I, Katie Simpson, am going to be a success.
On Saturday night, I’m flicking through recipes for a Bar Mitzvah in Hampstead Garden Suburb, when my mobile shrills.
‘Yep?’ I casually toss my curls off my face with a flick of my hand. Flour showers all over George and David’s brand new heather-coloured carpet. Fuck.
‘It’s Max.’
‘Oh.’
See what I mean? I’ve got them lining up. But buggery. I thought I was safe from Max. It’s been weeks since I heard from him, I really thought he’d got the message. What’s he doing, still hanging around like a sour, eggy trump?
‘I just wondered…’
‘Yes, yes?’ I snap irritably, slopping into the kitchen, checking the sell-by date on a tub of sour cream and spooning a dollop straight into my mouth.
‘Well, do you fancy going out tonight?’
It’s Saturday. What the flipping heck does he think he’s playing at? Any chick worth her weight in chocolate has her Saturday nights planned well in advance.
Well, not me, exactly. Janice still isn’t talking to me so I’ve planned an evening in front of the telly with a bowlful of lump-fish caviare, a mile-high stack of blinis and a bucket of sour cream. Purely for research purposes, mind.
‘Or are you busy?’ He sounds doubtful.
‘Yes,’ I tell him, gazing at all my lovely shiny cooking paraphernalia. “Fraid so.’
‘Doing what?’ ‘Staying in,’ I tell him firmly, pressing the ‘end call’ button.
God, if that doesn’t convince him he’s nothing more than a one-night stand, I don’t know what will. If he keeps up this level of harassment I’m going to have to pay Janice to seduce him and shag him so I can burst in on them and pretend to be all upset.
Almost immediately it rings again.
‘WHAT?’
But it’s not Moony Max. In fact, I don’t know who the hell it is. I sort of recognise the voice but I can’t quite place it.
‘It’s Nick.’
‘Nick?’ I say quickly. ‘Nick who?’
Quite a reasonable question, under the circumstances. It could, after all, be Nick the Dick. Or Nick O’Teen. A single girl, even one who is getting married in a few months, has to be on her guard.
‘I just wanted to make sure you was OK,’ the voice says.
‘I’m fine.’ I sexily scoop caviare into my mouth with my little finger. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I delivered some stuff to yours about a week ago and you disappeared while we was chattin’. I thought I might ’ave frightened you. Innit.’
‘Isn’t what?’ I ask, before the penny drops.
Holy cow.
It’s the delicious bakery guy. Quickly, even though he can’t see me, I check my reflection in the hall mirror. I look terrible. There’s pizza flour all over my nose and my hair is clagged with something that looks a lot like raw egg. Nice.
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ I say hurriedly, aware that my voice has gone all shaky.
‘Then do you feel like dinner tonight to make up? Nuffin’ fancy, like.’
Now in my experience, when a guy says ‘nothing fancy’, he usually means full-on five-course slap-up job, followed by quick bunk up, followed by expert disappearing act. He’ll be off faster than you can say ‘Mine’s the wet patch’. Well, not this time, sunshine, I think, picking a piece of spinach from between my front teeth. I’ll be the one doing the postcoital buggering off, thank you very much.
‘OK.’ I manage to sound bored, disguising the fact that my heart is thumping like billyo in my chest. At least this one’s highly unsuitable. Which means I probably won’t have any qualms about dumping him.
‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’
‘No problem.’
I check my watch. It’s five thirty already. Jesus. Talk about cutting it fine. Perhaps I’m his second choice. Some glossy-haired bimbette has probably let him down at the last minute. Oh well, her loss, my gain I suppose. I’m not really bothered whether he thinks I’m special or not. In double-quick time I shave my toes, bleach my tache and trim my minky, then spend a good twenty minutes trying on underwear. I pull on my fave plum silk bra and knickers, change them for a black lycra crop top and little fifties-style shorts, change those for a simple white cotton ensemble for understated sexiness, then go straight back to the original plum again. Then, remembering the canapés I made, in true Blue Peter fashion, earlier on in the day, which have to be in a maisonette in Saint Reetham (that’s Streatham to you and me), by six thirty, I jump into a taxi, drop them off and tell the driver to race back to Islington. By seven o three I’ve managed a quick shower and I’ve changed into tight black jeans and a sexy black vest. Not quite suitable for the night of filthy sex I have in mind, but it’ll do. I only hope he won’t turn up in anything remotely smart. Perhaps I should have warned him beforehand that I find it nigh on impossible to think dirty thoughts about anyone in a two-piece. And if it’s a three-piece—waistcoat and all—he can forget it.