‘What we were talking about last night,’ he says. ‘Before you started snoring…’
‘Mmmm?’
‘Do you think you’ll ever settle down? With the right person, I mean.’
‘I don’t know, Sam.’ I shrug. ‘I got hurt, you know.’
‘I know.’ He strokes my cheek and my loins almost explode.
‘What about you?’ I ask him the same. ‘Don’t you want to get married? Settle down?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’ I’m flabbergasted. ‘Surely not. Sam Freeman? Casanova of Clapham?’
‘It’s still Balham, actually,’ he points out. ‘And why not? All my friends are doing it. Joff’s got engaged to that girl he met at your birthday party.’
‘What, Jabba?’ I ask in disbelief. ‘Chantal, I mean?’
‘Mmm. The big girl.’
‘But…when… Why?’
‘You think he wouldn’t want her because she’s fat?’ he asks me. ‘We’re not all that shallow, you know.’
‘I didn’t… I mean… I didn’t know.’
‘Well, it’s true. Apparently she gives the best blow jobs he’s ever had. He’s totally smitten with her. I don’t blame him either. I’ve been out with them a couple of times. She’s brilliant fun.’
‘You’ve been out with them. When?’
‘Like I said. A couple of times. She’s great. Wicked sense of humour.’
‘I’m glad,’ I say. And I am. Chantal’s one of the few people I actually liked when I worked at the magazine. I hope Joff makes her happy.
‘Even George has settled down,’ he adds. ‘And now you’re getting married.’
‘Only pretend married,’ I remind him.
‘No,’ Sam starts, then sighs. ‘Actually married. I mean, God, Katie. You look on this as some kind of game. Like two kids playing at weddings. But you will be legally married. It’ll affect everything you do for the rest of your life. And you could get into serious trouble, you know, if the Home Office find out.’
‘God, don’t be so square.’
‘Sorry.’ Sam holds up his hands in surrender. ‘Anyway, all I was saying is that, yes, one day I would like to get married. To the right girl, I mean.’
‘Not some pigshit-thick bird who looks like a lollipop then?’ I say.
‘Pussy, you mean?’
‘Of course.’ I laugh. ‘Do me a favour, will you? Next time go out with someone normal. Someone who likes pies.’
Oh look! There I go, fulfilling all the criteria again.
He laughs. ‘OK. I’ll give it a go. I need to go out with someone who’s my type for a change.’
‘Well, who is your type?’
‘Who’s yours?’
‘Well,’ I say carefully, ‘I suppose if the right person really did come along, I’d have to reconsider my status on relationships. But it would really have to be Mr Right. Mr OK For Now can just sod off. I haven’t got time for him. Even Mr Very Bloody Nearly can get the hell out. Life’s too short.’
‘How do you know you haven’t met him already? And what would he be like, your Mr Right?’
‘Well,’ I say thoughtfully, popping in a Revel from the packet he’s suddenly found in his flight bag, ‘he’d make me laugh, obviously. Until I actually wet myself sometimes. And he wouldn’t be shocked if I did. He’d just clear it up.’
‘OK.’ Sam looks highly amused. ‘Anything else?’
‘He’d like having baths with me, instead of saying I got in the way, like Jake always did. And he’d always take the tap end.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And he’d let me sit at the front of the top deck on the bus without calling me a baby.’
‘Yes?’ ‘And he’d let me eat jelly beans in the bath. And he’d always eat the orange Revels, even if I’d already bitten into them first. Because you can never tell, can you? Between the orange ones and the Maltesers, I mean? You see, the orange ones make me feel sick. Like, really really sick. And he’d bring me Brannigans roast beef and mustard crisps for breakfast in bed on Valentine’s Day because he knew they were my favourite. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t expect it to be a bed of roses all the time. I know that heady feeling wears off after a couple of years. But there should be something left, shouldn’t there? Otherwise, what’s the fucking point? Oh, yuck.’
‘What?’
‘Orange one,’ I say, spitting the chocolate into my hand. ‘Want it?’