My Fake Wedding(119)

‘Did she cry?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

Oh, Simpson.’ Sam suddenly looks up and smiles at me.

‘What?’

‘I just remembered why I love you to bits.’

‘To bits.’ That’s the operative word, isn’t it? It’s the difference between ‘I love you, I want to spend the rest of my life with you’ and ‘I love you, you’re a mate’. But Sam pulls me to him and hugs me anyway and we go to sleep, curled together like spoons in the big double bed.

When I wake up next day, he’s gone. There’s a note on the table.

‘Gone to get breakfast.’

I open the shutters excitedly, looking forward to a day of sun-bathing. I’m disappointed. It’s cold, grey and lashing down with rain. I can’t help feeling depressed. The six inches of rain the Canarians get on average per year are clearly all arriving today. I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and go outside. In the rain, the resort is even more depressing than before. And with no sign of Sam, I feel empty inside. I can’t wait to go home.

In the resort bar, all the other guests are watching UK Gold and eating crisps. I turn on my heel and start to walk out when I spot George, teetering along by the edge of the swimming pool.

‘All right?’

‘No,’ he tuts. ‘I’m somewhat concerned about the amount of gold jewellery around. And look at the ruddy food. God, I’d do anything for a sundried tomato.’

I glance quickly around. He’s right. The people here are—let’s just say they’re different. Vermilion-faced girls from Blackburn who are ‘Out looking for mischief’, and a large, fifty-year-old woman from Sunderland who, in a clingy orange dress made from waffle material and a tiny pair of matching plastic shoes with little pointy heels, looks not unlike an upside down space hopper.

‘God,’ George says again. ‘It’s like a miniature Mosside.’

‘Stop it,’ I say, trying not to laugh. At least he’s cheering me up.

‘It’s true. The people here have probably all brought boxes of Shreddies with them because they can’t eat foreign muck.’

I’m saved from replying by Sam, who saunters jauntily into the bar, a huge bag of fresh bread rolls swinging from one arm and a smug look on his face.

‘What have you done?’ I ask.

‘Come back to the apartment and I’ll tell you.’ He grabs my hand. ‘You too, George. I’ve got a surprise for you.’

Over the crusty rolls with butter and apricot jam, Sam tells us all that’s he’s had us transferred to a hotel across the other side of the town.

‘What’s it like?’ George looks dubious.

‘Oh, come on.’ Janice, still in her towelling robe, looks at him. ‘It can’t be any worse than this dump.’

‘Pack your stuff and come and see.’ Sam smiles at me. ‘It’s my treat.’

‘You mean you’ve paid for it?’ I ask. ‘Oh Sam, you can’t—’

‘Yes I can. Come on, Simpson.’ He pats my shoulder. ‘This is your holiday. You’re doing something really unselfish here. You deserve to have a nice time.’

‘Oh, Sam.’ I smile at him. ‘Thanks.’

‘Any time,’ he says. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

Everyone jumps up. Apart from me, that is. Despite myself, I can’t seem to move. I’m just looking at Sam, gorgeous in a pair of faded jeans and no top. And I want to hug him. I’ve never felt like this before. My tummy is flipping like a fish and I don’t know what the hell is going on.

All I do know is that there’s more to it than just fancying him.

Bugger.

I can’t be in love with him.

Can I?

Luckily, I’m saved from further thought on the subject by Janice, who suddenly shrieks like a banshee.

‘Ohmigod.’

‘Diddit kick?’ We all rush to touch her tummy.

‘No.’ She pushes us away. ‘Gerroff. It’s way too early for that. I just thought. What if I get a fat one? A horrible fat kid. I’ll have to put it on a diet and it’ll be traumatised for life.’

‘It won’t be fat,’ I reassure her.

‘It might mind being called “it” though,’ Sam points out. ‘Anyway, you’ll love it whatever it looks like. Won’t she, Katie?’

‘How the fuck would I know?’ I ask.

He looks sad suddenly and I feel guilty. He’s probably thinking about the baby he thought he was having a couple of weeks ago. Shit. Perhaps he really wanted it after all. Oh God. Have I made him feel worse?

Luckily we’re all distracted by George.