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

by Mina Ford

  Unfortunately, Max seems to find all this more amusing than offputting. And in the end, I’m actually quite flattered by him laughing at my jokes. So much so, in fact, that I even manage to find the energy for another quick shag. It’s against my better judgement under the circumstances but what the hell?

  I’m just stuffing the used condom into an empty black cherry yoghurt pot when I feel an odd, prickling sensation on the back of my neck. I turn round to find Max looking at me really intensely. I check myself. Do I have crusts of food round my mouth? Bits of orange kebab sauce under my nails?

  Shit. Do I have a great big booga hanging out of my nose?

  Whatever it is, I don’t like him staring at me like this. The skin on the back of my neck feels as though I have a clutch of spider’s eggs hatching underneath it. It’s nothing short of disgusting.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to roll over now and start snoring your head off ?’ I joke.

  I’m only half-joking, actually. Surely any self-respecting bastard would have done just that? Shouldn’t Max be waiting for me to fall asleep now so he can vanish, evaporating like a puff of amyl nitrate into the dusk? He should have started feeling trapped the second he heard the squelch of the condom coming off.

  Shouldn’t he?

  Buggery bollocks.

  He’ll be getting so intimate he’ll be going to the loo in front of me next.

  ‘Not me.’ He shakes his head and smiles at me. ‘I’m not like that.’

  Just my blimming luck then.’

  I want to get to know you properly.’ He beams. ‘Spend time with you. Stuff like that.’

  ‘What for?’

  Flipping wonderful. I’m such a loser I can’t even have a simple one-night stand without it all going tits up.

  God, why is he gazing at me like that? There’s obviously something very wrong with him.

  ‘What?’ I panic.

  ‘Nothing, it’s just…’

  ‘What?’ I ask a second time, a weird, uneasy feeling bubbling away like hot porridge in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘You’re just so…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think you’re fantastic,’ he bursts out.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I mean it.’ He nods. ‘You’re funny, you’re gorgeous. You’re just… I can’t believe…’

  ‘Can’t believe what?’ I demand. Good God. Surely he isn’t about to declare undying love for me, is he? That’s not the idea at all.

  I knew I should never have gone for that second shag. I’ve led him on. Allowed him to form an attachment. He seems to be expecting me to say something lovey-dovey back to him.

  And ‘love’ is something I’m afraid I’m just not willing to get into right now. As far as I’m concerned, the L word means only one thing.

  And that’s ‘Lack Of Vaginal Exercise’.

  ‘I just can’t believe you changed your mind.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About me.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Well, after everything you said at your party. When we first met. About not wanting a boyfriend. I mean, I’m really not a bastard and I’m definitely not gay. So why did you change your mind? I just can’t believe I’m your type.’

  ‘You’re not,’ I tell him. ‘I’m desperate.’

  Of course it doesn’t even occur to Max that I might actually be serious. He assumes I’m joking. God. Men can be so damn arrogant at times.

  He stares at me adoringly for another ten minutes, gazing at me in bewildered awe and shaking his head in wonderment, as though I’m the star of ruddy Bethlehem, instead of plain old Katie Simpson, ginger spinster of Balham parish. And by the time I’m drifting in and out of uneasy slumber, I’ve decided that he’s not even that good-looking. If he likes me that much, he clearly has big problems. Nope, I decide, staring at the silver mirrorball hanging by my window as I listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing. He’s definitely not my type. The colour of his eyes is more mud than Mars bar. And, unless I’m very much mistaken, his head would probably look an awful lot better on the end of a stick.

  Typical, isn’t it? The minute I decide to live a single, blameless life, I’ve got blokes following me around like sick puppy dogs. I lie in the Sunday evening gloom feeling cheated. The only reason I was attracted to him in the first place was that I felt sure he had to be a complete and utter bastard. That cheeky grin. Those twinkly eyes. He had it written all over him. But I obviously misread the signs completely. Max has been masquerading as a bastard when he’s really Mr Mills & Boon. He’s the flipping Milk Tray Man in disguise. And I blooming well fell for it. Oh, he’s pulled the wool over my eyes all right. Hoodwinked me good and proper. Now if I lived in America, I could sue him for reeling me in under false pretences.

