My Fake Wedding(41)

Then I stomp down to the kitchen to unpack the groceries and cook supper. I chop carrots and onions, simmer creamy coconut broth and tear up bunches of fragrant coriander. Whizz the whole lot through the blender and roll the most astronomically priced piece of lamb I’ve been able to find in freshly macerated mint. I boil potatoes then rough them up with a fork so they’ll be deliciously crispy when I roast them in heaps of chopped rosemary and lashings of sizzling hot oil. Slice courgettes into razor-thin strips and pod peas. Melt prime quality chocolate over a saucepan and whip egg white into Everestlike peaks. As I do all this, a wave of contentment washes over me and I almost switch off from real life completely. I always feel like this when I’m cooking for friends. It soothes me, somehow. I used to love cooking for Jake. Every Friday night we’d have wonderful slap-up feasts, after which he always enjoyed nothing more than an evening of crap game shows rounded off with a blow job of distinction. I cooked that ungrateful sod everything under the sun. French. Italian. Indian. Thai. Chinese. Unfortunately, as it turned out, the only thing he really appreciated in the end was Red Hot and Dutch, but it’s some consolation to know that Fishpants Fraser is doing the cooking now. Which means egg and chips will be about the limit. And it’ll doubtless be downhill from now on in. Soon, he’ll be living off carrot purée and Tubby custard.

And serve him bloody well right.

By the time Janice gets home from the office, stripping off her suit jacket as she waltzes into the kitchen and declaring that she needs a hot shower and a good half-hour of pampering, everything is practically ready. The lamb is roasting to pink perfection in her sparkling Smeg and all that remains is for her to stick the veg in boiling water for a few minutes when the guests have arrived. Surely even she can manage that. As I wait for her to come out of the shower, I slip into my own boring LBD, pull on a sheer pair of black tights to conceal my corned beef legs and flop down on her suede ottoman to neck a glass of wine. She slaps on a bright blue face mask, exfoliates her legs, douses herself in perfume and pours herself into a backless silver chainmail thing she’s bought specially.

‘TA-DAA.’ She wafts down the stairs in a cloud of D&G and gives me a quick twirl. ‘What do you reck? Do I look gorgeous or do I. Look. Gorgeous?’

‘Erm…’

‘It needs a bra, doesn’t it?’ she says irritably. ‘Needs. A fucking. Bra. I knew it. And I don’t have a sodding backless one.’ She practically hyperventilates. ‘Shit piss fuck. What am I going to do? Whywhywhy do I have to have tits like bloody balloons?’

I pass her a paper bag to breathe into. Luckily, I know just how to deal with this particular crisis. Janice’s big, bouncy boobs are the bane of her life. She’s simply too well-endowed to go bra-free. For years now, she’s aspired to a crop top, but to no avail. No matter how much weight she loses, her boobs steadfastly refuse to shrink. I’m the total opposite. I don’t have a washboard stomach, I have a washboard chest. I’ve got a torso like a xylophone. And she’s jealous. Of me! The mad cow. I’ve tried pointing out that my boobs are so small they practically poke inwards, like two piss holes in the snow, but she’s having none of it. It means I can wear teeny vest tops and backless frocks to my heart’s content if I want to, and that’s what’s so galling apparently. It’s a classic case of ‘grass is always greener’. I’ve yearned for boobs in the past. Great big udder-like boobs I’d be able to squash together to make a cleavage. One that looks like a huge bottom. Like the Edwardians had. I’d happily swap places with her any day.

In the end, the chainmail dress is discarded altogether, due to the fact that two boiled eggs in a handkerchief isn’t a good look this season. Boobs, Janice assures me firmly, are out. She plumps for a flirty amethyst silk number instead and— I have to hand it to her—she does look absolutely stunning when she’s eventually ready. She’s used a gallon of straightener on her hair, which makes her appear at least five inches shorter than usual. Suddenly I realise my larger than life best friend has been transformed. She’s a glossier, more sophisticated model. She’s gone from tawdry Boy Racer Escort to sleek Alfa Romeo Spyder in minutes. Even her make-up is quieter. Gone is the sassy scarlet lipstick and thick black eyeliner. In its place, tasteful nude lipgloss and feather-light mascara. She almost doesn’t look like Janice at all. If this is how it’s going to be if she marries Filthy Rich, I’d rather she didn’t bother. I’m already pining for her big hair and shouty make-up. I don’t like the new Janice much. It feels as though I’m being fobbed off with a watered-down version.