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

by Mina Ford

  ‘Try to cheer up.’ I can’t think of much else to say. ‘The labour won’t hurt much.’

  ‘Katie, it’s supposed to be like shitting a melon through the eye of a needle.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jasper’s will probably get a chauffeur to drive it out. It’ll probably already have cruise control and everything. It’ll come out at eighty miles an hour with a cigar the size of a dog poo in its gob. You probably won’t even have to push.’

  Janice manages another small smile. ‘God, he was a twat, wasn’t he?’ She giggles. ‘So totally nouve.’

  ‘Completely.’ I laugh, walking towards the Jeep and putting my hand on the door. ‘You still got the keys?’

  Janice feels in her pockets. ‘Yep.’

  ‘C’mon then,’ I say. ‘Might as well have it. Call it child support.’

  ‘It’s about the only support I’ll be getting from him.’

  ‘You aren’t going to tell him, then?’

  ‘No way. You saw him, Katie. I don’t want the baby to end up with a father like that.’

  ‘How will you sting him for cash then?’

  ‘I’ll just have to manage on my own, won’t I?’

  ‘Fair play.’ I open the door of the Jeep. ‘All the more reason to half-inch this then. I’ll drive it back to yours, shall I, while you take your car?’

  Suddenly, Janice grins. ‘Katie?’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘I fucking love you to bits.’

  Chapter 19

  On Sam’s birthday, I arrive at his house just before the first guest arrives. Pussy’s there already of course. And while I faff about with marinades and salad dressings, she drapes herself across Sam’s blue velvet ottoman and taunts me with her teeny tiny loveliness. Only one thing seems to have changed. I look more closely. It’s her hair. Her glossy blonde mane has been chopped short. It doesn’t suit her.

  ‘Gone gamine, have we?’ I tease, sloping into the kitchen to finish the food.

  As the guests congregate in the courtyard garden, Sam serves tall glasses of Pimms, brimming with strawberries, cucumber and mint. I take the food outside and start laying the long, low table by the wall. The bright sun on the whitewashed walls of Sam’s little patio hurts my eyes after the relative gloom of the kitchen so I don’t really get the chance to bog at who the guests are. It feels kind of weird serving food at my best friend’s birthday party. By rights, of course, I should be with all the others, getting nicely drunk on gin.

  ‘Looks brilliant.’ Sam comes out of the house and puts an arm across my shoulders as I put bowls of my special potato salad and trays of halloumi cheese and red onion kebabs on the table.

  ‘Thanks.’ I hug him back. He smells lovely. All sort of clean and freshly laundered. ‘Happy birthday.’

  As more and more Pimms is quaffed, I start to relax. The guests seem to be enjoying themselves and once I’ve prepared all the food, there really isn’t very much else to do. Jeff, Sam’s dad, is firing up the actual barbecue, so luckily I don’t have any worries on that score. I even get a chance to have a few nibbles myself, finding a seat next to Janice on the garden wall and admiring the terracotta pots, tumbling with jewel-bright flowers and the sugar candy coloured sweet peas that rest against a sunny wall. I even spot Bertie, Sam’s tortoise, munching on a piece of cucumber in a patch of grass. Sam’s had him for years.

  ‘I’d forgotten all about him,’ I say to Janice.

  ‘What?’ Janice is munching on a rollmop. She’s been craving them for the past week. Disgusting.

  But I don’t have time to point out Bertie because we’re interrupted by a shrill voice. Pussy, swanning over in a red and white gingham bikini top.

  ‘Ooooh,’ she says spitefully. ‘Look at you, Katie, golloping all that food down.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I look her straight in the eye.

  ‘Well, it isn’t really done, is it, the caterer scoffing everything in sight. I mean, shouldn’t you be below stairs, as it were. At the very least you should be in the kitchen, clearing away.’

  ‘Bitch,’ clucks Janice under her breath.

  ‘It’s a bit different though, isn’t it?’ I say, determined to remain grown-up about it. ‘A bit more relaxed. It’s not as if Sam’s paying me or anything. I wouldn’t dream of it. He’s my best friend.’

