My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (28 page)

‘Where’s Sam?’ I look round, worried. He should be here by now.

‘Dunno.’ George inhales. ‘Tell you what,’ he grins lecherously at David, ‘can’t wait
till we get on the plane. I love the bit when the pilot says. “Cabin crew, positions for take-off, please.”’

‘Why?’ I’m stumped.

‘They always have those gorgeous “come to bed” voices, don’t they?’ He titters. ‘Is it part of the training, do you reckon, to learn to speak silkily?’

‘I suppose it must be.’ I think about it and decide he’s probably right. ‘I mean, you never get Geordie pilots, do you?’

‘Exactly.’ He nods. ‘Or ones with Brookie accents. When did you ever hear a flight captain saying, “Haway, man, let’s gan tae the canny Canaries then”?’

‘They’re always Milk Tray Men,’ Janice agrees.

David laughs. ‘They could have back-up careers as under-study for the man who does the voiceovers on cinema trailers.’

‘If he hadn’t got there first,’ I point out.

‘Obviously.’

‘They’re always tall, dark and handsome as well, aren’t they?’ Janice looks excited.

‘Oh, please don’t shag the pilot,’ I beg.

‘Hardly.’ She prods her still-flat stomach. ‘This is kinda going to get in the way, don’t you think?’

‘I know what you mean though,’ David says suddenly. ‘I suppose they must weed out the blond ones.’

‘Doesn’t go so well with the uniform,’ George points out.

‘Must be tricky if you work for KLM though,’ Janice says. ‘Or Finn Air. They must be a bit short on brunettes.’

‘Probably have to take on a few blonds just to make up the numbers,’ George says.

Everyone starts laughing. I laugh too, although inside I’m panicking like mad. Where’s Sam? He should be here by now. I mean, I know he’s really busy with work. And Pussy’s probably furious at him for coming on holiday without her, but he promised. The holiday won’t be the same without him.

‘Soddim.’ George hands our passports to the nice lady behind the airline desk and tells her that, yes, he did pack his bag himself, though if he could have sodding well afforded it, he’d have got a personal
valet to do it for him. She starts looking pale under her tangerine-tinted moisturiser.

George insists we can’t wait out here for Sam any more. He needs to go into the Duty Free to buy products. We’re just choosing ciggies to last us the weekend when my mobile rings. Typically, it’s wedged at the very bottom of my tote bag.

‘Bugger.’ I rummage, trying to get to the damn thing before it stops. ‘If that’s my sodding mother ringing to tell me to be careful…’

‘Why shouldn’t she?’ David defends her.

‘Well, what does she think I’m going to do?’ I demand, still rummaging. ‘Go out of my way to
not
be careful. Throw myself out of the plane on the way over? Deliberately catch malaria?’

‘They don’t have malaria in Tenerife,’ Janice points out.

‘We’re not going to Tenerife, thickie,’ George reminds her.

‘As good as.’ She shrugs.

‘Or perhaps she thinks I’ll go off and shag some bloke who carries a flick knife.’

‘Wouldn’t put it past you,’ Janice sniggers.

‘Sod off.’ I shoot her a look, finally finding my phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Katie?’

Shit.

Sam
.

My heart spins in my chest at the mere sound of his voice. I shake myself. What’s
wrong
with me? Sam’s just a mate. But what if he’s ringing to say he can’t make it? I think I’ll be too depressed to last out the weekend if my oldest friend isn’t there.

‘Where are you?’ he asks.

‘I’m at the airport,’ I say. ‘Where did you think I was?’

‘Shit,’ he says. ‘You mean the holiday’s now? As in today?’

‘Well, yes, obviously,’ I say. ‘I mean, I haven’t come here to watch planes take off all day. And I’m not making a television documentary about aeroplane food, either. It’s the real thing all right. I’m off to the Canaries in roughly an hour and a half.’

‘Bugger.’

The line goes dead.

‘Who was
it?’ Janice catches sight of my confused expression.

‘Sam.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Fuck knows.’ I stare at the handset as though it holds all the answers. ‘He didn’t exactly say.’

‘Didn’t say he loved you then?’ She grins.

‘Sod off.’

For some reason, we both find this hilarious.

‘Is he on his way?’

‘I don’t know.’ I look at my mobile, depressed.

At twelve thirty-five, just as our flight is due to be called, an announcement comes over the tannoy.

‘
Would Miss Katherine Simpson please come to the Britannia Airways information desk immediately
.’

‘Shit.’ I look at my watch. ‘We’ll miss the flight.’

‘You’d better go, hon,’ Janice says. ‘It might be urgent.’

‘It’s probably your bloody mother ringing to tell you to be careful.’ George laughs.

‘More than likely.’ I stick my passport in my bag and flounce off in the direction of the information desk. Trust my mother to almost make me miss the one holiday I’ve had in about fifteen years.

