My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (7 page)

G
eorge and I get a
free sauna as I spend the rest of my big day slaving over a hot stove. I steam tiny Chinese pork dumplings over the stove and simmer hot and sour soup. Tumble juicy king prawns into coconut milk for fragrant green curry and sprinkle chunks of tender chicken into chopped fresh tomatoes for spicy balti. I chop mangoes. Simmer sugar. Find prawn crackers, fish sauce and chillies. I mix and mash, stir and steam. Make miniature Yorkshire puddings with cocktail sausages on top. As the room begins to fill with a medley of delicious aromas, I heave a sigh of satisfaction. Jamie and Delia, eat your bloody hearts out.

As I content myself in my kitchen, I suddenly realise I feel more relaxed than I have done for weeks. I’m upset about Jake. And that business with David. And losing my job, come to that. But it doesn’t take much to realise that I’m definitely happiest when I’m cooking for other people. Perhaps I should look into actually using my qualifications instead of just having them.

While I cook, George fills the sitting room with fondant-pink peonies in chunky glass vases and covers the mantelpieces in
every room with fat, waxy church candles. He hangs strings of tiny pink fairylights everywhere so they’ll twinkle magically in the dusk. By the time we’ve both finished, the flat is party perfect.

‘And now for the
pièce de résistance
.’ George, grinning his head off, produces a large, flat box with a flourish.

‘Open it then.’

I do. Inside, nestling among layers of tissue paper, is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. The skirt is palest pink and gauzy, the bodice shocking pink, threaded with gold. It must have cost him the best part of five hundred quid.

But then he can afford it.

‘It’s gorgeous.’ I hug him.

‘Go and put it on then.’ He hugs me back. ‘I’ve got to put my slap on too.’

‘Your slap?’

‘Oh yes.’ He nods. ‘I’m coming in full drag.’

At seven o’clock, Janice’s brand new plum-coloured Beetle mounts the kerb and she trips up to the door in a pair of four-inch stack heels and a crotch-skimming halter-necked frock that squashes her boobs together spectacularly.

‘Happy birthday, my lovely.’ She gives me a huge hug and hands over a bunch of my favourite marshmallow pink tulips and a bag filled with sweets and tiny presents wrapped in iridescent, rainbow-coloured paper. ‘And fear not. I’ve invited a delicious selection of G ’n’ Ts for you.’

‘Ooh, goodie.’ I smile. ‘You look lovely, by the way.’

‘So do you,’ she says automatically, before realising I’m still in my Frank Bruno bathrobe. ‘For a boxer,’ she adds and we both collapse in giggles.

At seven thirty, Sam’s convertible something or other pulls up outside and he waltzes in, putting down a huge box full of clinking bottles and giving me a whopping great kiss on the cheek.

‘Happy birthday, old thing.’

‘Not
so much of the old, thanks.’

As all my friends greet each other, champagne corks pop and Janice, pouring me a glass full of bubbles, shoos me off to my room to put on the pink dress. I down my first drink in one, my stomach churning with a mixture of party excitement and secret misery at the thought of Jake and Fishpants and their bun, cooking happily away in her oven.

‘So what’s this man of yours like?’ I ask Janice. ‘Am I going to like him or am I going to wonder if you’ve had a taste lobotomy when I see him? Come on. Spill the beans. I’ve only got a name to go on. And judging by that, he sounds like a frigging labrador.’

‘Let’s just say he’ll do nicely.’

‘You make him sound like an American Express card.’

‘Exactly.’ She grins. ‘And I’m banking on Voyage membership and an expense account at Harvey Nicks before the month’s out. Now pucker up. You’re going to look gorgeous when I’m done. Men will be falling over themselves to shag you.’

‘As long as a shag’s all they’re after,’ I joke. ‘I’d rather stick broken bottles up my bum than go out with any of the men we know. And just between you and me, I feel, well…’

‘What?’

‘I feel a bit, you know, weird.’

‘Why?’

‘I saw Jake today.’

‘Oh God. Oh hon. Are you OK?’

‘Yup.’ I swallow.

‘Was he…’

‘With her? Oh yes. She’s only up the duff, isn’t she?’

‘Noooooooooooo way!’

‘Way. About to have it, by the look of things. I’m really pissed off, to be honest.’

‘I know,’ she soothes, dusting glitter over my eyelids. ‘You’ll feel a lot better once you’ve shagged someone else. Honest.’

She gives me a comforting hug and gets back to work on my
face. By the time I get downstairs, the party is in full swing. Sam’s on bar duty. He’s set up a table in the corner and is pouring everyone decadent cocktails.

