My Fake Wedding(66)

Sam rifles through the pile of junk mail in the knife and fork drawer until he finds a Speedy Pizza menu. Switching the phone to speakerphone, he dials the number.

‘Hello,’ he says, ‘I’d like to order a pizza, please.’

Despite my dark mood, I stifle a giggle. It’s so funny the way people always say that. As though the guy in the pizza shop might be expecting you to tell him you’ve broken down on the M25 and require emergency assistance. Or that you need a taxi to the maternity ward of St George’s Hospital within the next five minutes or else your wife is going to bugger up the soft furnishings good and proper.

‘Oh, large, definitely,’ Sam is saying to the man on the end of the phone. ‘Absolutely whopping if you’ve got it. You have? Marvellous. Well, we’ll have an extra large cheese and tomato then…’

‘Thin crust,’ I remind him.

‘Thin crust, please. With…’

‘Anchovies.’

‘Did you get that?’ he asks Mr Speedy Pizza. ‘We’ll have some of your finest anchovies for the lady and perhaps some pineapple chunks to go with them.’

We’ve played the pizza game since we were about twelve, each coming up with the most outlandish toppings we could think of and daring the other to order it. And because I’m miserable, I get to do all the choosing. Those are the rules.

‘And chillies,’ I demand, digging at a new ingrowing hair on my knee.

‘Chilles as well, please,’ Sam instructs. ‘And perhaps you could lob on a couple of artichoke hearts for the sophisticated touch.’

‘Parma ham.’ I laugh, setting to work on my other leg. ‘And peppersan’ onionsan extracheese. And capers.’

‘Are you writing all this down?’ Sam asks the pizza guy. ‘No, no, it isn’t a joke .I’ve just got one very hungry young lady here, that’s all. A very hungry young lady indeed. She’s been thinking about working for a living a lot this morning and she’s absolutely worn out.’

‘Fuck off.’ I giggle, forgetting that the pizza guy can hear me.

‘No, that’s me she’s telling to fuck off,’ Sam says. ‘Not you.’

‘Peas,’ I interrupt. ‘I love peas on pizza. And in curry.’

‘Curry? Oh, no, sorry, not curry on the pizza, but we will have some peas, please. And some tuna and some mushrooms.’

‘And goat’s cheese,’ I say. ‘Ask if they’ve got goat’s cheese.’

‘Goat’s cheese then. And some fine tiger prawns sprinkled over the top?’

‘I hate prawns,’ I remind him. ‘Nasty pink commas that taste of sewage.’

‘Right, sorry, hold the prawns. No just rewind a bit and whack those prawns on half of it.’

And so on, until we’ve ordered about twenty different toppings each and the pizza guy is telling us firmly that yes, actually, they do draw the line at bananas and chocolate and that no, we can’t have Smarties sprinkled all over the damn thing.

‘How come I can never do this with any of my girlfriends?’ Sam asks me later, as we munch and slurp our way through the pizza, which, when it finally arrives, is the size of a dustbin lid.

‘Because you always plump—if you’ll excuse the expression—for the anorexic ones,’ I inform him coolly, taking a rogue prawn off my fourth slice of pizza and lobbing it back into the box. ‘Like that Pussy creature. You can be so thick sometimes, you know. Did you think they all naturally had thighs the width of skipping ropes?’

‘Well, you do.’ Sam brushes his sandy mop into his baseball cap and looks at my legs. ‘The amount you put away you ought to be the size of a tower block by now.’

‘Well, now you come to mention it, I don’t hear the talking scales at the supermarket yelling “No coach parties please”, when I step on them, no.’ I laugh, looking down at my thighs.

‘Or “One at a time please” ‘ Sam joins in, laughing.

‘But I’m not that skinny,’ I say defensively. ‘I mean I haven’t got BHS.’

‘Huh?’

‘BHS. Big Head Syndrome. I mean, I don’t look like a football perched on a javelin, do I?’

‘No-o.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ I say. ‘Dieting’s boring, Sam. Counting fat units is even less exciting than watching Des O’Connor tonight. So I just don’t bother with it. I do treacle roll and Kettle chips instead.’

‘God.’ Sam rolls over on the floor and grins at me. ‘Why can’t all girls be like you? The ones I take out to dinner gnaw on one tiny asparagus spear then say they’re full. Costs me a fortune in wasted food.’