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

by Mina Ford

  ‘Fuck off.’ I giggle, forgetting that the pizza guy can hear me.

  ‘No, that’s me she’s telling to fuck off,’ Sam says. ‘Not you.’

  ‘Peas,’ I interrupt. ‘I love peas on pizza. And in curry.’

  ‘Curry? Oh, no, sorry, not curry on the pizza, but we will have some peas, please. And some tuna and some mushrooms.’

  ‘And goat’s cheese,’ I say. ‘Ask if they’ve got goat’s cheese.’

  ‘Goat’s cheese then. And some fine tiger prawns sprinkled over the top?’

  ‘I hate prawns,’ I remind him. ‘Nasty pink commas that taste of sewage.’

  ‘Right, sorry, hold the prawns. No just rewind a bit and whack those prawns on half of it.’

  And so on, until we’ve ordered about twenty different toppings each and the pizza guy is telling us firmly that yes, actually, they do draw the line at bananas and chocolate and that no, we can’t have Smarties sprinkled all over the damn thing.

  ‘How come I can never do this with any of my girlfriends?’ Sam asks me later, as we munch and slurp our way through the pizza, which, when it finally arrives, is the size of a dustbin lid.

  ‘Because you always plump—if you’ll excuse the expression—for the anorexic ones,’ I inform him coolly, taking a rogue prawn off my fourth slice of pizza and lobbing it back into the box. ‘Like that Pussy creature. You can be so thick sometimes, you know. Did you think they all naturally had thighs the width of skipping ropes?’

  ‘Well, you do.’ Sam brushes his sandy mop into his baseball cap and looks at my legs. ‘The amount you put away you ought to be the size of a tower block by now.’

  ‘Well, now you come to mention it, I don’t hear the talking scales at the supermarket yelling “No coach parties please”, when I step on them, no.’ I laugh, looking down at my thighs.

  ‘Or “One at a time please” ‘ Sam joins in, laughing.

  ‘But I’m not that skinny,’ I say defensively. ‘I mean I haven’t got BHS.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘BHS. Big Head Syndrome. I mean, I don’t look like a football perched on a javelin, do I?’

  ‘No-o.’

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ I say. ‘Dieting’s boring, Sam. Counting fat units is even less exciting than watching Des O’Connor tonight. So I just don’t bother with it. I do treacle roll and Kettle chips instead.’

  ‘God.’ Sam rolls over on the floor and grins at me. ‘Why can’t all girls be like you? The ones I take out to dinner gnaw on one tiny asparagus spear then say they’re full. Costs me a fortune in wasted food.’

  ‘And when you think of all those poor starving Africans,’ I say, ‘it’s criminal. Well, I hate seeing things go to waste.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I grin, feeling a lot better now. ‘Which is why I’m having the last bit of pizza.’

  ‘You think so, do you?’ Sam’s head snaps towards the box where the last slice is waiting temptingly, oozing with cheese and smelling of fried onions.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I tell him. ‘That’s mine. S’got my name on it.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘I’m having it.’

  ‘Not if I get there first.’

  We both jump to it and fight to snaffle the last slice until I slip on Sam’s polished floor and flip, arse over tit, ending up on my back on top of the pizza box. On my way down, I grab the front of Sam’s sweatshirt and end up taking him down with me. For a split second we find ourselves on top of each other in some kind of farcical clinch.

  Quickly, I sit up, shoving him to the floor.

  ‘Gerroff. Your hair’s tickling my nose.’

  He pulls away, laughing.

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t think either of us will be eating that pizza now. Most of it’s stuck to the back of your head.’

  ‘Yuck.’

  As I pick the worst of it off, Sam looks really thoughtful, as though some amazing idea has suddenly occurred to him.

  ‘What?’ I ask him. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found the answer to all my problems in the bottom of a pizza box.’

  ‘No,’ he says slowly. ‘But I have got an idea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why don’t you move in here?’

  ‘And why the buggery bollocks would I want to do that?’ ‘Not as in move in, move in,’ he rushes to reassure me. ‘Not unless you want to, of course.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I’m joking,’ he says hurriedly. ‘But you could have the spare room, couldn’t you? It would save you paying rent on your flat while you get started. You could even use the study as an office.’

