Faking It Read online

  It was somewhat of a tradition, back when I was here, that you would scratch your name into the wood, if you were ever summoned to see the head, just as everyone else had done, for years and years.

  It only takes me a few seconds of browsing to find my own name, even though it’s getting pretty crowded now. I can’t help but smile, even though I was only ever sitting here when I was in trouble. It makes my distant memories feel real, rather than like something I dreamt or saw on TV.

  Today I’m here with Millie, who would probably be carving her own name into the wood with a drawing compass, if I wasn’t here, and it wouldn’t be very Emma of me to encourage her to do so, would it?

  She isn’t saying much, and the receptionist didn’t say much on the phone when she called this morning, just that Mrs Robinson wanted to see me about Millie.

  ‘Mrs Robinson was my head teacher when I came here,’ I tell her.

  ‘Yeah, you’ve said before,’ she replies bluntly.

  ‘Mrs Robinson will see you now,’ a receptionist tells us. ‘Go straight through.’

  ‘OK, thanks,’ I reply, but as I stand up my legs turn to jelly. God, that’s weird; it’s like muscle memory. I’m a grown woman – why does it still fill me with fear and dread, walking in there?

  Mrs Robinson, who must have been the head teacher here for coming up to twenty years now, somehow doesn’t look as if she’s aged a day, but she must have. She can’t have always looked this way.

  Mrs Maggie Robinson is your classic private-school head-teacher type. Out of touch with practically everything – from her hairstyle (her hair is in the same low bun she has only ever appeared to wear it in) to her mentality (assuming she still vouches for abstinence as being the best and only way to go).

  ‘Ah, Millie, Emma, come in, sit down,’ she instructs.

  I swear, everything in this room is exactly the same. The large wooden desk, the dark green curtains – even the floral teacup on her desk looks familiar, so familiar that, if you told me it was in the same cup, in the exact spot it was the last time I was in this room, I would totally believe you.

  It’s 11.30 a.m., just thirty minutes away from lunch time, so hopefully this thing won’t go on much longer than that. That’s the kind of thing I used to tell myself when I was sitting here, reassuring myself that I would only be chewed out for so long before it stopped. That’s the great thing about school bells – whenever they go off, everyone has to spring to action, so no matter what you’re doing, it stops. Bored in History? Just wait for the bell. Sick and tired of your aggressively insistent PE teacher forcing you to run into a high-jump bar again and again because ‘you can do it and you will do it’? Just wait for the bell.

  PE was one of many reasons why I found this school so archaic and barbaric while I was here. I would find excuse after excuse to try and get out of it. Not only was I bad at it, but it was so repetitive for the girls. Netball, hockey, badminton, athletics – that was it. We didn’t get to do anything the boys got to do – and we had to do it in skirts. Mrs Jordan, my PE teacher, was especially awful. She managed to make the changing-room experience even worse than the lesson because she would line us up and have us walk naked through the showers one at a time. I’m not even sure she’d be able to get away with treating kids like that today – I didn’t believe she should back then either. Protesting it was just one of the reasons I ended up outside Mrs Robinson’s office.

  ‘Today we need to talk about Millie’s progress,’ Mrs Robinson starts.

  Oh, I know that look, those pursed lips and narrow eyes. That’s her disappointed face. At least it’s not her angry face. Perhaps she reserved that one just for me.

  Mrs Robinson slides an iPad across her desk.

  ‘As you can see from the chart,’ she says, prompting me to pick up the iPad with a wave of her hand. I do as I’m told.

  ‘Millie’s progress last year was climbing quite quickly. She was applying herself in all subjects. She was a quiet, thoughtful student, no trouble at all, and then today… today she called Alex Partridge a…’ Mrs Robinson checks her notes, ‘… a chauvinistic wanker.’

  ‘Yeah, because he told everyone I was a slag,’ Millie insists.

  OK, two things: first of all, it will never not be funny to hear a teacher swear; I don’t care if I’m thirty-four years old, that’s still funny to me. Second of all, if he was calling her a slag, he was being a chauvinistic wanker.

