My Fake Wedding(60)
‘Now?’ He sounds surprised. ‘At half past eleven?’
‘Uh huh.’ I inch back as the revolting creature flexes a spindly leg.
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Oh,’ I try to sound as flippant as possible,’ thought you might want to hang out for a bit. Share a bottle of wine. I’ve got some Pinot Grigio chilling nicely in the fridge.’
‘But it’s a school night. And I’m knackered after all that splendid maître d’ stuff I did last night.’
‘God,’ I scoff. ‘You’re so square.’
‘I am not.’
He is, actually. He never goes out in the middle of the week any more. He’s so busy with Freeman PR he doesn’t have time for hangovers.
‘We could watch Donnie Brasco.’
‘But I’ve got a really important meeting in the morning.’
‘How important?’
‘Very. I’m pitching. It’s a really big client.’
‘Are you going to have to be all bumlicky and everything?’
‘And everything,’ he says firmly. ‘So I’ll have to give Al Pacino a miss this time, I’m afraid.’
‘Spoilsport.’
‘You OK, Simpson?’
‘Yes.’
‘No you’re not. You sound all shaky.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say firmly.
‘You don’t sound fine. This isn’t about us watching a video at all, is it?’
‘No.’
‘So you’ve finally decided you want my body.’ He laughs. ‘Is that it?’
‘In yer dreams, Sam Freeman.’
‘Then I guess there’s only one thing it can be,’ he says.
‘Guess so.’
‘OK.’ He sighs, and I hear crinkly, crunkly sounds as he pulls back the duvet and hauls himself out of bed. I imagine him reaching for his jeans, which will probably be strewn across the back of the sofa in his bedroom. Pulling a white T-shirt from the pile by the door over his tanned chest.
‘How big is it this time?’ he asks.
‘What?’ I snap my head up. God, what am I doing, thinking about Sam’s chest like that? Haven’t I learnt anything from Max? Christ, Simpson, have some sense. Back away.
‘The spider.’ I can tell he’s trying to keep from laughing. ‘I assume that’s what all this is about.’
‘Massive,’ I whimper. ‘Can you hurry up?’
‘How massive?’ he asks, a chuckle bouncing about somewhere in the back of his throat.
‘The size of a dinner plate.’
‘Not a tractor wheel this time then.’ He laughs. ‘Don’t worry. Chuck a yoghurt pot over it or something and I’ll see you in ten.’
I do as he says, grabbing the yoghurt pot from beside my bed, dashing downstairs with it before the spider scuttles away and gingerly placing it over the top of the hunched form. Then I curl up on my squishy sofa awaiting rescue. By the time Sam actually lets himself in, I’ve fallen fast asleep.
‘Great.’ He pokes me in the ribs. ‘You’re asleep after all. I needn’t have bothered.’
‘Yes you had.’
‘So where’s the culprit?’
‘There,’ I quake, pointing a finger in the direction of the yoghurt pot. ‘And if you say it’s more scared of me than I am of it, I’ll punch your lights out. Check me out. I’m shaking like a jelly. My legs have turned to sponge fingers.’
Sam shakes his head, pretending to be serious. ‘And I thought this was no trifling matter.’
‘Oh God. Spare me your Dad jokes,’ I grumble. And I’m not being funny but I do feel all wobbly. It’s a relief when Sam, casual as you like in jogging bottoms and a faded red T-shirt, saunters back in through the kitchen door, shaking his head at me and grinning.
‘All gone,’ he says. ‘Condom and all.’
‘Oh God…’
‘So who was he?’ he teases. ‘One of those hundreds of one-night stands you’ve been planning, I suppose.’
‘None of your business,’ I snap.
‘Well, at least you’re having safe sex,’ he says.
‘You’re not my dad,’ I tell him. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘OK, OK.’ Sam holds up his hands in defeat. ‘I won’t ask. Now are you making me a cup of tea or not?’
‘Not,’ I say. But I make it anyway and bring it over to the sofa where he’s crashed out upside down, head on my best chocolate-coloured cushion and bare feet slung over the back.
‘So d’you think I did OK yesterday then?’ I ask. Now that revolting Max and the horrible spider have both gone, I can think about yesterday’s achievements. The food was pretty damn good. Everyone said so. I’m actually feeling quite proud. Perhaps I’m not such a non-achiever after all.