  ‘I can do it myself, thank you.’

  ‘Simpson, don’t be so stubborn.’ Sam starts to clear away hunks of mozzarella from the floor. ‘You’ve just told me you have no money. And I can’t lend you anymore ’cos it’s all tied up in my house. And the business. But I can share my house with you so you don’t have so many outgoings. Come on, Simpson. There’s not much alternative. Not unless you want to go back to working for someone else. And you know you don’t want to do that.’

  ‘And who are you to say what I want, exactly?’ I say through gritted teeth. This is typical of Sam, trying to control me like this. He’s done it ever since my dad disappeared with that oriental temptress.

  ‘Well, I…’ He looks surprised at my tone of voice.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘I just thought it was best.’

  ‘There you go again,’ I snap. ‘Thinking you’re my dad. Well, I’m several months older than you, Sam Freeman, and don’t you forget it.’

  ‘Don’t be flippant.’

  ‘Don’t be a twat then.’

  I know I sound ungrateful. But I don’t want to give up my independence. I can’t actually think of anything worse than living in someone else’s flat, cooking my dinner in shifts, creeping around so as not to get in the way and having to miss EastEnders because his mates are playing Grand Theft Auto on the PlayStation 2. And the problem with Sam is that he just won’t leave well alone. He’ll take it upon himself to meddle in every aspect of my life, ‘just making sure I’m OK’. And if I want to set up my own business, I need to feel that I can do things alone. Without some father figure always looking out for me.

  And it’s not just that, of course. There’s the Pussy factor. If My Little Pony started spending any time here, I’d have to give up breathing or something.

  ‘So you think I should give up my flat?’ I ask him coldly.

  ‘If you have to, yes.’

  ‘Well, for your information, I don’t “have” to do anything. I can do what I want. I’m thirty years of age.’

  ‘Start acting it then.’

  ‘Piss off,’ I say. ‘On second thoughts, I’ll piss off. It is your house, after all.’

  ‘Stay.’

  I calm down a bit after Sam gives me a fag. I can’t really afford to buy my own these days. And I suppose it was nice of him to offer. He was only trying to help, after all. It’s just that I can’t bear to acknowledge that I need help. After all I went through with Jake bloody Carpenter, I need to believe I can do all this on my own.

  ‘That better?’ he asks, as I take a deep drag.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Good.’ He grins, obviously relieved to see I’m calmer. ‘Shall I give you some to take home with you? I don’t suppose you can afford such luxuries these days.’

  Suddenly, a white flash of fury erupts in my chest, surprising even me.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ I jump up, throwing my lit cigarette onto the floor and pulling on my jacket.

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’ I nod towards the cigarette end. I have no further use for it.’

  ‘I mean,’ Sam picks up the burning end and throws it into the ashtray, ‘don’t go home. Let’s sort things out properly.’

  ‘I don’t need to sort things out, thank you,’
I say. ‘Especially not with you. I’m not staying round here to be treated like some sort of bloody charity case. Do you see me wandering around outside Woollies, shaking a little tin and giving out stickers?’

  ‘No, but… I just thought…’

  ‘Trouble is,’ I stab a finger at his chest, you didn’t just think, did you? Otherwise you’d realise you’ve just made me feel about this big.’ hold my forefinger and thumb about half an inch apart.

  ‘I was trying to help,’ he protests as I open the front door and step outside into the early summer sunshine.

  ‘I don’t need your help.’

  ‘Then what, exactly, do you intend to do? Go home to your mother? You can’t afford to live in that flat without a job. You know that. The rent’s extortionate for one person as it is.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t exactly force Janice to move out, now did I?’

  ‘You didn’t exactly try very hard to find someone else to replace her, did you?’

  ‘Fuck off, Sam.’ I’m shouting now. ‘I don’t have to replace her if I don’t want to. I can do what I want.’

  ‘Oh, grow up,’ I hear him say just before I slam the door in his face. I open up the letterbox.

