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