My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (17 page)

‘Please?’ George sounds anxious. ‘It’s important.’

‘So’s the Harrises’ holiday to Majorca,’ I joke. ‘For them, anyway. They’ve never been able to afford to go abroad before.’

‘Pretty please?’ he wheedles. ‘With hundreds and thousands on top?’

Bloody hell. It isn’t normally like George to say please once during a conversation. Twice is unthinkable. Something dreadful must have happened. ‘OK. Keep your designer stubble on. Oh, look at that. He’s back.’

‘Who?’

‘Mr Harris. Made it by the seat of his shell suit. Thank goodness for that. Now all I have to do is wait and see if bubbly Denise Mason, nineteen, from Hertford gets her standby flight and we’re home and dry.’

‘Katie…’

‘Sorry. Are you going to tell me what’s happened?’

‘I can’t say over
the phone.’ George goes all mysterious. ‘Just say you’ll come, darling. I need your help.’

Well, that’s a different matter. No one has needed my help for ages. Not even Mum. For some reason even she hasn’t bothered to call for almost a fortnight. And I have to admit to being a teensy bit curious. George can’t usually keep his mouth shut for one second. So the fact that he’s refused to tell me over the phone about whatever it is that’s bothering him holds my interest for longer than your average episode of
Dawson’s Creek
. Perhaps it’s something exciting and illegal.

God, I hope so. Anything to brighten things up a bit.

‘Where shall I meet you?’

‘The Italian café in Upper Street. That’s the one we do like, with the expensive menu and the swarthy waiters, as opposed to the one we don’t like, with the nasty red checked tablecloths and the candles in bottles.’

‘And is that the royal we?’

‘Certainly,’ he says cockily. ‘Well, it’s me and David at any rate. See you there, darling. And look glam. I don’t want you turning up looking like a bloody woolly mammoth on acid again. This is important.’

After he’s gone I look down at my worn-in comfies. So I can’t really go out looking like a rag ’n’ bone man then. And, more importantly, do I actually have the raw materials to do anything about it? Knickers are scarce. Clean knickers are out of the ruddy question. I think I used the last nice pair up on Max. It really is time I did some laundry but there’s so much else to think about at the moment. Dislodging Shish Kebab from where he’s soaking in blissful slumber in my knicker drawer, I rummage through a dismal pile of grizzly grey buckets and a selection of dingy bras. In the end, I decide that an ancient, slightly see-through pink and white striped swimsuit is probably a damn sight more respectable than my grungiest period pants. I cover it with a stinging-pink linen shirt I find scrumpled up at the foot of the bed. I sniff it gingerly for the
scent of takeaway biryani or worse, but instead get a whiff of Comfort, which means it’s only creased because I haven’t bothered to hang it up after wash day. I add a pair of black moleskin combat pants from the floor, sponging off a teeny spattering of ketchup and checking to see that there are no socks or knicks tucked inside, waiting to creep like slugs from the ankle holes the moment I hit the crowded tube. Shuffling to the mirror, I untangle a worm of supernoodle out of my hair and twist my curls into a topknot with a bright green scrunchie, leaving just a couple of coppery tendrils loose. My skin is clammy and grey, so I dust pinky gold blusher over my cheekbones, slick on a bit of neutral lippie and, before I know it, I’m on autopilot.

Eventually, I emerge from Angel station, turn right onto Islington High Street and make for George’s favourite Italian on Upper Street.

‘I came as quickly as I could.’ I scuttle over to the corner of the sunny courtyard where George and David are sitting gossiping, a half-drunk bottle of Pinot Grigio and a dishful of glossy Queen olives between them.

‘Story of my life, darling,’ George giggles. ‘Oooh, God.’ He looks me up and down with the derision only a professional snob can summon. ‘Christ, you look as rough as a dog’s tits, sweetie. Doesn’t she, David? What happened?’

‘Hectic weekend,’ I lie, taking the extra glass they’ve laid out for me and glugging copious quantities of wine into it.

‘Yeah, right.’ George looks sceptical.

‘Well,’ I admit, ‘I just haven’t been used to getting out much, that’s all. No dosh, you see. And I’m feeling a bit pissy today.’

‘Figures,’ George says. ‘You’ve got a face like a bloody slapped bum again. What’s up?’

‘I’ve argued with Sam.’

‘When are you just going to admit you fancy each other and shag each other stupid?’ George asks. ‘Get the whole damn thing out of your system?’

