by Mina Ford
‘He wasn’t exactly having lunch with me,’ I say. ‘He was having lunch with a woman.’
‘A woman?’ She snaps her head back. ‘What sort of a woman?’
‘Just a woman,’ I say. I don’t think she needs to know that the woman concerned was so, well, sexual that I was staring at her even before I knew she was with Jasper. If I can just get Janice to knock this nonsense on the head now…
‘Well, it could have been his sister then, couldn’t it?’
‘I doubt it,’ I say kindly. ‘She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.’
‘His daughter then?’
‘Well, that’s what I thought,’ I say, relieved. ‘Has he got a daughter?’
‘No idea.’
‘Well then.’
‘And how do you know they were having an affair?’ she demands. ‘Did they get right up on the table and go for it hammer and tongs there and then? Huh?’
‘Well, no…’
‘So?’ she snarls. ‘She could have been anyone. Someone from work even. You know what your problem is, Katie? You’re just jealous.’
‘No I’m not,’ I say, surprised at her tone of voice.
‘You’re a sad, jealous bitch. No one wants to shag you, let alone have a relationship with you. You’ve got to marry a bum bandit ’cos no one else will have you and you just can’t bear to see anyone else happy, can you?’
‘That’s just it,’ I say bravely, even though inside I’m quaking. I haven’t even had a chance to mourn my missed shag with her. We could have had a good old giggle over it, at least. ‘If you were happy, it wouldn’t be so bad. But you’re not, are you? You spent this whole holiday hoping and praying for something that just didn’t happen. You didn’t even enjoy the good bits, like the gratis shopping and, well, the fucking.’
‘He fucks like a warthog,’ she points out. ‘Not even you would enjoy that.’
I decide to ignore her. ‘You can’t enjoy anything any more because you’re so on edge about getting married. I don’t call that happy.’
‘Oh, what would you know?’ she says so harshly that I can’t help wondering if anything else is wrong. And with that, she turns on her heel and storms out of the pub.
Chapter 16
With every booking I get for Neat Eats, my confidence, as well as my bank balance, soars. The breakthrough comes one morning when I realise I’m far happier pounding red peppers into mayonnaise and shredding potatoes for shoestring chips than I ever was slumped in front of daytime TV, watching fat people biff the shit out of each other. And with my newfound confidence in my career comes a healthier attitude towards men.
I decide to assume they all fancy me, unless they expressly tell me otherwise.
In writing.
Which means, of course, that by rights I can quite reasonably expect Johnny Depp, Nicholas Cage and Finn from Holly-oaks to be baying at my door on various occasions in the near future. I mean, none of them have actually contacted me to tell me I’m a complete munter, have they?
OK, so I missed out on a goodie the day I let that bakery chap slip through my fingers, snoring my head off in the bath like that instead of slinking down the stairs, slippery with baby oil and smelling so delicious that he was compelled to rip my clothes off there and then. But nobody’s bloody perfect.
And then, of course, the diminutive Colin was no great catch either. But we’ll gloss over that one. There’s no point in thinking negatively. In future, I decide, pummelling a big wedge of pizza dough into submission, I can do and have exactly what—and who— I want.
I, Katie Simpson, am going to be a success.
On Saturday night, I’m flicking through recipes for a Bar Mitzvah in Hampstead Garden Suburb, when my mobile shrills.
‘Yep?’ I casually toss my curls off my face with a flick of my hand. Flour showers all over George and David’s brand new heather-coloured carpet. Fuck.
‘It’s Max.’
‘Oh.’
See what I mean? I’ve got them lining up. But buggery. I thought I was safe from Max. It’s been weeks since I heard from him, I really thought he’d got the message. What’s he doing, still hanging around like a sour, eggy trump?
‘I just wondered…’
‘Yes, yes?’ I snap irritably, slopping into the kitchen, checking the sell-by date on a tub of sour cream and spooning a dollop straight into my mouth.
‘Well, do you fancy going out tonight?’
It’s Saturday. What the flipping heck does he think he’s playing at? Any chick worth her weight in chocolate has her Saturday nights planned well in advance.