‘Wow,’ he says when he sees me in my new dress.

‘Don’t be a disgusting letch,’ I admonish him. ‘And give me a margarita. I love margaritas.’

‘Oooh, so do I,’ says a tapeworm in a see-through white dress. ‘I’ll have one of those too. My name’s Kimberley, by the way,’ she adds shyly, batting enormous eyelashes at Sam.

‘Here we fucking go,’ I mouth at him, saying, ‘Just give me my drink and I’ll leave you two to it.’

Sam is really excited tonight. But it’s not just down to the prospect of pulling Kimberley, whoever she is. He’s just persuaded one of his major clients to come with him when he starts up Freeman PR. Which is a huge coup. His boss’ll be furious, but it means others will follow. And he’ll be made. I only know this because my mum told me when she called me this afternoon to wish me a happy birthday.

‘Jeff is pleased as punch,’ she told me. ‘He’s just gone into his garden now to put some potatoes in, he’s so pleased.’

‘Great,’ I said. God, the excitement of some people’s lives. Couldn’t he have hoofed back a double whisky in one go or something? Still, it did make me laugh to think of Jeff in the same garden Sam and I used to play in as kids, eating soil and making houses for worms. Sam’s come a long way since then, I think now, seeing him, so easy and confident, happily mixing drinks for people he’s never met before, safe in the knowledge that he has a shining career ahead of him and a father who’s so proud of him he’s taken to planting root vegetables in his honour. Meanwhile, what have I done?

Got the boot for being a lazy sow, that’s what. Not much to be proud of there.

I glance round my sitting room. There’s George, looking amazing in black leather hot pants, fishnets, six-inch stilettos and a long pillar-box red wig.

‘You
look lovely,’ I tell him. ‘Your new bloke is going to be blown away. When’s he coming?’

‘Sooner than he thinks,’ George cackles. ‘You’re looking pretty bloody amazing yourself. I knew that dress was made for you.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile back, starting to enjoy myself. The room is filling up quickly. Good old Janice was right. There’s tons of G ’n’ T here. Who knows? I might even enjoy myself. Oh, and there’s the doorbell again.

‘Flowers for Miss Simpson.’

‘That’s me.’

A man hands me a huge bunch of sugar-pink roses.

I take them into the kitchen, ripping open the envelope on the little card and reading it. Who are they from?

Shagging fuck.

‘Happy Birthday,’ says the card. ‘For Old Times’ Sake.’

Inside is an all too familiar scrawl. ‘Lovely to see you today. Have a good one. Love Jake.’

My stomach lurches. But there’s no time to stop and think. Janice is nearly upon me, dragging the guy with the dead wife behind her. I chuck the roses into the corner of the room out of sight and prepare to meet her future husband.

‘You OK?’

‘Yep. Just getting some air, you know.’

‘This is Jasper.’

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’ He grins.

Hmm. Not what I expected at all.

‘You look…’ I stop.

‘Yes?’

‘You don’t look as sad as I expected.’

‘I’m sorry?’

Well. His wife’s dead, after all. He should have the decency to look a bit miserable, instead of blatantly undressing Janice with his eyes. And he’s
far
too old for her. His combat pants and T-shirt
don’t fool me. In fact, he looks faintly ridiculous. Just who is he trying to kid?

Janice, I suppose.

I mean it wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so wrinkled. He’s got a face like an apricot that’s shrivelled in the sun.

Mutton dressed as pig.

Ram dressed as lamb.

The doorbell rings again and, gratefully, I excuse myself. I have no idea what to say to this strange creature. Janice will have to entertain him on her own.

I open the door.

And get the shock of my life.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ my party guest and I both screech at the same time.

‘George invited me,’ David stutters. ‘I had no idea you’d be here.’

‘I sodding well live here,’ I bridle. ‘It’s my birthday. This is my party.’

And I’ll cry if I sodding well want to.

‘I tried to call you,’ David says. ‘After you left IBS. But you were always out.’

‘I wasn’t,’ I reply. ‘I just didn’t want to talk to you.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Never better. You?’

‘Fine. Happy, actually. I’ve met this—’

‘George,’ I say. ‘You already said.’

‘You know him?’

‘He’s one of my best friends.’

‘Oh God.’

‘It’s OK,’ I tell him. ‘To be honest, I’m a bit relieved to find out you are really gay. I thought you weren’t a proper Marmite miner at all. You seemed so…well…so…’

‘So what?’