  ‘You’d think, wouldn’t you?’ she says in a horrid ‘I know something you don’t’ sort of voice.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Well, if you two are such good friends, you’d have thought you wouldn’t have any secrets,’ she says brightly as Sam saunters towards us. He looks, I’m surprised to find myself thinking, very handsome.

  ‘What secrets?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she says. ‘Hello, darling.’

  ‘Hi.’ Sam looks confused.

  ‘What secrets?’ I repeat.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ Pussy says. ‘Oh look, Katie, there’s your mum. I must go over and say hi.’

  And with that she wafts away, leaving Sam and me looking at each other.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. It’s all a bit strange.

  I soon find out what Pussy means. Later on, when Sam’s blown out the candles on his cake, my mother, who I’ve barely had the chance to talk to all day, takes me by the hand and says she’s got a little announcement.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Let’s find Jeff first, shall we?’ She leads me towards the kitchen door, where Jeff is standing, smoking a celebratory cigar and smiling at my mum in a way that’s way too intimate for my liking.

  ‘Tell me then,’ I say.

  ‘Well,’ my mother begins, turning round to smile at Sam and Pussy, who have stumbled up beside me. Pussy’s smiling so hard she’s practically smacking her chops with relish.

  ‘What?’ I say, starting to feel worried. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘I’ve asked your mother for her hand,’ Jeff says eventually.

  ‘What?’ I’m stunned.

  ‘I’ve asked her for her hand,’ he repeats.

  ‘What about the rest of her?’ I snap suddenly. ‘That not good enough for you?’

  I don’t understand. I know I’m being childish but I cannot see how my mother could be so gullible as to fall for Sam’s dad’s charms. It’s always been just her and me. How could she even think of getting married again after what my father did to her?

  What hurts even more is that Sam and Pussy already knew. She’s told them first. And Pussy bloody loves the fact. The bitch. She’s sucking up to my mother like a ruddy Dyson.

  ‘You’ll get used to the idea, love.’ Jeff pats my shoulder.

  ‘Will I?’ I sulk. Somehow I doubt it. What’s worse is that I can’t stop thinking how handsome Sam looks today. And now he’s going to be my brother.

  It’s perverted.

  ‘It’ll be company for me, love,’ says Mum.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And your mother’s got a lovely garden,’ Jeff pipes up. ‘There’ll be more room for my tomatoes.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’ I spit. ‘S’ long as your tomatoes are going to be OK.’

  I’m about to make a run for it to try and sort out my head when Pussy slimes her way into the conversation.

  ‘We’ve got a little announcement of our own to make, haven’t we, darling?’ She yanks Sam forward, as though he’s a small child, slightly shy of being made to speak up.

  ‘We have?’

  I’m not sure if it’s a statement or a question, but Sam is clearly as confused as I am.

  ‘We’re getting engaged too.’ She beams.

  ‘Oh, fucking great,’ I huff.

  ‘Katie.’ Sam grabs my hand.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  And it’s true. I don’t really. All I know is that nothing is going right. I can’t cope with this. Two wedding announcements in one day. And I ca
n’t even tell my mother about my own.

  Buggery.

  ‘I’m going home,’ I say. ‘To George’s.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No buts. I’m off.’

  I’m halfway out of the house, midway between tears and hysterical laughter at the absurdity of it all when Sam catches me.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  I look at his face, all handsome and concerned.

  ‘How can you marry that little cow?’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. She’s a bitch. She went round telling everyone she’d made all the food. I heard her.’

  That’s true actually. I did hear Joff congratulating her on the wonderful tenderness of his chicken kebab. And she just batted her eyelashes and thanked him. I wanted to pick her up by her hair and use her as a fly swat but decided to rise above it at the time.

  And where did that bloody get me?

  ‘She wouldn’t.’

  ‘Oh yes she bloody well would. I caught her doctoring the marinade as well.’

  That bit’s a lie but I wouldn’t put it past her.

  ‘You’re just being ridiculous now,’ Sam says, his face suddenly changing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ridiculous and childish.’

  ‘Then you won’t be wanting to speak to me, will you?’ I spit. ‘So fuck off.’

