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

by Mina Ford

  ‘Happy birthday, my lovely.’ She gives me a huge hug and hands over a bunch of my favourite marshmallow pink tulips and a bag filled with sweets and tiny presents wrapped in iridescent, rainbow-coloured paper. ‘And fear not. I’ve invited a delicious selection of G ’n’ Ts for you.’

  ‘Ooh, goodie.’ I smile. ‘You look lovely, by the way.’

  ‘So do you,’ she says automatically, before realising I’m still in my Frank Bruno bathrobe. ‘For a boxer,’ she adds and we both collapse in giggles.

  At seven thirty, Sam’s convertible something or other pulls up outside and he waltzes in, putting down a huge box full of clinking bottles and giving me a whopping great kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Happy birthday, old thing.’

  ‘Not so much of the old, thanks.’

  As all my friends greet each other, champagne corks pop and Janice, pouring me a glass full of bubbles, shoos me off to my room to put on the pink dress. I down my first drink in one, my stomach churning with a mixture of party excitement and secret misery at the thought of Jake and Fishpants and their bun, cooking happily away in her oven.

  ‘So what’s this man of yours like?’ I ask Janice. ‘Am I going to like him or am I going to wonder if you’ve had a taste lobotomy when I see him? Come on. Spill the beans. I’ve only got a name to go on. And judging by that, he sounds like a frigging labrador.’

  ‘Let’s just say he’ll do nicely.’

  ‘You make him sound like an American Express card.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She grins. ‘And I’m banking on Voyage membership and an expense account at Harvey Nicks before the month’s out. Now pucker up. You’re going to look gorgeous when I’m done. Men will be falling over themselves to shag you.’

  ‘As long as a shag’s all they’re after,’ I joke. ‘I’d rather stick broken bottles up my bum than go out with any of the men we know. And just between you and me, I feel, well…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I feel a bit, you know, weird.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I saw Jake today.’

  ‘Oh God. Oh hon. Are you OK?’

  ‘Yup.’ I swallow.

  ‘Was he…’

  ‘With her? Oh yes. She’s only up the duff, isn’t she?’

  ‘Noooooooooooo way!’

  ‘Way. About to have it, by the look of things. I’m really pissed off, to be honest.’

  ‘I know,’ she soothes, dusting glitter over my eyelids. ‘You’ll feel a lot better once you’ve shagged someone else. Honest.’

  She gives me a comforting hug and gets back to work on my face. By the time I get downstairs, the party is in full swing. Sam’s on bar duty. He’s set up a table in the corner and is pouring everyone decadent cocktails.

  ‘Wow,’ he says when he sees me in my new dress.

  ‘Don’t be a disgusting letch,’ I admonish him. ‘And give me a margarita. I love margaritas.’

  ‘Oooh, so do I,’ says a tapeworm in a see-through white dress. ‘I’ll have one of those too. My name’s Kimberley, by the way,’ she adds shyly, batting enormous eyelashes at Sam.

  ‘Here we fucking go,’ I mouth at him, saying, ‘Just give me my drink and I’ll leave you two to it.’

  Sam is really excited tonight. But it’s not just down to the prospect of pulling Kimberley, whoever she is. He’s just persuaded one of his major clients to come with him when he starts up Freeman PR. Which is a huge coup. His boss’ll be furious, but it means others will follow. And he’ll be made. I only know this because my mum told me when she called me this afternoon to wish me a happy birthday.

  ‘Jeff is pleased as punch,’ she told me. ‘He’s just gone into his garden now to put some potatoes in, he’s so pleased.’

  ‘Great,’ I said. God, the excitement of some people’s lives. Couldn’t he have hoofed back a double whisky in one go or something? Still, it did make me laugh to think of Jeff in the same garden Sam and I used to play in as kids, eating soil and making houses for worms. Sam’s come a long way since then, I think now, seeing him, so easy and confident, happily mixing drinks for people he’s never met before, safe in the knowledge that he has a shining career ahead of him and a father who’s so proud of him he’s taken to planting root vegetables in his honour. Meanwhile, what have I done?

