‘No, no.’ Oh gawd, wriggling really isn’t the answer. I’m getting carpet burn for all the wrong reasons.
‘She’s, erm, indisposed.’
I freeze, but I can’t hear Jess’s response.
‘Honest?’ He chuckles. ‘She’s stuck under the bed.’
I still can’t hear what she’s saying. All I can hear is Jake’s muffled laughter.
‘No, no you can’t blame me, well you can, it was my dog she was chasing.’ Pause, as I start to flush. ‘Yeah, something like that, he had her best knickers.’ His face reappears over the end of the bed. ‘Better get out from under there, she’s on her way. Wants to meet Harry. She went…’ He gives a high-pitched squeal that is a remarkably good impression of an excited Jess. ‘And said she’d be here in thirty seconds.’
‘Go away, get my knickers off your dratted dog.’ He goes. I wriggle again, and it’s just not happening. ‘Jake?’ His face bobs back down. ‘Pull me out? Please?’
Men are supposed to make you laugh, not laugh at you. Not laugh so hard they can hardly pull you out from under the bed. I don’t know who I want to kill first, Jake or Harry, who is jumping on my head, barking.
Both get a reprieve because there’s a knock on the door, and my best friend flies through without waiting for an invite, to find me flat out on the floor, a pair of knickers in one hand, an excited dog licking my ear, and a man holding my ankles.
I struggle to my feet and pick bits of carpet off my boobs.
I suppose she’s entitled to barge in. It is her wedding. She has paid for the room.
‘Sam!’ With a squeal she grabs me. ‘Oh God, I am so glad you came, for a horrible moment I thought the Liam thing would mean you … and she’s so huge.’ Jess often leaves sentences unfinished, but most of the time I know what she means. ‘And she wants to be the centre of attention, and she might be you know, but it’s my wedding, and he’s such a dick, but of course you don’t care, do you?’ We all pause for breath. ‘You’ve got… oh my God you must be Jake, I mean I knew from his voice I just knew he’d be gorgeous, but…’ She looks between me and Jake frantically; any more of this and she’ll crick her neck. ‘Where on earth did you find him? Tell me, no don’t tell me, I’m taken!’ I’m doubtful Jess will believe the partial truth, the dog walking story, but I’m not about to tell her the full truth. Well, I can’t exactly say my gay hairdresser passed him on, can I?
‘If I didn’t have Dan I’d be jealous. Oh, oh, oh, that’s his dog! That’s your dog!’ Jake nods. Jess lets go of me so suddenly I nearly fall on the bed, and she’s on her hands and knees, nose to nose with Harry. ‘Oh my God, he’s the cutest, he’s so adorbs, oh the girls will love him, can I show them? Can I take him with me to show Dan, and the girls? Oh no he’s frothing at the mouth, oh my God he’s bleeding! Jake, Jake, he’s cut…’ She stops short. Then giggles. ‘Er, I think he’s picked something up, Sam.’
He has. Another pair of my knickers. My red, silk, I don’t know what they’re doing in my suitcase anyway knickers. I’m tempted to say he can have them, rather than suffer the indignity of Jake seeing them, but they were expensive. Obviously not as expensive as him, but bloody expensive for a triangle of material that only one person sees, two if you’re lucky. Three if you’re unlucky and there’s a dog in the room.
At least I’m good for entertainment value; Jess and Jake are in stitches. I can guess what the conversation over drinks is going to be.
‘Oh, I’m so pleased to finally meet you Jake.’ She gives him a quick hug. ‘I’m Jess.’
‘I thought you might be. Pleased to meet you too, Sam has told me—’ If he says ‘all about you’ then we’re in deep shit. She’ll be dredging up all the childhood memories he should know about. ‘—what a brilliant friend you are. She wouldn’t have missed this for anything. How about we bring Harry to the bar later for introductions? To be honest, I think he needs a bit of chill time after the long drive.’
Don’t we all?
