Faking It Read online

  I have some cash. Not much, but enough for a couple of nights in a hotel while I figure out what my next move is. But right now, I have to get to work. I absolutely can’t be late today – I already have a few late marks on my record, courtesy of my car. Now that I’m homeless, I need my crappy job more than ever.

  Some start to the new year this has turned out to be. We’re only days into January and already things are going so wrong. See, this is why I never go for that ‘New Year, new me’ rubbish, because getting pissed and singing Auld Lang Syne isn’t the magic recipe for a new beginning people seem to think it is. New Year, same me. I just hope things get better as the year goes on, but I can’t quite shake the feeling that it might be all downhill from here…

  2

  After a completely mortifying conversation with my usual mechanic – in which I innocently suggested he ‘pull out and see if it’s wet underneath’ and he told me I should probably think about getting a new car now, because he’s patched it up so many times – I managed to catch the two buses it takes me to get to work. But I’m very late.

  I slink through the door at Agency XXL, where I’ve been working for the past six months, and as I sit down at my desk, I notice a note from Sylvie, the HR lady, asking me to go and see her asap. This means heading through to the other side of the office, which will be hard to do unnoticed.

  We’re oh-so impossibly modern here at Agency XXL. The office is practically a caricature of a millennial open-plan workspace. You know the type – there are more beanbags than there are chairs and every other room is for ‘headspace’. We have four different machines for making drinks, but you can never just get a coffee-coffee, it’s all macchiatos and lungos, and no, I don’t know the difference. I don’t mean to sound so cynical about it all, it just doesn’t feel authentic, especially given how this company is owned by rich, severely out of touch old men.

  Nipping at the heels of rich, old and out of touch is Declan, our Head of Digital, which means he’s our first boss in a long line of bosses. He runs the show on the office floor but all that usually seems to entail is floating around the room like an over-caffeinated butterfly. His favourite job of all seems to be breathing down my neck. Apparently, a good receptionist is the heart of any office, and he thinks I’m a bad receptionist, so he’s always on my case about it. I won’t tell you what part of the body I think he is.

  Declan spots me from his wall-less office in the centre of the room. Our gazes meet for a couple of seconds as I hurry through the room. I notice him leaning forward in his chair, as though he’s weighing up if he needs to come over and speak to me immediately, but I don’t look at him for long enough to see what he does. If I can just make it to the sanctuary of HR… It’s actually one of the few rooms here with a door on it.

  ‘Morning, Sylvie,’ I say, brightly.

  Sylvie is probably the eldest regular ‘lowly’ employee here, but she’s cooler than the rest of them put together. She must be in her early sixties, but you wouldn’t guess by looking at her bright purple hair and her kooky clothing. I knew she and I were going to get on well on my first day, when she sat me down to give me ‘the talk’ about workplace relationships, but instead she just stuck the DVD of Fatal Attraction on. This might seem lazy but have you seen Fatal Attraction? It worked a charm. Even if there was someone here who I fancied, I’m pretty sure that film would put me right off.

  ‘Oh ho, don’t you “morning, Sylvie” me,’ she says in her deep Yorkshire accent. My favourite thing about the Yorkshire accent is just how warm and friendly it sounds – until it doesn’t.

  I’m originally from Cheshire but over the past decade I’ve travelled around a lot, working all over the country. Not because I have a fancy job that requires travelling or anything like that, just because I’ve never really settled anywhere for long. Nowhere really feels like home – even home didn’t feel like home, that’s why I couldn’t wait to leave.

  I’m pretty sure Sylvie is going to tell me off right now but it’s hard to worry too much when her accent feels like a double dose of Yorkshire charm.

  ‘You’re fucked,’ she tells me.

  OK, it just got easier to worry.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask with a faux innocence.

  ‘They’re letting you go this morning,’ she tells me. ‘You were on your final warning.’

