My Fake Wedding(75)

‘There’s just so much to sort out,’ I flap, waving my hands about and thoroughly enjoying playing the part of blushing bride-to-be. ‘Guest list. Flowers. Food. And of course the cake’s going to have to be the complete dog’s bollocks, what with me being a cook and all. How am I ever going to find the time?’ Actually, I can’t care less about the cake. Granted, I dreamed of a big white wedding when I was a little girl, joining in with the excited chitter-chatter of princesses, plaits, ponies and pink marquees as we sucked on sherbet dib dabs and swirled red liquorice bootlaces round our wedding fingers. But now, I can’t see why we don’t just have the reception down the Punjab Paradise or the Peking Palace. Especially with the circumstances regarding the love stuff being what they are. And, as for the guest list, I rather think we’ll be keeping it small.

‘I can’t wait to go dress shopping,’ I add.

Janice looks so disappointed, as though she’s just started a new job and someone has asked her to scrub out the lav, that I can’t resist one final tease. ‘I can just see you in lilac. With puffed sleeves.’

The relief on her face when I finally admit it’s only David I’m marrying is a picture. I haven’t beaten her to it after all. Well, not really.

Unfortunately, as far as Sam is concerned, the whole idea goes down like a Brussels sprout down a toddler.

‘I can’t think of anything worse than marrying someone you don’t love,’ he says quietly.

Personally, I think that’s pretty rich, coming from him. But his friendship, and therefore his approval, means a lot to me. I love Sam to bits. I can’t bear for him to be annoyed with me.

‘Oooh, can’t you?’ George says. ‘I can.’

‘So can I,’ I say cheerfully, trying to smooth things over. ‘Lots and lots of things,’ George carries on wittering. ‘Silk flower arrangements, for one. Lambrusco, there’s another. Anything grape-based in a screw-topped bottle, come to think of it. Erm…’

‘People who say doofer. And doobrey,’ adds David.

‘And malarkey,’ Janice agrees.

‘Menthol fags’ (George again).

‘Being fat’ (Pussy).

‘Being poor’ (Janice).

‘You do know they’ll ask you the colour of his toothbrush, don’t you?’ Pussy pulls on a teensy-weensy angora sweater and shivers prettily. ‘I saw it on Green Card.’

I’m tempted to whack her one round the face but I don’t want her running to the Home Office or something ridiculous and spoiling everything, so I simply explain that we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

‘And it’s all going to be fine,’ I assure them. ‘For George and David, yes,’ Sam mutters ‘What about you?’ ‘What about me?’ I ask. ‘Don’t ask me if I’m sure I love him, for God’s sake. It’s not like we’re getting married for real, anyway.’

‘You are getting married for real, you silly girl.’ ‘Only on paper. And it’s not like I’m going into this with my eyes shut. I know exactly what I’m doing.’

‘Are they paying you?’ I can practically see the pound signs going Kerching! across Janice’s eyeballs.

‘No,’ I say. ‘But it is a mutual arrangement. I get to benefit too.’

‘Well, I hope you’re not going to be wearing that.’ Pussy looks at my outfit in distaste. ‘I hope one of these boys is going to take you in hand and get you something decent to wear.’

‘She can get her own clothes, thank you,’ George snaps. ‘And I certainly don’t think she needs advice from the likes of you, love. You with your prissy little name and your little dolly clothes. I bet your mother’s called something really common like Cheryl.’

Pussy’s bottom lip starts to wobble. George, as usual, has obviously hit the nail right on the head.

I rush to appease Sam, who is looking furious.

‘No.’ Sam holds up both his hands and I can’t help noticing how huge they are. Big, safe hands. ‘What was that you were saying about you getting to benefit as well?’

‘Well,’ I say slowly, ‘I’m going to be moving house. It makes sense, anyway, for me to be living with David if we’re going to be married. It’ll look more realistic.’

‘I thought you didn’t want to move out of your flat,’ he says coldly. ‘What was it? You didn’t want to “lose your independence”. Well, I hate to say it, Simpson, but I think you’ve bloody well gone and done that now. So George’s pad is good enough for you, is it? But not mine.’