by Mina Ford
And of course it might not even be him. After all, I’ve only seen him in profile. And even if it is him, Raspberry Dress isn’t necessarily his bit on the side. She could be his daughter, for all I know. So it wouldn’t do to go jumping to conclusions. I mean, so far I’ve spotted them kissing but there definitely weren’t any tongues. So it could all be perfectly innocent.
Or not.
Still, I definitely don’t want him to see me, so I studiously avoid looking directly at him, inching myself down in my seat so I get backache and asking the boys why they’ve dragged me halfway across London on a lazy Sunday afternoon, when I could have been doing something far more productive like waxing my minky.
‘Well, go on then,’ George urges. David quickly stuffs an anchovy in his mouth so he doesn’t have to do the talking.
‘Oh bloody buggery hell.’ George runs his hands over his velvety black crop and tries to look serious. It doesn’t suit him. ‘We’ve got a proposition for you.’
‘I’m not doing a threesome,’ I say quickly.
At least I don’t think I am. Even though it could reasonably be said that I do quite fancy them both, it does seem a tiny bit sordid.
On the other hand, it would add considerably to this year’s measly score. But I’m not really that kind of girl.
‘God, no.’ George looks shocked.
Well, that’s that then.
‘Do we look remotely as though we might want to involve ourselves in all that?’ he asks. ‘No. Sorry, lovey, but I don’t think we’re ready for rug munching just yet. No, what we wanted to say was…’
‘Yes?’ I encourage. ‘It’s not that Rent My Womb thing again, is it? Because I’ve given you my opinion on that score.’ George takes a deep breath.
‘Katie,’ he says, and it takes a gargantuan effort for me not to wee myself with laughter at the expression on his face. ‘Will you marry us?’
I laugh. ‘Oh George. That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me in my life.’
And it is. You see, I’m naive enough to think he means it metaphorically. The idea of the three of us being friends. Together all the time. Being there for each other. Exactly how a marriage should be, but rarely ever is in this day and age.
Which, of course, is precisely why I’m not bothering. So the prospect of having a friendship pact with David and George is the most attractive I’ve been offered in a long time. It cheers me up immensely. I don’t even mind if I’m not included in the actual sex part. After all, plenty of people are married in the true, forsaking all others sense of the word. And they never have sex.
Well, not with each other, anyway.
It certainly doesn’t cross my mind for a minute that George means it literally. As in the full-on, slip into big frou-frou dress, stick ridiculous spangly crown on head and waltz up aisle feeling like complete twat to sign life away on dotted line type scenario.
Of course, he doesn’t actually want me to marry both of them, he explains later after they’ve rammed a plate of angel hair squid-ink pasta, rocket and Parmesan salad, cappuccino and marscapone ice cream and a bottle of fizz laced with a generous dash of Smirnoff down me to butter me up. He did mean that bit metaphorically. Well, sort of. It’s just that, despite the tonsil-tickling-in-vodka-bar incident, David doesn’t actually feel he knows me well enough to ask me something so ginormously huge, and he’s a teensy bit scared. So George said he’d do the actual asking part. After all, he knows me well enough to understand that it’s completely necessary to soften the blow with alcohol and lard.
The crux of the matter is that David’s visa runs out in a few weeks’ time.
Which is where, normal circumstances prevailing, he buggers off back to the land of Kylie, koalas and kangaroos. But, of course, there’s no way George is having that. Not with a regular bunk up on tap. So a secret marriage has been arranged. David is due to marry Jemima, George’s cousin, an eminent Edinburgh doctor. But she’s inconveniently found someone to fall in love with at the very last minute and, quite understandably, wants to marry him instead.
‘Selfish bitch,’ George mutters, glugging back more wine.
‘It’s not really her fault though, is it?’ David says kindly. ‘But you see, Katie, it does leave us up fanny alley rather.’
I can quite see that it does, but playing for time to cover my surprise, I suggest that we shouldn’t do anything rash. Perhaps George could go back to Oz with David? After all, he hates English weather. He’s Britain’s number one sun wor-shipper. He’d love Australia, wouldn’t he?
