Coco Pinchard's Big Fat Tipsy Wedding: A Funny Feel-Good Romantic Comedy (16 page)

'You’d marry me?' He said incredulously.

'Well, maybe, hypothetically… but you’re not asking, are you?'

'No, I’m talking hypothetically too,' he said hastily.
 

We sat awkwardly for a few more minutes listening to the sound of Rocco snoring coming from inside my coat. We both went to say something, but then my phone beeped. It was Marika saying the coast was clear.

We jumped up, eager to get out of the church and eager to be warm in bed. We didn’t mention the marriage thing again. We did meet Marika’s new man, Greg. He used to work in The City, but after burning out, and quitting his job, became a fellow dog walker like Marika. He seems pleasant, and he’s good looking. We just wished he’d been more attentive with how his dressing gown was arranged when he sat on the sofa.
 

Sunday 6th February
 
21.13

TO: [email protected]

I quite like the area Marika lives in. There is a beautiful deli a park and an incredible Indian Restaurant. We went there for a meal last night with Rosencrantz, Marika, and Greg. Afterwards we all walked back to Marika’s and saw on the huge electronic billboard above the train station a poster for Agent Fergie.
 

It was very quiet in the dark street as we all stared at it.

‘That’s wicked Mum,’ said Rosencrantz. Then there was an electronic whirring as the plastic strips moved round and the next advert came up.

‘What are we looking at?’ slurred Greg.

‘It’s my Mum’s new book,’ said Rosencrantz. We waited a minute and the advert whirred round again.

‘Oh… Cool beans, can you get me a signed copy?’ said Greg.

‘I won’t get any until next week…’ I said.

‘She doesn’t get many. They’ll be in shops on the 22nd,’ Adam added pointedly.
 

Greg had wormed out of paying for dinner by saying he had forgotten his wallet. So, we all had to chip in for him. I wouldn’t have minded but he ordered so much food that was wasted and a triple shot of thirty-year-old whisky that he didn’t even finish.
 

There was an awkward moment.

‘Well, we’ll be sure to buy a copy, won’t we?’ said Marika.

‘You bet!’ said Greg. They then headed home whilst we walked Rosencrantz to the train station.

When we got home, Marika was in the bathroom and Greg was in the kitchen. He was sat at the table eating the carrot cake I had bought.

‘Hey guys,’ he said. We watched him for a moment but he didn’t say anything. It was from our shelf in the fridge. He then went to the sink where he plonked the dirty plate, leaving half the cake uneaten!

‘Night guys,’ he said and sloped off to bed. I was so annoyed.
 

‘Calm down,’ said Adam putting his arms round me. ‘It’s just a bit of cake…’

‘I know,
our
cake. How rude is he?’ I really hope Marika isn’t going to move him in!

Wednesday 9th February
 
10.31

TO: [email protected]

Angie is managing my book launch with the utmost secrecy. I’m not allowed to talk to journalists. She has only permitted email interviews, which she has written herself. I picked up a copy of The Metro newspaper today and read an interview with an author where she raved on about how much she loves the Royal Family, and is obsessed with all things royal. I was thinking what a saddo the author was, until I noticed that it was me! I phoned Angie straight away.

‘I don’t love The Royal Family and I don’t dream to go to a garden party, or be made a Dame,’ I said when she answered.

‘Darlin’ what are you talking about?’ she said. I heard the click of her lighter and a deep exhale.

‘This interview in the Metro, about Agent Fergie. ‘Oh to be Dame Coco Pinchard and meet the Queen,’ that’s what I said, apparently.’

‘Oh, that. Coco the public are mad on royal stuff at the moment, what with the wedding of William and that scrawny brunette…’

‘Kate,’

‘Yeah. Princess Kate, who’d have thought? It’s hip to be a Royalist. That’s why I’m using it in this interview.’

‘But I’ve always prided myself on being a Socialist, that’s my belief.’

‘Ha! You’re a Champagne Socialist at best Coco, and the first rule of promotion is that your beliefs can’t be too concrete.’
 

‘But…’

‘Thanks to me you got a huge advance, and your last book sold like hot cakes, am I right?’

‘Yes, but…’ she didn’t let me finish.

