My Fake Wedding(37)

‘One. Two. Three,’ chorus the Cinders mob as the sorry-looking thing is launched spinning into the rabble.

Everyone scrabbles to get to it first. I get sucked into the crowd. My hand closes round a clump of stalks. Pulling away from the rest of the snatching hands, I hold my prize aloft, as two girls swoop down on me like angry seagulls and try to yank it back.

‘I’ve gottit, Jo.’

‘No, I’ve gottit.’

‘Givvit back.’

‘Leggo.’

‘Ow.’

I give in gracefully, releasing my end before I lose an eye, and making my way back to George, who’s grinning on the sidelines like a dad at School Sports Day. He’s alone, I notice. Which is odd, seeing as the place should be filled with his colleagues. And I’ve met lots of George’s work friends. So why are none of them here?

And then it hits me like a brick.

‘George.’

‘Yes?’

‘You don’t know a single sod here, do you?’

‘No,’ he admits. ‘But this is one of the socialite weddings of the year, darling. It’s going to be in Hello! and everything. I did it for you. Thought you’d feel better if you saw some real caterers in action. Be good experience for you.’

I’m touched, even if I do suspect that the real reason behind George’s concern is that he had nothing better to do than gatecrash a smart wedding and he didn’t want to do it alone.

‘Thanks anyway.’ I hug him. After all, I do absolutely love him to bits. And no one can say that life with George in it is boring.

We’re still hugging several moments later when everything kicks off, so I’m totally unprepared for what happens next. One minute I’m cuddling George, holding on for just that bit too long as I surreptitiously inhale the delicious coconutty smell of his hair and try to suppress the weird butterflyish feeling I always get when we touch. The next, Basildon Bride is bearing down on me from nowhere like a UN tank, king-sized fag on the go in one hand and silver Nokia phone in the other.

‘I don’t fink we know you, do we?’ She tosses her too tight perm and glares icily at George then me. She’s pretty threatening. For a moment she’s got me worried. But, buoyed up with a heady cocktail of champagne, shagging and George’s blatant disrespect for this vision in slub silk, I stand my ground.

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ I say bravely, taking a defiant swig of champagne from a glass on a nearby table. ‘We don’t know you.’

‘I’m sorry.’ George smiles, seeking to smooth ruffled feathers. ‘You’d think she was dragged up in a terrace, wouldn’t you? I’m George, by the way’—he pronounces it the French way for added sophistication—‘and this is Katherine.’

‘Hmm.’ Basildon Bride looks unconvinced. Then she yells towards the other side of the hall. ‘Oy, Zac, are these friends of yours or what?’

Now, I don’t know Zac from King Kong, but I have a nasty feeling he’s probably big and threatening. But, as luck would have it, I suddenly spot the caterer coming in my direction from the side of the room. Quick as a flash I run towards him, grabbing his arm and saying, ‘Quick, pretend I’m with you. You can say I’m a waitress. I’ve been rumbled.’

‘Can’t,’ he hisses, shaking me off violently and looking at me as though I’m some deluded trollop.

I’m furious. Livid. How dare he reject me? Treat me like a total lunatic? If there’s any rejecting to be done I’ll bloody well do it, thank you.

‘All right, keep your pants on,’ I say hotly. If he’s going to be like that I’ll make damn sure he doesn’t work in this district again. ‘If you can, that is,’ I say. At the first sign of raised voices, a crowd has assembled. ‘Oh yes,’ I tell them. ‘This man has the gall to pretend he’s not with me when he was quite happily servicing me over the freezer not twenty minutes ago. What do you make of that?’

In a flash, the room is alive with whispers and murmurs, all writhing like maggots beneath the surface. I look at Basildon Bride. Basildon Bride looks at me. Then she looks at the caterer.

‘Zac?’ she demands, horrified. ‘Is this true?’

Zac. Now where do I know that name from? It’s oddly familiar.

Oh fuck.

Buggery bollocky fuck.

Zac is Belgravia Boy.

I’ve only gone and shagged the bloody bridegroom.

‘Run,’ I hiss at George, but he shakes his head, rooted to the spot.

‘Can’t. Want to see what happens next,’ he whispers. ‘This is better than Brookside.’

He soon gets his wish.