All that sea and sunshine. All those glorious beaches.
‘All those queer-bashers?’ he points out. ‘All those open spaces? Miles and miles of nothing? Nowhere to shop, darling? And nowhere to get one’s hair done to one’s satisfaction?’
‘He has a point.’ David shrugs. ‘It can all get rather heterosexual over there. All brawn and no brain, as it were. And we had rather planned to stay in London for now.’
‘Yes, we sodding well had,’ George says bitterly. ‘We’ve just spent a fortune on a new love seat for the garden. It’s symbloodybolic, darling. We can hardly cart that halfway across the world, now can we? So what do you think? I mean it’s not as though you’re going to want to go marrying anyone else a few years down the line, is it? You’ve said so yourself.’
‘Absolutely,’ David agrees, putting one hand on George’s knee and downing an Amaretto with ice in one. ‘I wouldn’t even be asking you if I thought it’d mean you giving up your freedom. And there’s the small matter of fringe benefits.’
‘What?’
‘You tell her,’ he urges George.
‘Fifty grand,’ George bursts out. ‘I come into some money from the trust when I hit thirty. You can have fifty grand if you’ll marry David so we can stay together. Say you’ll think about it. You can even come and live in my house if you want. Rent free.’
‘And we’ll let you bring your shags back,’ David adds.
‘Yes.’ George nods vigorously. ‘Can’t say fairer than that, now can we? Not many husbands let their wives fornicate with total strangers under their own roof.’
I light one of George’s fags while I think about it for a moment. Fifty grand would mean I could have another go at the catering. Properly .Budgets, cash flow projections, hedging, fencing, whatever they are. And George and David are right. I don’t want to get married. Not in the true sense of the word, anyway. And if I’m already married, I can’t be tempted any time in the future, can I?
But I love these guys to bits. Both of them. Even if David won’t sleep with me. I can’t take their money.
Can I?
Can I buffalo.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell them. ‘I can’t accept.’
‘Oh?’ David looks disappointed.
‘I mean, I can’t accept the money.’ I hesitate. ‘But I would like to come and live with you. It would help me out no end.’
OK, so I’ve refused charity from Sam. But this is different. With George and David, I’m actually doing something in return. Without rent to pay it’ll be much easier to fund my existing venture. And, knowing George and David, they won’t be down my throat about book-keeping and doing the right thing all the time. Hopefully, they’ll actively encourage me to be as irresponsible as I damn well like.
‘And the wedding thing?’ George asks.
‘Well,’ I begin, ‘you’re right. I don’t want to get married.’
‘Oh.’ George is crestfallen.
‘So I’ll do it.’
‘You will?’
‘Sure.’
For a second, I do wonder if I’ve just gone completely doollally. Round the twist. Loop the bloody loo. We could all get into lots of trouble, for starters. I mean, this whole carry-on ain’t exactly legal, as far as I know. What the hell have I just agreed to?
Then I catch sight of their grins. Like huge slices of water-melon, splitting both their faces in half.
‘Oh, Katie.’ George, delight
ed, throws himself at me and gives me a squeeze so tight I can hardly breathe. ‘You’re the best friend ever.’
‘Thanks, Katie.’ David pats my shoulder. ‘You’re a star.’
‘I know.’ I grin. ‘But I’m expecting a big do, mind. I’m not your average “dap me in the dunny then march me to the nearest registry office ’cos I’m up the duff ” sorta Sheila.’
‘Vol-au-vents and everything,’ they both promise.
‘Right.’ I shrug my shoulders and smile at my friends. ‘So when do I move in?’
Chapter 14
I drop round to Janice’s to tell her the news first. With her weekend in Paris looming, she’s just been out on a severe shopping bender. Her cool white and sludge-green bedroom is awash with the latest fashions.
‘Thought you were supposed to wait till you were actually in Paris before you splurged on clothes.’ I help myself to a fag and plonk myself down on her bed, immediately creasing the white linen duvet cover.
