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

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.’