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

by Mina Ford

  It’s one of mine.

  Which, I might add, I wouldn’t have minded getting back.

  Yep. You’ve guessed it.

  It’s only bloody Jake.

  ‘What do you want?’

  My insides are doing back flips faster than an Olympic gymnast and my heart is using my tongue as a trampoline but I dodge the cherry tomato George lobs down at him and manage to appear cool as a cucumber.

  Until Jake stands up, that is, and I realise he’s still as tall and handsome as ever. That unruly dark hair is so sexy it takes my breath away and I involuntarily take a step backwards, losing my footing as I do so and ending up straight on my arse.

  Nice one, Katie. Real slick.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Your mum told me where you were.’

  ‘She did?’

  What the bloody hell is she playing at? Mind you, she always did have a bit of a thing for Jake. He was such a smarmball whenever she was around, she never could quite understand why I ‘dropped’ him, as she put it. Of course I was too ashamed to fill her in on all the extra details, like my catching him with old Fishpants Fraser, so she didn’t really get the gist of it at all. She’s probably at home right now, gleefully planning all manner of savoury vol-au-vents for our forthcoming nuptials.

  George is still at the upstairs window, torn between trying not to piss himself laughing at my slapstick fall and looking absolutely horrified that I might actually be about to let Jake into his house.

  Which, of course, I am. I mean I’m not stupid. I know I really shouldn’t forgive him. But I would quite like to hear what he’s got to say. And, I have to admit, there’s a tiny part of me that’s hoping he’s going to admit he made a mistake.

  Of course if he does, I have no idea what I’ll do, but let’s just see, shall we?

  I smile nervously at him and rummage for my key. As I do so, a sort of whooping scream comes from the upstairs window.

  ‘What are you doing, you ridiculous hag?’

  ‘Fuck off, George,’ I tell him shortly. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

  And the truth is, I just can’t resist Jake. His twinkling green eyes are as mischievous as ever. To be honest, it would have been quite a coup if he’d lost some of his sparkle. If his emerald eyes had turned sludge green with the stress of losing me and then having to cope with a slutbucket girlfriend and her devil spawn. I mean, there’s nothing nicer than bumping into someone who’s dumped you and realising that you’ve come off better, is there?

  I let him in. Smile at him as he smiles at me. Motion for him to take a seat in George’s immaculate white sitting room. Once he’s sat down, I realise I don’t have a clue what to do next, so I check my reflection in the Venetian glass mirror above the fireplace and am horrified to notice I look like a panda on smack. Great dark circles of eyeliner have slurred their way halfway down my cheeks and I look dreadful. My Damart-type outfit definitely isn’t helping. I might have thought to get my own clothes back before making a beeline for the exit.

  Graham, fat ginger traitor that he is, jumps onto Jake’s knee, purring like an engine. Bugger. He shouldn’t be in here either. George will have a pink fit if he sees him.

  ‘Oh, Katie,’ Jake sighs, stroking between Graham’s ears so gently that I start wishing it was me on his lap and not the cat at all. ‘Isn’t life strange?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just feel…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong…’

  ‘Go on.’ ‘I feel as though I’ve made a terrible mistake,’ he finishes eventually.

  ‘Oh.’

  Is that re shagging Fishpants or losing me? I wonder.

  ‘I mean having a baby isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,’ he says. George, coming down the stairs, catches the tail end of the conversation.

  ‘I’ll take it if you like. How much do you want for it?’ he asks bluntly. ‘Unless it has 666 stamped across its forehead, of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I can probably take the thing off your hands. Depending on facial features, of course. It’s not a fat one, is it?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Jake says. ‘She’s beautiful, in fact. And she’s not that much trouble. I—I mean we certainly don’t want to sell her.’

  ‘Oh.’ George looks disappointed. ‘OK. Well, if you change your mind, you know where we are. Bye, darling.’ He kisses me on both cheeks, whispering as he does so, ‘Don’t do anything silly, darling. I don’t want the place reeking of muff when I come back.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ I run after him in a panic, suddenly not sure that I want to be left on my own with Jake.

