by Mina Ford
David laughs so much his purple flip-flops slap up and down on the flagstones.
‘Can you try not to turn completely into George before the wedding?’ I beg him. ‘You used to be so lovely and un-gay as well.’
‘So lovely and un-gay you decided you’d give him a go yourself,’ George chortles.
‘Ha ha,’ I scoff. ‘I just don’t want the whole thing to look too gay.’
‘Don’t say you’re getting nervy?’ George asks.
‘Well,’ I bristle, ‘you do realise that what we’re doing is a crime, don’t you?’
‘Oh, come on.’ George shakes me by the shoulder. ‘Lighten up, sweetie. Of course we know. That’s why we want to repay you by luring you into the bowels of slapperdom so you can stand next to red-faced skinheads on day release from Broad-moor as they belt out “Alice, Alice, who the fuck is Alice?”’
‘What about the food?’ I ask. ‘I’m a food snob. I like waiters to greet me with “May I take your jacket please?” Not “Have you ever been to a Harvester before?” Anyway, you used to refuse to go to places like the Canaries. You said the government should ban common people from going abroad ’cos they spoiled it for everybody else.’
‘Well, that’s partly true,’ George admits. ‘I mean, we will be mixing with the kind of people who win the lottery. The ones who don’t actually know what to do with the money when they get it because they already subscribe to Sky Sports and they don’t have the nous to switch to a decent brand of ciggie.’
‘The ones who spend it on vulgar mock-Tudor mansions and fill them with swirly red carpets and gold mixer taps?’ David asks.
‘The very ones.’ George squeezes his hand. ‘So which particular Canary are we visiting?’ I sigh. ‘Lanzagrotty or Tenegrief.’
‘Fuerteventura,’ George says. ‘You’re coming, and there’s an end on it.’
I imagine myself lying on a beach with absolutely bugger all to do.
Beer and chips for brekky.
Fat, trashy novels, thick as bricks and smudged with coconutty fingerprints.
Hot sunshine, prickling the backs of my knees. The smell of fresh ginger cake on my skin as the sun warms it.
‘Sod it,’ I tell them. ‘I’m in. As long as the others come too. I’m not playing gooseberry to you two all weekend.’
I invite Sam first. I figure he’s probably feeling a bit guilty about letting Pussy gatecrash our nice dinner, so he owes me one.
I’m right.
‘Look,’ he says, as soon as he hears my voice, ‘I’m sorry about our dinner the other night. About Pussy coming along, I mean. I honestly had no idea she thought she was invited.’
‘She didn’t,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Never mind,’ I tell him. ‘It’s OK.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. I just didn’t think it was worth making a big thing of it, you know. She’s a bit, well, insecure sometimes, and I didn’t want a scene.’
‘Right.’
Hrrmph. As long as she’s OK then…
‘But at least we’re friends again,’ he says. ‘You and I, I mean. That has to be worth it, eh, Simpson?’
‘Course,’ I tell him. ‘I need a favour, actually.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, two favours.’
‘Is this what you wanted to ask me the other night?’
‘Well, one is.’
‘Go on.’ He sounds eager.
‘I want you to give me away.’
‘Oh.’ He sounds cold.
‘Sam?’
‘I’m here.’
‘So will you?’
‘Well,’ he says carefully, ‘you know how I feel about that. I don’t really think you should be doing this at all. You should be marrying someone who really loves you for you. And I don’t mean Jake bloody Carpenter. Or that twelve-year-old you’ve been seeing. Don’t think I don’t know about that. George has got a gob the size of the Blackwall Tunnel. I saw him in Cuba Libre the other night. He’d spout any old shite after a couple of Bellinis.’
‘You won’t then?’ My heart sinks. Somehow, for no reason on earth I can think of, I’ve built this whole thing up into an event of such importance that, if he says no, I don’t know if I can go through with the wedding at all. If I’m honest, I’m so nervous about the whole thing, I just need to feel someone’s on my side. There’s no one else in the world I can ask.
There’s a long silence. Then…
‘I’m not saying I won’t,’ he says eventually. ‘I’m saying I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Thanks, Sam,’ I gush.
‘But you have to return the favour.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Whatever you want.’
