My Fake Wedding(72)
‘Well,’ I begin, ‘you’re right. I don’t want to get married.’
‘Oh.’ George is crestfallen.
‘So I’ll do it.’
‘You will?’
‘Sure.’
For a second, I do wonder if I’ve just gone completely doollally. Round the twist. Loop the bloody loo. We could all get into lots of trouble, for starters. I mean, this whole carry-on ain’t exactly legal, as far as I know. What the hell have I just agreed to?
Then I catch sight of their grins. Like huge slices of water-melon, splitting both their faces in half.
‘Oh, Katie.’ George, delighted, throws himself at me and gives me a squeeze so tight I can hardly breathe. ‘You’re the best friend ever.’
‘Thanks, Katie.’ David pats my shoulder. ‘You’re a star.’
‘I know.’ I grin. ‘But I’m expecting a big do, mind. I’m not your average “dap me in the dunny then march me to the nearest registry office ’cos I’m up the duff ” sorta Sheila.’
‘Vol-au-vents and everything,’ they both promise.
‘Right.’ I shrug my shoulders and smile at my friends. ‘So when do I move in?’
Chapter 14
I drop round to Janice’s to tell her the news first. With her weekend in Paris looming, she’s just been out on a severe shopping bender. Her cool white and sludge-green bedroom is awash with the latest fashions.
‘Thought you were supposed to wait till you were actually in Paris before you splurged on clothes.’ I help myself to a fag and plonk myself down on her bed, immediately creasing the white linen duvet cover.
‘No point putting myself through retail denial, is there?’ she says firmly, showing me piles of brand new lingerie. And these aren’t your understated Marks ’n’ Sparks jobs either. She’s bought enough pants to keep Agent Provocateur in business for the next decade and more. Stunning, gauzy creations in ice-cream colours. Soft blackberry, palest sugar-almond pink and scrumptious strawberry scraps of satin have been duly purchased, slipped into tiny glossy pink bags, promptly removed and piled on her bed for scrutiny. Everything, but everything, she assures me, as she throws black bin bags full of grey bucket pants out of her bedroom window onto the porch below, has to be brand, spanking new before they actually get there, so he thinks she’s a stylish kind of chick and not some throwaway old slap. And it’s not only the underwear. She’s bought glitzy dresses, glam nighties and a pair of shoes with transparent heels and shiny straps the colour of the foil on a Quality Street noisette triangle.
‘Imagine, Katie.’ She grins, showing me a white sequinned top the size of a handkerchief. ‘In six months’ time I’ll be Mrs Jasper.’
I decide not to tell her about the girl in the raspberry dress. After all, she might not be a serious contender at all. And anyway, Janice probably won’t believe me. And I can’t afford to argue with another one of my friends. So instead I try to tell her about George and David’s proposal.
‘I think George is in love,’ I begin.
‘Yeah, right,’ she scoffs. ‘With himself, you mean?’
‘No,’ I protest. ‘With David.’
‘Nooooo.’
‘Well, they’ve been together for a while now,’ I say. ‘And I think George is even managing to stay faithful. He certainly isn’t the Meat Seeking Missile he was a few weeks ago.’
‘Still,’ Janice examines a scrap of pistachio-coloured lace that in her eyes passes for a pair of pants, ‘it’s easy for them, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘a pair of Marmite miners like them don’t have to burden themselves with all that crippling anxiety and insecurity over other people, do they?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What I mean is, they’re more likely to know what’s going on in each other’s heads than you and Jake did, say.’
‘What about me and Jake?’ I’m suddenly defensive.
‘Well, they probably fancy the same people. Sleep with the same people even, if that’s what they want.’
‘But I really think they love each other,’ I protest. ‘I saw them at Poppy’s wedding. Couldn’t get enough of each other.’
‘Oh, bollocks,’ Janice scoffs. ‘Do you honestly believe in all that rubbish?’
‘Well, no, I mean…’
‘We’ve been through all this, haven’t we? Blokes these days just don’t want to commit,’ she carries on, packing a damsoncoloured teddy into her suitcase. ‘I mean, look at Sam. His flings never last much longer than your average feature film. You won’t find him welding himself to some silly girly like a bit of fuzzy felt. You’ve said so yourself. Even you don’t want a relationship any more. Which is why you shat all over poor Max from such a great height when he was totally in love with you. I’m still having to live that down at work, by the way.’