‘No point putting myself through retail denial, is there?’ she says firmly, showing me piles of brand new lingerie. And these aren’t your understated Marks ’n’ Sparks jobs either. She’s bought enough pants to keep Agent Provocateur in business for the next decade and more. Stunning, gauzy creations in ice-cream colours. Soft blackberry, palest sugar-almond pink and scrumptious strawberry scraps of satin have been duly purchased, slipped into tiny glossy pink bags, promptly removed and piled on her bed for scrutiny. Everything, but everything, she assures me, as she throws black bin bags full of grey bucket pants out of her bedroom window onto the porch below, has to be brand, spanking new before they actually get there, so he thinks she’s a stylish kind of chick and not some throwaway old slap. And it’s not only the underwear. She’s bought glitzy dresses, glam nighties and a pair of shoes with transparent heels and shiny straps the colour of the foil on a Quality Street noisette triangle.
‘Imagine, Katie.’ She grins, showing me a white sequinned top the size of a handkerchief. ‘In six months’ time I’ll be Mrs Jasper.’
I decide not to tell her about the girl in the raspberry dress. After all, she might not be a serious contender at all. And anyway, Janice probably won’t believe me. And I can’t afford to argue with another one of my friends. So instead I try to tell her about George and David’s proposal.
‘I think George is in love,’ I begin.
‘Yeah, right,’ she scoffs. ‘With himself, you mean?’
‘No,’ I protest. ‘With David.’
‘Nooooo.’
‘Well, they’ve been together for a while now,’ I say. ‘And I think George is even managing to stay faithful. He certainly isn’t the Meat Seeking Missile he was a few weeks ago.’
‘Still,’ Janice examines a scrap of pistachio-coloured lace that in her eyes passes for a pair of pants, ‘it’s easy for them, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘a pair of Marmite miners like them don’t have to burden themselves with all that crippling anxiety and insecurity over other people, do they?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What I mean is, they’re more likely to know what’s going on in each other’s heads than you and Jake did, say.’
‘What about me and Jake?’ I’m suddenly defensive.
‘Well, they probably fancy the same people. Sleep with the same people even, if that’s what they want.’
‘But I really think they love each other,’ I protest. ‘I saw them at Poppy’s wedding. Couldn’t get enough of each other.’
‘Oh, bollocks,’ Janice scoffs. ‘Do you honestly believe in all that rubbish?’
‘Well, no, I mean…’
‘We’ve been through all this, haven’t we? Blokes these days just don’t want to commit,’ she carries on, packing a damsoncoloured teddy into her suitcase. ‘I mean, look at Sam. His flings never last much longer than your average feature film. You won’t find him welding himself to some silly girly like a bit of fuzzy felt. You’ve said so yourself. Even you don’t want a relationship any more. Which is why you shat all over poor Max from such a great height when he was totally in love with you. I’m still having to live that down at work, by the way.’
I decide to wait until I can get hold of Sam before I tell Janice I’m going to marry David. She can’t be bothered to listen to me anyway and after what she’s just said, I don’t really see why she should get to know first, even if Sam is being totally infuriating at the moment. So I call Sam and arrange for us both to go over to his later on. And George and David promise to meet me there so they can explain if I get it all wrong.
Sam opens the door straightaway. And any worries I had over the possibility of any nasty vibes hanging around vanish like a puff of smoke. He’s grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.
‘You’ve had your hair cut,’ I say as he hugs me. I take in his newly shorn self. His floppy fringe has disappeared and his head, when I stroke it, feels all soft and fuzzy. ‘I like it.’
‘You do?’ He looks pleased.
‘Yep.’ I grin. I should’ve known Sam wouldn’t let some silly disagreement over my living arrangements spoil our friendship. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’
‘You too, Simpson.’ He smiles. ‘You look the same as ever.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning it’s good to see you still don’t bother running a brush through that hair.’
‘Ha ha.’
Inside, Sam’s flat, with its newly snow-white painted walls, its swathes of film mags stacked everywhere and the goldfish orange, egg-yolk yellow and Matisse blue splotches he refers to as ‘art’ all over the walls is looking great.
‘I like it,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve made it look really good.’