‘Oh really, Simpson?’ he says, flirting playfully so I know everything is going to be all right. ‘Whatever I want?’
‘You know what I mean.’ I laugh. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s my birthday next week,’ he says. ‘I thought I might have a bit of a barbie if the weather’s nice. Have the boys over. Kick a football around and stuff.’
‘You and football,’ I tease him. ‘So what’s the plan?’
‘You do the food?’ he asks. ‘I’ll pay you of course.’
‘How ’bout I give you a discount?’ I’m pink with pleasure at him asking me to do it. ‘You just pay for the grub. I mean I’m not as poor as I was, but I still can’t really do it for free.’
‘Done.’
‘Is that what you were going to ask me the other night? When I bought you a lovely expensive dinner and you were dragged home early?’
‘Er, yes,’ he says. ‘Of course it was. And sorry about that, by the way.’
‘So when do you want to do this barbie?’
‘Next Saturday?’
‘Kay.’
‘What was that other thing you wanted to ask me, Simpson?’
‘Oh God,’ I groan. ‘It’s this sodding holiday the boys have planned. A sort of hen weekend in the Canaries. In lieu of a honeymoon for me. Will you come?’
‘Well…’
‘Please.’
‘Calm down, Simpson. Course I will,’ he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘A holiday’d be great. Course I’ll come. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
I put the phone down feeling happier than I have in ages. I can handle Jake and Nick too, knowing I’ve got my oldest friend back on side. I’ve hated arguing with him over something as simple as where I live. And, I think charitably, he can’t help the fact that his girlfriend is a toxic slut who enjoys nothing better than watching me squirm under the magnifying glass of her pale blue eyes.
When I’ve finished talking to Sam I call Janice.
‘What’ve you been up to?’ I ask her. ‘It’s been yonks.’
‘I know, hon,’ she says, surprising me with her friendliness. ‘I’ve been so busy with work. I’ve got this new account. For a mobile phone company. Massive budget and everything. I’m knackered. And then I’ve been trying to make more of an effort to see my mum.’
‘Oh that’s nice,’ I say. And I mean it. Janice’s poor mum does get a bit neglected.
‘Yeah,’ Janice continues. ‘I mean, all she’s got to do all day is watch telly. And listen to bloody Cliff Richard, of course. Mind you, she has done a bit of decorating. Painted the kitchen. That sort of thing. The place isn’t quite so grim as it was. Anyway, I popped round a few times for a chat. Thought she might be able to tell me a bit more about my dad. Thought I might try and track him down. In case I need him to give me away.’
‘Oh.’
‘Unless he’s something awful, like a dustbin man or a drunk. Then I thought about asking Sam. What do you think?’
What do I think? I think she’s just reminded me of my own dilemma. Anyhow, Sam’s MY friend. Call me childish, but if he’s giving anyone away, it ought to be me. I don’t say anything, though. Instead I ask her what she thinks about coming away on holiday.
‘I dunno, Katie,’ she grumbles. ‘W
hat if Jasper comes over all romantic and I’m on the other bloody side of the world? I mean, according to you, he’s already having an affair, so I can’t really afford to leave him, can I?’
God, she’s making this hard. I’ve been fretting all the time over how to apologise re this whole Jasper and ‘other woman’ thingy. And all she’s worried about is herself. Mind you. I’m determined to say my piece. So I do.
‘Oh that,’ she says, when I’m finished. ‘I’m really not that bothered whether he was or wasn’t with anyone else. He’s got a dick like a turkey’s neck, so I doubt he’s putting it about that much. Nope. I was just feeling a bit pissy about that whole Paris thing, y’know? I really thought he was going to get me a ring and everything.’
‘I know. So we’re friends again?’
‘Course,’ she says. ‘In fact, let’s have a drink. We haven’t got pissed together for ages. Sorry about that, by the way. I would have visited you at George’s before but I have to keep on at bloody giblet dick. Let’s face it, he’s getting on a bit. He could cark it any day now during sex.’
‘He could slump down on top of you?’ I gasp.
‘Yep. And I’d have to stay there until the cleaner arrived. I might not even have the TV remote to hand so it could all get very boring indeed. Especially if she starts skiving off again to visit her son in prison.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh, Katie, do you think he’s going to pop the question soon? It’s been absolutely yonks.’
