by Mina Ford
‘Oh.’
‘Well, you can come, I suppose,’ she adds generously. ‘Seeing as you’re my best mate.’
‘Thanks.’ I feel better.
‘As long as you can afford it, of course. Flights to Hawaii don’t come cheap.’
‘Oh.’
‘At least I won’t have to worry about you showing me up.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I mean, I won’t have to worry about you having better hair than me or anything, for a start.’
Good old Janice. She always knows how to make me feel better.
‘And you don’t have a hope in hell of getting a better tan than me, either.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Your legs will still be like two milk bottles when we get back.’
‘Thanks,’ I say miserably.’ Oh, cheer up, Katie,’ she says irritably. ‘Whatever’s the matter? You should be happy for me. I think you’re being a bit selfish.’
‘I told you. I’m skint. And that’s not a “can’t afford to buy that Jigsaw white dress” kind of skint. It’s the “can I afford that Tesco’s white sliced?” sort.’ Suddenly, the fizz has gone out of my great success at Poppy’s wedding and reality has started to kick in. What if I can’t afford to start up a business at all? What if this christening I’m catering for all goes to the wall and I’ve wasted a fortune on enough sugar to ice the Millennium Dome?
‘Well,’ she says importantly, ‘I just might have something that’ll cheer you up.’
‘What?’ Frankly I doubt that anything she can say is going to make me feel any better. Janice’s efforts at cheering me up usually involve spending lots of time in hideously expensive shops, followed by a long sesh in a bar where the drinks are six quid a throw. And the chances of the bank seeing its way clear to financing that one are slimmer than Ally McBeal, so it looks as though I’ll have to wallow in poverty for a bit longer yet.
‘Well,’ she begins. ‘You know I told you Jasper had that flat in Paris?’
‘Mmmm?’ I pick at my big toenail and inspect it carefully. Perhaps I might manage to cheer up after all. A long weekend away before I have to knuckle down and sort out my finances and really get to work on my new business is just what I need. I haven’t been on holiday for ages. It’d be great just to kick back for a couple of weeks. After all, I won’t be able to go for years once I’m running my own catering conglomerate, will I?
For a second, I allow myself to get excited. Gay Paree with Janice, eh? We’ll have a great laugh. And how lovely of her to think of me like that. She’s been spending so much time with Jasper over the past few weeks that I can’t help feeling a bit bereft. Especially as George and David are so cheesily in love as well. Honestly, it’s enough to make you boke.
And if I’m honest, I have been a bit worried that now she’s in pursuit of a signed and sealed marriage certificate, we’ll drift apart and end up not even knowing where the other lives. But I needn’t have been concerned. Janice is my absolute best mate. I might have known she wouldn’t forget about me.
God. Paris. It’ll be just like the old times. Girlie shopping trips in Galeries Lafayette. Lazy, gossipy afternoons drinking big creamy coffees in pavement cafés. Gorging ourselves silly on huge pains au chocolat and generous slabs of tarte au citron. Glimpsing the view from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Bohemian Montmartre. Les Tuileries. The Sacré Coeur…
‘And guess what?’
‘What?’ I ask, getting so carried away with my imaginings that I’m hardly bothering to listen to what she’s saying. We might even take a boat trip down the Seine. Have a game of boules. And we’ll get slowly plastered on pastis before noshing on snails and steak frites in a lovely, garlicky little restaurant somewhere.
‘He’s taking me there for a romantic weekend. Isn’t it fantastic?’
I come crashing down to earth with a bump. How stupid. Of course she didn’t mean for me to go with her. And I should know by now that Janice’s mind works in mysterious ways. Quite how the prospect of the weekend of biddy sex she’s letting herself in for is supposed to cheer me up, I’ll never know, but that’s Janice for you.
Self-centred to the core.
‘Of course I’m going to have to shag him again, I expect,’ she bubbles. ‘But he’s bound to propose. Isn’t he? I mean this is Paris we’re talking about, mate. Who wouldn’t want to get engaged in Paris. Sooooo romantic.’
