My Fake Wedding(123)

‘I wish.’

‘One who’ll happily play Dutch ovens in bed on a Sunday morning just for the hell of it.’

‘What, like you, you mean?’ he jibes.

‘Well, no, not like me exactly.’ Yes, yes. Exactly like me. I do farting. In fact, yes, it’s me you want. Just me. Pick me. I love trumps.

‘I mean, not ginger, anyway,’ I say hastily.

Why the fuck did I say that? God, I’m making one holy fuckup of this, aren’t I? I clearly have the seduction technique of a small pot-bellied pig.

‘Why not?’ he asks. ‘Who said there was anything wrong with ginger?’

‘Half the population?’ I jest.



We go out and get drunk that evening. Again I drink more than usual, probably because Sam is making me so nervous. Janice keeps glaring at me over the table, willing me to get a grip. It’s ridiculous really, the way the presence of my oldest friend who I’ve previously almost brained with a seaside spade, amongst other things, can suddenly have me shredding the skin around my thumbnails as though I’m noshing on spare ribs. And because I’ve had wine, and the odd beer, and a vodka marshmallow shooter and—oh, all sorts of other things, I suddenly realise I feel all squibbly.

I say I want to go home.

‘I’ll come with you.’ Sam jumps to his feet. ‘You OK?’

‘Yep.’ I look at Janice. ‘Will you be OK? Will you boys see her home?’

‘Course we will.’ George raises his glass.

Janice gives me a silent thumbs-up. And, as we leave, Sam’s hand is protectively on the small of my back, making me tingle with anticipation. Perhaps he does feel the same.

In which case, this could be it. It really could be it.

When we get back to the hotel, Sam makes me sit on the bidet, the only thing they’re good for in both our opinions as neither of us get the point of them. Then he rinses a fluffy flannel in cold water and smoothes it across my forehead.

‘Save you getting roomspin. Don’t want your brain going round and round like a helicopter propeller if we can help it.’

‘Sorry,’ I say as he sits me on the crisp linen-covered bed and tucks a bit of damp hair behind my ear.

‘No problem, Simpson,’ Sam says. ‘Lightweight,’ he adds afterwards, for good measure.

‘Bugger off.’ I hit him with my flip-flop.

‘Ow.’

So I hurt him. A bit. But he really should know better. I mean, I’m not the girl who used to make herself chunder in the Student union   toilets in order to fit in more booze for nothing.

‘I’ll show you, Sam Freeman.’ I laugh, chucking my other flipflop in his general direction.

‘Show me what?’ he teases.

‘Don’t be cheeky,’ I scold. But I’m pink with pleasure nonetheless. At least, I think I am. I can’t really tell because although I can see myself in the mirror, I’m having double vision. Or is that treble?

‘OK.’ I pull out a full-size bottle of vodka. ‘What have we here? A nightcap, methinks.’

‘Simpson, are you sure?’

‘Course I’m sure.’ I unscrew the top and pour us both a more than generous slug. ‘Down the hatch, old boy.’

And Sam, good as gold, joins me in drinking half the bottle.

I don’t remember going to sleep. But I wake with my jeans pulled down around my ankles so I must have tried to get undressed. I open my eyes slowly.

‘Who took the floor away?’ I grumble, struggling out of bed. Bugger. We have to leave so soon and we haven’t even kissed, let alone bonked. We’re back to cold old Blighty this evening.

‘Not me.’ Sam, delicious in nothing but a pair of faded denim shorts and a tan brings in a tray.

‘What’s that?’ I ask him. ‘And why are you so disgustingly bright this morning?’

‘Breakfast,’ he says. ‘And you talk in your sleep.’

‘Do I?’ I look at the plump, flaky croissants, fresh strawberries, orange juice and fragrant coffee laid out on the tray.

‘You really shouldn’t do that, you know,’ he teases, poking my arm. ‘A girl can reveal a lot of secrets that way.’

Shit. I didn’t. Did I? But Sam’s face is giving nothing away. So I guess I’ll never know. I bite into a croissant and change the subject.

‘I wish we didn’t have to leave today,’ I sigh. ‘I could get used to this.’

‘Me too.’ He flicks through the TV channels. I don’t know why he’s bothering. Neither of us can understand a word anyone is saying. It’s gobbledegook.

Suddenly, I realise I’m going to have to say something. But I can’t. My tongue is like wet cement. Then Sam suddenly speaks.