by Mina Ford
This time, though, it’s not congratulations she’s offering.
‘Katie, thank God you’re here. It’s George.’
‘George? Is he ill?’
‘No. He’s been accused of stealing by one of Seb’s mum’s friends.’
‘Stealing? Stealing what?’
‘A baby.’
Jesus H. Christ. Why me?
I look around for David, but he’s nowhere to be seen. And Poppy is worried. Can I come? Now?
Buggery, buggery fuck.
I’ve got a feeling in my waters that everything just might be about to go tits up. Trust George to do his best to fuck up my big day.
Still, I can hardly be held responsible for George’s behaviour, can I? I mean I’m only the cook, at the end of the day. So as long as I don’t poison anyone, I’m all right, Jack. Aren’t I?
Or did I automatically accept responsibility for Sam, George and David’s behaviour when I asked them to help me out by being waiters for the day? If so, then it’s all wrong. I’m not reliable enough to be responsible for anyone else. I can’t even be relied upon to remember when to change my Tampax, for God’s sake.
George is perched between the his ’n’ hers marble basins in Poppy’s mother’s bathroom, shocking-pink fag in one hand, glittery tiara in the other. A woman with a big blonde pineapple hairdo, purple patent stilettos and a white satin frock coat with a Wonderbra and little else underneath is comforting a gross, snot-encrusted baby that is screaming so hard its mouth has turned into a perfect square. For a moment I forget all about George and am unable to stop myself from staring at it, wondering if its cheeks are going to burst open like overripe peaches. It really is horrid.
‘There there.’ She chucks it under the chin with a fake cerise talon. ‘Poor little Chanel. Don’t you worry, my lover. Mummy’s got you now.’
‘Chanel?’ George wrinkles his nose in distaste. ‘Methinks “Topshop” might be more appropriate. Poor little sod. I hardly think that outfit’s what they call couture, darling. In fact, I doubt you could even term it off-the-peg. That’s bargain bloody bin if ever I saw it. And it’s stained.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologise. What the fuck is George doing? Does he want me to make a go of this business or not? I can’t afford to have one of my waiters behave like this at my first gig. I’ll never live the bloody thing down.
‘Did you try to steal the baby?’ I sigh, going hot and prickly behind the knees as I suddenly remember his New Year’s request to rent my womb for a bit. Shit. Perhaps he was really serious about that. And now he’s decided David is the best thing since ready-cooked polenta, he’ll be feeling his lack of paternity all the more.
‘Of course not,’ he scoffs.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
‘Look at it, for God’s sake,’ he spits. ‘It’s not even a very nice one. Bugger all bone structure. Weak chin, look.’
But Chanel’s mother has other ideas.
‘I caught him parading up and down with her in front of the mirror,’ she accuses. ‘Carrying her by the scruff of her neck, he was. As though she was a bleeding cat.’
Handbag’s more like it.
Blimming heck.
‘For the last time,’ George raises his eyebrows to heaven, ‘I wasn’t stealing it. I was merely borrowing it.’ He pouts. ‘Wanted to see what it looked like with my cravat, darling. And it was entirely the wrong shade of pink so I went to put it back. Don’t worry,’ he assures the mother, ‘it was nothing personal. If I’d known it was yours I wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole. Oh, it was all very sweet lying in that bedroom, gurgling away on a Georgina Von Etzdorf throw, darling, but if I’d known where it came from I’d have throught twice about borrowing it, I can tell you.’
‘George.’
‘I mean the phrase “shallow end of gene pool” does spring to mind, I must admit. And lowest common denominator isn’t a phrase that’s far from tripping off the tongue either.’
‘George. Stop.’
‘And I think I’d like any daughter of mine to grow up knowing the difference between dinner and lunch, thank you.’
Luckily, some bulimic bint in a wispy lavender dress chooses that precise moment to rush in and yack up her dinner, so in the rumpus that follows as everyone tries to leap out of the way of low-flying chunks of barf, I’m able to grab George by the cufflinks and slope off downstairs with him to find David. But not before some woman in the queue has looked at me, nodded towards the cubicle where the vomiting is taking place and muttered, ‘It’ll be them oysters, I bet.’