Well, not me, exactly. Janice still isn’t talking to me so I’ve planned an evening in front of the telly with a bowlful of lump-fish caviare, a mile-high stack of blinis and a bucket of sour cream. Purely for research purposes, mind.
‘Or are you busy?’ He sounds doubtful.
‘Yes,’ I tell him, gazing at all my lovely shiny cooking paraphernalia. “Fraid so.’
‘Doing what?’ ‘Staying in,’ I tell him firmly, pressing the ‘end call’ button.
God, if that doesn’t convince him he’s nothing more than a one-night stand, I don’t know what will. If he keeps up this level of harassment I’m going to have to pay Janice to seduce him and shag him so I can burst in on them and pretend to be all upset.
Almost immediately it rings again.
‘WHAT?’
But it’s not Moony Max. In fact, I don’t know who the hell it is. I sort of recognise the voice but I can’t quite place it.
‘It’s Nick.’
‘Nick?’ I say quickly. ‘Nick who?’
Quite a reasonable question, under the circumstances. It could, after all, be Nick the Dick. Or Nick O’Teen. A single girl, even one who is getting married in a few months, has to be on her guard.
‘I just wanted to make sure you was OK,’ the voice says.
‘I’m fine.’ I sexily scoop caviare into my mouth with my little finger. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I delivered some stuff to yours about a week ago and you disappeared while we was chattin’. I thought I might ’ave frightened you. Innit.’
‘Isn’t what?’ I ask, before the penny drops.
Holy cow.
It’s the delicious bakery guy. Quickly, even though he can’t see me, I check my reflection in the hall mirror. I look terrible. There’s pizza flour all over my nose and my hair is clagged with something that looks a lot like raw egg. Nice.
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ I say hurriedly, aware that my voice has gone all shaky.
‘Then do you feel like dinner tonight to make up? Nuffin’ fancy, like.’
Now in my experience, when a guy says ‘nothing fancy’, he usually means full-on five-course slap-up job, followed by quick bunk up, followed by expert disappearing act. He’ll be off faster than you can say ‘Mine’s the wet patch’. Well, not this time, sunshine, I think, picking a piece of spinach from between my front teeth. I’ll be the one doing the postcoital buggering off, thank you very much.
‘OK.’ I manage to sound bored, disguising the fact that my heart is thumping like billyo in my chest. At least this one’s highly unsuitable. Which means I probably won’t have any qualms about dumping him.
‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’
‘No problem.’
I check my watch. It’s five thirty already. Jesus. Talk about cutting it fine. Perhaps I’m his second choice. Some glossy-haired bimbette has probably let him down at the last minute. Oh well, her loss, my gain I suppose. I’m not really bothered whether he thinks I’m special or not. In double-quick time I shave my toes, bleach my tache and trim my minky, then spend a good twenty minutes trying on underwear. I pull on my fave plum silk bra and knickers, change them for a black lycra crop top and little fifties-style shorts, change those for a simple white cotton ensemble for understated sexiness, then go straight back to the original plum again. Then, remembering the canapés I made, in true Blue Peter fashion, earlier on in the da
y, which have to be in a maisonette in Saint Reetham (that’s Streatham to you and me), by six thirty, I jump into a taxi, drop them off and tell the driver to race back to Islington. By seven o three I’ve managed a quick shower and I’ve changed into tight black jeans and a sexy black vest. Not quite suitable for the night of filthy sex I have in mind, but it’ll do. I only hope he won’t turn up in anything remotely smart. Perhaps I should have warned him beforehand that I find it nigh on impossible to think dirty thoughts about anyone in a two-piece. And if it’s a three-piece—waistcoat and all—he can forget it.
Worse still, what if he turns out to be the perfect gentleman? What if he wants to take me on more than one date before flipping me over and shagging me stupid? What the buggery bollocks do I do then?
Still, at least he’s not called anything awful like Derek. Or Nigel. I could never let a Nigel near my bits.
And he’d better bloody well take me somewhere nice. I quite fancy Thai. Or we could go to George and David’s nice Italian. The one with the swarthy waiters, where David—or rather George on his behalf—proposed.
