My Fake Wedding(112)
‘I have. Sort of. But I’ve still got to tell my mother she’s going to be a grandma. I’m dreading it.’
‘You think she’ll be angry?’
‘Christ no.’ She shakes her head. ‘Quite the flaming opposite. She’ll be over the bloody moon. I just dread to think of the clothes she’ll buy the poor little sod. One of those ghastly furry hats with ears, probably. Why do some people dress their kids up as dogs and bears and imagine it’s cute, Katie?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And she’ll insist it calls her Nan, or something horrid like that.’
‘So?’
‘Sod it.’ She lets go of the stunning shell-pink halterneck she’s checking out and shrugs. ‘None of these are going to fit me in a few months’ time. Still, just because I’m going to look like a juggernaut in the holiday photos doesn’t mean you have to. You won’t want shot after shot of you in the same threadbare cozzie with your thighs all pink and stuck to a deck chair with sweat and your head jammed in a Jackie Collins, will you? What you need is a whole new wardrobe. A new bikini for every day.’
‘You don’t look like a juggernaut. And we’re only going for the weekend,’ I point out. ‘But you have to buy new stuff as well,’ I say. ‘For the future. You’re up the duff, don’t forget.’
‘I am, aren’t I?’ she says wistfully, looking down at her boobs, which will soon resemble a pair of barrage balloons. ‘I’m right up that duff. I couldn’t be more up the duff if I tried.’
‘When does your belly button turn inside out?’ I want to know.
‘Not sure.’ She grins. ‘I’m quite looking forward to that part. It really freaks blokes out.’
‘You’re not going to fill your wardrobe with those horrible clothes that have baggy kangaroo pouches at the front for your enormous stomach, are you?’ I ask.
‘God, no. I’m going to wear bikinis and let it all hang out. Like Madonna. And Posh. And I’m not going to let myself go completely. While we’re in Spain, I’m going to swim all the time. And just eat salads.’
‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘I’m going to lard it. Lager for breakfast, pina colada for lunch and chips with everything. I can’t wait.’
And I am looking forward to it, funnily enough, although I’m still surprised by George’s decision to go completely bargain basement, holiday-wise. Generally, his idea of a package is something he takes home from Harrods Food Hall, filled with chunks of smoked venison and slivers of wild salmon.
Doesn’t he know charter flights only have one class?
If you can call it class.
How’s he going to cope?
Unfortunately, shopping for new clothes doesn’t really make me feel better for very long. When I get home, George and David have gone out, leaving a note that they’ve gone to see a rom com at the Screen on the Green, and I suddenly feel all lonely and scared stiff about my wedding. I’m currently sleeping in a room full of David’s pants in case the Home Office decide to drop by at seven o’clock of a morning and catch us unawares, and I’m not at all sure I’ve done the right thing, agreeing to this madness.
Except I’ve seen George and David together. And, although they’re professionally flippant, I know they love each other hugely. So I really can’t back out now, can I? Not without sending David scarpering off back to Oz and handily ruining two lives in the process. Anyway, even if my plans to marry David aren’t exactly conventional, at least I’m making two other people happy. So when Sam’s sister Sally and I meet for coffee to talk about Mum and Jeff ’s wedding reception and she asks me if I’m sure I’m not going to regret it, I’m able to say with absolute certainty that I know I’m doing the right thing.
‘Don’t worry on my account, Sal. I don’t need to see sense. I’ve seen it already. And it’s dull, dull, dull.’
‘You know, I’m not just saying all this for the sake of it.’ She frowns. ‘It’s for your own good.’
Privately, I doubt that. When someone tells you something is for your own good, you know you are going to find it about as pleasant as colonic irrigation.
‘To be honest, Sal,’ I explain, ‘I really can’t be arsed with the whole love and marriage thing. In my experience, blokes really only seem to be good for shagging and leaving and not very much else.’
The day of our departure looms and I decide not to bother telling Jake or Nick I’m off to sunny Spain (well, sort of Spain) for the weekend. Let them figure it out for themselves. Janice comes over first thing to check over my packing.