My Fake Wedding(21)

‘Great.’

‘Means I’ll have less time to look for a husband, of course. But maybe now you’ve got bugger all to do, you could look for me.’

‘Oh, cheers.’

‘Well, you could, couldn’t you? Go to a few parties and pick someone up on my behalf. Or you could have a look on the internet. Anyway, gotta go. I really haven’t got time to chat all day. I’m very busy and important now.’

And with that, she hangs up.

In the face of a distinct lack of sympathy from my girlfriend, I try the next best thing.

I ring George.

Unfortunately, he’s ecstatic. He’s in love. Lurve. The world has turned into a giant pink marshmallow in the space of an afternoon.

‘I met someone.’

‘Oh.’ I bristle. I still can’t help seething with jealousy whenever George declares himself to be in love. After all, David isn’t the first gay man I’ve tried to bag in my lifetime. As I’ve already said, I’ve always had a thing for George. I’ve tried begging. Told him I wouldn’t be offended if he wanted me to put a paper bag over my head and pretend I was Beppe from EastEnders. And he still declined.

Ungrateful bastard.

Luckily for me and my green-eyed monster, George’s liaisons are nothing if not brief. He imagines himself to be in love at least twice a week, before realising that he has nothing whatsoever in common with the other person apart from sexual orientation. Consequently, he’s had more brief flings than I’ve owned knickers. And then some.

‘So have you done it yet?’ I ask him.

‘No.’

‘No?’ I echo. ‘God. It must be serious.’

‘I only met him at lunchtime. In the park.’

‘Hasn’t stopped you before.’

‘Ooh,’ George shrieks. ‘Cutty sark. What’s with you?’

‘I met someone too,’ I confess. ‘At work.’

‘Is he nice?’

‘He’s gay.’

‘Oh, Katie,’ he says sadly. ‘You haven’t gone and made a holy show of yourself again, have you?’

‘I’m afraid I have,’ I quaver. ‘And now I’ve lost my job too.’

‘Oh dear.’ He sounds sympathetic. ‘Well, that’s all very sad but I’m afraid I can’t stop to chat now. I’ve got a hot date to get ready for. He’s taking me to Quaglinos for dinner.’

‘Oh.’

I listen obediently for a good half an hour as George tells me just how great life is now that he’s found that certain someone number four hundred and fifty-three. He’s still talking as I put the phone down as gently as I can and turn to my last resort.

Sam.

Usually, I don’t bother troubling Sam with my tales of torture. And I don’t really know why I’m bothering now. He’s bound to be out with one of the tampon-thin fuckwits he calls girlfriends. I wouldn’t mind but they’ve always got such stupid, sugarpuff names like Coco and Indigo that they get right on my tits before I’ve even met them.

I’m pleasantly surprised. He’s alone. ‘Come round,’ he says.

Sam lives four streets away, in Calbourne Road. He opens the door of his new house, looking scruffy and dishevelled. There’s a paintbrush in his hand and the end of his nose and his fringe are coated in duck-egg blue paint. He looks so familiar and so…so ordinary and Charlie Brown-ish somehow, that I completely forget myself and burst into torrents of tears.

‘TTFN?’ he asks kindly.

TTFN stands for tea, toast and fags NOW.

‘Or perhaps you’d prefer a pizza?’

I nod, miserably.

‘Although you might want to wipe that blob of Big Mac sauce out of your fringe first.’ He grins. ‘And then you can help me paint my new office. I’m doing it blue.’

‘Shut up.’

‘I do believe I saw a smile. Just a small one. But it’s a start.’

‘Just ring for a pizza.’ I grin despite myself and march into Sam’s kitchen, where his precious collection of tube signs is stacked against one wall while he paints the other.

‘I will.’ He goes straight to the kettle. ‘When you’ve told me what’s wrong.’

‘I tried to shag a homosexual.’

‘Another one?’

I nod miserably. ‘Stop fucking laughing.’

‘Oh, Katie.’ He cracks up. ‘When will you ever learn?’

‘Oh, take off your teacher’s cap,’ I strop, sitting down at the table and accepting the hot cup of tea he’s offering me. ‘You’re not so cool, you know. Look at the pathetic excuses for humankind you go out with. Sorry, did I say go out? I meant hump and dump.’