‘Miss Simpson?’

‘Yes?’

‘Telephone call for you.’

It
is
my sodding mother.

‘Hello?’

‘Miss Simpson?’

‘
Yes.
’

Shit. How many more times?

‘Check-in here. I have a Mr Freeman at the desk. He says you have his ticket.’

‘Mr…?’

‘Freeman.’

Oh God.

Sam.

He’s
here
.

He’s coming.

We’re going to have a brilliant time, after all.

But, hang on.
Have
I got his ticket? Did I bring it with me? Oh soddit, soddit. SOD it.

Wherethefuckisit?

I haven’t got it.

Yes I have. Here it is.

No. That’s a receipt for a black skirt from Oasis. Shit.

Wait a minute. Yes. That’s it.

Yesssssss.

‘It’s here,’ I tell the man on the other end of the phone.

Sam is standing, flushed, gorgeous, by the entrance to departures. His hair is sticking up all over the place and his T-shirt is rucked up around his waist. As I approach I can hear our names being called for our flight.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask as he comes through the gate and gives me a hug. He’s all hot and sweaty. Lovely.

‘Coming on holiday.’ He grins. ‘What does it look like?’

‘We’ve got two minutes to catch the plane. I thought you weren’t coming.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy at work. I got the dates mixed up. I knew I had to be somewhere today but I thought it was the restaurant. And then when I got there and they told me that was a week away, I remembered I was going on holiday.’

‘Nutter.’

‘Nutter yourself, Simpson.’ He grabs my hand and we make a run for it.

As we board, just in time, I suddenly feel ridiculously happy. My best buddy is here. For some insane reason, at this crazy, confused moment in my life, that simple fact means the world to me.

I
settle
into my tiny aeroplane seat and tell Sam that now he’s actually remembered to come along on my hen weekend, perhaps he can try not to flirt with any of the air hostesses as they trot past with the trolley.

‘There’ll be hell to pay if one of them gets all worked up and lets the brake off by accident. We don’t want the perfume and fags careening off into the toilets.’

George and David both laugh, but Sam isn’t listening. He’s too busy trying to look out of the window to see if the wings are in the correct position. And he’s turned the colour of guacamole.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Do you know that planes sometimes come within a hundred yards of each other?’ He looks worried. ‘And the passengers aren’t even told?’

‘Hardly ever.’ I pat his knee, remembering that he’s absolutely terrified of flying. When he goes away on business he has to take tranquillisers. But he’s putting up with it. For me.

Bless
.

‘What
was that bump?’

‘It’s the wheels coming up, you silly sod.’ I laugh. ‘Are you really that scared?’

‘Yes.’ He gives me a withering look. ‘I won’t even be able to eat my aeroplane food when they bring it.’

‘Oh?’

‘No. But don’t think I’m giving it to you. It can stay in the wrapper.’

Still scared out of his wits, Sam rests his head on my shoulder. I smell his hair and restrain myself from wanting to either lick him or snog the face off him, while the rest of our party take out sweets and magazines and prepare for the four-hour flight.

‘This is going to be terrible,’ Sam groans.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll have fun when we get there.’

‘True.’

‘As long as you don’t spoil it by making us all do loads of sport.’ I kind of like the way his fear is making him nuzzle against me. ‘The only exercise I’m doing this holiday is lifting a pint glass.’

‘Or snogging a Greek waiter.’ Janice looks up from
Marie Claire
.

‘We’re going to the Canaries,’ George points out.

‘So?’

‘It’s about as Greek as you are, retard,’ he clicks. ‘They speak Spanish.’

‘Whatever.’

I sit back and enjoy the flight, relishing Sam’s nearness. It’s probably just me, but I feel as though there’s a tiny electric current between us, crackling away in the air. He’s so terrified of the plane crashing I take complete advantage, pulling him closer to me and thinking of all the things I’d like to do to him.

God. It’s a good job I’m not a bloke. I’d have a hard-on by now.

Actually, I’ve never understood people who are afraid of flying. I love everything about it, from the important feeling I get when they ask if I’ve packed my bag myself to the special orangey-red lippy the air hostesses wear.

After all, people in real life never wear that colour, do they?

I even
love the plastic food they dish out. In fact, the only time I do get a bit fluttery during the flight is when the trolley comes out. And that’s only because I’m terrified they’ll miss me out. How does everyone else stay so calm, leaving their tables up and reading until the last minute? I’m quite the opposite, whipping my head round faster than Darcy Bussell in mid-pirouette, the moment I smell that telltale waft of school dinners.

‘Can I have your pretzels if you don’t want them?’

Sam silently hands over the packet.

‘I don’t know why you’re bothering to look at that safety card,’ George cuts in.

‘
George
,’ I warn.

