‘Nothing.’ I sigh. ‘It’s just all really silly. Anyway, Mum, I’m living at George’s to save some money so I can start up my catering business properly. I’m going to make a real go of it this time.’
Obviously, I don’t tell her about my end of the bargain. That’s going to have to be a closely guarded secret. But I’m much better off now I’m not paying rent, and Poppy’s dad, bless him, has paid my invoice early, so I’m hoping I won’t let anyone down.
‘Good for you, darling.’ She sounds delighted. ‘I know you’ll make a success of it.’
Christ Almighty. There she goes again, with her bloody care and support.
Now I’m going to sodding well have to make a success of it, aren’t I? Otherwise I’ll be had up for cruelty to menopausal old women. I’m lining her up for disappointment, of course. It’ll be even worse when she is disappointed and tries really hard not to show it. Cue guilt trip from hell.
Bloody hell. Why on earth can’t she just laugh in my face like her mate Gloria would? Tell me no daughter of hers is swaddling herself in overalls and rolling out pastry for a living, no better than a common kitchen maid.
Still, two days after the free papers containing my ad have been pushed through letterboxes all over London, the phone calls start for real. I can’t believe how easy it is. A woman in Totteridge wants to know if I can make red food for her ruby wedding anniversary. A TV gardener needs a ‘green finger’ buffet when he opens the grounds of his manor in Hertford-shire to the public for charity. And a Sloane Ranger from Battersea (only, needless to say, she pronounces it Batterseaar) wants me to ‘do’ her hen night.
I suppose I’d better not let on about my record for doing husbands as well.
Slowly, with each booking, my confidence, along with my contacts book, starts to grow. And during the next few weeks, I’m so busy, sitting in my pink office planning menus and seating arrangements, that I don’t even have time to think about the wedding. Even Sam’s disapproval over the whole affair pales into insignificance when I think about how much I have to do. I’m spending every single minute cooking. Baking mini banoffee pies and tiny tiramisus, designed to be scoffed in one mouthful for Mr TV Gardener. Making podgy pink babies out of marzipan for a christening cake in Nappy Valley. Or strawberry flans the size of paddling pools for Mr and Mrs Ruby Wedding. One afternoon, I’m slaving over phallic vodka jellies for Battersear’s hen night when the doorbell rings. I put down the Smirnoff bottle. It’ll be the lard-arse from the bakery, delivering the basket of fresh hereby focaccia, the fat loaves of olive ciabatta and the sundried tomato bread I’ve ordered. I open the front door.
Blimey oh Reilly!
It isn’t lardy at all. It’s a new chap altogether. And let’s just say that the last time I saw thighs like those, I was gawping at an advert for Calvin Klein pants. Before they got those bag-o’-bones Jarvis Cocker lookalikes to drape themselves all over the show likes great big strings of snot, that is.
Oh yes. This one’s what Janice would call a ‘nice bit of rough’.
Not quite her Driver Eating Yorkie type, of course, but close.
Cyclist eating Curly Wurly, say.
He’s younger than me, probably around twenty-five. He wears an ageing, possibly cheesy, pair of Adidas old school trainers and has eyes the colour of espresso. And a quick glance at his skin-tight cycling shorts reveals that his thighs aren’t the only attractive bulge he possesses. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for farting, that’s for sure.
I rootle through my purse. On a normal day, I’d have taken one look at a bloke in cycling shorts and thought, ‘Ew, all sweaty,’ and moved on. But there’s something about today that makes me think twice. Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s such a beautiful day. I can practically smell the pheromones bouncing around in the air. Or perhaps it’s just the way his browny gold hair is knotted into deliciously scruffy dreads. Or the way he drapes himself languidly against the doorframe, looking so utterly carefree.
Or perhaps I just need a good shag.
Call it chemistry, call it desperation, whatever it is, I suddenly feel totally compelled to come on to him. I’m getting married soon, for God’s sake. I need to get it while I still can.
OK, so Max is still calling my mobile. Which means I could just shag him and save myself the bother. But Max is nice. And nice just gets on my nerves. If Max wanted some kind of relationship when we got it together that day I saw him on the tube, he should have got it from me in writing. I didn’t make him any promises. I am a single, independent woman. I have nothing whatsoever to feel guilty about.