My Fake Wedding (Red Dress Ink (Numbered Paperback)) (31 page)

‘What?’

‘Orange one,’ I say, spitting the chocolate into my hand. ‘Want it?’

‘Sure.’

‘What about you then?’ I ask. ‘What’s your type?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say, my tummy suddenly going all funny. ‘I’m not a fucking mind reader. I mean you said the other day that if you couldn’t have the woman you loved you’d settle for the one who loved you. Do you really think that?’

‘Not any more, no.’

‘So
who is she then, this mysterious woman?’ ‘ Cos, let’s face it, I’m jealous as hell of her. ‘Come on, Sam,’ I urge him. ‘Spill the beans. Who’s your chunky Kit Kat? Did you meet her at work?’

‘You might be surprised,’ he says. ‘You see, I want someone who’ll make me laugh too. Someone I can take out to dinner. Who’ll eat something really lardy smothered in butter and not care that it might make her fat. And she’ll still order chocolate mousse afterwards. With extra cream.’

‘You’ve never been out with anyone like that in your life,’ I say in amazement. There’s a funny, butterflyish feeling in my tummy which is steadfastly refusing to budge. I mustn’t make too much of it. I mean, there’s definitely anticipation, but it seems that Sam has met his ideal woman already. So this feeling I’ve got is probably just because Sam and I have never properly talked like this before. OK, so there’ve been times when we’ve touched on serious subjects, but never like this.

It feels as though we’ve crossed a line.

‘Perhaps that’s because no one like that has ever wanted to go out with me.’

Is it my imagination, or is he a bit closer to me than he was before?

And why is my heart thumping like a fat girl on a trampo-line again?

More to the point, why are my nether regions playing up like there’s no tomorrow.

Sam would probably laugh the end of his willy off if he knew how I was feeling.

Or would he?

Suddenly, almost imperceptibly, he moves closer to me until we’re actually touching. Then he strokes a stray curl off my cheek.

‘Do I have to spell it out?’ he asks, as a nervous, fizzy sort of pain shoots from the tip of my toes to the top of my ponytail, taking in my minky in a big way on the way up. What the hell’s going on?

‘What?’ I ask nervously.

‘I ate the orange one, Katie,’ he says. ‘Isn’t that enough for you?’

‘The
orange what?’

‘The orange Revel.’ He puts a finger under my chin and turns my head so I’m facing him. We’re so close I can smell him. He smells of last night’s beer and strawberries and outside. Delicious. For a moment, it reminds me of being a teenager again.

‘I always eat your orange Revels, Simpson. I have done since we were six.’

‘So?’

Shit.

Why is my heart refusing to beat normally?

‘You, you dizzy mare,’ he says gently, pulling me towards him until my mouth is nearly on his. ‘
You’re
my type.’

There’s something incredibly, wildly exciting about kissing someone you know really well. And when we’ve finished, we’re both incredibly bashful. And this isn’t like the time at Poppy’s wedding, when we both tried to brush what had happened under the carpet. I mean, I was confused then. I didn’t know what I wanted.

Now I do.

And it’s Sam.

F
or the rest
of the morning, I can hardly look at Sam.

It’s a bit like when you’ve had one of those freakish dreams. You know, the kind where you’re having sex with someone you know really well in real life.

In real life, of course, you don’t fancy them at all. But when you wake up after dreaming about them you’re confused. Somehow, this person you see every day in normal situations, at work, at the bus stop, serving your Caffe Americano in Star-bucks, gets mixed up with the person who was rutting you senseless from behind last night.

Then, just for a day or two, you really start to find them attractive. Being near them makes you nervous. And you find you can’t look them in the eye.

Janice had a dream like that once about one of our lecturers. In real life, he smelled of stale Cheddar and had hairy nostrils and a flobbery blue mole on his chin. But that didn’t stop her from shaking so much when he came over to help with an experiment that she set her fringe alight with the Bunsen burner.

And the
fact that Sam and I kissed this morning almost seems like a dream. And it’s so surreal, I can’t help feeling all sort of Rice Krispyish and squirmy inside.

But I can’t deny that, every time he looks at me, there’s a connection that wasn’t there before. It’s a whole new facet to our friendship I never, until recently, knew was there. I think it’s taken us both somewhat by surprise.

And what about all my well-intentioned resolutions? What about Behaving Like A Bloke? Humping and Dumping? Loving and Leaving?

What about not letting myself fall in love again? Ever.