‘Straight, I suppose. I thought it might be just an excuse not to shag me.’

‘So
I’m forgiven?’

‘I can’t afford many more enemies at the moment.’ I laugh. ‘I’ve got one best friend desperately trying to marry that prune over there and another Velcroed to that creature over there in the see-through dress. Kimberley or something.’

‘God,’ he tuts. ‘Terrible name. She sounds like a second-rate wine bar.’

‘Doesn’t she?’ I giggle.

‘Oh, it’s so nice to see you.’ He laughs, giving me a huge hug. ‘And I’m sorry about your job. And, well, the other…’

‘Forget about it.’ I shrug. ‘It’s nice to see you too.’

And it is. I’ve sort of missed David, in a funny way. ‘And I’m sorry I forced you to look at my minky.’

‘Minky?’ He grins. ‘What minky?’

George greets David as though they’ve known each other for ever. Janice is flitting from room to room in her belt of a dress, finding cigars, drinks and nibbles for her prospective groom, and Sam and the Wine Bar are getting on famously.

I brush fag ash off my favourite saggy pink beanbag and flop, wondering if anyone’s going to remember to talk to me. As the party progresses I watch from outside as my three best friends enjoy themselves with other people, drinking through the bar, smoking colourful fags and eating my food. I feel about as welcome at my own sodding party as a BLT at a Bar Mitzvah.

But hang on.

Isn’t the room filling up with eligible men? And I do, after all, have a point to make. How dare Jake try to spoil my party by sending me flowers? Five months on and he’s still playing mind games, the sod.

The shit was probably hoping they’d cause a wave of nostalgia so powerful I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to bonk anyone else. Well, he can forget that idea for a start. Here I am. Young—well, thirty’s not exactly old. Free. And raring to go. So it’s decision time. Should I go all out for a nice bit of G ’n’ T or should I play safe and Go Ugly Early?

I’m
just deciding when George hands me a slippery witch. Janice taps me on the other shoulder and offers me another glass of champagne.

They haven’t quite forgotten me then.

‘Katie, this is Max.’ Janice pulls some poor bloke over by the scruff of his neck. ‘Max, Katie. Max and I work together.’

She’s behaving so formally, I half expect her to fill in important personal details on my behalf, like ‘Katie is unemployed and stuffs her face at every available opportunity. Max works very hard but his hobbies are panty-sniffing and reading the Yellow Pages.’

Except that he doesn’t look like someone who might read the Yellow Pages for fun. Actually, he looks pretty good.

‘You’re very sparkly,’ he says when Janice waltzes off to rejoin Filthy Rich.

‘Thanks.’ I check him out once more and mentally erase any thoughts of Going Ugly Early from my mind. Max is gorgeous. Beautiful eyes. A soft warm brown. Like melted Mars bars. No, wait. They’re more like…

‘And you have eyes like a cow,’ I blurt.

Fuck. What made me say that?

‘God, sorry.’ I swig my drink. ‘I’m not really used to flirting. I normally only fancy gay boys and bastards, you see. And seeing as you’re obviously neither, I think it’s only fair to inform you that you don’t stand much of a chance.’

Bugger. And he seems so nice as well. Trust me to fuck up so early on in the proceedings.

Quickly, I remind myself that ‘nice’ is the sort of word people use to describe fairy cakes. I have no long-term use for this man, other than as my first Bag A Shag candidate. So why should I care what he thinks of me?

Still, it’s probably just as well to be honest with him. Tell him that the most he can expect is a trip upstairs to my room, whereupon I’ll bonk his brains out before offering him a post-coital Kit Kat from my knicker drawer.

Or
perhaps it would be wiser to try the subtle approach.

Janice is right. I really am shit at shagging around. I have no idea what comes next.

Luckily, Max seems to know the form. Lips twitching with silent laughter, he asks me how I know he’s not a complete bastard. ‘I mean you’re quite right,’ he says. ‘I’m not. But I’m sure we could probably put a daily beating clause into the pre-nuptial agreement if you wanted.’

‘Huh?’

‘That’s a joke, by the way.’

‘Oh…right.’

‘Let’s just take it one night at a time, shall we?’ He grins. ‘No need to plan the wedding just yet.’

It’s the ‘one night’ that does it. Filled with relief, I realise his intentions are just as wicked as mine. He wants a quick shag. Which means he won’t expect me to go out on a date afterwards. So I won’t have to wear a glamorous golden dress and graze on lettuce leaves all night, when all I want to do is wear elasticated waists and splatter spag bol down my front. We can just get straight down to business.