The Wedding Date: The laugh out loud romantic comedy of the year!

‘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

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

‘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.