My Fake Wedding(3)

But Jake was too good to be true. And the sex was bloody marvellous.

At first.

We made the Kamasutra look like Topsy & Tim. We bonked everywhere. Under piles of coats at parties, giggling like teenagers. In a plane toilet on the way to Amsterdam. No stone was left unturned in our search for New Places To Shag.

And Jake taught me a lot. I never realised a Toblerone had so many uses.

Unfortunately, the excitement wore off pretty quickly. Six months in, I found myself secretly making shadow pictures of butterflies and bunny rabbits on the wall above the silhouette of his humping buttocks, just to pass the time. But I decided to give him and his sloppy technique the benefit of the doubt. After all, it was only natural for things to get samey after a bit, wasn’t it?

Hell, what did I know? Still, one thing’s for sure. If I’d found out earlier that he was wearing a Jake-flavoured groove in Fishpants Fraser, Gateway To The South herself, I’d have done more than practise a spot of discreet shadow graffiti. I’d have sodding well asked him to pass me an ashtray to prop on his bum.

Well, I won’t be putting myself through all that bollocks again. Being single, I tell myself firmly, is going to be just great. Think of the advantages! I’ll be able to wear my ripped Levi’s—the ones Jake hated, with the arse hanging out—on a daily basis if I feel like it.

I’ll be able to grow my pubes down to my knees.

Watch crap TV without having to pretend I’m being ironic.

Walk round the flat covered in moustache bleach.

And leave leg stubble in the bath any time I damn well please.

Oh, and while I’m at it, I won’t give myself hives every time the phone goes and it turns out to be just one of my friends. Janice, maybe, with news of a lorry driver she’s picked up over the all-day breakfast at South Mimms Services. Or George, calling to report a nasty bout of carpal tunnel syndrome. So all in all, life should be a lot easier.

My first day of Official Singledom coincides with the first Fag Hags and Slagbags lunch of the year. I’m meeting my three closest friends so we can trough pizza together. And if I don’t hurry up and get ready, I’m going to be late.

Buggering ballbags.

I shuffle into the hall, knocking over my milkshake glass and sending a gloopy yellow river oozing across the floorboards. Dashing upstairs, I shake a couple of breakfast Doritos out of my orange corkscrew curls before jumping into the shower and scrubbing myself down with tangy grapefuit shower gel to blitz away the last of my vodka hangover. I wait a couple of minutes for my deep cleansing seaweed mask to take effect, then it’s out again, skidding across the swamp I’ve made of the bathroom floor to wrap myself up in a fluffy white bath sheet and hotfoot it to the bedroom, almost tripping over Graham and Shish Kebab, who are curled on the landing like fat ginger croissants.

There’s no time to blow dry, which means I’m going to end up with a halo of frizz round my head like an alien from the Planet Pube. I scrub in a mountain of Frizz-Ease to remedy the situation as best I can, and find a lemon-yellow scrunchie to scoop the whole lot up into a jaunty ponytail with. It does make me look a bit ‘Estate’ but there’s no time to worry about that now. I slap on powder to sort out my skin, which currently resembles the contents of a tin of SPAM, then cake on spidery mascara and a slick of lip gloss where necessary. A rummage through my knicker drawer heralds nothing but period pants, but that doesn’t matter today, seeing as pulling opportunities will be limited. I add faded Levi’s, a chunky black jumper, one pink sock and one nasty peach one, then pull on a pair of stinkycheese trainers and head for the stairs, locating keys, fags, purse and mobile phone on my way out.

The freezing air hits me straight in the chest. Christ. The streets of Balham are deserted. Everyone else is sensibly tucked up inside; hutched up cosily in front of the telly with their leftover boxes of Black Magic or squabbling over Trivial Pursuit. Shivering, I slip my hands into the pockets of my tatty leather coat and trot onwards past the Dog Shop, thanking my lucky stars that I’ve thought ahead for once, and have a full pack of cigs on me so I won’t have to brave the retch-inducing stench of damp Alsatian today. I trot past the house with the vomit orange paintwork and the swirly green fireplace tiles on the outside windowsills. Along by the deserted school playground and under Pigeonshit Bridge by the tube station. Past various kebab shops and dodgy burger joints until, after a couple of minutes, the neon pink sign of our favourite pizzeria comes into view and, already drooling on the garlicky scent which wafts into the damp, exhaust-filled air of the Balham High Road, I push open the door and glance around for my three best friends in the world.