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The Wedding Date: The laugh out loud romantic comedy of the year!
Zara Stoneley
A USA Today Bestseller!‘All the fun, love and laughter of a real wedding–but without having to buy a new dress!' Debbie Johnson'The best date I have ever been on…my most favourite book of 2018' Kaisha, The Writing GarnetOne ex.One wedding.One little white lie. When Samantha Jenkins is asked to be the maid of honour at her best friend’s wedding, she couldn’t be happier. There are just three problems…1) Sam’s ex-boyfriend, Liam, will be the best man.2) His new girlfriend is pregnant.3) Sam might have told people she has a new man when she doesn’t (see points 1 and 2 above)So, Sam does the only sensible thing available to her… and hires a professional to do the job.As the wedding draws closer, gorgeous actor Jake Porter plays his part to perfection and everyone believes he is madly in love with Sam. The problem is, Sam’s not sure if Jake is acting anymore…Everyone loves The Wedding Date:‘Full of laugh out loud moments’ Sunday Times bestseller Heidi Swain‘The rom com date of the year’ Phillipa Ashley‘This book made me smile from beginning to end, every girl needs a Jake rooting for them’ Jules Wake‘Lovely, warm and witty’ Tilly Tennant‘Makes you laugh out loud, feel joyfully tearful and believe in happy ever afters…I loved it’ Cressida McLaughlin ‘A terrific summer romp’ Bella Osborne‘Beautifully charming, deliciously sweet but with an unexpected bite! I loved it!’ Jo Robertson, My Chestnut Reading Tree‘As frothy as a wedding gown and as full of fizz as the very best bubbly’ Emma Reid, Screenwipe‘Has everything I look for in a romantic comedy – romance, comedy, gorgeous man…pure, enjoyable escapism’ Rachel Random Reads





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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017
Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2017
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available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008301033
Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008301026
Version: 2018-10-02
Table of Contents
Cover (#ud0fc9ca3-3909-5482-b53f-13d24bd8ba68)
Title Page (#u3cca842b-a491-5d5b-87ad-649ccc17a363)
Copyright (#uaad2a3da-2476-5772-ac3d-bc54c2c6bcf7)
Dedication (#u4424fb8d-fb7f-5eee-8195-f0af3c952250)
Act One – The Invite (#u1ef3a503-582e-5650-9e5f-93c879685410)
Chapter 1 (#udb8cd141-cc5b-5018-9c47-79faab8d4dce)
Chapter 2 (#ua9bb2418-d6c2-5201-b7d8-ed98648f7cae)
Chapter 3 (#ue10b9213-305e-5cc9-9aa8-2886aba6278d)
Chapter 4 (#u110bcc00-4005-5616-beb3-e6c1d45ac149)

Chapter 5 (#ua757c39e-9c9f-5e88-b25a-e95f8ad75f7e)

Act Two – The Date (#u86add446-d6ad-5af5-9ffc-ad35167a5753)

Chapter 6 (#u9964c4a8-e032-5ef5-967d-58f9090fa00a)

Chapter 7 (#ue91ee6d3-2613-52f1-bc34-eac27d346a7d)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Act Three – The Wedding (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Zara Stoneley (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
For my parents. With love.

ACT ONE – THE INVITE (#u437ea336-06cb-5850-b452-e9111d4f3024)

Chapter 1 (#u437ea336-06cb-5850-b452-e9111d4f3024)
Reasons I, Sam Jenkins, cannot go to this wedding:

1 1. I’m too fat, and just don’t have time to get down to a look-okay-in-a-posh-summer-frock weight.
2 2. Lemon is so not my colour (which is the colour theme – Jess knows my aversion to over the top dresses and so has gone for a theme rather than providing the type of dress she loves and I hate). Mum says it drains me.
3 3. I have far too much work to do. And house-cleaning, and gardening.
4 4. I don’t have a date.
5 5. The last man I dated ripped my heart out, stamped on it and is going to be the best man.
Reasons I have to go to this wedding.

1 1. Jess was is my best friend.
I could add ‘and my hair looks crap’ but that one is easily handled. Much more easily handled than losing the chocolate-cake-and-chips stone in weight that has very comfortably settled itself round my stomach like an unwelcome lodger who intends to stay. Healthy food is on my to-do list, it just hasn’t made it on to my shopping list yet. I mean, you have to prioritise, don’t you? And I’m not quite ready.
Now don’t get me wrong, I can be pretty determined when I want to be, and show amazing self-control (last summer I lost 5 lb in weight the week before we went away, which meant the 7 lb I put on during the week was totally acceptable), but there are times in life when only a super-size bag of crisps and a bottle of wine will do, and the last few months has been one of those times. It has also been a time for espresso martinis and bumper bags of gin and tonic popcorn.
I was dumped, and now this.
A wedding invite. Well, advance warning of a wedding invite to be more precise.
Normally I love a good wedding, who doesn’t? But, right now, cheering on any happy couple would make me feel slightly hopeless and weepy for all the wrong reasons. And this is worse. This is the worst.
This isn’t just any wedding invite; it’s from Jess. My bestie.
We’ve known each other forever. She told me some time ago to ‘save the date’ (when I was still the deluded half of a happy couple), and now she’s emailed to tell me why.
She is getting married! The invite is in the post! It will be here any day! She is excited! Dan is excited! Everybody is excited! Her mum has already bought a hat!!! The wedding is going to be A-MA-ZING!! (The exclamation marks are hers, not mine – she is excited.)
Normally I’d be pretty thrilled too – after all, I love her to bits. I want her to be happy, I truly, truly do, and she will be. But normally was the time before Liam shredded my heart, hopes, and the perfect future I’d created in my head, as thoroughly as he shredded his very private and confidential banking documents – and pretty much every other sheet of paper left carelessly lying around. And Jess is marrying Dan. Liam’s brother. And Liam will of course be the best man. Not that ‘best’ or ‘man’ are words I’d voluntarily apply to him.
So I am not thrilled. I am imagining walking up the aisle behind my best friend towards the man who cheated on me. And everybody there will know he cheated on me. I will be the elephant in the room, the person that everybody stares at but avoids talking to because it is all so embarrassing and we are all so terribly British.
And if I’m totally honest I actually feel like an elephant, as in big and an anaemic shade of grey - and I don’t have time to remedy the situation. I’m not sure any spray tan or control knickers are slimming enough.
For the sake of my own battered self-esteem I need to be that kitten who looks in the mirror and sees a lion. Except in my case I need to see the sexiest pre-break up version of me possible. Liam and all our friends and family need to see that girl too. I need to be me, not the girl Liam dumped.
And I do not have time.
In two months’ time, Jess will be saying ‘I do’.
I’m halfway to work when my phone starts beeping.
Did you get my email? Isn’t it amazing?! Can’t wait to catch up with you, it’s been ages!
It has been ages. Five months, three days, five hours and thirty-seven minutes (give or take the odd minute). That was when I’d waved goodbye to Jess and her boyfriend Dan, just five minutes before his snake-in-the-grass wanker-banker brother Liam dumped me.
He’d put his hands on my waist and pulled me in for what I thought was a pre rumpy-pumpy kiss. Liam liked to work to a routine which could, if I’m brutally honest, be a bit long-winded and anti-climactic (though the last bit is only true for me, he peaked as regularly as clockwork). The foreplay started at the pub, lasted the entire walk home with increasingly amorous snogs and squeezes, there’d be a brief grope as we stumbled up the stairs, then it culminated in a five-minute shag, a groan of satisfaction – his, and only occasionally mine – before he collapsed on his back and fell asleep.
Anyway, I thought that’s why he’d grabbed me, so I puckered up and closed my eyes. And nothing happened. I opened one. Liam was giving me his spaniel look. Beseeching. So I opened the other eye, wondering what could be so earth-shatteringly important as to disrupt his foreplay routine (those two words shouldn’t really sit side by side, even I know that).
‘Samantha—’ he only called me Samantha in front of my parents, his parents, and his boss ‘—you’re a lovely girl—’ I could feel my body stiffen, as though it was expecting a blow, though my brain hadn’t twigged why ‘—but this has started to feel like a habit.’
Ahh, maybe at last my subtle hints about our all the way home warm-up session had sunk in at last. ‘I know what you mean.’ At last! A chance to add a bit of spice to life. Impulsive just isn’t a word you’d breathe in the same sentence as ‘Liam’, but maybe he’d seen the fun his brother was having with Jess, and decided to go for it.
I loved Liam with all my life, he was kind and considerate, but we were in a bit of a rut. Maybe he had realised that a rut isn’t good when you’re not yet thirty. Perhaps it was time to buy some new sexy underwear, a little black dress, some slightly higher heels. ‘Maybe we should walk back a different way? Across the park?’ A fumble in the bushes would make a change, and Mrs Tribble from number 26 wouldn’t be able to peer out and tut. Why do people insist on watching things they know they don’t approve of? Pull the curtains, love. Watch the weather forecast.
Anyway, we could even spend a romantic moment on the bench by the pond. But I was dying for the loo, so it would only be a fleeting stop.
‘I don’t mean the route.’ He gave me his sad smile, the one he normally reserved for customers he was just about to turn down for a loan. I half-expected him to start his next sentence with ‘regretfully’, but he didn’t. ‘I mean our relationship. It’s not really going anywhere, is it?’
He liked his routines. He thrived on routine. We had our own sides of the bed, his toothbrush had its own side of the mug, every second of the day had its place in his organised life, and he was saying this as though it was my fault? He was saying he was bored? But I knew I could put a positive spin on this. Maybe I had been a bit lax, not determined enough to shake us both out of our complacent little life together.
‘We could have a mini-break, go to Spain, or Paris? Ooh la la!’ I did a wriggle which could have been sexy French, or the start of a Spanish flamenco. ‘Spice things up?’
‘I didn’t mean go anywhere as in travel.’ The sad look was now turning into one of annoyance, and he was gazing straight over the top of my head – not looking me in the eye. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, and you know I like to be straight.’
I did. Liam wasn’t one to soften the blow – he liked to say exactly what he was thinking, which could be embarrassing at times. He was the man who’d agree with the hostess that the meat was on the tough side, and told my mother that yes, her bum did look a little bit large in her new trousers, but at her age it didn’t matter. She’d laughed it off, but the next time I saw those trousers they were in the charity shop – I swear they were hers, they had the faintest of stains from where she’d slopped the coffee she’d been passing to him.
‘I think we’ve reached the end of the road.’
We’d not even reached the corner shop. ‘But we’re only…’
‘Samantha, I’ve met somebody else.’ The blood had the decency to rush out of his face at roughly the same speed the words shot out of his mouth.
I stared in astonishment, pretty sure that my mouth was gaping open.
‘I’m sorry, I do wish you well.’ And he held his hand out. Held his bloody hand out! I suppose it was habit, the bank thing.
I hadn’t seen Jess after that. We’d swapped texts, even had brief, slightly awkward phone conversations where she’d tried not to mention Dan in every sentence, and I’d tried to ignore it when she did, and to act normal and jolly. And not ask if she’d seen Liam.
The trouble was, we’d been a foursome. For ages. And now we were a threesome and it didn’t quite work the same. We hadn’t had separate girly dates for years. Our social life had been double dating, and though she did sympathise, and she did call Liam several nasty names (she was actually far more inventive than me), I couldn’t expect her to join in a bitch fest about her boyfriend’s brother all the time, could I?
I’d gone on a spectacular drunken bender with Sarah from work, then I’d booked some leave and sat in my flat for a week, because going out meant putting eyeliner on, and there is no eyeliner known to woman that could cope with the rate at which my eyes were leaking.
The only thing I didn’t do was lose weight. I hate every woman who sheds the stones like a snake sheds its skin when they break up with a boyfriend. Because I pile it on. Wine, chocolate and every carb known to woman flock to my side to comfort me – then settle on my stomach, and under my armpits.
Anyway, so that was then and this is now, post exciting-wedding-news email.
Fantastic news! I text back to Jess. I’m so pleased for you!! You and Dan make the perfect couple!!! I always find exclamation marks can make up for any lack of enthusiasm when you can’t think of anything to say, and all you can think about is the groom-to-be’s bastard brother who will be at the wedding. Can’t wait to see you!!!
A text comes back straight away, as though her fingers have been poised over the send button. Just so you know, but I know it won’t bother you seeing as you’ve got a new man (I’d lied – when Jess had texted me about ‘the break-up’ I’d told her I was over Liam, so over him, I had a new man, I was happy, deliriously happy!) Liam’s new girlfriend will be with him, she’s preggers. HUGE!
Shit. My feet have become disconnected from my brain and stopped working, and the nearest wall looms towards me.
Pregnant? How could she be even a teeny bit pregnant, let alone huge? It had only been five months and three and a bit days since we split, and Liam never rushes into anything. Anything. It took him half an hour (minimum) to get into bed, because the sheets needed straightening and his teeth needed brushing and his clothes needed folding. I’d never yet had a hot meal with him, because if the table wasn’t laid properly and the cutlery perfectly aligned then he couldn’t get stuck in. I mean, who needs fully coordinated tableware when you’re tucking into bangers and mash?
Liam was a man of habit. The more I list his habits (which I do a lot these days), the more I wonder why I was so mad about him, why I went to bits when he dumped me, why I ever put up with him.
But love’s weird like that, isn’t it? And I’m beginning to think there might be a tiny bit of hurt pride shoved in there as well. Dumping in your own time is one thing, being the dump-ee is altogether different. But I had been happy with Liam. Lazily happy.
Jess has obviously got bored of waiting for a reply, or is worried I’ve gone off to top myself. He’s a prat, I wouldn’t have invited him but he is Dan’s brother.
I know. It is the best response I can do under pressure. No exclamation marks.
I’d known he’d be at the wedding. He’d told me he’d met ‘somebody else’ – met, not shagged. To be honest a tiny part of me wants to see this girl. The part that could scoff and say she wasn’t that pretty, that thin, that clever. A bigger part of me wants to run a mile in case she is all that and more.
But pregnant? Huge?? No part of me had expected that.
At least I wouldn’t have to look at some willowy beauty hanging off his arm, I suppose. Although, shit, don’t pregnant woman have this ‘glow’? I can’t stand next to a glowing girlfriend if I’m all fat and spotty. And alone. Everybody will be looking, nodding sympathetically at me, and whispering ‘you can’t blame him’ behind their hands.
I can’t wait to meet your new man! Jess is still texting.
Nor could I.
How the hell am I supposed to hook up with somebody new before the wedding? And the more excited texts I get from Jess, the guiltier I feel about even thinking about saying I can’t make it.
Not long!!! See, what did I say about exclamation marks? I suppose between now and the wedding I could say my mystery man and I had split up, or I could actually find a real man, or the imaginary one could die, or rush off to care for an ill relative, or get run over by a bus. Or all of the above. The possibilities are endless. Sorry, got to rush, late for work. I do usually tell the truth. Call you back later for a proper chat xx
My ‘reasons I can’t go’ list needs updating. There’s a new entry at number six.

