I haven’t even told them I’ve been sacked yet.
‘Make me a cup of tea,’ George demands, hurling himself melodramatically onto the sofa and lighting a fag. ‘That’s Earl Grey and not council house tea by the way. I’m not Dot frigging Cotton. Come on. Hurry up. I think I’ve got diphtheria. I’ve been shitting like a witch all morning and I’m severely dehydrated.’
‘You’re just hungover,’ I tell him. ‘And we haven’t got time for tea, council house or otherwise.’
He wants to shop at the Italian deli, where he gleefully squanders a small fortune each week on slivers of Parma ham, fat, glistening green olives, wodges of fruity taleggio and individual portions of panna cotta. I tell him that an out-of-town superstore, where we’ll be able to peruse the on-pack promotions to our hearts’ content, will be far more suitable. At ten o’clock, after Earl Grey and toast, we jump into the Rust-bucket, which is really more of a shed on castors than an actual car, and head for Wandsworth town.
‘What time’s the cling film coming off?’ he asks as I demonstrate how to put a pound in the slot to release the trolley.
‘You should know,’ I tell him. ‘You organised this farce, not me. And I do hope you and Janice have thought to invite some potential shags for me. Because if I have to spend my party on my own while the two of you drag your arses round the cork flooring like bitches on heat, I’ll quite happily whip out your small intestines with a crochet hook. Got it?’
‘Absobloodylutely.’ George takes the trolley off my hands. ‘Now show me what we do. Can we smoke in here, or should I have brought patches?’
As we shop, I refuse to let him talk about his wonderful new man. Selfish, I may be, but the whole whimsy will only last a matter of weeks. George is as bad as Sam. They both ought to have revolving doors on their bedrooms.
‘I hope people won’t think we’re together together,’ he comments, lobbing a box of breadsticks into the trolley. ‘You look like a right bush faggot since you lost your job and stopped brushing your hair.’
‘Thanks.’
‘People might think I’m responsible.’ He examines a packet of meringue nests and turns his nose up. ‘They’ll think I’ve taken you home and rogered you senseless. And much as I love you, darling, and want you to have my basted baby, the thought of that whole carry-on makes me want to scrunch my bottom up rather.’
As George clacks happily round the store, amusing himself with what he calls his ‘common people impressions’, yelling ‘Winona, Kylie, Mazola. ’Old yer Nan’s ’and while Mummay lights ’er fag’, I escape to the crisps and snacks aisle, filling the trolley with as many cashew nuts, cheesy Wotsits and Twiglets I can get away with. Bowling round into the nappy section, I decide I’d better try and find him again, before he starts clucking over the breast pumps. I don’t want him going on at me about the Womb To Let signs again. Not on my bloody birthday of all days.
As I wheel the wobbly trolley down the aisle, I start as my gaze hits upon someone familiar.
Frighteningly familiar.
Oh my God.
Isn’t that…?
My bowels turn to liquid and my mouth fills with bile. I’m rooted to the spot.
It is.
Jake and Fishpants.
They’re at the end of the aisle, cooing over the Postman Pat bibs. Which strikes me as odd. I’d have thought the Bacardi Breezers were more her style. Until I look down, of course, and realise that Fishpants is looking rather large. Which is putting it mildly. She’s actually more than large. She’s enormously, belly-button poppingly, titanically huge. Unless I’m very much mistaken, she’s about to drop a sprog straight into the crotch of her white ski pants any minute now.
Which, again, is odd.
Seeing as Jake and I only split five months ago.
The bastard.
The packets of Farley’s rusks stacked either side of me merge into a pink and blue blur as the room starts to spin. God. I have to get out of here before they spot me. I feel sick.
Too late. Before I can do a three-point turn and do a bunk, Jake sees me. And because it’s all too obvious that I’ve seen him see me, there’s no way we can avoid an encounter. Not without us both appearing rude. And that’s not very nice, is it? So, despite the fact that we’d probably both rather drink the menstrual blood of a cow, we say hi. There’s an uncomfortable silence as we both recall that the last time we clapped eyes on each other was when I caught him with Fishpants pranged on the end of his penis like a harpooned seal.
‘Are you well?’
‘Couldn’t be better.’ God. I wish I’d bothered to run a comb through my tatty hair. I bet I look as though I’ve really gone to pot. ‘You?’