  He isn’t what I ordered and I want my money back.

  Finding out what Max is really like feels a lot like going into a restaurant and ordering what I believe to be lobster thermidor, only to discover when it arrives on my plate that I’ve actually asked for a grey lump of boil-in-the-bag cod and parsley sauce.

  Bugger it.

  I have to pretend I’m going to visit my granny in order to get rid of him. And when he’s finally gone, grinning and loping off down the street like a loon, I flop onto the sofa to think and plan. And then I see it…

  A spider the size of a saucer is making its way spikily across the sitting-room rug.

  Flipping wonderful.

  I haven’t a hope in hell of getting a wink of sleep now. And I can’t even escape round the corner to Janice’s, because I know full well she’s staying at Jasper’s this evening. She told me so this morning. She might even have to bonk him, she said. She’s been telling porkies for weeks now. According to her, the reds have been playing at home for a month and a half and Jasper’s starting to think she’s on an everlasting period.

  In desperation, I call Sam.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Watching TV.’

  ‘In bed?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Feel like coming over?’ I try to keep the edge of panic from creeping into my voice. I can still see the spider. It’s crouching disgustingly in the middle of the carpet. Sodding thing has the gall to enter my flat and plonk itself in front of Channel 5. I have to keep it in sight, no matter how traumatic, because if it hides before I can get rid of it, I’ll never be able to set foot in the flat again.

  ‘Now?’ He sounds surprised. ‘At half past eleven?’

  ‘Uh huh.’ I inch back as the revolting creature flexes a spindly leg.

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Oh,’ I try to sound as flippant as possible,’ thought you might want to hang out for a bit. Share a bottle of wine. I’ve got some Pinot Grigio chilling nicely in the fridge.’

  ‘But it’s a school night. And I’m knackered after all that splendid maître d’ stuff I did last night.’

  ‘God,’ I scoff. ‘You’re so square.’

  ‘I am not.’

  He is, actually. He never goes out in the middle of the week any more. He’s so busy with Freeman PR he doesn’t have time for hangovers.

  ‘We could watch Donnie Brasco.’

  ‘But I’ve got a really important meeting in the morning.’

  ‘How important?’

  ‘Very. I’m pitching. It’s a really big client.’

  ‘Are you going to have to be all bumlicky and everything?’

  ‘And everything,’ he says firmly. ‘So I’ll have to give Al Pacino a miss this time, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘You OK, Simpson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No you’re not. You sound all shaky.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say firmly.

  ‘You don’t sound fine. This isn’t about us watching a video at all, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you’ve finally decided you want my body.’
He laughs. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘In yer dreams, Sam Freeman.’

  ‘Then I guess there’s only one thing it can be,’ he says.

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘OK.’ He sighs, and I hear crinkly, crunkly sounds as he pulls back the duvet and hauls himself out of bed. I imagine him reaching for his jeans, which will probably be strewn across the back of the sofa in his bedroom. Pulling a white T-shirt from the pile by the door over his tanned chest.

  ‘How big is it this time?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’ I snap my head up. God, what am I doing, thinking about Sam’s chest like that? Haven’t I learnt anything from Max? Christ, Simpson, have some sense. Back away.

  ‘The spider.’ I can tell he’s trying to keep from laughing. ‘I assume that’s what all this is about.’

  ‘Massive,’ I whimper. ‘Can you hurry up?’

  ‘How massive?’ he asks, a chuckle bouncing about somewhere in the back of his throat.

  ‘The size of a dinner plate.’

  ‘Not a tractor wheel this time then.’ He laughs. ‘Don’t worry. Chuck a yoghurt pot over it or something and I’ll see you in ten.’

  I do as he says, grabbing the yoghurt pot from beside my bed, dashing downstairs with it before the spider scuttles away and gingerly placing it over the top of the hunched form. Then I curl up on my squishy sofa awaiting rescue. By the time Sam actually lets himself in, I’ve fallen fast asleep.

  ‘Great.’ He pokes me in the ribs. ‘You’re asleep after all. I needn’t have bothered.’