1 6. My ex has impregnated somebody else. Hugely.
Shoving my mobile in my bag, and pushing my shoulders back, I paste a ‘happy as Larry’ grin on my face and throw open the door of the travel agency.

Chapter 2 (#u437ea336-06cb-5850-b452-e9111d4f3024)
‘What’s up?’ Sarah, my other best friend, is sitting behind a desk that has two mugs of coffee, three Danish pastries, and several travel brochures open on it. She has pink hair (it changes regularly, I think she’s naturally blonde, but I can’t be sure, I’ve only known her three years), and a T-shirt that says ‘Windsurfers do it standing up’. Most travel agencies would insist on a uniform, but Sarah’s aunt owns this one and is as potty as she is. For her sixtieth birthday, she (the aunt, not Sarah) celebrated by going parasailing in Crete and taking the thirty-five year old instructor to bed. My mother celebrated hers with afternoon tea in a posh hotel. I fear that I am more like my mum than Sarah’s aunt.
Sarah isn’t fooled by my radiant smile.
‘Here. Just what the doctor ordered.’ She pushes a coffee towards me, and holds out a sticky pastry. I’m not sure any doctor would order anybody to eat this. ‘There were only three left, so I couldn’t leave one on its own could I?’
‘Jess is getting married.’
‘Fab. So the problem with that is?’ Sarah only knows what I have told her. She moved into the area when she left college and her aunt offered her the type of job that would let her go backpacking and get a discount. ‘You look like you’ve swallowed a lemon.’
‘Thanks.’ I take a bite of sugary pastry to combat the sour look. ‘She wants me to be maid of honour.’
‘Oh hells bells.’ Sarah tends to say some odd things. ‘You don’t have to dress up like an extra from Frozen do you?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I take another bite of pastry, and a gulp of coffee and plonk myself down in my swivel chair. And swivel. ‘Liam is best man.’ I try and say it casually, but I rotate a bit too vigorously and nearly end up in the potted plant behind me.
‘Ahh.’ We chew in unison, once I’ve stopped spinning. ‘But you don’t still care about Liam, do you? He’s a shit.’ She gives me the beady eye. ‘A total shit.’
‘Oh no, no of course I don’t care.’ Well maybe a teeny bit. ‘I’ve not seen him since…’ Sarah nods encouragingly. She knows seeing him again might be an issue. I mean you never know how you will actually feel, do you?
In my head I am so completely over him. He is a complete twat who I never really loved, but in real life what if he makes me feel wobbly? Or sick? ‘It’s not Liam, it’s just everybody will be looking, and knowing.’ Sarah nods, breaks the last pastry into two and passes half to me. ‘And I haven’t got round to that diet yet.’
‘Well, I don’t think you need to lose weight.’ This is easy for Sarah to say as she is stick thin. I know I have got a bit over-rounded.
‘Photos put pounds on you, I can’t look like this.’ I have let myself go since the split, I know I have. In fact I let myself go before the split. I got boring and fat. Both Liam and I had, but neither of us had really noticed. ‘I never used to look like this.’ Being lazily happy has been bad for me. Being heartbroken has been very bad for me. I seem to have totally lost the real me in all of this, and it is time I found myself again. Preferably before my current state is immortalised in wedding snaps.
‘Well, you did say last week that you wanted to get fit again.’ That is true, good intentions have been surfacing, popping their heads up like baby seals, then disappearing again. ‘So maybe this is the incentive. A countdown!’ Sarah spins round, kicking her legs in a very unprofessional way. ‘We could go jogging?’
I pick a flake of pastry off my boobs and eat it. The idea of me and Sarah jogging is hilarious, unbelievable. But it’s nice of her to offer. She’d probably turn up in Doc Martens and pink tights. I swallow the last bit of my calorie-laden breakfast. ‘Maybe.’ I am not good at saying no, which is part of the problem. ‘There is another tiny problem.’ If I call it tiny it might become tiny. They call it visualisation, don’t they? ‘I told Jess I had a new man.’
Sarah grins. ‘Well, that’ll be a piece of piss to sort.’
‘Will it?’
‘Hire a guy!’ She has completely lost it. More off the wall than ever. ‘Oh my God, this has to be fate, you won’t believe what I’ve just been reading. Look, look.’ She starts to delve through the paperwork on her desk, pamphlets flying in all directions, then holds a holiday brochure up triumphantly. ‘Voila!’ She likes to throw in the odd foreign word when she speaks to clients, to create the right atmosphere and sense of anticipation.
‘What?’
‘Look!’ The brochure is shoved into my hand and I am spun round at speed. Through the blur I can make out that it is actually a magazine. She clutches the arms of my seat so that I stop so abruptly the g-force hits, then pokes at the page. Studs for Sale – how the modern woman solves the dating problem. There’s a photo of a famous movie star, with a hot to trot man gazing at her adoringly. ‘She paid for him, can you believe it? Her! She hired him just for the night. Everybody is doing it. You just need an escort. Oh God, this is so frigging cool.’ Her bracelets jangle alarmingly. ‘It’s karma!’
‘It is?’
‘It’s meant to be, me having this mag and you desperately needing a man. Fate!’
‘I wouldn’t say desperately.’ No woman in this century should ever admit to desperately needing a man, should they?
‘Whatever. Shit, Sam, this is perfect.’
‘I’m not sure everybody is doing it.’ Escort sounds seedy. ‘Especially not in the Surrey suburbs.’
‘If they can do it in Hollywood, then why can’t we?’
‘Well, for one I can’t afford it.’
‘How do you know?’ She’s got a point, I haven’t got a clue how much you have to shell out for a fake date.
‘And somebody looking like that won’t be remotely interested in a small town church wedding followed by a nosh up and boogie.’ Okay, I’m being a bit unfair here, dragging Jess down to my level. It’s because I’m panicking. It will be a lovely wedding, in one of the posh hotels. There will be nothing small town about it. But there will also be nothing Hollywood about it.
‘Oh rubbish, I’m sure we could find somebody who’d do it. We should investigate, let’s get…’
Luckily an elderly couple open the door and head straight for my desk. That tends to happen; I handle upmarket cruises and quiet retreats, Sarah gets booze cruises and 18-30 raves.
‘Well?’ She waves the magazine in the air in one hand, her other poised over the keyboard and mouths ‘Google’ at me. ‘Sounds great to me – you’d never have to see him again!’
‘And that could be a godsend,’ chips in the lady, who has sat down and is rummaging in her handbag. She produces her glasses, puts them on and peers at me. ‘I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if I’d never had to see my Albert again.’ She pats his knee in apology, and he smiles. ‘Daft bugger has got flat batteries in his hearing aids so I can say what I want. Now, dear, Albert wants to go to Brighton, and I want to go to Lake Garda. What do you suggest?’
I look at the couple, but my mind just isn’t on the perfect holiday that combines the attractions of the south coast of Britain, and the Italian Lakes.
Studs for sale. Huh. Honestly, does she really think I’m so desperate I’d hire a date?

