‘Oh Sam, please try and understand.’ I go to hug him but he pulls away.
‘Understand what? That you’re making the biggest mistake of your life? You do realise you’ll end up regretting this, don’t you?’
‘Of course I won’t. And if I do, this is the twenty-first century. There is such a thing as divorce now. We don’t have to stay together until we cark it.’
‘That’s the general idea, isn’t it?’ Sam points out. ‘I mean this isn’t exactly what you’d call romantic, is it?’
‘And what would you know?’ I ask him. ‘Your idea of romance is bringing home a takeaway and asking your girlfriend to warm it through.’
‘I’ll come,’ Janice offers. ‘I’ll be there for you, hon.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘As long as I can bring Jasper.’
‘OK.’
‘I’ll come too if you like,’ Pussy says. ‘If Kirsty—”Katie.’ ‘Sorry.’ She flashes me a smile that’s about as genuine as a moody Vuitton bag. ‘If Katie here wants to get married then we should surely all go along to support her. And I love weddings.’ She looks at Sam petulantly.
‘I bet you do,’ George says. ‘Let’s face it, love. Nice wedding on a Saturday’s probably your equivalent of a weekly whip round Sainsbury’s. Who knows what you might pick up? Or who, to be more exact.’
‘That’s not fair, George,’ Sam says quietly. I shiver. I hate Sam’s quiet voice. It means he’s internally combusting. I think we should go before he explodes. He does this very rarely, but when he does he goes up like Sydney Harbour on Millennium Eve.
‘Oh, come off it,’ George says. ‘The little cow’s in it for all she can get. Her mother’s probably been waiting forever to palm her off onto some successful blokey like yourself. And she won’t stop at you. Do you think for a minute she’d be hanging round you if Richard Branson glanced twice in her direction? Oh no, darling. She’d be off like Linda Lusardi’s bra.’
‘Right.’ Sam’s lips are white with fury. ‘Get out.’
Then he turns to me.
‘And as for you,’ he says in the disappointed tone of voice my mother reserves for occasions when she wants to make me feel extra guilty, ‘I’d have thought you’d have had more sense. I just hope you realise how selfish these two are being before it’s too late.’
‘The whole point is that she’s being completely unselfish.’ Janice tries, not very successfully, to back me up. Unfortunately her attempt cuts no ice with Sam. He ignores her completely, stabbing a finger at me instead.
‘It’s rude to point,’ I say childishly.
‘Don’t be facetious.’
‘Don’t pretend you’re my dad then.’
‘You haven’t thought this through at all, have you, Simpson?’ he lectures me. ‘What happens in five years’ time when you suddenly decide you want children before it’s too late and you’re married to a Jaffa?’
‘A what?’ George booms.
‘A Jaffa,’ I explain. ‘You know, seedless.’
‘Oooh,’ George spits. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the quality of David’s seed, thank you very much. My God. I never had you down for a homophobe, darling. Still, you know what they say. He who doth protest too much and all that. Takes one to know one.’
‘Look, if I ever do change my mind about having children, I’ll come to you, Sam, for a sample of your quality heterosexual semen, OK? So there really is no need for you to worry. I’ll be OK. Really.’
‘I think you’ll live to regret it.’ He looks at me sadly.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘And you’ll probably understand when you’ve had time to think about it. I told you already. I don’t want to get married. Ever. So I’m really not losing out.’
‘Aren’t you?’ ‘What?’ ‘Leave her alone.’ George pulls on my arm. ‘Come on, Katie darling, let’s go. Why do you have to try and spoil everything, Sam? Just because you have no idea what it’s like to be in love.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ Sam says quietly, as Pussy gazes up at him besottedly. ‘I know perfectly well, thank you.’
‘Being in love with yourself doesn’t count.’ I flounce off without turning back to look at him, so I won’t see the hurt look I know will cross his face as he shuts the door in mine.
Chapter 15
I hump the flotsam and jetsam of my life round to George and David’s in dribs and drabs. The following Saturday, I wave an excited Janice off to Paris before chucking Rollerblades, clothes, CDs, ghettoblaster, espresso machine, books, a jumble of mismatched crockery and—last but not least— Graham and Shish Kebab, who are both yowling with outrage in their baskets, into the Rustbucket. Then I throw one last look towards my flat before we pootle northwards, leaving Balham for good. ‘Onwards and upwards, eh boys?’ I crank up the volume on my ancient car stereo and smile as we turn onto the Balham High Road and drive north towards Clapham Common.