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

by Mina Ford

  What she means is that she doesn’t want me showing her up.

  ‘Can’t I just cook it?’ I ask her. ‘And then sod off? I could even do it all here and send it round to yours in a taxi in those little foil dishes you get down the Chinky.’

  Apparently I can’t. Janice won’t hear of it. After all, I’m going to be cooking the food, she reminds me. So I can bloody well sit there and eat it if it damn well chokes me.

  I’m pissed off, to put it mildly. A meal like that will take hours to prepare. I’ll probably have to get going on Friday before the end of Celebrity Ready Steady Cook.

  ‘But you’ll do all the shopping, right?’ I ask.

  ‘Will I buggery,’ she snorts, spraying me with lager top. ‘I rather thought you’d be doing that, having sod all else to do except loll round the flat with your finger up your bum. I’ve got a fulltime job to hold down until I get married, remember?’

  Well, that’s just great, isn’t it? I’ll probably miss most of Trisha as well if I’ve got to whip round Sainsbury’s first.

  ‘I will leave some wine in the fridge though,’ she says. ‘So you can crack it open when you get there and I’ll join you when I’ve finished shovelling shit for Wasp Bum. Not that I’ll be much help, I’m afraid. I’m in for a busy week. I’ll be pretty much shagged out come Friday.’

  ‘Right you are then.’

  ‘And Katie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m really sorreee but…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You couldn’t tidy the bathroom a bit and have a quick flick round with a duster, could you? I probably won’t be home very much between now and then and the place is a bit of a sty.’

  ‘Cheeky bitch,’ George snorts, when I call him to tell him I’ll have to miss our lunchtime bitching session in Café Flo because I’m going to have to plan the whole thing properly now I’m catering for loads of Jasper’s friends.

  ‘She’s not a cheeky bitch,’ I say.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She’s a cheeky fucking bitch.’

  ‘So she is. With knobs on.’

  ‘She’s so worried about showing Filthy Rich what a great executive wife she’ll make that she couldn’t give a toss about the rest of us. God knows why she’s so taken with him. He’s nearly seventy, for Christ’s sake. He’s got a face like a gnarled walnut.’

  ‘Ooh yes,’ George says delightedly. ‘Like a badly griddled pancake, all screwed up.’

  ‘All I can say is he must have a dick like a baby’s arm clutching a grapefruit.’

  ‘Oooh.’

  ‘He’s still working though. So he might not be that ancient. But I mean she doesn’t even know what he does for a living. He could be a toilet cleaner for all she knows. Or a dustbin man. Nothing very executive about that. But from the way she goes on, you’d think he was Richard bloody Branson. She’s so busy counting pound signs that she’s forgotten all about me.’

  ‘And she bleaches her hair.’

  ‘Anything could be happening in my life right now and she wouldn’t even notice. My boyfriend could be beating the shit out of me.’

  ‘You don’t have a boyfriend,’ George points out. ‘He dumped you months ago.’

  ‘I dumped him actually. And only because he preferred dirty nylon knicker girls to normal girls like me.’

  ‘Darling, if you’re normal, I’m the Pope.’

  ‘But hypothetically speaking, I could have a boyfriend, couldn’t I?’

  ‘I suppose you could, yes. If you did something with your hair.’

  ‘And he could be beating the shit out of me.’

  ‘He could be using your head as a dartboard,’ George says gleefully.

  ‘And my bum as a knife block.’

  ‘Stubbing fags out on your arms,’ he shouts happily.

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘And Little Miss Biddy Bonker wouldn’t even notice. As a mate, I’m practically neglected. I could report her.’

  ‘You could,’ he agrees.

  ‘She’ll be laughing the other side of her lipliner when “luxury travel” means packing into some National Express biddy wagon for a day trip to Clacton,’ I point out.

  And that’s not all, I think to myself, wearily dusting down my collection of recipe clippings. What’s going to happen in ten years’ time, when her carefully maintained home starts to stink of old people? All wee and boil-in-the-bag cod. I don’t think she’ll like that very much. She won’t be able to redecorate in case the paintwork clashes with the stairlift.

