My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (18 page)

Then I catch sight of their grins. Like huge slices of water-melon, splitting both their faces in half.

‘Oh, Katie.’ George, delighted, throws himself at me and gives me a squeeze so tight I can hardly breathe. ‘You’re the best friend ever.’

‘Thanks, Katie.’ David pats my shoulder. ‘You’re a star.’

‘I know.’ I grin. ‘But I’m expecting a big do, mind. I’m not your average “dap me in the dunny then march me to the nearest registry office ’cos I’m up the duff ” sorta Sheila.’

‘Vol-au-vents and everything,’ they both promise.

‘Right.’ I shrug my shoulders and smile at my friends. ‘So when do I move in?’

I
drop round to
Janice’s to tell her the news first. With her weekend in Paris looming, she’s just been out on a severe shopping bender. Her cool white and sludge-green bedroom is awash with the latest fashions.

‘Thought you were supposed to wait till you were actually in Paris before you splurged on clothes.’ I help myself to a fag and plonk myself down on her bed, immediately creasing the white linen duvet cover.

‘No point putting myself through retail denial, is there?’ she says firmly, showing me piles of brand new lingerie. And these aren’t your understated Marks ’n’ Sparks jobs either. She’s bought enough pants to keep Agent Provocateur in business for the next decade and more. Stunning, gauzy creations in ice-cream colours. Soft blackberry, palest sugar-almond pink and scrumptious strawberry scraps of satin have been duly purchased, slipped into tiny glossy pink bags, promptly removed and piled on her bed for scrutiny. Everything, but everything, she assures me, as she throws black bin bags full of grey bucket pants
out of her bedroom window onto the porch below, has to be brand, spanking new before they actually get there, so he thinks she’s a stylish kind of chick and not some throwaway old slap. And it’s not only the underwear. She’s bought glitzy dresses, glam nighties and a pair of shoes with transparent heels and shiny straps the colour of the foil on a Quality Street noisette triangle.

‘Imagine, Katie.’ She grins, showing me a white sequinned top the size of a handkerchief. ‘In six months’ time I’ll be Mrs Jasper.’

I decide not to tell her about the girl in the raspberry dress. After all, she might not be a serious contender at all. And anyway, Janice probably won’t believe me. And I can’t afford to argue with another one of my friends. So instead I try to tell her about George and David’s proposal.

‘I think George is in love,’ I begin.

‘Yeah, right,’ she scoffs. ‘With himself, you mean?’

‘No,’ I protest. ‘With David.’

‘Nooooo.’

‘Well, they’ve been together for a while now,’ I say. ‘And I think George is even managing to stay faithful. He certainly isn’t the Meat Seeking Missile he was a few weeks ago.’

‘Still,’ Janice examines a scrap of pistachio-coloured lace that in her eyes passes for a pair of pants, ‘it’s easy for them, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘Well,’ she says, ‘a pair of Marmite miners like them don’t have to burden themselves with all that crippling anxiety and insecurity over other people, do they?’

‘Sorry?’

‘What I mean is, they’re more likely to know what’s going on in each other’s heads than you and Jake did, say.’

‘What about me and Jake?’ I’m suddenly defensive.

‘Well, they probably fancy the same people. Sleep with the same people even, if that’s what they want.’

‘But I really think they love each other,’ I protest. ‘I saw them at Poppy’s wedding. Couldn’t get enough of each other.’

‘Oh,
bollocks,’ Janice scoffs. ‘Do you honestly believe in all that rubbish?’

‘Well, no, I mean…’

‘We’ve been through all this, haven’t we? Blokes these days just don’t want to commit,’ she carries on, packing a damsoncoloured teddy into her suitcase. ‘I mean, look at Sam. His flings never last much longer than your average feature film. You won’t find him welding himself to some silly girly like a bit of fuzzy felt. You’ve said so yourself. Even you don’t want a relationship any more. Which is why you shat all over poor Max from such a great height when he was totally in love with you. I’m still having to live that down at work, by the way.’

I decide to wait until I can get hold of Sam before I tell Janice I’m going to marry David. She can’t be bothered to listen to me anyway and after what she’s just said, I don’t really see why she should get to know first, even if Sam is being totally infuriating at the moment. So I call Sam and arrange for us both to go over to his later on. And George and David promise to meet me there so they can explain if I get it all wrong.

Sam opens the door straightaway. And any worries I had over the possibility of any nasty vibes hanging around vanish like a puff of smoke. He’s grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.

‘You’ve had your hair cut,’ I say as he hugs me. I take in his newly shorn self. His floppy fringe has disappeared and his head, when I stroke it, feels all soft and fuzzy. ‘I like it.’

