My Fake Wedding(29)

‘So what?’

‘Straight, I suppose. I thought it might be just an excuse not to shag me.’

‘So I’m forgiven?’

‘I can’t afford many more enemies at the moment.’ I laugh. ‘I’ve got one best friend desperately trying to marry that prune over there and another Velcroed to that creature over there in the see-through dress. Kimberley or something.’

‘God,’ he tuts. ‘Terrible name. She sounds like a second-rate wine bar.’

‘Doesn’t she?’ I giggle.

‘Oh, it’s so nice to see you.’ He laughs, giving me a huge hug. ‘And I’m sorry about your job. And, well, the other…’

‘Forget about it.’ I shrug. ‘It’s nice to see you too.’

And it is. I’ve sort of missed David, in a funny way. ‘And I’m sorry I forced you to look at my minky.’

‘Minky?’ He grins. ‘What minky?’

George greets David as though they’ve known each other for ever. Janice is flitting from room to room in her belt of a dress, finding cigars, drinks and nibbles for her prospective groom, and Sam and the Wine Bar are getting on famously.

I brush fag ash off my favourite saggy pink beanbag and flop, wondering if anyone’s going to remember to talk to me. As the party progresses I watch from outside as my three best friends enjoy themselves with other people, drinking through the bar, smoking colourful fags and eating my food. I feel about as welcome at my own sodding party as a BLT at a Bar Mitzvah.

But hang on.

Isn’t the room filling up with eligible men? And I do, after all, have a point to make. How dare Jake try to spoil my party by sending me flowers? Five months on and he’s still playing mind games, the sod.

The shit was probably hoping they’d cause a wave of nostalgia so powerful I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to bonk anyone else. Well, he can forget that idea for a start. Here I am. Young—well, thirty’s not exactly old. Free. And raring to go. So it’s decision time. Should I go all out for a nice bit of G ’n’ T or should I play safe and Go Ugly Early?

I’m just deciding when George hands me a slippery witch. Janice taps me on the other shoulder and offers me another glass of champagne.

They haven’t quite forgotten me then.

‘Katie, this is Max.’ Janice pulls some poor bloke over by the scruff of his neck. ‘Max, Katie. Max and I work together.’

She’s behaving so formally, I half expect her to fill in important personal details on my behalf, like ‘Katie is unemployed and stuffs her face at every available opportunity. Max works very hard but his hobbies are panty-sniffing and reading the Yellow Pages.’

Except that he doesn’t look like someone who might read the Yellow Pages for fun. Actually, he looks pretty good.

‘You’re very sparkly,’ he says when Janice waltzes off to rejoin Filthy Rich.

‘Thanks.’ I check him out once more and mentally erase any thoughts of Going Ugly Early from my mind. Max is gorgeous. Beautiful eyes. A soft warm brown. Like melted Mars bars. No, wait. They’re more like…

‘And you have eyes like a cow,’ I blurt.

Fuck. What made me say that?

‘God, sorry.’ I swig my drink. ‘I’m not really used to flirting. I normally only fancy gay boys and bastards, you see. And seeing as you’re obviously neither, I think it’s only fair to inform you that you don’t stand much of a chance.’

Bugger. And he seems so nice as well. Trust me to fuck up so early on in the proceedings.

Quickly, I remind myself that ‘nice’ is the sort of word people use to describe fairy cakes. I have no long-term use for this man, other than as my first Bag A Shag candidate. So why should I care what he thinks of me?

Still, it’s probably just as well to be honest with him. Tell him that the most he can expect is a trip upstairs to my room, whereupon I’ll bonk his brains out before offering him a post-coital Kit Kat from my knicker drawer.

Or perhaps it would be wiser to try the subtle approach.

Janice is right. I really am shit at shagging around. I have no idea what comes next.

Luckily, Max seems to know the form. Lips twitching with silent laughter, he asks me how I know he’s not a complete bastard. ‘I mean you’re quite right,’ he says. ‘I’m not. But I’m sure we could probably put a daily beating clause into the pre-nuptial agreement if you wanted.’

‘Huh?’

‘That’s a joke, by the way.’

‘Oh…right.’

‘Let’s just take it one night at a time, shall we?’ He grins. ‘No need to plan the wedding just yet.’