by Mina Ford
‘And why? Why didn’t you tell us?’ Sam blurts out.
‘I am telling you.’
‘But we didn’t even know you were seeing anyone. Is it someone we know? Are you pregnant?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Because if you are, we’ll support you. You don’t have to rush into anything, you know. Ouch!’ he yelps, as a pissed-off Pussy digs him in the ribs.
‘Who is he?’ Pussy asks. ‘Is he successful?’
‘I should bloody say so,’ George interrupts, throwing her one of his ‘looks’. I’m delighted he obviously hates her as much as I do.
‘You already knew about this?’ Sam starts to look cross.
‘Course, darling.’ George winces as David, almost imperceptibly, steps on his toe.
‘You can’t have met someone,’ Janice spits. ‘You never even go out. And you said you were happy being single. You said…’
God. I feel as though I’ve promised her sweets at the checkout, then changed my mind at the last minute.
‘What’s going on?’ Sam eyes George with all the affection one usually reserves for a rabid dog.
‘I mean,’ Janice carries on, ‘you were the one who said you wanted to be single for ever. I thought you’d be like those women in Sainsburys with the purple holey tights and the knitted berets. I thought, I honestly thought you’d end up living in your car or taking over from that woman who stands on Trinity Road roundabout and flashes her bum at cars.’
‘It’s not Jake, is it?’ Sam interrupts, a worried expression flickering across his face.
‘Who?’ I ask. ‘The woman on Trinity Road roundabout? I don’t think so. I mean I know Jake is kind of fond of flashing his arse around, but I don’t think even an old slutbucket like him would want every Tom, Dick and Harry in Wandsworth bogging at his bum.’
‘You know full well what I mean.’
‘I didn’t really want to tell you all yet,’ I tease. ‘Not until I’d told my mum. But…’
Like buggery I’m telling my mum. She’ll have a hairy baby if she so much as catches an inkling of what I’m planning to do. After all, we’re talking wedding fake here, not wedding cake. This isn’t exactly what she planned for me when she scrimped and saved on her schoolteacher’s salary to put me through university. Somehow, I can’t exactly see her dusting down the hatbox and talking royal icing. And I can’t bear to hurt her feelings by playing the ‘no grandchildren’ card again. So as far as she’s concerned, I’m keeping well and truly schtum. After all, what the eye doesn’t see and all that.
‘Well.’ I shrug ‘You’re my best friends in the world.’
‘With the exception of her.’ George points at Pussy.
I ignore him. I can see Sam’s furious already.
‘So of course it would mean an awful lot to me if you could all be there for my big day. We were hoping for the Fourth of July…’
‘Independence Day,’ says Sam, not without a touch of irony. I ignore him too.
‘But everything was booked up so we’re going for early September instead. So don’t say I don’t give you plenty of notice.’
Janice is silent. In fact, she’s too busy hyperventilating to say anything at all. Considering the possibility of slapping her face on the pretext of calming her down, I reject it in case it’s construed as an attempt on my part at taking the piss.
‘There’s just so much to sort out,’ I flap, waving my hands about and thoroughly enjoying playing the part of blushing bride-to-be. ‘Guest list. Flowers. Food. And of course the cake’s going to have to be the complete dog’s bollocks, what with me being a cook and all. How am I ever going to find the time?’ Actually, I can’t care less about the cake. Granted, I dreamed of a big white wedding when I was a little girl, joining in with the excited chitter-chatter of princesses, plaits, ponies and pink marquees as we sucked on sherbet dib dabs and swirled red liquorice bootlaces round our wedding fingers. But now, I can’t see why we don’t just have the reception down the Punjab Paradise or the Peking Palace. Especially with the circumstances regarding the love stuff being what they are. And, as for the guest list, I rather think we’ll be keeping it small.
‘I can’t wait to go dress shopping,’ I add.
Janice looks so disappointed, as though she’s just started a new job and someone has asked her to scrub out the lav, that I can’t resist one final tease. ‘I can just see you in lilac. With puffed sleeves.’
The relief on her face when I finally admit it’s only David I’m marrying is a picture. I haven’t beaten her to it after all. Well, not really.
