by Mina Ford
I tiptoe back to the party, find a half drunk bottle of Moët on top of the grand piano, and sneak back to the kitchen with it, ruffling the back of my hair with my hand as I do so. I’m perfectly aware I can never look sleek and chic, so I try for sexy and tousled instead. Unfortunately, a piece of sausage roll pastry floats to the ground as I plonk myself down next to him, but I flap it away with my hand, as though I’m waving away smoke and I don’t think he notices.
‘So what are you doing here anyway?’ he asks as I hand him the bottle.
‘Sorry?’
Blimming heck. I’ve been rumbled, trying to worm trade secrets out of a pro.
‘Bride or groom? And don’t tell me you’re neither. I know that perfectly well.’
‘Oh.’
‘Thing is,’ he grabs the Moët bottle and takes a grateful glug, ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met before, have we?’
‘Er. No.’
‘Thought not.’ He grins lazily. ‘I’m sure I’d have remembered.’
He’s flirting with me.
God, he’s gorgeous. Well, no actually, not gorgeous exactly but he’s averagely OK. Ish. Nice blue eyes. And a mischievous smile. A bit pink, perhaps—his face has that ruddy tinge of the terminally posh. Reminds me of a newborn rat. And his eyelashes are a bit on the sandy side which makes him look a bit squinty. I keep wanting to tell him he’s got crusts of sleep in his eye.
And he is a bit posh for little old me, really. His name’s probably Tarquin or Rupert. But drunken reasoning tells me it’s just as well he’s not perfect. If I’m out for a one-night stand, I don’t want to start hankering after him tomorrow. That would defeat the object of humping and dumping altogether. The rules of Behaving Like a Bloke demand ruthlessness on a serious scale. I need to toughen up. Be as harsh as caustic soda. And it’s therefore vitally important to remain totally and utterly emotionally detached from the whole thing.
So a faint lack of sexual attraction is undoubtedly a bonus.
‘Well, to be honest,’ I confess, quaffing another boozy great mouthful and leaning recklessly towards him, ‘I wouldn’t know either of them from Adam.’
‘Really?’
‘I mean I’ve seen the bride of course. That fucking awful big meringue sort of gave her away. But I wouldn’t know the groom if he came up and slipped me a length from behind, so…’
He inches closer to my golden ham of a thigh and places one hand on it, perilously close to my minky.
Cue mental check for signs of arousal.
Nothing.
Absolutely zilch.
Dry as a goddamn bone. Not so much as a minge twinge. My nipples remain as flaccid as uncooked pancakes.
But I’ve started, so I may as well finish.
And being a top of the range caterer, he’ll be an excellent contact for later.
Better make sure I’m good.
‘And how exactly will you do that?’ niggles an annoying voice in my brain. ‘You’re clueless at casual sex.’
I quash it.
He pulls me slightly towards him and moves in on me, running his tongue over my bottom lip.
And what do I do?
I giggle. And my mouth chooses that particular moment to go into overdrive.
‘I don’t normally make a habit of gatecrashing the weddings of complete strangers,’ I gabble stupidly as he stands up, pulling me to my feet. He’s slightly shorter than me, I notice, but that’s no big deal. It means we can do it standing up.
‘I came with George you see, he’s downstairs, he’s not my boyfriend you understand. He works with the groom.’
He puts a finger to his lips, taking me by the shoulders and leading me into a larder the size of my entire flat. He shuts the door firmly behind us, lifts me onto a chest freezer and kisses me.
I’m surprised it’s so easy, getting men to sleep with you. So far, I haven’t really had to do anything.
It’s a sticky, Bakewell tarty sort of kiss that tastes of cherries and sweet dessert wine. Interesting. His hands move over my back, cupping my buttocks, as I wrap my thighs round his waist. Staring into my eyes, he peels off my trousers, unzipping his own in quick succession. I prop myself uncomfortably on one big toe for easy entry, at last feeling that familiar puppet string pull of excitement in my groin.
And then it hits me.
I’m about to have sex with a total stranger.
Because I can.
I don’t even know what his name is.
How cool is that?