‘Did I ever disappoint you? I know what I’m doing. You think JK Rowling loves kids?’

‘I’ve never thought about that…’

‘Exactly, she probably hates them, but thanks to clever marketing those little bastards love her. Coco your books are amazing, but without clever marketing you might as well write one out in longhand and put it on the shelf above your bed.’

‘Could we a least make me sound like a hip Royalist then? People are going to think I’m an old spinster in a flowering apron who invites strangers for tea to look at her Royal mug collection.’

Angie has suggested I join Twitter as @CocoPinchard. I can do some tweeting about my life and what I like, and my Publishing House can do some tweeting too.

‘It’ll give people an insight to your personality,’ she said. ‘But for god's sake don’t mention anything about Adam!’

Thursday 10th February
 
11.44

TO: [email protected]

I have a hundred and sixty followers on Twitter! Many of whom have read my books, also Marika and Chris have read my books. I hope you are ashamed of yourself Ms. Langford ;)
 

I’ve also been welcomed to twitter by a journalist from The Independent and another from The Daily Mail. This is quite fun.

Sunday 13th February
 
14.43

TO: [email protected]

Greg has stayed at the flat now for six nights in a row. He’s all but moved in! He’s eating the food off our shelf in the fridge. Every morning he nabs the newspaper I’m paying for to be delivered. He even is wearing Adam’s pants! Admittedly, that was a mistake, as all our stuff has to dry on the same clothes dryer in the living room.
 

I didn’t know how to broach the subject of Greg with Marika, particularly the pants, but she seems so happy with him and I’m being all British and I don’t want to rock the boat.
 

On the upside, I have five hundred followers on Twitter!
 

Tuesday 15th
 
February
 
12.22

TO: [email protected]

Adam had a meeting with Natasha yesterday about his case. She pretended to be the defence QC and grilled him mercilessly. I met him afterwards on The Strand. I had forgotten it was Valentine’s Day, so when he asked if I fancied Mc Donald’s I said yes without protest. We set off up St. Martin’s Lane towards Leicester Square. The wind was cold and outside the Duke Of York’s Theatre we were caught up amongst the chattering theatregoers before the show, spilling out onto the street with plastic glasses from the bar. I envied their carefree laughter, and I felt homesick. I wanted to be back living here amongst the fun and buzz of Central London. Adam pulled us past Cranbourn Street, which leads to the Leicester Square Mc Donald’s, and on towards Cambridge Circus.
 

'Mc Donald’s is this way,' I said.

'I have a surprise for you,' he said. We kept walking until we reached The Ivy. Adam said hello to the Doorman as if he knew him, and ushered us into the luxury of the restaurant.

'When did you organise this?’ I said shocked.

'I got Angie to phone up and bully a table,' he said. 'It is Valentine’s Day.'
 

As we were led to our table I noticed most of the women, and a good few men, were undressing Adam with their eyes. I suddenly saw how damn hot he looked in his suit, the thin crisp fabric clinging to him in all the right places. He pulled out a chair for me and we sat.

It was a stunning meal, and for the first time in ages, it felt like we were an exciting young couple again, not bowed down with stress. After dessert, a bottle of Champagne appeared in an ice bucket.

‘Oh I think you’ve got the wrong table,’ I said seeing it was Krug.

‘No, Madam,’ said the Waiter softly. He wrapped the neck of the bottle in a snow-white napkin and squeezed out the cork with an elegant pop. He filled our glasses then melted away. I was looking at Adam in protest, but he was fumbling in his jacket pockets. Then he pushed back his chair and crouched on the floor.

'Did you drop your wallet?’ I said pushing back my chair and squatting down on the floor with him.
 

He looked at me, now eye level with him. Then I noticed he was on one knee… and he was holding out a little velvet box… and nestling on a little cushion inside was a ring! For a moment I stupidly still didn’t get it, and then it fell into place with a whump.

'You’re not supposed to be down here with me,' he whispered. I noticed the restaurant had gone quiet and everyone was looking to see which of the squatting pair of us was going to pop the question. I quickly rose and sat in my chair. He took a deep breath as I tried to arrange how to sit and what to do with my face. There was something so deeply moving about him looking up at me with his whiskey coloured eyes, his long tall frame kneeling submissively on that fine carpet.