  ‘Grow up yourself,’ I shriek through it, then stomp off down the path, almost ending up in the privet hedge. When I get to the street I turn round. He’s standing at the window, an odd look—contempt, perhaps—on his face. ‘And don’t call me Simpson,’ I bellow at the top of my voice.

  I steam down Hearnville Road in a foul temper. Me, grow up? Who the hell does he think he is? Just because he bestows that horrible game show host’s smile on every female who has the misfortune to cross his path, and gets away with murder. Well, it isn’t going to work on me. It just annoys me. And another thing that really blimming well bugs me, I tell myself, passing a couple of middle-aged men enjoying the sunshine on the Common, is that the minute the sun comes out, people all over the capital decide it’s OK to behave as though they’ve undergone some sort of dreadful taste lobotomy. Why do blokes who have short, hairy, sausagey legs think it’s perfectly OK to wear shorts at all hours of the day just because it’s gone above seventy?

  I unlock my front door, still fuming. Who cares if I haven’t got a job? It just means I can spend the rest of the afternoon jamming down oversalted instant noodles and watching shit telly. And that’s exactly what I do.

  A couple of hours later, I’m engrossed in some shallow fly-on-the-wall documentary when the phone shrills and, probably because I’m sick to the molars of my own company and am feeling restless and sort of squinchly after my row with Sam, I decide to answer the damn thing for a change, even though common sense tells me I should be avoiding all calls for the immediate future until Max gets it into his thick head that I don’t want anything more to do with him.

  It isn’t Max. It’s George, calling to demand my immediate presence in the posh end of Islington.

  ‘Can’t,’ I mutter, glancing down at the grey jogging bottoms and ancient Wham! ‘Choose Life’ T-shirt I’m unashamedly slobbing about in. ‘Can’t leave the house until I find out whether the Harris family from Weston Super-Mare are going to miss their flight or not, I’m afraid. Mr Harris has got half an hour to get back to the airport with little Callum’s passport and if he doesn’t make it they’ll lose their holiday to Magaluf. A whole year’s savings down the drain. I’m on the edge of my seat here.’

  ‘Please?’ George sounds anxious. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘So’s the Harrises’ holiday to Majorca,’ I joke. ‘For them, anyway. They’ve never been able to afford to go abroad before.’

  ‘Pretty please?’ he wheedles. ‘With hundreds and thousands on top?’

  Bloody hell. It isn’t normally like George to say please once during a conversation. Twice is unthinkable. Something dreadful must have happened. ‘OK. Keep your designer stubble on. Oh, look at that. He’s back.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Harris. Made it by the seat of his shell suit. Thank goodness for that. Now all I have to do is wait and see if bubbly Denise Mason, nineteen, from Hertford gets her standby flight and we’re home and dry.’

  ‘Katie…’

  ‘Sorry. Are you going to tell me what’s happened?’

  ‘I can’t say over the phone.’ George goes all mysterious. ‘Just say you’ll come, darling. I need your help.’

  Well, that’s a different matter. No one has needed my help for ages. Not even Mum. For some reason even she hasn’t bothered to call for almost a fortnight. And I have to admit to being a teensy bit curious. George can’t usually keep his mouth shut for one second. So the fact that he’s refused to tell me over the phone about whatever it is that’s bothering him holds my interest for longer than your average episode of Dawson’s Creek. Perhaps it’s something exciting and illegal.

  God, I hope so. Anything to brighten things up a bit.

  ‘Where shall I meet you?’

  ‘The Italian café in Upper Street. That’s the one we do like, with the expensive menu and the swarthy waiters, as opposed to the one we don’t like, with the nasty red checked tablecloths and the candles in bottles.’

  ‘And is that the royal we?’

  ‘Certainly,’ he says cockily. ‘Well, it’s me and David at any rate. See you there, darling. And look glam. I don’t want you turning up looking like a bloody woolly mammoth on acid again. This is important.’