‘Well,’ he pouts, ‘you know what Fran said.’

‘Who’s Fran?’ Sam looks worried.

‘No one.’ I hug him.

‘Fran the Tran,’ George says. ‘You know.’

‘Oh. Yes.’

Fran is the only woman I know with facial stubble and an Adam’s apple bigger than Nicholas Lyndhurst’s. Still, she managed to get a job as a trolley dolly before the airline in question clamped down one day and discovered her to be in possession of a bagful of stolen fags and a penis.

Actually, even when they found out about the penis they were prepared to keep her on because she fulfilled the height requirements and she didn’t spit into the food when the passengers got tricky. But she refused to tone down the make-up and wear the slacks instead of the skirt, so they said she’d have to go.

And go she did.

‘What did Fran the Tran say?’ Sam looks terrified.

‘Well…’

‘George, no,’ I say.

Too late.

‘When they were training,’ George begins, cattily.

‘Yes?’

‘Well, they were told that all this palaver with the oxygen masks and the escape chutes and the life jackets is just complete bollocks to put the passengers at ease. You see, basically…’

‘Go
on.’

‘Basically, the general rule of thumb is, if you’re thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic and both your engines are fucked, then so are you.’

Despite Sam’s fears, we land safely at Fuerteventura airport, to be met by a peroxide blonde wearing the regulation Top Rank Holidays uniform. She’s bright tangerine in colour and has huge calf muscles. Her feet are stuffed into navy plastic court shoes.

She smiles. ‘Welcome to your Top Rank Holiday.’ Except she doesn’t exactly say ‘Rank’ because she has an unfortunate wet R. Janice and I stifle giggles as she herds us into a bus that looks as though it’s held together with string and we proceed to rattle and joggle through miles of barren scrubland until we reach our ‘resort’.

If I’ve been expecting to be surrounded by a bunch of shiny, happy people all ready for Sun, Sea, Sand and maybe a smidgen of Sex, it looks as though I’m sadly mistaken. Judging by the state of our fellow passengers, it seems that in mid-August, Snotty kids, Sweaty pits and Slingbacks are what we’re in for. Still, I suppress a flicker of disappointment and force myself to remain optimistic.

Until we actually stop at our drop-off point, that is.

Our resort is known as ‘The Oasis’, which is the biggest misnomer I’ve ever come across. ‘Arndale Centre’, or maybe just ‘Swindon’ would be more appropriate. As would ‘Inner City Estate’. The place is akin to a huge concrete shopping mall, dominated by bingo halls, fruit machines and the sort of restaurants I usually associate with egg, chips, weak tea, fag butts and provincial bus stations. And it’s only when we’re shown to our apartment that I suddenly remember the importance of reading between the lines when perusing the holiday brochure. It’s absolutely vital to be aware of the following misleading phrases and their true meanings:

‘Absolutely
buzzing with lively hubbub well into the small hours’ actually means, ‘Directly under flight path, with planes landing all fucking night’.

‘Close to all facilities and amenities’ is more likely to mean, ‘Sewage farm directly under balcony’.

Balcony itself, obviously, will be no more than a glorified windowsill.

And you can read ‘Plentiful local flora and fauna’ as ‘Fungus and green mould in bathroom and kitchen full of bluebottles, all attracted by gastronomic delights of local sewage farm’.

Oh, and there’s the bog standard ‘Most resorts featured in this brochure are within a mere stone’s throw of stunning, sandy beaches’.

Which, you can be damned sure, means, ‘Yours isn’t.’

Half our apartment block is covered in scaffolding and the view from our balcony is of a pile of rubble.

Let’s face it. It’s hardly an oasis. And it’s about as exotic as Solihull.

Something tells me this holiday may well contain strong language from the outset. Mind you, at least George has paid for everything. So I shouldn’t really give a fanny fart where we are.

Yep. Sod it. It’s going to be absolutely boiling hot.

Which is enough for me.

Obviously, a ginger minger like me shouldn’t really do sun-bathing. It’s just not nice, is it? But I do love the whole business of being able to lie out in it for five minutes and then sigh, ‘Oh, it’s too hot out here. I’ll just have to have a quick dip in the pool then it’s off to the shade for me for chips and lager.’

After all, that’s what holidays are all about.

I’ll feel a lot better when we’ve targeted some nice little place to have dinner.

But it’s difficult to remain optimistic when the smell of drains is so overpowering we have to keep all the windows firmly closed. And when it comes to bagsying the bedrooms, I’m mortified when I realise I’m going to have to share with Sam. How am I going to stop myself from craning to catch a glimpse of his willy every time he comes out of the shower?

Bugger
Janice
. She’s insisted she has the single room. Apparently she’s not sleeping too well. The thought that she’ll soon look like Mr Greedy is bothering her at night. And she doesn’t want to keep anyone else awake. Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with her sleep pattern. She just doesn’t want to share.

