Faking It Page 10

  ‘How was work?’ I ask Rich.

  He stares at me, almost suspiciously, for a second before he replies.

  ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Have you had a good day, er, h-honey?’

  ‘Fine,’ I reply, echoing his level of detail.

  ‘Kids… have you two had a good day?’ I persist.

  ‘You don’t need to do this, Mum,’ Millie tells me.

  ‘Do what?’ I ask.

  ‘Pretend you care,’ she says.

  I look over at Rich for support, but he’s looking at something on his phone and grinning like an idiot. I know that face, I’ve made that face – admittedly not recently, but there’s only one reason people stare at their phones like that. Suddenly Rich’s phone starts ringing and his expression changes.

  ‘I’d better take this somewhere else,’ he says, with a serious, almost nervous look. I swear, his eyes dart from side to side, as though he’s worried about someone seeing his screen.

  ‘Work?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yep,’ he says, hurrying out of the room entirely before he answers it.

  With Millie eating with one hand and scrolling her phone on the other, and with Henry’s eyes firmly fixed on the TV, I decide it’s probably fine to check my phone, to see what’s on the agenda tomorrow.

  A few taps on the screen confirm the worst. After I drop Henry off at school, I have a coffee morning with Jessica, Abbey and Cleo booked in. Jessica is the one I met yesterday, in the supermarket, and what a bag of laughs she was. I find Abbey and Cleo in the contacts and peep at the images assigned to them. So, Abbey is the other person I met yesterday, that’s good to know. It’s always good to put a name to people you don’t like.

  At least I’ve had my hair done now, and I’m utilising Emma’s wardrobe to the max, so I won’t feel quite so vulnerable.

  I just can’t believe these are my sister’s friends. Each to their own and all that; I might not have much in common with them, but they don’t even seem like nice people. And now I get to have coffee with them – oh, joy. Let’s just hope no one makes any snide comments about the fact I’m going to order the biggest piece of cake they have because, honestly, it’s the only reason I can stand to go. At least if I have something in my mouth, I’ll be less likely to break character… hopefully.

  13

  The last time I was in this café – which was probably in the nineties – it was called Tea Time. Everything in it was a shade of brown, apart from the teapots, milk jugs and cutlery, which were all a dull silver colour. I always used to marvel at how many little tiny scratches were all over the metal teapots – there must have been thousands, after years and years of people using them. Pensioners meeting up in the day, families out for lunch on weekends, friends meeting up for a chat. I remember so vividly I would always have one of two things. Either the kids’ lunch boxes, which were these little cardboard things shaped like animals, with tiny sandwiches, crisps and a juice carton inside, or I’d get toasted teacakes with butter, except I’d always leave a pile of dried fruit on my plate, because I would pick it out while I was eating. I loved the taste of the teacakes but I’ve always hated dried fruit.

  Tea Time is no more. Instead, where it used to be, is Frothy Coffy, a modern café with so much going on, it’s almost void of personality at all. Suddenly, Tea Time feels like something I saw on TV – it’s hard to imagine it ever existing.

  Everything here is grey, because isn’t everything always grey these days? Tables look as if they’re made out of recycled wood, none of them match, and there isn’t a single chair in this place (unless you count the decorative one on the wall – what the fuck?) in favour of wooden benches that are not playing ball with the dress I’m wearing today; I just can’t seem to get the leg span needed to make myself comfortable.

  The café has those lights where light bulbs hang from wires pinned to the ceiling, looking almost like a spider. I hate them. I hate everything about this place. Well, everything but the ‘frothy coffee’ and the massive triple-chocolate brownie I have on the table in front of me. Incidentally, I find it absolutely hilarious that they call a cappuccino a frothy coffee here. Well, everyone seems like such a ridiculous snob, and yet here we are, calling cappuccinos frothy effing coffees, and my common arse is the one taking issue with it.

  It’s funny, how things can be classy or trashy, depending on whether you’re rich or poor. All sorts of things – everything from wearing a full tracksuit, to day drinking, to not paying taxes.