‘Those oysters,’ I say without thinking. ‘And, no it won’t. They’re perfectly fresh.’
‘Some people,’ I say to George as I frogmarch him back to the barn. He grumbles all the way. It just isn’t fair. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to breed. That poor, chinless wonder upstairs is going to grow up thinking Black Tower and Matchmakers are the height of sophistication. And when you think of the life he and David could have given it if it had been that little bit more attractive.
I can’t be angry with him for long. After all, no damage has been done. And when he catches sight of David dancing along to Steps on his own and races over to give him a hug so that, for the second time that day, I get an enormous lump in my throat, I can forgive him anything.
Plus, people, even the Walnut Whip lady from the church, can’t stop congratulating me on how wonderful the food has been. My very first venture has been a complete and utter success. I’ve given out countless business cards and already booked another two events. And, as I look in the mirror that night, too exhausted to bother taking my make-up off, I give my reflection a wink and a big grin.
‘Katie Simpson,’ I say, ‘you’ve only gone and bloody done it.’ I get the train back to London on my own. I’m too excited to stay in Bath for long. I want to plan and think. Decide on a name for my business. Where to advertise, that sort of thing. And pretty soon, I’ll probably need to rent an office. Find a house with a bigger kitchen.
I’m so excited I just can’t wait.
I’m so pleased with myself that I almost fail to notice that the actual train journey is about as much fun in itself as salmonella. Young, sickeningly well-adjusted people who’ve been away for the weekend enjoying themselves fill the carriages with their cappuccinos, their Sunday papers and their irritatingly cheerful chatter. But I don’t care. OK, so I have serious personal space issues with the guy sitting opposite, who seems to think it’s perfectly reasonable to stretch his feet (deck shoe clad, I notice—nasty) out until they are wedged right under my seat. Where, precisely, does he think I’m going to put mine? Glaring at him while baring my teeth like a rabid dog proves totally ineffectual, so in the end I’m forced to twat him extremely hard in the shin with the heel of my Nike, while nonchalantly flipping through a magazine and pretending to be engrossed in an article on breast augmentation. And, when he jerks his feet back with a look of pain and surprise etched on his face, I’m right in there, making my legs as long as possible and stretching them out so quickly I almost get him in the nuts. Then I sit there, emptily triumphant and not daring to move again to so much as nip to the loo to shake a lettuce, in case I have to give up a single inch of my Fair Share Of Room.
Oh, and I keep getting those horrible fizzy pains in my feet every time I shift them. And I’m not exactly comfy because, thanks to the copious quantities of alcohol I consumed to celebrate my success last night, I keep feeling slightly nauseous, but even then I don’t feel as bad as I normally would. I keep telling myself just how far I’ve come in so little time.
I get the tube back to Balham. Changing lines at Stockwell, I’m delighted to notice that, for the first time in about a year in my experience, a train pulls in within a minute. Brilliant. A good omen. Unfortunately, I’m not quite ready for it. Suddenly, I feel so sick I don’t dare get on, in case I park a custard in the crowded carriage.
Which is bloody lucky, as it turns out, because the doors have only ju
st whooshed shut when I get a funny saliva-ey feeling in my cheeks and I suddenly know—just know— I’m going to woof my cookies.
Shit, buggery, shit. What the hell am I going to do? I can hardly chuck up onto the platform in front of a train full of gawping passengers, can I?
Can I?
And then I have a brainwave. Sometimes, I tell myself, I can be a bloody genius. Thinking fast, I surreptitiously open my handbag and chunder straight into that instead. And, because, being mine, it isn’t really a girlie handbag, but more like a capacious black rucksack, I’m completely hidden from view as I boke. And, as I quietly vom over my keys, mobile phone, chocolate stash and Filofax, I look for all the world as though I’m merely rummaging for a stray stick of chewing gum, or a packet of Tooty Frooties.
Of course, as the next train swooshes into the station and I realise I’m going to have to lug the whole stinking lot home so I can get to my keys at the bottom, I do spot a couple of flaws in my plan, but it’s a little bit bastard late by then. Sticking my nose in the air for added confidence (what, puke in my bag? Me?) I gather my belongings and sweep onto the train, pushing two people out of my way in my determination to get to the only available seat and plonking myself firmly into it.