  Got the boot for being a lazy sow, that’s what. Not much to be proud of there.

  I glance round my sitting room. There’s George, looking amazing in black leather hot pants, fishnets, six-inch stilettos and a long pillar-box red wig.

  ‘You look lovely,’ I tell him. ‘Your new bloke is going to be blown away. When’s he coming?’

  ‘Sooner than he thinks,’ George cackles. ‘You’re looking pretty bloody amazing yourself. I knew that dress was made for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I smile back, starting to enjoy myself. The room is filling up quickly. Good old Janice was right. There’s tons of G ’n’ T here. Who knows? I might even enjoy myself. Oh, and there’s the doorbell again.

  ‘Flowers for Miss Simpson.’

  ‘That’s me.’

  A man hands me a huge bunch of sugar-pink roses.

  I take them into the kitchen, ripping open the envelope on the little card and reading it. Who are they from?

  Shagging fuck.

  ‘Happy Birthday,’ says the card. ‘For Old Times’ Sake.’

  Inside is an all too familiar scrawl. ‘Lovely to see you today. Have a good one. Love Jake.’

  My stomach lurches. But there’s no time to stop and think. Janice is nearly upon me, dragging the guy with the dead wife behind her. I chuck the roses into the corner of the room out of sight and prepare to meet her future husband.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yep. Just getting some air, you know.’

  ‘This is Jasper.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’ He grins.

  Hmm. Not what I expected at all.

  ‘You look…’ I stop.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You don’t look as sad as I expected.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Well. His wife’s dead, after all. He should have the decency to look a bit miserable, instead of blatantly undressing Janice with his eyes. And he’s far too old for her. His combat pants and T-shirt don’t fool me. In fact, he looks faintly ridiculous. Just who is he trying to kid?

  Janice, I suppose.

  I mean it wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so wrinkled. He’s got a face like an apricot that’s shrivelled in the sun.

  Mutton dressed as pig.

  Ram dressed as lamb.

  The doorbell rings again and, gratefully, I excuse myself. I have no idea what to say to this strange creature. Janice will have to entertain him on her own.

  I open the door.

  And get the shock of my life.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ my party guest and I both screech at the same time.

  ‘George invited me,’ David stutters. ‘I had no idea you’d be here.’

  ‘I sodding well live here,’ I bridle. ‘It’s my birthday. This is my party.’

  And I’ll cry if I sodding well want to.

  ‘I tried to call you,’ David says. ‘After you left IBS. But you were always out.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I reply. ‘I just didn’t want to talk to you.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Never better. You?’

  ‘Fine. Happy, actually. I’ve met this—’

  ‘George,’ I say. ‘You already said.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He’s one of my best friends.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I tell him. ‘To be honest, I’m a bit relieved to find out you are really gay. I thought you weren’t a proper Marmite miner at all. You seemed so…well…so…’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Straight, I suppose. I thought it might be just an excuse not to shag me.’

  ‘So I’m forgiven?’

  ‘I can’t afford many more
enemies at the moment.’ I laugh. ‘I’ve got one best friend desperately trying to marry that prune over there and another Velcroed to that creature over there in the see-through dress. Kimberley or something.’

  ‘God,’ he tuts. ‘Terrible name. She sounds like a second-rate wine bar.’

  ‘Doesn’t she?’ I giggle.

  ‘Oh, it’s so nice to see you.’ He laughs, giving me a huge hug. ‘And I’m sorry about your job. And, well, the other…’

  ‘Forget about it.’ I shrug. ‘It’s nice to see you too.’

  And it is. I’ve sort of missed David, in a funny way. ‘And I’m sorry I forced you to look at my minky.’

  ‘Minky?’ He grins. ‘What minky?’

  George greets David as though they’ve known each other for ever. Janice is flitting from room to room in her belt of a dress, finding cigars, drinks and nibbles for her prospective groom, and Sam and the Wine Bar are getting on famously.

  I brush fag ash off my favourite saggy pink beanbag and flop, wondering if anyone’s going to remember to talk to me. As the party progresses I watch from outside as my three best friends enjoy themselves with other people, drinking through the bar, smoking colourful fags and eating my food. I feel about as welcome at my own sodding party as a BLT at a Bar Mitzvah.