  After he’s gone I look down at my worn-in comfies. So I can’t really go out looking like a rag ’n’ bone man then. And, more importantly, do I actually have the raw materials to do anything about it? Knickers are scarce. Clean knickers are out of the ruddy question. I think I used the last nice pair up on Max. It really is time I did some laundry but there’s so much else to think about at the moment. Dislodging Shish Kebab from where he’s soaking in blissful slumber in my knicker drawer, I rummage through a dismal pile of grizzly grey buckets and a selection of dingy bras. In the end, I decide that an ancient, slightly see-through pink and white striped swimsuit is probably a damn sight more respectable than my grungiest period pants. I cover it with a stinging-pink linen shirt I find scrumpled up at the foot of the bed. I sniff it gingerly for the scent of takeaway biryani or worse, but instead get a whiff of Comfort, which means it’s only creased because I haven’t bothered to hang it up after wash day. I add a pair of black moleskin combat pants from the floor, sponging off a teeny spattering of ketchup and checking to see that there are no socks or knicks tucked inside, waiting to creep like slugs from the ankle holes the moment I hit the crowded tube. Shuffling to the mirror, I untangle a worm of supernoodle out of my hair and twist my curls into a topknot with a bright green scrunchie, leaving just a couple of coppery tendrils loose. My skin is clammy and grey, so I dust pinky gold blusher over my cheekbones, slick on a bit of neutral lippie and, before I know it, I’m on autopilot.

  Eventually, I emerge from Angel station, turn right onto Islington High Street and make for George’s favourite Italian on Upper Street.

  ‘I came as quickly as I could.’ I scuttle over to the corner of the sunny courtyard where George and David are sitting gossiping, a half-drunk bottle of Pinot Grigio and a dishful of glossy Queen olives between them.

  ‘Story of my life, darling,’ George giggles. ‘Oooh, God.’ He looks me up and down with the derision only a professional snob can summon. ‘Christ, you look as rough as a dog’s tits, sweetie. Doesn’t she, David? What happened?’

  ‘Hectic weekend,’ I lie, taking the extra glass they’ve laid out for me and glugging copious quantities of wine into it.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ George looks sceptical.

  ‘Well,’ I admit, ‘I just haven’t been used to getting out much, that’s all. No dosh, you see. And I’m feeling a bit pissy today.’

  ‘Figures,’ George says. ‘You’ve got a face like a bloody slapped bum again. What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve argued with Sam.’

  ‘When are you just going to admit you f
ancy each other and shag each other stupid?’ George asks. ‘Get the whole damn thing out of your system?’

  ‘But I don’t fancy him,’ I say. ‘He thinks he’s my bloody father, for one thing. And now he’s really pissed me off. He’s only gone and asked me to move in with him.’

  ‘Told you,’ George hisses. ‘He lurves you.’

  ‘Not like that, you dope.’ I shrug. ‘He just wants to keep an eye on me because he thinks I’m poor.’

  ‘Have some more wine,’ David offers kindly, picking up the bottle and sloshing more into my glass ‘And some nibbly bits. Are you an olivey person? I don’t remember? There’s a marinated anchovy if you prefer.’

  I relax, tipping my head back to enjoy the sunshine warming my face.

  ‘Don’t overdo it,’ George warns. ‘The boiled lobster look is so unattractive.’

  In the opposite corner of the courtyard, a delicious waiter is seating a tall, slim girl in a raspberry linen shift dress next to the honeysuckle-covered wall. Her hair, hanging in a glossy sheet down her back, is the colour of golden treacle and she’s groomed to perfection. Something about her makes me watch her, and I can’t help playing a game with myself, imagining who it is she’s waiting for. Someone special, from the way she keeps checking her lipgloss and looking at her watch.

  That’s absolutely the best thing about having no boyfriend. At least I don’t have to torture myself with the hidden fear that it’s him she’s re-applying her make-up for.

  George refills my wine glass for the second time, and in the split second it takes me to look down at it and take a sip, Raspberry Dress’s suitor has arrived and is bending to kiss her cheek.

  He looks very familiar somehow.

  Startlingly familiar, in fact.

  As he turns to wave the waiter over, I catch a glimpse of his face in profile.

  And with a jolt of recognition, I almost call out.

  It’s Jasper.

  Buggerfuck!

  ‘Right, come on, ladies, tell all,’ I urge, before the boys notice him. I can’t risk them clocking him. If anyone’s going to inform Janice of this little rendezvous, it should surely be me.