Wherever it is we’re going, he’s late.
Bastard late, as it goes.
At eight, the phone rings and I answer it, feeling butterflyish. OK, so I know I’m not in love with the guy or anything like that. In fact I couldn’t care less one way or the other, but I’ve put lipstick on and everything and I’ll feel a bit foolish if he blows me out. But hey ho. I definitely don’t love him. In fact I’m not even that sure I fancy him.
So why am I going on this date in the first place?
I suppose there’s only one answer to that.
Because I can.
But it’s not Nick blowing me out. It’s Max. Again.
‘What is it now?’ I ask him sternly.
‘If you’re busy tonight…’ he ventures.
‘I said I was, didn’t I?’ ‘Well, what about tomorrow then?’ He hesitates. ‘We could go to the cinema. Or something.’
God. He’s making himself look pathetic now. Does the guy have no pride whatsoever? All this hoo-ha over me. He must definitely have something wrong with him.
‘I’m afraid it’ll have to be the “or something”,’ I say flippantly. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Some other time then,’ he says. ‘You see, the thing is…’
‘Yes?’ I’m impatient now. ‘You’ll have to be quick, I’m afraid. I’m due somewhere in ten minutes.’
I’ll be blooming lucky. But then he doesn’t know that, does he?
‘You see, the thing is,’ he goes on, ‘I like you.’
‘Thank you.’
Well, let’s face it. The poor guy’s only human.
‘I like you a lot.’
‘Good for you.’
‘And I’d really like you to be my girlfriend.’
‘What?’
‘I said—’
‘It’s OK.’ I wave my hands around to stop him even though he can’t see me. ‘I heard.’
‘Well then?’
God. What is it with blokes? I’ve been avoiding his calls for weeks and he still thinks he stands a prozzie’s chances in King’s Cross of getting another bunk up. Any self-respecting girlie on the receiving end of such call-dodging would have hung up her fuck-me heels for good. She’d have been sat at home, rocking backwards and forwards and blubbering into a vodka bottle every night for the past three weeks.
‘Is there no one else you can ask?’ I say. ‘But I want you,’ he whines, sounding like a petulant child.
‘Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to rely on a parental cliché in answer to that one,’ I tell him firmly, lighting a fag and wincing slightly as sparks from my lighter fly all over the sheepskin on the sofa.
‘Sorry?’
‘I want doesn’t get,’ I say, switching off my mobile as the doorbell rings.
I’m relieved to see that Nick, even if he is an hour and a half late, looks most acceptable, in scruffy jeans and sloppy T-shirt. The latter has ridden up ever so slightly to reveal a tantalising glimpse of six-pack. Hmmm.
Hopefully I’ll be getting to grips with that later.
‘Can I leave me bike in yer hall?’
I bite back surprise. Nipping round on your pushbike is not quite my idea of ‘picking someone up for a date’. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m not in this for the long term, after all. Anyway, it’s quite pleasant, walking from George’s house down Upper Street, watching people sitting outside on the pavement, tucking into delicious-looking food. It’s still warm outside, and I keep catching wafts of barbecued steak on the wind as we wander past Islington Green and down towards Highbury Corner.
I’m slightly disappointed when Nick finally reveals the setting for our date. But then I pull myself up by my bootstraps and tell myself to cheer up. After all, filthy sex is filthy sex, whatever you get to eat beforehand. And I’ve always fancied there’s something distinctly sensual about eating chips straight from the wrapper, what with all the finger licking and lip smacking that goes on. And then of course there’s the pickled egg thing. Nick steams on in there and orders one as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Secretly, I’m delighted. I’ve always wondered about them, lurking pale and enormous in their glass jars, reminding me of the biology labs at school. But I’ve never met anyone who’s eaten one. And no one I know can ever be persuaded to try. So when Nick asks for his, I order one too.
And I’m not disappointed.