God, she’s cracked.
‘Janice, you practically have to prop up his willy with a lolly stick.’
‘But he’s rich.’
‘And Jake took me to Paris,’ I remind her.
‘He didn’t propose.’ ‘He didn’t take you,’ she points out. ‘He made you pay for yourself.’
That’s true. He did. The disappointment was piercing. I was going through a prolonged period of yearning pathetically after mini breaks at the time. I thought sex would be more exciting somewhere new. And I’d imagined us jetting off from Heathrow to Charles de Gaulle, where we’d jump into a limo and head for the Georges V. We’d have an opulent four-poster, where Jake would do unspeakably erotic things to me with chilled champagne bottles. And it’d be the best holiday I’d ever had. Ever.
In reality, of course, we headed for the Eurostar terminal, where he bought his own ticket then waved me forward to pay for my own. He took me to a Travelodge equivalent near the Bois de Boulogne. Full of prozzies and miles from anywhere. Anywhere nice, anyway. I kept expecting Alan Partridge to leap out of the chipboard closet, brandishing his big plate. We got drunk on halves of lager because the hotel bar didn’t serve pints and the sex that followed was so pathetically mediocre that I actually fell asleep, mid thrust. I only know this because, being somewhat pissed, I cannoned off a couple of huge snores that actually woke me up, only to find that my being deep in slumber hadn’t deterred Jake from his single-minded pursuit of orgasm in the least. I left him to it, drifting off into gentle dreams of rushing waterfalls, flowing rivers and tempestous oceans before coming to in the small hours to the realisation that water was actually dripping on to me.
And, calm as you like, Jake was standing over me treating me to a quality golden shower.
Quite frankly, if I’d wanted watersports, I’d have gone to the Algarve.
‘Jake,’ I yelled, scrabbling around to escape.
‘On the toilet,’ he yelled back, clearly fast asleep. ‘Out in a minute.’
Even though I know that Janice’s Paris weekend probably won’t be much more romantic than my own, I can’t help feeling a bit cheesed off at my own state of affairs in comparison to hers. I can’t even afford a day trip to Bognor. And I don’t have a clue what the hell I’m going to do about it. So when I’ve put the phone down, I fashion myself a rough cheese, chilli and peanut butter sandwich and tune into Trisha to watch women in polyester leggings discuss wayward teenage daughters and dysfunctional acne-riddled sons.
Sam is as good as his word though. On Saturday morning, he calls me to make sure I get up, then he loafs round in his new Levi’s Twisted jeans, a grey V-neck T-shirt and a New York Yankees baseball cap to explain how grown-ups apply for loans.
‘Looking good.’ I tweak the hat. ‘Like the weekend outfit. Very Father of Two.’
‘Not looking so bad yourself.’ He gives me a hug and laughs at the fact that I’m still in my pink and white stripy pyjamas, all muzzy with sleep. ‘Come on, bed breath. Let’s sort out this mess.’
And bless him. He spends the whole of the morning and most of the afternoon helping me define my objectives. Actually, he practically has to tell me what my objectives are, but he’s a great help. By four o’clock, I have what he tells me is a sound business plan. And I’m feeling so optimistic that I offer to cook him dinner tonight as a sort of thank you.
‘It’ll have to be beans on toast, mind,’ I tell him. ‘Unless you want to pay for it.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He looks kind of embarrassed.
‘Why?’ I can’t help asking him, even though it’
s none of my business really.
‘Well, I’ve got a date.’
‘I see.’ For some reason I’m completely pissed off. It’s not often Sam turns down my dinner invitations. He’d rather bite off his foot at the ankle and throw it to the dogs than miss one of my slap-up feasts.
‘With Pussy. The girl from the wedding. She phoned me a while ago. We’re going to some trendy new club in the West End.’
‘Oh,’ I say dismissively. ‘Sniffing after Slinky Malinky No Boobs, eh? But you hate clubbing.’
‘I don’t.’
‘With me you do. You always refuse to come.’
‘Because you and George always make me go to gay clubs. And I always get hit on.’