Chapter 3 (#u437ea336-06cb-5850-b452-e9111d4f3024)
I don’t really believe in all that fate and bad luck stuff. Well, I do think the number seven is quite lucky, and I don’t walk under ladders, and thirteen is a bit of a weird thing, and I don’t step on cracks. Oh, and I do pick a penny up if I see it. And I have been known to follow the odd black cat, and trample over my friends in a bid to catch a bridal bouquet. But in general it’s all a load of guff isn’t it? I wouldn’t say I believe, or let it rule my life in any way whatsoever.
But now I do believe bad luck comes in threes.
I have just got out of bed and picked number three up off my doormat. A thick, cream, embossed, exceedingly posh envelope. I reluctantly slide the thick, cream, equally posh card out of the envelope. I read the words on the front.
Wedding Invitation.
I open the card.
Number one was that save-the-date message, and number two was finding out that not only was Liam seeing the girl he’d ‘met’ while he was still supposed to be seeing me, he would also be taking her to the wedding. And she is huge. As in hugely pregnant. (Number two is a biggie in all senses of the word).
It’s not the fact it’s the actual wedding invite that qualifies it as number three (because I was expecting that) – it’s what I read when I open it.
Jess and Dan aren’t getting married in the local church, with some posh nosh up the road. Oh no. My imaginary partner and I are cordially invited to join the happy couple at Loch Lagwhinnie Country Estate.
I don’t like the look of the word ‘loch’, it sounds ominously Scottish.
I am still clutching the invite as I Google the estate’s name. It is Scottish, as in Scotland Scottish.
It is a remote estate in the wilds of Scotland, miles from civilisation. Well, the website I found doesn’t exactly say ‘wilds’, but that is how I tend to think of Scottish estates. It’s all Queen Victoria and her ghillie Brown, and shaggy ponies. And Braveheart. Hairy men in kilts. Oh my God, kilts.
I turn the invite over and it gets worse. Far worse. The celebrations are to last a week so that we can partake in the many activities on offer. There will be opportunities to shoot, fish, gallop across the estate, walk beside the loch, and sample the local whisky.
A WEEK!
Bloody hell, a whole week. I will need whisky. Not just a sample, gallons of the stuff.
I slide down the wall until I’m sat on the floor, because my wobbly legs don’t give me much choice. Invite of doom in one hand, mobile phone in the other.
An actual week. How can Jess do this to me? My ordeal as a singleton is to last days.
My face will crack if I have to pretend-smile for seven days. My new jeans will split with the amount of alcohol and food I will be forced to consume as a coping mechanism. I will run out of supposedly waterproof mascara and eyeliner, and make-up remover.
She might give birth dramatically.
I’m slightly distracted by the thought of a mini Liam, already in tartan, entering the world whilst a bearded, kilted bagpipe player plays some mournful kind of music, when I realise my phone is vibrating in my hand. Still staring at the invitation, I answer it on auto-pilot without even looking at who’s calling.
‘Darling, it’s me, Mum.’
Bugger. ‘Oh, hi.’ I can’t go. Not for a whole week.
‘Are you okay, Samantha? You sound distracted.’
Distracted is too small a word. ‘Fine, just tired.’ Tired always works well where my mother is concerned.
‘Oh dear, you do work too hard. You need a break. That’s why I’m ringing actually.’ I can hear the excitement start to leak into her voice. ‘Are you still there, Samantha?’
‘Yes, I’m here. Sorry.’ What do you do on a Scottish estate? Falling off horses (not that I’d get on one, given a choice) and marching through the heather in green wellies with a shotgun over my shoulder isn’t exactly going to show Liam what he threw away, is it? I’ve got the type of calves that never look good in wellingtons, even when I’m at my thinnest and fittest. And I wouldn’t know where to start when it comes to shooting, apart from that bit when they yell pull. It will probably be the nearest I get to pulling the whole week.
‘Samantha! Did you hear what I just said?’
Unless I turned it into an Agatha Christie murder mystery type of week and shoot him. Although there might be a bit lacking in the mystery department.
‘Samantha!’
‘Sorry, what Mum?’ It probably wouldn’t be very fair on Jess though; births and deaths tend to be pretty messy affairs from what I’ve seen and could completely spoil the joyous occasion. And it is supposed to be her week, her big day. I sigh, I can’t be that selfish. Even if she is practically shoving the means to destroy him into my hands.
‘Did you hear what I said? Honestly darling, sometimes I think you’re turning into your father.’
What did she say? My mind is blank. Oh yes. ‘You’re ringing cos I need a break?’
‘I’m ringing because you are going to get a break.’ She pauses melodramatically. Mother always fancied her chances on the stage. She’s a member of the local theatre group, but has never yet got her big break. I think it might be too late, but nobody is going to dare tell her. Dad just throws me a wink behind her back, pours her a sherry and says they don’t know what they’re missing when she’s cast as ‘third woman in the corner shop’ again. ‘Oh I’m so excited, have you had your invite? Isn’t it perfect?’ The pitch gets higher, she’d be clutching me if she was here. ‘A week in Scotland, how extravagant is that? I always did say Juliet and John knew how to do things in style, it’s so nice they’ve stayed in touch over the years as you and little Jess have grown up. Aren’t they beautiful? You can get a week off work, can’t you?’
What? Scotland? Invite? A week off?
Oh. My. God. I stare at the cream card in my hand. If she knows all this, then it means my parents have been invited as well. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.
When I’d told Sarah everybody would be there I’d meant Jess’s parents, Dan’s parents, our friends. Liam. Her hugeness. Not my mother.
I definitely can’t go now. Even if Magic Mike and his gang and all the Chippendales agree to back me up.
My little bit of mojo that has been creeping back has been bludgeoned to death.
This will be total humiliation. ‘Well it might be a bit tric—’
‘Oh of course you can, what am I saying? She’s your best friend! And that Dan is such a lovely chap, such a shame you and Liam…’ The words trail off, but then after an intake of breath she picks up again. ‘Well never mind, some things aren’t meant to be. But isn’t it lovely?’
Lovely. Super.
‘Is it cold in Scotland in June?’
I’m going to need a whole new wardrobe for a week. ‘Er, I don’t—’
‘I can get your father to do that googly thing on his laptop can’t I?’
‘You can.’ I need help from that googly thing myself.
‘It looks incredibly posh, like a castle. Do people still wear Harris Tweed? I can’t have your father looking out of place now, can I?’
Too many questions. My father is the least of my worries. A castle, how can Jess do this to me?
‘Samantha? Samantha are you listening?’
‘Oh no, yes, I mean no you can’t, and I don’t know about tweed, can’t you buy Country Life, or Horse and Hound or something and check?’
‘I’ll ask Juliet. Oh this is exciting.’ She’s practically clapping her hands, I can tell. ‘You’ll look lovely on a horse darling, you can get some of those breeches, you might find a nice lord or something.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Oh don’t be so negative, Samantha. You have lovely hair, and teeth.’ She’s struggling, I can tell. Whoever had to stoop to listing her daughter’s teeth as a selling point? ‘And you’re so clever.’ Definitely struggling, she’ll be bringing up my GCSE B grade in maths any second. ‘And you do need a date, or you’ll mess up the table plans.’ And we couldn’t have that could we? It would be my fault the whole wedding was ruined, the bride in tears … because I, the friend, the maid of honour no less, had a spare seat next to me, or, worse, we’d gone woman-woman because of the odd number. Maybe I should suggest a lesbian table? A woman only table? A sad singletons table? Then it wouldn’t matter. Maybe not. Maybe it would be a table for one.
‘I’ve got the answer! You can take Desmond.’
Desmond, who the F is Desmond? And who calls their child that in this day and age? Now all I can think about is Desmond Tutu. I can’t date a man who reminds me of a bishop.
‘If you’ll let me get a word in, Mum, I can’t because—’
‘He’s very nice. Got lovely manners, and I’m sure it’s not his fault that silly dating site can’t find—’
‘Mum!’
She stops. A miracle.
‘I can’t go with Desmond because I already have a date.’
There is silence. Total silence. I am just beginning to think we must have been cut off, because my mum is never stuck for words, when…
‘Oh.’
Shit, what have I done? Why did I say that?
‘You never told me.’ There is a slight hint of hurt in her tone. ‘How lovely. Although you might find a Scottish lord or laird or whatever they call them as well. No need to rush into things with this new one, it would be so nice to live in a castle, that would put Mrs Bracken next door in her place. If she’s told me once, she’s told me a million times about her new son-in-law going to Oxford. And you could have some of those Scottish wolfhound dogs.’
‘I think they’re Irish, Mum.’ See, one invite and this is where it’s taken her, into a complete fantasy land.
‘Don’t be silly dear, I’m sure some of them are born in Scotland. I’ve seen pictures of them in the Sunday supplements, outside castles. With kilts and … David … David, what are those purple prickly things? Oh don’t be ridiculous, pansies aren’t prickly! Prickly I said, not pretty. See, what did I say? He never listens properly. Thistles, that’s what they are, thistles. So it has to be Scotland, not Ireland.’
‘It doesn’t matter, I’m not meeting some castle-owning laird, and I don’t want a big dog. I’ve already got a boyfriend.’ Why have I repeated the lie? Once could be a mistake, twice means it is a truth.
‘Well, if you say so Samantha. That’s wonderful, well done.’ She’s obviously hankering over a highland estate to boast about to the neighbours and I’ve thrown a spanner in the works. ‘What’s his name? Do I know his mother?’
Bugger. I should have thought this through. Brad, George? ‘No, you don’t know his mother. Hang on a sec, there’s somebody at the door, might be him!’ I might have shouted that a bit too enthusiastically. I do some door opening and shutting, and mutter a bit.
I need to make a name up and write it down, what kind of girlfriend doesn’t know her boyfriend’s name?
There’s silence when I finish my door banging. I know she’s waiting for a name, probably a surname as well. She wants to Google him. Or get Dad to check if he’s on Tinder. She is the Hercule Poirot of her neighbourhood.
‘Oh no, not him! Just a lost cat. Well it wasn’t a cat, somebody has lost a cat, all go here!’
‘You’ll have to bring him round for supper.’ She’s brightened up. I don’t know where ‘supper’ has come from though. When I was growing up we had breakfast, dinner and tea. At some point dinner became lunch, and tea became dinner. Now we have supper. ‘Then we can meet him before the wedding.’ Interrogate him more like.
‘Yes, er, I’ll ask him.’ After I’ve managed to meet him. ‘I’ll have to call you back, Mum. Got to dash, I’ve er—’ in for a penny, in for a pound ‘—I’ve got to get changed before I meet him.’ I will have to get changed, I’ll probably have to get changed several times before I meet my mystery man. See, I’m not exactly lying, just slightly misleading which is perfectly acceptable, and natural, in a mother-daughter relationship.
So what do I do?
I book an emergency appointment at the hairdresser’s. The cheapest form of therapy known to man (and, of course, woman).
I am on the way for a cut and blow, hoping a pamper session will leave me feeling less like devouring the contents of the fridge and more like joining in the celebrations. It will also give me time to decide whether Sarah has a valid point, and I am now actually desperate enough to put an advert on Gumtree: ‘Desperately Seeking Stud’.