‘It certainly has,’ I agree. ‘So long, in fact, that if I were you I’d be worried that the only question he’s likely to pop is “Mind if I flip you over and do you from behind?”’
‘God, I shudder to think. Nope. Hasn’t got it in him, for all his combat pants and his young dressing. I just wish he’d hurry up and get this proposal out of the way. I’m in a constant state of nerves.’
‘Come on holiday then,’ I urge her. ‘You know what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder and all.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I reckon,’ I say firmly. ‘He’ll be begging you to marry him when you come back. With a tan and everything.’
‘You know, Katie, you’re right. Bugger it. I’ll come.’
‘Great.’
‘But only if we can go shopping first. For a whole lot of gorgeous stuff to wear on the beach.’
‘We’re only going for the weekend. And we need to get you a bridesmaid’s dress first.’
‘Just make sure you steer well clear of the London bus look this time.’
We both cackle with laughter.
We celebrate by going out. Like we used to. Just the two of us. Jasper’s gone to a conference in the West Midlands, so Janice doesn’t feel she needs to put in any groundwork tonight.
‘Are you really OK about this wedding?’ she asks me, as we queue for Long Island iced teas at the bar.
‘Of course.’
‘Really?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’m fucking shitting myself, to tell you the truth.’
‘You’re not upset that you’ll never have the whole pavlova thing? With the apartment-block cake and all?’
‘Not really. I mean blokes are all the bloody same at the end of the day, aren’t they?’
‘They certainly are.’ She raises her glass to mine. ‘Here’s to our fake weddings then. Both of them. Yours and mine, eh?’
‘Cheers.’
‘Oh sod it,’ she says. ‘Let’s get pissed.’
We drink shedloads. And we flirt with men to get gratis drinks, although we can perfectly well afford to buy our own. Even me. And we’re not exactly polite to the men who do buy us drinks. In fact, once they’ve given in, we lose all respect for them.
‘Sorry,’ Janice tells one bloke with a Jimmy Hill chin when he asks her to dance. ‘I’m a fully paid up member of ANAL.’
‘Uh?’
‘Anti Nauseating Arseholes League. So bugger off.’
‘And I’ve just joined WART,’ I join in. ‘Women Against Randy Tossers.’
It feels good to be letting off steam with my best mate after working so hard to get Neat Eats off the ground. It’s almost like being back at college again. Of course then I’d be shagging guys like these, just so I didn’t cause offence. And I’d go out with them afterwards to avoid upsetting them further. Which would make me so miserable I’d howl with self-pity as Janice and the rest of my housemates brought me cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows and sat on the end of my bed, partly to make me feel better, but mainly because they hugely enjoyed the whole cabaret atmosphere of it all.
‘God,’ I laugh later, as we step into the loo to re-apply lipstick and untwist gussets. ‘I’m choking on the smell of Lynx in there and I still can’t see anyone I fancy. When I took up this whole being single business I thought it was going to be so exciting, you know? A new man every day and all that? No strings attached.’
‘A Daily Male.’ Janice giggles drunkenly.
‘Exactly.’ I laugh. ‘With a Male on Sunday for weekends. Extra thick and full of useless information.’
‘Too right.’
‘But all I seem to have ended up with is one ex-boyfriend and a twelve-year-old I have nothing in common with.’ I frown. ‘Where did I go wrong, Janice?’
She hugs me warmly. ‘I don’t know, mate,’ she says. ‘I just don’t know.’
On Friday morning, I drop Nick off at college so he can resit his maths GCSE and wang over to Sam’s house in Balham. He’s taken the morning off work to plan the menu for his birthday barbie with me.
‘Did you like the invitations?’ he asks me.
‘I didn’t get one.’ I look up from my notebook in surprise.
‘What?’ He runs his hands through his hair, confused. ‘But Pussy posted them ages ago.’
‘Did the postbox she put mine into have Keep Britain Tidy on it?’ I laugh.
‘Don’t be silly, Simpson. Pussy likes you. She’s always saying how great you are.’
To you, yes, I think, chewing the end of my pencil.