In the event, the sex is short, urgent and only Candarel sweet. He seems to think he’s in a porn film, finding it necessary to keep up a running commentary throughout.
‘What do you like?’ he keeps asking me. ‘What do you like?’
Seeing as though we’ve only just met, ordering him to stick his head between my legs and damn well stay there until I’ve finished doesn’t quite seem the ticket, so instead I say, ‘Oh, this is fine, thank you,’ as though I’m praising a rather bland restaurant meal. It’s just easier that way.
Besides, I’m too busy holding my stomach in, trying to keep my balance and leaning far enough forward to disguise my sticky-outty belly button to start quizzing him on his general knowledge of the Kamasutra. On the whole though, it goes pretty smoothly for my first time as a complete strumpet. And on the plus side, he doesn’t have a dick like a chipolata. And no belly button fluff.
He doesn’t even ask me to finish myself off and let him watch, which Janice has always assured me is pretty good going for a one-off.
OK, so I don’t get Croissants, but then anyway that’s an event usually as rare as a French beefburger in my limited experience.
Oh, and he produces a condom without my even having to ask, which is lucky, because in all the excitement of casual sex, I doubt it would have occurred to me to mention it. And this guy doesn’t really have the cheekbones for sperm donation. If I was going to get pregnant accidentally on purpose, I think I’d probably rather have George’s. And I’d go for someone with that extra bit of height.
When we’re done and dusted, he actually looks more relieved than gutted when I push him away and yank up my knickers, pausing only to slip on my tarty slingbacks and throw one last withering glance at his rapidly deflating erection before legging it, but who cares? I’m empowered. I can do anything.
I swan downstairs on a powder puff of postcoital elation. George is going to be dead impressed. I’ll get extra hardness points for doing it at a wedding. He spies me the moment I trip back into the ballroom.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he demands accusingly. ‘I’m bloody miserable here without David, darling, and there you go and disappear on me.’
‘Missing David, eh?’ I tease him. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books. I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s probably off shagging some complete girl. He’s dead flirty, you know. He’s probably bi.’
‘Darling, he’s as camp as a row of pink tents with “Ooh knickers” scribbled on the side. And he seemed pretty interested in me, thank you very much, so I think we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt before we condemn him to a life of football, Firkin pubs and fanny batter, don’t you?’
‘Whatever.’
‘So where have you been?’ he asks, slightly deflated, as I pause to poke in a sausage roll.
‘Having sex,’ I boast.
‘No, seriously.’
‘Just what I said.’
‘Nooooooooo.’
‘Yeeeeeeeees.’
‘Oh my God, darling.’ He slooshes wine around in his glass. ‘I hope you’ve had a shower since. I mean I know that this is a real breakthrough for you and everything, what with you being practically hermetically sealed, but the bride’s about to throw the boookay.’
‘So?’
‘We don’t want you catching it with dribbly bits running down your legs, do we? We’ll have the whole of SW1W smelling like a fleet of herring trawlers before you’re done. Which just won’t do. I mean, I’ve been to Hull Harbour, darling, and it isn’t
dainty. And I do hope you were selective, sweetie.’
‘Sort of.’
‘Oh look, come on, darling,’ he urges, forgetting my conquest as though it were completely run of the mill. ‘She’s about to throw it now. Right nasty little scrubber she looks too. Real pram face. Come on, you’re a girl. Up you go.’
‘But…’
‘No buts, darling, come on. Join in.’
And before I can protest, George, like a pushy mother at a ballet competition, has physically shoved me among the throng of girls in sparkly Cinderella dresses, all bobbing up and down expectantly at the side of the stage area, where Basildon Bride stands, brandishing a bouquet of salmon-pink roses, set off by billowing clouds of the nasty frothy white stuff you always get in service stations.
‘One. Two. Three,’ chorus the Cinders mob as the sorry-looking thing is launched spinning into the rabble.
Everyone scrabbles to get to it first. I get sucked into the crowd. My hand closes round a clump of stalks. Pulling away from the rest of the snatching hands, I hold my prize aloft, as two girls swoop down on me like angry seagulls and try to yank it back.
‘I’ve gottit, Jo.’
‘No, I’ve gottit.’