Oh well, it’s too late to go back now, I tell myself, as I crumple my bikini and shorts into my tote bag. I’m happy. Really, really happy. Sam looks over at me and smiles.

‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ I grin.

‘Not that weird.’ He comes and rests his hands on my shoulders.

‘No?’

‘Not really. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’ve probably loved you since we were kids. I told you this morning.’

‘Since I smashed you over the head with that spade?’ I smile.

‘Well, perhaps not then. I actually thought you were a bit of a bitch on that particular day. Especially when the stitches came out.’

‘That wasn’t very Christian of you,’ I say. ‘Bearing a grudge like that.’

‘Perhaps I’m not a very Christian sort of boy.’ He smiles at me slowly. ‘You might get to find out if you play your cards right. Still, Simpson, that was completely unnecessary, that spade-bashing. I hope you’re not going to do the same thing to my father if your mum lets him sit on her lap.’

But I’m not listening.

‘How can you love me?’ I ask, stupefied at what he’s just told me. ‘I’m ginger. I eat like a bastard. And we’ve only just kissed.’

‘You’re stunning,’ he says, gently bending down to kiss my cheek. ‘You’re you. And I’ve known you for ever.’

‘But
I haven’t got big tits.’

‘You’ve got lovely tits.’ He runs his hand over one of my breasts so gently I think I’m going to scream with lust.

I’ve never felt so turned on in my life.

‘You can shag me if you like,’ I tell him. ‘I won’t break.’

‘I think we should wait till we get home.’ He grins. ‘So it’ll still feel real when we get back.’

‘OK.’

Obviously, I’m slightly disappointed. I was really looking forward to finding out if the novelty draught-excluder was an accurate description. But if I have to wait…

Besides, no one’s ever told me they love me
before
sex.

I mean it’s far more usual for them to tell me as we’re actually doing the nasty. Right as we’re bumping uglies in a back alley. Let’s face it, it’s usually just as they’re about to come.

And at least he knows me well enough to understand we can’t get married. Not until my divorce from David comes through, at any rate. And anyway, do we have to follow the conventional route of house, marriage, children? Can’t we just be us? Two friends who happen to have monogamous, loving sex. On the face of things, that’s far less scary.

I’m just finishing my packing when Sam slips away and comes back with flowers.

‘What are these for?’

‘I wanted to ask you to marry me. But there’s nowhere to buy you a ring. Unless you want a lime-green plastic one from the machine in the amusement arcade.’

‘Oh, Sam.’ I smile at his sweetness. ‘You know I can’t do that.’ ‘Why not?’ he asks. ‘Not because of that New Year’s resolution rubbish, surely? All that being single nonsense?’

‘I’m marrying David in two weeks,’ I tell him. ‘Remember?’

What happens next will always be a bit of a blur.

‘I thought…’ he stutters. ‘I thought that now… I mean, with me and you and…’

It
honestly hasn’t occurred to him that I’ll still go ahead with my plans to help David and George stay together.

He’s allowed himself to believe that us getting it together would change everything.

‘I never said that,’ I snap. I don’t mean to, but I can’t let my friends down. Not even for Sam. I’ve made a promise. I have to keep it.

‘You didn’t have to,’ Sam shouts. ‘I mean, if you loved me you wouldn’t even have to think about it.’

I’m so cross at him shouting, I decide he’s probably only engineered this whole situation to stop me from getting married to David. And I yell at him for that.

Sam tells me I’m talking rubbish, saying that of course he loves me, he always has and he always will.

‘Then can’t you just let me marry David and still go out with me?’ I ask him in desperation.

Sam stares at me for a moment, and I feel a flicker of hope.

Then, ever so slowly, he shakes his head. ‘No, I can’t. It’s all or nothing, I’m afraid. Black or white. I don’t want there to be a whole big grey area where it’s all confusing. And I can’t really bear the thought of you marrying someone you don’t love.’

‘But I do love David,’ I say in surprise. ‘And George. And I’ve made them a promise. If I don’t marry David, he’ll have to go away. And now we’ve realised how we feel about each other, surely you can understand how awful that would be.’

‘George only thinks of himself,’ Sam snaps. ‘And he’s quite happy to watch you forego your happiness, isn’t he?’

‘Stop it,’ I say, bitterly disappointed. ‘Just stop it. George doesn’t even know about us yet. So how could he think I was giving up my happiness? And I don’t have to. You and I can still be together if I marry David.’

‘But we can’t. ‘Sam shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to share you.’

‘Then you’ll have to forget it.’ I’m angry now. Angry at how selfish he’s being. Can’t he see that I can get married to David
and it won’t change a thing between him and me? If he loved me, then he’d understand.

