The Wedding Date Page 4

  ‘Shit.’ There is a long silence. ‘Your mother, why?’ Sarah knows what my mother is like (despite only meeting her once), because I have told her. And she has spoken to her on the phone.

  My mother makes a habit of ringing me when I’m at work, and I make a habit of trying to avoid her calls. So she’s got sneaky and rings the travel agency number, and not my mobile. Sarah actually thinks it’s fun talking to Mum, so is more than happy to answer, and they’re practically on first name terms now. Getting Mum off the phone practically requires a degree in evasive manoeuvres though, so Sarah knows her pretty well.

  She knows that my lie is now folklore.

  ‘I had to tell her, she rang to tell me she’s been invited to the wedding as well.’

  ‘Oh, double shit.’

  We get another round of drinks, and by the time I’m halfway down I know I have to tell her about Amy. And Jake.

  I take a deep breath. ‘I can’t take Callum.’ She looks slightly disappointed, but resigned. ‘And I think your escort idea is out, isn’t it?’ She nods glumly. ‘Even though it was a brilliant idea.’ I don’t want her to think I don’t appreciate her. ‘But, well, there is another option. A definite possibility.’ This is also the green cocktail talking. Cocktails have a serious role to play in society. I need a detached, independent opinion and Sarah is as detached as they come. And she’s all in favour of fake dates. ‘But it has to be a complete secret.’

  If I ever do this, and I’m totally not sure I will, Sarah is the only person I know who definitely won’t drop me in it. She also tells the truth, apart from the bit about the stampede of men who’d kill for a date with me, but I know that is to cheer me up.

  ‘What kind of possibility?’

  ‘Tim knows this girl who’s got this brother.’ I can see her gaze wandering back to the cocktail shaker, I’m losing her. ‘Who’s an actor.’ She’s tuned back in. ‘Who would do it. You know be a fake date, but cheaper than those agencies.’ I hope. Maybe I need to ask Amy how much he’d charge. If we could work it out on a sliding latte scale I’d be okay, but if he wanted film star rates… ‘And I wouldn’t need a dog, and I’d know him.’ Kind of. ‘So it wouldn’t be as weird.’ Maybe.

  ‘Wow, a hot, sexy actor—’

  ‘I didn’t say…’

  ‘Picture?’

  ‘I haven’t…’

  ‘What’s his name? Come on, let’s Google him. God, I can’t believe you haven’t done that yet. I Google everybody.’ She does. Everybody and everything.

  ‘I’ve got his sister Amy’s number, she said to get in touch if I decide…’

  ‘Well, you’ve decided. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me straight away. Come on, let’s get another round of those apple things in and give sister Amy a call.’ Sarah giggles. ‘This is amazeballs.’ Sarah often gets carried away after a few drinks and ‘amazeballs’ is her latest word; at least she’s moved on from calling everything ‘sick’. I blame it on spending too much time playing online video games with teenagers. ‘The dog’s bollocks.’ See? ‘What if it’s Brad Pitt?’

  ‘It isn’t Brad Pitt.’ I reluctantly wave Amy’s card in front of her. ‘She’s called Amy Taylor-Smith.’

  ‘But he’ll have an acting name. Gimme.’ She snatches the card before I can stop her. ‘You go and get the drinks in, I’m going to ring Amy. Oh God, this is SO much better than just going to an escort agency, this is SO exciting.’

  By the time I’ve walked to the bar and back I’ve changed my mind. Again.

  ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘Bollocks, stop being a spoilsport. You know you want to!’

  A little part of me does want to, but the logical, sensible part doesn’t.

  ‘It’ll be a right hoot!’

  ‘You’re not the one doing it. There are so many things that could go wrong, and he might be ugly, or gay, or have horrible blubber lips that I won’t want to kiss.’ I feel slightly sick at the thought of big fat lips heading towards me. ‘What if I agreed to this and then totally didn’t fancy him?’

  ‘Or what if he’s a sexier male version of his sister? I mean I’m firmly in the hetero camp, but she is seriously good looking. Family genes and all that, he can’t be a total minger, can he?’

  ‘How do you know what Amy looks like?’ I frown at her, suddenly suspicious.

  She grins. ‘She didn’t answer when I called her, so I sent her a text, and she said she was in the middle of something. I had to do something while I was waiting, so…’

  ‘So you went on Facebook.’

