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

by Mina Ford

  Actually, after our argument, I still don’t know if Sam is coming. But I can’t worry about that right now. I have to think positive thoughts.

  ‘Of course he’ll come,’ George says, reading my thoughts. ‘And of course we’re having guests. We’ve invited everyone we can think of.’

  ‘But I thought we agreed…’

  ‘Oh, bugger what we agreed, darling,’ George scoffs. ‘I’m bloody well paying for the whole shebang so I’ll have what I want, if that’s all right by you.’

  ‘Isn’t it all going to look a bit gay?’ I ask. ‘What with half of Madame Jo Jo’s turning up? What if the Home Office decide to investigate? Aren’t they going to get a tad suspicious when the wedding guests all resemble the Village People?’

  ‘Sam’ll be there,’ David reassures me. ‘He’s not gay.’

  ‘Sad but true,’ George says.

  They both giggle.

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Sam and Pussy. Sport Billy and a strip of linguine hardly count as representatives of the Heterosexual London Members Club.’

  ‘And you’ll be there,’ David says. ‘In your girlie pink dress and your glitzy shoes. Now if we were dressing you as a dirty great diesel dyke, then I could understand your concern.’

  ‘Yes,’ George says. ‘And you can’t try telling me you’re a rug muncher now, darling. Not with you out trapping cock all over the shop.’

  ‘Don’t make us cancel,’ David begs.

  ‘No, don’t,’ George pleads. ‘It’s our day, after all.’

  I suppose I can’t really disagree with that. I might be the one signing the piece of paper but it’s George and David who are really making the commitment. After all, they love the bones of each other, don’t they?

  Don’t they?

  Of course they do. Or, at least, I bloody well hope so. Or why am I putting myself through all this?

  ‘Perhaps you’re running away from something,’ niggles a little voice inside my head.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I challenge it. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re afraid of getting hurt again?’ it nags.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I tell it, more firmly this time. ‘I think I’ve got my own back on Jake Carpenter, thank you. This time, I’m in control. So who’s the daddy now? Eh?’

  But something’s still niggling at me. And, as I think about it, a picture of Sam comes into my head.

  Isn’t that weird?

  Not Jake. Not Nick. Not even Moony Max, total letdown and Mr Mills & Boon in disguise. Sam. Simple as that.

  Not that I want him, obviously. I mean I wasn’t interested in him when he was single, was I? When he was running around with every teensy weensy blonde bit of fluff in London? Of course I didn’t. I’d have eaten fibreglass for brekky before I’d have settled for Sam in the old days.

  So what’s changed?

  ‘You do want him,’ a voice in my head informs me.

  ‘No I bloody don’t,’ I protest.

  ‘Oh yes you do,’ says the voice.

  ‘Oh sod off,’ I tell it. ‘This isn’t a bloody pantomime.’

  ‘You want him,’ insists the voice. ‘Because you can’t have him.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ I say. But I have to admit, I always have been a bit like that. Always wanting the impossible. Like when I was two and I wanted my bath towel to be dry immediately. A new one just wouldn’t do. It was well before the days of tumble dryers and my parents tried to explain that it just wasn’t on. But I wouldn’t have it. I screamed until I was maroon in the face and had to be pacified with a chocolate Homewheat.

  But Sam is different. Of course I don’t want him. Not in that way. But I am supposed to be seeing him soon, so we can take Lucy to the park. And I don’t really want to let him down. We’d already arranged it before we rowed. Now I just don’t know whether I should turn up or not. George is still twittering when I snap out of my reverie. Something about shelling out for the wedding. How much it’s all going to cost and everything.

  ‘I’ll be an official poor person after I’ve paid for this lot,’ he threatens. ‘I’ll probably have to give up my lovely mews house and go out East. I’ll end up in Stoke Newington. Probably. Or Barking. I might even have to go 0208.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ I flinch as Didier, quick as a whippet, stabs a hand down my bra to hoick up one of my nipples. They aren’t on straight apparently, and it’s spoiling the line of the frock.