‘Forget what?’

‘It. Us. Just put that kiss we had down to the booze and the scenery. I’m glad we haven’t had the chance to have sex yet. I wouldn’t go near you if I wasn’t on holiday. Do you know something, Sam Freeman? I’d rather—’

‘Shag Neil Kinnock, yes, I know,’ he says sadly.

‘I
’m not
sitting next to him.’ I wrinkle up my sunburned nose and scowl at the air hostess, stamping my chunky trainer to show I really mean it.

Janice, squeezing herself into her seat, glances at me sympathetically. Thank God she’s on my side.

I feel so stupid. What was I thinking of, believing Sam and I had a future together? When all along he’s too selfish to let me marry someone else if I feel like it? I mean, call me old-fashioned, but…

Whatever happened to unconditional love?

Sam merely raises his eyebrows to heaven as though this is exactly the kind of behaviour he might have expected from someone as childish as me. Then he puts on his ‘I’m so reasonable’ voice and asks the man next to him if he’d mind moving up one so he can sit between us.

Like a sort of central reservation.

‘Trust me, mate,’ he assures the man who, not surprisingly, looks reluctant to give up his comfy aisle seat. ‘You’ll only
have to listen to her nagging at me all the way back to Heathrow.’

‘Been married long, have you?’ asks the man, standing up to let me pass.

‘God, you’re so pathetically predictable,’ I snarl, leaning in front of the man so we can continue our conversation. ‘All men together, eh? Nagging is a term invented by men to stop women from getting what they want, you know. How sexist is that?’

Even with the man sitting stiffly between us, the journey back to London is a total nightmare. For one thing, he’s one of those people who sticks his elbows out at right angles to his body when he eats, so that I’m forced to do the same, even though I wouldn’t normally want to, just to make the point that I haven’t got enough room.

What’s more, on the other side of the aisle, a snotty brat complete with skinhead haircut, leather jacket and gold earring is having a hysterical fit because he can.

I know just how he feels.

To make things worse, when I arrive back at George’s (George and David are spending tonight at the Savoy because they want to), Jake is sitting on the wall by the hedge outside my flat.

Talking to Nick.

And they’re both looking extremely angry.

I’ve been rumbled.

Buggeration.

I slam the car into reverse, driving round to Janice’s.

‘I’m staying here,’ I tell her. ‘Jake and Nick are outside George’s house. They’re chatting.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘I just can’t face the music.’

‘Don’t you think you’d better?’ She gets up and I immediately feel guilty because she looks so tired. She’s being sick all the time at the moment. ‘I’ll come with you if you like.’

‘Can’t I just stay here?’ I look round at her flat, which isn’t
as calm, cool and collected as it usually is. Copies of
Parent
magazine and baby-name books litter the floor. ‘I could come and hide here then help tidy up when you’re like the side of a house.’

‘Oh, hon, you know you can stay here.’ Janice puts her arm round me. ‘But no tidying. In a few months, this place is going to be full of posset cloths and primary-coloured plastic. With bells on. I might as well get used to living in a mess. But don’t you think you ought to sort this out?’

‘Why?’

‘I dunno really. Call it closure. Moving on. You’ll be a married woman in less than a fortnight, don’t forget.’

‘Oh God.’

‘He won’t help you now. Come on. Let’s do it.’ Reluctantly, I climb back into the Rustbucket, pausing only to load Janice in through the passenger door. Then we pootle off to Islington to face the music.

‘Oh look,’ I say in mock disappointment as we pull up outside George’s. ‘They’ve both gone. Never mind. Closure is just going to have to wait. I have chocolate biscuits inside.’

But, as I open the front door, I soon realise we aren’t alone. I can hear the clattering of pots and pans. The fridge door opening and closing. And my mum’s voice, bright and cheerful, as she comes bustling out to meet me.

‘Katie,’ she grins, ‘how was the holiday?’

‘Lovely thanks, Mum.’ I’m surprised by how pleased I am to see her. She seems so comfortable, somehow, after all that’s happened over the past few days.

‘And Janice.’ Mum beams. ‘How’s the little one? Gosh, you’re as big as a bus now, aren’t you?’

Actually, Janice is still tiny, but that’s just Mum being Mum. ‘Fine thanks, Mrs S.’

‘And how’s Sam? Enjoy himself, did he? He said he’d ring when he got back but we haven’t heard a thing. Not a sausage.’

‘Hrmmph.’