‘Aww, you are so cute.’ Luckily she’s cuddling the dog again now, not Jake. ‘Hope you’re not too tired. Sam, we thought that with everybody arriving at different times it was daft to have a formal dinner tonight, so we’re doing cocktails, a buffet and…’ She pauses and switches her gaze to Jake. ‘You’re going to love this – whisky tasting! How Scottish is that?’ I try not to look at the kilt on the bed. ‘See you later.’ Harry gets a hug, Jake gets a hug, I get a longer hug, and a whisper in my ear that’s a little on the loud side. ‘Oh Sam, I’m so happy for you. I can hear more wedding bells, he’s perfect, this is so exciting!’ I love Jess to bits, honest. I’ve known her since we were little, she was always the one that was excited about everything and right now I want to be excited too. But I also need a lie down.
She stops at the door just as I’m teetering, about to collapse into a chair. ‘And you have SO got to wear that, Jake!’ Oh crap, she’s pointing at the kilt. ‘It’s tartan and whisky night!’ She grins at me. ‘Even Liam is wearing one. Can you imagine? With knees like that!’
I don’t ask her how she knows what his knees are like. Jake doesn’t ask me what I’m imagining. He just opens my hand and places my soggy knickers in it.
The door reopens. ‘Cocktail dresses for the girls, how glam are we? Oh, and look on the list.’ She points at the piece of paper again. ‘Look, look!’ I comply. ‘It’s spa time tomorrow afternoon, girl time, you can fill me in on everything.’ She nods dramatically at Jake and raises an eyebrow as she edges back out of the door.
To be totally honest, right now I don’t feel at all glam.
Jake smiles, but in a nice way. ‘It’ll be fine.’ He places his warm hands on my shoulders and gently turns me around. His soft voice is close to my ear. So close that I’m sure one centimetre back and I’d be leaning against him. It’s very tempting to just lean. And go to sleep, and forget everything. ‘Honest. Go and have a long soak in the bath.’ I’m not sure the best bubble bath will help right now. And I’m not sure that any spa treatment known to man will reduce my inches enough for my cocktail dress to do up.
***
There is a burglar banging on the bathroom door. Except burglars don’t knock. Do they? I hang on to the sides of the bath in panic. If he comes in I’m not going without a struggle, nobody is drowning me in my own bathwater. Who wants that on their tombstone? Died in her own…
This isn’t my bath.
This isn’t my home.
This is…
‘Are you okay? It’s ten to eight?’
‘Christ, ten to eight? Are you sure? Why didn’t you tell me?’
The water is bloody freezing. How on earth did I not wake up before hypothermia threatened to set in?
‘I am telling you. I thought you were having a relaxing bath, so I left you to it. Took Harry out for a run.’
Oh hell. I let the plug out with my toe, then clamber out, splashing water everywhere.
There’s a full length mirror next to the bath (what kind of masochist has a full-length mirror next to the place where you are most likely to be naked?) and I am all wrinkled. All wrinkled in a more prune than raisin way, which means it hasn’t helped with the slimming, it has just made a few bits of me look far older than other bits. If this is how I’m going to look when I’m eighty then I want to be put to sleep before it happens.
My face has gone all blotchy red, which is what happens when I go near hot water and steam. The rest of my body has obviously not transmitted the message to it that the hot and steamy phase ended quite some time ago, we’re now at the frigging freezing stage and the tip of my nose is blue. Very fetching.
‘Are you going to get ready?’
Shit. ‘Yes, yes, nearly done, we don’t have to go over the top you know.’ Bugger, bugger, bugger, cocktail dresses, castles, what do I mean not over the top?
There’s a tub of moisturiser next to the sink (which shows how posh this place is) so I slap as much of that onto my face as I can, and pat it, hoping it will sink in.
Dry skin is bad, greasy slick is worse. It’s not happening. I pat hard. Rub. I’m still blotchy, if anything blotchier because of all the face slapping. And my hair looks like rats’ tails.
Rats are not glam.
I’ll pin it up. Yes, up. If I had pins. Mum said bring pins. Why do I never listen to her? How can I get pins? It’s thirty miles to the nearest supermarket.
‘Will you go and ask Mum if she’s got some hair pins?’
‘Hair pins?’
‘Hair pins. To pin your hair. She’ll know what you mean.’
I don’t just need hair pins, I need him out of the bedroom so I can dive in and get clean undies and a dress. If I’ve got any underwear left that hasn’t been slobbered on.
The door clicks shut. It is now seven minutes to eight. I’ve got seven minutes, although it will take him at least seven minutes to get away from Mum.