‘Givvit back.’
‘Leggo.’
‘Ow.’
I give in gracefully, releasing my end before I lose an eye, and making my way back to George, who’s grinning on the sidelines like a dad at School Sports Day. He’s alone, I notice. Which is odd, seeing as the place should be filled with his colleagues. And I’ve met lots of George’s work friends. So why are none of them here?
And then it hits me like a brick.
‘George.’
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t know a single sod here, do you?’
‘No,’ he admits. ‘But this is one of the socialite weddings of the year, darling. It’s going to be in Hello! and everything. I did it for you. Thought you’d feel better if you saw some real caterers in action. Be good experience for you.’
I’m touched, even if I do suspect that the real reason behind George’s concern is that he had nothing better to do than gatecrash a smart wedding and he didn’t want to do it alone.
‘Thanks anyway.’ I hug him. After all, I do absolutely love him to bits. And no one can say that life with George in it is boring.
We’re still hugging several moments later when everything kicks off, so I’m totally unprepared for what happens next. One minute I’m cuddling George, holding on for just that bit too long as I surreptitiously inhale the delicious coconutty smell of his hair and try to suppress the weird butterflyish feeling I always get when we touch. The next, Basildon Bride is bearing down on me from nowhere like a UN tank, king-sized fag on the go in one hand and silver Nokia phone in the other.
‘I don’t fink we know you, do we?’ She tosses her too tight perm and glares icily at George then me. She’s pretty threatening. For a moment she’s got me worried. But, buoyed up with a heady cocktail of champagne, shagging and George’s blatant disrespect for this vision in slub silk, I stand my ground.
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ I say bravely, taking a defiant swig of champagne from a glass on a nearby table. ‘We don’t know you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ George smiles, seeking to smooth ruffled feathers. ‘You’d think she was dragged up in a terrace, wouldn’t you? I’m George, by the way’—he pronounces it the French way for added sophistication—‘and this is Katherine.’
‘Hmm.’ Basildon Bride looks unconvinced. Then she yells towards the other side of the hall. ‘Oy, Zac, are these friends of yours or what?’
Now, I don’t know Zac from King Kong, but I have a nasty feeling he’s probably big and threatening. But, as luck would have it, I suddenly spot the caterer coming in my direction from the side of the room. Quick as a flash I run towards him, grabbing his arm and saying, ‘Quick, pretend I’m with you. You can say I’m a waitress. I’ve been rumbled.’
‘Can’t,’ he hisses, shaking me off violently and looking at me as though I’m some deluded trollop.
I’m furious. Livid. How dare he reject me? Treat me like a total lunatic? If there’s any rejecting to be done I’ll bloody well do it, thank you.
‘All right, keep your pants on,’ I say hotly. If he’s going to be like that I’ll make damn sure he doesn’t work in this district again. ‘If you can, that is,’ I say. At the first sign of raised voices, a crowd has assembled. ‘Oh yes,’ I tell them. ‘This man has the gall to pretend he’s not with me when he was quite happily servicing me over the freezer not twenty minutes ago. What do you make of that?’
In a flash, the room is alive with whispers and murmurs, all writhing like maggots beneath the surface. I look at Basildon Bride. Basildon Bride looks at me. Then she looks at the caterer.
‘Zac?’ she demands, horrified. ‘Is this true?’
Zac. Now where do I know that name from? It’s oddly familiar.
Oh fuck.
Buggery bollocky fuck.
Zac is Belgravia Boy.
I’ve only gone and shagged the bloody bridegroom.
‘Run,’ I hiss at George, but he shakes his head, rooted to the spot.
‘Can’t. Want to see what happens next,’ he whispers. ‘This is better than Brookside.’
He soon gets his wish.
‘Gettout!’ Basildon Bride grabs my elbow in a vice-like grip and prepares to march me outside.
‘Oooh, she’s just like Jackie Dixon,’ I hear George say.
‘You’re a fuckin’ liar. And you’re going down, you slag.’
Oh God.
Then she turns on George.
‘And you,’ she screeches. ‘You’ve bloody gatecrashed as well, haven’t you?’
