My Fake Wedding(97)

‘All very sad.’ George gets on to more important business. ‘Now. Your hen weekend.’

‘But—’

‘Now don’t be ungrateful.’ George wags his finger at me. ‘We just thought you’d like a little holiday, sweetie. After all, you won’t be able to come on the actual honeymoon. You do know that, don’t you? Three’s a bit of a crowd, darling, if you know what I mean.’

‘But there’s just so much to do,’ I worry. ‘There’s Neat Eats, for a start. It won’t run itself, you know. I’ve got three weddings and a christening booked in for August alone. That’s a lot of smoked salmon and fruit cake. And there’s paperwork.’

‘But we’ve booked it now. For five. So you have to come.’

‘You can’t have,’ I point out. ‘David’s only just spoken to his sister.’

‘Well, it’s in our heads now.’ George pours himself more coffee. ‘So it’s as good as.’

‘And five?’ I ask. ‘Why five?’

George counts off on his fingers.

‘Us three, Janice and Sam. No partners.’

‘Good,’ I say. ‘I don’t want any skinny bitches who stink of raw vegetables on board, thank you.’

‘So you’ll come then?’ David looks delighted.

‘I’ll think about it.’

And I will. After all, I could do with some sun. And perhaps Mum would like the challenge of coping with Neat Eats for a weekend. It is only a weekend, after all. She’ll probably enjoy the company of all the customers and stuff. It must get lonely for her sometimes. ‘Where’re we going, anyway?’

‘The Canaries.’ George looks gleeful.

‘Isn’t that a bit…’

‘Chip fat?’ George shivers and pulls on a T-shirt with ‘Some Don’t. Some Might. I probably Will’ stamped across the chest in pink glitter. ‘That’s the whole idea. It’s ironic, darling. Total Tacksville. We’re off to the land of egg, chips and union   Jack beach towels for a whole weekend. I’m so excited I just can’t wait.’

‘And I’m promised thousand decibel re-runs of Only Fools and Horses every five minutes.’ David laughs.

‘We’ll be out on the razzle-dazzle in those dreadful discos, darling.’ George is thrilled. ‘Where your feet are practically glued to the floor and they’ve tied an ugly stick to all the ceiling fans. Won’t it be great?’

‘Well…’

‘Such a refreshing change not to have to mix with glittering success stories like myself all the time.’ George lights a fag and inhales deeply. ‘Think how refreshing it’ll be to be with people whose idea of job satisfaction is merely waving a tin in the air and yelling “Price check on baked beans”.’

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘You do,’ George tells me firmly. ‘You’ll love it. And we’ll all get gorgeous tans in time for the wedding.’

‘I doubt it. The only time I look remotely brown is when my freckles join up.’

‘You’ll still look great next to all those tangerine women on the beach,’ George says. ‘With their arses full of cellulite and their cheaply done tattoos plastered across their great teats.’

‘You’ve got a tattoo,’ David points out. ‘Darling, there’s a world of difference between a tasteful tortoise, carefully positioned to enhance an already deliciously pert buttock, and a whopping great tiger’s head on some flabby proletarian udder,’ George informs him. ‘Especially when it’s an udder that started out the size of an egg cup but ballooned to a dinner plate thanks to one night too many on the pies.’

David laughs so much his purple flip-flops slap up and down on the flagstones.

‘Can you try not to turn completely into George before the wedding?’ I beg him. ‘You used to be so lovely and un-gay as well.’

‘So lovely and un-gay you decided you’d give him a go yourself,’ George chortles.

‘Ha ha,’ I scoff. ‘I just don’t want the whole thing to look too gay.’

‘Don’t say you’re getting nervy?’ George asks.

‘Well,’ I bristle, ‘you do realise that what we’re doing is a crime, don’t you?’

‘Oh, come on.’ George shakes me by the shoulder. ‘Lighten up, sweetie. Of course we know. That’s why we want to repay you by luring you into the bowels of slapperdom so you can stand next to red-faced skinheads on day release from Broad-moor as they belt out “Alice, Alice, who the fuck is Alice?”’