  Sometimes, I doubt whether she’s actually thought about the future at all. To her, the wedding ceremony is the future. And after that—nothing! Janice is so wrapped up in her fantasy, she’s yet to realise that marriage is, in all probability, very much like the female condom. Vastly overrated. If she actually stops to think further than the honeymoon, she’ll realise that a girl who, until very recently, didn’t even bother swapping first names before happily exchanging humungous quantities of bodily fluids, will probably find the challenge of coping with incontinence pants so early in life pretty hard to take.

  On Friday, I stubbornly wait until Trisha’s finished, then strop round the supermarket in five minutes flat, grazing happily on Skips as I go. When I’ve bought everything I need, I waddle home to feed Graham and Shish Kebab. Graham winds himself around my legs, purring like a motorbike as I squidge a sachet of duck-flavoured slop into his bowl. Until recently, they’ve eaten out of tins, like every other moggy, but these sachet things are so convenient. The feline equivalent of an M&S lasagne for one.

  When I’ve watched both furry bundles poke the lot down their greedy fat faces, I lug the shopping round to Janice’s flat and unlock the door, catching a waft of her smell as I do so. It’s weird. When we shared a flat together, I never noticed her ‘other person’ smell. But now I’m a visitor, I can’t miss it. And 152 Calbourne Road smells of a mixture of CK One, Dettox, Elnett hairspray and fresh paint. It’s so damn clean it screams ‘One Careful Owner’. You see, whereas my rented hovel hasn’t seen so much as a lick of paint since I’ve been there, Janice is constantly in decorating mode. In fact, when it comes to her flat, she’s so anally retentive, she could probably do without a Hoover. She could trot round the place sucking up crumbs through her bum instead. In the last six months, she’s gone interior design mad. She’s Anna Ryder Wotsit the second. Except she’s a blonde version, with much bigger tits. She’s forever painting this and varnishing that. Everything has to coordinate. She’s been known to march into Homebase brandishing a violet resin ashtray someone at work bought her and demanding an entire colour scheme based on the bloody thing. The only item I’ve ever bought for my flat is my lovely squishy sofa. And that’s only because Jake sprayed the last one with sperm as I gave him a post-prandial hand job—his last, as it turned out—and I couldn’t so much as glance at the stain without getting rushes of nostalgia. Otherwise, I prefer to leave major purchases like that for when I grow up. Or when I actually manage to buy my own place. When that’ll be, precisely, as I keep telling my mum, I’m not entirely sure. When a mortgage lands in my lap, I expect. I’m a Property Virgin, for God’s sake. I don’t have a clue how it all works. And don’t get me wrong. I have tried. I asked George a few months back if he knew about mortgages. But he looked utterly horrified. ‘Mortgage?’ he screeched. ‘What mortgage? Jesus Harriet Christ, sweetie, just what do you think I am? I live in Islington, I’ll have you know. That’s N bloody One, darling, not Albert flipping Square. I own that house outright.’

  I dump the bags of shopping on Janice’s kitchen table and have a quick snoop round. As usual, everything is cool, calm and elegant. Shortly after moving in, she had an attack of open plan-itis, knocking down certain walls and making egg-shaped holes in others. The floor is now an ice rink of highly polished beech and the whole place looks as though it has jumped straight from the pages of some glossy interiors magazine. I suppress a sigh of envy and tell myself she deserves to live somewhere beautiful, bless he
r nylon pop socks. She’s worked bloody hard to escape the council estate in Walthamstow where she grew up, sitting in front of a one-bar fire with a packet of Garibaldi for her tea and an Asda ski-panted mother for company.

  Wandering into the bathroom, with its fresh lilac walls, seamless stainless steel bath and pale mosaic floor, I pick up several clean outfits, unable to keep from smiling, as I envisage my best friend in the world trying them all on for a night out with Filthy Rich. I can see her in my mind’s eye, twirling briefly in the full-length mirror by the door then casting each garment aside with mounting exasperation as she deems it highly unsuitable. I count four black tops, two white tops, an inviting little number in apricot lace and a slinky purple and pink spotted dress with a tantalisingly low back. Three bras, two thongs, four pairs of slingbacks and a pair of killer stilettos litter the floor by the mirror and I grab the whole jumble and shove it into her wardrobe, rescuing other assorted scraps of clothing, which are scattered across the landing like tickertape, as I go.