‘You do?’ He looks pleased.

‘Yep.’ I grin. I should’ve known Sam wouldn’t let some silly disagreement over my living arrangements spoil our friendship. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’

‘You too, Simpson.’ He smiles. ‘You look the same as ever.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning it’s good to see you still don’t bother running a brush through that hair.’

‘Ha ha.’

Inside, Sam’s flat, with its newly snow-white painted walls,
its swathes of film mags stacked everywhere and the goldfish orange, egg-yolk yellow and Matisse blue splotches he refers to as ‘art’ all over the walls is looking great.

‘I like it,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve made it look really good.’

‘Of course it’s mainly down to me,’ a voice filters into the room and Janice and I look up to see Pussy, stick-thin in a tiny black vest, a weeny scarlet and white skirt and a pair of sexy black mules, emerge from the kitchen.

‘God,’ hisses Janice. ‘It’s that orally fixated slapper from the wedding.’

‘We chose the colours together, didn’t we?’ She gazes up at Sam.

Sam looks momentarily embarrassed at being discovered wallowing in domestic togetherness. And so he should. The two of them have only been seeing each other a matter of weeks.

‘Er…’

‘Have you moved in then?’ Janice probes.

‘Well—’

‘She’s just helping me decorate,’ Sam says quickly. ‘She chose the blue wall over there.’

Pussy looks pissy for a second then, pulling herself together, snipes, ‘That’s an unusual outfit, Kylie.’

‘Katie,’ I say.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She looks not at all sorry. ‘Of course. You were the caterer at my cousin’s wedding. You know, you need some jewellery with that top. To draw the eye away from the dodgy waistline.’

I wait until George and David have arrived, bursting through Sam’s front door in a blur of Habitat catalogues and Heals carriers, before I tell Sam and Janice my news.

‘We’re here,’ they chorus.

‘God, sweetie, don’t look so worried.’ George, about six foot four in his Cuban-heeled boots, practically rips his white PVC trousers as he bends down to air kiss my cheeks. ‘You look knackered, doesn’t she, David?’

‘Well…’

‘Oh, come
off it, darling, her eyebags are rouched.’ George starts stabbing numbers excitedly into his mobile phone. ‘’Scuse I, darling. Just got to ring Aria to order some new bedlinen for your room.’

‘Her room?’ Sam asks suspiciously.

‘Never mind that.’ I wave him away and throw George a meaningful look.

‘Sorry, darling.’ George throws his hand to his mouth. ‘You haven’t told them then?’

‘Told us what?’

‘Yes,’ Pussy purrs. ‘Told us what?’

‘Nothing,’ I say.

‘Jesus Christ.’ George bangs his phone on the table in exasperation and looks straight at Pussy. ‘That bloody network goes down more often than you do, love.’

‘George…’ Sam warns, as Pussy turns her pretty little nose up. I don’t know why he’s bothering. I’m not even sure she’s understood.

When George has calmed down, I eventually manage to break the news of my forthcoming nuptials to the others. When I’m done, there’s a hideous silence, followed by a sharp intake of breath from Janice and Sam as their jaws crash to the floor. I suppose I can’t exactly blame them for being so shocked. After all, it’s not every day a girl who’s more single than a one-way bus ticket decides to get spliced on a whim, even if the reasoning behind it isn’t exactly fairytale stuff. Of course, I don’t tell them the full story. Not at first, anyway. I don’t let slip exactly who it is I’m marrying until I’ve let them stew a bit. As it is, the only person who looks remotely pleased for me is the odious Pussy. And that’s probably only because she’s relieved because she thinks it means I won’t be hanging around Sam like a rat round a rubbish bin. She looks the type to be jealous of platonic friends.

As the news sinks in, Sam wanders around making hot, sweet
tea as though we’ve just been through some kind of emergency, and Janice just stands there looking blatantly bloody furious. Her face wears exactly the same expression it did when Johnny Martin, who she was only with because it was rumoured he had a twelve-inch kidney wiper, snogged her then vommed in her mouth. She’s absolutely horrified. She simply can’t believe I’ve beaten her to it. I’ll be waltzing up that aisle before her. And her with her new underwear and all. But then she always has been very competitive as far as I’m concerned. To her, this is just like the time I pipped her to the post in the 100 m charity butterfly at college. She refused to share her fags with me for a month after that.

‘You will be my bridesmaid, won’t you?’ I tease, enjoying my moment of glory. Janice is so jealous she’s turned the colour of Swarfega. ‘Bet you didn’t think in a million years I’d be marching up that aisle before you. Isn’t it going to be weird, being able to say “my husband this” and “my husband that”?’