‘But I don’t fancy him,’ I say. ‘He thinks he’s my bloody
father, for one thing. And now he’s really pissed me off. He’s only gone and asked me to move in with him.’

‘Told you,’ George hisses. ‘He lurves you.’

‘Not like that, you dope.’ I shrug. ‘He just wants to keep an eye on me because he thinks I’m poor.’

‘Have some more wine,’ David offers kindly, picking up the bottle and sloshing more into my glass ‘And some nibbly bits. Are you an olivey person? I don’t remember? There’s a marinated anchovy if you prefer.’

I relax, tipping my head back to enjoy the sunshine warming my face.

‘Don’t overdo it,’ George warns. ‘The boiled lobster look is so unattractive.’

In the opposite corner of the courtyard, a delicious waiter is seating a tall, slim girl in a raspberry linen shift dress next to the honeysuckle-covered wall. Her hair, hanging in a glossy sheet down her back, is the colour of golden treacle and she’s groomed to perfection. Something about her makes me watch her, and I can’t help playing a game with myself, imagining who it is she’s waiting for. Someone special, from the way she keeps checking her lipgloss and looking at her watch.

That’s absolutely the best thing about having no boyfriend. At least I don’t have to torture myself with the hidden fear that it’s him she’s re-applying her make-up for.

George refills my wine glass for the second time, and in the split second it takes me to look down at it and take a sip, Raspberry Dress’s suitor has arrived and is bending to kiss her cheek.

He looks very familiar somehow.

Startlingly familiar, in fact.

As he turns to wave the waiter over, I catch a glimpse of his face in profile.

And with a jolt of recognition, I almost call out.

It’s Jasper.

Buggerfuck!

‘Right, come on, ladies, tell all,’ I urge, before the boys
notice him. I can’t risk them clocking him. If anyone’s going to inform Janice of this little rendezvous, it should surely be me.

And of course it might not even be him. After all, I’ve only seen him in profile. And even if it is him, Raspberry Dress isn’t necessarily his bit on the side. She could be his daughter, for all I know. So it wouldn’t do to go jumping to conclusions. I mean, so far I’ve spotted them kissing but there definitely weren’t any tongues. So it could all be perfectly innocent.

Or not.

Still, I definitely don’t want him to see me, so I studiously avoid looking directly at him, inching myself down in my seat so I get backache and asking the boys why they’ve dragged me halfway across London on a lazy Sunday afternoon, when I could have been doing something far more productive like waxing my minky.

‘Well, go on then,’ George urges. David quickly stuffs an anchovy in his mouth so he doesn’t have to do the talking.

‘Oh bloody buggery hell.’ George runs his hands over his velvety black crop and tries to look serious. It doesn’t suit him. ‘We’ve got a proposition for you.’

‘I’m not doing a threesome,’ I say quickly.

At least I don’t think I am. Even though it could reasonably be said that I do quite fancy them both, it does seem a tiny bit sordid.

On the other hand, it would add considerably to this year’s measly score. But I’m not really that kind of girl.

‘God, no.’ George looks shocked.

Well, that’s that then.

‘Do we look remotely as though we might want to involve ourselves in all that?’ he asks. ‘No. Sorry, lovey, but I don’t think we’re ready for rug munching just yet. No, what we wanted to say was…’

‘Yes?’ I encourage. ‘It’s not that Rent My Womb thing again, is it? Because I’ve given you my opinion on that score.’ George takes a deep breath.

‘Katie,’ he says,
and it takes a gargantuan effort for me not to wee myself with laughter at the expression on his face. ‘Will you marry us?’

I laugh. ‘Oh George. That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me in my life.’

And it is. You see, I’m naive enough to think he means it metaphorically. The idea of the three of us being friends. Together all the time. Being there for each other. Exactly how a marriage should be, but rarely ever is in this day and age.

Which, of course, is precisely why I’m not bothering. So the prospect of having a friendship pact with David and George is the most attractive I’ve been offered in a long time. It cheers me up immensely. I don’t even mind if I’m not included in the actual sex part. After all, plenty of people are married in the true, forsaking all others sense of the word. And they never have sex.

Well, not with each other, anyway.

It certainly doesn’t cross my mind for a minute that George means it literally. As in the full-on, slip into big frou-frou dress, stick ridiculous spangly crown on head and waltz up aisle feeling like complete twat to sign life away on dotted line type scenario.