Find knickers. Where did I put my knickers? They’re not in the case. Stop. I have to be calm. Seven minutes is fine. Six minutes, well, six minutes is fine. I remember, I put all my undies away. Out of sight. Out of Harry’s reach. Oh God, which drawer? There are lots of drawers, and cupboards.
No, I need to lock the door first, or Jake might catch me in my knickers. Or not in my knickers if I don’t get a grip.
I lock the door and am halfway back across the vast room when I realise.
No, not knickers, I need to find shoes next. My shoes are high and strappy and impossible to do up unless you’re a contortionist. If I’m holding the shoe, and it isn’t on my foot, then it’s easy-peasy to put the metal bit through the hole in the strap. If I’ve got the buggers on my feet then it’s like threading a needle with spaghetti. Why is it like that? Why don’t shoes have proper holes?
I stand most chance if I’ve not got any clothes on and can lift my foot closer to my face. I can’t bend the same with clothes on.
God, why is this room so big? I’ll have lost pounds and more importantly inches by the time I get to the bloody buffet. Which I shouldn’t eat. But if I don’t then the cocktails and whisky will have a disastrous effect on my ability to talk sense. Which wouldn’t normally matter at a party, but does matter right now as I have the fake boyfriend situation to cope with.
The door handle is rattling.
Bugger. Go away. ‘Yes Jake?’ I have to say this in a sweet girlfriend way, in case they can hear my hisses in the next room.
‘Why have you locked the door, Sam?’
‘Shhh.’ My whisper obviously does not penetrate walls to the next room, or substantial doors. In a motel we’d be fine. ‘I’m getting dressed.’ Well, I’m hobbling about in one shoe.
‘Which room are your parents in?’
‘Three doors down. What do you mean, which room? What have you been doing?’
‘Got four doors by mistake. Lovely people.’ He sounds happy, relaxed, like he’s having a great time.
‘Jake?’
There is silence. He has gone. No doubt to introduce himself to all the other lovely guests.
Crap. Who is four doors down? Who’s he already introduced himself to? I haven’t got time for this. Yay! The second shoe goes on easier than the first, and I’ve got one leg in my knickers when he’s back at the door.
‘No answer.’
‘Well, go to Jess then, end of the corridor.’
We’re down to two minutes, I’ve unlocked the door, my hair is a mess, I’m hot, sweaty and totally knackered, and I’m in the only nearly-cocktail dress I own.
It’s black and it’s stretchy, well stretchy enough to cope with the half a stone I’ve put on. And forgiving enough to not cop out on me if I decide to eat more of the buffet than I really should. I like dresses like that. If more men were like buffet-friendly dresses then there would be fewer problems in the world.
‘Sexy.’ I don’t know how Jake managed to sneak in that quietly, but he’s back with a handful of pins, and the type of hairclip you’d give an eight year old for ballet lessons.
‘Jess gave you that?’
‘No, your mum did. She was chatting to Jess and insisted she had just the thing.’ His eyes are twinkling. ‘She was also pretty intent on coming with me so she could pin it in your hair. But…’ He’s so close I can feel his warm breath on my neck, which seems to be affecting my air supply, and bringing the blotches back on my neck. I duck out of range and turn around just as he says, ‘I dissuaded her.’
‘Oh my God.’ I do an eek noise, I can’t help it. ‘You’ve got knees!’ I can hardly squeak the word out, and my eyebrows couldn’t get any higher even with surgical help. ‘Naked knees.’
‘If I didn’t have knees I’d fall over.’ He does a twirl and I very nearly discover what a Scotsman wears under his kilt. Well, not quite. He doesn’t spin fast enough to get it that high. And I am very, very tempted to accidentally drop something…
‘Shall we?’ For a moment I think he means try and get it higher, then notice the arm he’s shoved in my direction. ‘Time to go?’
‘How long have you had that on?’ Oh God, he’s been wandering the corridors in a skirt.
‘I got changed while you were in the bath. I’d drop that necklace if I was you.’
The necklace had been a last minute touch. I’d thought it might distract from my still messy hair. You know, like one can distract from a huge cleavage with something shiny. Though I’ve never known that to work, if a man is prone to boob-staring then even a punch in the face won’t stop him, let alone a dangly thing on the end of a chain. ‘Too much?’ It was very bright and shiny, an impulse online sale buy and I don’t know what on earth possessed me to buy it, let alone pack it. And now I have it on. It is more fancy dress than posh cocktail hour in a castle.
