My Fake Wedding(65)

‘Right.’ I shrug, picking up my rucksack, not feeling businesslike in the slightest. I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. But Faulkner. The name rings a bell. Why? I wonder.

Shit. It’s not some friend of my mother’s, is it?’

‘Sit down.’ The manager indicates an orange plastic chair in front of her desk. Classy.

I look up expectantly. Who starts first? I have no idea what to expect. But buggery fuck. Where have I seen that face before? At least it’s not one of my mother’s friends. She’s too young for that. She’s tall, extremely smart and with hair drawn into a tidy French pleat. Perhaps she used to work in Safeway’s. Or Victoria Wine. That’ll be it.

‘Hello, Ms…?’

‘Simpson,’ I remind her. God. She could have at least bothered to do her research. ‘As in Edward and Mrs.’

‘And you want a loan for?’

‘I want to start up my own business.’

She looks at me derisively, as though I’ve just told her I want it for Bacardi and Cokes and stocking up on blue mascara.

‘Well, yes.’ She picks up a pencil. ‘That is usually the idea.’

‘And I really want to make it work,’ I sputter.

‘Don’t they all?’

I ignore her. Because the moment I’ve said it, I realise that I really, really do. I want to make a go of this, come hell or high water.

She looks back at me and chews on the end of her pencil. Then she looks at me again, looks away and looks back, startled.

‘I think we know each other, don’t we?’

‘I thought so, yes,’ I gabble, pleased. Perhaps this will give me some sort of advantage over the other loan seekers. ‘Were we at college—?’

‘Oh no,’ she interrupts. ‘I think it’s a little more recent than that.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t…’

‘Oh yes. I’d recognise your face anywhere,’ she sneers.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I only have to look through my wedding photos to see you and your friend flashing your pants at all and sundry.’

And then it clicks. Of course. I know exactly who this is.

Buggery fuck.

It’s Basildon Bride.

‘Nice souvenir of my wedding, that was,’ she snarls. ‘The only one, as it turns out.’

‘Oh right,’ I sputter. ‘And how is your…er…husband?’

‘Ex-husband,’ she spits. ‘We’re getting divorced. I caught him humping one of the bridesmaids not three days after we got back from honeymoon. I’m going for half of everything, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘So what was it like?’ she asks me.

‘Your honeymoon? How should I know?’

‘Fucking my husband?’

How the fuck she expects me to know that, I don’t know. I was rendered. Completely off my face. So I don’t respond. Instead I stand up pulling my jacket down to cover the curry stain and feeling my cheeks burn.

‘I think I should go.’

‘You got that right.’

As I get to the door, I decide it’s worth one last-ditch attempt at least.

‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a loan then?’

‘You got that right too,’ she says. ‘Now fuck off.’





Chapter 13


When I tell Sam I didn’t get the loan, he’s sympathetic.

Ish.

‘Come on, you.’ He gives me a hug. He’s just been playing football and he smells of outside.

‘I’m a failure.’

‘You’re not.’

‘I am. I didn’t get the loan.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He looks worried. ‘Was it…?’

‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure him. ‘It wasn’t your business plan. Just my luck, I’m afraid, that the loans adviser was that woman from the wedding.’

‘Poppy’s wedding?’

‘Nope. The woman whose wedding I gatecrashed. Whose husband I boffed.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Don’t look as though you’re trying not to laugh.’

‘Oh. OK.’

‘You’re still doing it.’

‘I can’t help it.’ Sam’s wide grin explodes onto his face once more. ‘Only you could fuck up something like that so professionally, Simpson. And with such style.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Sorry.’ He smirks. ‘But it is funny. Would you like some tea?’

‘I’d prefer a pizza,’ I confess.

‘Things must be bad.’

I pull a face. It’s OK for him. He’s good at anything he turns his hand to. People get sucked in by his enthusiasm for everything so they can’t help making life easy for him. All I can muster enthusiasm for is cake. And curry. And crisps. Sam’s natural aptitude for brown-nosing and agreeing with people—he sits there like a nodding dog even when he just wants to punch someone’s lights out—stands him in good stead when it comes to his career. But then he could decide to go into catering tomorrow and he’d make a damn sight better job of it than I ever could. Even though I’m definitely the better cook.