My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (23 page)

Sam laughs, unaware of how spitefully she intends this. I, however, can see straight through her. She’s as transparent as gin and tonic. And if he’s surprised at her inviting herself along to dinner, he’s too much of a gentleman to show it. I, on the other hand, am spitting fire. If I’d wanted her to come, I’d bloody well have invited her, wouldn’t I? And now I’m going to have to pay for both of them. I can’t be seen to be a complete skinflint.

Especially not by her.

Still, at least my money situation has improved somewhat,
what with the round of weddings and christenings I’ve been doing of late. I’m almost in the black again, thank goodness.

But it doesn’t stop me feeling the need to get my own back.

‘Can I just use the bathroom quickly before we go?’ I ask Sam.

‘Go ahead.’

You can learn a lot about people from their bathrooms. Locking the door behind me, I have a quick wazz before rootling through Pussy’s stuff. I might have known she’d already have tried to wangle her way into his flat. And there’s evidence of her everywhere.

Two toothbrushes. One black, and one made of transparent plastic, with lots of tiny pink lovehearts floating around inside the handle. And the toothbrush isn’t the only sign of Pussy’s gradual takeover of Sam’s house. Bottles of expensive shampoo and conditioner, Trésor perfume, 2000 calorie mascara—frankly I’m surprised she hasn’t chucked this one out on the pretext that it’ll make her eyelashes look fat—and lipstick line the shelf above the basin. And the cupboard above the loo is stuffed full of Tampax, Immac and girlie pink razors. Quick as a flash, before I really have time to think about the consequences, I grab the Immac and squeeze a huge dollop into her conditioner. Then, spinning on my heel and refusing to feel guilty, I unlock the door and trip lightly down the stairs.

‘Sorry,’ I tell them. ‘I was busting. Shall we go?’

Pussy manages half a venison sausage before putting her knife and fork down with a clatter and declaring herself ‘full to bursting’. ‘Ew,’ she says, patting her concave stomach. ‘That filled me right up. I suppose that would just have been a tiny snack for you, Katie.’

Sam laughs indulgently at both of us, totally unaware that she means to make me feel small. I beam back at her.

‘May all your children have webbed feet.’ And port wine stains over their entire heads, I almost add. But, worried that might be taking it a bit far in front of Sam, I keep my trap shut.

‘Katie,’ Sam says,
shocked. ‘Pussy was only joking, weren’t you, Pussy?’

‘Of course.’ She smiles sweetly, eyeing me over the top of his head as he ruffles her hair. ‘I’m just feeling terribly full up.’

‘Well, mind you don’t choke on a fur ball.’

‘Pussy’s only got a tiny little appetite,’ Sam fawns. ‘She can’t eat as much as you do.’

‘No,’ Pussy purrs, ‘I can’t fill my face like you can.’

‘In that case,’ I can’t resist saying, ‘I’ll be only too happy to assist you by putting my fist through it if you like.’

‘
Katie
,’ Sam says again. ‘Don’t be nasty.’

‘Sorry.’ I bite my cheek. There’s no point incurring the wrath of Sam now. Not when I’ve got something so completely major to ask him. When, oh when, is the silly cow going to at least go to the bog to throw up so I can get him on his own?

‘Have some more water.’ I pour Pussy a glass. If she’s only got a ‘tiny little tummy’, it can only be a matter of time until she has to dash to the lav to break her seal.

Eventually, she goes to put on more lipgloss and I have Sam all to myself. He’s looking particularly groovy tonight. Sort of smart but casual all at the same time. And suddenly, I realise what it is I most admire about him. It’s his confidence. He knows how to dress, act and behave himself at any occasion. You could, quite literally, take him anywhere.

‘I’m sorry about all the things I said when I left yours,’ I tell him. ‘When I told you about the wedding. I was upset.’

‘It’s OK.’ He rumples my hair affectionately. ‘And so was I. I felt rejected because you planned to live at George’s but you didn’t want to live at mine. And I asked you first.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I rest my head on his shoulder. ‘It just would have felt like charity, staying at yours.’

‘You’re staying at George’s…’

‘But that’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’m doing them a favour in return. Marrying David, I mean.’

‘Of course.’

‘You see, I started off
this year so sure I was going to make a go of things. Not rely on a man again.’

‘I know.’

‘And now I’ve gone and mucked it all up.’ I want to confess all about Jake. And Nick. Suddenly, sleeping around doesn’t seem so big or clever any more. And, despite the fact that I live with two of my best friends, I feel kind of lonely.

‘But Neat Eats is going so well.’ He strokes my hair again. ‘I’m really proud of what you’ve done.’

‘Thanks. And I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.’

‘You’re more than welcome, Simpson.’ He turns to face me, suddenly serious. ‘You know that.’