We sit on Highbury Fields, tucking into cod and chips and breathing in the scent of fresh cut grass, watching as the light fades and the kids all pack up their games of football to head home to bed—or to mug old ladies or whatever else they cite as their activity of choice when it starts to get dark. As we eat, it doesn’t take long to dawn on me that Nick and I have precious little in common. In fact, it could safely be said that we have precisely bugger all in common. But that just makes the thought of having sex with him all the more exciting. And he is gorgeous. All that cycling outside has given him the lean, sun-kissed body of a Greek god.
And those espresso eyes are nothing short of delectable.
I make an attempt at conversation. Something tells me there’s no point talking about art or books or interiors. So I try asking him questions about himself as he wodges in a last mouthful of chips and wipes at a dribble of grease on his chiselled jaw.
‘It must be so great doing your job,’ I blurt. ‘Not tied down to a desk all day. Outside, getting all that fresh air.’
‘Oxford Street air ain’t exactly fresh, innit?’ he points out.
‘Still, you know what I mean.’ I quiver with delight at his turn of phrase. ‘Sun on your back and all that.’
‘Yeah.’ He nods, scrumpling up his fish and chip wrapper and lobbing it over by a patch of trees. I feel slightly self-conscious about a) having jammed mine down way before he was finished and b) responsibly screwing my paper up and popping it into my bag till I find a bin.
‘Gets bloody cold in winter though. Goes right through you. Still I don’t ’ave to go in at all if I don’t want to. It’s like being that thing. You know. Wotsit.’
‘Wotsit?’
‘Hacks do it. And the paparrattzy. Working for yerself and gettin’ uvver people to pay you.’
‘Freelance?’
God, he’s even thicker than I thought. Which is fine by me. At least he’s decorative. It’s what’s inside his trousers, not his head, that interests me.
‘Thassit. Pedal Power’s a bit like that.’
‘So you don’t actually work for the bakery then?’
‘Nah. S’an agency. And if I don’t wanna go in, I work extra next day. And the money ain’t bad. Danger money, I s’pose. Fuckin’ take yer life into yer own ‘ands when you take to them streets on a pushbike.’
I laugh, telling him the last time I rode a bike, I slammed on the wrong brake when a fly went into my eye. I flew over the handlebars like shit off a spade, bruising my chin on the kerb and pu
tting my tooth through my lip into the bargain. It’s a funny story now, although of course it wasn’t remotely amusing at the time, even though Sam nearly wet himself laughing once he’d made sure I wasn’t concussed. But Nick doesn’t seem to really be listening. In fact he doesn’t seem to want to talk much at all. Instead, he starts rubbing rather urgently at my leg, very much in the manner of a teenager on a first date. This is all a bit quick, even for me, so I still find the need to gabble like a goose.
‘What about when you start work?’ I ask, even though I really couldn’t care less. ‘Do you have to turn up at an office to begin with or what?’
‘Nah.’ Nick lets go of my thigh for a second, pushes a matted lump of hair behind his ear, puts his can of Stella to his pouty lips and shrugs. ‘I just radio control with me call sign when I’m ready to start. You know.’ He puts an imaginary radio to his mouth and crackles, ‘“One six, one six. I’ve ‘ad me flakes and I’m ready to go.” That sorter thing. Then they tell me where my first pick-up is.’
OK, so it’s not as glamorous as being a celebrity PA or working in TV, but having such freedom is great. Which is why I just have to cross my fingers and hope Neat Eats works out. I’m already, I realise, enjoying working for myself immensely. It’s so much better than having to sit in an office being nice to people I’d never so much as share air with in a lift if I had the choice, and having to pretend I never say the ‘C’ word or fart.
‘It ain’t bad,’ Nick says. ‘Me dad wanted me to join ’im in the trade.’
‘In the City?’
‘Nah. Buildin’ trade. They was both really young when they met, me mum and dad. Dead wild. But he buckled down and set up a buildin’ business. Made a fuckin’ mint.’
‘Good for him.’ I swig at my own can of Stella and cringe as I realise how ridiculously ‘jolly hockey sticks’ I sound.
‘Yeah.’ He shrugs. “E’s still really pissed off I couldn’t do it.’
‘You didn’t want to?’ I pat his arm as it traces another route up my thigh. After all, I don’t want him to think I’m respectable. He might stop. And that would never do.