  ‘Damn right I did. Look!’ Sarah shoves her mobile phone in front of my face. I look. ‘This is her, isn’t it? I have got the right woman, haven’t I? It would be so embarrassing if I’d got the hots for some totes different Amy.’

  ‘Yep, that’s her.’ She’s looking even more gorgeous than she did in the hair salon, and she’s got her arms draped round two very hunky men. Some girls have all the luck.

  ‘If her brother is dire, though I don’t see how that’s even possible, maybe she’ll lend you one of these? Or,’ Sarah pauses mid-sip, ‘maybe one of these is Jake.’ She enlarges the photo and we both peer. ‘They are seriously hawt.’

  They are indeed quite hot. Easy on the eye, as my mother would say.

  ‘Isn’t this a bit stalkerish?’

  ‘Definitely not. It’s essential research. Right girlfriend, let’s get digging. If this is Amy’s profile then there’s bound to be a photo of her brother, isn’t there?’ She scrolls down, and I can’t help myself. I have to look. What if he is actually nice? More than nice? This could maybe work.

  ‘Have you seen this? Bloody hell, she was at the opening of that new bar, she’s a real mover and shaker, isn’t she?’ Sarah has got distracted from the mission. ‘Do you think she could get me an invite to some of these things, now you’re friends?’

  ‘I’ve only met her once.’

  ‘But you’re dating her brother.’

  ‘I’m not exactly…’

  She carries on undeterred. ‘Or do you think she needs a holiday? I bet she could afford something really top of the range. Aunt Lynn would be seriously impressed if I could sell to her and her mates.’

  ‘Sarah!’ I try and grab her phone, but she’s got a firm grip. ‘I need to see him. Now!’

  ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’ She holds her phone in the air out of my reach, a big grin on her face. ‘This is such a good idea.’ I realise I’m grinning back. ‘Oh God, we’re being seriously thick here. We should look at her friends list, if he’s on Facebook they’re bound to be friends are they? And what kind of an actor wouldn’t be on Facebook?’ She’s tapping away as she speaks and suddenly lets out a shriek. ‘Oh my God! It’s him, it’s him!’

  I nearly shriek as well, because she’s clutching my arm. But she is bouncing about on her seat so much it’s hard to see anything at all, apart from a blur.

  ‘He is frigging gorgeous. You have got to do this, Sam, you have seriously got to do this.’

  I take the mobile phone off her, and even though my hands are shaking, I can see him.

  Jake Porter.

  His gorgeous tawny-brown eyes are gazing straight back into mine as though we’re face to face. Which is stupid, it’s a picture. I touch it, I can’t help myself, and we ping on to his page. Where there are lots more pictures. Jake winking, Jake laughing, Jake with his arm round Amy, Jake gazing at a woman who has to be his mother, Jake looking cute with a puppy, Jake on a horse.

  I scroll back. A horse?

  ‘He’s on a horse.’ It has to be an omen, apart from the totally sexy gorgeousness.

  ‘So?’ Sarah reclaims her phone. ‘He’s a real dish, isn’t he?

  ‘So, we have to do horse-riding and stuff in Scotland. He could fit in fine.’

  ‘Fit in?’ Sarah giggles – then stops and raises an eyebrow. ‘You never said anything about Scotland, that’s miles away!’

  ‘I know it’s miles away, and it’s for a w
hole week.’ I lean in closer to Sarah so I can stare at Jake. A whole week with a man like him could be quite nice. ‘Maybe I can do it.’ My stomach has gone all squirmy, so I take a big gulp of cocktail to try and distract myself.

  ‘Oh God, yes you can girl.’ Sarah is grinning slightly manically. ‘You defo can Sam.’ We both stare at his profile picture. His brown hair is tousled, casually sexy. He’s in a casual shirt, open so you can see his brown neck, the hint of a smattering of hair. The sleeves are rolled up, showing indecently strong, toned forearms. And those eyes…

  ‘Maybe he just takes a good photo?’ I have to be prepared for disappointment.

  Sarah giggles. ‘Lots of good photos. He looks sexy in all of these, but we can always stalk him to make sure he doesn’t act like a douchebag.’

  She says it like it’s an everyday thing. Stalking. Which is a bit worrying.

