My Fake Wedding(84)

Worse still, what if he turns out to be the perfect gentleman? What if he wants to take me on more than one date before flipping me over and shagging me stupid? What the buggery bollocks do I do then?

Still, at least he’s not called anything awful like Derek. Or Nigel. I could never let a Nigel near my bits.

And he’d better bloody well take me somewhere nice. I quite fancy Thai. Or we could go to George and David’s nice Italian. The one with the swarthy waiters, where David—or rather George on his behalf—proposed.

Wherever it is we’re going, he’s late.

Bastard late, as it goes.

At eight, the phone rings and I answer it, feeling butterflyish. OK, so I know I’m not in love with the guy or anything like that. In fact I couldn’t care less one way or the other, but I’ve put lipstick on and everything and I’ll feel a bit foolish if he blows me out. But hey ho. I definitely don’t love him. In fact I’m not even that sure I fancy him.

So why am I going on this date in the first place?

I suppose there’s only one answer to that.

Because I can.

But it’s not Nick blowing me out. It’s Max. Again.

‘What is it now?’ I ask him sternly.

‘If you’re busy tonight…’ he ventures.

‘I said I was, didn’t I?’ ‘Well, what about tomorrow then?’ He hesitates. ‘We could go to the cinema. Or something.’

God. He’s making himself look pathetic now. Does the guy have no pride whatsoever? All this hoo-ha over me. He must definitely have something wrong with him.

‘I’m afraid it’ll have to be the “or something”,’ I say flippantly. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Some other time then,’ he says. ‘You see, the thing is…’

‘Yes?’ I’m impatient now. ‘You’ll have to be quick, I’m afraid. I’m due somewhere in ten minutes.’

I’ll be blooming lucky. But then he doesn’t know that, does he?

‘You see, the thing is,’ he goes on, ‘I like you.’

‘Thank you.’

Well, let’s face it. The poor guy’s only human.

‘I like you a lot.’

‘Good for you.’

‘And I’d really like you to be my girlfriend.’

‘What?’

‘I said—’

‘It’s OK.’ I wave my hands around to stop him even though he can’t see me. ‘I heard.’

‘Well then?’

God. What is it with blokes? I’ve been avoiding his calls for weeks and he still thinks he stands a prozzie’s chances in King’s Cross of getting another bunk up. Any self-respecting girlie on the receiving end of such call-dodging would have hung up her fuck-me heels for good. She’d have been sat at home, rocking backwards and forwards and blubbering into a vodka bottle every night for the past three weeks.

‘Is there no one else you can ask?’ I say. ‘But I want you,’ he whines, sounding like a petulant child.

‘Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to rely on a parental cliché in answer to that one,’ I tell him firmly, lighting a fag and wincing slightly as sparks from my lighter fly all over the sheepskin on the sofa.

‘Sorry?’

‘I want doesn’t get,’ I say, switching off my mobile as the doorbell rings.

I’m relieved to see that Nick, even if he is an hour and a half late, looks most acceptable, in scruffy jeans and sloppy T-shirt. The latter has ridden up ever so slightly to reveal a tantalising glimpse of six-pack. Hmmm.

Hopefully I’ll be getting to grips with that later.

‘Can I leave me bike in yer hall?’

I bite back surprise. Nipping round on your pushbike is not quite my idea of ‘picking someone up for a date’. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m not in this for the long term, after all. Anyway, it’s quite pleasant, walking from George’s house down Upper Street, watching people sitting outside on the pavement, tucking into delicious-looking food. It’s still warm outside, and I keep catching wafts of barbecued steak on the wind as we wander past Islington Green and down towards Highbury Corner.

I’m slightly disappointed when Nick finally reveals the setting for our date. But then I pull myself up by my bootstraps and tell myself to cheer up. After all, filthy sex is filthy sex, whatever you get to eat beforehand. And I’ve always fancied there’s something distinctly sensual about eating chips straight from the wrapper, what with all the finger licking and lip smacking that goes on. And then of course there’s the pickled egg thing. Nick steams on in there and orders one as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Secretly, I’m delighted. I’ve always wondered about them, lurking pale and enormous in their glass jars, reminding me of the biology labs at school. But I’ve never met anyone who’s eaten one. And no one I know can ever be persuaded to try. So when Nick asks for his, I order one too.