Chapter 4 (#u437ea336-06cb-5850-b452-e9111d4f3024)
‘How are you gorgeous?’ Tim, the loveliest hairdresser in the world, gives me a very unprofessional hug, then holds me at arm’s length. ‘A little snip here and there and you’ll be all bouncy again.’
It will take more than a little snip to give me back my bounce, although a snip in Liam’s direction might help cheer me up. In fact a snip several months ago might have meant we were still together. It’s dawned on me in the last few minutes that for anybody to be hugely pregnant, they would have had to be shagging my boyfriend long before he became my ex.
This is not a good thought.
My plastered-on smile must have slipped a bit because Tim is frowning at me.
‘I think you need a bit of colour in your life. How about a hint of pink?’
I nod. Pink, purple, bright blooming blue. I’d say yes to anything right now.
‘Chantelle will run you some colour through, won’t you, darling?’ Chantelle is nodding. ‘And I’ll get you a nice little glass of prosecco.’ He pats my hand. ‘Then you can tell Uncle Tim all about it.’ Uncle Tim is probably a good few years younger than me, but right now I’m happy to play along.
Prosecco in hand, with Chantelle gaily adding streaks of colour to my boring hair and life, and Tim sitting looking intently at me, I am already starting to feel a bit better. Tim might be gay, but he’s the only man who’s run his fingers through my hair this year. And that’s fine.
‘It’s that lousy Liam, isn’t it?’ I nod rather too vigorously, then freeze, hoping Chantelle hasn’t added a highlight the size of a zebra stripe. Tim knows all about ‘the break up’; he’s my hero – he supplied me with fags, wine and a good haircut as I wept in front of his mirror, and never once suggested I wasn’t good for business before wheeling me into a dark corner of the salon. If Tim didn’t have a boyfriend I’d have suggested he move in with me by now.
‘You know, don’t you?’ Shit. He knows. Everybody knows. How come I’m the absolutely last person on the planet to find out about the huge girlfriend?
‘His mum was in here last week, she’s putting a brave face on it babe, but… She. Is.So.Fuming.’ He spaces the last four words out, then shakes his head before patting my hand. ‘Such a dick, you are so well rid.’
Logically I know I am well rid, and I know that his mother disapproves of all his girlfriends (including me), but in my heart there is still a tiny illogical Liam-shaped hole. I’ve been hanging on to that hole, I haven’t been ready to stitch it up and shut him out forever. ‘He’s going to be at the wedding, with her.’ And it. The unborn. The prosecco seemed to have lost some of its bubbles. ‘I can’t go.’
‘Oh, girlfriend, you have got to go. Hasn’t she, girls?’
There is a nodding of heads and chorus of consent. I suddenly realise that the dryers have gone quiet and all ears are tweaked our way.
‘But I can’t.’ I know I’m being a bit feeble, and it’s a bit of a wail, but Tim is not to be deterred. ‘My parents have been invited as well, and I can’t face them all unless I look amazingly fabulous, I will totally be the centre of attention and I’m fat and…’ Tim holds a hand up to stop the flow, but he knows what I’m getting at. The next time I see Liam I have to be slim, glamorous, drop-em-dead gorgeous. The one that got away. For my sake, not his. My voice drops to a whisper. ‘And I have to have a man.’ It isn’t that I think my life isn’t complete without a man. I’m not that hopeless. ‘I’ve told Jess I’ve got a new boyfriend, and Mum.’ Christ why did I do that? ‘And everybody…’
‘Will be looking at you?’ Tim sums it up in one. He stands up, triumphant. ‘We’re going to make you look fab-u-lous, and—’ he waves his hand flamboyantly ‘—we’re going to find you a man, aren’t we girls?’
Sitting with gunge plastered all over my head, a rather hot heat lamp threatening to singe my hair, and a glass of prosecco in my hand, I don’t feel fabulous.
‘Right gorgeous, describe your perfect date.’ He’s back in his seat. ‘Hit us, babe. The full works.’
I wriggle in my seat (it does feel a bit like my head is burning, and for a moment I wonder if he’s got carried away and turned me up high). ‘Well, Jude Law’s very nice.’
Chantelle tops up my glass. ‘Oh my God, did you see him in The Holiday? I mean he’s a bit old for me—’ anybody over twenty-one is probably a bit old for Chantelle ‘—but I wouldn’t have said no.’
‘Daniel Craig is more my taste.’ A lady at the far side of the salon puts her copy of Harper’s Bazaar down. ‘I didn’t know I liked blonds until I saw him stride out of the sea in those swimming trunks.’ She fans herself with the magazine.
‘Isn’t he everybody’s, darling?’ Tim joins in the fanning melodramatically.
‘He has got quite nice, er, pecs.’ I’m never quite sure which muscle is which, but I do know Daniel Craig has plenty of them. And I do know he scares me a bit. ‘He’s not quite my style though.’ An image of Liam jumps into my head, totally pec-less. I shake it away – I can do better than that. ‘I mean I like muscles, but I like cuddles as well.’
There’s a collective sigh. Don’t you love hairdressing salons? Guaranteed support, and a haircut.
A burst of loud music launches itself at my ear drums and Chantelle whisks away the heat lamp as the timer goes off. ‘That’s you done, don’t want you too intense, do we?’ She ushers me over to the backwash unit, and points at my right thigh accusingly as I settle myself into the chair.
I’m just about to apologise (several packets of cheesy wotsits have found a home there) when she leans over and jabs a button that I hadn’t noticed (my thigh was in the way). ‘New chairs, you even get a massage. How good is that?’
I’m not actually sure it would rate in my brilliant category, but after two glasses of bubbly and no bum fondling or back kneading for a long time, the gentle vibration is actually quite acceptable.
‘I like a man who can cuddle too.’ Chantelle digs her fingertips into my scalp firmly.
‘Hugh Grant was my type years ago.’ The woman at the next backwash sighs. ‘I’d have cuddled him and much more.’
I glance over, and she looks at least sixty. She grins back in a very naughty way, positively licking her lips. Then winks. Too much information, it’s like your mum bringing up her sex life when all you agreed to was some bonding over handbag shopping.
‘It’s the hair, and the smile. He’d make you laugh, wouldn’t he love? Can’t beat a man who can make you laugh.’ I’m not so sure on that point. ‘That film when he’s Prime Minister,’ Miss Sixty-Plus carries on undeterred.
‘Love Actually?’
She nods. ‘And he’s doing that bit of dad-dancing, bless. Ooh, I could have grabbed him, I could.’
Tim whisks me and my drippy hair back to my seat in front of a mirror, so luckily I don’t have to come up with a response.
‘Liam Hemsworth is cute.’
Tim’s gaze meets mine in the mirror. ‘If he was one of my clients, he’d be yours, gorgeous.’ He combs my hair through. ‘When I was working in London, we had actors in and out all the time.’ The way he says it lends a definite double entendre.
‘You could always borrow my little brother for the day.’
The words come out of the blue. For a moment I think I’ve misheard as I glance round wildly, then realise it’s the girl opposite me, hidden by the mirrors. She leans to one side, so I can see her. My first impression is perfect smile, perfect make-up, and perfect hair. My second impression is money.
‘Oh my God, Amy. Yes!’ I think Tim’s about to orgasm as he clamps his hands over his mouth. His gaze switches from her to me. ‘He is SO gorgeous, SO you.’
I dread to think what he thinks ‘me’ is, and I daren’t ask, because if this man is anything like his sister Amy then he’s nothing like me at all.
‘And that man can act, can’t he Amy?’
‘Oh yeah.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘He’s an actor, he can play anything from cuddly uncle to porn star.’ I’m not sure either of those fits my particular bill. ‘He’ll do anything to practise his craft – and throw in a party and he’ll think he’s in heaven.’ She winks. ‘And he’s broke.’
‘If he wasn’t straight I’d have had my hands on that butt of his years ago.’ I’ve never seen Tim quite so animated. He’s snipping away at my hair with gay abandon, a lustful smile on his face, and I’m wondering if it would be safer to ask him to stop now before I end up with a pixie cut that I haven’t got the face for.
‘Jake’s a bit of a twat, but he’s harmless.’ Amy grins. ‘He needs somebody down to earth and nice to put him in his place; you’d be perfect.’ I’m not sure if this is a compliment or an insult, so I just smile nicely and try not to worry about the scissors. ‘Those airheads he normally dates just simper and swoon when he tells them he’s lined up to be the next James Bond.’
‘Is he?’ I know my eyes have opened a bit wider, and I’ve sat up a bit straighter. Holy crap, have I just bagged myself a real hunk? I’ve always been able to take it or leave it as far as James Bond goes, but I wouldn’t say no to a date.
‘Is he hell!’ She laughs, and my backbone sags back into its normal curve. ‘He’s doing bit parts, waiting for his big break.’
Otherwise known as working as a barista. Licensed to handle a coffee machine isn’t quite the same as licensed to kill. Or thrill. Although I’d probably get a good latte out of the deal.
‘Here.’ She stands up, showing off endless legs and a designer handbag. ‘Take my card.’ Even the card, framed by immaculate nails, looks expensive.
It would be rude to ignore it, but this is never going to work. The whole idea of a fake date makes me feel slightly queasy, and actor Jake is way outside my league. At least if I hired an escort like Sarah suggested, we’d all know where we stood. And he wouldn’t be nearly famous.
‘I’m not sure it will be up his street.’ I try and match her posh tone, and just sound a bit like my mother when she answers the phone. ‘And er, it’s not for a day, it’s for a week.’
‘Even better, he could do with a change of scene! Honestly, he’d love it.’ She puts the card down, then blows Tim a kiss. ‘Let me know if you’re interested and I’ll sound him out, though he’s anybody’s for a free lunch.’
‘Oh she’s interested, aren’t you gorgeous?’ Tim hugs me. ‘He’s just what you need.’ We watch Amy leave, and Tim wields the hairdryer until I look streaked and sleek.
‘Divine.’ He holds a mirror so I can see the back. ‘I can just see Liam’s face when you walk in on Jake’s arm looking absolutely fab. The dream team.’ He sighs.
I stare at my own reflection. I do look quite good, and Jake might look like a young George Clooney, or a Brad Pitt, or a cute Alex Pettyfer. After all he is an actor.
Tim spins me round. ‘You can do this, I’m not taking no for an answer.’
I grin back. ‘I can do this.’ I swan out of the salon on a high, hair all swishy and a spring in my step. I can do this. I have to.
I shall go to the wedding. I shall take a date.
What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 5 (#ulink_78248c09-1691-5bec-a3f2-2772803eddf8)
There are obviously loads of things that will might go wrong if I take a fake date called Jake to my best friend’s wedding.

1 1. I might hate Jake.
2 2. Jake might hate me.
3 3. Somebody might know him.
4 4. I could become a laughing stock.
5 5. Everybody will despise me when they realise I’ve tried to dupe them.
There are of course positives in any situation.

