My Fake Wedding(127)

‘But I do love David,’ I say in surprise. ‘And George. And I’ve made them a promise. If I don’t marry David, he’ll have to go away. And now we’ve realised how we feel about each other, surely you can understand how awful that would be.’

‘George only thinks of himself,’ Sam snaps. ‘And he’s quite happy to watch you forego your happiness, isn’t he?’

‘Stop it,’ I say, bitterly disappointed. ‘Just stop it. George doesn’t even know about us yet. So how could he think I was giving up my happiness? And I don’t have to. You and I can still be together if I marry David.’

‘But we can’t. ‘Sam shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to share you.’

‘Then you’ll have to forget it.’ I’m angry now. Angry at how selfish he’s being. Can’t he see that I can get married to David and it won’t change a thing between him and me? If he loved me, then he’d understand.

‘Forget what?’

‘It. Us. Just put that kiss we had down to the booze and the scenery. I’m glad we haven’t had the chance to have sex yet. I wouldn’t go near you if I wasn’t on holiday. Do you know something, Sam Freeman? I’d rather—’

‘Shag Neil Kinnock, yes, I know,’ he says sadly.





Chapter 23


‘I’m not sitting next to him.’ I wrinkle up my sunburned nose and scowl at the air hostess, stamping my chunky trainer to show I really mean it.

Janice, squeezing herself into her seat, glances at me sympathetically. Thank God she’s on my side.

I feel so stupid. What was I thinking of, believing Sam and I had a future together? When all along he’s too selfish to let me marry someone else if I feel like it? I mean, call me old-fashioned, but…

Whatever happened to unconditional love?

Sam merely raises his eyebrows to heaven as though this is exactly the kind of behaviour he might have expected from someone as childish as me. Then he puts on his ‘I’m so reasonable’ voice and asks the man next to him if he’d mind moving up one so he can sit between us.

Like a sort of central reservation.

‘Trust me, mate,’ he assures the man who, not surprisingly, looks reluctant to give up his comfy aisle seat. ‘You’ll only have to listen to her nagging at me all the way back to Heathrow.’

‘Been married long, have you?’ asks the man, standing up to let me pass.

‘God, you’re so pathetically predictable,’ I snarl, leaning in front of the man so we can continue our conversation. ‘All men together, eh? Nagging is a term invented by men to stop women from getting what they want, you know. How sexist is that?’

Even with the man sitting stiffly between us, the journey back to London is a total nightmare. For one thing, he’s one of those people who sticks his elbows out at right angles to his body when he eats, so that I’m forced to do the same, even though I wouldn’t normally want to, just to make the point that I haven’t got enough room.

What’s more, on the other side of the aisle, a snotty brat complete with skinhead haircut, leather jacket and gold earring is having a hysterical fit because he can.

I know just how he feels.

To make things worse, when I arrive back at George’s (George and David are spending tonight at the Savoy because they want to), Jake is sitting on the wall by the hedge outside my flat.

Talking to Nick.

And they’re both looking extremely angry.

I’ve been rumbled.

Buggeration.

I slam the car into reverse, driving round to Janice’s.

‘I’m staying here,’ I tell her. ‘Jake and Nick are outside George’s house. They’re chatting.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘I just can’t face the music.’

‘Don’t you think you’d better?’ She gets up and I immediately feel guilty because she looks so tired. She’s being sick all the time at the moment. ‘I’ll come with you if you like.’

‘Can’t I just stay here?’ I look round at her flat, which isn’t as calm, cool and collected as it usually is. Copies of Parent magazine and baby-name books litter the floor. ‘I could come and hide here then help tidy up when you’re like the side of a house.’

‘Oh, hon, you know you can stay here.’ Janice puts her arm round me. ‘But no tidying. In a few months, this place is going to be full of posset cloths and primary-coloured plastic. With bells on. I might as well get used to living in a mess. But don’t you think you ought to sort this out?’

‘Why?’

‘I dunno really. Call it closure. Moving on. You’ll be a married woman in less than a fortnight, don’t forget.’