  ‘S’true, darling,’ George tells me. ‘We’ll be in market jumpers come winter. We’ll be forced to buy a deep fat fryer and a settop box and live at the top of a tower block. A really rank one that smells of wee. You know, like they have on The Bill. All our neighbours will look like Pauline Quirke in Birds of a Feather, darling, and we’ll be afraid to go out in case we get queer-bashed, so we’ll have to stay in every Saturday night on our orange Dralon sofa watching Wheel of Fortune with the volume up and eating Pot Noodle.’

  He’s clearly conveniently forgotten he has a trust fund the size of the Third World debt.

  Chapter 20

  Sam and Lucy, wearing matching navy baseball caps, are waiting for me by the bridge, just as Sam said they’d be. As I shamble over, Sam grins and Lucy, in glittery jeans and pink trainers that light up when they hit the pavement, runs over to give me a hug.

  ‘Mum says you’re going to be my Auntie Katie now. Are you and my Uncle Sam getting married?’

  I laugh. ‘No. My mum is marrying your granddad. Which sort of makes me your mum and Sam’s new sister.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lucy looks a bit confused but cheers up almost immediately. ‘I’ve gotta kite. Are you going to help me fly it?’

  ‘OK.’ I raise my eyebrows at Sam. ‘But only if we can have cake first.’

  ‘OK.’

  We troop to the café. I’m still a bit worried that Sam’ll be off with me after our row so I offer to buy the tea and cake. Normally, I wouldn’t pay under any circumstances but I feel the need. And when Lucy has chomped her way through a hunk of ginger cake and got a sugar rush from a huge glass of Coke, she runs onto the grass to tie herself up in knots with the kite and I tell Sam how sorry I am.

  ‘S’OK.’ He shakes his head and gulps his tea. ‘It was all a bit of a shock, I suppose.’

  ‘I felt bad that you knew about Mum and Jeff before I did.’ I look at the crumbs on my plate. ‘And Pussy. And she’s not even family. Well, not yet anyway.’

  ‘No.’ Sam gazes into the distance, watching Lucy tearing around in a blur of glitter and flashing light.

  ‘So?’ I say, not really knowing what to say next.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So have you thought about a date?’

  ‘A date?’ He looks confused. ‘Who with?’

  ‘For your wedding, doh. Or had you forgotten?’

  ‘God.’ He wedges in more banana loaf. ‘I’m so busy with the company at the moment I can’t really think about that now. I’m doing the launch of a new restaurant in the City next week. It’s really high-profile.’

  ‘That’s great, Sam.’ I’m pleased.

  ‘So I think,’ he finishes the last of his tea, ‘that we should talk about your wedding. Don’t you? I mean you’re getting married way before I am.’

  ‘I guess,’ I admit, watching as two girls, all long legs and tiny vests, eye Sam appreciatively. ‘But it’s boring. I mean it’s not really real, is it? No passion or romance or anything.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in all that claptrap.’ Sam ruffles my hair.

  ‘I don’t. That’s why I’m having a pretend wedding instead.’

  ‘You mad hoon.’ He grins, just as an indignant voice pipes up from somewhere in the distance.

  ‘Uncle Sam.’

  ‘Here we go,’ he sighs. ‘Playground duty. You coming?’

  ‘Think I might just have another bit of cake, thanks.’

  ‘Typical,’ he snorts, dashing off to help Lucy untangle her kite from a nearby bench. A yappy Jack Russell has somehow become involved and I almost cho
ke on cake as I watch Sam get in a terrible mess with string, while the dog barks at his heels and Lucy squeals delightedly. Privately, I think that nasty, scratty little creatures like that just shouldn’t be allowed but then it becomes apparent that its owner is sitting at the table next to ours. Winking at me, the lady adjusts her strange floppy hat and whistles to the dog, who comes trotting obediently over to stick its head in my crotch. I have to pat it and pretend I think it’s sweet, then she twinkles at me and nods in Sam and Lucy’s direction.

  ‘Like her dad, isn’t she?’

  ‘Who?’ I look up sharply.

  ‘Your little girl.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ I laugh. ‘He’s not, I mean, she’s not ours. We’re just borrowing her.’

  ‘A-ha.’ The woman twinkles again. ‘Practising, are we?’