‘Don’t be such a homophobe.’
‘I’m not. I just—’
‘Anyway.’ I shrug. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘But I don’t have to go now.’
‘You might as well,’ I say, finding it necessary to add, ‘I’m probably busy anyway. Very busy actually. Many thanks, though, for all your help.’
‘But—’
‘Bye.’
When he’s gone I flop onto my bed, looking up at my big silver glitterball and wondering what the hell made me behave like that. I’m just a bit pissed off that he must have known about this date for a whole week. And he hasn’t bothered to tell me. I tell him everything. Well, almost everything, And I’m feeling protective, I suppose. I don’t like Pussy. I suspect she’s really not a very nice person. And Sam’s like a big brother. I don’t want him to get dumped on.
Even though he’s usually the one who does the dumping.
The bank schedules my appointment for next Wednesday. And when the day comes, I pull on my smartest trouser suit. There’s a small chicken madras stain on the left thigh, but if I keep the jacket on it won’t show.
After all, this loan is really my last chance. A chance to make Mum proud of me. It’s the least she deserves, after all. God knows, since Dad left, she’s made enough sacrifices for me. The least she can hope for is a daughter who doesn’t lounge around the house watching hospital soaps all day.
Mind you, life would have been a hell of a lot easier for me if she had just bloody well given up on me. I could have been a complete failure in peace then. Damn her. Why couldn’t she have rejected me at birth? Held up her hand and announced to the midwife, ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t bond. Put it up for adoption.’ Or left me in a bin bag in a phone box outside St Pancras. Why does she have to be so bloody, irritatingly supportive all the time? She’s no idea of the pressure it puts on me.
At the bank I have to wait for a good hour outside the Loans Adviser’s office. I’m just thinking about sodding right off out of there and lying to Sam about it when the door opens and a man pokes his head out.
‘Ms Faulkner will see you now.’
Bugger.
‘Sorry.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘It’s not Faulkner any more. It’s back to Brisco now. Keep forgetting, you know?’
‘Right.’ I shrug, picking up my rucksack, not feeling businesslike in the slightest. I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. But Faulkner. The name rings a bell. Why? I wonder.
Shit. It’s not some friend of my mother’s, is it?’
‘Sit down.’ The manager indicates an orange plastic chair in front of her desk. Classy.
I look up expectantly. Who starts first? I have no idea what to expect. But buggery fuck. Where have I seen that face before? At least it’s not one of my mother’s friends. She’s too young for that. She’s tall, extremely smart and with hair drawn into a tidy French pleat. Perhaps she used to work in Safeway’s. Or Victoria Wine. That’ll be it.
‘Hello, Ms…?’
‘Simpson,’ I remind her. God. She could have at least bothered to do her research. ‘As in Edward and Mrs.’
‘And you want a loan for?’
‘I want to start up my own business.’
She looks at me derisively, as though I’ve just told her I want it for Bacardi and Cokes and stocking up on blue mascara.
‘Well, yes.’ She picks up a pencil. ‘That is usually the idea.’
‘And I really want to make it work,’ I sputter.
‘Don’t they all?’
I ignore her. Because the moment I’ve said it, I realise that I really, really do. I want to make a go of this, come hell or high water.
She looks back at me and chews on the end of her pencil. Then she looks at me again, looks away and looks back, startled.
‘I think we know each other, don’t we?’
‘I thought so, yes,’ I gabble, pleased. Perhaps this will give me some sort of advantage over the other loan seekers. ‘Were we at college—?’
‘Oh no,’ she interrupts. ‘I think it’s a little more recent than that.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t…’
‘Oh yes. I’d recognise your face anywhere,’ she sneers.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I only have to look through my wedding photos to see you and your friend flashing your pants at all and sundry.’
And then it clicks. Of course. I know exactly who this is.
Buggery fuck.
It’s Basildon Bride.
‘Nice souvenir of my wedding, that was,’ she snarls. ‘The only one, as it turns out.’
‘Oh right,’ I sputter. ‘And how is your…er…husband?’