‘Or George, or David, of course,’ I say hurriedly. For some reason then I felt like he was going to kiss me. More to the point, I sort of wanted him to. Which is, of course, ridiculous. I mean this is
Sam
, for God’s sake. My oldest bud. Plus, I’m seeing Jake again. Well, sort of. And Nick. I’ve got two on the go, so I shouldn’t be feeling lonely, should I?

‘About this wedding,’ he says tentatively. ‘You’re not going to have another go at me, are you?’ I beg. ‘I really don’t think I can bear that. You know, you’re a huge part of my life, Sam. You always have been.’

‘And you mine,’ he says, stroking my cheek.

‘In fact,’ I sit up and look at him seriously, ‘I’ve got something I need to ask you.’

‘Me too,’ he says.

‘You have?’

‘Sam?’ A voice suddenly pierces the intimacy of the moment. ‘I’m tired. Can we go now?’

Pussy, back from the loo.

Bugger.

I
t seems as
though I’m never going to be able to get Sam on his own to ask him to give me away at the wedding. You see, even though I know he doesn’t really approve, it means a hell of a lot to me to have his blessing. Plus, George has insisted that we need to make it look as real as possible. In case the Home Office turn up. And I can’t very well ask my own father, can I, seeing as I have absolutely no bloody idea where he is.

On Sunday morning I wake early with worries about Sam and the whole giving away thing rolling around inside my head. I wander through to the bright kitchen, where George, in his favourite pink slippers, drinks fresh coffee at the table and pecks out text messages to someone in his office about the contestants they’ve got for tomorrow’s show. David, naked apart from a pair of flappy billabong shorts, is sat opposite him with his feet on the table, chattering excitedly on the telephone to his sister Nettie in Australia. From what I can gather, he’s telling her all about our wedding, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. Obviously no secrets there.

‘Are you
inviting your mum to our wedding?’ I ask George, when the beeping of his phone has ceased, signalling an end to the frantic volley of text messages.

‘I don’t know.’ He looks miserable. ‘I really want to. I mean, it’d be nice for her to be able to dress up and have somewhere to go. But I just can’t imagine having to explain it all to her.’

‘She’s tougher than you think, you know, George.’ I fetch a purple mug from the cupboard and pour myself a coffee. ‘Why don’t you try her? I think she’d be pleased for you.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘I might.’ He sounds a bit forlorn. Then, looking at me, he’s back to his old self again. ‘God, darling. You look totally RAF.’

‘What’s that?’ David finishes telling his sister all about the article he’s writing on the contents of Posh Spice’s make-up bag and puts the phone down. ‘Oooh. Coffee. Yummy.’

‘Katie,’ George jerks his head towards me as if I’m not there, ‘looks terrible. What’s the matter, darling? Business gone under already? You look as though you haven’t slept for weeks.’

‘God, yes.’ David sips coffee and looks apologetic. ‘Sorry, love, but you do look a bit shit. You could carry all of George’s lotions and potions around for months in those eyebags.’

‘I can’t sleep,’ I say honestly. ‘I’m nervous about the wedding. And I don’t know what to do about Jake.’

‘Are you in love with him?’

‘I don’t think so.’ I shake my head. ‘And then there’s Nick. You know the bike guy?’

‘Yes,’ they chorus, excited at the thought of gossip. ‘We know the bike guy.’

‘I’m still sleeping with him.’

‘Ooooh,’ George says with evident relish. ‘Utterly slutterly. Do tell.’

‘Well, he seems to like me,’ I say. ‘But he’s eighteen. And we have nothing in common.’

‘So?’ George
shrugs.

‘So I’m starting to realise that meaningless sex isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

‘Fine, fine,’ George says dismissively. ‘I mean, sorry to seem callous but as long as none of them are actually hurting your feelings, can we get on to more important matters? Like the wedding? Now, the theme is NCP.’

‘You want to hold the wedding in a multi-storey car park?’ I ask in surprise.

‘Don’t be thick, darling.’ George looks at me. ‘I mean No Common People. Although I suppose we can let Janice come, even though she’s been dipped in the peasant pot more than once. She is your best friend, after all. After me, of course.’

‘That’s if she’s still talking to me,’ I reason. ‘After what I said about Jasper.’

‘Of course she is.’ George sips coffee.

‘Don’t forget the surprise.’ David nudges George. ‘Oh.’ George waves his hands around excitedly. ‘The surprise. Of course. Oh, Katie. You’ll never guess what we’ve planned for you.’

Of course I can’t guess. And George can’t help telling me before I can even try. And when he does, I’m gobsmacked.

‘A
hen weekend
?’ I ask, just to be sure I’ve heard him right. ‘Yes.’ George looks so pleased with himself you’d have thought he’d just invented the wheel.