‘Oh,
you haven’t fallen out again, have you? Never mind. I’ve brought round some leftover casserole in case you were hungry. And all that paperwork I’ve kept up for you. And I found these two on the doorstep. Look. This nice young man says he’s brought your pants back.’

Bugger.

Buggery, buggery fuck.

Sitting either side of George’s kitchen table, each tucking in to a steaming plate of Mum’s lamb stew and dumplings, are Nick and Jake.

‘I told them they were welcome any time.’ She bustles about finding a chair for Janice.

‘Great.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she whispers in my ear and points at Jake as I reach for a tea mug. ‘You don’t want to know what went into his.’

I grin. Despite my squibbly tummy at the prospect of a showdown, I can’t help thinking how bloody marvellous it is that my mum has known all along exactly what Jake was like. And there was me thinking he’d had her duped.

‘Is there something you’d like to say, Katie?’ Jake looks at me angrily.

‘Yeah,’ I sip Mum’s tea. ‘You’re a wanker.’

Nick says nothing, just tucks into another helping of Mum’s stew. Silly beggar hasn’t really clocked what’s going on.

‘I came round to offer to leave Tracy.’ Jake is beetroot with anger.

I shrug. ‘Well, you had to see sense sometime.’

‘But it appears you’ve been seeing someone else,’ he nods in Nick’s direction. Nick looks up from a mouthful of mashed potato and flashes me a heart-warming grin.

‘I told ’im,’ he admits. ‘’Ope you don’t mind. See, the thing is, I were coming round to give you them clothes back. Me mum’s washed ’em.’

‘Oh, er, thanks.’

‘I
sorta fort it weren’t workin’. What with you and me. It’s just that you’re dead clever.’

‘Well.’ I blather, feeling a stab of pleasure at the look of fury on Jake’s face.

‘I mean you read them big newspapers and everythin’.’

‘It’s fine, Nick.’ I smile at him. God, this is going to be so easy. Nick/Dudley, whatever his name is, doesn’t appear to be hurt at all. In fact, as long as I don’t get between him and his plate, I really think he’ll leave here as happy as a pig in shit.

Jake, on the other hand, is a different matter. I really couldn’t give a toss how he feels. And I’ve got my mum and Janice here to hold my hand.

‘So it’s true then?’ Jake challenges.

‘Well, you heard the man,’ I say. ‘And he isn’t some highly paid actor I’ve wheeled out just to get one up on you.’

‘I thought we were seeing each other.’ Jake pushes his plate of food away with distaste and Mum, noticing this, looks as though she might be about to bang him over the head with the griddle pan she’s washing.

‘We were,’ I agree. ‘But I was seeing some other people too. Just like you. But now I don’t really feel like seeing you any more. So you may as well go back to Fishpants. Go on. Get out.’

Stunned, Jake gets to his feet, grabs his mobile and looks at my mum. Mum folds her arms in the manner of someone Not To Be Messed With, and he scuttles for the door. Janice smirks. Worried he might be affronted, I look at Nick. But he merely looks up from his plate and asks if anyone minds if he finishes Jake’s helping.

As Janice gets a bit bigger, she starts to feel sicker, so I stay at her flat until the day of the wedding, only popping to George’s for recipe books and to feed the cats. Anyway, I’d rather not be at theirs at the moment. After all, it is bad luck for the bride to
see the groom before the wedding. And the last thing I need is a visit from the Home Office.

I also hope that the constant company and girlie chatter will take my mind off Sam. But it’s wishful thinking. After three days of convincing myself I hate him, I decide I have to try and talk to him.

Because I don’t hate him. Not at all. And I can’t bear to leave it like this.

I slope round the corner to his house and ring the bell. I push my hands in my pockets. I can’t help being nervous. My heart is lodged in the pit of my stomach and I feel sick.

It takes him forever to open the door. But finally, I hear footsteps in the hall and the door is pulled open.

By Pussy.

‘Oh.’

‘Hi.’ She smiles sweetly.

‘Er. Hi.’

‘Did you want something?’

‘Is Sam here?’

‘No,’ she smiles again, ‘he’s out.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘Did he tell you we’re back together?’ she asks.

‘No.’

I feel as though I’ve been kicked. In the stomach and from behind. The shock of hearing that Sam’s gone running straight back to Pussy is almost too much to bear. He can’t have loved me at all if he can do that.

Can he?

I don’t bother to say anything else to Pussy. Can’t even hide how upset I am. I leave, with tears in my eyes, a lump the size of Jupiter in my throat and my dignity in tatters. Then I leg it back to Janice’s without even stopping at the Dog Shop for chocolate and fags.

