.

And it’s not just that, of course. There’s the Pussy factor. If My Little Pony started spending any time here, I’d have to give up breathing or something.

‘So you think I should give up my flat?’ I ask him coldly.

‘If you have to, yes.’

‘Well, for your
information, I don’t “have” to do anything. I can do what I want. I’m thirty years of age.’

‘Start acting it then.’

‘Piss off,’ I say. ‘On second thoughts, I’ll piss off. It is your house, after all.’

‘Stay.’

I calm down a bit after Sam gives me a fag. I can’t really afford to buy my own these days. And I suppose it was nice of him to offer. He was only trying to help, after all. It’s just that I can’t bear to acknowledge that I need help. After all I went through with Jake bloody Carpenter, I need to believe I can do all this on my own.

‘That better?’ he asks, as I take a deep drag.

‘Yep.’

‘Good.’ He grins, obviously relieved to see I’m calmer. ‘Shall I give you some to take home with you? I don’t suppose you can afford such luxuries these days.’

Suddenly, a white flash of fury erupts in my chest, surprising even me.

‘I’ve had enough of this.’ I jump up, throwing my lit cigarette onto the floor and pulling on my jacket.

‘Don’t do that.’

‘Why not?’ I nod towards the cigarette end. I have no further use for it.’

‘I mean,’ Sam picks up the burning end and throws it into the ashtray, ‘don’t go home. Let’s sort things out properly.’

‘I don’t need to sort things out, thank you,’ I say. ‘Especially not with you. I’m not staying round here to be treated like some sort of bloody charity case. Do you see me wandering around outside Woollies, shaking a little tin and giving out stickers?’

‘No, but… I just thought…’

‘Trouble is,’ I stab a finger at his chest, you didn’t just think, did you? Otherwise you’d realise you’ve just made me feel about this big.’ hold my forefinger and thumb about half an inch apart.

‘I was
trying to help,’ he protests as I open the front door and step outside into the early summer sunshine.

‘I don’t need your help.’

‘Then what, exactly, do you intend to do? Go home to your mother? You can’t afford to live in that flat without a job. You know that. The rent’s extortionate for one person as it is.’

‘Well, I didn’t exactly force Janice to move out, now did I?’

‘You didn’t exactly try very hard to find someone else to replace her, did you?’

‘Fuck off, Sam.’ I’m shouting now. ‘I don’t have to replace her if I don’t want to. I can do what I want.’

‘Oh, grow up,’ I hear him say just before I slam the door in his face. I open up the letterbox.

‘Grow up yourself,’ I shriek through it, then stomp off down the path, almost ending up in the privet hedge. When I get to the street I turn round. He’s standing at the window, an odd look—contempt, perhaps—on his face. ‘And don’t call me Simpson,’ I bellow at the top of my voice.

I steam down Hearnville Road in a foul temper. Me, grow up? Who the hell does he think he is? Just because he bestows that horrible game show host’s smile on every female who has the misfortune to cross his path, and gets away with murder. Well, it isn’t going to work on me. It just annoys me. And another thing that really blimming well bugs me, I tell myself, passing a couple of middle-aged men enjoying the sunshine on the Common, is that the minute the sun comes out, people all over the capital decide it’s OK to behave as though they’ve undergone some sort of dreadful taste lobotomy. Why do blokes who have short, hairy, sausagey legs think it’s perfectly OK to wear shorts at all hours of the day just because it’s gone above seventy?

I unlock my front door, still fuming. Who cares if I haven’t got a job? It just means I can spend the rest of the afternoon jamming down oversalted instant noodles and watching shit telly. And that’s exactly what I do.

A couple
of hours later, I’m engrossed in some shallow fly-on-the-wall documentary when the phone shrills and, probably because I’m sick to the molars of my own company and am feeling restless and sort of squinchly after my row with Sam, I decide to answer the damn thing for a change, even though common sense tells me I should be avoiding all calls for the immediate future until Max gets it into his thick head that I don’t want anything more to do with him.

It isn’t Max. It’s George, calling to demand my immediate presence in the posh end of Islington.

‘Can’t,’ I mutter, glancing down at the grey jogging bottoms and ancient Wham! ‘Choose Life’ T-shirt I’m unashamedly slobbing about in. ‘Can’t leave the house until I find out whether the Harris family from Weston Super-Mare are going to miss their flight or not, I’m afraid. Mr Harris has got half an hour to get back to the airport with little Callum’s passport and if he doesn’t make it they’ll lose their holiday to Magaluf. A whole year’s savings down the drain. I’m on the edge of my seat here.’