1 1. Everybody will admire how well I have moved on (if they don’t guess it’s a sham), and how little I care about Liam and his huge girlfriend.
2 2. His mother might regret being nasty and be insanely jealous when she sees me with another man, and realise that I can no longer be her daughter-in-law.
The fizz has worn off a bit by the time I get home, and the frizz has set in. There is no hair product known to man that will totally stop my hair going all frizzy when it’s damp outside.
I feel a bit daft, and all flat and deflated. I got totally carried away with Tim and his plan. I know he loves me and means well, but it’s a mad idea. Who in their right mind would take a total stranger to a wedding? This is practically a family wedding. Everybody knows me, everybody will realise that I would never meet a young, posh George Clooney lookalike.
I decide I need to forget all about Jake, and take my new hairdo out for a glass of wine while it still has a tiny trace of swish factor left.
‘What’s up?’ This seems to be Sarah’s opening line at the moment. I am obviously not hiding my concerns as well as I think I am.
‘I can’t decide whether to have another Aperol spritz, or have one of those espresso martinis.’ I’m eying up the one on the next table as I suck up the last drop of Aperol through a straw.
‘Well hurry up and decide before that sexy barman does a runner on me.’
‘Which sexy barman?’ I’ve been coming in this wine bar on a regular basis for the past year with Sarah, and I’ve never seen anybody I’d rate as even mildly sexy. Some of them think they are, but they need a reality check if you ask me. I mean, being able to toss a cocktail shaker in the air doesn’t make you anything more than a tosser, does it?
‘There is definitely something up with you if you’ve not noticed. Look, there.’
I glance over the top of my glass, trying not to be too obvious. ‘The one that looks about eighteen?’
Sarah nods. ‘Soo cute.’
Okay, maybe he is quite cute. In an eighteen-year-old way. ‘You can’t!’
‘Watch me.’ She winks. ‘Some men like a mature woman, I could teach him a trick or two.’
‘I bet you could.’
‘But I was looking for you, not me. You could take him to the wedding, it would be way cheaper than going to some agency. I Googled and it’s scary how much these people charge, and that’s just the normal places, not the type of guys that mag article was on about. I mean you can’t even get a quote from some of those places without producing your birth certificate, statement from your bank manager and proof you’ve got a million followers on Twitter.’
‘Really?’ It’s starting to look like if I’m going to do this, then it’s Jake or nobody.
‘And you have to swear on your dog’s life that you won’t tell anybody.’ Sarah has obviously spent some time researching this.
‘I haven’t got a dog.’ I haven’t even got a hamster.
‘See, I knew it was impossible. I mean you’re not going to get a dog just so you can hire a guy, are you?’
‘And you already know, so it wouldn’t be a secret either.’
‘Exactly.’ Sarah has what I can only describe as a look of mischief on her face. ‘So taking the cute bartender is an ace idea – they’d all be drooling, you’d be the centre of attention.’
Okay, feeling good about myself is what I’m after, attention is not. I’ve told Sarah about the wedding invite, and the ‘huge’ complications. I have not told her it’s got worse. I’ve not told her about my mother, or Scotland.
‘I don’t want to be the centre of attention.’ I am hoping to sneak in under the radar and hardly be noticed. I don’t want drooling any more than I want pity.
‘I’ll get you a surprise.’ Sarah is on her feet. ‘And his number.’ She’s off to the bar before I can stop her, and comes back surprisingly quickly which I think means wonder boy isn’t available to be whisked off for some private tuition.
The drinks are green. I’m never quite sure that anything I eat or drink should be green. Apart from M&Ms.
‘Appletini. Callum reckons they’re the in thing.’ Oh, so he didn’t blow her out of the water completely. ‘Vodka and apple schnapps.’ She takes a sip and sucks air in through her teeth. ‘Yikes.’
‘So you had time to discuss ingredients?’
‘And what time he finishes!’ She grins like a cougar that’s got the kitten and smacks her lips. ‘That has got a bit more kick than a V&T.’ She sits back and watches as I toy with the slice of apple, then leans forward. ‘You don’t have to go, Sam.’
We both know what she’s talking about. Sarah saw me through the break up, she fed me pizza, and supplied tissues and wine. And she listened. A lot. Sarah deserves a sainthood.
‘I do, Jess is my friend. And I’m supposed to be maid of honour.’
‘She’ll understand.’
‘Would you?’
‘Suppose not. In fact I’d think you were a bit of a selfish cow putting your broken heart above what’s supposed to be the happiest day of my life.’
‘Exactly.’ I know she’s said it tongue in cheek, but every word is true. ‘And I told her I was over Liam and had a hot new man.’
‘True.’
I take a big gulp of my drink, and my eyes water. ‘Wow.’ It comes out all spluttery and weak, I think my vocal chords have been damaged. ‘That has got a kick.’ It’s got a knock-you-over, brandy kind of kick. Maybe I should take Callum and just let him wreak cocktail havoc, nobody will remember a thing.
Sarah puts her hand over mine. ‘Sam you’re gorgeous, loads of men would kill for a date.’ We both know that’s the green cocktails talking.
‘Sarah, it’s got worse.’ I swig the rest of my lethal cocktail. ‘I haven’t just told Jess I’ve got a new man, I’ve told Mum as well.’
‘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 whole 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 (#ulink_9406cfcf-ed37-5c99-9f5d-90458d6a5f31)

Chapter 6 (#ulink_db58d991-93ce-5489-b82d-36789d99ccee)
Reasons this could possibly work:

1 1. He has not got a combover (so infinitely better than Desmond).
2 2. He has a pert bum (and the rest of him is more than a little okay).
3 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 looking 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.’
Exactly. What normal woman would think of doing this? But thinking I’m not normal is one thing, thinking I’m some kind of sex-starved not-normal is another.
‘He’s probably very big-headed, and shallow.’ I don’t think my face is glowing quite as much now, it’s calmed down to a simmer. My red blotchy chest is another matter though. Why didn’t I wear a high necked top? Embarrassment, lust and heat always make my chest blotchy. Not that this is about lust. Now he’ll think I’ve got some strange disease, as well as being sex-starved. He’ll turn me down even if (and it is an ‘if’) I do offer him the equivalent of a down payment on a bachelor pad.
How excruciating would that be to admit to? Even worse than admitting I didn’t have a new fabulous boyfriend and having to spend a week in Scotland trying to ignore pitying looks. ‘We won’t have anything in common.’ Oh gawd, now he has a little girl on his knee, and she’s giggling and looking at him adoringly as he balances a breadstick on his upper lip and I don’t mind him hugging her at all. He’s not at all self-conscious or flirty. I admit it, I wouldn’t mind at all being seen with him. Spending a whole week with him. But will he feel the same about me?
‘Methinks you doth protest too much.’ Sarah is watching me now, not him. ‘You fancy him don’t you? Go on, admit it!’
He laughs, a full-throated kind of laugh that makes me feel tingly, and I forget to take a drink from the glass I’m holding up to my mouth.
She’s right. I do fancy him. Who wouldn’t? I fancy him even more as he leans down and picks up the napkin that his mother has dropped, then leans in to replace it and whisper in her ear. He really would be the perfect date, the type of man who would have my mother in raptures and my father’s nod of approval. Even if it is all just pretend.
Sarah is still staring. Openly. ‘And anyway just think of loser Liam and up the duff Delia or whatever she’s called; he will totally buy into you two as a couple, you’ll look great together.’
To be honest, I’ve stopped caring about Liam. I can’t take my eyes off Jake. If anybody could prove to me what a total waste of my life Liam was, he’s sitting right across the room.
I grab my mobile phone.
‘What are you up to now?’ Sarah whips away my last bit of chocolate brownie before I get a chance to object. To be honest, I’ve hardly noticed the food, I’d be hard put to say what I’ve eaten.
‘Texting Amy. I want to do this, I need to do this. Taking Jake to the wedding is a brilliant idea!’
Sarah grins, then raises her glass. ‘I couldn’t agree more!’
I get a return message from Amy just after I’ve got home. Jake is up for it. He’s suggested we meet on neutral ground so we can discuss details. The address is a bit weird though. Waggytails Wescue, sorry Rescue, Centre.
Jake is a volunteer dog walker, and he’s suggested that I either join him or meet him after his shift. Rather rashly I have agreed to be a dog walker as well, and Sarah has insisted on joining me for moral support, because she loves dogs, and because she’s nosey. She has also promised not to spy on us when I’m chatting to Jake – this is weird enough without having an audience. I think her main reason for coming is to make sure I actually go through with it because she thinks this is such an ace idea. Personally, after seeing Jake in the flesh I tend to agree, but it’s still a bit awkward, isn’t it, hiring a date? It has to rate as the most embarrassing thing I have ever done.
***
‘Amy said Jake will meet us here.’ I’ve still not corresponded directly with Jake, so I hope Amy isn’t having me on. How disappointing will it be if I don’t get to look into those lovely eyes of his close up? And of course, I have to remember the important bit, I will be back to square one as far as the wedding plans go. ‘She said to go to reception and give our names, they’ll hand over the dogs and then we’ll meet him on the walk.’
Simple. What could be more perfect than a nice stroll in the fresh air, with some happy dogs and a gorgeous man?
So why do I feel all wobbly inside, and have fingers that are incapable of doing the simple things like my shoelaces? It took me an hour to get dressed this morning! I only had minor butterflies in my stomach at that point, but they have started to flap harder as the day has progressed. Now they are a tsunami of insects.
I don’t know whether it’s anticipation, excitement or just fear. I imagine this is how I’d feel if I was about to bungee jump off a big cliff. I want to jump, I need to jump, but the sensible bit of me is saying it might be a little bit dangerous.
Anyway, I started off with jeans, Converses, T-shirt and hoodie, then tried every combination of vaguely sensible (and some not so sensible) dog-walking outfits, and ended up back where I started.
I am also knackered after a bit of a jittery night. I had this dream (and I hardly ever remember my dreams) where I was denounced during the wedding speeches for being a fake and a liar. Jess was in tears, Liam had this massive head which he literally laughed off, and Johnny Depp made me walk the plank. I was grabbed by the Loch Ness monster, but then rescued by Jake who gave me the kiss of life, then slung me onto the back of his horse.
All of this has to be a good omen. He rescued me. And Liam’s head fell off. I’m therefore feeling extremely positive this morning, and know that this will definitely work.
If Jake passes the basic criteria of good manners (for the parents), good looks (I think that box is well and truly ticked) and the ability to deceive (normally the complete opposite of what you look for in a man, but this isn’t normal) then I will sit down and discuss terms with him in a very business-like manner over a cup of coffee.
The dogs’ home apparently routinely turns down unsuitable adopters, despite them offering money and good homes, and I do not intend to suffer the same fate. Not that I’m offering him a home, just food and board for a week. And not that I’m calling him a dog.
The girl on the desk, who is wearing a badge that says ‘Em’, looks at us with slight suspicion. ‘What did you say your name was again? You definitely rang?’ Anybody would think they had a kennel full of Cruft’s champions that we wanted to steal. ‘You’ll have to fill a form in. Here.’ Her hand is halfway to the form when it stops, suspended in mid-air, and she is suddenly transformed into Mrs Smiley-face.
‘Hey, there.’ It’s a deep, very masculine voice, with the hint of a drawl that makes you want to turn around and look. And from Em’s swoony face, I’d say it might be worth doing just that. Any minute now she’ll be rolling over to have her tummy tickled.
A tanned, muscled forearm lands on the desk, next to my own much smaller one, so I look. I mean, I might as well, I’m not going to get any sense out of reception girl.
He winks at me. It is him, definitely him, and somebody has turned the heating up in here.
I resist the urge to flap my T-shirt to let some air in, and stare.
‘Everything okay?’ He glances from me to Em, and she edges closer. I no longer exist in her world.
‘Epic.’ Em is much cooler than I am, in all senses; her blush is a light smattering of pink along her cheekbones, I think I’ve gone beetroot-coloured all over. ‘Are you taking the girls out next, Jake?’
Gawd. She knows. How can she know?
‘I certainly am.’ He smiles, a lovely warm smile that looks totally genuine. ‘But I just wanted to check Sam and Sarah had arrived before I go and put their leads on.’ Phew, so the girls are dogs. ‘Okay if I meet you at the start of the Woodland Walk, Sam? I’ve got to make a quick phone call but I know Em here will take good care of you.’
All I can do is nod.
‘See you shortly then.’ He raises a hand, and smiles again, and the dimples at the corner of his mouth deepen.
I could stare at him all day, if he hadn’t just headed off. O-M-G I could end up taking this man to the wedding! It is really happening. He is even more gorgeous close-up in the flesh, and he hugs puppies. He couldn’t be more perfect if I’d handpicked him out of an escort catalogue (if they have such a thing).
Sarah is nudging me, and I realise that Em is talking. She has reverted to grumpy teenager mode.
‘I didn’t realise you were with Jake. Why didn’t you say?’ She is sounding slightly miffed. ‘Jake and his sister Amy help us out lots.’ She emphasises the last word, and shoots me a ‘hands off’ look. I feel a totally irrational twinge of possessiveness, then tell myself that she’s far too young for him. ‘He’s wonderful.’ Her voice loses its edge, then the phone rings and breaks her out of her daydream. ‘Come on then, I’ll take you through and we’ll find some dogs that need walking. You are used to dogs?’
We both nod. Honestly, how difficult can walking a dog be?
‘Oh yes.’ I wave an arm flamboyantly to make my case more clearly. ‘We’ve always had dogs.’ She doesn’t look overly impressed, though teenagers don’t often, do they?
‘Retrievers, collies, rescues … difficult dogs.’ I’m getting carried away. We had a very old Labrador at home that used to steal sausages off my plate and lie on my feet snoring and farting. The most difficult thing about him was his inability to resist food of any kind. And we had the mad springer spaniel. By the time he was six months old my parents had made a strategic decision to ‘manage’ rather than ‘control’ his behaviour. Which meant he did what he liked most of the time and this caused less stress all round.
‘We had a sausage dog when I was young,’ Sarah sighed. ‘She was so cute.’ She shrugs her shoulders in a ‘want to squeeze cute dogs’ kind of way. ‘I used to dress her up, and take her to bed with me.’
‘Awesome. I’ll give you Tilly then.’ Em grins, warming to this new cuddly side of Sarah that I didn’t know existed. Dogs do that to people. ‘She really misses her cuddles, you’ll love her. She is just so sweet and sensitive.’
She says something else, but her last few words are lost as we round a corner to where the kennel blocks are, and are met with a wall of barking. I never knew dogs could make such a racket. Terriers are leaping up and down as though they’re on springs, a collie is quaking in its boots, and a brindle Staffordshire bull terrier eyes me up silently as though he has seen it all before.
Em doesn’t seem to notice the chaos. She carries on talking, and we nod in the gaps when her mouth stops moving. I haven’t got a clue what she’s saying, but it can’t be that bad.
It turns out it is that bad.
She was asking if I thought I’d be okay with Tank, seeing as I was experienced and he could be tricky.
I must have nodded.
Tank sat down as she put his lead on, cocked his head to one side and stared as though to say, ‘I’ve got the measure of you’.
‘Go across that field, just follow the signs, the woodland walk is that way. Do a couple of laps, half an hour will probably be enough, but I suppose Jake will tell you. See you later, have fun.’ And she’s gone before we have time to say anything, not that I could have said anything as Tank is off, intent on yanking my shoulders out of their sockets. Half an hour of this? You’ve got to be kidding me, I already feel like one of those rubber stretchy men that kids throw at windows.
It’s also raining, that drizzly stuff that makes you feel a wimp if you put your hood up, but leaves you soaked if you don’t. My hair has started to curl, my fingers are numb and I’ve got a nagging twitch at my temples which normally heralds a headache. And we’ve not started the walk yet. But there is a bright light on the horizon. Jake.
‘Do I look like a drowned rat?’ Will he change his mind, when he sees me like this?
‘A bit.’ Sarah laughs. ‘Chill, he liked you, I could tell. He’ll do it.’
There is a big problem with walks in rescue centres, even when you’re doing the corner of the field bit and not the under trees bit, and that is everybody walks along the same path. Which means it is muddy, unless you’re in the middle of a dry summer. Which we are not.
Now I like dogs, I love dogs, but this is no normal dog. Sarah has a cute, nervous whippet which is side-stepping the boggy bits daintily, while me and the Tank-mobile wade straight through like a Sherman tank, scattering well-meaning dog-lovers as we go, saying sorry a lot. Me, not Tank. Tank doesn’t care. He is having the best time ever. Tank is a donkey crossed with a hippo, a hippo who has discovered freedom and a mud bath. He has been along this path before, he knows the way to the woodland walk, and nothing is going to stop him.
‘Look!’ Sarah has stopped dead in her tracks. Well, not dead. She’s bouncing on the spot.
I look, it’s hard not to though it does involve taking my attention off the Tank for a moment.
Mistake. Up until now I’ve been slipping and sliding a bit, in fact I probably look a bit like a first-time water skier, but now Tank leaps forwards, and I’m yanked off my feet. For a split second I’m airborne, then I’m eating mud.
‘Noooo…’ Tank is away, dragging me along in his wake.
‘There he is! It’s Jake.’
And we are heading straight for him. Jake is standing by one of the signs that marks the woodland walk, and he’s not looking at all like a drowned rat, or wimpy. He glances up, and sees us. How can he not, when Sarah is about as subtle as a panther in the snow, and I’m hurtling towards him like a bobsleigher, determined not to let go of the leash?
Even at this distance and with the mud that’s being kicked up in my face, I can see he’s got three dogs of assorted sizes at his side (all beautifully behaved), and half the staff are milling round him, though he absolutely doesn’t need any kind of help at all. Unlike me.
Tank barks a welcome, speeding up, and I’m pretty sure Jake’s jaw has dropped as we hurtle towards him. I’m not sure if he’s amazed the dog can pull me, or worried he’s going to get trampled.
‘Oh shit.’ He throws the leads at one of the bystanders. ‘Hang on.’ I am hanging on, that’s the problem. But I can’t catch my breath to say it. I close my eyes, this is going to end badly, I just know it is.
It hasn’t. We’ve stopped.
‘Settle down, settle down, good boy.’
I open my eyes. He has got Tank by the collar, and he’s crouched down, peering at me with a worried frown on his face.
‘Are you okay?’ My God, he’s strong. He’s stopped the unstoppable. He’s holding the dog with one hand, and now he’s managing to pull me to my feet with the other. ‘Sam?’
‘Sam, Sam.’ Sarah has caught up with us, and I can see she’s not quite sure how I’ll take it if she collapses in hysterics. ‘Wow, I’ve never seen anybody do that in real life before.’
‘Tank has.’ My rescuer shakes his head and very gently tucks a bedraggled strand of my hair behind my ear, his warm fingertips brushing my skin, which makes me shiver. ‘All in one piece?’
I swallow hard, and blink. I’m not quite sure if it’s his touch or that smooth, concerned voice that’s responsible for the weird sensation. I think even my scalp has got goose bumps.
‘No harm done.’ It comes out a bit shaky, with a very nervous laugh at the end that I didn’t intend at all.
Sarah looks like a cat watching a ping-pong game, her gaze switching rapidly from Jake to me, and back again. ‘I’ll er, leave you to it, shall I? Catch you later?’ At least I think that’s what she says, but I can’t really concentrate.
He’s staring at me. ‘I think you need to sit down, you’re in shock.’
‘I, er, do feel a bit wobbly.’
‘I’m sorry, I should have met you at the kennels, but I never thought they’d give you Tank. I’ll have words.’
‘Oh no, no, don’t have words.’ Jake being all masterful is sending goose bumps down my arms (they seem to be getting everywhere), and it would be quite nice to see somebody wading in to support me. But not very fair on the staff. ‘It was my fault, I said I’d be fine, I am, er, used to dogs.’
‘Are you sure? You could have been hurt.’ He’s looking at me like he seriously cares, and my legs are going a bit wobbly.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You sound breathless.’
That is probably down to my close proximity to him, not my adventures with Tank. He even smells good.
My dream was sending out the right signals, he’s already saved me, and we’re nowhere near Scotland yet.
His eyes really are as amazing close up as they were in the photos and from the other side of the restaurant. He’s got this steady gaze that makes me feel like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Which could be dangerous.
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Eek, his thumb is on my cheek. ‘Mud.’ His smile is so familiar, I feel like I’ve known him for ages. ‘There, that’s better.’ My face might now be clean, but there is no hope for the rest of me.
‘We’ll walk round slowly, shall we? Then grab a coffee? I’ll take Tank, I’m used to him. Here, you hold little Angel, and somebody else can take the other two dogs.’
Angel who is about six inches tall, and looks like a waft of breeze would carry her away, looks up at me trustingly. I like Angel. I also like Jake.
‘You did a great job of hanging on to him, most people would have let go.’
I rather wish I’d been most people, but Jake thinks I’ve done a great job, which makes me feel warm inside.
Miraculously though, just like that, Tank seems to have lost his head of steam. Maybe Jake is also a dog whisperer, as well as an actor.
Even at a slow-for-Tank walk, we lap most of the other volunteers who are sauntering along as though they’re on a Sunday morning stroll – which helps to dry me out. At least I’m going too fast to feel embarrassed. I really wish I’d gone for a date that involved wine, not fresh air and four-legged furries in need of a good home. I need to lie down.
‘So…’ Jake is studying me out of the corner of his eye, which is a bit unnerving and distracts me from the need to lie down. ‘You’ve not been here before?’
‘No, does it show?’ We both laugh, at exactly the same time.
‘I don’t know what got into Em, giving you this thug.’
I have got a feeling I know what got into Em. ‘It’s not a problem, honest. I’m fine.’ And I now know that he is more than capable of rescuing me from Loch Ness monsters, or any other attacks. His protective streak is a definite mark in his favour, not that I’ve found any reason not to beg him to come to Scotland with me.
‘He’s a nice dog really.’
‘Just big.’
‘Just big.’ We walk along in companionable silence for a bit, and it doesn’t feel awkward at all. ‘Amy tells me you work at the travel agent’s in town?’
‘I do, so if you ever need a discount…’
‘I might take you up on that sometime, must be handy.’
‘And you’re an actor?’
‘I am, you might have caught my finest TV moment.’ I glance at him. If this is a test, I’ve failed; I haven’t caught any of his TV moments.
‘Erm.’
He’s grinning, the faintest of lines fanning out from those mesmerising eyes. ‘You don’t mean you missed it? Tut. Watch Holby City?’
‘Well, yes.’ I’m wracking my brain, trying to picture him with a stethoscope and failing. Well, I can picture him with a stethoscope, but I certainly can’t picture him in an episode of Holby. Maybe I missed one.
‘I was in the third bed along, second episode this season.’
‘Ah.’
‘Arm in a sling.’ He laughs, and Tank jumps up and licks his cheek.
‘So is that what you want to do? TV?’
‘Jake!’ A girl yells his name and I realise with a jolt that we’re back near the kennels. Which is a shame. I’d quite like to know what he wants to do.
‘I’ll take the dogs if you like, and you can clean up?’ He’s grinning as he speaks, which he seems to do quite a lot, and I look down at my clothes. I’d almost forgotten about the mud. Almost. ‘I’ll catch you in the café, and we can chat more?’
‘Great, I’d like to.’
‘And you can tell me more about your indecent proposal.’ The way he says it makes me blush, and the wink leaves me dithering between objecting and wishing it actually was supposed to be indecent.
He whisks Angel up into his arms and has gone before my mushy brain can think up a suitably snappy reply.

