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‘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.