‘’Fraid so, sweetie,’ George agrees. ‘But I really wouldn’t be flattered. I’m not having a very nice time, I’m afraid. Actually, to be perfectly frank, this whole bash smacks rather of Asti Spumante. The guests are more egg and chips than gratin dauphinoise, darling, and talking of food, no one has had the common decency to offer me any more than a flaccid sausage roll since I got here.’
‘Come on, George,’ I hiss, preparing to make a run for it. The bride, for all her froth and frills, looks hard as frigging nails and I’m left in little doubt that she won’t baulk at smashing a bottle over my head if she feels the need.
But George isn’t to be deterred.
‘This do has the class of the QVC Shopping Channel,’ he spits. ‘Belgravia? Huh. We might as well be in bloody Plaistow.’
That does it. George’s venomous tongue is the final nail in my coffin. Tiara askew, Basildon Bride launches herself at me in a spitting, hissing flurry of dirty cream silk, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck and slopping rum and black all over my gold jacket, screeching that if we haven’t got the fuck out of there by the time she’s counted to ten, she’s going to smash my fucking face to bits.
I believe her.
‘Very elegant,’ I counter bravely, administering a sharp kick to her shin and noticing with some satisfaction that I’ve made a whopping great rip in her tights. Well, that’s one ladder that definitely isn’t a stairway to heaven or why the hell did her husband of several hours feel the need to poke me, a ginger streak of piss from South London, on their wedding day?
‘Just goes to show, darling,’ George remarks spitefully. ‘You can take the slag out of the council estate but you sure can’t take the council estate out of the slag. I’d watch it if I were you, darling,’ he comments to Zac, as I pray for the parquet to swallow us up. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if her wedding lingerie turns out to be crotchless.’
Then, with a parting, ‘Nasty dress, by the way,’ he tugs on my hand and we stagger, cackling and hooting with deliciously bitchy laughter, into the night.
Chapter 8
The first grown-up dinner party Janice and I attended together was in Sixth Form. I smothered my hair in Sun-In and wore wraparound shades and a disgusting dress with a gingham puff
ball skirt. I thought I was the dog’s bollocks. Janice hired a frock specially: a stunning fifties number, ink-black with a pinched-in waist, acres of gauzy netting and trillions of tiny jet beads. Then she shagged the school heartthrob, got sperm all over the dress and made me take it back to the shop while she sat outside in my mum’s Austin Maxi with the engine running.
This time, she’s adamant that everything’s going to be perfect. Gone is the girl who changes her men as often as she changes her g-string. Jasper is the start of her grown-up life, and she’s buggered if she’s letting on she’s really the type to go round dishing out blow jobs to sundry blokes with runaway egos.
If I’m honest, the thought of her giving all that up makes me depressed. It signals the taking on of responsibility. Adulthood. It reminds me I’ve got to do something with my life before it’s too late.
Of course I don’t have to. I could always opt out. I could open a sunbed centre or do a course in teaching aerobics. I wouldn’t have to sit in an office then. I could dress permanently in sports wear and drive round in a Jeep. But before I really have a chance to decide whether or not I want to start my own catering business, Janice has organised her dinner party and sent out the invites. We meet in the Moon Under Water on Sunday to drink pints of shandy (doesn’t really count as drinking as it’s half lemonade and so entirely suitable for a school night) and discuss the menu.
‘I thought carrot, coconut and cumin soup to start,’ she announces bossily. ‘Followed by roast rump of lamb with a minted polenta crust and seasonal vegetables and then a rich chocolate mousse cake with marscapone to follow. I got it all out of the Sugar Club cookbook. What d’you reck? Will that look as though it took me bastard ages?’
I don’t know about that. But I do know that it’s going to take me bastard ages. Any normal person would be happy to settle for pasta and pesto. Or spag bol at least. I’ll give her flaming minted polenta crust.
‘Oh, and look glam,’ she warns me. ‘I’ve invited quite a few other people as well. And I’m dressing up so you’re going to have to at least stick a bit of slap and a frock on. I don’t want to look as though I’ve made some sort of pathetic effort, do I? What I mean is, I want him to think I’m like that all the time.’