  Anyway, here I am, with my frothy coffee. Jessica stares down at my brownie and then back up at me, her smile not faltering.

  ‘It’s nice to see your hair back to normal,’ she says. ‘I see you’ve gone for something more… young.’

  I wonder if that’s a dig – I’m sure it is.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, before taking a meaningful bite of my brownie.

  The conversation with Jessica, Abbey and Cleo is so impossibly dull. Abbey, the WAG-looking one, is kind of a bitch. All her stories usually result in her passing comment on someone, and it’s usually a harsh comment, usually about something people can’t control, like their appearance.

  Then there’s Cleo, a short woman with an Essex accent who has semi-recently tied the knot with Ed Allen, of Allen Construction – which I think is supposed to mean something to me, as if he’s local rich royalty or something – and all she talks about is their wedding last year, as well as complaining about how much they want to install a pool in their basement, but they can’t, for some reason, I don’t know, honestly, I keep just tuning out.

  And then there’s Jessica, the clear queen of the Yummy Mummy Mafia, the one who is always quick with a snide remark, or a not-so-subtle criticism, the one clearly running the show around here – I think the other two might be scared of her.

  ‘Rich is so lovely,’ she tells me.

  ‘Oh, isn’t he just?’ I reply enthusiastically, pausing for a second to sip my drink. ‘I’m lucky to have him.’

  ‘I’m so relieved to hear that,’ she says. ‘Because we’d heard there was trouble at home, hadn’t we, ladies?’

  The ladies, who are on the edge of their bench, waiting for gossip, nod wildly.

  ‘Oh?’ I say casually.

  ‘Yes,’ Jessica replies. ‘I’ve heard Millie is going off the rails and—’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine, she’s just a teenager,’ I insist. ‘I’m sure you ladies were horrible teenagers too… or maybe not.’

  Judging by their faces, I don’t think they think so.

  ‘And Elsie Barnes told Joan Carr, who told Roland the butcher, who told Abbey, that Henry has been falling asleep in school and I thought that, coupled with you taking a step back from your job on the Village Echo, meant, well, that maybe you can’t have it all.’

  ‘Oh, no, everything is fine,’ I insist. ‘And as for taking a step back, well, does that sound like something I’d do?’

  I have no idea what the Village Echo is, but that feels like the right thing to say.

  ‘Well, I thought not,’ Jessica replies. ‘I know it’s only pocket money to you, but I thought you loved your job running the village website. I was surprised to hear you’d made such a sudden decision – and then I heard about the meeting, today, to figure out what they’re going to do about replacing you.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe someone got the wrong end of the stick?’ I say.

  ‘Well, I saw Arthur on my way here, and he said he was heading for a meeting at HQ now,’ Abbey chimes in. ‘So, it certainly seems like they’re replacing you.’

  ‘And obviously John works there,’ Jessica reminds me. ‘And his favourite thing to do in bed at night is tell me all about the website.’

  Well, John needs to get a life, or some little blue pills, clearly.

  ‘Probably not his favourite thing,’ Cleo jokes, but I can see something behind Jessica’s dead eyes that makes me think it might actually be true.

  I’ve just realised what’s going on. Emma trusts me with her house, her
kids, her husband… but the one thing she thought I could never do, in a million years, was fill in for her at work. Unless she’s hiding something… How did Jessica describe it, as pocket money for Emma? It’s not as if it’s what pays her bills, then, is it? And I actually think I’d be really good at something like that. Either way, it’s my excuse to get out of here.

  ‘Well, it was lovely seeing you ladies, but I’d better head over to HQ and sort out the misunderstanding,’ I say. ‘But we must do this again soon.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got the fundraiser meeting next week,’ Jessica reminds me.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ I say, carefully standing up from the bench.

  I drain the last of my coffee from my cup and pop the last bite of brownie in my mouth before heading for the door.