Chapter 7 (#ulink_131790b1-5365-5124-b0a0-dc028f55d418)
When I get back to reception it is to find a new teenager-cum-twenty-something, who is just like Em. She is trying her hardest not to smirk, and makes no comment whatsoever about the wide strip of mud that covers the front of me from head to toe. She does tell me where the bathroom is though, and where to find Sarah.
‘I hope nobody filmed that,’ I whisper to Sarah, suddenly having visions of it being on their Facebook page. ‘It could be all over the internet.’
‘I doubt it, I mean it was funny but it isn’t going to help with rehoming him, is it?’ She grins. ‘I might have tweeted a picture though.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Naw, don’t worry, I was too busy laughing, couldn’t hold my phone steady. Well?’
‘Well what?’ I studiously avoid her gaze in the mirror and concentrate on washing myself down.
‘Well, what did you talk about? Is he nice? Will he do it?’ She pauses, and leans in closer. ‘Do you fancy him?’
I don’t know which bits to ignore, and which to answer. I decide to offer highlights. ‘His name is Jake Porter, not Taylor-Smith, because Amy is his half-sister, they’ve got the same mum. Her dad was a writer and he ran off with his agent, and it was a massive scandal. Jake doesn’t know his dad as his mum had a fling, but now she’s met somebody that everybody likes and they’ve got this enormous family.’
‘Wow, you two must have hit it off, you got up close and personal.’
I frown at my own reflection. When I say it, it sounds like we did, but I almost feel like Jake was brushing over things. It’s a weird feeling. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m sure I’ve got the edited version, as though he’s used to saying it to deflect questions later. ‘Not really, maybe it’s on his CV, you know, ready prepared for the press.’
‘And do you fancy him?’
‘Sarah! It isn’t like that, I’m paying him,’ I drop my voice, suddenly worried we might be overheard. I mean, it’s not the type of thing you broadcast, is it?
‘That means you do. You do fancy him! I don’t blame you, I fancy him and Em definitely fancies him, and it’s good you fancy him. It’ll make it dead easy, you won’t have to pretend.’
I sigh. If I object, she’ll go on even more. And I do fancy him a tiny bit. He’s very fanciable.
‘So will he do it?’
‘We’re going to have a coffee and chat.’ I can’t help myself, I look at her and grin. ‘I think so though!’
‘Yay!’ She gives me a hug, ignoring all my muddy bits. ‘Oh God this is brilliant, I’m so excited for you, I wish I could come to the wedding!’
‘He hasn’t said yes yet.’
‘He will do, I know he will. Come on, come on, don’t keep him waiting.’ I look down at my jeans. We’ve scraped the worst of it off, and there’s not much I can do apart from get changed. ‘I’d better get off as well.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m off to play with puppies! They’ve got a secret kennel area for all the babies, like a giant nursery and they’ve said I can go and see. I’ll come over and find you later, shall I?’
‘Do I look passable?’
‘Best of a bad job.’ She starts laughing again. ‘Oh God, you should have seen yourself zooming across that field.’ Sarah is practically crying, which is very mean, then gives me the thumbs up. ‘Good luck!’ Which is nice, and I know she means it.
I would quite like to play with puppies too, but I have a job to do. A different kind of play date. The indecent proposal type.
‘Feeling better?’ Jake, I’ve decided, is quite posh. He’s sat at a table in the small café which is attached to the reception area and although he looks at home, there is something about him that says he’s not short of a bob or two. Though at the moment he probably is, as playing a patient in the third bed along can’t pay that well, can it?
But there is nothing the slightest bit hoity-toity about him. He has the type of voice you can listen to without wanting to yawn, or walk away. Now I think about it, Liam has a bit of a whiney edge to his.
He will fit into a country estate perfectly. I can imagine his sister Amy, who is definitely posh, in long boots and cream breeches standing in front of a castle with a couple of Labradors or spaniels at her feet quite easily. Jake is probably more the quadbike type, although I can picture him wading across a lake, his white shirt moulded to his muscled chest, his hair slicked back…
‘Sammy?’
He’s waiting for a response, his tawny-brown eyes slightly puzzled.
Nobody calls me Sammy apart from Tim, I think it makes me sound a bit like a dog, or a hamster. This is probably a good time to act a little bit sophisticated myself.
‘It’s Samantha, or Sam.’
‘Not Sammy?’
‘Definitely not Sammy.’
‘Shame, I quite like Sammy.’ The corner of his mouth twitches. ‘Cuddly.’
See? Cuddly does not say Ferrari and Monte Carlo, cuddly is what pyjamas and puppies are. And hamsters. ‘It rhymes with hammy.’ I puff my cheeks out. Sammy the hammy.
‘Ahh, I get where you’re coming from. Amy used to call me snakey Jakey.’
‘Oh. And are you?’
‘What?’
‘Snakey?’
‘Well, I don’t eat live mice, if that’s what you mean.’
‘But are you sneaky?’
‘Only in the way brothers are to bratty sisters. She also called me fakey Jakey when we were kids, and Jake the rake, and on-the-make Jake.’
‘Ahh.’
‘She loves me really. So is it Samantha or Sam?’
‘Sam to friends.’
‘Friends?’ He grins and a cute little dimple appears in the middle of his chin. Very cute. Gawd, I am pretty sure I shouldn’t be considering my potential employee in that way. ‘From what Amy told me, I gather you’re suggesting we get to be a bit more than that.’
I know now that this could work. Jake doesn’t look at all like a young George Clooney, which was one of my concerns as me meeting a Clooney lookalike would not be credible at all. He has got the same crinkly bits round his eyes, which suggest he smiles a lot, and that confident air, but there the similarity ends. He looks cheekier. Unsettling.
Which could be a problem, because even though he’s incredibly dishy, this isn’t really an indecent proposal, and I really don’t want him to think I’m that kind of girl.
‘No!’ Oh my God, what has Amy said to get him here? ‘Oh no, no, just like friends, but…’ Does he think I want a f-buddy (I can’t say the word, not even in my head, while he’s looking at me like that). ‘I’m not sure…’ This isn’t going quite how I expected, it was easier chatting to him on the dog walk, about his family, dogs, things like that. But now we are sat down here, and I need to explain, it all seems a bit trickier.
He seems a bit … well, a bit (lot) unmanageable. Like Tank. Jumping up at everybody. Ignoring the rules. Who knows what chaos he could cause in the wilds of Scotland?
‘Of course you’re not sure.’ He’s gone all serious and sensible for a moment, and my little niggle melts, along with something else as he puts his hand over mine. ‘Are you okay?’
I don’t want to grab my hand back, because he’s got the warmest of warm hands, but it seems like a good idea. I’d rehearsed this, but in real life it isn’t quite as easy. And the fact that I want to wriggle in my seat isn’t all down to his capable looking hands.
‘A bit soggy.’ Major understatement. Everything down to my knickers is damp – and not in a good way. If there is such a thing in polite society. It’s obviously the cold, sogginess and aching arms that have made me feel a bit pathetic and quivery.
I also know I look a complete disaster, I wouldn’t go out with me if you paid me. ‘I’m fine, that’s dog-walking for you, haha.’ He looks immaculate. Not a hair out of my place.
‘Wait here. You need warming up.’ He winks, and I’m right back in that Italian restaurant, warming up rapidly. ‘A coffee might help, or I hear they do a good hot chocolate here?’
How did he know that whipped cream, chocolate and marshmallows are exactly what I need right now?
Apparently he knows what every woman needs. He’s bounced up to the counter, and the girl serving him has gone all giggly as she whisks the cream, and the woman behind him in the queue is staring at him adoringly as he passes her a slice of cake she can’t quite reach (talk about obvious moves, honestly, whoever heard of anybody not being able to stretch that extra inch or three for a chocolate brownie?), and a loose dog runs up to him like he’s the last man on earth. Which is when it hits me. I need rules. If this is to work, if I’m going to be able to keep him (and myself) under control, I need rules. Boundaries.
This is where I have gone wrong in the past. I need fake-date rules. Like you would if you got a puppy – not that I’m saying he’s a puppy. No jumping on the sofa, no bad manners, no leaping over the fence and humping the neighbour’s dog…
Okay, so sometimes rules get broken now and then, but a broken rule is better than not having one in the first place.
‘There you go.’ He’s back, complete with hot drinks and a slice of chocolate brownie. If I wasn’t supposed to be interviewing him, I’d kiss him. ‘So, Amy says you’ve got a problem?’
I like the sound of that. Describing this as a problem, rather than an indecent proposal, makes it sound much more acceptable. I have a problem, and problems should be viewed as opportunities. And I now have the opportunity to date an extremely dishy man.
I can’t answer straight away though as I’m up to my nose in hot chocolate, thinking about rules. And of course getting a chocolate hit.
But when he leans forward and brushes the cream off my top lip with his slightly salty thumb (sorry, my tongue kind of brushed against it) it’s a bit distracting. Like a puppy giving you kisses when you’ve told him to sit.
I mustn’t think about kisses. Or tongues. This is a business deal. Nice eyes and arse or not. Although I do now know without a doubt that this is a face I could stand to gaze at for a week. ‘Er, bit of an awkward situation really, rather than a problem.’
He sits back, his head slightly tilted to one side. ‘She said you didn’t want to go to your mate’s wedding on your own.’ I nod. ‘But why do you need a fake date?’ He sounds more interested than judgemental, and I suppose it is fair enough, him wanting to know.
‘Well…’ I concentrate on my marshmallows but can’t help noticing (when I peep up) that his steady gaze never leaves me. ‘I told Jess, that’s my best friend, the one that is getting married, that I’ve got a boyfriend and I haven’t.’
‘I’m surprised about that.’ His voice has softened, and when I look up, the corner of his mouth lifts. ‘The “haven’t” bit.’ The gentle tone makes me blink, which is horrible, I’m not supposed to be feeling sorry for myself. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m totally fine.
‘Well I did have, until five months ago. He dumped me, for another woman.’
‘Ahh.’
‘A woman who I’ve just found out is pregnant. She’s huge apparently, hugely, hugely pregnant.’
‘To be honest, does it matter if she’s hugely pregnant, or just a little bit? If she’s pregnant, she’s pregnant.’
‘Well yes it does, actually, because it means he, he…’ I pause and take a deep breath, because this is the really horrible bit. ‘Well, she’s huge, as in more than five months pregnant. So that means he was poking her when he was still with me.’
‘What a total shit.’ I look up at him properly then, because there’s a harsh edge to his voice that I haven’t heard before. He looks genuinely angry, and his soft tawny eyes have gone hard. Wolf eyes.
‘And…’ I waver. ‘He’s going to be there, at the wedding.’
‘You have got to be kidding?’ It’s not just his eyes, his whole body has stiffened. ‘What kind of best friend is this Jess? Inviting your ex to her bloody wedding. That is totally out of order.’ He leans forward, and gives my hand a gentle squeeze, and some of the tension seems to ebb out of him. It feels nice, reassuring. Supportive.
‘It’s not Jess’s fault.’ I can’t help but sigh, as I stir rather too vigorously and marshmallows pop up and down like corks on a rough sea. ‘My ex happens to be the groom’s brother.’
‘Oh, tricky then.’
‘And the best man.’
‘Ah. That’s a tough call.’ His thumb is rubbing the base of mine, almost absentmindedly. It’s mesmerising and almost makes me forget the story and just ask him out for a real date. But then he stops.
‘I also told my mum I had a boyfriend, so that she wouldn’t insist I took Desmond.’
‘Desmond?’
‘He’s nobody. But Mum and Dad and all my mates will be there, and Liam of course.’ He looks blank. ‘My ex, with his girlfriend.’ I shrug and try and make out this isn’t the most important thing in my life at this precise moment. ‘Anyway, that’s why I want a date.’ I stop all my messing about with my hot chocolate and look at him. ‘I need a date. I don’t want them all feeling sorry for me, and whispering in corners. I’m so over him, and I need to show them I am.’
‘You could just not go?’
‘No!’ I think I shout it a bit too vehemently, because he freezes. ‘She’s my best mate. I can’t let her down just because of some stupid man.’