‘Hi,’ says the person sitting next to me. ‘Katie, isn’t it?’
I snap my head round, painfully aware of my sick breath and closing my bag quickly to avoid spattering the passengers opposite with a concoction of red wine sick and soggy chocolate.
Flipping heck.
It’s Max.
Chapter 11
It’s a big surprise to realise that Max seems to blame himself entirely for the sorry way my birthday bonk turned out. And, as we judder through Clapham Common, he confesses that he never actually got to find out why I found it necessary to scream the place down that night. He thought about asking Janice at work, but after she branded him a serial rapist at my party, he hasn’t quite felt comfortable with her.
I giggle nervously.
As the train draws into Balham, there’s an uncomfortable silence as we both realise that this is where I get off. One of us has to make a move now or we’ll probably never see each other again. Which is a shame. Because from where I’m sitting, Max is still looking pretty fanciable. And now I’ve started, I sort of want to finish.
Well, it sure as hell ain’t going to be me. I’ve made a complete lummox of myself once. I don’t want to risk the possibility of rejection and the feeling of foolishness that would follow it.
‘Bye.’ I get up to go to the door, gripping the handles of my bag to avoid spillage.
‘Look.’ He pulls me back then, as the doors begin to close, thinks better of it and jumps out after me.
‘Careful.’ I grab my bag.
He looks a bit surprised but seems determined to carry on with what he’s got to say. He seems nervous, which almost makes me despise him, but I wait to see what’s on his mind.
‘I don’t suppose you fancy doing something, do you?’
‘Like what?’ I keep my cool, attempting to look vaguely bored, as if being asked out on a tube train by someone as gorgeous as Max is something that happens to me every day of my life.
‘We could go to the Bedford. Have a pie and a pint. Sunday lunch. Whatever you fancy.’
‘I’m not sure.’ I bite my lip. It seems a bit of a waste of time to go through the rigmarole of polite small talk over a plate of roast beef and a bagful of sick, just so we can finish what we started. What if it turns out to be not worth finishing?
On the other hand, I am blimming starving.
And I suppose there’s probably more than a morsel of truth in one of Janice’s favourite sayings that suddenly comes to me as I stand on the platform, making up my mind: When in doubt, Get in, Get on, Get a present, Get out.
Sod it. Might as well get it where I can.
‘Oh, OK then.’ I grin. ‘What the hell?’
As we come through the ticket barriers though, I check myself. What about my bagful of barf ? I can hardly go out to eat with that sloshing jauntily at my side, can I? And what if one shag with Max isn’t enough? After all, he is pretty delicious. Those eyes are edible.
But I do deserve sex, don’t I? And, as far as I remember, Max has one of those willies that’s actually pretty OK to look at. After Colin and his micro penis, a bunk up with Max will be a bit like treating myself to a nice chunky Mars bar after days of nibbling abstemiously on fruit.
On the downside, I haven’t showered today. And there are a couple of grey minky hairs I really ought to pull out before I let anyone see me in the buff. And then there’re my pits. I’ve been so busy with all the preparations for the wedding that they closely resemble the Epping Forest. Without the Essex accent, of course.
And with this hangover they probably smell like caramelised onions.
‘We could have lunch at mine instead,’ I say in a rush as we come out under Pigeonshit Bridge. ‘I don’t really feel like the pub and I’ve got some pumpkin soup in the freezer.’
‘OK.’ He smiles. I smile back. He really is rather saucy. How lucky that we ran into each other.
OK, so fortune might have waited until I didn’t have a monster hangover, hairy legs and a handbag full of sick before waving her magic shag wand over my head, but this sort of thing doesn’t really happen very often. It’s being offered on a plate. It’d be rude not to help myself.