  ‘Obviously the swearing isn’t ideal,’ I say, as I imagine Emma would, but then I drift back into myself. ‘But “slag” is such a derogatory name to call a young woman…’

  Mrs Robinson raises an eyebrow. I look over to Millie, who is just staring at me in disbelief. I don’t think she was expecting her mum to be on her side.

  ‘Emma, you were a model student when you were here,’ Mrs Robinson tells me. ‘But your sister was one of the most disobedient children I have ever had the displeasure of dealing with, and Millie’s behaviour is only reminding me of her.’

  Oh, there it is, there’s the angry face. Wow, she really does reserve it for me. Millie on the other hand, looks amused by this.

  ‘Millie needs to focus on her exams, she needs to behave and she needs to keep her head down,’ Mrs Robinson continues. ‘A lack of concentration some days, swearing today – tomorrow she could be destroying a statue!’

  Millie looks puzzled by this, but I know exactly what she’s getting at.

  ‘Well, don’t worry, we’ll have a chat about things today,’ I assure Mrs Robinson. ‘Everything from revision to how best to handle the patriarchy.’

  ‘Millie, you need to change course,’ Mrs Robinson tells her directly. ‘You want to grow up to be like your mum, don’t you?’

  Millie just smiles politely. I can tell the last thing she wants is to grow up to be like Emma.

  ‘OK, you can go,’ she tells us. ‘But think about what I said.’

  I don’t know who wants to get out the fastest – me or Millie.

  I’ve left Marco, who tagged along for the ride, waiting in the car for me, but with ten minutes to spare, I decide to try and talk to Millie now, as we make our way through the school.

  ‘Listen, I understand why you called that boy what you called him, but you have to play by the rules here,’ I tell her. ‘Just knuckle down, try your best, get out of here and then you can try and change the world.’

  ‘Mum, he called me a slag,’ she protests.

  ‘Yeah, and that’s awful,’ I tell her. ‘And he deserved to be called what you called him, but calling him that won’t help him to change, it will only hurt you. He’s a stupid boy who’s going to need to change his attitude if he ever wants a girlfriend. You’re a smart young woman who can make a difference, in the right setting, so pass your exams and get out into the world where you can make changes, with the strongest possible hand.’

  Millie has a bemused smile on her face.

  ‘Erm… OK, Mum,’ she says with a laugh. ‘That makes sense.’

  Wow, it does, doesn’t it? When I’m totally myself, or totally Emma, I never seem to get things quite right, but when I dig into both our traits, I find balance. Emma would probably tell Millie to cut it out, I’d probably tell her to call him worse next time but, with the balance, my advice seems pretty spot on. That really is exactly what she should do.

  ‘Thanks for not shouting at me,’ she says.

  ‘Well, shouting never achieves anything,’ I reply. ‘It certainly never got through to your Auntie Ella.’

  ‘Was she really that bad?’ she asks curiously. ‘I know sometimes when you tell me off, you warn me I’ll end up just like her, but—’

  ‘Your auntie was misunderstood,’ I tell her, biting my tongue before I say much else. I cannot believe Emma says that to her! ‘Listen, while I’ve got you…’

  Now feels like a good time to bring up the pill packet, because this is the softest and most talkative I’ve seen Millie so far.

  ‘I found your pill packet on the fl
oor the other day.’

  ‘Shit,’ she whispers under her breath.

  I hesitate, wondering what to say next, but Millie speaks first.

  ‘I’ll be more careful,’ she says. ‘Thanks for not telling Dad. He’d never understand that they’re for my period.’

  When we were younger, I remember Emma taking the pill as a teenager, because she had quite difficult periods, so Mum took her to the doctor and that’s what they thought was best. Suddenly it makes sense. That’s why she’s on it – and Emma knows about it. It’s only Rich who doesn’t know and, to be fair, you wouldn’t want your dad knowing stuff like that, would you? Men can be so weird about periods.