Of course, he doesn’t actually want me to marry both of them, he explains later after they’ve rammed a plate of angel hair squid-ink pasta, rocket and Parmesan salad, cappuccino and marscapone ice cream and a bottle of fizz laced with a generous dash of Smirnoff down me to butter me up. He did mean that bit metaphorically. Well, sort of. It’s just that, despite the tonsil-tickling-in-vodka-bar incident, David doesn’t actually feel he knows me well enough to ask me something so ginormously huge, and he’s a teensy bit scared. So George said he’d do the actual asking part. After all, he knows me well enough to understand that it’s completely necessary to soften the blow with alcohol and lard.

The crux of the matter is that David’s visa runs out in a few weeks’ time.

Which is
where, normal circumstances prevailing, he buggers off back to the land of Kylie, koalas and kangaroos. But, of course, there’s no way George is having that. Not with a regular bunk up on tap. So a secret marriage has been arranged. David is due to marry Jemima, George’s cousin, an eminent Edinburgh doctor. But she’s inconveniently found someone to fall in love with at the very last minute and, quite understandably, wants to marry him instead.

‘Selfish bitch,’ George mutters, glugging back more wine.

‘It’s not really her fault though, is it?’ David says kindly. ‘But you see, Katie, it does leave us up fanny alley rather.’

I can quite see that it does, but playing for time to cover my surprise, I suggest that we shouldn’t do anything rash. Perhaps George could go back to Oz with David? After all, he hates English weather. He’s Britain’s number one sun wor-shipper. He’d love Australia, wouldn’t he?

All that sea and sunshine. All those glorious beaches.

‘All those queer-bashers?’ he points out. ‘All those open spaces? Miles and miles of nothing? Nowhere to shop, darling? And nowhere to get one’s hair done to one’s satisfaction?’

‘He has a point.’ David shrugs. ‘It can all get rather heterosexual over there. All brawn and no brain, as it were. And we had rather planned to stay in London for now.’

‘Yes, we sodding well had,’ George says bitterly. ‘We’ve just spent a fortune on a new love seat for the garden. It’s symbloodybolic, darling. We can hardly cart that halfway across the world, now can we? So what do you think? I mean it’s not as though you’re going to want to go marrying anyone else a few years down the line, is it? You’ve said so yourself.’

‘Absolutely,’ David agrees, putting one hand on George’s knee and downing an Amaretto with ice in one. ‘I wouldn’t even be asking you if I thought it’d mean you giving up your freedom. And there’s the small matter of fringe benefits.’

‘What?’

‘You tell her,’ he urges George.

‘Fifty
grand,’ George bursts out. ‘I come into some money from the trust when I hit thirty. You can have fifty grand if you’ll marry David so we can stay together. Say you’ll think about it. You can even come and live in my house if you want. Rent free.’

‘And we’ll let you bring your shags back,’ David adds.

‘Yes.’ George nods vigorously. ‘Can’t say fairer than that, now can we? Not many husbands let their wives fornicate with total strangers under their own roof.’

I light one of George’s fags while I think about it for a moment. Fifty grand would mean I could have another go at the catering. Properly .Budgets, cash flow projections, hedging, fencing, whatever they are. And George and David are right. I don’t want to get married. Not in the true sense of the word, anyway. And if I’m already married, I can’t be tempted any time in the future, can I?

But I love these guys to bits. Both of them. Even if David won’t sleep with me. I can’t take their money.

Can I?

Can I buffalo.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell them. ‘I can’t accept.’

‘Oh?’ David looks disappointed.

‘I mean, I can’t accept the money.’ I hesitate. ‘But I would like to come and live with you. It would help me out no end.’

OK, so I’ve refused charity from Sam. But this is different. With George and David, I’m actually doing something in return. Without rent to pay it’ll be much easier to fund my existing venture. And, knowing George and David, they won’t be down my throat about book-keeping and doing the right thing all the time. Hopefully, they’ll actively encourage me to be as irresponsible as I damn well like.

‘And the wedding thing?’ George asks.

‘Well,’ I begin, ‘you’re right. I don’t want to get married.’

‘Oh.’ George is crestfallen.

‘So I’ll do it.’

‘You will?’

‘Sure.’

For a second,
I do wonder if I’ve just gone completely doollally. Round the twist. Loop the bloody loo. We could all get into lots of trouble, for starters. I mean, this whole carry-on ain’t exactly legal, as far as I know. What the hell have I just agreed to?