  ‘Dinner with Mother. And get that ball of ginger fluff out of my drawing room before I get back.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘No.’ George laughs. ‘You can sodding well stay here and sort out that fucking infidel. Make sure he’s gone by the time I get home. And don’t worry. I won’t forget your toffee.’

  I laugh. Good old George’s mum was knocking forty by the time her only son was born. Four years later, George’s dad died. She’s been on her own ever since, as George is always at pains to point out whenever I try to get him to talk to her about his gayness. You see, George, despite the frantic clubbing and cottaging of his Life Before David, has always been a dutiful son, dashing down to visit her in her tiny cottage in Kent whenever he can. Quite often, he’s dragged me down there with him. And his mum, bless her, never lets us leave without some sugary treat. A Penguin biscuit, perhaps, or a Creamline toffee. Personally, I wouldn’t mind betting that she’s perfectly well aware of the situation re his sexuality and just doesn’t give two hoots. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if her questioning about his pseudo single state was merely a wind-up. She’s a wise old bird, is George’s mum. There’s not much she doesn’t know. I’m just hoping one of them decides to get it out into the open before it’s too late. It would be a shame if she never got to know how happy George is with David.

  ‘Actually,’ Jake says when George has slammed the door behind him, ‘Tallulah’s the reason I’m here.’

  ‘Tallulah?’ I ask him. ‘Who the hell’s Tallulah?’

  ‘The baby.’

  ‘Oh, of course, sorry.’

  ‘You did the food for the wedding of some friends of mine. In Hampton Court.’

  ‘The ones with the swimming pool, where everyone ended up pissed off their tits?’

  ‘Marina and Giles, yes.’ ‘They can’t be very good friends if they didn’t invite you,’ I crack, quick as a whip.

  ‘They did actually.’ He smiles. ‘We couldn’t get a babysitter.’ ‘Well, if you’re thinking of asking me, don’t bother,’ I tell him shortly. ‘I really don’t think I owe you any favours. And I don’t do shit-caked nappies.’

  ‘No, silly.’ He grins, and I’m reminded of how he used to be with me when we met. He used to smile at me indulgently all the time. And even though I knew it was ever so slightly patronising, it made me feel wanted. Janice and Sam used to say he was trying to make me look stupid but I didn’t care.

  I was in love, for God’s sake.

  ‘I wondered if you’d do her christening,’ he finishes, smiling as though he’s just done me a great big favour. He’s got a bloody cheek, to be honest. If he really thinks I’m going to run around serving cucumber butties to all his friends (who, incidentally, used to be our friends), he’s got another think coming.

  But hang on a sec. Jake, after all, is absolutely brilliant at networking. He knows loads of cool people.

  ‘What sort of thing did you have in mind?’ I ask him.

  Business is business, after all. And as long as I don’t shag him, what harm can it do?

  Chapter 17

  ‘So does this mean we can have casual sex on a regular basis?’ Jake wipes his willy on my duvet cover and shrugs his faded 501s over his neat little bum.

  OK, OK, so I should be feeling pretty stupid right now.
And soiled. And probably a tiny bit used. And George is due back any minute, and if he catches Jake still here he’s going to go mad.

  And I suppose it was a bit cruel, letting Jake go down on me so soon after shagging Nick. But then I didn’t know how things were going to work out, did I? And I was feeling all frustrated.

  Of course, you could probably say I’m a bit dim for jumping into bed with Jake, just because he ladled it on thick about how since the baby arrived they haven’t had sex once. Fishpants is too busy calling for posset cloths or doing pelvic floor exercises to pay much attention to him. Apparently, she’s afraid that if she doesn’t keep doing the exercises, her bottom might actually fall out into her leggings as she whips round Somerfield.

  The sight of her with her legs in stirrups and her nether regions doing a pretty good impression of a car crash hadn’t done much for his libido either, he said, stroking my cheek and saying how much he’d missed me. Not as far as she was concerned, anyway.

  I lapped it all up like a puppy.

  In fact, I was enjoying the attention so much I forgot to be caustic and say I never understood what on earth a sexy, intelligent man like Jake saw in a woman who has the class of your average pound shop. The fact that he’s finally seen sense is enough for me.

  I’m delighted.