  ‘I take it this is because I let Greg stay at my place last night,’ I start, a little annoyed, because that was me stupidly trying to do a nice thing for someone that blew up in my face. ‘Honestly, he missed his last train, so I said he could stay on my sofa. You laid on the “no workplace relationships” thing pretty thick with Fatal Attraction when I started. But Greg… he didn’t boil my bunny, he burnt my flat to a crisp.’

  Sylvie just blinks for a few seconds.

  ‘Are those sex things?’ she asks me, ever so calmly.

  ‘What? No,’ I reply quickly. ‘I let him sleep on my sofa, he literally set my flat on fire. That’s all.’

  ‘Well, you’re getting the sack because you’re late – again,’ she tells me, glossing over the whole fire thing.

  ‘I’m late because of the fire,’ I insist.

  ‘Oh, Ella, you really are the biggest pain in my arse,’ Sylvie tells me. ‘Come on, let’s go speak to Declan.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, that’ll help,’ I say under my breath.

  Declan has wanted me gone for weeks and now he’s got his excuse, I guess. The reason he doesn’t think I fit in well here is because I don’t subscribe to the ‘office culture’. When we finish early on Fridays, I don’t want to stay as late as I would if I’d worked a full day, just hanging out in the work bar, drinking trendy beers and playing table football. I’d rather just go home but apparently that makes me ‘not a team player’. I don’t know, I’m just the receptionist. I do a grindy job for no thanks, and even less money, and I just want to go home when I can go home, y’know?

  Sylvie walks me from her office to find Declan. He’s at one of the chill stations, next to Greg’s desk, chatting with him and two female employees. The two men are throwing brightly coloured juggling balls between them. Greg seems as though he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘Declan, I’ve had a chat with Ella, and there are indeed extenuating circumstances this morning,’ Sylvie explains.

  I squirm awkwardly on the spot behind her, like a kid who has sent her mum into school to yell at her teacher for being mean to her. I also feel weirdly self-conscious that we’re not doing this in private but I’ve heard Sylvie say before that it’s always better to air things in front of other employees, because it makes for a fairer outcome if the bosses think the other workers are listening.

  ‘Oh?’ Declan says. ‘This should be good…’

  ‘Is she the one who is always late?’ I hear Greg ask the girl next to him. I frown at him. Acting as if he has no idea who I am is not the move of a gentleman.

  Greg, and the two female employees either side of him, are giggling to themselves as they listen in. In fact, now that I’m looking around, it seems as though everyone has gathered for a floorshow.

  ‘Yes – she says it’s this one’s fault, actually,’ Sylvie explains, gesturing towards Greg.

  Oh, God, we’re really doing this here…

  ‘Wh-what?’ Greg says, changing his tune. He’s not laughing now.

  Oh, Greg. Poor Greg. Look at him, with his cool guy haircut and ironic moustache. He’s wearing a plaid shirt, which, well, don’t they all at digital agencies?

  I am somehow too cool to be uncool enough to be cool here – even saying that gives me a headache. Greg is the type though. They probably gave him the job the second they laid eyes on him. And I’ll bet he thought he was going to swagger in to work every day, drink flat whites, play table tennis, and sit around on a beanbag talking about the latest episode of whatever it is everyone is watching. I was so glad when Game of Thrones ended because wherever I worked it was all they talked about and, let me tell you, to s
omeone who didn’t watch it, the conversations about it were too nonsensical to follow. But there’s always another show for me to be out of the loop on. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m against watching TV, but it turns out you need about ten different TV subscriptions. I guess most people here can either afford all the streaming services to keep up to date on the latest watercooler TV, or they’re savvy enough to stream it illegally. I tried to stream The Handmaid’s Tale once, a few years ago, but instead I saw so much weird porn I’ve never dared try again since. Plus, knowing my luck, someone would pop up from behind my sofa and slap some handcuffs on me. If I still had a sofa, that is…

  Greg is blinking at me, at a frankly rather alarming rate – it’s as if he’s glitching. I do feel kind of sorry for him, this being his first week and all, but, you know, if you’re that worried about making a good impression don’t burn people’s flats down.