‘Ex-husband,’ she spits. ‘We’re getting divorced. I caught him humping one of the bridesmaids not three days after we got back from honeymoon. I’m going for half of everything, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘So what was it like?’ she asks me.
‘Your honeymoon? How should I know?’
‘Fucking my husband?’
How the fuck she expects me to know that, I don’t know. I was rendered. Completely off my face. So I don’t respond. Instead I stand up pulling my jacket down to cover the curry stain and feeling my cheeks burn.
‘I think I should go.’
‘You got that right.’
As I get to the door, I decide it’s worth one last-ditch attempt at least.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a loan then?’
‘You got that right too,’ she says. ‘Now fuck off.’
Chapter 13
When I tell Sam I didn’t get the loan, he’s sympathetic.
Ish.
‘Come on, you.’ He gives me a hug. He’s just been playing football and he smells of outside.
‘I’m a failure.’
‘You’re not.’
‘I am. I didn’t get the loan.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He looks worried. ‘Was it…?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure him. ‘It wasn’t your business plan. Just my luck, I’m afraid, that the loans adviser was that woman from the wedding.’
‘Poppy’s wedding?’
‘Nope. The woman whose wedding I gatecrashed. Whose husband I boffed.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Don’t look as though you’re trying not to laugh.’
‘Oh. OK.’
‘You’re still doing it.’
‘I can’t help it.’ Sam’s wide grin explodes onto his face once more. ‘Only you could fuck up something like that so professionally, Simpson. And with such style.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry.’ He smirks. ‘But it is funny. Would you like some tea?’
‘I’d prefer a pizza,’ I confess.
‘Things must be bad.’
I pull a face. It’s OK for him. He’s good at anything he turns his hand to. People get sucked in by his enthusiasm for everything so they can’t help making life easy for him. All I can muster enthusiasm for is cake. And curry. And crisps. Sam’s natural aptitude for brown-nosing and agreeing with people—he sits there like a nodding dog even when he just wants to punch someone’s lights out—stands him in good stead when it comes to his career. But then he could decide to go into catering tomorrow and
he’d make a damn sight better job of it than I ever could. Even though I’m definitely the better cook.
Sam rifles through the pile of junk mail in the knife and fork drawer until he finds a Speedy Pizza menu. Switching the phone to speakerphone, he dials the number.
‘Hello,’ he says, ‘I’d like to order a pizza, please.’
Despite my dark mood, I stifle a giggle. It’s so funny the way people always say that. As though the guy in the pizza shop might be expecting you to tell him you’ve broken down on the M25 and require emergency assistance. Or that you need a taxi to the maternity ward of St George’s Hospital within the next five minutes or else your wife is going to bugger up the soft furnishings good and proper.
‘Oh, large, definitely,’ Sam is saying to the man on the end of the phone. ‘Absolutely whopping if you’ve got it. You have? Marvellous. Well, we’ll have an extra large cheese and tomato then…’
‘Thin crust,’ I remind him.
‘Thin crust, please. With…’
‘Anchovies.’
‘Did you get that?’ he asks Mr Speedy Pizza. ‘We’ll have some of your finest anchovies for the lady and perhaps some pineapple chunks to go with them.’
We’ve played the pizza game since we were about twelve, each coming up with the most outlandish toppings we could think of and daring the other to order it. And because I’m miserable, I get to do all the choosing. Those are the rules.
‘And chillies,’ I demand, digging at a new ingrowing hair on my knee.
‘Chilles as well, please,’ Sam instructs. ‘And perhaps you could lob on a couple of artichoke hearts for the sophisticated touch.’
‘Parma ham.’ I laugh, setting to work on my other leg. ‘And peppersan’ onionsan extracheese. And capers.’
‘Are you writing all this down?’ Sam asks the pizza guy. ‘No, no, it isn’t a joke .I’ve just got one very hungry young lady here, that’s all. A very hungry young lady indeed. She’s been thinking about working for a living a lot this morning and she’s absolutely worn out.’