  Not sodding likely. Nevertheless, the fact that the doggy lady thought Sam and I were together cheers me up immensely for some ridiculous reason. And the thought of babies and children makes me think of Janice, who is probably sitting at home on her own, knitting bootees. Or drinking gin and rocking, knowing her. So, after another hour of cheek-chapping kite antics, I nip over to Janice’s flat. She looks delighted to see me because I’ve interrupted the work she’s doing on a pitch for a new brand of fizzy drink.

  ‘Since you’ve made the effort to come over, it’d be damn rude to send you away, wouldn’t it?’ She grins, patting her tummy.

  ‘Damn rude.’ I flop on her immaculate sofa and immediately crinkle up three velvet cushions. Janice makes a ‘what am I going to do with you’ face and decrees that we need to go shopping.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Holiday.’ She stands up. ‘That’s what. Come on. You need a new swimsuit. You don’t want Sam to think you look rancid, do you?’

  ‘Why would I care what Sam thinks?’

  ‘Oh, come on. You look suspiciously rosy for someone who’s been lumbered with a small child all day.’

  ‘It’s windy.’

  ‘And you’ve got a bit of a soft spot.’

  ‘Haven’t.’

  ‘Have. It’s written all over your chops. Now come on, let’s shop.’

  Janice’s theory is that if she’s going to look like a poached egg on toast on this holiday, she might as well have some luxury items to do it in. Personally, I can’t even see a bump yet but, as we flick through rails of clothes, she looks as happy as a pig in muck.

  ‘This is just what we need.’ She flicks through the rack of Kookai dresses we’re examining. ‘Shopping always makes me feel better.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you then? I thought you’d come to terms with the baby.’

  ‘I have. Sort of. But I’ve still got to tell my mother she’s going to be a grandma. I’m dreading it.’

  ‘You think she’ll be angry?’

  ‘Christ no.’ She shakes her head. ‘Quite the flaming opposite. She’ll be over the bloody moon. I just dread to think of the clothes she’ll buy the poor little sod. One of those ghastly furry hats with ears, probably. Why do some people dress their kids up as dogs and bears and imagine it’s cute, Katie?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And she’ll insist it calls her Nan, or something horrid like that.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Sod it.’ She lets go of the stunning shell-pink halterneck she’s checking out and shrugs. ‘None of these are going to fit me in a few months’ time. Still, just because I’m going to look like a juggernaut in the holiday photos doesn’t mean you have to. You won’t want shot after shot of you in the same threadbare cozzie with your thighs all pink and stuck to a deck chair with sweat and your head jammed in a Jackie Collins, will you? What you need is a whole new wardrobe. A new bikini for every day.’

  ‘You don’t look like a juggernaut. And we’re only going for the weekend,’ I point out. ‘But you have to buy new stuff as well,’ I say. ‘For the future. You’re up the duff, don’t forget.’

  ‘I am, aren’t I?’ she says wistfully, looking down at her boobs, which will soon resemble a pair of barrage balloons. ‘I’m right up that duff. I couldn’t be more up the duff if I tried.’

  ‘When does your belly button turn inside out?’ I want to know.

  ‘Not sure.’ She grins. ‘I’m quite looking forward to that part. It really freaks blokes out.’

  ‘You’re not going to fill your wardrobe with those horrible clothes that have baggy kangaroo pouches at the front for your enormous stomach, are you?’ I ask.

  ‘God, no. I’m going to wear bikinis and let it all hang out. Like Madonna. And Posh. And I’m not going to let myself go completely. While we’re in Spain, I’m going to swim all the time. And just eat salads.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘I’m going to lard it. Lager for breakfast, pina colada for lunch and chips with everything. I can’t wait.’

  And I am looking forward to it, funnily enough, although I’m still surprised by George’s decision to go completely bargain basement, holiday-wise. Generally, his idea of a package is something he takes home from Harrods Food Hall, filled with chunks of smoked venison and slivers of wild salmon.

  Doesn’t he know charter flights only have one class?

  If you can call it class.

  How’s he going to cope?

  Unfortunately, shopping for new clothes doesn’t really make me feel better for very long. When I get home, George and David have gone out, leaving a note that they’ve gone to see a rom com at the Screen on the Green, and I suddenly feel all lonely and scared stiff about my wedding. I’m currently sleeping in a room full of David’s pants in case the Home Office decide to drop by at seven o’clock of a morning and catch us unawares, and I’m not at all sure I’ve done the right thing, agreeing to this madness.

