My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (21 page)

‘Nah.’ Nick lets go of my thigh for a second, pushes a matted lump of hair behind his ear, puts his can of Stella to his pouty lips and shrugs. ‘I just radio control with me call sign when I’m ready to start. You know.’ He puts an imaginary radio to his mouth and crackles, ‘“One six, one six. I’ve ‘ad me flakes and I’m ready to go.” That sorter thing. Then they tell me where my first pick-up is.’

OK, so it’s not as glamorous as being a celebrity PA or working in TV, but having such freedom is great. Which is why I just have to cross my fingers and hope Neat Eats works out. I’m already, I realise, enjoying working for myself immensely. It’s so much better than having to sit in an office being nice to people I’d never so much as share air with in a lift if I had the choice, and having to pretend I never say the ‘C’ word or fart.

‘It ain’t bad,’ Nick says. ‘Me dad wanted me to join ’im in the trade.’

‘In the City?’

‘Nah. Buildin’ trade. They was both really young when they met, me mum and dad. Dead wild. But he buckled down and set up a buildin’ business. Made a fuckin’ mint.’

‘Good for him.’ I swig at my own can of Stella and cringe as I realise how ridiculously ‘jolly hockey sticks’ I sound.

‘Yeah.’ He shrugs. “E’s still really pissed off I couldn’t do it.’

‘You didn’t want to?’ I pat his arm as it traces another route up my thigh. After all, I don’t want him to think I’m respectable. He might stop. And that would never do.

‘Nah,’ he says. ‘I did wanner. I ‘ad a bloody good go attit, as
it goes. But, like I say, I just couldn’t seem to get it. The first wall I done collapsed.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Onto a coupla teenagers.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah. They got out all right, but me ’eart weren’t in it after that.’

‘I see.’ I lean against him for a second. He looks so sweet when he frowns. Like a little lost child. ‘Were you very upset?’ I lean on him some more, just to get the ball rolling, and he turns quickly away.

‘Sorry.’ I feel foolish.

‘S’ orwight. You was kind of squashing me though.’

God. Great big lummox crushes sylph boy to death on common. I can just see the headline.

But I needn’t have worried. As I move quickly away, Nick pulls me back towards him, turning his face to mine and putting his first two fingers under my chin, tilting my face towards his until his gorgeous, sultry, pouty lips are about half an inch away from mine. And now, I decide, I really,
really
fancy him. And, as his lips brush mine, a tingle of electricity shoots down my spine and the tops of my bum cheeks fizz in anticipation.

‘There’s something else I gotta tell ya,’ he says, his tongue slowly teasing its way along my bottom lip until I think I might actually be going to
scream
with lust.

‘What?’ I almost snap. At this precise moment, he could tell me he’s the love child of Fred West and Myra Hindley and I really wouldn’t give a flying fuck. The only information I require at the moment is re the size of his…

Unless, of course, what he’s going to tell me is that he hasn’t
got
one. Which
would
be a bit of a setback, I have to admit.

Other than that, he could tell me anything he wants and I’d still happily grab the back of his head, pull his face onto mine and snog the life out of him.

‘You’re not gay, are you?’

‘Oh
no.’ He squeezes the top of my thigh. ‘It’s just…my name’s not really Nick.’

Oh God. He really
is
the love child of Fred West.

‘You’re not the Mardi Gras bomber, are you?’ I joke lamely.

‘It’s Dudley.’

‘Dudley?’ I can’t help giggling. ‘Isn’t that in the West Midlands?’

‘S’ after Dudley Moore. I was conceived in the back of a cinema,’ he explains, his breath coming in shallow gasps as I run my finger up the back of his neck. ‘Me parents went to see
Arthur
.’

‘Oh.’

‘You don’t wanna snog me now, do you?’

‘On the contrary.’ I grin, grabbing a handful of his hair and lowering his mouth onto mine. The fact that we’re doing this outside makes me feel totally wanton and vampish. And, as kissers go, Nick—or Dudley—is a pretty good one. I can’t exactly run my fingers lustfully and dreamily through his hair, like he’s doing to mine, because it’s all matted. But I do clasp my hands round his neck and go at it hell for leather until he finally pulls away.

‘Can’t breathe.’ ‘Sorry.’

We jump into a taxi back to his, snogging like teenagers on the back seat as the driver stares at the road and pretends not to notice. ‘You’re fuckin’ beautiful,’ Nick tells me. ‘I mean, I know I dropped an E and that before I come out…’

‘You did?’ That would account for the frantic thigh touching then. Perhaps he doesn’t fancy me as much as I thought. Bloody great. I could be just anyone. In fact he probably only called me in the first place because he was feeling all touchy-feely.