  In fact, I’m more than delighted. Suddenly, I realise that I actually wouldn’t mind having Jake back in my life. Not seriously, of course. I’m not a complete idiot. I know I could never trust him again. But what if I take his offer of frequent casual sex seriously? Would it really do any harm?

  After all, I won’t be adding any notches to my bedpost. I’ve already been there, seen that, bought the T-shirt. And, in the very unlikely event that I do suddenly start to fall in love with him all over again, I won’t be able to do anything about it. I certainly won’t be able to dream of marriage.

  Because I’ll already be married. To David.

  And, of course, there’s the Revenge Factor. While Fishpants is at home, mopping up baby sick and mashing up Weetabix, Jake and I will be having sordid, extramarital sex behind her back. OK, so I can’t avoid a slight twinge of guilt. There’s a baby involved here, after all. And it really isn’t the poor beggar’s fault its parents are so horribly dysfunctional. But then I tell myself I’m not really risking little Tallulah’s happiness in the slightest. After all, I certainly don’t want Jake to leave Fish-pants and take up with me. She need never know that Daddy’s a philanderer.

  So I conveniently gloss over the memory of sex with Jake pre-split. I forget that, most of the time, the sex was actually so dull I had to ask to go on my front so I didn’t miss Holby City. Because having sex with Jake just now felt so natural, so comfortably familiar, that I suddenly realise, with a stab of nostalgia, that this is what I want. To be with him again, no matter how infrequently. I want to feel safe.

  I’ve missed him.

  Over the next few weeks we meet on Saturdays, mainly. George and David usually go clubbing on Saturdays. And it’s easy for Jake to get away. It’s not so easy, however, for me to lie to Nick/Dudley who, against all the odds, has proved himself to be bum-numbingly reliable. Which is a bit of a shame. He really did have bastard potential. Finding out someone so utterly unsuitable is completely in love with me is rather like getting a really tasteful Valentine card and then discovering it’s from Mum.

  Still, I decide that it’s probably just as well to keep him on side. After all, it’s one in the eye for Jake. It’s nice to feel I’m sort of cheating on him, just as he cheated on me. Even if he doesn’t know about it yet. Janice would understand. Except I can’t talk to her about it because she’s gone off on a Rich Bitch weekend in Ipswich without even telling me. I have to hear all about it from George.

  ‘Are there any rich bitches in Ipswich?’ I ask him doubtfully, as we sit in his kitchen (I still can’t quite think of it as my home too) eating raspberry yoghurt with dollops of honey.

  ‘Well, that’s what I wondered,’ he says. ‘They must bus them in specially.’

  ‘And what happens, precisely, on this rich bitch wotsit?’

  ‘It’s run by vapid, cocksucking whores with gold-digging habits,’ he assures me. ‘They tell you exactly how to dress and behave in order to bag a rich man. They tell you how to get out of cars at premieres without showing your pants. You know the sort of thing. And if you talk like Bianca from EastEnders, they teach you to either learn to talk posh or keep your mouth shut. She’s learning to be a proper lady so Jasper will marry her.’

  ‘Why didn’t she say she was going?’ I whinge.

  ‘She did.’ George licks the back of his spoon. ‘She just couldn’t tell you because you’re too busy. And she’s still upset about you making up that story about Jasper and some other woman.’

  ‘But I did see him with another woman,’ I insist.

  ‘But I didn’t,’ he says. ‘And I think it’s better to stay out of it really, darling. Don’t you?’

  ‘Oh.’

  I suppose I have been rather busy lately, what with Neat Eats doing so well. Word of mouth, it seems, spreads like wildfire and I’m getting bookings for parties up and down the country now.

  Tallulah’s christening, for which I provide a huge T-shaped cake, covered in palest pink icing and tiny fresh blueberries, goes like a dream. Jake and I even manage a guilty bunk up in the bathroom when nobody’s looking. Well, I feel guilty. I don’t think he’s even aware that he’s doing anything wrong. And then I can never see my friends on Saturday nights because I’m usually seeing Jake. Apparently, it’s much easier for him to sneak out then because Saturday night is always a good night for engineering an argument. All Fishpants wants to do then is spend quality time together when the baby’s in bed. This evidently involves watching shit TV together and eating takeaways. ‘As if she can afford to eat takeaways,’ he grumbles one night. ‘She’s the size of the bloody Hindenberg as it is.’