  ‘What did Greg do?’ Declan asks. ‘He’s my nephew, so I’m highly surprised to hear this…’

  Ah, good old nepotism. Always nice to see it’s still alive and well.

  ‘Ella says he set fire to her flat,’ Sylvie blurts out, casual as you like.

  ‘He did what?’ one of the girls next to him says. I think her name is June or April – something monthy.

  ‘Wh-wh-wh-wh…’

  Greg sounds like a steam train.

  ‘I think he might have started a fire in my flat, when he stayed over last night,’ I offer, kind of weakly. Well, I feel seriously outnumbered, and I don’t think being my often ballsy self is going to get me anywhere in a situation like this, and I know better than to flirt with anyone here, don’t worry…

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ the girl next to him informs me, very matter-of-factly.

  ‘He definitely did,’ I say a little more firmly. I turn to Declan. ‘Smell my hair. It stinks of smoke.’

  Declan pulls a disgusted face at the thought of smelling my hair.

  ‘He really didn’t,’ the girl insists. ‘Greg is my boyfriend – he slept at my place last night.’

  I look at Greg and narrow my eyes thoughtfully. I was so sure that it was him who asked if he could crash on my sofa. But… now that I think about it… Oh, God. I know I’m terrible with names and faces but this has to be my grandest faux pas to date.

  ‘Oh my God, Greg, I’m so sorry, I guess I mixed you up with someone else. I was so sure it was you…’

  ‘Ella, seriously?’ Declan says. ‘You come in here, stinking of smoke, accusing my nephew of burning your house down. That’s it, you’re fired, effective immediately. You’ll still get paid, but we don’t want you to work your notice.’

  It’s finally happened. He’s snapped. Sacking me right here, on the spot, in front of everyone.

  ‘Declan, please, it was just one little mistake,’ I insist.

  ‘But it isn’t just one little mistake, is it? Was it one little mistake when you ate a piece of Alex’s birthday cake before we’d sung happy birthday to him?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, come on, it was a cake with a piece already missing – how was I supposed to know that was part of the design?’ I protest.

  ‘Is it one little mistake when you constantly mix up Kerry and Sara?’ he continues.

  I don’t think that one is fair either.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t know who is who, they just look so alike…’ I turn to the woman standing next to me. ‘Don’t you think Kerry and Sara look really similar?’

  ‘I’m Sara,’ she tells me, completely straight-faced.

  ‘Oh,’ is about all I can say. ‘Right, OK. So, you want me to…’

  ‘Yes, please leave,’ Declan says. ‘And don’t forget to take that awful mug with you.’

  I had guessed that my ‘fucking Mondays’ mug – like me, I suppose – didn’t gel with the ‘office culture’. The truth is that I haven’t ever felt as if I fit in here, and I definitely don’t feel as if I’ve made any friends, but I didn’t think that mattered because it’s just a job, right? It’s just the thing that keeps a roof over my head – or it was, at least. Losing my flat, my car and my job in the same day is a new low, even for me.

  I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket.

  Isn’t it always the case that, when you think things can’t get any worse, that’s when things really, really get kicked up a notch, to be the absolute worst they can be? It’s my sister, Emma, calling. Fantastic. That’s just what I need.

  We’ve barely spoken in years so I doubt she’s calling to talk about what happened on Emmerdale last night. Usually when she calls it’s with bad news, but I don’t think we have any relatives left who could have died – perhaps she’s calling me to tell me she’s having another baby, which may as well be bad news because, as wonderful as that is for her, having a twin sister who is super succeeding at life when you’re doing so terribly just serves as a big fat reminder of what a failure you are as an adult. The fact that Emma has such a wonderful life just goes to show what a genuine mess I’ve made of my own. We’re twins, we had the same start in life, the same upbringing – and I can pinpoint the exact moment where we diverted so spectacularly, and it’s the reason we’re not all that close any more. Still, if she’s calling me, it must be something at least kind of important, but I can’t exactly answer right now.