‘Yeah. But you are bloody lovely.’

Oh sod it. He’s male, isn’t he? And he’s here.

‘You are weird-lookin’ mind,’ he adds.

‘I am?’ I catch sight of the driver’s expression in the mirror. His lips are wobbling at the corners, as though he’s trying not to laugh.

‘But
fuckin’ lovely.’ Nick/Dudley finishes his monologue. ‘Like that Karen Elson.’

‘Who?’

‘Tall ginger supermodel. Looks kinda other worldly.’

‘
Thanks
.’

‘A total space babe. You remind me of ’er.’

I’m still confused as to whether or not this is a compliment when the taxi draws to a halt outside a tall town house in Notting Hill. After forking out six pounds twenty for our fish, chips and Stella, Nick hasn’t got any money left so, telling myself I don’t really mind, I get out my glittery purse and pay the driver while Nick goes to unlock the door.

As the taxi speeds away from the kerb, I take a step back and look at the house. It’s enormous. Presumably, a guy like him doesn’t live in the whole pile. I expect I’ll get inside to discover that he’s dragged me to some grotty bedsit with a fan heater and cold spaghetti hoops burnt onto the stove. And he’ll have a bed that’s supposed to turn into a sofa during the day but which, like a typical bloke, he won’t have bothered to fold away, so it’ll still be covered with a rucked-up sheet—just why
is
it that single blokes always have navy or bottle green sheets that so readily show up bodily fluids?—and a duvet with no cover.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. Nick lives in the whole house. Which is as immense as I thought. And it’s beautifully decorated. The hall alone is the size of my old Balham flat. The floor is carpeted in silky buttermilk and every room is stuffed full of objects that look as though they’ve been lovingly collected over years of travelling. Indian rugs and saris are draped in a stunning jewel-pink sitting room just off the kitchen. African wood carvings fill the study. In the downstairs loo are several large Chinese papier-mâché heads and a Nepalese prayer flag. And there are photos in silver frames everywhere. A couple I assume to be his parents. And several endearing kids, one of which has to be him. Licking an ice lolly, petting sheep at
the children’s zoo, riding a tractor. In all of them, he’s got the same coffee-coloured eyes and cheeky, lopsided grin.

‘Ahh.’ I pick up one of him on a beach. He must be about seven in this one. His smile is all gappy and he’s sat on a fat, black donkey, eating an ice cream with a flake stuck in the top. ‘Little Dudley at the seaside.’

‘Stop it,’ he begs, laughing and grabbing me by the wrist. ‘Come upstairs. There ain’t no embarrassin’ piccies up there.’

‘Now hold one just one minute.’ I spin round, catching him unawares as I slap the photo back on the silver leaf fireplace. ‘What do you think I am? Some easy lay?’

Nick/Dudley looks horrified.

‘I’m sorry,’ he stutters. ‘I didn’t mean. We don’t ’ave to…you know. I just fort…’

‘I’m joking, you daft sod.’ I giggle, pulling him in the direction of the stairs and allowing him to lead me up them. ‘In fact I thought you’d never bloody ask.’

This is
excellent
. OK, so we have nothing in common, apart from drinking and shagging, but we don’t have to talk, do we? Anyway, he’s gagging for it and I’m stone cold sober. I’m going to have a completely meaningless shag and I’m not even shiftfaced.

I don’t even feel guilty.

Nick’s bedroom is as stunning as the rest of the house. A huge French sleigh bed dominates the middle of the room. Crisp, white sheets, covered with a soft grape-coloured throw. Not very bachelor-like. Something’s not really right here. I can’t help hearing the faintest ding-a-ling of alarm bells somewhere at the back of my mind. He’s a
bike courier
, for flip’s sake. And not a very bright one at that. You’d expect someone like him to live in a right bugger’s muddle. Not this vast showpiece.

I think back to when the taxi drew up outside. He
did
have a key, didn’t he?

I mean we haven’t just broken into a total stranger’s home…

Have we?

Buggery fuck.
I’ve had an entirely different sort of break and enter situation in mind all evening.

I decide to test him.

‘Where’s the bathroom?’

