at my own crassness but Scott just laughs. ‘I can’t believe I said that.’ I put my hand over my mouth but it’s as much use as chocolate hair straighteners. I try to recover ground. ‘Maybe we should say no gifts, it’s not as though we need anything. Maybe we should say charity donations only. We did that at my Uncle Terry’s funeral. The announcement in the paper said no wreaths or floral tributes but donations to the lung cancer unit at St Hilda’s Infirmary welcome. The hospital rang afterwards to say they’d benefited nicely. Auntie Donna got a genuine sense of satisfaction from that. It was a great comfort,’ I garble. I’m working on the theory that if I talk for long enough the ground might swallow me up.
‘Well, let’s take advice on the etiquette, shall we?’ says Scott with a good-natured smirk.
‘Fair enough. Can we invite Brangelina?’
‘Anyone you like.’
I’m quiet for about twenty minutes as I draw up my fantasy wedding guest list. The fantasy wedding guest list that is going to come true! Jess, Adam and I used to play a game a bit like this. As we sat eating baked beans on toast we’d often quiz one another on who would attend our perfect dinner party. Jess and I would plump for Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Matt Damon; pretty much the cast of Oceans 11 to 13, while Adam would swear that he’d prefer to have Christopher Wren, Dostoevsky and Queen Victoria to his party. Liar. Although the truth was, the idea of throwing a dinner party was a fantasy for us. Adam and I never once had people round for a meal. Least not what you’d call a proper one; pizza from a box does not count.
I’m glad I didn’t call Jess earlier. Now, I have even more to tell her. I check my watch. Midnight here, that makes it 8 a.m. tomorrow back home. She’ll be on the tube. I don’t want to get her voicemail; this is too good to leave another message. I’ll call her first thing tomorrow.
‘You’re happy, right?’ asks Scott, somewhat superfluously since I keep giggling to myself and I have stood up to dance a short but expressive jovial jig around the room.
‘Never more so.’
‘I have another reason for wanting to rush the wedding through,’ he adds.
‘Oh yeah?’
Scott holds out his hand and finds mine. He gently pulls me back on to the sofa and puts his arm around me. ‘I was thinking, you know, we’ve both had our fair share of partners in the past.’
‘I had a fair share. You’ve had a veritable feast, gorged yourself silly from all accounts,’ I point out.
‘Yep, I know and that’s what got me thinking. We need to be special.’
‘We are special.’
‘Different.’
‘We are different, we’re getting married, neither of us has ever done that before.’
‘I know and so I want to mark that in some way.’ What, a party for a thousand isn’t enough for him? I beam at him, waiting for him to explain. ‘I was thinking maybe, since we haven’t actually managed to have sex yet, that we shouldn’t.’
‘What?’ That stops me smiling.
‘I don’t mean we shouldn’t ever. I mean we shouldn’t have sex until we are married,’ says Scott.
‘But that’s two months.’ The same two months that just minutes ago had seemed oh-so-brief (too brief to plan a spectacular wedding!) now seem an eternity. Two months with no sex. It’s a terrible idea. Somehow no sex with Scott Taylor is a hundred times worse than all the no sex I’ve had in the past.
‘Yes. That way we’d be like vir-er-er-er-gins.’ He sings the word ‘virgins’ like in the Madonna song. ‘I just thought it was a way of making what we have truly special. Do you see?’
I do, sort of. The sentiment is darling but the actuality is going to be dreadful, truly hell on earth. I thought that tonight – what with the candles, the champagne and the log fire that were as good as screaming sex – that tonight would be the night.
‘I don’t know, Scott. It’s been tricky resisting thus far. Tricky and frustrating and –’
‘Hot,’ he adds.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I concede.
‘I’m loving this delayed gratification thing. The novelty alone is mind-blowing. It’s all about anticipation and control and –’
‘Shouldn’t it all be about love?’
‘Of course it’s that.’ Scott’s grin vanishes in a poof. He looks mortally offended.
‘Oh OK, go on,’ I agree, even though I really don’t want to. I can’t bear to