My Fake Wedding(109)

‘They do.’

‘Actually square-shaped, some of them, you know, Katie,’ George goes on. ‘They come podging in looking like ruddy Rubik’s cubes. All wringing their porky little fingers in pathetic pre-nuptial excitement. And you can’t come straight out with it and tell them it just isn’t possible to stuff six pounds of sausagemeat into a one-pound skin. Can you?’

‘No.’ Didier yanks at my shoulder straps, almost choking me. ‘Breathe in then, love. No, you’re quite right, Georgie. My talents may be considerable but one has to draw the line somewhere. One can’t make a Pucci bag out of a pig’s arsehole, no matter how hard one tries.’

I stand, bored out of my brains, as Didier pins and tucks, stitches and bitches around me. My mind’s on other things. I can’t help worrying about the coffee cake and other fancies I’m supposed to be making for some do or other in Lavender Hill. Just when am I going to find the time to do it all?

‘Isn’t this fantastic?’ George is helping Didier and patting my hair excitedly. ‘Like having our very own Girls’ World. Where’s that tiara you got?’

‘In my room.’ George obediently trots upstairs to get it and brings it back down and plonks it straight on my head. I preen in the mirror, thoroughly delighted at the sparkliness of it all.

‘It’s funny, isn’t it, really?’ I say, as George, David and I take time out for about our tenth cup of tea. ‘I mean, what the buggery bollocks does it matter how I look if the guests amount to diddly squat and no one’s going to see me? I could just wear my comfy combat pants and my Timberlands, couldn’t I?’

‘No one?’ George ejaculates.

‘No one?’ Didier echoes.

‘I wouldn’t exactly call Marcel no one, would you, darling?’ screeches George. ‘He’s done flowers for Fergie more than once.’

‘And Davina McCall,’ says Didier. ‘And she’s very now.’

‘And that Dorien from Birds of a Feather, come to that,’ adds David. ‘Did her some lovely delphiniums, he did. She’s lovely in real life, apparently. Not a complete slapper at all.’

‘And there’s Fran the Tran and Ermintrude,’ George says. ‘Just because they’ve had their bits chopped off doesn’t mean they’re no one either, darling. They’d be terribly hurt to hear you say that.’

‘They’re coming?’ I ask.

‘We said they could be the Confetti Bettys,’ David admits. ‘They felt a bit left out so they’re going to give out rose petals by the front door when you come down the steps. And we’ve got Prosper and Rex ushing.’

‘Ushing what?’ I ask sharply.

George raises his eyebrows to heaven. Actually, it’s just the one eyebrow he raises. He currently only has one. A monobrow. Usually, he plucks the tufty in-between bits to death. But his head has been too full of hysterical puffy pink wedding thoughts of late. He simply hasn’t the time to attend to personal grooming.

‘What do you think?’ he says tiredly. ‘Whatever needs to be ushed, of course. Guests, children, small dogs. I don’t know.’

‘But we aren’t having any guests,’ I protest. ‘Apart from Janice and Sam, of course.’

Actually, after our argument, I still don’t know if Sam is coming. But I can’t worry about that right now. I have to think positive thoughts.

‘Of course he’ll come,’ George says, reading my thoughts. ‘And of course we’re having guests. We’ve invited everyone we can think of.’

‘But I thought we agreed…’

‘Oh, bugger what we agreed, darling,’ George scoffs. ‘I’m bloody well paying for the whole shebang so I’ll have what I want, if that’s all right by you.’

‘Isn’t it all going to look a bit gay?’ I ask. ‘What with half of Madame Jo Jo’s turning up? What if the Home Office decide to investigate? Aren’t they going to get a tad suspicious when the wedding guests all resemble the Village People?’

‘Sam’ll be there,’ David reassures me. ‘He’s not gay.’

‘Sad but true,’ George says.

They both giggle.

‘Great,’ I say. ‘Sam and Pussy. Sport Billy and a strip of linguine hardly count as representatives of the Heterosexual London Members Club.’

‘And you’ll be there,’ David says. ‘In your girlie pink dress and your glitzy shoes. Now if we were dressing you as a dirty great diesel dyke, then I could understand your concern.’

‘Yes,’ George says. ‘And you can’t try telling me you’re a rug muncher now, darling. Not with you out trapping cock all over the shop.’