‘Oh, right.’
About the nearest Janice has ever got to doing charity work was sucking off a sex-starved American sailor we met in the Mucky Duck pub in Portsmouth.
‘I was glad I hadn’t bothered to bone up beforehand,’ she goes on, ignoring my shocked look. ‘Because the vicar burbled on so much about what a wonderful woman she was, I felt as if I’d known her for years. I half expected him to start going on about what a great lay she was.’
‘But…’
‘Anyway, I went back to the house. Reassuringly large. And the champagne was good quality. None of your M&S cheap shite. And we got on like a house on fire. Afterwards, he kissed my hand and said he hoped I’d stay in touch. So I thought your birthday was the perfect excuse to cheer him up a bit.’
‘And fuck your way to a fortune,’ I say.
‘Quite.’
‘Was the death expected?’ I ask.
‘God, no. Totally out of the blue. Silly bitch skied into a tree. Completely ruined the holiday, as you can imagine. Poor bastard had to cut it short and come home. So selfish.’
‘Janice!’
‘What? What have you got to complain about? You’re getting a birthday party out of this. And I’ll invite lots of G ’n’ T. For you, I mean. I’ll probably have to go without.’
G ’n’ T stand for Gorgeous ’n’ Thick. It’s a phrase reserved for decorative men with shit for brains.
‘You’ll have to,’ I say. ‘I certainly don’t know any.’
‘So that’s a yes then?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Oh, great,’ she enthuses, pouring herself a last glass of wine. ‘Now, which bag do you think I should use for the occasion? The pink Tocca or the black Gucci?’
‘How old is he?’
‘Sixty-nine.’
‘Try the blue and white Tesco then.’ I giggle. ‘No, seriously, the only bag he’ll be familiar with will be attached to his stomach with a plastic tube so he probably won’t give a toss.’
She makes a wry face, downing the last of her wine and standing up to go.
‘He’s not THAT old,’ she protests.
‘He’s Granddad age,’ I point out. That’s old enough for me.
She pulls on a cardigan. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday then?’
‘Will you?’
‘Yes. For your party, duh.’
‘Can’t I have it on Friday? It’s my actual birthday on Friday.’
‘No, you can’t.’ She picks up her fags. ‘He can’t make it on Friday. He’s got a meeting.’
‘Golden oldies again?’
‘Work,’ she huffs. ‘Anyway, you’ll have to make it Saturday. Otherwise he can’t come. And that’s the whole point.’
‘I thought it was my birthday party.’
‘And that, obviously.’
‘What about the invitations?’
‘All taken care of.’ She counts off on her fingers. ‘I’ve invited all our friends. Plus a few of the No Bums from work. Gets me brownie points, you know.’
‘Great.’
‘And Poppy and Seb. Then we won’t have to see them for a bit.’
‘True.’
Poppy is our very worst duty friend. The college buddy we just can’t seem to shake. She’s so bloody nice there’s nothing we can do to get rid of her.
‘And George has invited a load of his friends. Didier’s coming. And Sylvain. Christian. Fran the Tran. Felix and Oliver. Archie and Hugo. Fat Dexter. Colin and Huw. Sheena and Kath. And all of Sam’s mates are coming. Oh, and George has invited his new man.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Dunno. Haven’t met him yet. Anyway. Got to go. Got to ring Jasper.’
‘Who’s Jasper?’
‘Funeral guy, dumbo. I’ve gotta tell him it’s all on. Oh, and by the way, you’ll have to do the catering. I’m tied to the fax machine by my Tampax string at the moment so I won’t be able to help. Sozz.’
Chapter 5
For some reason, I’m so pissed off about having to do the catering for my own party, I almost cancel the whole blimming thing.
Until George offers to help me do all the shopping, that is.
‘And pay for it?’ I ask. ‘I’m unemployed, don’t forget.’
He clops round to my flat at nine o’clock on Saturday morning as arranged, just as I’m feeling weepy over the lovely birthday card Mum has sent me. There’s one from Sam’s dad, Jeff, as well. They’re both so full of optimism for my ‘bright’ future that I just don’t have the heart to tell them I’m a total failure.