  But hang on.

  Isn’t the room filling up with eligible men? And I do, after all, have a point to make. How dare Jake try to spoil my party by sending me flowers? Five months on and he’s still playing mind games, the sod.

  The shit was probably hoping they’d cause a wave of nostalgia so powerful I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to bonk anyone else. Well, he can forget that idea for a start. Here I am. Young—well, thirty’s not exactly old. Free. And raring to go. So it’s decision time. Should I go all out for a nice bit of G ’n’ T or should I play safe and Go Ugly Early?

  I’m just deciding when George hands me a slippery witch. Janice taps me on the other shoulder and offers me another glass of champagne.

  They haven’t quite forgotten me then.

  ‘Katie, this is Max.’ Janice pulls some poor bloke over by the scruff of his neck. ‘Max, Katie. Max and I work together.’

  She’s behaving so formally, I half expect her to fill in important personal details on my behalf, like ‘Katie is unemployed and stuffs her face at every available opportunity. Max works very hard but his hobbies are panty-sniffing and reading the Yellow Pages.’

  Except that he doesn’t look like someone who might read the Yellow Pages for fun. Actually, he looks pretty good.

  ‘You’re very sparkly,’ he says when Janice waltzes off to rejoin Filthy Rich.

  ‘Thanks.’ I check him out once more and mentally erase any thoughts of Going Ugly Early from my mind. Max is gorgeous. Beautiful eyes. A soft warm brown. Like melted Mars bars. No, wait. They’re more like…

  ‘And you have eyes like a cow,’ I blurt.

  Fuck. What made me say that?

  ‘God, sorry.’ I swig my drink. ‘I’m not really used to flirting. I normally only fancy gay boys and bastards, you see. And seeing as you’re obviously neither, I think it’s only fair to inform you that you don’t stand much of a chance.’

  Bugger. And he seems so nice as well. Trust me to fuck up so early on in the proceedings.

  Quickly, I remind myself that ‘nice’ is the sort of word people use to describe fairy cakes. I have no long-term use for this man, other than as my first Bag A Shag candidate. So why should I care what he thinks of me?

  Still, it’s probably just as well to be honest with him. Tell him that the most he can expect is a trip upstairs to my room, whereupon I’ll bonk his brains out before offering him a post-coital Kit Kat from my knicker drawer.

  Or perhaps it would be wiser to try the subtle approach.

  Janice is right. I really am shit at shagging around. I have no idea what comes next.

  Luckily, Max seems to know the form. Lips twitching with silent laughter, he asks me how I know he’s not a complete bastard. ‘I mean you’re quite right,’ he says. ‘I’m not. But I’m sure we could probably put a daily beating clause into the pre-nuptial agreement if you wanted.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘That’s a joke, by the way.’

  ‘Oh…right.’

  ‘Let’s just take it one night at a time, shall we?’ He grins. ‘No need to plan the wedding just yet.’

  It’s the ‘one night’ that does it. Filled with relief, I realise his intentions are just as wicked as mine. He wants a quick shag. Which means he won’t expect me to go out on a date afterwards. So I won’t have to wear a glamorous golden dress and graze on lettuce leaves all night, when all I want to do is wear elasticated waists and splatter spag bol down my front. We can just get straight down to business.

  Thank God I remembered to put clean sheets on the bed.

  The rest of the evening is as sparkly as my dress. And despite the fact that I catch George and David snogging passionately more than once, and that Sam’s hand is clamped to Wine Bar’s boob like a piece of fuzzy felt, I don’t mind. Because Max is brilliant fun. He’s even better at dancing than George.

  Which is saying something for a straight bloke.

  ‘You are sure you’re not gay, aren’t you?’ I double-check as we make our way to the ‘bar’.

  ‘I’m sure.’ Max grins, mixing us both enormous Bellinis.

  ‘How sure?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Look,’ he takes my hand in his, ‘I’m very, very taken with you indeed. And if you’ll only stop fart-arseing about with all this polite drinking and dancing, I’ll bloody well take you upstairs and show you just how un-gay I can be when it matters.’