‘Way too much. Come on, don’t want to be late and attract attention to ourselves, do we?’
Chapter 15
Being late isn’t a problem. Jake is. I can blend into the background with my nice dress and absence of glitzy gaudy necklace. Jake and his knees cannot. And, holy crap, all those knees. My eyes are boggling. I have never seen so many knees, so much tartan. It’s no wonder porridge, fires and whisky are so popular here, and thank goodness it’s not a winter wedding, that’s all I can say.
I am secretly chuffed though, and feeling a bit smug, because I have the man with the best legs. I’m not biased, because he’s not my actual boyfriend. As an almost impartial observer I can say that he has legs to die for, compared to all the other ones on show. Although that does include quite a few oldies (sorry Dad) and Liam. Jake has proper MAN legs. But what does he have in his sporran? And has he gone commando?
I need to take a photo of the knees though, and send it to Sarah. I promised regular updates and this is the type of thing she will appreciate.
‘Well now, if it isn’t our little Samantha.’ I’m wrapped in a bear hug and for a moment lose sight of all the legs. ‘And where have you been hiding?’ Jess’s dad smothers me in tweed and I try and resist the urge to pick prickly bits out of my mouth. I also try and smile but I’ve got a bit of a squashed face, so I’m sure it’s not my best look. ‘And you must be Jake.’ He doesn’t give me chance to reply, but sticks a hand out in Jake’s direction. ‘John, John Price, I’m the father of the bride.’
‘Lucky man.’ Jake shakes hands. ‘Jake Porter.’
‘And you’re not doing so badly yourself. You’ve got a little corker here, hasn’t he?’ He used to call me a corker when I was ten. His grip slackens off, and so does my face, but he’s squeezing my cheek between his thumb and the side of his forefinger now which is worse. He used to do that when I was ten as well, and call me chubby chops. Although my own dad was worse, he used to squeeze my knees and say it. I wonder if my face is now a brighter shade of red than when I got out of the bath? Is there such a thing as tweed-rash? ‘Nice tartan by the way. Is it—’
Oh no, any second now and John is going to start interrogating Jake about which part of Scotland he comes from, and he’ll find out he doesn’t. And then h
e’ll be asking about how we met, and how long we’ve known each other. I’m starting to hyperventilate, I can already see disaster ahead.
‘Lovely, isn’t it? Shall we mingle, darling?’ I wriggle free of John’s grasp and slip my hand through Jake’s arm. ‘Oh now, look over there!’
‘Who’s over there?’ He’s looking, and not seeing.
I haven’t got a clue who is over there, I just said it because I know that John is going to start the interrogation and it might be better after a few cocktails, and when he’s had too many whiskies to remember the answers. ‘I’ll introduce you. Oh, and there’s Jess, so many people you need to meet.’
‘Hang on girl, you’ve got a whole week. Hasn’t she, lad?’ He guffaws at Jake and claps him heartily on the back. John is hearty about everything. He’s quite short and solid looking (the tweed suits him), and he’s also quite loud.
‘The man’s got a point, darling.’ Jake slips one hand round my waist and draws me closer, and winks at John. ‘I can’t wait to meet everybody though, we’ve been looking forward to this wedding for ages, the highlight of the year. Done nothing but talk about it, have we?’
‘Nothing.’ Well, that is sort of true. Our conversations have totally centred on this occasion.
‘Tremendous idea coming here, this place looks fabulous.’ Jake is holding a glass of champagne and gazing round the room with genuine admiration. He looks like he was born for a place like this, and there’s not a trace of nerves. He is totally at ease with Jess’s dad, who was always rather too bombastic for Liam.
John preens, and I’m sure he has puffed out a bit. He looks a bit like a gorilla about to pound its chest with pride. ‘Can’t take all the credit, but it’s really something, isn’t it?’
‘We were only chatting to Sam’s parents the other day about it, looked amazing on the website but it’s really something else when you get here.’
‘Been bombarding my wife with questions, has Ruth.’ John winks at me. ‘You know what your mum and Juliet are like when they get talking, phone wires have been on fire! Now then.’ He turns back to Jake. ‘Got Scottish blood then, have you lad?’
The Wedding Date Page 13