  ‘Yeah, no worries,’ I tell her, right as the lunch bell goes off. ‘OK, go have a good day, and just do your best, OK?’

  ‘OK, sure,’ she says. ‘See you later.’

  ‘Hug?’ I suggest.

  ‘Be cool, Mum,’ she insists awkwardly as she walks away.

  As I head back to the car, where I left Marco happily on his heated seat, listening to music through the car stereo, I feel really happy with myself.

  ‘You’re smiling,’ he tells me. ‘Was she not in trouble?’

  ‘She was, but it’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘I really feel like I got through to her. She listened to me. I honestly think she paid attention and she’ll be better now. And Emma already knew she was on the pill – it’s a period thing, not a sex thing – so there’s no crisis there.’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ he says. ‘Great, in fact. So, how did you find going back into your old school?’

  ‘I certainly made a lasting impression on the head teacher, that’s for sure,’ I say with a laugh. ‘She brought my name up. Cited me as a bad example. In fact… you see that statue over there?’

  I point out the statue of an old man – Mr Hammond, who was the head teacher before Mrs Robinson took over. He did a lot for the school, before he retired, so they had a statue of him erected out in the car park.

  ‘Someone removed a hand from the statue,’ I tell Marco. ‘And Mrs Robinson has always been so convinced it was me. She brought it up today.’

  Marco gasps theatrically.

  ‘Ella, are you telling me that you vandalised a statue?’

  ‘I am absolutely not telling you that,’ I insist. ‘We’d better get going to work, we’ve got so much to be getting on with… but can you work in my office with me today, please? Just in case John comes in.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘He’s probably still icing his balls under his desk. I still can’t believe you did that.’

  I feel bad, but only for a second.

  ‘He literally forced himself on me,’ I stress. ‘Even if I were Emma, he never gave her a chance to object. I don’t think it was ill intended, just completely misjudged.’

  ‘Just because I can’t believe it, doesn’t mean I don’t agree with what you did,’ he says. ‘Now, come on, let’s get to work so you can dish out more advice while you’re on fire.’

  I really am on fire, aren’t I? I feel like I’ve found a sweet spot, between mine and Emma’s lives, and somehow, I’m just happy here. Suddenly, I feel as though I have a purpose, a reason to get up on a morning – I’m making a difference. I’ve gone from ticking along to being excited about what’s coming up, and I absolutely love it.

  27

  I think one of the most fun things about being Emma is that things crop up that I have absolutely no idea about.

  Someone will say something that, if I were the real Emma, I would know exactly what they were talking about, so I have to improvise.

  Take this morning, for example. A woman I have never laid eyes on in my life knocked on the door, while I was chilling at home with Marco, and handed me a sealed jar.

  ‘Hello, darling, sorry I can’t stop,’ she said, leaning forward to air kiss me on each side. ‘But here’s Herman, as promised, see you later.’

  And with that she dashed off.

  I looked down at the jar containing Herman with absolutely no idea what was going on and wandered back into the kitchen with it.

  ‘I think I’ve just been given the remains of someone or something called Herman…’ I said, my face scrunched up with disgust.

  I placed the jar down on the worktop and washed my hands.

  ‘Oh, God, not Herman,’ Marco replied. ‘That thing is a curse. I’m sick to death of mine.’

  It turns out Herman is a sort of baked version of a chain letter. It’s a whole long and complicated thing, where you tend this mixture that just sits on the worktop and it bubbles up to the surface until you stir it, and you do it for ten days, and then something like you give nine blobs of it to other people before baking the last blob, which apparently makes a cake. A Herman the German Friendship Cake. Honestly, I can’t think of anything else more ridiculously suited to the locals here.

  Another example is when people say things to me like ‘see you at the spelling bee’, as Christian did. The spelling bee? Is that an actual spelling bee? Is it a trendy new nightclub? It’s so exciting, having no idea.

  It was less exciting learning that, yes, it is just a spelling competition that some kids from Henry’s school were taking part in, and Emma agreed to chaperone.

