My Fake Wedding(69)

Bloody hell. It isn’t normally like George to say please once during a conversation. Twice is unthinkable. Something dreadful must have happened. ‘OK. Keep your designer stubble on. Oh, look at that. He’s back.’

‘Who?’

‘Mr Harris. Made it by the seat of his shell suit. Thank goodness for that. Now all I have to do is wait and see if bubbly Denise Mason, nineteen, from Hertford gets her standby flight and we’re home and dry.’

‘Katie…’

‘Sorry. Are you going to tell me what’s happened?’

‘I can’t say over the phone.’ George goes all mysterious. ‘Just say you’ll come, darling. I need your help.’

Well, that’s a different matter. No one has needed my help for ages. Not even Mum. For some reason even she hasn’t bothered to call for almost a fortnight. And I have to admit to being a teensy bit curious. George can’t usually keep his mouth shut for one second. So the fact that he’s refused to tell me over the phone about whatever it is that’s bothering him holds my interest for longer than your average episode of Dawson’s Creek. Perhaps it’s something exciting and illegal.

God, I hope so. Anything to brighten things up a bit.

‘Where shall I meet you?’

‘The Italian café in Upper Street. That’s the one we do like, with the expensive menu and the swarthy waiters, as opposed to the one we don’t like, with the nasty red checked tablecloths and the candles in bottles.’

‘And is that the royal we?’

‘Certainly,’ he says cockily. ‘Well, it’s me and David at any rate. See you there, darling. And look glam. I don’t want you turning up looking like a bloody woolly mammoth on acid again. This is important.’

After he’s gone I look down at my worn-in comfies. So I can’t really go out looking like a rag ’n’ bone man then. And, more importantly, do I actually have the raw materials to do anything about it? Knickers are scarce. Clean knickers are out of the ruddy question. I think I used the last nice pair up on Max. It really is time I did some laundry but there’s so much else to think about at the moment. Dislodging Shish Kebab from where he’s soaking in blissful slumber in my knicker drawer, I rummage through a dismal pile of grizzly grey buckets and a selection of dingy bras. In the end, I decide that an ancient, slightly see-through pink and white striped swimsuit is probably a damn sight more respectable than my grungiest period pants. I cover it with a stinging-pink linen shirt I find scrumpled up at the foot of the bed. I sniff it gingerly for the scent of takeaway biryani or worse, but instead get a whiff of Comfort, which means it’s only creased because I haven’t bothered to hang it up after wash day. I add a pair of black moleskin combat pants from the floor, sponging off a teeny spattering of ketchup and checking to see that there are no socks or knicks tucked inside, waiting to creep like slugs from the ankle holes the moment I hit the crowded tube. Shuffling to the mirror, I untangle a worm of supernoodle out of my hair and twist my curls into a topknot with a bright green scrunchie, leaving just a couple of coppery tendrils loose. My skin is clammy and grey, so I dust pinky gold blusher over my cheekbones, slick on a bit of neutral lippie and, before I know it, I’m on autopilot.

Eventually, I emerge from Angel station, turn right onto Islington High Street and make for George’s favourite Italian on Upper Street.

‘I came as quickly as I could.’ I scuttle over to the corner of the sunny courtyard where George and David are sitting gossiping, a half-drunk bottle of Pinot Grigio and a dishful of glossy Queen olives between them.

‘Story of my life, darling,’ George giggles. ‘Oooh, God.’ He looks me up and down with the derision only a professional snob can summon. ‘Christ, you look as rough as a dog’s tits, sweetie. Doesn’t she, David? What happened?’

‘Hectic weekend,’ I lie, taking the extra glass they’ve laid out for me and glugging copious quantities of wine into it.

‘Yeah, right.’ George looks sceptical.

‘Well,’ I admit, ‘I just haven’t been used to getting out much, that’s all. No dosh, you see. And I’m feeling a bit pissy today.’

‘Figures,’ George says. ‘You’ve got a face like a bloody slapped bum again. What’s up?’

‘I’ve argued with Sam.’

‘When are you just going to admit you fancy each other and shag each other stupid?’ George asks. ‘Get the whole damn thing out of your system?’

‘But I don’t fancy him,’ I say. ‘He thinks he’s my bloody father, for one thing. And now he’s really pissed me off. He’s only gone and asked me to move in with him.’