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

by Mina Ford

  Sam bounces up behind her, pulling his favourite scruffy tan suede jacket over his shoulders. ‘Simpson, you ol’ slapper.’ He grins, looking really pleased to see me after all this time. ‘It’s great to see you.’

  ‘You too.’ I smile back, enjoying the sour look on Pussy’s face as he gives me a huge smacker on either cheek.

  ‘I’ve got vodka,’ he says. ‘We can make cosmopolitans before we go.’

  Pussy and I sit in silence as he lopes into the kitchen to mix the drinks. The moment he’s out of earshot, she turns to me.

  ‘Are you actually going to wear that?’

  I look down at my blue shirt dress in surprise.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘What else would I be wearing?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She looks at me benignly. ‘I just thought…’

  ‘Thought what?’

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I mean it’s like your mum said, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’ve met my mother?’ I say in surprise. ‘When?’

  ‘Lots of times,’ she says, innocently. ‘When we visit Sam’s dad she’s usually there. She despairs of you getting yourself a man, you know. We’ve discussed it in full.’

  I suddenly have a vague recollection of Mum mentioning something about lovely manners. I bet the snide little cow’s been stirring all shades of shit round that dinner table.

  ‘Not that she’d say it to you, of course.’

  ‘I know.’

  I think I know my own mother better than she does actually.

  ‘But it’s just like she says, isn’t it?’ Pussy picks at a stray bit of fluff on her girlie cardie and looks at me innocently with her big blue eyes. ‘I mean, if you will loaf around wearing baggy clothes and great big clodhopping shoes, no bloke within a mile is going to fancy you. I mean, she was almost in tears because she thought you’d never wear anything feminine or get married. I can tell you, Sam and I had trouble keeping our mouths shut about your wedding. It seems such a shame she won’t be there to see you get married. So selfish of you.’

  ‘What?’

  But before the nasty cow can say anything else, Sam breezes back into the room with our cocktails. Pussy’s expression changes, as if at the flick of a switch, from bitch to blameless bimbo as he comes in, and all I can do is sit there seething. And it’s not only because, even in skintight white trousers, she’s managed to overcome the curse of VPL. It’s because I know what a manipulative little bitch she is. She’s managed to make me feel uncomfortable about my outfit in two seconds flat. And she’s made me worry for my mum. Sam, obviously is none the wiser. He has absolutely no idea. He can’t help it, of course; it’s partly because, being a bloke, he has the handicap of only having a penis to think through. But she’s pulled the wool over his eyes good and proper. She’s all sweetness and light now he’s in the room. Only I, with my feminine intuition, can tell that every time she turns to me, pretending to be interested in what I’m saying, her ‘barely there’ tinted moisturiser is cracking under the strain.

  How the hell am I going to ask him what I’ve got to ask him with her in my way?

  ‘We should go, Sam.’ I look at my watch. ‘The table’s booked for nine and it’s ten to now.’

  ‘Kay.’ Sam stands up and grabs his jacket.

  We both look at Pussy. It’s time for her to do the decent thing and butt out.

  ‘Great.’ She stands up, pulling her cardigan round her shoulders as if to protect herself from my glare. ‘Where’re we going? Somewhere you can eat your body weight in fattening food, eh, Katie?’ She slaps me on the shoulder a little too hard. ‘Sam’s told me what a great big foodie you are, you fat bloater.’

  Sam laughs, unaware of how spitefully she intends this. I, however, can see straight through her. She’s as transparent as gin and tonic. And if he’s surprised at her inviting herself along to dinner, he’s too much of a gentleman to show it. I, on the other hand, am spitting fire. If I’d wanted her to come, I’d bloody well have invited her, wouldn’t I? And now I’m going to have to pay for both of them. I can’t be seen to be a complete skinflint.

  Especially not by her.

  Still, at least my money situation has improved somewhat, what with the round of weddings and christenings I’ve been doing of late. I’m almost in the black again, thank goodness.

  But it doesn’t stop me feeling the need to get my own back.

