My Fake Wedding(28)

‘Here we fucking go,’ I mouth at him, saying, ‘Just give me my drink and I’ll leave you two to it.’

Sam is really excited tonight. But it’s not just down to the prospect of pulling Kimberley, whoever she is. He’s just persuaded one of his major clients to come with him when he starts up Freeman PR. Which is a huge coup. His boss’ll be furious, but it means others will follow. And he’ll be made. I only know this because my mum told me when she called me this afternoon to wish me a happy birthday.

‘Jeff is pleased as punch,’ she told me. ‘He’s just gone into his garden now to put some potatoes in, he’s so pleased.’

‘Great,’ I said. God, the excitement of some people’s lives. Couldn’t he have hoofed back a double whisky in one go or something? Still, it did make me laugh to think of Jeff in the same garden Sam and I used to play in as kids, eating soil and making houses for worms. Sam’s come a long way since then, I think now, seeing him, so easy and confident, happily mixing drinks for people he’s never met before, safe in the knowledge that he has a shining career ahead of him and a father who’s so proud of him he’s taken to planting root vegetables in his honour. Meanwhile, what have I done?

Got the boot for being a lazy sow, that’s what. Not much to be proud of there.

I glance round my sitting room. There’s George, looking amazing in black leather hot pants, fishnets, six-inch stilettos and a long pillar-box red wig.

‘You look lovely,’ I tell him. ‘Your new bloke is going to be blown away. When’s he coming?’

‘Sooner than he thinks,’ George cackles. ‘You’re looking pretty bloody amazing yourself. I knew that dress was made for you.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile back, starting to enjoy myself. The room is filling up quickly. Good old Janice was right. There’s tons of G ’n’ T here. Who knows? I might even enjoy myself. Oh, and there’s the doorbell again.

‘Flowers for Miss Simpson.’

‘That’s me.’

A man hands me a huge bunch of sugar-pink roses.

I take them into the kitchen, ripping open the envelope on the little card and reading it. Who are they from?

Shagging fuck.

‘Happy Birthday,’ says the card. ‘For Old Times’ Sake.’

Inside is an all too familiar scrawl. ‘Lovely to see you today. Have a good one. Love Jake.’

My stomach lurches. But there’s no time to stop and think. Janice is nearly upon me, dragging the guy with the dead wife behind her. I chuck the roses into the corner of the room out of sight and prepare to meet her future husband.

‘You OK?’

‘Yep. Just getting some air, you know.’

‘This is Jasper.’

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’ He grins.

Hmm. Not what I expected at all.

‘You look…’ I stop.

‘Yes?’

‘You don’t look as sad as I expected.’

‘I’m sorry?’

Well. His wife’s dead, after all. He should have the decency to look a bit miserable, instead of blatantly undressing Janice with his eyes. And he’s far too old for her. His combat pants and T-shirt don’t fool me. In fact, he looks faintly ridiculous. Just who is he trying to kid?

Janice, I suppose.

I mean it wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so wrinkled. He’s got a face like an apricot that’s shrivelled in the sun.

Mutton dressed as pig.

Ram dressed as lamb.

The doorbell rings again and, gratefully, I excuse myself. I have no idea what to say to this strange creature. Janice will have to entertain him on her own.

I open the door.

And get the shock of my life.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ my party guest and I both screech at the same time.

‘George invited me,’ David stutters. ‘I had no idea you’d be here.’

‘I sodding well live here,’ I bridle. ‘It’s my birthday. This is my party.’

And I’ll cry if I sodding well want to.

‘I tried to call you,’ David says. ‘After you left IBS. But you were always out.’

‘I wasn’t,’ I reply. ‘I just didn’t want to talk to you.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Never better. You?’

‘Fine. Happy, actually. I’ve met this—’

‘George,’ I say. ‘You already said.’

‘You know him?’

‘He’s one of my best friends.’

‘Oh God.’

‘It’s OK,’ I tell him. ‘To be honest, I’m a bit relieved to find out you are really gay. I thought you weren’t a proper Marmite miner at all. You seemed so…well…so…’