  ‘Nah, I don’t think she’s pregnant,’ I hear Cleo whisper to the other two under her breath. ‘Eating for two maybe though.’

  I bite my tongue and remove my phone from my pocket to call Marco.

  ‘Hello, Emma,’ he says. I feel as if I can hear him winking. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Do you want to cause some trouble?’ I ask him.

  ‘I’ll get my coat,’ he replies.

  14

  It turns out the Village Echo is a website for all things local – and it seems like it’s kind of a big deal too.

  Marco looked at some stats on the drive over to HQ (which is actually in the back rooms of the community centre) – publicly accessible ones, he assures me, and he told me that a large proportion of the village view the website daily. It has news, stuff about local businesses, announcements – it even has a message board, and an active one at that.

  Looking at the ‘meet the team’ section I can see that Emma is the editor, the manager, the big boss. And now that I know she didn’t want me assuming her role, I’m curious to find out more about what she does.

  I’ve brought Marco with me because he knows all things local, and he knows all about the site, and if I have any glaringly obvious gaps in my knowledge, well, he can fill them in for me.

  To be honest, I think Marco is so bored here, that he would have pretty much agreed to do anything I suggested.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ he asks, opening the community-centre door for me, gesturing towards the back of the room to where the offices are.

  ‘No plan,’ I reply. ‘I guess I just want to be nosey.’

  ‘Emma, hello, what a surprise,’ John says. ‘Wow, look at your hair, and your clothes… you look… amazing…’

  I smile, kind of graciously and kind of awkwardly, at John’s compliment.

  I know who everyone is from the ‘meet the team’ section of the website.

  John is in charge of the running of things – keeping the website online and updated with all the latest, etc. The tech guy, basically. Then we have Arthur, who is the local know-it-all, who keeps the info up to date. He’s probably in his early seventies, and has lived here all his life. He holds his non-smart phone as if it’s a dog turd – a dog turd that might have a bomb in it, perhaps, because he eyeballs it so suspiciously. Actually, I think he might just be squinting to see it better.

  ‘You text me and said you were taking some time off,’ Arthur tells me.

  ‘Oh, yeah, but just like a couple of days, not like a long time,’ I say.

  ‘I’m looking at your message and—’

  ‘Oh, it was probably wine o’clock when I sent that,’ I explain. I wonder how much I can get away with by claiming wine o’clock. ‘Anyway, I’m here now, and I’ve brought Marco – he’s a tech expert. He’s going to look over everything, see if he can’t offer us some advice. He’s going to make sure we’re not hackable.’

  ‘Who on earth would hack a village website?’ John asks – I think rhetorically – with a mocking laugh.

  I think John must feel a little put out, because I’ve turned up with Marco, bigging him up as an expert.

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ Marco tells him seriously. ‘I’m also going to make sure the website is compliant – GDPR, clearly labelled advertisements, and so on.’

  Ooh, he sounds so professional. I don’t know if that stuff is true but it sounds good. You’d never believe, hearing him speak, that this is all just a front for me to have a snoop around, because I’m so curious as to why Emma wanted me to fill in for her in all aspects of her life apart from this one…

  I glance around the room, where I notice a door with Emma’s name on it.

  ‘We’ll just pop into my office,’ I say, eagerly heading straight over there. ‘We’ll give you a full report when we know what the deal is.’

  ‘Well, do let me know if you need anything,’ John calls after us. He doesn’t sound very happy.

  ‘Will do, mate, cheers,’ I hear Marco call back.

  Once we’re inside Emma’s office I close the door behind us.

  ‘OK, let’s figure out what she’s hiding from me,’ I say.

  ‘How do you know she’s hiding anything?’ Marco asks with an amused chuckle as he watches me riffle through a filing cabinet.

  ‘Because I know my sister,’ I tell him. ‘Do you really think she would leave me looking after her kids, sleeping in her marital bed, with a free run of the house, her credit card, her car – all of that stuff – if she didn’t trust me? No, no. It’s not that she doesn’t trust me here, it’s that she’s hiding something. Definitely.’