  Except I’ve seen George and David together. And, although they’re professionally flippant, I know they love each other hugely. So I really can’t back out now, can I? Not without sending David scarpering off back to Oz and handily ruining two lives in the process. Anyway, even if my plans to marry David aren’t exactly conventional, at least I’m making two other people happy. So when Sam’s sister Sally and I meet for coffee to talk about Mum and Jeff ’s wedding reception and she asks me if I’m sure I’m not going to regret it, I’m able to say with absolute certainty that I know I’m doing the right thing.

  ‘Don’t worry on my account, Sal. I don’t need to see sense. I’ve seen it already. And it’s dull, dull, dull.’

  ‘You know, I’m not just saying all this for the sake of it.’ She frowns. ‘It’s for your own good.’

  Privately, I doubt that. When someone tells you something is for your own good, you know you are going to find it about as pleasant as colonic irrigation.

  ‘To be honest, Sal,’ I explain, ‘I really can’t be arsed with the whole love and marriage thing. In my experience, blokes really only seem to be good for shagging and leaving and not very much else.’

  The day of our departure looms and I decide not to bother telling Jake or Nick I’m off to sunny Spain (well, sort of Spain) for the weekend. Let them figure it out for themselves. Janice comes over first thing to check over my packing.

  ‘Olay, olay,’ she yells, bursting through the front door on heels you could spike a salmon on, teamed with a tiny lipstick-pink vest and crisp white cotton shorts. ‘Feelin’ hot hot hot,’ she carries on. ‘Look, check this out.’ She flashes me a lemon-yellow scrap of not very much. ‘My new cozzie. And this silver boob tube. I mean, I may have a mouse in the chimney but I don’t have an arseful of cellulite quite yet so I might as well whore it up one last time before I get great bunches of grapes dangling out of my bum. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Oh, Janice.’ I shake my head in mock pity.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I hug her. ‘I just bloody love you to pieces.’

  ‘You too, hon.’ She hugs me back. ‘So come on. Show us yer cozzie.’

  ‘Here.’ I hold up a chunky one-piece. Practically polonecked, it�
��s the only thing I’ll be seen dead on the beach in. Short of full body armour, that is.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ she hoots.

  ‘Everything else made me look like a member of Legs and Co,’ I explain.

  ‘That’s, like, the point.’ She grins. ‘You nutter. I still think you should have bought that powder-blue jobby with the fluffy bits on the boobs. You looked great in that.’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t really see it matters what the hell I look like. I have it on very good authority that my fiancé’s a screaming poof. It’s going to take a lot more than a scrap of lycra and a couple of banana daiquiris to get him to play tame the trouser snake with me.’

  She laughs. ‘True.’

  ‘And believe me,’ I can’t help giggling, ‘I’ve tried.’

  Janice throws back her head and roars.

  ‘It’s not exactly sexy though, is it?’ she protests when she’s recovered from the giggles. ‘Your cozzie, I mean, not your fiancé. Who is, as it happens, very sexy.’

  ‘Very,’ I agree.

  ‘It’s the kind of thing you see on middle-aged women in the swimming pool. The ones who wear flowery rubber swimming caps and keep their heads above water so their eyeshadow doesn’t wash off.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Have you got your factor fifty sunblock?’

  ‘I’ve got factor five.’ I look at the bottle. ‘Will that do?’

  ‘Katie, you know you can’t tan,’ she admonishes me. ‘And freckles are so last year. I read it in Marie Claire. Do you really want to turn up to your fake wedding with a face you can play join the dots on?’

  ‘I’ll buy some at the airport.’

  ‘What about trashy novels for the beach?’ she asks. ‘I’ve got Appassionata by Jilly Cooper and the new Penny Vincenzi.’

  ‘I’ve got Bugger Me Backwards by Fawn Starr and Fuck Me Pink by Regina De Vine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What have you got then?’

  ‘I’ve got Captain Corelli’s Mandolin and Memoirs of a Geisha,’ I say.

  ‘I said “trashy”,’ she protests. ‘What you need is a good shopping and fucking extravaganza the size of a brick. I’ll lend you one. Now, moving on swiftly. Beach towel?’