My Fake Wedding(108)

‘And I want Sam to think I look nice,’ I whine at Janice. ‘After all the effort he’s been to.’

‘Sam probably won’t even come to the wedding.’ She pats her stomach absent-mindedly.

‘How do you know he won’t come?’ I accuse her. ‘He might.’

‘Well, you don’t know, do you?’ she bellows. ‘So I sure as buggery don’t have a clue. In a few months’ time I’ll be a single mother, for God’s sake. Which damned well gives me licence to not have a clue about anything. All I’ll be fit for is hooning round town with a shoulder caked in sick and a sodding buggy. And I’m bound to get post-natal depression.’

‘Don’t,’ I say.

‘S’OK.’ She shrugs, cutting herself a wedge of stinky Stilton and slathering it with mango chutney and peanut butter. ‘I’ll be able to rob things from shops and get away with it.’

And then, as has happened a handful of times over the past couple of days, it suddenly hits her again that she’s actually having a real, live baby.

‘Fuuuuuuck,’ she yells at the top of her voice. ‘What the effing hell am I going to do with the poor little sod when it comes out?’

I wince, putting my hands over my ears. ‘You’ll give the poor thing tinnitus. And Tourette’s. And you’ve got mango chutney all over your yap. Wipe it off.’

I wait until George gets home from work before asking him when Didier’s coming over. He’s slightly concerned over the E-coli poisoning he may have sustained after consuming a ropy chicken chausseur in the work canteen so I figure now is as good a time is any. He wasn’t exactly delighted about asking Didier to make the dress because he once slept with him in a moment of weakness and is terrified of people finding out. But eventually he agreed.

‘Well, I don’t want you having to slop to Top Shop like some strumpet from Sydenham and buying something rubbish,’ he tutted. ‘So I suppose having him using our fridge as a nosebag and dragging his fat arse across our soft furnishings for one day will be just about bearable.’

Didier’s visit is fixed for a Sunday morning. And on the day, I chuck Nick out before the damp patch has dried and schlep downstairs, where George is having pre-wedding nerves. He’s making tea like it’s going out of fashion and pacing up and down the hall like an expectant father. All that’s missing is the cigar.

‘He’s been at it all morning,’ David frets, when I plonk myself on the sofa. I’m hot, grubby and reeking of sweaty hangover sex. Not exactly your typical blushing bride. ‘Anyone would think he was getting cold feet.’

‘Anyone would think he was the bloody bride,’ I say firmly, chugging my feet out of the scrofulous black trainers I’ve worn downstairs and wincing as Didier, who has arrived already and is looking absolutely colossal today in a mauve three-piece suit, complete with apricot-coloured tie, grabs me, tells me to stand on the coffee table and cuts my circulation off somewhere around mid-thigh with his tape measure.

‘Careful,’ he worrits, smoothing the lapels of his mauve shirt and frowning. ‘You’ll stick your great clodhopping foot straight through the fabric.’ He layers great swathes of shimmering pinky-gold material around me, nipping and tucking with small, neat movements as David supplies us with gallons of hot tea and thick bacon sandwiches, dripping in ketchup. ‘This is the right sort of colour, I take it?’

I’m forced to admit that yes, Didier is a bloody genius. It’s exactly the right colour.

He smiles fatly, his cheeks puce with pleasure. George winces, presumably at the thought of that ill-fated night when they shared a bed.

‘Thank you.’ He does a silly little bow. ‘And may I just say what a treat it is to work with someone who has absolutely no suggestion of any bosom whatsoever.’

‘It is?’ I yelp, as another pin jabs into the flesh of my thigh.

‘Oh yes.’ He nods. ‘You’ve got the perfect figure for this lark. Tits like gnat bites.’

‘I have?’

‘Yes. Nothing better than a golf club to hang clothes on. Ever thought of modelling?’

‘I’d rather piss blood, thanks.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry,’ I shake my head, ‘but I haven’t got the time to sit around worrying about how cottage cheesy my arse is going to get or how I’m going to persuade my hair to lie stick straight,’ I explain. ‘I’ve got better things to think about.’

‘Some of these blushing brides-to-be come to you expecting miracles, don’t they, Did?’ George says.