‘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.
Soon, I’m going to have to think about taking on extra staff. Things couldn’t be better.
Sam, fresh-faced from playing football, comes round at half one, and at two o’clock Janice picks me up, mounting the kerb in an enormous four-wheel drive, squashing a big dog turd on the pavement and nearly mowing me down in the process.
‘Car’s gone in for a service,’ she explains. ‘Jasper’s lent me this bastard for the day. Can’t seem to get the hang of the clutch.’
We make for Bulimic Brides, or whatever the blimming heck this pre-nuptial haven is called, in Covent Garden. A hush descends on the room as we enter and a woman with electric-blue eyeliner, frosted pink lipstick and cheeks like a bloodhound’s pads over, her neat court shoes sinking into the deep pile of the cream carpet.