The Wedding Countdown by Ruth Saberton

history.’
    ‘Well then,’ says Nish, and there’s a wicked glint in her eye, ‘we’d better make sure this supermarket idea is a big success, hadn’t we?’
     

Chapter 12
    I can’t believe I let Nish talk me into doing this.
    It’s seven o’ clock on Thursday night and against my better judgment I’m lugging a basket round my local halal supermarket.
    ‘Why have I got to do it?’ I moaned when Nish pulled up outside the store and told me to get on with it.
    Nish yanked up the handbrake. ‘We’ve been through this. One of us has to be in the office to man the calls and the emails.’
    ‘Why don’t I do that and you make a prat of yourself?’
    ‘Because,’ said Nish, fixing me with a stern look, ‘I’m not the one who has a year to find a fiancé, am I? It makes sense for you to kill two birds with one stone.’ She gave me a poke in the ribs. ‘Get shopping, Ms Undercover Reporter!’
    You’re here purely for career purposes, I tell myself as I scan the aisles in the vain attempt to spot a lush male shopper. I’m trying not to look too obvious but I’ve perched three boxes of gulab jamuns (no point in doing things by half) right on the top of my basket and I can only hope that any poor single fellow out there buying his weekly groceries has been listening to DJ Kishii and doesn’t think I’m a greedy cow with a very sweet tooth. I’ve dressed up in my best skinny jeans and suede boots because I want to look the part and not because I seriously think Mr Right is going to pop up somewhere between the Bombay mix and the pickles.
    But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared just in case!
    The supermarket’s quiet and I wander aimlessly up and down the aisles for a good hour filling and emptying my basket to kill time. I get a few strange looks from the other shoppers and a yellow-toothed smile from an ancient gent limping round with a trolley, empty except for a giant packet of gulab jamuns .
    No way! I hastily rearrange my basket and bury my sweets under a bag of chapatti flour. I’m dedicated to my job but some things are way beyond the call of duty.
    I’m just emptying my basket for the fourth time when a jar of mango chutney slips from my fingers and shatters all over the floor. Splashes of sticky orange goo instantly cover my boots and jeans, and the cloying sickly sweet smell is overpowering.
    That’s it. I’ve been here long enough. Supermarket shopping obviously isn’t the way to find love. I need to get back to the flat as soon as possible if I’m going to be able to save my boots. I look around for some supermarket staff to deal with my pickle but they’re either camouflaged as cooking sauces or are on a tea break. Time is of the essence because I can feel the condiment seeping through to my toes. I think it’s time to abort the singles search mission. How likely is it that a guy will want to get close to me now I reek of mango chutney?
    And right then, just as I’m speed-dialling Eve and looking down sadly at my poor boots, Fate decides to pull a moonie at me. I crash smack into the very embodiment of the male specimen for whom I’ve been trawling the supermarket, knocking the basket out of the bechara man’s hands and spilling his shopping all over the floor.
    ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry!’ I gasp, crouching down to help him retrieve his unbroken (phew) bits and pieces. ‘I’m so, so sorry!’
    He’s bent down too and when our eyes meet across the groceries I suddenly get all flustered, and keep repeating ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ over and over again.
    He laughs. ‘It’s no problem! I don’t mind being knocked off my feet by a gorgeous girl!’
    I cast a swift glance around just in case there’s a gorgeous girl about, but no! It seems that he means me.
    ‘Actually,’ says Mr Spilled Groceries, ‘I may be seriously injured. Could I have your contact details just in case I need to sue for compensation?’
    I laugh. ‘I’m sure you’re fine.’
    ‘I am now! You have no idea how