My Fake Wedding(98)

‘What about the food?’ I ask. ‘I’m a food snob. I like waiters to greet me with “May I take your jacket please?” Not “Have you ever been to a Harvester before?” Anyway, you used to refuse to go to places like the Canaries. You said the government should ban common people from going abroad ’cos they spoiled it for everybody else.’

‘Well, that’s partly true,’ George admits. ‘I mean, we will be mixing with the kind of people who win the lottery. The ones who don’t actually know what to do with the money when they get it because they already subscribe to Sky Sports and they don’t have the nous to switch to a decent brand of ciggie.’

‘The ones who spend it on vulgar mock-Tudor mansions and fill them with swirly red carpets and gold mixer taps?’ David asks.

‘The very ones.’ George squeezes his hand. ‘So which particular Canary are we visiting?’ I sigh. ‘Lanzagrotty or Tenegrief.’

‘Fuerteventura,’ George says. ‘You’re coming, and there’s an end on it.’

I imagine myself lying on a beach with absolutely bugger all to do.

Beer and chips for brekky.

Fat, trashy novels, thick as bricks and smudged with coconutty fingerprints.

Hot sunshine, prickling the backs of my knees. The smell of fresh ginger cake on my skin as the sun warms it.

‘Sod it,’ I tell them. ‘I’m in. As long as the others come too. I’m not playing gooseberry to you two all weekend.’



I invite Sam first. I figure he’s probably feeling a bit guilty about letting Pussy gatecrash our nice dinner, so he owes me one.

I’m right.

‘Look,’ he says, as soon as he hears my voice, ‘I’m sorry about our dinner the other night. About Pussy coming along, I mean. I honestly had no idea she thought she was invited.’

‘She didn’t,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘Never mind,’ I tell him. ‘It’s OK.’

‘Well, I’m sorry. I just didn’t think it was worth making a big thing of it, you know. She’s a bit, well, insecure sometimes, and I didn’t want a scene.’

‘Right.’

Hrrmph. As long as she’s OK then…

‘But at least we’re friends again,’ he says. ‘You and I, I mean. That has to be worth it, eh, Simpson?’

‘Course,’ I tell him. ‘I need a favour, actually.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, two favours.’

‘Is this what you wanted to ask me the other night?’

‘Well, one is.’

‘Go on.’ He sounds eager.

‘I want you to give me away.’

‘Oh.’ He sounds cold.

‘Sam?’

‘I’m here.’

‘So will you?’

‘Well,’ he says carefully, ‘you know how I feel about that. I don’t really think you should be doing this at all. You should be marrying someone who really loves you for you. And I don’t mean Jake bloody Carpenter. Or that twelve-year-old you’ve been seeing. Don’t think I don’t know about that. George has got a gob the size of the Blackwall Tunnel. I saw him in Cuba Libre the other night. He’d spout any old shite after a couple of Bellinis.’

‘You won’t then?’ My heart sinks. Somehow, for no reason on earth I can think of, I’ve built this whole thing up into an event of such importance that, if he says no, I don’t know if I can go through with the wedding at all. If I’m honest, I’m so nervous about the whole thing, I just need to feel someone’s on my side. There’s no one else in the world I can ask.

There’s a long silence. Then…

‘I’m not saying I won’t,’ he says eventually. ‘I’m saying I’ll have to think about it.’

‘Thanks, Sam,’ I gush.

‘But you have to return the favour.’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Whatever you want.’

‘Oh really, Simpson?’ he says, flirting playfully so I know everything is going to be all right. ‘Whatever I want?’

‘You know what I mean.’ I laugh. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s my birthday next week,’ he says. ‘I thought I might have a bit of a barbie if the weather’s nice. Have the boys over. Kick a football around and stuff.’

‘You and football,’ I tease him. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘You do the food?’ he asks. ‘I’ll pay you of course.’

‘How ’bout I give you a discount?’ I’m pink with pleasure at him asking me to do it. ‘You just pay for the grub. I mean I’m not as poor as I was, but I still can’t really do it for free.’