  ‘OK then, I will. Ring me when you’ve grown-up,’ he says. ‘And when you’ve decided not to put us all through this ridiculous charade of a wedding you’re having.’

  And without another word, he turns and storms back into the house.

  ‘Ditto,’ I yell back at him. ‘Fucking ditto, you bastard.’

  Then I turn and storm towards the tube station.

  Bugger it. Now I’ve gone and lost my best mate. And with my mum getting married and all I’ve been through, I could really do with him. What with George and David being so cheesily in love all the time and Janice’s hormones all over the place now she’ll soon be using her tummy as a shelf for her cup of tea.

  And the very worst thing is, I think I sort of fancy Sam.

  And he’s going to be my brother.

  And he hates me.

  Bollocks.

  Before my dress fitting, I worry myself stupid over whether or not Didier will be able to make the dress look right. Sam gave me the photo as soon as he’d got it out of Boots and George gave it to Didier in plenty of time. But I’d hate to think that after finding the perfect dress, the whole thing’ll be down the pan like a dodgy prawn vindaloo.

  ‘And I want Sam to think I look nice,’ I whine at Janice. ‘After all the effort he’s been to.’

  ‘Sam probably won’t even come to the wedding.’ She pats her stomach absent-mindedly.

  ‘How do you know he won’t come?’ I accuse her. ‘He might.’

  ‘Well, you don’t know, do you?’ she bellows. ‘So I sure as buggery don’t have a clue. In a few months’ time I’ll be a single mother, for God’s sake. Which damned well gives me licence to not have a clue about anything. All I’ll be fit for is hooning round town with a shoulder caked in sick and a sodding buggy. And I’m bound to get post-natal depression.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I say.

  ‘S’OK.’ She shrugs, cutting herself a wedge of stinky Stilton and slathering it with mango chutney and peanut butter. ‘I’ll be able to rob things from shops and get away with it.’

  And then, as has happened a handful of times over the past couple of days, it suddenly hits her again that she’s actually having a real, live baby.

  ‘Fuuuuuuck,’ she yells at the top of her voice. ‘What the effing hell am I going to do with the poor little sod when it comes out?’

  I wince, putting my hands over my ears. ‘You’ll give the poor thing tinnitus. And Tourette’s. And you’ve got mango chutney all over your yap. Wipe it off.’

  I wait until George gets home from work before asking him when Didier’s coming over. He’s slightly concerned over the E-coli poisoning he may have sustained after consuming a ropy chicken chausseur in the work canteen so I figure now is as good a time is any. He wasn’t exactly delighted about asking Didier to make the dress because he once slept with him in a moment of weakness and is terrified of people finding out. But eventually he agreed.

  ‘Well, I don’t want you having to slop to Top Shop like some strumpet from Sydenham and buying something rubbish,’ he tutted. ‘So I suppose having him using our fridge as a nosebag and dragging his fat arse across our soft furnishings for one day will be just about bearable.’

  Didier’s visit is fixed for a Sunday morning. And on the day, I chuck Nick out before the damp patch has dried and schlep downstairs, where George is having pre-wedding nerves. He’s making tea like it’s going out of fashion and pacing up and down the hall like an expectant father. All that’s missing is the cigar.

  ‘He’s been at it all morning,’ David frets, when I plonk myself on the sofa. I’m hot, grubby and reeking of sweaty hangover sex. Not exactly your typical blushing bride. ‘Anyone would think he was getting cold feet.’

  ‘Anyone would think he was the bloody bride,’ I say firmly, chugging my feet out of the scrofulous black trainers I’ve worn downstairs and wincing as Didier, who has arrived already and is looking absolutely colossal today in a mauve three-piece suit, complete with apricot-coloured tie, grabs me, tells me to stand on the coffee table and cuts my circulation off somewhere around mid-thigh with his tape measure.

  ‘Careful,’ he worrits, smoothing the lapels of his mauve shirt and frowning. ‘You’ll stick your great clodhopping foot straight through the fabric.’ He layers great swathes of shimmering pinky-gold material around me, nipping and tucking with small, neat movements as David supplies us with gallons of hot tea and thick bacon sandwiches, dripping in ketchup. ‘This is the right sort of colour, I take it?’