  Then I stomp down to the kitchen to unpack the groceries and cook supper. I chop carrots and onions, simmer creamy coconut broth and tear up bunches of fragrant coriander. Whizz the whole lot through the blender and roll the most astronomically priced piece of lamb I’ve been able to find in freshly macerated mint. I boil potatoes then rough them up with a fork so they’ll be deliciously crispy when I roast them in heaps of chopped rosemary and lashings of sizzling hot oil. Slice courgettes into razor-thin strips and pod peas. Melt prime quality chocolate over a saucepan and whip egg white into Everestlike peaks. As I do all this, a wave of contentment washes over me and I almost switch off from real life completely. I always feel like this when I’m cooking for friends. It soothes me, somehow. I used to love cooking for Jake. Every Friday night we’d have wonderful slap-up feasts, after which he always enjoyed nothing more than an evening of crap game shows rounded off with a blow job of distinction. I cooked that ungrateful sod everything under the sun. French. Italian. Indian. Thai. Chinese. Unfortunately, as it turned out, the only thing he really appreciated in the end was Red Hot and Dutch, but it’s some consolation to know that Fishpants Fraser is doing the cooking now. Which means egg and chips will be about the limit. And it’ll doubtless be downhill from now on in. Soon, he’ll be living off carrot purée and Tubby custard.

  And serve him bloody well right.

  By the time Janice gets home from the office, stripping off her suit jacket as she waltzes into the kitchen and declaring that she needs a hot shower and a good half-hour of pampering, everything is practically ready. The lamb is roasting to pink perfection in her sparkling Smeg and all that remains is for her to stick the veg in boiling water for a few minutes when the guests have arrived. Surely even she can manage that. As I wait for her to come out of the shower, I slip into my own boring LBD, pull on a sheer pair of black tights to conceal my corned beef legs and flop down on her suede ottoman to neck a glass of wine. She slaps on a bright blue face mask, exfoliates her legs, douses herself in perfume and pours herself into a backless silver chainmail thing she’s bought specially.

  ‘TA-DAA.’ She wafts down the stairs in a cloud of D&G and gives me a quick twirl. ‘What do you reck? Do I look gorgeous or do I. Look. Gorgeous?’

  ‘Erm…’

  ‘It needs a bra, doesn’t it?’ she says irritably. ‘Needs. A fucking. Bra. I knew it. And I don’t have a sodding backless one.’ She practically hyperventilates. ‘Shit piss fuck. What am I going to do? Whywhywhy do I have to have tits like bloody balloons?’

  I pass her a paper bag to breathe into. Luckily, I know just how to deal with this particular crisis. Janice’s big, bouncy boobs are the bane of her life. She’s simply too well-endowed to go bra-free. For years now, she’s aspired to a crop top, but to no avail. No matter how much weight she loses, her boobs steadfastly refuse to shrink. I’m the total opposite. I don’t have a washboard stomach, I have a washboard chest. I’ve got a torso like a xylophone. And she’s jealous. Of me! The mad cow. I’ve tried pointing out that my boobs are so small they practically poke inwards, like two piss holes in the snow, but she’s having none of it. It means I can wear teeny vest tops and backless frocks to my heart’s content if I want to, and that’s what’s so galling apparently. It’s a classic case of ‘grass is always greener’. I’ve yearned for boobs in the past. Great big udder-like boobs I’d be able to squash together to make a cleavage. One that looks like a huge bottom. Like the Edwardians had. I’d happily swap places with her any day.

  In the end, the chainmail dress is discarded altogether, due to the fact that two boiled eggs in a handkerchief isn’t a good look this season. Boobs, Janice assures me firmly, are out. She plumps for a flirty amethyst silk number instead and— I have to hand it to her—she does look absolutely stunning when she’s eventually ready. She’s used a gallon of straightener on her hair, which makes her appear at least five inches shorter than usual. Suddenly I realise my larger than life best friend has been transformed. She’s a glossier, more sophisticated model. She’s gone from tawdry Boy Racer Escort to sleek Alfa Romeo Spyder in minutes. Even her make-up is quieter. Gone is the sassy scarlet lipstick and thick black eyeliner. In its place, tasteful nude lipgloss and feather-light mascara. She almost doesn’t look like Janice at all. If this is how it’s going to be if she marries Filthy Rich, I’d rather she didn’t bother. I’m already pining for her big hair and shouty make-up. I don’t like the new Janice much. It feels as though I’m being fobbed off with a watered-down version.