  ‘What if I can’t afford to pay him for a week?’ I’m saying it, trying to be sensible, but knowing that if I can raise the money then I have to. There’s a dimple at the corner of his full, firm looking lips. A naughty quirk to his eyebrow. He doesn’t just look hot, he looks fun. Mischievous. Everything that I’d forgotten to be when I was with Liam.

  ‘He’ll give you mates’ rates, he has to.’ Sarah says it with conviction.

  A little, very indecent, shiver goes down my spine. This could be fun, this could be brilliant. I could have the hottest date at the wedding, in the whole of Scotland, and I don’t care if it means we are the centre of attention.

  ‘Okay.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’m going to do it.’ I cross my fingers under the table. ‘Let’s get stalking!’

  Sarah leaps in the air with a squeal (I swear she’s related to this mad springer spaniel we had when I was a kid) and punches the air. Everybody looks our way. I’m very tempted to pull her down and sit on her, which is roughly what I had to do to the dog once or twice. Well, not exactly sit on it – before you report me to the RSPCA – subdue is probably a better word. Strongly subdue. Pin down.

  Sarah has not been subdued. ‘Go you! Wow, I’m seriously jealous. Let’s get another drink to celebrate!’

  I feel slightly sick, but more excited-bubbling-stomach sick, than get-me-out-of-here sick. ‘I still want to see him, in the flesh, before I talk to him.’

  ‘We’ll follow him.’

  ‘He’ll think I’m crazy.’

  Sarah giggles. ‘You are crazy, but I don’t mean follow as in crazy-woman follow; I mean just happen to be in some bar where he just happens to be, and observe him. From afar.’ She flings a hand in the air as though this is everyday, normal behaviour.

  ‘My eyesight isn’t that good these days, and it’s dark in bars.’

  ‘Not that afar. Come on, text Amy, find out if she knows what he’ll be up to the next few days.’ She reaches for my bag, to rifle for my phone, and I grab it protectively. Hug it to my bosom. ‘Oh do it, do it now. You’ve got to! This is so exciting.’

  We’re grinning at each other like children about to unwrap the presents on Christmas day, and I feel a bit lightheaded and giddy. Which could be the cocktails.

  I do it. And a message pings back from Amy before we even have time to order another drink. She has the perfect solution, they’re having a family get together. A meal in the Italian restaurant up the road. I can see the whole family. I can see him at his most normal (her words not mine, which rings a few warning bells) when he’s not acting a part.

  Thursday at 8 p.m.

  I show Sarah, and she squeals again, then grabs me for a hug.

  This is really happening. I am planning on spending a week with a fake date.

  And my fake date is far, far better than Desmond (I’ve seen him, Mum sent me a photo in case I changed my mind. He has a combover. The type designed to hide a thinning patch, not the trendy type. Nuff said) or the idea of being on the spinster and lonely hearts table.

  ACT TWO – THE DATE

  Chapter 6

  Reasons this could possibly work:

  1. He has not got a combover (so infinitely better than Desmond).

  2. He has a pert bum (and the rest of him is more than a little okay).

  3. He loves his family (which is a definite positive as he will have to cope with mine).

  Jake has got a full head of his own hair, and makes the type of confident entrance that makes people stop what they’re doing and glance his way. And he’s not even famous yet (as far as I know).

  We know it’s him because he looks exactly like you’d imagine him to from his profile picture on Facebook (which has to be a first in the history of social media) and because, to eliminate all doubt, Amy has stood up and rather enthusiastically shouted ‘Jake, Jake, we’re here. Where’ve you been?’

  Even though the restaurant is a bit dimly lit, I’m pretty sure Jake would have spotted them, his family, unless he was pretty dim too. But it’s nice of her to make sure we’re in the picture, I just hope she doesn’t blow our undercover mission out of the water.

  ‘O-M-F-G, swoon-worthy or what?’ I think Sarah is trying to sell this to me rather over-enthusiastically, probably because I look like I’m about to duck out. I was actually so excited that I didn’t sleep last night, but now I’ve got what I can only think of as first date nerves, even though it isn’t a date.

  So far we’ve only seen the back of him, as he heads over to his family, straight into a hug and kiss with what has to be his granny. Which I suppose is a point in his favour (see point 3, above). Being demonstrative is good, doing it in public is even better considering the role he will need to play. ‘I wish he’d turn around so I can see his face.’