One look at my face sends Janice waddling to the Dog Shop for chocolate and fags.

‘Bastard,’ she
says when I tell all.

‘Bloody bastard,’ I agree.

‘Bloody, fucking bastard.’ She wipes my face with a hanky. ‘I really didn’t think he was like that.’

‘Of course he’s like that.’ I slurp at my teary top lip and have a good blow. ‘He’s a bloody bastard bloke.’

‘True enough.’

On the morning of my wedding to David, Janice and I watch videos to calm my nerves, a glass of Bolly each in one hand and a handful of caramel popcorn in the other. Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, on the other hand, is slapping lurid zebra-striped wall-paper all over the oak-beamed walls of an eighteenth-century farmhouse in Shropshire.

‘Not wishing it was a case of Changing Grooms, are you?’ Janice squeezes my hand.

‘Changing
Wombs
, more like,’ I blurt. ‘I’ve got period pain like you wouldn’t bloody believe. I must be the only bride in living history to be jamming on her wedding night.’

‘Just as well the groom will be spending it shagging someone else, isn’t it?’ She giggles. ‘You can swap wombs with me if you like. Mine’s getting a bit full.’

‘Still, I’d rather be marrying David than that chintz-loving, frock-coated twit any day.’ I nod in the direction of the telly and take a huge gulp of champagne as if to quash any doubts I might still be having.

‘So would I,’ Janice admits. ‘No regrets then?’

‘No regrets,’ I say. ‘I’ve never kept a New Year’s resolution in my life, so I don’t see why I should start now. And I’m not
really
getting married, you know. Not in the true “strap a mattress to my back and tie me to the kitchen sink with a wooden spoon in my hand” sense of the word. In theory, I’ll still be Young, Free and Single.’

‘Old, Feckless and Stupid, more like.’ Janice smiles, taking a big swig of her own champers (‘one glass only, mind’) and
turning her attention back to the screen, where Linda Barker is rough-plastering the kitchen walls of a tenth-floor council flat in Ilford with a fetching terracotta colour to make it look like the interior of a Tuscan villa.

‘But I wasn’t talking about you getting married.’ Janice puts an arm round my shoulders. ‘You know what I mean. I’m not talking about breaking your daft resolutions. I’m asking if you’re wishing you’d held out a bit longer for Mr Diet Coke Break?’

‘You mean Sam?’

‘Exactly. Or someone like him.’

‘Not really,’ I tell her. ‘At least I found out what he was like. I can’t believe he just went straight back to that stupid little cat. Anyway, I’m doing my bit for true love, keeping David in the country so that he and George can be together. David’s the first person George has loved you know, apart from himself. And his mum. It would be so unfair if he was thousands of miles away cracking open cold tinnies on a beach on his own.’

‘Instead of making himself useful mixing daiquiris for George, you mean,’ says Janice and we both burst out giggling like we haven’t done for the last week.

And laughing feels good.

I don’t mention that without George and David giving me a room and an office and a place to stay, I’d never have got Neat Eats off the ground. They’ve given me a career to be proud of. I can’t throw it back in their faces, now can I?

OK, so I conveniently forget it was Sam’s idea in the first place. I can’t think about that now. I’ve got enough to worry about what with the very strong likelihood of my forgetting my vows. And the possibility of the Home Office getting wind of the fact that I’m marrying a gay foreigner and paying a visit to our wedding.

And not just to throw confetti.

It’s nice to see George and David so happy. And I’m relieved to know that Janice is going to be OK. She took this week off work to help me as I baked an enormous pink wedding cake
and decorated it with love hearts, silver balls and pink Jelly Tots. Together, we made tiny prawn toasts with sesame seeds sprinkled all over them, miniature crispy duck pancakes and cooked up huge vats of hot and sour soup, chicken with cashew nuts and squid in black bean sauce.

Visiting Sam that one last time has taught me one thing.

I’ve definitely made the right decision.

I know who my friends are.

And I won’t be sleeping with any of them.

As I pull on my dress—a long, elegant sweep of sheer pinky gold (Didier has done me proud) and Janice puts the finishing touches to my hair and takes me outside to the waiting taxi, I squash any remaining doubts I might be having and decide to treat today as one big party.

My
party.

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

But then I might just as well laugh.

The way I’m feeling, who can tell?

‘Just one thing,’ Janice whispers as we climb into the black cab. ‘You may well be entering a sexless marriage but where there’s a will there’s a way.’