My Fake Wedding(7)

‘They’re the ones who always call you,’ I tell him. ‘You never call them because you don’t give a toss if you never see them again.’

‘Exactly,’ Janice agrees. ‘But they’re always so bloody thick-skinned.’

‘They steadfastly refuse to fuck off,’ I explain. ‘The only way to really get rid of them is to have them killed.’

‘I mean,’ Janice lights another cigarette and gulps more wine, ‘we should all think of something really life-changing we’d like to do this year.’

‘Like what?’ I ask. It’s OK for her. She has a proper career. So does Sam. The PR company he works for is probably one of the top three in the country. Even George has a better job than me. And he doesn’t need one. He has a trust fund that’ll keep him in DKNY knickers for the rest of his life. But his work as a researcher on the TV show—Ready Steady Shag, Can Shag, Will Shag, something like that—means he gets to meet lots of people to have sex with. Which he likes. Hence the Steve and Barry story. He picks off the cream of the gay contestants, ruts them senseless over the urinals then drops them like a hot shit sandwich. He doesn’t even seem to actually do any real work, judging by the number of emails he sends me on a daily basis.

Mind you, neither do I.

I have a crap job. I just drift through life expecting that one day I’ll find out what I want to do for a living.

It hasn’t happened yet.

‘Do you want to hear what mine is then?’ Janice asks. ‘Or not.’

‘Not,’ George says.

‘Yes we do,’ I say. ‘Don’t we? Sam?’

‘Yes.’

Janice takes a deep breath, puts both hands palms down on the table and looks at us intently.

‘This year,’ she breathes, ‘I’m marrying a rich man.’

‘How do you know?’ George asks.

‘Because I’m going to have a bloody good try,’ she says. ‘That’s how I know. I’ve had enough of pissing about with men my own age.’

‘You mean the kind who boast about how many pints they can neck in a session and spend their spare time fantasising about shagging Lara Croft and lighting their farts?’ I say.

‘Exactly.’

‘That counts you out then, Sam.’ I giggle.

Am I imagining it, or is that a flicker of relief I see pass across his face?

‘Don’t worry.’ Janice slaps him playfully on the knee. ‘I’m going older this time. ’S the only way. I’m going for gold.’

‘Old gold,’ I say thoughtfully.

‘I don’t even care about looks,’ Janice drivels on. ‘Although I don’t want a fat one. Or a ginger.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Sorry, Katie. No offence.’

‘None taken.’

‘I’m interested in finance, not romance,’ she carries on. ‘It’s hello hard cash, goodbye hard cock from now on in. You can’t have it all. These days, you have to look at a relationship as an alternative PEP. Or a TESSA.’ She giggles. ‘Transferring Expenditure to Someone else’s Savings Account.’

Sam looks shocked. As well he might. Janice is just like him and George. Known for working her way through men like a fly through shit. She needs regular and varied sex like I need fags, chocolate and beauty products in nice packaging. Her last three boyfriends have dumped her because they’ve caught her boffing someone else. How on earth is she going to stay faithful to one man? Particularly one who’s old enough to be her father.

‘You’re not going to go really old?’ George looks worried. ‘Not, like, incontinence and dribbling?’

‘I might.’

‘Jesus.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘That is soooooo Jerry Springer.’

‘Sod off.’ Janice nudges Sam. ‘What about you, Sammo? Any resolutions? Apart from becoming your own boss?’

‘I don’t know.’ Sam looks embarrassed. ‘I’m thirty this year. Perhaps it’s time to settle down with that special person.’

‘Yeah, right,’ I snort. ‘Likely! If we saved the condom from everyone you’ve humped and dumped, we’d have enough rubber to bungee jump from the top of Canary Wharf. Don’t pretend you want to change now. You couldn’t if you tried.’

‘What happened to Pilaff?’ asks George.

‘Pia,’ Sam corrects him.

‘Poor Paella,’ I say. ‘He dumped her.’

‘She dumped me, actually,’ he says.

‘Only because you made it quite clear the contents of her knickers no longer interested you,’ I say.

Pia was just one more in a long, very thin line of Sam’s silly bits of fluff. She lasted three months, and I hated her with a passion. Partly because she was gamine and chic and really suited short hair, whereas I am none of the above, but also because she would keep on insisting she came from Tenerife. Which, as I’ve tried to tell Sam, time and time again, is nigh on bloody impossible. You don’t come from Tenerife, for fuck’s sake. It’s a holiday destination.