  ‘Forget his face, just look at that cute arse.’ Sarah stops waving her breadstick and starts to eat it in a very suggestive manner. ‘That wasn’t in any of the photos.’

  I am looking at his arse. I can’t stop staring at his arse, in fact. But that is not the point. ‘I have to look at his face, not arse. It’s a wedding. It’s a week.’ I bury my head in my hands (but can’t help peeping between my fingers at his very nice back view, he has a broad back, the type that is toned and probably tanned – not that I’ll be getting to see that). This is a mix of scary and exciting. ‘A week.’ With a total stranger. And my family.

  It sounds a bit like a wail to my own ears, and I hope nobody else has noticed. Sarah has. She pats my hand. ‘You’ll be fine. Just think what you could get up to in a week.’ She winks, then goes all swoony again. I think I need to get a move on, or she’ll be taking matters into her own hands. Literally.

  ‘And eyes are important. I can’t make lovey-dovey faces if I don’t like his eyes.’ Although I did like his eyes in the photos. I could quite easily gaze adoringly at him for a week if he really does look like that and it isn’t all down to photoshopping. Because, you never know, his agent could check every photo before he’s allowed to post it online.

  ‘You’re just so bloody fussy. Any minute now you’ll be saying he needs a brain and—’ she puts her posh voice on ‘—good conversation.’

  ‘Sod off, Sarah.’

  ‘A man’s not for life, Sam, he’s just for a wedding.’ She giggles and tops up our wine glasses. ‘Are you eating that bruschetta, or shall I?’

  ‘You think this is funny, don’t you?’ To be fair, I probably would if the roles were reversed. ‘And yes, I am eating it, hands off.’ I need any carbs I can get my hands on, to soak up the wine I suspect we’re going to be drinking. I also might have to tell her to keep her hands off my man as well. Not that he’s my man yet. ‘What…’

  Then he turns around and I forget whatever I was going to say next.

  The main issue with staring at a man’s pert bum, is that if he spins round you find yourself staring at his crotch.

  I once looked up ‘crotch’ in the dictionary. Don’t ask. I think I was in the waiting room at the dentist’s and read it in some countryside or gardening magazine. It was an article about tree pruning, with photos of some very masculine lo
oking types hanging off branches dangling chainsaws. I was confused, and bored, so I Googled. Anyway, it means (if you ignore the obvious) a fork in a tree, road, or river. As in the trunk where it splits into two branches, get it? This fork was very snugly encased in the jeans that are also caressing his rear.

  ‘Oh fork.’

  Sarah splutters crumbs. Christ, did I really say that? And in that way?

  ‘Fork indeed.’ Her eyes are watering as she spits the words out between what sounds like a cat coughing up fur balls, but I think it’s a mix of laughter and tears, and trying not to make too much noise. At least it stops the suggestive breadstick sucking.

  I glance upwards, just to check he’s not looking at us because of the noise she’s making, and he is. Looking at us. Well, he’s looking straight at me, and he has got the dirtiest grin I have ever seen on his face. All Hugh Grant and awfully British, but awfully naughty. It is way, way sexier than the grin he had on his Facebook profile.

  Then he winks. And my face is on fire, along with several other parts of my body.

  Shit. ‘I can’t do this.’ After I’ve been caught ogling him like that, he’ll think I’m sex-starved. He’ll turn me down.

  ‘He is seriously gorgeous.’ Sarah is now licking the end of the breadstick in a way that could get us thrown out.

  He is. ‘He thinks I’m some sort of perv before he’s even met me. He’ll probably say no.’ I stare at the very interesting tablecloth and try and peek through my eyelashes to see if he’s still looking our way. He isn’t, he’s got his arm round a woman who’s brought more bread to the table.

  ‘Honestly, what a flirt, what a chauvinist, I’m not sure I’d want to be seen with him.’ Does he hug everybody? I mean, I want him to hug my mother, but not spend all his time embracing other women while I look on.

  ‘What does it matter?’ Sarah shrugs, and stabs a piece of penne pasta. I hadn’t even noticed our meals arriving. I really, really hope she doesn’t start to suck on that. ‘He’s probably used to women staring, and he’s not going to think you’re that normal anyway, is he?’ She laughs. ‘Anyway I know you don’t mean it, you can’t stop looking at him.’