  ‘Yes you had.’

  ‘So where’s the culprit?’

  ‘There,’ I quake, pointing a finger in the direction of the yoghurt pot. ‘And if you say it’s more scared of me than I am of it, I’ll punch your lights out. Check me out. I’m shaking like a jelly. My legs have turned to sponge fingers.’

  Sam shakes his head, pretending to be serious. ‘And I thought this was no trifling matter.’

  ‘Oh God. Spare me your Dad jokes,’ I grumble. And I’m not being funny but I do feel all wobbly. It’s a relief when Sam, casual as you like in jogging bottoms and a faded red T-shirt, saunters back in through the kitchen door, shaking his head at me and grinning.

  ‘All gone,’ he says. ‘Condom and all.’

  ‘Oh God…’

  ‘So who was he?’ he teases. ‘One of those hundreds of one-night stands you’ve been planning, I suppose.’

  ‘None of your business,’ I snap.

  ‘Well, at least you’re having safe sex,’ he says.

  ‘You’re not my dad,’ I tell him. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Sam holds up his hands in defeat. ‘I won’t ask. Now are you making me a cup of tea or not?’

  ‘Not,’ I say. But I make it anyway and bring it over to the sofa where he’s crashed out upside down, head on my best chocolate-coloured cushion and bare feet slung over the back.

  ‘So d’you think I did OK yesterday then?’ I ask. Now that revolting Max and the horrible spider have both gone, I can think about yesterday’s achievements. The food was pretty damn good. Everyone said so. I’m actually feeling quite proud. Perhaps I’m not such a non-achiever after all.

  ‘You know you did.’ He rumples my hair affectionately. ‘You did brilliant.’

  ‘I’ve got another two lined up, you know,’ I say proudly. ‘Just from last night.’

  ‘That’s excellent.’

  ‘Thing is,’ I say, ‘that wedding cost me a fortune. When can I send them the bill?’

  A chuckle starts rollicking around in Sam’s chest and bubbles quickly to the surface.

  ‘God, you really are crap at the real world, aren’t you?’ He guffaws. ‘Do you know how businesses work or not?’

  ‘Not,’ I say decidedly. ‘I really haven’t a clue. You’ll have to help me with all that book balancing and stuff.’

  ‘Send the bill now,’ Sam says. ‘Then you’ll at least get paid in sixty days.’

  ‘What?’ I shriek. ‘But I need the money now. Otherwise I can’t even buy a loaf, let alone all the stuff I need for this christening I’ve got to do. It’s in three weeks. Shit, Sam. How can I make some money quickly?’

  He looks me up and down. ‘Topless model?’

  ‘Have to get implants first.’

  ‘True. Lottery?’

  ‘Too touch and go.’

  ‘Millionaire then.’ He smiles, pulling me towards him and giving me a sympathetic hug. ‘Charm the pants off Chris Tarrant and win yourself a cool million. The questions are easy.’

  ‘No they’re not,’ I say gloomily. ‘Not for someone like me they aren’t.’

  ‘You’re bright.’

  ‘But I don’t have any general knowledge,’ I mooch. ‘I only know the answers to questions like “What’s the price of Rimmel nail varnish in Superdrug?” and “How many colourways do Nike Air Max trainers come in?” That’s not going to be much help, is it?’

  ‘Possibly not,’ he says. ‘What about a loan? A small business loan. All you need is a clear business and marketing plan and you’re home and dry. That’s how I’ve managed to start up Freeman PR.’

  ‘God,’ I groan. ‘You sad bastard. Why do you have to be so bloody sensible?’

  ‘One of us has to be. And it’s never going to be you, is it?’

  ‘Guess not. Anyway, I haven’t got a clue how to go about doing one of those plan things. The only thing I ever plan is what I’m having for dinner. Can’t you do it while I’m watching Coronation Street?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I grump. ‘Fat lot of use you are. This whole catering thing was your idea, you know.’

  ‘Calm down.’ Sam pats my shoulder and takes a noisy gulp of tea. ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. I just said I wouldn’t do it for you. You have to learn, otherwise you’ll have no idea how it’s all supposed to work.’

