My Fake Wedding(77)

George has obviously been awaiting our arrival. Clad in his favourite violet shaggy coat and a pair of enormous black boots, he clops out through the front door the moment I putter to a halt by the kerb. He’s waving and signalling hysterically. I have no idea what he’s after so I merely shrug my shoulders and switch off the ignition. He motions for me to wind down the window.

‘Park a bit further up,’ he hisses.

‘Why? I’m not in anyone’s way.’

‘We don’t want that sodding wheelie bin right outside the front door, darling. What’ll the neighbours think?’

I ignore him, clambering out of the passenger door and opening the back to let Graham and Shish Kebab out.

‘You haven’t brought them?’ George looks horrified.

‘Of course I have.’ I put Graham’s basket down on the pavement and hand Shish Kebab to George. He shrinks away and the cat, sensing a possible rival, mewls indignantly.

‘What did you think I was going to do with them?’ I say, hurt. ‘Put them up for adoption?’

‘You can sling them in the Finsbury Park reservoir for all I care.’ George picks up my ghettoblaster and walks, wiggling his hips in exaggerated disdain, towards the house. ‘You do realise I’m dangerously allergic, don’t you? I could go into anaphylactic shock in seconds with these little buggers around. I just hope they’re toilet trained. I don’t want them spraying the soft furnishings.’

‘Of course they are.’ I bend to stroke Graham’s nose through the bars of his travel basket and jump back as he goes to scratch me.

‘Vicious little bastard as well, that one, isn’t he?’ George tuts.squashed up for too long ‘He’s just upset,’ I protest. ‘He’s been squashed up for too long.’

‘God, you sad bitch.’ George puts the cat basket down in the hall, making absolutely no attempt to free its occupant. ‘You’ll be thinking the little bags of shite are your own children next.’



Despite the fact that they are most unwelcome, Graham and Shish Kebab seem to like their new home. And I can’t really complain. My new bedroom is twice the size of my old one. Plus, I get to use all the latest mod cons in the kitchen.

My first week is taken up with preparing for the christening in Lewisham and for the wedding of some ghastly girl called Marina who I met at Poppy’s bash. But then I’m free to spend the next week happily painting my new office a rather delicious shade of dark pink. And when it’s finished I decide I love it so much I could live in it. David generously lends me his laptop so I don’t have to use my ancient Mac any more and I place advertisements in all the local papers, next to ads for comedy nights and articles on the threatened closure of local nurseries, which have indignant Hermès-clad mothers leaping out of Mercedes people carriers all over Canonbury to waggle clipboards and petitions in the faces of perfectly innocent passers-by. Then I sit back in my lovely pink office and wait.

The first caller on my new business line is—quite predictably—my mother.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks, hurt.

‘I was going to tell you when I’d settled in,’ I sigh, ripping the paper off a Pepperami with my teeth and jamming the end in my mouth. ‘I only moved in a week ago.’

‘You’ve moved?’ she screeches.

‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘I assumed that’s what you meant.’

‘Katherine Simpson, you’re not telling me you’ve moved house and not even thought to mention it to your own mother?’

‘I’m sorry, Mum, I—’

‘You know Jeff was right,’ she huffs into the receiver.

‘What’s Jeff got to do with it?’ I raise my eyes to the ceiling and chew off another bit of sausage.

‘We had Sam coming round the other day, all upset about some row or other you’ve had, the pair of you. Honestly, you’re worse than you were as kids. And don’t think I don’t know what you did to him with that spade. If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times. I’ve got eyes in the back of my head.’

‘I was four.’ ‘Old enough to know better.’

‘Did he say what the row was about?’ I’m suspicious. Bugger Sam. If he’s mentioned the wedding I’ll bloody well rip his balls off.

‘Refused, apparently,’ Mum says. ‘It was the girlfriend, I think.

Nice little thing. Lovely manners. Yes, it was she who brought the whole thing up in the first place.’

‘Along with most of her dinner, I bet,’ I say.

‘What?’