My Fake Wedding(102)

Sam squeezes my hand. ‘You OK?’

‘Yep,’ I gulp, even though every nerve in my body is screaming, ‘Run, Simpson, run.’

Janice, of course, hardly notices my nervousness. She’s too busy fingering taffeta and lace, silk and satin in every shade of white, cream and off-white.

‘Well, well, well,’ beams the Bloodhound Lady, showing much more plaque than is strictly necessary for two thirty on a Saturday afternoon. Or any afternoon, come to that.

‘Who’s the lucky lady then?’

‘I am,’ I say, feeling as though I’m in some kind of pantomime. Any minute now, Sam or Janice is going to shout, ‘Oh no, she’s not.’

‘What a lovely couple you’ll make.’ She beams even more. ‘Although I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside, sir.’ She takes Sam by his broad shoulders, firmly turns him round and shows him the door.

‘Look behind you,’ I want to shout.

‘Why does he have to wait out there?’ I demand.

‘We can’t have the groom seeing the bride before the big day, now can we?’

‘Oh, no, he’s not…’ I begin, stuttering and mumbling to try and get the words out.

‘I’m not the lucky man, I’m afraid.’ Sam booms with laughter. ‘That’s someone else altogether.’

I smile at him gratefully. I seem to have lost all power of speech.

He winks back, a lovely friendly wink that calms me down and makes me feel all gooey inside at the same time. Jesus. What’s happening to me? Surely I can’t be wishing I was marrying Sam? No. I’m getting confused. It’s just nerves, I tell myself. Just nerves. I’ll be OK when we get out of this clotted-cream-coloured hellhole.

‘OK,’ trills the Bloodhound, moving briskly towards a rail at the far side of the room and whisking a couple of frocks off it. ‘When’s the big day?’

‘Soon,’ I tell her.

‘Well, obviously, dear.’ She looks at me as though I’m retarded. ‘But when, exactly? We need to get some idea of what the weather’s going to be like so we can dress you properly, don’t we?’

‘Janice?’ I prompt. I’m so jumpy, I’ve actually completely forgotten when this fake wedding I’m having’s going to be held.

‘Beginning of September,’ Janice supplies helpfully, fingering a creation in antique rose silk.

‘September?’ The Bloodhound looks absolutely horrified. ‘But this is couture.’ She pronounces it koooootewer. ‘I’m afraid that’s going to be impossible. It’s July already. We need six months’ notice at least. We don’t knock them up just like that, you know.’

She manages to look at me so disdainfully I feel as though I’m the one who’s knocked up.

‘You know what?’ Janice has an idea. ‘You should just try some of these on to get an idea of what you like and then we’ll get that fat ponce Didier to copy it for you. He’s really good at stuff like that.’

Of course. George’s friend Didier. Why didn’t I think of that before? It’d be a darn sight cheaper for David too. After all, he’s insisting on paying for my dress.

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ sneers the Bloodhound. ‘I can’t let you try any of these on if you aren’t intending to buy.’

‘Oh.’ I’m crestfallen. Now what?

‘Excuse me.’ Sam takes charge, squeezing my hand again and staring the Bloodhound straight in the eye. ‘The young lady said she’d like to try on some of these dresses and so that’s what she’ll do. This other young lady happens to be getting married…what…at some point next year?’ He looks at Janice.

‘Oh, yes, definitely.’ She nods back. ‘Very early next year.’

‘And I don’t imagine there’s much call for wedding gowns in January, is there?’ Sam asks.

‘Er, well, no, not…’ stutters the Bloodhound.

‘Just as I thought.’ Sam grins at me and winks again. ‘So you’ll be polite to us now and then maybe, just maybe, if we get the full service today, we’ll be back. But that very much depends on you.’

‘Of course,’ mutters the Bloodhound, racing off and coming back with piles of utterly gorgeous dresses. We get peach bellinis in celebration of my forthcoming wedding and from the way she’s acting you’d have thought I was bloody Princess Di.

Or Fergie at the very least.

‘What about this one?’ she asks me. ‘White chocolate, we call this.’

‘It’s bloody cream,’ Janice mutters in my ear. ‘Same as all the others.’