  Even I have to feel a bit sorry for her when I hear poor old Fishpants being denied a decent calorie intake.

  Apparently, on a normal Saturday, the eating of the takeaway is followed by the implementation of a cunning device that, Jake assures me, is typical of ‘all blokes’. He lets Fishpants choose the video, then sits down to watch it. And then he waits. And waits. Until she demands the remote control to herself for a change. Or talks over an important bit of the film. And then he storms out and comes round to mine. Where we watch shit TV together and eat takeaways. And then have sex.

  It’s as easy-peasy as that.

  The sly fox.

  Still, Fishpants made her bed (nasty frilly sheets and a horrid valance, no doubt), when the pair of them played hide the salami behind my back, so she can sodding well lie in it as far as I’m concerned. After all, it’s hardly my fault if Jake seems to be labouring under the impression that monogamy is a low-fat spread, is it?

  Nick, of course, is a different kettle of fish altogether. And the more I see him, the more I realise we really do have nothing in common at all. He was born in the eighties, for God’s sake. To him, a Snickers has always been a Snickers. A Texan is someone who comes from a particular part of America. ‘Watch Out, There’s a Humphrey About’ means nothing to him at all. He was about four when Culture Club belted out ‘Karma Chameleon’. He never spent his holidays giggling as Irish children made ‘fillums’ on Why Don’t Yew? And he’s never eaten Pacers, Spangles or Star Bars in his life.

  Still, with no common reference points, I don’t really have to bother talking to him at all. We can get straight down to the sex. Which, I might add, can get pretty exciting. Sex with Nick is very much of the sordid, shag-me-up-a-back-alley variety. He loves doing it outside, which means we spend little time in bed and lots behind skips, on park benches and in other people’s back gardens. Still, it keeps things interesting, or so I tell myself with a sigh one evening, as the back door of a pebbledashed semi opens and a fat woman in a peach candlewick dressing gown screams abuse in our general directio
n, before hurling a bucket of cold water over us.

  Now though, as George tells me bluntly that even Janice, Mrs Muff Before Mates herself, feels I have no time for her any more, I feel suddenly depressed. I remember that I haven’t even bothered to make up with Sam after the row we had about my moving into George’s. And it suddenly becomes clear to me that, whatever might or might not have been said in the heat of the moment, Sam and Janice are my best friends. And I can’t afford to lose them. Besides, in the back of my mind I’ve known all along that I’ve got something very, very important I need to ask Sam. So, feeling ridiculously nervous, I call him to apologise. And then I ask him if I can take him out for dinner tonight to make up.

  ‘Course you can, Simpson.’ I can hear Sam’s grin down the phone and I love him for it. ‘Always happy to take your money.’

  ‘I’ll be round at eight,’ I tell him, feeling relieved.

  It’s one of those beautiful, balmy June evenings. The pavements around every pub I walk past on my way to Angel tube are thronging with girls in short, flippy dresses drinking vodka and clean-cut city blokes oozing the scent of lemony aftershave and freshly laundered shirt. The air is thick with the smell of sexual promise and, as I emerge from the tube and wander up to Sam’s house, newly painted and with every windowsill over-spilling with glorious purple and orange pansies, I realise I’m really, really nervous and I don’t know why. Surely it can’t be because I fancy Sam, of all people. Besides, even if I did, I’ve got quite enough on my plate with Jake and Nick. I really haven’t got the time to rack up a third.

  Nevertheless, when Pussy answers the door, flicking around a lot of glossy blonde hair and shrugging a delicate lilac cardie over her sticky-outty collarbones, I can’t help feeling more than a tad annoyed.

  ‘Oh,’ I say involuntarily as she narrows her eyes at me.

  ‘We’re almost ready,’ she says, with lots of emphasis on the ‘we’. She’s definitely hostile. But the minute she hears Sam’s footsteps behind her, she flips expertly from arch mother cat to fluffy Persian kitten. In fact, she reminds me so much of a cat, I keep expecting her to bend over and start licking her bum.