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.
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