‘It was Nettie’s idea.’ David looks proud. ‘She says if she can’t come to the wedding, the least she can do is contribute some ideas.’

‘She can come if she wants. I don’t mind having your family there.’

‘She can’t.’ David shakes his head. ‘For a start, she’ll call me Davo in front of everybody and they’ll all think I’m some straight Australian wide boy.’

‘You’re supposed to be straight,’ I point out. ‘For one day, at least.’

‘I
know.’ David laughs. ‘She can’t come anyway. She can’t take Iris and Isabella out of school. Shame really. I’d love to see them.’

‘All very sad.’ George gets on to more important business. ‘Now. Your hen weekend.’

‘But—’

‘Now don’t be ungrateful.’ George wags his finger at me. ‘We just thought you’d like a little holiday, sweetie. After all, you won’t be able to come on the actual honeymoon. You do know that, don’t you? Three’s a bit of a crowd, darling, if you know what I mean.’

‘But there’s just so much to do,’ I worry. ‘There’s Neat Eats, for a start. It won’t run itself, you know. I’ve got three weddings and a christening booked in for August alone. That’s a lot of smoked salmon and fruit cake. And there’s paperwork.’

‘But we’ve booked it now. For five. So you have to come.’

‘You can’t have,’ I point out. ‘David’s only just spoken to his sister.’

‘Well, it’s in our heads now.’ George pours himself more coffee. ‘So it’s as good as.’

‘And five?’ I ask. ‘Why five?’

George counts off on his fingers.

‘Us three, Janice and Sam. No partners.’

‘Good,’ I say. ‘I don’t want any skinny bitches who stink of raw vegetables on board, thank you.’

‘So you’ll come then?’ David looks delighted.

‘I’ll think about it.’

And I will. After all, I could do with some sun. And perhaps Mum would like the challenge of coping with Neat Eats for a weekend. It is only a weekend, after all. She’ll probably enjoy the company of all the customers and stuff. It must get lonely for her sometimes. ‘Where’re we going, anyway?’

‘The Canaries.’ George looks gleeful.

‘Isn’t that a bit…’

‘Chip fat?’ George shivers and pulls on a T-shirt with ‘Some Don’t. Some Might. I probably Will’ stamped across
the chest in pink glitter. ‘That’s the whole idea. It’s ironic, darling. Total Tacksville. We’re off to the land of egg, chips and Union Jack beach towels for a whole weekend. I’m so excited I just can’t wait.’

‘And I’m promised thousand decibel re-runs of
Only Fools and Horses
every five minutes.’ David laughs.

‘We’ll be out on the razzle-dazzle in those dreadful discos, darling.’ George is thrilled. ‘Where your feet are practically glued to the floor and they’ve tied an ugly stick to all the ceiling fans. Won’t it be great?’

‘Well…’

‘Such a refreshing change not to have to mix with glittering success stories like myself all the time.’ George lights a fag and inhales deeply. ‘Think how refreshing it’ll be to be with people whose idea of job satisfaction is merely waving a tin in the air and yelling “Price check on baked beans”.’

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘You do,’ George tells me firmly. ‘You’ll love it. And we’ll all get gorgeous tans in time for the wedding.’

‘I doubt it. The only time I look remotely brown is when my freckles join up.’

‘You’ll still look great next to all those tangerine women on the beach,’ George says. ‘With their arses full of cellulite and their cheaply done tattoos plastered across their great teats.’

‘
You’ve
got a tattoo,’ David points out. ‘Darling, there’s a world of difference between a tasteful tortoise, carefully positioned to enhance an already deliciously pert buttock, and a whopping great tiger’s head on some flabby proletarian udder,’ George informs him. ‘Especially when it’s an udder that started out the size of an egg cup but ballooned to a dinner plate thanks to one night too many on the pies.’

David laughs so much his purple flip-flops slap up and down on the flagstones.

‘Can you try not to turn completely into George before the wedding?’ I beg him. ‘You used to be so lovely and un-gay as well.’

‘So lovely
and un-gay you decided you’d give him a go yourself,’ George chortles.

‘Ha ha,’ I scoff. ‘I just don’t want the whole thing to look too gay.’

‘Don’t say you’re getting nervy?’ George asks.

‘Well,’ I bristle, ‘you do realise that what we’re doing is a crime, don’t you?’

‘Oh, come on.’ George shakes me by the shoulder. ‘Lighten up, sweetie. Of course we know. That’s why we want to repay you by luring you into the bowels of slapperdom so you can stand next to red-faced skinheads on day release from Broad-moor as they belt out “Alice, Alice, who the fuck is Alice?”’

‘What about the food?’ I ask. ‘I’m a food snob. I like waiters to greet me with “May I take your jacket please?” Not “Have you ever been to a Harvester before?” Anyway, you used to refuse to go to places like the Canaries. You said the government should ban common people from going abroad ’cos they spoiled it for everybody else.’