  ‘You’ll help then?’ I brighten.

  ‘Course.’ He hugs me quickly before standing up and draining his tea in one last gulp. ‘You might be sodding useless but you’re practically my sister. Look, give me a ring in the week and we’ll sort it out.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, seeing him to the door. ‘Oh, and Sam?’

  ‘Yes?’ He spins round, an odd look on his face. It’s the same look I saw through the darkness when we shared a bed at Poppy’s mum and dad’s and for a second I feel distinctly funny inside. I’m not sure I like it.

  ‘Thanks for getting rid of that spider.’

  ‘Any time, Simpson.’ He shrugs, rummaging for his car keys.

  Chapter 12

  I bet Max is a complete Mummy’s boy. Over the next few weeks, as I try to plan menus for my next two bookings, he calls me no less than fourteen times. Honestly! It’s enough to make you spit. Still, I call-dodge quite successfully, until one Thursday when I completely forget myself and snatch up the phone. Sam lent me enough money to tide me over, so I could provide the food for the christening of Baby Ellis of Lewishan and I expect this is Mrs Ellis calling to confirm her views on the cake.

  ‘Katie?’

  It’s him.

  ‘No,’ I almost shout, slamming down the phone. Then I ring Janice at her office. If the line’s busy he’ll have no chance of getting through again. I’m going to have to be more careful in future.

  ‘I saw Max today,’ she announces, when she hears it’s me. ‘In a planning meeting.’

  ‘That’s nice for you.’

  ‘Why are you screening his calls?’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Yes. So why? And don’t lie.’

  ‘Dunno. Because I can?’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘I suppose he told you I bonked him?’

  ‘No, actually. But he does seem pretty keen. Shit. Everyone at work’s going to be so jealous when I tell them.’

  ‘They can have him if they like. I’m done.’

  ‘But he’s gorgeous.’

  ‘You have him then.’
<
br />   ‘I wish.’ She laughs. ‘I’m afraid I’m spoken for, rather.’

  ‘You shagged him then? Jasper, I mean. No more treating yourself to nice bits of rough?’

  ‘Had to,’ she announces. ‘Honestly, Katie, you should have seen him. He was so grateful it was pathetic.’

  ‘Leave him then.’

  ‘Can’t,’ she says firmly. ‘I nicked a bank statement from the hall as I left this morning.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘A girl needs to know,’ she defends herself.

  ‘Did you open it?’

  ‘Oh yes. And it’s all fine. He’s wadded.’

  ‘God. Wish I was. My Switch was refused in Safeway last night when I was trying to buy a tin of macaroni cheese. I don’t even have sixty-eight pence. God only knows how I’m going to be able to afford to smoke fags and buy expensive toiletry items. Sam’s loan has pretty much run out.’

  ‘You think that’s bad,’ she says unsympathetically. ‘I’ve got another pitch coming up and I’m here till ten o’clock every night as it is. I’ll never get a wedding sorted out at this rate.’

  ‘You’re getting married?’ I gasp. Christ Almighty. She’s kept that quiet.

  ‘Of course. Why else do you think I’m boffing the silly old sod.’

  ‘Well, when’s the wedding?’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t actually know about it yet,’ Janice says. ‘But he will. He has to. Check me out. I’m a catch.’

  I’m impressed at her optimism. ‘And when he does ask, will you have the full works? The big meringue and the marquee and stuff?’

  ‘Will I fuck,’ she booms, almost perforating my eardrum. ‘God, if I start inviting loads of people along I’m going to have to ask my mother too, aren’t I?’

  ‘Oh Janice,’ I say. ‘She is your mother.’

  ‘Katie, she’d turn up in head-to-foot floral crimplene and smoke Raffles all night. She’d make a holy show of me. I can’t take the risk.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. Sorry, Katie, but I can’t afford to have her showing me up, complaining that the gazpacho is cold and asking where the “toilet” is in a loud voice. Anyway. Face it. The poor cow just hasn’t got the wardrobe so she’ll have to stay at home. Nope. When we get married it’ll be on some beach somewhere hot. Bastard hot. And I’ll be wearing a white bikini and pink flowers in my hair. No guests.’