Unfortunately, as far as Sam is concerned, the whole idea goes down like a Brussels sprout down a toddler.
‘I can’t think of anything worse than marrying someone you don’t love,’ he says quietly.
Personally, I think that’s pretty rich, coming from him. But his friendship, and therefore his approval, means a lot to me. I love Sam to bits. I can’t bear for him to be annoyed with me.
‘Oooh, can’t you?’ George says. ‘I can.’
‘So can I,’ I say cheerfully, trying to smooth things over. ‘Lots and lots of things,’ George carries on wittering. ‘Silk flower arrangements, for one. Lambrusco, there’s another. Anything grape-based in a screw-topped bottle, come to think of it. Erm…’
‘People who say doofer. And doobrey,’ adds David.
‘And malarkey,’ Janice agrees.
‘Menthol fags’ (George again).
‘Being fat’ (Pussy).
‘Being poor’ (Janice).
‘You do know they’ll ask you the colour of his toothbrush, don’t you?’ Pussy pulls on a teensy-weensy angora sweater and shivers prettily. ‘I saw it on Green Card.’
I’m tempted to whack her one round the face but I don’t want her running to the Home Office or something ridiculous and spoiling everything, so I simply explain that we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
‘And it’s all going to be fine,’ I assure them. ‘For George and David, yes,’ Sam mutters ‘What about you?’ ‘What about me?’ I ask. ‘Don’t ask me if I’m sure I love him, for God’s sake. It’s not like we’re getting married for real, anyway.’
‘You are getting married for real, you silly girl.’ ‘Only on paper. And it’s not like I’m going into this with my eyes shut. I know exactly what I’m doing.’
‘Are they paying you?’ I can practically see the pound signs going Kerching! across Janice’s eyeballs.
‘No,’ I say. ‘But it is a mutual arrangement. I get to benefit too.’
‘Well, I hope you’re not going to be wearing that.’ Pussy looks at my outfit in distaste. ‘I hope one of these boys is going to take you in hand and get you something decent to wear.’
‘She can get her own clothes, thank you,’ George snaps. ‘And I certainly don’t think she needs advice from the likes of you, love. You with your prissy little name and your little dolly clothes. I bet your mother’s called something really common like Cheryl.’
Pussy’s bottom lip starts to wobble. George, as usual, has obviously hit the nail right on the head.
I rush to appease Sam, who is looking furious.
‘No.’ Sam holds up both his hands and I can’t help noticing how huge they are. Big, safe hands. ‘What was that you were saying about you getting to benefit as well?’
‘Well,’ I say slowly, ‘I’m going to be moving house. It makes sense, anyway, for me to be living with David if we’re going to be married. It’ll look more realistic.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to move out of your flat,’ he says coldly. ‘What was it? You didn’t want to “lose your independence”. Well, I hate to say it, Simpson, but I think you’ve bloody well gone and done that now. So George’s pad is good enough for you, is it? But not mine.’
‘Oh Sam, please try and understand.’ I go to hug him but he pulls away.
‘Understand what? That you’re making the biggest mistake of your life? You do realise you’ll end
up regretting this, don’t you?’
‘Of course I won’t. And if I do, this is the twenty-first century. There is such a thing as divorce now. We don’t have to stay together until we cark it.’
‘That’s the general idea, isn’t it?’ Sam points out. ‘I mean this isn’t exactly what you’d call romantic, is it?’
‘And what would you know?’ I ask him. ‘Your idea of romance is bringing home a takeaway and asking your girlfriend to warm it through.’
‘I’ll come,’ Janice offers. ‘I’ll be there for you, hon.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘As long as I can bring Jasper.’
‘OK.’
‘I’ll come too if you like,’ Pussy says. ‘If Kirsty—”Katie.’ ‘Sorry.’ She flashes me a smile that’s about as genuine as a moody Vuitton bag. ‘If Katie here wants to get married then we should surely all go along to support her. And I love weddings.’ She looks at Sam petulantly.