  ‘Can I just use the bathroom quickly before we go?’ I ask Sam.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  You can learn a lot about people from their bathrooms. Locking the door behind me, I have a quick wazz before rootling through Pussy’s stuff. I might have known she’d already have tried to wangle her way into his flat. And there’s evidence of her everywhere.

  Two toothbrushes. One black, and one made of transparent plastic, with lots of tiny pink lovehearts floating around inside the handle. And the toothbrush isn’t the only sign of Pussy’s gradual takeover of Sam’s house. Bottles of expensive shampoo and conditioner, Trésor perfume, 2000 calorie mascara—frankly I’m surprised she hasn’t chucked this one out on the pretext that it’ll make her eyelashes look fat—and lipstick line the shelf above the basin. And the cupboard above the loo is stuffed full of Tampax, Immac and girlie pink razors. Quick as a flash, before I really have time to think about the consequences, I grab the Immac and squeeze a huge dollop into her conditioner. Then, spinning on my heel and refusing to feel guilty, I unlock the door and trip lightly down the stairs.

  ‘Sorry,’ I tell them. ‘I was busting. Shall we go?’

  Pussy manages half a venison sausage before putting her knife and fork down with a clatter and declaring herself ‘full to bursting’. ‘Ew,’ she says, patting her concave stomach. ‘That filled me right up. I suppose that would just have been a tiny snack for you, Katie.’

  Sam laughs indulgently at both of us, totally unaware that she means to make me feel small. I beam back at her.

  ‘May all your children have webbed feet.’ And port wine stains over their entire heads, I almost add. But, worried that might be taking it a bit far in front of Sam, I keep my trap shut.

  ‘Katie,’ Sam says, shocked. ‘Pussy was only joking, weren’t you, Pussy?’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiles sweetly, eyeing me over the top of his head as he ruffles her hair. ‘I’m just feeling terribly full up.’

  ‘Well, mind you don’t choke on a fur ball.’

  ‘Pussy’s only got a tiny little appetite,’ Sam fawns. ‘She can’t eat as much as you do.’

  ‘No,’ Pussy purrs, ‘I can’t fill my face like you can.’

  ‘In that case,’ I can’t resist saying, ‘I’ll be only too happy to assist you by putting my fist through it if you like.’

  ‘Katie,’ Sam says again. ‘Don’t be nasty.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I bite my cheek. There’s no point incurring the wrath of Sam now. Not when I’ve got something so completely major to ask him. When, oh when, is the silly cow going to at least go to the bog to throw up so I can get him on his own?

  ‘Have some more water.’ I pour Pussy a glass. If she’s only got a ‘tiny little tummy’, it can only be a matter of time until she has to dash to the lav to break her seal.

  Eventually, she goes to put on more lipgloss and I have Sam all to myself. He’s looking particularly groovy tonight. Sort of smart but casual all at the same time. And suddenly, I realise what it is I most admire about him. It’s his confidence. He knows how to dress, act and behave himself at any occasion. You could, quite literally, take him anywhere.

  ‘I’m sorry about all the things I said when I left yours,’ I tell him. ‘When I told you about the wedding. I was upset.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ He rumples my hair affectionately. ‘And so was I. I felt rejected because you planned to live at George’s but you didn’t want to live at mine. And I asked you first.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I rest my head on his shoulder. ‘It just would have felt like charity, staying at yours.’

  ‘You’r
e staying at George’s…’

  ‘But that’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’m doing them a favour in return. Marrying David, I mean.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You see, I started off this year so sure I was going to make a go of things. Not rely on a man again.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And now I’ve gone and mucked it all up.’ I want to confess all about Jake. And Nick. Suddenly, sleeping around doesn’t seem so big or clever any more. And, despite the fact that I live with two of my best friends, I feel kind of lonely.

  ‘But Neat Eats is going so well.’ He strokes my hair again. ‘I’m really proud of what you’ve done.’

  ‘Thanks. And I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome, Simpson.’ He turns to face me, suddenly serious. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Or George, or David, of course,’ I say hurriedly. For some reason then I felt like he was going to kiss me. More to the point, I sort of wanted him to. Which is, of course, ridiculous. I mean this is Sam, for God’s sake. My oldest bud. Plus, I’m seeing Jake again. Well, sort of. And Nick. I’ve got two on the go, so I shouldn’t be feeling lonely, should I?