He jerks his head towards a door which opens straight off the bedroom. Of course. An en-suite. Well, that doesn’t mean he lives here. Anyone—well, anyone apart from me, obviously—might reasonably have expected a house like this to have such a luxury. And this bathroom is luxurious. Everything is polished, expensive and has something of the feminine touch about it. Bottles of Ralph Lauren Romance products line the sink. There’s even a tube of Immac in the bathroom cabinet. This last, of course, can mean one of only two things.

Hairy Back.

Or Live-In Girlfriend.

I sincerely hope it’s the latter.

Nick insists on showering before coming to bed, thus allaying any fears I might have had personal hygiene-wise. I notice he doesn’t use the en-suite. Which is weird. As if from habit, he goes into another bathroom just off the landing. Which seems really odd. When he comes back, scrubbed clean and smelling, not of expensive French cologne, as you’d have expected of the owner of this stylish palace, but of Pine Fresh Flash—or perhaps it’s Toilet Duck— I’m relieved to notice his back is rug-free.

It must be Live-In Girlfriend then. Unless the Immac has worked wonders. After all, this is the house of one, or even two, very wealthy professionals. Nick can’t possibly live here by himself. He’s quite clearly a Kept Man. This is very obviously a case of Absent Girlfriend Syndrome.

Well, I certainly don’t have a problem with that. In fact, if I’m brutally honest, it only adds to the thrill. I’m about to have sex in a strange girl’s bed. Hope she doesn’t mind me rumpling her sheets, I think, giggling as Nick undoes the zip on my jeans, pulls off my vest in one swift movement and pushes me
down on the bed, covering me with kisses and running his hands under my buttocks. His movements are urgent, almost like those of a teenager having sex for the first time. Which makes me laugh. I wonder if he’s like this with his girlfriend, the rich cow.

Still, the fact that he has a girlfriend already certainly makes life a lot easier for me. It reduces any chances of him wanting a repeat performance to virtually zero. So the chances of him phone-stalking me like that bloody drip Max are also pretty much nil.

I’ve only gone and done it.

I’ve achieved the perfect String-Free Shag. I’ll be able to creep off before he wakes up and he won’t even care. He’ll probably be pleased, because it’ll give him time to wash, dry and replace the sheets in time to avoid suspicion.

In the event, we don’t actually go to sleep because Nick (well, it’s a lot sexier than ‘Dudley’ isn’t it?) seems to be able to go like a train all night. We do it five times, to be exact. And, at seven o’clock, as he treats me to a third helping of Croissants for Breakfast, I decide it might be harder than I thought to sneak out because he’s still up for more and I don’t actually think I’m going to be able to walk, when a car pulls up outside and Nick jumps as though he’s been shot in the gonads.

‘Shhhhh.’

Bugger. Not his girlfriend already? And just when I was about to have the kind of orgasm that makes your ears ring too. How selfish can you get? Resignedly—even though I’m shitting myself at the thought of a showdown— I take out both earrings. There’s nothing less attractive than an earlobe torn in two and I’d better prepare for the worst.

Seconds later, the inevitable key rattles in the door and Nick is racing round the room like a headless chicken, still with an erection you could hang a coat on, but picking up my knickers, jeans and vest and chucking them all at me.

‘Quick,’ he yelps, wincing in agony as he catches the end of
his willy on the open wardrobe door. I silently convulse with laughter. His girlfriend might have put the kibosh on my chances of one last orgasm but she can damn well forget any thoughts she might have had on the subject of Hide the Sausage for a while yet. Nick’s dick will be more like a black pudding by teatime.

‘Quick,’ he hisses again. ‘Go and hide in my bedroom.’

Pardon me?

‘
Your
bedroom?’ I gulp. ‘But isn’t this…?’

Without explanation, he opens the bedroom door, shoves me—still completely starkers, mind—across the landing and into a single bedroom, plastered with
Baywatch
, Jordan and Man. United posters. Slamming the door behind us, he breathes a sigh of relief as, dazed, confused, and ever so slightly pee’d off, I sink onto a Star Trek Next Generation duvet and await further instructions, torn between feeling annoyed and wishing he’d damn well stick his head between my legs and stay there until I’m done.

‘In the wardrobe,’ he hisses quickly as we hear the pad of footsteps on the stairs and a woman’s voice calls his name.

I crunch up like a dead spider, cursing him as a baseball glove digs into my bare bum. I’m busting for a wee and I have no idea how long I’m expected to stay here. After what seems like half an hour, I dare to emerge. The room is empty so, with the idea of having a quick widdle before looking for my clothes and making a dash for it, I tiptoe across to the door and open it.