  Compared to Janice’s sleek, elegant figure, I look putrid. I’m sure I’ve got scraps of potato peelings and bits of chopped mint in my hair. My hands absolutely reek of ingrained garlic. And I’ve already snagged my horrid 10 denier businesswoman’s tights. When Janice has finished admiring herself, turning first to one side then the other, then baring her teeth in the mirror to check for stray lipgloss, she turns and looks at me in horror.

  ‘At least put some lippy on,’ she urges. ‘You’re as white as a blooming sheet.’

  I’ve managed some natural gloss and a brushful or two of mascara, when the doorbell rings and Janice opens it to find Jasper hovering on the doorstep, bottle of champagne in one hand, enormous bouquet of rust-coloured roses in the other. She’s not bothered about him, obviously, but she positively wilts with delight when she sees the expensive flowers. And when he picks her up and kisses the top of her forehead. I resign myself to an evening of feeling green and whiskery. Why the buggery fuck is she putting me through this anyway? Doesn’t she want some privacy?

  ‘I’ll just stick these in a vase,’ she tinkles, whisking her flowers into the kitchen in a sweep of sparkling purple. I hate the way she’s changed her voice especially for him. She’s also cultivated a way of sort of flitting from room to room instead of stomping about like she usually does. It really gets on my tits because I know it isn’t the real her. All this flimflam is pure nonsense. And as she bashes pots and pans around in the kitchen, pretending to be putting last-minute touches to dinner, I’m left alone with the old bid. Embarrassed, I sort of shrug my shoulders and smile halfheartedly as I sit down, checking out his outfit as I do so. Plain blue shirt, open at the neck to reveal a veritable rug of chest hair. Navy chinos have replaced the ridiculous combat pants he wore to my birthday party. Even so, there’s a worryingly large amount of gold jewellery on display. And is that a small medallion lurking in amongst the undergrowth?

  Strewth.

  This is going to be a bloody nightmare.

  Jasper unwraps a Cuban cigar the size of a small gerbil as the doorbell goes again. And for the next twenty minutes, Janice flitter-flutters from kitchen to front door, leading a selection of chocolate-box party blondes and their assorted partners into the living room and handing them large gin and tonics. But when the bell rings for the last time, she’s suddenly too busy to answer it. ‘That’ll be Colin,’ she tinkles from the kitchen. ‘Can you get that, Katie?’

  Obediently, I turn to go i
nto the hall, but Jasper jumps up instead. Why don’t I sit down, there’s a good girl? He’ll see to the door. Then, placing both hands round my waist, he commits the cardinal sin. He physically moves me to one side, as though I’m nothing more than a piece of property. A shopping trolley obscuring the Jaffa Cakes in the supermarket! White-hot anger spurts like lava in my chest as he swaggers, puffing away on the gerbil cigar, to the front door. And suddenly, I’m itching to boot him through it and slam it in his face. Why is Janice putting up with such sexist claptrap? She’s the girl who, on discovering an alien hand on her arse on the tube last year, grabbed the offending fingers in a vice-like grip and held them aloft for all to see, yelling, ‘Whose hand is this, groping my bum?’ at the top of her voice so everyone could hear. She’d rather have injected her thighs with pure cellulite than put up with this nonsense a year ago, so why is she indulging it now?

  Actually, that’s a stupid question. I know why she’s indulging it now. She can hear the ringing of cash tills big time and nothing, but nothing, is getting in her way.

  From the second Colin enters the room, I suspect he may well turn out to have ‘Katie’s Date’ branded across his nether regions. Which is a crying shame, really. I might be trying not to have any morals when it comes to shagging around, but I sure as hell don’t sleep with people called ‘Colin’. It’s such a stupid, slow, cornflakey kind of name. People name their coldsores Colin. If he’d been called anything else, like Luke or Will or even Giles—well, perhaps not Giles actually; it’s a bit of a dopey public schoolboy name— I might have gone after him like shit off a shovel. Even given my track record when it comes to blokes in suits. But Colin?

  It’s a bit bloody estate agent, isn’t it?

  Did I say that Colin isn’t particularly tall? Sorry. That’s bollocks. Next to me, Colin is positively pygmy-esque. And he’s forty-odd if he’s a day. Which practically makes him Colin the Codger.