‘But…’she stammers, looking aghast. ‘How? Who? And when?’

‘And why? Why didn’t you tell us?’ Sam blurts out.

‘I am telling you.’

‘But we didn’t even know you were seeing anyone. Is it someone we know? Are you pregnant?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Because if you are, we’ll support you. You don’t have to rush into anything, you know. Ouch!’ he yelps, as a pissed-off Pussy digs him in the ribs.

‘Who is he?’ Pussy asks. ‘Is he successful?’

‘I should bloody say so,’ George interrupts, throwing her one of his ‘looks’. I’m delighted he obviously hates her as much as I do.

‘You already knew about this?’ Sam starts to look cross.

‘Course, darling.’ George winces as David, almost imperceptibly, steps on his toe.

‘You can’t have met someone,’ Janice spits. ‘You never even go out. And you said you were happy being single. You said…’

God. I feel
as though I’ve promised her sweets at the checkout, then changed my mind at the last minute.

‘What’s going on?’ Sam eyes George with all the affection one usually reserves for a rabid dog.

‘I mean,’ Janice carries on, ‘you were the one who said you wanted to be single for ever. I thought you’d be like those women in Sainsburys with the purple holey tights and the knitted berets. I thought, I honestly thought you’d end up living in your car or taking over from that woman who stands on Trinity Road roundabout and flashes her bum at cars.’

‘It’s not Jake, is it?’ Sam interrupts, a worried expression flickering across his face.

‘Who?’ I ask. ‘The woman on Trinity Road roundabout? I don’t think so. I mean I know Jake is kind of fond of flashing his arse around, but I don’t think even an old slutbucket like him would want every Tom, Dick and Harry in Wandsworth bogging at his bum.’

‘You know full well what I mean.’

‘I didn’t really want to tell you all yet,’ I tease. ‘Not until I’d told my mum. But…’

Like buggery I’m telling my mum. She’ll have a hairy baby if she so much as catches an inkling of what I’m planning to do. After all, we’re talking wedding fake here, not wedding cake. This isn’t exactly what she planned for me when she scrimped and saved on her schoolteacher’s salary to put me through university. Somehow, I can’t exactly see her dusting down the hatbox and talking royal icing. And I can’t bear to hurt her feelings by playing the ‘no grandchildren’ card again. So as far as she’s concerned, I’m keeping well and truly schtum. After all, what the eye doesn’t see and all that.

‘Well.’ I shrug ‘You’re my best friends in the world.’

‘With the exception of her.’ George points at Pussy.

I ignore him. I can see Sam’s furious already.

‘So of course it would mean an awful lot to me if you could all be there
for my big day. We were hoping for the Fourth of July…’

‘Independence Day,’ says Sam, not without a touch of irony. I ignore him too.

‘But everything was booked up so we’re going for early September instead. So don’t say I don’t give you plenty of notice.’

Janice is silent. In fact, she’s too busy hyperventilating to say anything at all. Considering the possibility of slapping her face on the pretext of calming her down, I reject it in case it’s construed as an attempt on my part at taking the piss.

‘There’s just so much to sort out,’ I flap, waving my hands about and thoroughly enjoying playing the part of blushing bride-to-be. ‘Guest list. Flowers. Food. And of course the cake’s going to have to be the complete dog’s bollocks, what with me being a cook and all. How am I ever going to find the time?’ Actually, I can’t care less about the cake. Granted, I dreamed of a big white wedding when I was a little girl, joining in with the excited chitter-chatter of princesses, plaits, ponies and pink marquees as we sucked on sherbet dib dabs and swirled red liquorice bootlaces round our wedding fingers. But now, I can’t see why we don’t just have the reception down the Punjab Paradise or the Peking Palace. Especially with the circumstances regarding the love stuff being what they are. And, as for the guest list, I rather think we’ll be keeping it small.

‘I can’t wait to go dress shopping,’ I add.

Janice looks so disappointed, as though she’s just started a new job and someone has asked her to scrub out the lav, that I can’t resist one final tease. ‘I can just see you in lilac. With puffed sleeves.’

The relief on her face when I finally admit it’s only David I’m marrying is a picture. I haven’t beaten her to it after all. Well, not really.

Unfortunately, as far as Sam is concerned, the whole idea goes down like a Brussels sprout down a toddler.

‘I can’t think
of anything worse than marrying someone you don’t love,’ he says quietly.

Personally, I think that’s pretty rich, coming from him. But his friendship, and therefore his approval, means a lot to me. I love Sam to bits. I can’t bear for him to be annoyed with me.