My Fake Wedding(17)
How bold is that?
He looks surprised.
‘I was going to say you could have the spare room,’ he says. ‘But…’
‘Oh, that’s OK.’ I grin boldly. After all, we both know why I’m here. ‘Why dirty another lot of sheets? Not that I am, of course.’
‘Not that you are what?’
‘Dirty.’ I laugh, leaning dangerously towards him as he sits on his side of the bed and pouting for all I’m worth.
‘Katie, I…’
‘What?’ I lean so far forward that, in my pissed state, I collapse with my head in his lap.
‘I…’
‘Oooh,’ I say, putting my hand on his penis and giggling. ‘Is this a cucumber or are you just… Oh.’
Let’s just say he’s either hung like a grasshopper or he’s in no state of excitement.
‘Look,’ he says firmly, removing my hand.
‘It’s OK,’ I rush to reassure him. ‘I’m not expecting marriage, you know.’
‘Katie…’
‘Is thish because you have to sit opposite me at work?’ I try. ‘Because we can completely forget about the whole thing in the morning, you know. You won’t have to go out with me. Or buy me fancy goods of any sort whatsoever. I’ll let you off scotfree. I won’t tell a shoul.’
Although I might ask to borrow one of his T-shirts to wear into work, of course. One he’s worn before. So that Melanie and Serena will know.
They’ll be furious.
‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s not because of that.’
‘Then what?’ I’m stumped.
‘Well…’
‘Oh, I get it,’ I say. ‘You’re married. You’ve got some Sheila baking you Lamingtons back at home. Well, you know what they say. What the eye doesn’t see…’
God. I can’t believe I’m being so flippant.
‘It’s because I’m gay.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I say.
‘Katie, I’m gay.’ He takes my hands firmly. And suddenly I get it.
The beautiful kitchen. His immaculate appearance. His wonderfully bitchy sense of humour.
Of course he’s sodding gay. Whenever was a straight guy that perfect?
Buggery buggery fuck.
Everything stops. I can hear traffic hooting outside but it all seems strangely far away. Has he just said what I think he’s just said? It all feels surreal. Like some weird dream.
‘It’s not you,’ he rushes to comfort me, seeing my look of horror.
How could I have made such a basic error?
Again.
‘You can’t be…’ I make a quick salvage attempt. I’ve come this far, after all. I’m buggered if I’m letting him slip through my fingers.
‘Why not?’
‘You hate ABBA.’
‘Y-yes…’
‘Steps completely passed you by.’
‘I’m Australian.’
‘You don’t even know the actions to “YMCA”.’ I’m sobbing now. ‘I s-s-saw you at the Christmas party. You didn’t have a clue.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You’re a fucking Australian, for fuck’s fucking sake. You’re supposed to be a sexist wanker. A slab of beefcake. A red-blooded fuck monkey. You don’t mind drinking beer out of cans. And you actually like pork scratchings. I don’t believe you. This is just an excuse not to shag me, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you, I wouldn’t shag you anyway. Not if the end of your excuse for a dick was covered in Ben & Jerry’s. You’re bound to be crap. So. So there.’
God. Now I’m making a complete tit of myself. Snot is coming out of my nose and everything and I don’t even care.
Buggery, buggery bollocks.
Why does this sort of thing always, always happen to me?
I leap out of bed, acutely aware that all my bits are on display. My cheeks flame with humiliation. It seems absurd for him to be seeing me naked after what he’s just told me.
‘Look, Katie, come on, don’t be like that,’ he pleads as I pogo ridiculously round the room with one foot through the leg hole of my lurid violet knickers, trying to yank them up for all I’m worth.
‘Look, if I were straight you’d be the first person I wanted to shag. Honestly.’
‘Oh, spare me,’ I beg. ‘Please don’t try to make me feel better. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll leave my job. You’ll never have to see me again.’
‘You don’t have to do that. Come on, let’s have another cup of tea and—’
‘No.’ I pull on my pink shirt, which, after a night on the booze, is all scrunkled up in a teeny ball on the floor, before rushing down the stairs, out of the front door and into the street before he can utter another word.