  ‘About this wedding,’ he says tentatively. ‘You’re not going to have another go at me, are you?’ I beg. ‘I really don’t think I can bear that. You know, you’re a huge part of my life, Sam. You always have been.’

  ‘And you mine,’ he says, stroking my cheek.

  ‘In fact,’ I sit up and look at him seriously, ‘I’ve got something I need to ask you.’

  ‘Me too,’ he says.

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Sam?’ A voice suddenly pierces the intimacy of the moment. ‘I’m tired. Can we go now?’

  Pussy, back from the loo.

  Bugger.

  Chapter 18

  It seems as though I’m never going to be able to get Sam on his own to ask him to give me away at the wedding. You see, even though I know he doesn’t really approve, it means a hell of a lot to me to have his blessing. Plus, George has insisted that we need to make it look as real as possible. In case the Home Office turn up. And I can’t very well ask my own father, can I, seeing as I have absolutely no bloody idea where he is.

  On Sunday morning I wake early with worries about Sam and the whole giving away thing rolling around inside my head. I wander through to the bright kitchen, where George, in his favourite pink slippers, drinks fresh coffee at the table and pecks out text messages to someone in his office about the contestants they’ve got for tomorrow’s show. David, naked apart from a pair of flappy billabong shorts, is sat opposite him with his feet on the table, chattering excitedly on the telephone to his sister Nettie in Australia. From what I can gather, he’s telling her all about our wedding, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. Obviously no secrets there.

  ‘Are you inviting your mum to our wedding?’ I ask George, when the beeping of his phone has ceased, signalling an end to the frantic volley of text messages.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He looks miserable. ‘I really want to. I mean, it’d be nice for her to be able to dress up and have somewhere to go. But I just can’t imagine having to explain it all to her.’

  ‘She’s tougher than you think, you know, George.’ I fetch a purple mug from the cupboard and pour myself a coffee. ‘Why don’t you try her? I think she’d be pleased for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘I might.’ He sounds a bit forlorn. Then, looking at me, he’s back to his old self again. ‘God, darling. You look totally RAF.’

  ‘What’s that?’ David finishes telling his sister all about the article he’s writing on the contents of Posh Spice’s make-up bag and puts the phone down. ‘Oooh. Coffee. Yummy.’

  ‘Katie,’ George jerks his head towards me as if I’m not there, ‘looks terrible. What’s the matter, darling? Business gone under already? You look as though you haven’t slept for weeks.’

  ‘God, yes.’ David sips coffee and looks apologetic. ‘Sorry, love, but you do look a bit shit. You could carry all of George’s lotions and potions around for months in those eyebags.’

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ I say honestly. ‘I’m nervous about the wedding. And I don’t know what to do about Jake.’

  ‘Are you in love with him?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I shake my head. ‘And then there’s Nick. You know the bike guy?’

  ‘Yes,’ they chorus, excited at the thought of gossip. ‘We know the bike guy.’

  ‘I’m still sleeping with him.’

  ‘Ooooh,’ George says with evident relish. ‘Utterly slutterly. Do tell.’

  ‘Well, he seems to like me,’ I say. ‘But he’s eighteen. And we have nothing in common.’

  ‘So?’ George shrugs.

  ‘So I’m starting to realise that meaningless sex isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ George says dismissively. ‘I mean, sorry to seem callous but as long as none of them are actually hurting your feelings, can we get on to more important matters? Like the wedding? Now, the theme is NCP.’

  ‘You want to hold the wedding in a multi-storey car park?’ I ask in surprise.

  ‘Don’t be thick, darling.’ George looks at me. ‘I mean No Common People. Although I suppose we can let Janice come, even though she’s been dipped in the peasant pot more than once. She is your best friend, after all. After me, of course.’

  ‘That’s if she’s still talking to me,’ I reason. ‘After what I said about Jasper.’

  ‘Of course she is.’ George sips coffee.

  ‘Don’t forget the surprise.’ David nudges George. ‘Oh.’ George waves his hands around excitedly. ‘The surprise. Of course. Oh, Katie. You’ll never guess what we’ve planned for you.’

