My Fake Wedding(9)

‘It won’t,’ he says confidently. ‘Luckily for me I’ve got an exemplary gene pool, sweetie. No one eats cheap beefburgers and oven chips in my family.’

I look longingly at his snake hips, six-pack abs, chocolate-brown eyes and jet-black hair, cropped close to his scalp to show off an immaculately chiselled jawline.

‘I’m sure you have,’ I tell him. ‘But I’m a bit of a ginge, in case you hadn’t noticed. And you wouldn’t want one of those soiling your precious gene pool, would you?’

‘You can’t tell for sure what it’ll look like until it comes out. It’s a bit like a genetic tombola in that respect,’ Janice tells him. George looks blank. He clearly hasn’t got a clue what a tombola is.

‘Not true actually.’ Sam waves his fork around and tucks into more pizza. He’s chosen the one with the egg on top, I notice. Typical bloke thing to do. ‘We’ll soon be able to choose exactly how our children look.’

‘How fabulous.’ George puffs himself up. ‘They’ll all come properly accessorised. The world will be full of beautiful people. Just like me.’

‘It sounds awful,’ I say. ‘We’ll be overrun with Mail Order Infants. Embryos To Go. Delivery will take on a whole new meaning.’

‘You’ll even be able to order a whole stock of spare parts for the baby in case something goes wrong with it,’ Sam says knowledgeably.

‘Shut up, smart arse,’ I tell him.

‘Yuck.’ Janice drinks more wine and drunkenly lights the wrong end of her cigarette. ‘Like a Foetal Exchange Mart.’

‘I’m not having your baby, George, designer or otherwise,’ I say. ‘In nine months’ time the novelty will have worn off and I’ll be stuck with it. You can’t take babies to nightclubs, you know. Even if you do dress the poor little buggers in leather and sequins.’

‘What about you, Katie?’ Sam, shovelling in garlic doughballs, wants to know. ‘What’s your resolution?’

Everyone turns to stare at me.

‘Yes,’ Janice says ‘What is yours?’

For a second, I’m stumped. Then I remember my Vow of Singledom.

‘To have a nice time,’ I announce.

‘What?’

‘Yep. On my own. I’m giving up on relationships altogether,’ I inform them coolly. ‘Can’t be buggered any more, if you must know.’

‘You’re what?’ Janice looks astonished.

‘Oh God,’ moans George. ‘You’ve come over all lesbian, haven’t you? You’re a ruddy great carpet muncher and you’re too afraid to tell us.’

‘I said I was giving up on relationships,’ I tell him. ‘Not men.’

‘What about sex?’ Janice looks horrified.

‘Janice, you’re the last person to try to tell me you have to be in a relationship to have sex with someone,’ I say.

‘True,’ she admits.

‘The men I meet are about as useful as chocolate tampons,’ I say. ‘So I’m going to follow the BLAB principle. Behave Like A Bloke.’

‘What?’

‘Fuck ’em and chuck ’em. Hump ’em and dump ’em. Blow them off then blow them out. I’m going for a one-night stand record.’

‘But you’ll be crap at that,’ Janice says. ‘You’ll end up doling out charity fucks like there’s no tomorrow. Shagging people you feel sorry for. Look at that computer spod you bonked at college. What was his name? Bruce?’

‘Bryan,’ I mutter through gritted teeth. ‘His name was Bryan.’

Wine comes out of Janice’s nostrils. Even Sam’s trying not to piss himself laughing.

‘Bryan,’ Janice snorts. ‘He wore mustard Y-fronts and—’

‘Yes, yes,’ I assure them. ‘It was all absolutely hilarious.’

I spent a week in the bath, scrubbing myself down with shame, after Bryangate, and I still haven’t been allowed to forget it. Oh, he seemed handsome enough when I snogged him over the pool table in the union   bar. But by the time we got back to his black ash bedroom, the effects of the seven pints of Snakebite and black I’d consumed had worn off enough for me to notice that his hair was lank and greasy and he was speckled with whiteheads. But, being the non-confrontational type, I figured it was probably less hassle just to brace myself and let him get on with it.

God, perhaps they’re right. I’m completely shit at shagging around.

But then I won’t know unless I try, will I?





Chapter 3


Did I say how much I hate my job? I write for a glossy lifestyle magazine, which isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. Office life isn’t really my thing, for a start. Oh, it’s OK for nicking stamps, making long personal calls, slagging off the outfits in Hello! and comparing sandwich fillings, but apart from that, I don’t see any advantages from where I’m standing.