My Fake Wedding(32)

‘You’ll have to ring and apologise,’ she bosses.

‘I can’t. How can I? He won’t want to talk to me. Not after what happened. I’ll be about as popular as a screening of Deep Throat at a royal wedding.’

‘You can,’ Janice says. ‘And you will. You better bloody had, anyway. I’m not losing my job because of you.’

‘Thanks, Janice,’ I say. ‘I’m choked.’





Chapter 7


Isn’t it weird how something actually pretty OK can come out of such gloom and doom?

The smell of stale fags has barely left the living room when duty friend Poppy rings to say that the catering at my party was ‘divine’. I’m surprised. I don’t even remember Poppy actually being at my party, which shows a) just how rendered I was and b) how significant she is in my life. But she wants to know if I’d mind divulging the name of the firm. And when I tell her I did it all myself in an afternoon, her voice goes all wobbly and she suddenly bursts into tears.

‘What?’ I raise my eyes heavenward. For God’s sake. It’s me who is supposed to be upset, isn’t it? I’ve got no job, no one to shag and a sore bum. Whereas Poppy has coins aplenty, courtesy of a rich, if slightly boring boyfriend, and a very small bum. Shouldn’t I be the one grubbing for sympathy here?

‘We’ve had a dizz…’

Cherrrist. Out with it, love. I haven’t got all day.

Actually, I have, but it’s not much fun listening to someone else blub down the phone.

‘Dizzz. Dizzzarrster.’

‘Oh dear,’ I faux sympathise, hoping cruelly that Seb has up and dumped her from a truly great height. ‘What is it? Anything I can do?’

‘The ccccc…’

‘Cunt?’ I supply hopefully. God. He must have done something really horrible if Perfect Poppy is actually attempting to use the C word.

‘NO.’ She sounds shocked. ‘Caterer. The caterer we were going to use for our wedding’s gone bloody bust. Everything’s ruined.’

‘Is it?’ I smile down the phone, hoping she can’t hear it in my voice.

‘I don’t suppose…’

‘What?’

‘Don’t suppose you fancy giving it a go, do you, Katie? I’d pay you, of course. It’s just that we can’t get anyone else at short notice. Mummy’s tried everyone. She’s even gone on the internet.’

‘I don’t know.’ I hesitate. Frankly it all sounds a bit bloody much. I mean I know Sam says I’m a brilliant cook, but knocking up a bowlful of biryani or two for my mates—especially when it means I get to trough a good half of it—is one thing. Churning out miniature marzipan bridegrooms and serving teeny tomato tartlettes on silver platters to two hundred horsy strangers is quite another. Just how the fuck does one go about that sort of thing? What if I muck it all up? The happiest day of two people’s lives will go skittering straight down the pan.

Buggering, buggering hell.

‘I wouldn’t worry too much,’ Janice reassures me when I ring her. She’s having a sunbed because she’s just seen a photo of Jasper’s permatanned dead wife. ‘Half of them will be bloody bulimic anyway,’ she adds. ‘Lucky bitches. So they’ll be barfing it all up again before you can say salmon-en-croute. You’ll probably be able to do a second sitting with their leftovers.’

Sam, of course, persuades me it’s a terrific idea.

‘It’s your perfect opportunity,’ he enthuses. ‘It’s for someone you know, and there’ll probably be loads of people there to impress. So you can make more contacts and—’

‘OK, calm down,’ I say. ‘We don’t all want to work in PR, you know.’

‘But you’ll do it?’ he says eagerly. ‘Go on, Simpson. Give it a go. You’ll be brilliant. I know you will.’

‘Well…’

‘Well?’ He tousles my hair.

‘OK,’ I say gingerly.

‘Fantastic.’

I smile weakly. I don’t really have any choice but to do this. My overdraft is snowballing. And I simply don’t have a frugal mentality. If I want something, I convince myself I need it. So I buy it. Immediately. If I don’t find a way of making money soon I’ll be forced to put Graham and Shish Kebab on the streets.

Janice thinks it a great idea and magnanimously offers to let me cook a dinner party at hers as a sort of dry run. As usual she has a hidden agenda. I have to pretend she’s done all the work herself. How else is Jasper going to be able to see what a suitable wife she’ll make? Anyway, she huffs, when I point out that that would be false advertising (she’s the only person I know who can chargrill a Pot Noodle), the offer is there. I can take it or I can bloody well leave it.