  I giggle. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  Thanking my lucky stars I’ve had my minky waxed, properly this time, not Blue Peter fashion with a strip of sticky-backed plastic, I allow him to lead me to the bottom of the stairs as people dance, drink and fall drunkenly around us. We’re halfway to my bedroom when Sam’s voice comes floating up after us. He comes into the hall, swiftly followed by Wine Bar.

  ‘Katie?’

  ‘I’m going to bed.’ I smile naughtily. ‘And I’m not alone.’

  ‘You sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m a big girl now. I can look after myself.’

  I fling open the bedroom door, pushing Max towards the bed and pouncing on him like a lion. There’s a squeal from under the bedclothes.

  ‘Was that you?’ He looks startled.

  ‘Just the cat.’ I nod, as Graham bolts, spiky with indignation, into the wardrobe.

  Max’s skin smells delicious. All sea salt and lemons. And he’s so bloody gorgeous that his very proximity makes the edges of my teeth tingle. When he finally kisses me, a bolt of electricity shoots from the top of my head to my groin and I melt against him, pressing myself to him with increasing urgency. And as I do so, I feel him pressing back. And I know how much he wants me.

  Suddenly, I hold back.

  What if he’s after something more permanent?

  Will I be able to say no?

  Probably not. Max looks as if he might be kind of moreish. Dangerously moreish at that. Like chocolate.

  And not your dodgy pretend chocolate either. I’m talking the dark, rich, exceptionally smooth kind.

  One bite and you’re hooked.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t you want to?’

  Do I?

  Oh sod it.

  As I surrender myself completely, and Max slowly peels off George’s gauzy pink dress, I rejoice that I’ve had the foresight to wear matching bra and knickers for a change.

  I needn’t have worried in any case. I’m soon rid of them.

  As he frees himself from his boxers, a delicate operation involving trying to get them down without catching his stiffy in the fly, I’m more than pleased to note that he’s in possession of the full box of tri
cks. He’s got a good girth on him. I can’t wait.

  But I remember to be sensible. Tingling with anticipation, I help him roll on the condom. Then, with a silent ‘up yours, Jake Carpenter’, I lower myself onto his quivering cock.

  Shit. It’s been so long. It’s amazing.

  It’s agony.

  Ecstasy.

  ‘Stop,’ I pant. ‘No, please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.’

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he moans, pulling on my hips and burying himself so deep inside me I can’t tell where I end and he begins.

  ‘Ooh, don’t stop,’ I pant again. ‘Yes. Stop. Now. Fucking just stop. Max. I’m serious.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just getthefuckoffme. NOW. Something’s wrong. Something’s happened to my… AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAGH.’

  Afterwards, Janice said you could have heard my screams in Morden. I howled like a dog, apparently. Squealed like a pig on a stick. At any rate, it was enough to bring Sam, Janice, David and George (feather boa tangled around his legs in his haste) hurtling into my room, where Sam, thinking I was under some sort of attack, grabbed Max—actually grabbed him properly, like in a real fight—and told him to get the fuck out.

  ‘At least let him put on his boxers,’ George suggested, staring at Max in all his rapidly detumescing glory.

  ‘No way,’ Sam yelled. ‘Get out of here now, you pervert, before I ram my fist down your throat.’

  ‘Now hold on,’ I managed to stutter. But to no avail. Sam was practically spitting with fury.

  I can only imagine the poor guy must have waited until he got out into the street before removing the strawberry Jiffi, because it was still flobbering from the end of his willy when he ran from the room. And it wasn’t until it was too late that I recovered the powers of speech and was able to indicate that he hadn’t been trying to rape me. I was in agony. Unbearable, burning agony and I didn’t know why. ‘How can you be?’ Janice hooted. ‘You’re not exactly a virgin.’

  An ambulance was called nonetheless, and duly arrived, sirens blaring as the curtain twitchers across the road had a field day. Six grown men witnessed me writhing naked on the bed, a pillow pressed between my legs to try and numb the pain.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Sam shouted at them all, his face full of concern. ‘Is there any blood?’