  I couldn’t think of anything more boring to do with my Friday evening than travel to a hotel in Manchester and watch a bunch of kids successfully spelling words I probably couldn’t spell myself. Hanging out with Marco and Josh – who are looking after Henry – is more my scene. At least Christian was there too, so I’ve mostly just been having fun hanging out with him, getting to know each other better, talking about the upcoming fundraiser.

  We’re at The Prestige Hotel in Manchester city centre. It’s a gorgeous place, in an old Victorian listed building, with impossibly high ceilings and big windows. They’re currently renovating the place, a bit at a time, but you can definitely see where they’ve been. It’s going to be one hell of a place when it’s finished.

  The spelling bee, which went ahead without a H-I-T-C-H, was fine, even if our team didn’t win.

  We’re currently all assembled in the large lobby, doing a headcount, getting our ducklings in a row before we all get back onboard the minibus.

  There’s a woman – a teacher – whose name I haven’t managed to catch, because presumably I should know it already, taking the lead. Once she has the kids lined up, she gestures for me and Christian to pop over to one side with her.

  ‘So, because Ms Bird and Mr Maxwell brought the late child along in a taxi, we’re a couple of seats short on the bus,’ she explains. ‘So, two lucky chaperones get to take a taxi home – so if you fancy a break from the kids? You’ve been with them all day.’

  This seems like it’s mostly for Christian’s benefit, and it’s just another example of women seemingly giving him special treatment, because he’s handsome and charming. I don’t mind though, I’m happy to lap up the perks.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, perhaps a little too quickly. To be honest, I hated being on the bus with the kids; it was like being trapped inside a headache.

  ‘I’m happy to do that too,’ Christian replies.

  ‘Great, the school will reimburse you, in the usual way,’ she tells him. ‘I suppose I’ll see you Monday.’

  ‘OK, Laura, see you then,’ he replies.

  Laura. I’ll try to remember that name, with all the other names. It would just be nice to be better with names, that’s all, because at the moment the second I hear them, I forget them. I’m sure that makes me sound self-involved, but I think it’s a pressure thing: I know I’m meeting someone, and that I need to absorb their name, and so it makes me balls it up.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Christian says when we’re alone. ‘I thought I was going to have to listen to a bunch of tone-deaf kids singing shit songs from TikTok all the way home.’

  I smile. Teachers swearing, man. It does it every time.

  ‘Me too,’ I reply. ‘Shall I find us a taxi?’

 
‘Yes… unless you want to pop upstairs for a drink?’ Christian suggests. ‘I’m sure we shouldn’t but we’re off the clock now, and they’ve got a rooftop bar…’

  I shouldn’t say yes, should I? It’s just a drink, but still.

  ‘Unless you think it’s a bad idea,’ he backtracks. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘No, no.’ I feel bad now. ‘That would be lovely, let’s do it.’

  ‘Yeah?’ he asks with a smile.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I reply.

  I’m not sure though, but it’s just a drink, right? Sometimes I wish things like horoscopes and that were real, because I could really do with the universe giving me a sign right now.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to the fundraiser,’ he tells me as we head for one of the lifts. ‘And I think I’ve decided who I’m going to dress up as.’

  ‘Ooh, so have I,’ I reply excitedly. ‘I’m going to be bad girl Sandy – finally!’

  ‘I would have thought you were more of a good girl Sandy,’ he points out. ‘But that’s great. I think I’m going to be Danny – I bought a leather jacket years ago that I’ve always thought I was too old for. This might be my one chance to wear it.’

  I laugh as we step into the lift.

  ‘That makes perfect sense,’ I tell him. ‘I’m going to have to shop for my outfit.’

  Even with the sexy designer clothes Emma never wears, I definitely didn’t see a pair of leather pants in her wardrobe and, believe me, I’ve been through it a bunch of times now.

  ‘Well, I’ll get the drinks in, then maybe we can—’

  The lift grinds to a halt, flinging me into Christian’s arms a split second before everything goes still and we’re plunged into darkness.

  Thank you, universe. But could you not have done this before I got in the lift?

  28