‘I bet you do,’ George says. ‘Let’s face it, love. Nice wedding on a Saturday’s probably your equivalent of a weekly whip round Sainsbury’s. Who knows what you might pick up? Or who, to be more exact.’
‘That’s not fair, George,’ Sam says quietly. I shiver. I hate Sam’s quiet voice. It means he’s internally combusting. I think we should go before he explodes. He does this very rarely, but when he does he goes up like Sydney Harbour on Millennium Eve.
‘Oh, come off it,’ George says. ‘The little cow’s in it for all she can get. Her mother’s probably been waiting forever to palm her off onto some successful blokey like yourself. And she won’t stop at you. Do you think for a minute she’d be hanging round you if Richard Branson glanced twice in her direction? Oh no, darling. She’d be off like Linda Lusardi’s bra.’
‘Right.’ Sam’s lips are white with fury. ‘Get out.’
Then he turns to me.
‘And as for you,’ he says in the disappointed tone of voice my mother reserves for occasions when she wants to make me feel extra guilty, ‘I’d have thought you’d have had more sense. I just hope you realise how selfish these two are being before it’s too late.’
‘The whole point is that she’s being completely unselfish.’ Janice tries, not very successfully, to back me up. Unfortunately her attempt cuts no ice with Sam. He ignores her completely, stabbing a finger at me instead.
‘It’s rude to point,’ I say childishly.
‘Don’t be facetious.’
‘Don’t pretend you’re my dad then.’
‘You haven’t thought this through at all, have you, Simpson?’ he lectures me. ‘What happens in five years’ time when you suddenly decide you want children before it’s too late and you’re married to a Jaffa?’
‘A what?’ George booms.
‘A Jaffa,’ I explain. ‘You know, seedless.’
‘Oooh,’ George spits. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the quality of David’s seed, thank you very much. My God. I never had you down for a homophobe, darling. Still, you know what they say. He who doth protest too much and all that. Takes one to know one.’
‘Look, if I ever do change my mind about having children, I’ll come to you, Sam, for a sample of your quality heterosexual semen, OK? So there really is no need for you to worry. I’ll be OK. Really.’
‘I think you’ll live to regret it.’ He looks at me sadly.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘And you’ll probably understand when you’ve had time to think about it. I told you already. I don’t want to get married. Ever. So I’m really not losing out.’
‘Aren’t you?’ ‘What?’ ‘Leave her alone.’ George pulls on my arm. ‘Come on, Katie darling, let’s go. Why do you have to try and spoil everything, Sam? Just because you have no idea what it’s like to be in love.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ Sam says quietly, as Pussy gazes up at him besottedly. ‘I know perfectly well, thank you.’
‘Being in love with yourself doesn’t count.’ I flounce off without turning back to look at him, so I won’t see the hurt look I know will cross his face as he shuts the door in mine.
Chapter 15
I hump the flotsam and jetsam of my life round to George and David’s in dribs and drabs. The following Saturday, I wave an excited Janice off to Paris before chucking Rollerblades, clothes, CDs, ghettoblaster, espresso machine, books, a jumble of mismatched crockery and—last but not least— Graham and Shish Kebab, who are both yowling with outrage in their baskets, into the Rustbucket. Then I throw one last look towards my flat before we pootle northwards, leaving Balham for good.
‘Onwards and upwards, eh boys?’ I crank up the volume on my ancient car stereo and smile as we turn onto the Balham High Road and drive north towards Clapham Common.
George has obviously been awaiting our arrival. Clad in his favourite violet shaggy coat and a pair of enormous black boots, he clops out through the front door the moment I putter to a halt by the kerb. He’s waving and signalling hysterically. I have no idea what he’s after so I merely shrug my shoulders and switch off the ignition. He motions for me to wind down the window.
‘Park a bit further up,’ he hisses.
‘Why? I’m not in anyone’s way.’
‘We don’t want that sodding wheelie bin right outside the front door, darling. What’ll the neighbours think?’
I ignore him, clambering out of the passenger door and opening the back to let Graham and Shish Kebab out.
‘You haven’t brought them?’ George looks horrified.