He nods.
‘I have to be there for her, she’d do it for me, and besides, I love her to bits. So I am going, whether you say yes or not.’ I stare him in the eye, so there is no doubt. ‘But, I would like to show them how totally over the heap of…’
‘Shit?’
‘Shit, thank you, I am. So, are you up for it?’ Please say yes, please say yes. I’m holding my breath; he might say no now he knows just what he’s letting himself in for.
‘Well…’ There’s a long pause, but he’s gazing into my eyes still, so at least he’s man enough to say no to my face. But then I realise I’ve missed out a crucial bit. If I don’t say this now, and he does say yes, then he might change it to no later.
‘Oh, and it’s in Scotland, a whole week.’
‘A whole week of mischief?’ His eyes are all twinkly and naughty again, which is very disturbing and makes me feel a bit giddy. ‘Well, just so you know, I did say no when Amy first asked.’
I lose my giddiness. ‘But she told me you—’
He holds his spare hand up to stop me. ‘I actually laughed and told her she was crazy.’
‘Oh.’ I am deflated. He’s right, it is crazy.
‘I dunno, it seemed a bit odd, I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘Believe me, nor have I.’ I’m not sure if he believes me or not, he’s giving me a strange look. ‘Honestly.’ I’m very worried about what Amy might have said. It might have been along the lines of ‘sex-starved and desperate woman I met while I was having a cut and blow.’
‘I believe you. Honestly. Er, you’re gripping my hand a bit, I think my fingers are going blue.’
Sugar, I’ve been hanging on to his hand for dear life. Willing him to say yes. Which is why he’s looking at me strangely. Not because Amy has told him I’m sex-starved. Or maybe that as well.
‘Sorry.’ I let go. ‘But you did, er, agree to meet me.’
‘I did.’
‘You’ve changed your mind?’ If he says he thinks I’m out of my mind now that he’s heard the full story, then my whole plan is scuppered and I’ll be going to the wedding alone. Or with combover Desmond. I have a sudden desire to grab his hand again and plead. But I don’t. I grab a piece of the brownie and stuff it in my mouth to stop the words from forcing their way out.
‘Okay, I want to be upfront with you here, which I guess is best seeing as this is just business?’
The ‘just business’ bit jars a bit, I was hoping he found me a teeny bit attractive and wouldn’t keep reminding me that he is only here for the money. I notice he’s totally reclaimed his hand, and it is now wrapped round his mug of coffee. You see, this is the problem with dating an actor, isn’t it? You don’t know which bits are real and which bits are, well, acting. He might not have been genuinely angry about Liam, he might just have been practising his art.
The truth? He is only here for the money, and I am only here, walking the dog and swallowing too many calories (I have a maid of honour dress to fit into, and sewing in a strip down the side would be so uncool), because I am desperate.
But we still don’t need to spell things out and be too honest, do we? I mean, I’m not going to be completely honest and start saying that although he’s gorgeous, his ego is probably bigger than my spare room. That he is no doubt shallow and big-headed and thinks every girl will fall at his feet, that we are totally unsuited in every single way. Am I?
‘I’m not sure we need total honesty.’ After all this whole thing is dishonest, and so is business. I sell holidays for a living, and let’s face it, there is a tiny bit of stretching of the truth now and again. What you see isn’t always what you get. Infinity pool and tin bath on the edge of a cliff aren’t the same in everybody’s eyes.
‘I think we do need the whole truth.’ He grins. ‘How many times do you get a relationship where you can be totally honest? No white lies.’
The man has a point. ‘O-kay.’ I can take this, I am strong.
‘Well, like I said, at first I told her to get lost.’
‘Oh.’
‘My sister can be bossy, and I don’t like being told what to do.’ His eyes glint.
Bugger. He’s going to hate ‘the rules’, if he ever gives me chance to come up with some.
‘But though I hate to admit it, she is right, it is the perfect distraction.’
‘The perfect distraction from what?’ I can’t help myself, I mean, any normal person would want to know, wouldn’t they?
‘Life.’ There’s a wry quirk to his mouth, and he moves on before I can push it. ‘And then of course, I saw you.’
‘Saw me?’ This was sounding better.
‘Stalking me.’
‘Ahh.’ Worse.
‘In the restaurant, and Amy seemed to know you, so I grilled her. I’m intrigued.’
Intrigued isn’t quite ‘knocked off my feet by your presence’, but it’s a start I suppose.
‘And you sealed the deal out there with Tank.’ His eyes are all lit up and shiny. Which could be his brilliant acting skills, a sip of too hot coffee, or just the fluorescent lights. ‘I couldn’t sleep with a girl who doesn’t love animals, dogs in particular. That’s why I thought this would be a great place to meet.’
‘Sleep?’ I’ve gone all croaky. I don’t love Tank, but we can skip that for now.
‘Sleep. I presume you don’t intend staying awake for a whole week so you can keep an eye on me?’
‘Well no, but…’
‘And we will be sharing a room?’
‘Well, yes, but … just sleep, as in sleep?’
‘As in sleep. Unless you’re offering?’ I don’t know whether he’s just teasing, or he’s the one that is sex-starved.
‘I most certainly am not!’ I definitely need rules. ‘Sleep, bed, asleep, fine.’
‘Fine.’ He grins. ‘You were great with Tank, I love a girl with guts.’
‘I don’t need loving.’ It’s killed me to say it, when he’s looking all cute and nice, but it’s a fact. He’s not a date. I will keep reminding myself of that, before things get complicated. That’s rule number one.
‘Everybody needs loving, Sammy.’
‘I need rules, and don’t call me Sammy or I’ll call you snakey Jakey in public.’ He’s grinning. That might not quite work over the wedding breakfast though. Unless it’s said in a lip-licking way, which is frankly not how I should be thinking.
‘I have er, rules…’ Best to get it over with now, if we’re going to be totally honest.
‘Rules?’
‘No, er, loving.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Or sex.’
‘Is this with you, or in general?’
‘Ever!’
His eyebrow goes higher.
‘Not ever, ever. Just while we’re at the wedding. You can’t go off and shag the other guests. If Liam hadn’t gone off waving his willy in the wind, then … don’t you dare laugh!’ I glare, and he holds a hand up in surrender.
‘No laughing going on here. Promise.’ He’s gone all serious again. ‘But I don’t think it’s waving it in the wind that was the problem.’
He has a point. But if the one-eyed trouser snake had stayed in the cheating bugger’s trousers, then I wouldn’t have to be here, doing this. Splitting up is one thing, splitting up because your boyfriend has put his other girlfriend up the duff is another. ‘No sex in general.’ I know I’m muttering, and stabbing marshmallows like I’d like to stab a certain person’s dangly bits. ‘You’re supposed to be my boyfriend. My adoring boyfriend.’
‘Smitten?’
‘Totally. Yes, that’s rule number two. How could you not be?’ I’m going to have to write these down before I forget them.
‘How could I not be?’ I can hear the smile in his voice, and when I look up from my hunt-the-marshmallow search, he’s grinning.
‘Exactly. Stop laughing at me.’
‘That’s honestly a rule? The smitten bit? You just added that one.’ He is grinning in a way that suggests he might not be very good at sticking to rules. ‘How about we forget rules? We just need to get to know each other a bit.’
I knew he wasn’t the type to stick to rules. ‘The no sex rule is non-negotiable.’ But if I don’t see this through, then I’ve had it. This is make or break. I’m running out of time.
‘Shame, but who says I want sex anyway?’
I decide to ignore that bit. It was him that mentioned the loving bit, I just embellished. I mean that’s how it goes, isn’t? Love, sex, marriage? ‘So, you will do it?’
‘Look, Sam.’ His smile looks a bit sad. ‘I’m not being flip here, but I really get how you feel. I know what it’s like to be betrayed, I know how shitty it is.’ He’s looking past my right ear, and there’s a hint of that harshness back in his voice but this time it’s tinged with something else. Hurt. His gaze drifts back to my face, and he looks straight into my soul. ‘What you’re doing is incredibly brave.’ The smile lifts, and his tone softens. ‘Far braver than tackling Tank. And I love that you’re such a good friend to this Jess.’
I smile back. I can’t help it. I want to hug him.
‘I want to help, I want us to go up to Scotland and show this Liam just what a stupid twat he is.’ He leans forward, earnestly, like we are co-conspirators. ‘I want us to have a wild time.’ He’s gone all twinkly again. ‘We are going to have so much fun. I am definitely up for it.’
‘A whole week, in Scotland, with me and my batty friends and family?’ I need to be sure. ‘Horse-riding and fishing and stuff like that.’ He’s looking amused. ‘On a big estate, miles from anywhere.’ He’s still not said no. ‘With no sex.’
‘You’re really selling this.’ He’s chuckling. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘And everybody does have to believe you’re my real boyfriend.’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s top secret, the only people who know are Sarah and your sister, of course.’
‘Good.’
‘And my hairdresser, and everybody who was in the salon.’
‘But it is top secret?’
‘Nobody at the wedding must suspect. We’ll have to get to know each other, practise.’
‘Practise?’ Jake raises his eyebrow. He really has to stop that, it makes me wriggle. And when I wriggle I realise my knickers have dried into something more like cardboard than cotton. Which is not a good sensation.
I ignore his naughtiness. ‘You need to be…’ I pause. I had originally had in mind just a boyfriend, any kind of boyfriend. Okay, I hadn’t really thought about it in detail. But now I am thinking about it I realise that Jake isn’t like just any kind of boyfriend. Jake is posh, Jake is good-looking, Jake has endless possibilities that I need to have a think about. Jake is an actor. ‘You need to be the type of boyfriend who would drive a Ferrari, and adore me, and watch chick flicks on a Friday night, and…’ I really do need to think about this.
‘Whatever your heart desires.’ I’m pretty sure that warm huskiness is purely a demonstration of how good an actor he is, and nothing more.
‘Pizza and a bottle of wine normally.’
He laughs, a deep throaty laugh. ‘A girl after my own heart.’ Oh heavens, any more of this and I will be booking him for a lifetime, not a week. ‘Except I’d rather have the footie than a chick flick, but hey, I can pretend.’
‘Good.’
‘How about Thursday then, for the first getting to know you session? I can tell you about my rules then, as well.’ He winks, it’s a bad habit.
‘Your rules? You can’t have rules!’ I haven’t even got rules yet, and I’m the one who’s supposed to be in control here. It is part of my plan, to be in control of my own life.
‘Just watch me.’ He’s chuckling as he stands up and shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘How about Thursday then? You can come and watch the play I’m in, then we can go out after?’
‘Thursday.’ Watching him act seems like a very good idea, it will prove just how well he will be able to pull this off. ‘How about that new pizza place?’ Much as I like the way he’s being all assertive, I feel I need to be more that way myself. I’m the one that is supposed to be running this show. And I want pizza. And I’m a bit concerned about his rules.
‘If you like, not quite sure that’s where Ferrari man would take you though.’
‘You can start off being Mini man and we’ll work up.’
He laughs again. I could get used to listening to that laugh, it makes me feel happy inside. ‘Nothing Mini about me.’
‘But you are an actor, aren’t you?’ I try and look sweet and innocent. ‘I’m sure you could pull it off.’
He just shakes his head.
‘Jake?’ He stops, raises an eyebrow. ‘Why have you said you’ll do this?’ I’ve got a feeling this distraction must be something important, or why would Amy mention it?
‘Money? You know, penniless actor and all that.’
Even I can tell that’s not the whole truth, and we did say this was going to be an honest relationship. ‘And?’
‘And…’ He studies the crumbs on my plate for a moment, then lifts his gaze back up to mine. ‘Like I said before, I know what you’re going through, and what this means to you. Really.’ We stare at each other, for a long moment, and I believe him. He gets it. And I really want to know why. Except it would seem really rude to ask him, and I take it from his angry reaction that whatever happens still smarts, and is off bounds.
‘And I’ve got some time off, before I start filming.’
As a way of diverting me from quizzing him, it’s brilliant. I go after it like a terrier that’s seen a rat. ‘You’re going to be in a film?’

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