  Of course I can’t guess. And George can’t help telling me before I can even try. And when he does, I’m gobsmacked.

  ‘A hen weekend?’ I ask, just to be sure I’ve heard him right. ‘Yes.’ George looks so pleased with himself you’d have thought he’d just invented the wheel.

  ‘It was Nettie’s idea.’ David looks proud. ‘She says if she can’t come to the wedding, the least she can do is contribute some ideas.’

  ‘She can come if she wants. I don’t mind having your family there.’

  ‘She can’t.’ David shakes his head. ‘For a start, she’ll call me Davo in front of everybody and they’ll all think I’m some straight Australian wide boy.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be straight,’ I point out. ‘For one day, at least.’

  ‘I know.’ David laughs. ‘She can’t come anyway. She can’t take Iris and Isabella out of school. Shame really. I’d love to see them.’

  ‘All very sad.’ George gets on to more important business. ‘Now. Your hen weekend.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Now don’t be ungrateful.’ George wags his finger at me. ‘We just thought you’d like a little holiday, sweetie. After all, you won’t be able to come on the actual honeymoon. You do know that, don’t you? Three’s a bit of a crowd, darling, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘But there’s just so much to do,’ I worry. ‘There’s Neat Eats, for a start. It won’t run itself, you know. I’ve got three weddings and a christening booked in for August alone. That’s a lot of smoked salmon and fruit cake. And there’s paperwork.’

  ‘But we’ve booked it now. For five. So you have to come.’

  ‘You can’t have,’ I point out. ‘David’s only just spoken to his sister.’

  ‘Well, it’s in our heads now.’ George pours himself more coffee. ‘So it’s as good as.’

  ‘And five?’ I ask. ‘Why five?’

  George counts off on his fingers.

  ‘Us three, Janice and Sam. No partners.’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘I don’t want any skinny bitches who stink of raw vegetables on board, thank you.’

  ‘So you’ll come then?’ David looks delighted.
r />   ‘I’ll think about it.’

  And I will. After all, I could do with some sun. And perhaps Mum would like the challenge of coping with Neat Eats for a weekend. It is only a weekend, after all. She’ll probably enjoy the company of all the customers and stuff. It must get lonely for her sometimes. ‘Where’re we going, anyway?’

  ‘The Canaries.’ George looks gleeful.

  ‘Isn’t that a bit…’

  ‘Chip fat?’ George shivers and pulls on a T-shirt with ‘Some Don’t. Some Might. I probably Will’ stamped across the chest in pink glitter. ‘That’s the whole idea. It’s ironic, darling. Total Tacksville. We’re off to the land of egg, chips and Union Jack beach towels for a whole weekend. I’m so excited I just can’t wait.’

  ‘And I’m promised thousand decibel re-runs of Only Fools and Horses every five minutes.’ David laughs.

  ‘We’ll be out on the razzle-dazzle in those dreadful discos, darling.’ George is thrilled. ‘Where your feet are practically glued to the floor and they’ve tied an ugly stick to all the ceiling fans. Won’t it be great?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Such a refreshing change not to have to mix with glittering success stories like myself all the time.’ George lights a fag and inhales deeply. ‘Think how refreshing it’ll be to be with people whose idea of job satisfaction is merely waving a tin in the air and yelling “Price check on baked beans”.’

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘You do,’ George tells me firmly. ‘You’ll love it. And we’ll all get gorgeous tans in time for the wedding.’

  ‘I doubt it. The only time I look remotely brown is when my freckles join up.’

  ‘You’ll still look great next to all those tangerine women on the beach,’ George says. ‘With their arses full of cellulite and their cheaply done tattoos plastered across their great teats.’

  ‘You’ve got a tattoo,’ David points out. ‘Darling, there’s a world of difference between a tasteful tortoise, carefully positioned to enhance an already deliciously pert buttock, and a whopping great tiger’s head on some flabby proletarian udder,’ George informs him. ‘Especially when it’s an udder that started out the size of an egg cup but ballooned to a dinner plate thanks to one night too many on the pies.’