'Coco, I know I don’t have much to offer you right now. In fact, I have nothing but my love for you. But my love is strong and fierce and tender, and I will protect you for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?' he said quietly.

 
I quickly did a rewind and fast forward in my head. He is wonderful, funny, and very hot. His speech made me melt and most importantly, I do love him. The answer it seemed was yes.

'Yes,' I said. 'Yes, I will marry you.'
 

He took the ring from the box and slipped it on my finger. It was a simple white gold band and it fitted perfectly. He leaned forward and he kissed me. We both had tears in our eyes and the people in the restaurant actually applauded us.

We stayed until late, drinking our Champagne, a little in shock and awe. I kept looking at the ring and feeling this warm buzz of excitement in my stomach. We were almost the last people to leave the restaurant and when we stepped out into the dark street it was almost one in the morning

'We’ve missed the last train back,' I said. 'What should we do?'
 

'How about, for old times sake we get creative?' he said flashing his devilish grin.

So, at half one in the morning, we crept up to my allotment patch in Marylebone. We haven’t been there since the autumn. By the glowing light of my iPhone we looked round furtively then climbed over the gate. The ground sparkled in the moonlight as we crept alongside rows of frozen dug over soil. I nearly had a heart attack when I stood in a puddle, now brittle with ice, which gave a loud hollow crunching sound.

'Jeez!' I said catching my breath up against a neighbours shed.

'Relax, there’s no one here,' smiled Adam. He came close, pressing the length of his warm body against me. He took my head in his hands and kissed me. I felt his taut muscles against my chest, his powerful legs, and a rapidly growing hardness.

'Come on,' I said dragging him up towards my shed. 'You need to warm me up!'

My hands were so cold when we got to the door. I had trouble getting the key in the lock, but it finally twisted open and the door yielded. We burst inside. Adam pulled me in for a warm deep kiss, which made my knees buckle a little. I untucked his shirt and put my hands up on the small of his back. He gave a sharp intake of breath and I unbuckled his trousers, sliding my hand over the curve of his hot rump. We pulled out all the spare blankets and collapsed in a hasty made bed on top of two beanbags. Adam shrugged out of his suit and quickly had my clothes off. I gasped at the cold air, which was replaced by his warm naked body on top of mine.
 

Afterwards we snuggled up in the blankets, and we shared a huge cracked mug of whisky. There was no electricity, my phone had died, and it was almost pitch black lest for a strip of moonlight shining across the opposite side of the shed.

I felt so happy, happier than I had in months. As we drifted off in each other’s arms I said,
 

‘So we’re going to do it? We’re going to get married?’
 

‘Yeah. I’m going to give you the best wedding you’ve ever had,’ said Adam. ‘It’s going to be a big flat party,’

‘A flat party?’

‘I meant a big fat party.’

‘Are you a bit tipsy?’

‘Yes, and our wedding will be too, big and fun and tipsy with all our friends…’

‘A big fat tipsy wedding?’
 

‘Yes… You’re going to be a… beautiful bride…’ said Adam drifting off to sleep.

‘I don’t know if I can wear white, after what we just did,’ I said, but Adam was already asleep.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of creaking wood and then an icy breeze. I opened my eyes and Adam was sprawled on top of me, naked. The blankets much have dislodged in the night, and a shaft of sunlight illuminated his perfect behind. I looked up and the sunlight was pouring through the open door. The head of the Allotment Association, Agatha Balfour was stood with a youngish looking couple and their two small children. They stood opened mouthed as Adam shifted in his sleep opening his legs and treating them all to a view of his scrotum, which slid across my bare leg and off to dangle pendulously in the cold breeze. One of the children screamed. I yanked the covers over Adam.

'Mrs. Pinchard!' shrilled Agatha with a look of horror, 'get dressed and then come and SEE ME!'

She slammed the door and I heard them move away. When they were gone, Adam opened his eyes.

'Morning,' he grinned. I told him what had happened.

‘Shit,’ he said jumping up and pulling on his underwear.

'What?'
 

'We should apologise.’

'Why?’

‘She’s in charge of all the allotments,’ he said.