‘Of course it’s mainly down to me,’ a voice filters into the room and Janice and I look up to see Pussy, stick-thin in a tiny black vest, a weeny scarlet and white skirt and a pair of sexy black mules, emerge from the kitchen.
‘God,’ hisses Janice. ‘It’s that orally fixated slapper from the wedding.’
‘We chose the colours together, didn’t we?’ She gazes up at Sam.
Sam looks momentarily embarrassed at being discovered wallowing in domestic togetherness. And so he should. The two of them have only been seeing each other a matter of weeks.
‘Er…’
‘Have you moved in then?’ Janice probes.
‘Well—’
‘She’s just helping me decorate,’ Sam says quickly. ‘She chose the blue wall over there.’
Pussy looks pissy for a second then, pulling herself together, snipes, ‘That’s an unusual outfit, Kylie.’
‘Katie,’ I say.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She looks not at all sorry. ‘Of course. You were the caterer at my cousin’s wedding. You know, you need some jewellery with that top. To draw the eye away from the dodgy waistline.’
I wait until George and David have arrived, bursting through Sam’s front door in a blur of Habitat catalogues and Heals carriers, before I tell Sam and Janice my news.
‘We’re here,’ they chorus.
‘God, sweetie, don’t look so worried.’ George, about six foot four in his Cuban-heeled boots, practically rips his white PVC trousers as he bends down to air kiss my cheeks. ‘You look knackered, doesn’t she, David?’
‘Well…’
‘Oh, come off it, darling, her eyebags are rouched.’ George starts stabbing numbers excitedly into his mobile phone. ‘’Scuse I, darling. Just got to ring Aria to order some new bedlinen for your room.’
‘Her room?’ Sam asks suspiciously.
‘Never mind that.’ I wave him away and throw George a meaningful look.
‘Sorry, darling.’ George throws his hand to his mouth. ‘You haven’t told them then?’
‘Told us what?’
‘Yes,’ Pussy purrs. ‘Told us what?’
‘Nothing,’ I say.
‘Jesus Christ.’ George bangs his phone on the table in exasperation and looks s
traight at Pussy. ‘That bloody network goes down more often than you do, love.’
‘George…’ Sam warns, as Pussy turns her pretty little nose up. I don’t know why he’s bothering. I’m not even sure she’s understood.
When George has calmed down, I eventually manage to break the news of my forthcoming nuptials to the others. When I’m done, there’s a hideous silence, followed by a sharp intake of breath from Janice and Sam as their jaws crash to the floor. I suppose I can’t exactly blame them for being so shocked. After all, it’s not every day a girl who’s more single than a one-way bus ticket decides to get spliced on a whim, even if the reasoning behind it isn’t exactly fairytale stuff. Of course, I don’t tell them the full story. Not at first, anyway. I don’t let slip exactly who it is I’m marrying until I’ve let them stew a bit. As it is, the only person who looks remotely pleased for me is the odious Pussy. And that’s probably only because she’s relieved because she thinks it means I won’t be hanging around Sam like a rat round a rubbish bin. She looks the type to be jealous of platonic friends.
As the news sinks in, Sam wanders around making hot, sweet tea as though we’ve just been through some kind of emergency, and Janice just stands there looking blatantly bloody furious. Her face wears exactly the same expression it did when Johnny Martin, who she was only with because it was rumoured he had a twelve-inch kidney wiper, snogged her then vommed in her mouth. She’s absolutely horrified. She simply can’t believe I’ve beaten her to it. I’ll be waltzing up that aisle before her. And her with her new underwear and all. But then she always has been very competitive as far as I’m concerned. To her, this is just like the time I pipped her to the post in the 100 m charity butterfly at college. She refused to share her fags with me for a month after that.
‘You will be my bridesmaid, won’t you?’ I tease, enjoying my moment of glory. Janice is so jealous she’s turned the colour of Swarfega. ‘Bet you didn’t think in a million years I’d be marching up that aisle before you. Isn’t it going to be weird, being able to say “my husband this” and “my husband that”?’
‘But…’she stammers, looking aghast. ‘How? Who? And when?’