It’s a bit tricky locating my key in front of Max. I don’t really want him to see the contents of my bag, which I fully intend to dispose of the moment I’ve located and disinfected important items. When we eventually get inside the flat, there’s no sign of Graham, but I sit Max in front of EastEnders while I busy myself with feeding Shish Kebab and making a big fuss of him in case he gets jealous. Then, on the pretext of unpacking my stuff, I dash upstairs and jump in the shower, hurriedly shaving my legs so I don’t slice Max to pieces and slathering myself in lemon-scented body oil. Delicious. I know it’s a bit obvious, smelling suspiciously fresh when I’ve just spent three hours travelling, but who cares. There’s no point pretending. We both know what he’s here for.
And it sure isn’t homemade soup.
Anyway, sticking to one-night stands means I don’t have to play stupid games any more. I can make it perfectly clear that I’m after a quick bunk up without fretting that it’ll make him lose interest. The curse of the SOFA just doesn’t apply any more.
I’m free.
Whoopee.
In the event, sex with Max is nice. Shadow play is completely unnecessary and I don’t even feel the need to ask him to move his legs so I can rummage for the remote, either. His underwear is clean and white, not grey, tatty and Y-fronted, which I take as a good sign, particularly as we weren’t expecting to see each other today, and so I couldn’t reasonably have expected him to have come prepared. Of course it might mean that he’s one of those superstitious types who always wears pristine grundies in case he gets mown down by a bus. Which probably means he’s a complete Mummy’s boy. But since I won’t be seeing him again after today, who cares?
He goes straight for Croissants. What’s more, he seems to know what to do. And he doesn’t volley off a huge fart afterwards and then expect me to play Dutch Ovens, which I’m very grateful for. So all in all I have a nice time. Not wonderful, by any stretch of the imagination.
But nice. In the sort of way Madeira cake is nice. Pleasant.
It’s only post-shag, while I’m still basking in that warm, tingly glow, that the alarm bells start clanging. You see, instead of stubbing out his fag and turning his back on me, as could only reasonably be expected of even the best one-night stand, Max props himself up on one elbow and pats the space on the bed next to him.
‘What?’ I eye him suspiciously. I mean, sorry to rain on his parade and all that, but I’ve got stuff to do. I’ve got to rake all that sick out of my spiral-bound address book before it starts to rust, for a start. What’s he doing? Is he expecting me to congratulate him on
his performance or what?
‘Cuddle up.’ He grins.
I gape at him in shock. Now I’m not much of a connoisseur re one-nighters, or even one-afternooners, come to that, but I do know this kind of behaviour isn’t quite the ticket. I mean it’s not normal, is it, expecting me to get slushy when all I want is a kip? Shouldn’t he be fucking off out of it about now? Max smiles at me again, showing off a row of perfect pearly whites. Actually, I can’t help noticing that they’re starting to look a little too perfect. Like some cheesy toothpaste advert.
‘I want to know everything about you.’ He grins lazily, pulling my head down onto his chest in sloppy Mills & Boon fashion.
‘You do?’ I grit my teeth.
’Everything.’ He seems to expect me to be pleased.
God, I hate it when people ask me to tell them about myself. I’m never quite sure how to answer. Or how much detail to go into. Does Max, for instance, need to know that I occasionally piss on people’s toothbrushes when I’m annoyed with them? Or that I once used one of Sam’s girlfriend’s face flannels as loo roll at her birthday dinner because they’d run out and I hate having to drip dry. Or is that just too much information? Whatever I say, it’s bad enough when it takes the form of self-congratulatory bullshit at some godawful dinner party. Talking about this stuff with someone who’s just been nuzzling my nether regions really does seem rather de trop.
‘What do you want to know?’ I ask, more than a little perturbed as he searches for my icy feet under the duvet with his own warm ones. This is way too intimate for my liking. Couldn’t we have just left it at the bunk up? Or the Croissants, even. But footsie? Forget it.
‘Whatever you feel like telling me.’ He grins again. I reluctantly tell him about the least interesting bits of my life in the hope that I’ll actually bore him to death. Either that, or he’ll feel claustrophobic and leave. Anything just to get the bed back to myself. All this attention is just plain freaky. I tell him about how I’ve been sacked, due to self-motivation issues. Which, I may add, I blame entirely on the exceptionally high standard of daytime TV these days.