  I grab a small cardboard box from the post room and do the walk of shame back across the office, with all eyes on me, to my desk so that I can pack up my things. Of course, I don’t really have any things, so I plonk my mug, my notebook, and a handful of random office supplies in the box and head for the exit.

  Well, I’ll just have to find something else, it’s as simple as that. Sure, I could worry about being jobless and homeless, but what good would that do me? Now isn’t the time to worry, it’s the time to be proactive.

  Who knows, maybe, just maybe, I’ll land on my feet this time?

  3

  Emma Cooper is my identical twin sister – but the similarities between us start and stop at our appearance.

  We really do look alike – well, we did. I’m not sure if she’s changed since the last time we saw each other a decade ago. When we were kids our own mum would struggle to tell us apart, although that changed as we got older, when she insisted that, despite us still looking so alike with our long blonde hair, our bright green eyes, and our dimpled cheeks, she could tell us apart because I had something in my eyes that my sister didn’t – she never said what, exactly, but she never made it sound like something good.

  Mum said that Emma and I were like Jekyll and Hyde, as though we had one personality between us that split in two. Emma was the good kid and I was the bad one. I suppose I did act up quite a bit as a kid, and I definitely rebelled as a teen, but I don’t think you could blame me, given the way we were brought up.

  Emma and I never met our dad. He passed away in a car accident a matter of weeks before we were born and, credit to my mum, she found a way through a terribly tough time – suddenly without a husband and with two screaming babies she’d never bargained on raising alone.

  I don’t remember at what age I realised what my mum did for a living, but I don’t really remember a time before I felt as if I couldn’t get away from it.

  My mum was Auntie Angela – yep, that one – the famous agony aunt and life coach. She wrote books, hosted a radio show, and was a regular on daytime TV. Her speciality was parenting advice. You think you had embarrassing moments as a kid? Try having your mum talking publicly and honestly about the mortifying experience that was your first period, on national television. Growing up in a small village meant that everyone knew Mum and everyone knew me. So, when she would tell stories about her own kids, she was talking about me or Emma, and, given that we have pretty much the same face, it almost didn’t matter which one of us she was talking about, it would always be embarrassing for both of us.

  Sure, we had an amazing life growing up, as far as living in a massive house and having lots of money goes… except Mum never lavished us
with everything we wanted, and because she was always working, I think it’s pretty safe to say a series of nannies technically raised us. But while I felt mortified and suffocated and kind of unloved, Emma found it much easier to roll with it. She loved her life. Then again, Emma was the most popular girl at school, and she had the hottest, richest boyfriend.

  In the kind of village where I grew up, money talks. Everyone is living in massive houses, sending their kids to private school. In fact, everyone there is so well off that it’s almost an equaliser. Everyone is loaded, so the only way to truly rise to the top is to have the biggest house, the nicest car, go on the swankiest holidays, and have the sexiest spouse. I absolutely hated growing up in that world, I couldn’t wait to move away. Emma, on the other hand, she just let it absorb her. Now she’s the rich mummy with the big house and the flash car and her rich boyfriend is now her rich husband. She seems happy with it, so good for her, but I could never have amounted to that, at least not without the financial leg-up she had. I don’t want to think about that before I speak to her though – it will only rub me up the wrong way.

  It’s only the second week of January and I’m sick of winter already. I hate the cold, and the dark; I find it so depressing.

  I’m sitting outside, on a bench, after stupidly forking out £4 for a caramel latte that I thought might cheer me up, and glaring at my phone as I try to talk myself into calling Emma back. She’s so hard to talk to sometimes. Instead I decide to look up the cheapest nice hotel – or maybe the nicest cheap hotel – in the area, but as I type on my phone Emma calls again and I accidentally press accept immediately. Shit.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  ‘Ella, hello,’ she says. It’s so weird to hear her voice. ‘Sorry, were you at work?’

  ‘I’m taking my break,’ I reply. ‘Is everything all right? Are the kids OK?’