After we’ve freshened up, we congregate on our balcony/windowsill to quaff the champagne George bought at the airport. And, as we get giggly on bubbles, we declare the atmosphere to be distinctly more Suburban Starter Home than Spanish Villa. And Sam is only half joking when he bets me five thousand pesetas that the sound of cicadas we can hear is tape-recorded and played on a loop through speakers hidden along the pathway outside.

Our welcome meeting does very little to raise our hopes further. Dee (the orange-calved rep) welcomes us once again to our Top Wank holiday with a plastic cupful of watered down Sangria and shakes us all by the hand.

Is it my imagination, or does she look as though she’s offering us her condolences?

She goes on to advise us not to drink the water, because, although it isn’t harmful, it is full of minerals and tastes of rotten eggs. She also warns us that some of the beaches dotted around are full of naturalists, although I think she means naturists. And then she explains that the reason the resort is almost completely greenery-free and therefore looks as barren as Elizabeth I is that the Canary Islands only get six inches of rain a year. Luckily for us, most of this is forecast for the next few days.

As this news sinks in, she then cheerfully informs us that, as this particular resort is miles from anywhere and there’s very little to do here, especially when it rains, it would make a lot of sense to pay a small fortune for the privilege of joining groups of noisy families in loud beachwear on some of the organised trips to places of not so local interest.

‘Any
questions?’ she asks finally.

‘Yes,’ bellows George. ‘Would you think it rude of me if I asked you to stop talking now?’

‘Is this a joke?’ someone else asks hopefully.

‘Do we get complimentary Prozac?’ Janice asks.

‘Would you consider changing the description of this holiday in your brochure?’ asks George.

‘To what?’ Dee is confused.

‘A Helliday.’

As it turns out, this is no joke. We’re not the unwitting victims of
Candid Camera
or
Beadle’s About
or any other light entertainment show for that matter. And, as we toddle off to explore our surroundings, we soon realise that ‘hell’ is a pretty good description of our position. The resort is a pleasure-free zone. Slap bang outside our complex there’s a building site the size of a small country. And we don’t have hard hats. I jump as a crane with a rusty bath attached to it swings high above our heads. Janice bursts into tears as her Jimmy Choo scuffs against the head of an abandoned doll, its eyes rolled back into its hairless head and its knickerless, genital-free bum twisted at an awkward angle to the rest of its body.

‘Sorry,’ she squeaks. ‘It’s the hormones.’

‘It’s OK.’ We all rush to comfort her.

Nevertheless, I take it as a bad omen.

The only places to eat are downmarket Chinese restaurants or sports bars, and everything comes with chips and mushy peas. By the end of the day we still haven’t seen a fresh vegetable or a Spanish person and I’m so hungry I’ve eaten a whole packet of Rennies.

The resort bar isn’t much better. Crowded with noisy families, you’d have been forgiven for thinking someone was staging a Westlife concert.

‘Let’s just try to have a nice time.’ Sam puts a protective hand on the small of my back and I try to ignore the delicious shiver which runs the length of my spine. God. I have to get a grip.

‘This is Katie’s hen weekend,’ he reminds everyone. ‘She deserves to have fun when you think about what she’s giving up for you, George.’

‘
Okay
,’ huffs
George.

‘Thanks, Katie,’ David, rushes. ‘We do appreciate it, you know.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘And I’m fine with it. Really.’

And I
am
fine with it. Although, obviously, I’m also absolutely shitting myself.

Sam goes to the bar.

‘San Miguels all round, please,’ he says firmly. Even Janice has to have a quick drink to overcome her disappointment in finding herself in a shopping precinct instead of a tropical paradise.

‘All English beer ’ere,’ the barmaid informs us proudly. ‘Yous can ’ave ’Eineken, Stripe or Stella.’

‘Stella’s not…’ I begin, but George shushes me.

‘Forget it,’ he snipes. ‘Her idea of going Continental is changing her fags.’

We spend the evening drinking beer and playing cards until Janice rubs her back and says she’s tired. So we all troop back to the apartment together to see her safely back. After all, as George points out, this might be a holiday resort but it’s probably just as dangerous as any London ghetto.

Then we all get shitfaced.

Sam is strangely quiet as David and George produce bottles of melon liqueur and champagne and introduce drinking games into the equation. When we get up to our room, Sam produces two vodka miniatures, hands one to me and pats the bed beside him.

‘I owe you an apology, Simpson.’

‘What for?’

‘Pussy.’ He opens a tonic can.

‘What about Pussy?’

He sighs. ‘There isn’t going to be a wedding.’

A surge of hope fills my chest. I try to quash it, telling myself that of course this isn’t because of me. There’s another reason the wedding’s off.

‘Why?’ I
stammer.