‘Well, that’s partly true,’ George admits. ‘I mean, we will be mixing with the kind of people who win the lottery. The ones who don’t actually know what to do with the money when they get it because they already subscribe to Sky Sports and they don’t have the nous to switch to a decent brand of ciggie.’

‘The ones who spend it on vulgar mock-Tudor mansions and fill them with swirly red carpets and gold mixer taps?’ David asks.

‘The very ones.’ George squeezes his hand. ‘So which particular Canary are we visiting?’ I sigh. ‘Lanzagrotty or Tenegrief.’

‘Fuerteventura,’ George says. ‘You’re coming, and there’s an end on it.’

I imagine myself lying on a beach with absolutely bugger all to do.

Beer and chips for brekky.

Fat, trashy novels, thick as bricks and smudged with coconutty fingerprints.

Hot sunshine,
prickling the backs of my knees. The smell of fresh ginger cake on my skin as the sun warms it.

‘Sod it,’ I tell them. ‘I’m in. As long as the others come too. I’m not playing gooseberry to you two all weekend.’

I invite Sam first. I figure he’s probably feeling a bit guilty about letting Pussy gatecrash our nice dinner, so he owes me one.

I’m right.

‘Look,’ he says, as soon as he hears my voice, ‘I’m sorry about our dinner the other night. About Pussy coming along, I mean. I honestly had no idea she thought she was invited.’

‘She didn’t,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘Never mind,’ I tell him. ‘It’s OK.’

‘Well, I’m sorry. I just didn’t think it was worth making a big thing of it, you know. She’s a bit, well, insecure sometimes, and I didn’t want a scene.’

‘Right.’

Hrrmph. As long as
she’s
OK then…

‘But at least we’re friends again,’ he says. ‘You and I, I mean. That has to be worth it, eh, Simpson?’

‘Course,’ I tell him. ‘I need a favour, actually.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, two favours.’

‘Is this what you wanted to ask me the other night?’

‘Well, one is.’

‘Go on.’ He sounds eager.

‘I want you to give me away.’

‘Oh.’ He sounds cold.

‘Sam?’

‘I’m here.’

‘So will you?’

‘Well,’ he says carefully, ‘you know how I feel about that. I don’t really think you should be doing this at all. You should be marrying someone who really loves you for you. And I don’t
mean Jake bloody Carpenter. Or that twelve-year-old you’ve been seeing. Don’t think I don’t know about that. George has got a gob the size of the Blackwall Tunnel. I saw him in Cuba Libre the other night. He’d spout any old shite after a couple of Bellinis.’

‘You won’t then?’ My heart sinks. Somehow, for no reason on earth I can think of, I’ve built this whole thing up into an event of such importance that, if he says no, I don’t know if I can go through with the wedding at all. If I’m honest, I’m so nervous about the whole thing, I just need to feel someone’s on my side. There’s no one else in the world I can ask.

There’s a long silence. Then…

‘I’m not saying I
won’t
,’ he says eventually. ‘I’m saying I’ll have to think about it.’

‘Thanks, Sam,’ I gush.

‘But you have to return the favour.’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Whatever you want.’

‘Oh really, Simpson?’ he says, flirting playfully so I know everything is going to be all right. ‘
Whatever
I want?’

‘You know what I mean.’ I laugh. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s my birthday next week,’ he says. ‘I thought I might have a bit of a barbie if the weather’s nice. Have the boys over. Kick a football around and stuff.’

‘You and football,’ I tease him. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘You do the food?’ he asks. ‘I’ll pay you of course.’

‘How ’bout I give you a discount?’ I’m pink with pleasure at him asking me to do it. ‘You just pay for the grub. I mean I’m not as poor as I was, but I still can’t really do it for free.’

‘Done.’

‘Is that what you were going to ask me the other night? When I bought you a lovely expensive dinner and you were dragged home early?’

‘Er, yes,’ he says. ‘Of course it was. And sorry about that, by the way.’

‘So when do you want to do this barbie?’

‘Next
Saturday?’

‘Kay.’

‘What was that other thing you wanted to ask me, Simpson?’

‘Oh God,’ I groan. ‘It’s this sodding holiday the boys have planned. A sort of hen weekend in the Canaries. In lieu of a honeymoon for me. Will you come?’

‘Well…’

‘Please.’

‘Calm down, Simpson. Course I will,’ he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘A holiday’d be great. Course I’ll come. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

I put the phone down feeling happier than I have in ages. I can handle Jake and Nick too, knowing I’ve got my oldest friend back on side. I’ve hated arguing with him over something as simple as where I live. And, I think charitably, he can’t help the fact that his girlfriend is a toxic slut who enjoys nothing better than watching me squirm under the magnifying glass of her pale blue eyes.