‘Of course I have.’ I put Graham’s basket down on the pavement and hand Shish Kebab to George. He shrinks away and the cat, sensing a possible rival, mewls indignantly.
‘What did you think I was going to do with them?’ I say, hurt. ‘Put them up for adoption?’
‘You can sling them in the Finsbury Park reservoir for all I care.’ George picks up my ghettoblaster and walks, wiggling his hips in exaggerated disdain, towards the house. ‘You do realise I’m dangerously allergic, don’t you? I could go into anaphylactic shock in seconds with these little buggers around. I just hope they’re toilet trained. I don’t want them spraying the soft furnishings.’
‘Of course they are.’ I bend to stroke Graham’s nose through the bars of his travel basket and jump back as he goes to scratch me.
‘Vicious little bastard as well, that one, isn’t he?’ George tuts.squashed up for too long ‘He’s just upset,’ I protest. ‘He’s been squashed up for too long.’
‘God, you sad bitch.’ George puts the cat basket down in the hall, making absolutely no attempt to free its occupant. ‘You’ll be thinking the little bags of shite are your own children next.’
Despite the fact that they are most unwelcome, Graham and Shish Kebab seem to like their new home. And I can’t really complain. My new bedroom is twice the size of my old one. Plus, I get to use all the latest mod cons in the kitchen.
My first week is taken up with preparing for the christening in Lewisham and for the wedding of some ghastly girl called Marina who I met at Poppy’s bash. But then I’m free to spend the next week happily painting my new office a rather delicious shade of dark pink. And when it’s finished I decide I love it so much I could live in it. David generously lends me his laptop so I don’t have to use my ancient Mac any more and I place advertisements in all the local papers, next to ads for comedy nights and articles on the threatened closure of local nurseries, which have indignant Hermès-clad mothers leaping out of Mercedes people carriers all over Canonbury to waggle clipboards and petitions in the faces of perfectly innocent passers-by. Then I sit back in my lovely pink office and wait.
The first caller on my new business line is—quite predictably—my mother.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks, hurt.
‘I was going to tell you when I’d settled in,’ I sigh, ripping the paper off a Pepperami with my teeth and jamming the end in my mouth. ‘I only moved in a week ago.’
‘You’ve moved?’ she screeches.
&
nbsp; ‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘I assumed that’s what you meant.’
‘Katherine Simpson, you’re not telling me you’ve moved house and not even thought to mention it to your own mother?’
‘I’m sorry, Mum, I—’
‘You know Jeff was right,’ she huffs into the receiver.
‘What’s Jeff got to do with it?’ I raise my eyes to the ceiling and chew off another bit of sausage.
‘We had Sam coming round the other day, all upset about some row or other you’ve had, the pair of you. Honestly, you’re worse than you were as kids. And don’t think I don’t know what you did to him with that spade. If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times. I’ve got eyes in the back of my head.’
‘I was four.’ ‘Old enough to know better.’
‘Did he say what the row was about?’ I’m suspicious. Bugger Sam. If he’s mentioned the wedding I’ll bloody well rip his balls off.
‘Refused, apparently,’ Mum says. ‘It was the girlfriend, I think.
Nice little thing. Lovely manners. Yes, it was she who brought the whole thing up in the first place.’
‘Along with most of her dinner, I bet,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ I sigh. ‘It’s just all really silly. Anyway, Mum, I’m living at George’s to save some money so I can start up my catering business properly. I’m going to make a real go of it this time.’
Obviously, I don’t tell her about my end of the bargain. That’s going to have to be a closely guarded secret. But I’m much better off now I’m not paying rent, and Poppy’s dad, bless him, has paid my invoice early, so I’m hoping I won’t let anyone down.
‘Good for you, darling.’ She sounds delighted. ‘I know you’ll make a success of it.’
Christ Almighty. There she goes again, with her bloody care and support.
Now I’m going to sodding well have to make a success of it, aren’t I? Otherwise I’ll be had up for cruelty to menopausal old women. I’m lining her up for disappointment, of course. It’ll be even worse when she is disappointed and tries really hard not to show it. Cue guilt trip from hell.