  I’m forced to admit that yes, Didier is a bloody genius. It’s exactly the right colour.

  He smiles fatly, his cheeks puce with pleasure. George winces, presumably at the thought of that ill-fated night when they shared a bed.

  ‘Thank you.’ He does a silly little bow. ‘And may I just say what a treat it is to work with someone who has absolutely no suggestion of any bosom whatsoever.’

  ‘It is?’ I yelp, as another pin jabs into the flesh of my thigh.

  ‘Oh yes.’ He nods. ‘You’ve got the perfect figure for this lark. Tits like gnat bites.’

  ‘I have?’

  ‘Yes. Nothing better than a golf club to hang clothes on. Ever thought of modelling?’

  ‘I’d rather piss blood, thanks.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I shake my head, ‘but I haven’t got the time to sit around worrying about how cottage cheesy my arse is going to get or how I’m going to persuade my hair to lie stick straight,’ I explain. ‘I’ve got better things to think about.’

  ‘Some of these blushing brides-to-be come to you expecting miracles, don’t they, Did?’ George says.

  ‘They do.’

  ‘Actually square-shaped, some of them, you know, Katie,’ George goes on. ‘They come podging in looking like ruddy Rubik’s cubes. All wringing their porky little fingers in pathetic pre-nuptial excitement. And you can’t come straight out with it and tell them it just isn’t possible to stuff six pounds of sausagemeat into a one-pound skin. Can you?’

  ‘No.’ Didier yanks at my shoulder straps, almost choking me. ‘Breathe in then, love. No, you’re quite right, Georgie. My talents may be considerable but one has to draw the line somewhere. One can’t make a Pucci bag out of a pig’s arsehole, no matter how hard one tries.’

  I stand, bored out of my brains, as Didier pins and tucks, stitches and bitches around me. My mind’s on other things. I can’t help worrying about the coffee cake and other fancies I’m supposed to be making for some do or other in Lavender Hill. Just when am I going to find the time to do it all?

  ‘Isn’t this fantastic?’ George is helping Didier
and patting my hair excitedly. ‘Like having our very own Girls’ World. Where’s that tiara you got?’

  ‘In my room.’ George obediently trots upstairs to get it and brings it back down and plonks it straight on my head. I preen in the mirror, thoroughly delighted at the sparkliness of it all.

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, really?’ I say, as George, David and I take time out for about our tenth cup of tea. ‘I mean, what the buggery bollocks does it matter how I look if the guests amount to diddly squat and no one’s going to see me? I could just wear my comfy combat pants and my Timberlands, couldn’t I?’

  ‘No one?’ George ejaculates.

  ‘No one?’ Didier echoes.

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly call Marcel no one, would you, darling?’ screeches George. ‘He’s done flowers for Fergie more than once.’

  ‘And Davina McCall,’ says Didier. ‘And she’s very now.’

  ‘And that Dorien from Birds of a Feather, come to that,’ adds David. ‘Did her some lovely delphiniums, he did. She’s lovely in real life, apparently. Not a complete slapper at all.’

  ‘And there’s Fran the Tran and Ermintrude,’ George says. ‘Just because they’ve had their bits chopped off doesn’t mean they’re no one either, darling. They’d be terribly hurt to hear you say that.’

  ‘They’re coming?’ I ask.

  ‘We said they could be the Confetti Bettys,’ David admits. ‘They felt a bit left out so they’re going to give out rose petals by the front door when you come down the steps. And we’ve got Prosper and Rex ushing.’

  ‘Ushing what?’ I ask sharply.

  George raises his eyebrows to heaven. Actually, it’s just the one eyebrow he raises. He currently only has one. A monobrow. Usually, he plucks the tufty in-between bits to death. But his head has been too full of hysterical puffy pink wedding thoughts of late. He simply hasn’t the time to attend to personal grooming.

  ‘What do you think?’ he says tiredly. ‘Whatever needs to be ushed, of course. Guests, children, small dogs. I don’t know.’

  ‘But we aren’t having any guests,’ I protest. ‘Apart from Janice and Sam, of course.’