He frowns. ‘Though I think she did want to help with the food at my birthday.’
‘You should have let her then,’ I lie. ‘I wouldn’t have minded.’
Though actually, I realise, I would have minded like buggery. It occurs to me that I’m actually jealous of what Pussy and Sam have. He looks after her so well. I don’t have that kind of security. Jake’s always too busy rushing back to look after Fishpants and the baby, and with Nick, it’s me doing the looking after. He’s a big kid, after all.
‘It’s OK, Simpson.’ Sam grins at me. He’s actually very good-looking when he smiles. I guess I can’t really blame Pussy for wanting me out of the way. Even though there’s nothing whatsoever going on between us. ‘You haven’t seen her cooking.’
‘That bad, eh?’
I’m ridiculously pleased to hear him criticise her.
‘Put it this way, she cooked me one of those ready-made cheeseburgers once. You know the kind you get in a box. With the bun and everything.’
‘Ugh.’ I shudder. ‘Disgusting.’
‘Exactly.’ He grins. ‘Well, the cheese looked suspiciously shiny…’
‘Was it the plastic kind?’
‘Oh yes. But it wasn’t just that. She’d actually forgotten to take the plastic off. I nearly threw up.’
We both wheeze with laughter at the thought of Sam ingesting mouthfuls of cellophane.
‘You will make those pork and mango thingummyjigs, won’t you?’ he asks me, suddenly serious. ‘The ones on the skewers?’
‘As long as your girlfriend doesn’t eat them then chuck them back up again in one great multicolour yawn.’
‘Don’t be mean.’
‘Sorry. No. I’ll do them, on one condition.’
‘Anything. I’d sell my own grandmother for pork and mango wotsits.’
‘I’ve got to buy a wedding dress tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Janice is coming with me but I could do with a male opinion.�
��
‘Why? Your husband-to-be isn’t going to give a toss what you look like.’
‘No, but I will.’ I whack him round the head with a sheepskin cushion. ‘I don’t want to trip up the aisle looking like a turd in taffeta, do I? Please, Sam.’
‘I’m supposed to be having lunch with Pussy’s mother.’
‘Pretty please.’
‘Erm…’
‘Pork and mango skewers…’ I play my trump card.
‘Done,’ he says. ‘I’ll say I’ve got to work. Anyway, it might even give me the chance to talk you out of this completely insane idea. Honestly, Simpson, you do get yourself in some scrapes.’
‘That’s me for you.’ I help myself to an olive from the bowl on the table. ‘Like to fly by the seat of my pants.’
‘Really?’ He pretends to lift up my denim skirt for a look. ‘You must show me sometime. Oh, and there’s just one more favour I’d like to ask while we’re at it.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got to take Lucy to the park while Sal goes for a job interview.’
Two months ago, Sal, Sam’s sister—three years older than us and bloody scary when we were growing up, thank you very much—was ceremoniously dumped by her City Wanker husband. He moved into a flat in the Barbican to ‘find himself ’ and she’s found herself looking after a four-year-old child and a dramatically reduced income.
‘Ye-es,’ I say cautiously. ‘When?’
‘Two weeks on Thursday. Will you come?’
‘This isn’t a date, is it?’ I laugh.
‘Ha ha. I just thought it would be fun if you came. And Lucy would like it.’
I bet she would. Last time I babysat, she squealed like a guinea pig until I bought her Hula Hoops then insisted on trying out all my make-up, ruining every Ruby & Millie face gloss and Stila lip glaze under the sun in the process. But I’m pleased to have been asked. So I say yes.
On Saturday morning, I’m flat out making nibbly bits for a wanky luncheon in Fulham. Chock-a-block with vacant little ant women who’ll sip Chardonnay and pick at my pickled herrings on rye before rushing to the loos to yack it all up again. Since David did a piece on Neat Eats in the July edition of Suki, the bookings have been pouring in like cheap Sangria. And Sam, bless him, has helped out too. He’s booked me for the launch of Nikerzoff cucumber vodka, a client he’s managed to claw from the clutches of his old company. Quite a coup for a start-up company, I’m told. So my caviare and cocktails will soon be savoured by the elite of London’s mee-jah bods.