  ‘Well, if you say so,’ Marco says. ‘Although I don’t know how much you can even hide, somewhere like this, unless she’s embezzling or something fun like that.’

  The computer on the desk is old. So old the monitor is box-shaped, rather than a flat screen, and if there’s one thing working in digital agencies has taught me, it’s that screens have not looked like this for a long time.

  I fire up the computer, only to be hit with a password screen – crap.

  ‘She’s got a password,’ I tell Marco.

  ‘Here, let me,’ he says.

  I shift out of the desk chair so that Marco can sit down. I suppose I’ll just keep searching through drawers while he…

  ‘I’m in,’ he announces casually.

  ‘Oh my God, that was fast. Did you hack the mainframe or something?’

  ‘I don’t know what you think that means,’ Marco replies with a laugh. ‘But, no, I just guessed her password. You’d be amazed how many people have “1234567”.’

  Oh, I hope he’s joking.

  ‘OK, let’s have a look, see what’s going on,’ I say.

  ‘What kind of thing are we looking for?’ Marco asks as he goes through the motions, firing up different programs, all the usual sorts of things you’d open if you were sitting down to work.

  I know she’s hiding something from me, I just know it… but I have no idea what.

  I start scanning through her files, trying to get a feel for what she does here.

  ‘I’ll know it when I… oh my God,’ I blurt. ‘So that’s what she’s up to.’

  I can’t help but smile to myself – and I’m not surprised she didn’t want to tell me.

  ‘What are we looking at?’ Marco asks.

  ‘My sister is the agony aunt for the website,’ I tell him, a combination of shocked and amused.

  ‘Is that bad?’ he asks.

  ‘Our mum was an agony aunt – a famous one, actually,’ I say.

  ‘Unless your mum was Jerry Springer, I’m not sure there are any famous agony aunts,’ Marco replies with a laugh.

  ‘She was called Auntie Angela,’ I tell him.

  ‘Oh, shit, no, I have heard of her. Probably one of the first pair of boobs I ever saw – I remember being off school and seeing her getting a breast exam live on daytime TV.’

  He finds this funnier than he does awkward, thankfully.

  ‘Yep, that’s my mum, mortifying as ever,’ I say with a sigh.

  Christ, it’s been a long time since anyone mentioned that to me. I think I’d repressed it.

  ‘That’s
pretty cool though, she helped a lot of people. How’s she doing?’ he asks.

  ‘She died,’ I said bluntly. ‘Breast cancer.’

  ‘Shit, that’s fucking horrible, sorry,’ he says.

  I can see how uncomfortable he is from the tightness of his face. It’s like every muscle he has is suspended in time, cringing, just waiting for a way for him to figure out how he can go back in time and not mention it.

  ‘It’s hilarious that my sister thinks she’s qualified to give advice,’ I tell him, changing the subject. ‘She probably thinks it’s in her DNA, like she’s inherited the ability to give good advice. She probably got that in the will too.’

  ‘OK, I’m sensing some tension regarding that,’ Marco points out bravely. I’m sure he’d rather this conversation just ended.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing, old news, I’m over it,’ I tell him. ‘Basically, we were still teenagers when my mum died, so she put our inheritance in trust until we were thirty-five – she wanted us to make our own lives, not live off her money – which is fine, except she put in this clause that if either of us had a child, we’d get our money. Emma had a baby pretty much straight away, meaning she got her money, but I got nothing, and I thought she might help me out when all of a sudden, I was basically homeless and jobless, but, nope. Honestly, it’s so bloody backward, I’m being punished for not using my womb.’

  ‘A lesser person would have had a baby, just to cash-in,’ Marco says. I think this is supposed to be a compliment.

  ‘Yeah, I don’t think Emma would have been shocked if I had, but no,’ I say confidently. ‘I’ve heard when you have a baby you’ve got to keep looking after them until they’re at least eighteen…’