Faking It Page 7

  She reaches forward to touch my fringe but I weave out of her way.

  ‘Oh, no, I’ve just been to the gym,’ I say by way of an explanation.

  ‘I see, didn’t have time to shower?’ she says with a nauseating bob of her head.

  ‘Didn’t have time to blow-dry it,’ I lie. I don’t want her thinking I’m some kind of slob.

  ‘Well, good for you, going to the gym,’ she says. She looks down at my stomach in the most unsubtle way. ‘It will do you good.’

  I self-consciously tug on my top to try and get a little slack around my middle. I’m wearing Emma’s belted coat over my tracksuit but to fasten it now would be me too obviously trying to hide my body. I don’t want them to think they’re getting to me. I don’t even know how they’re getting to me. If I were me right now, I would tell them to piss off. I suppose that’s the problem. I’m not me right now. I’m Emma. And Emma probably doesn’t clothesline what appear to be her best friends into the quiche display.

  ‘You look tired,’ the blonde says. ‘Don’t you think she looks tired, Jessica?’

  ‘You look exhausted,’ Jessica says. At least now I can put a name to her – my new least favourite person in the village. ‘And we heard about the drama at drop-off this morning. Sounds like you were having a bit of a ’mare.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I insist, trying to put an end to whatever this is, but they’re relentless.

  ‘The only time I looked like this was when I was… Oh my gosh,’ the WAG blurts. A huge smile spreads across her face. ‘That explains why your hair looks so dry too!’

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, but Jessica appears to because she starts grinning too.

  ‘Emma… This explains everything! When were you going to tell us you’re expecting again?’ Jessica asks.

  I hate her. I hate her so much. I hate both of them. There is no way on earth I look pregnant. I’m half a stone heavier than Emma at best, I reckon – the amount I weigh more than Emma is probably what my own weight can fluctuate by, because it’s the time of the month or because I ate too much pasta. Sure, I’m not as toned as my sister appears to be in her photos, but that doesn’t automatically equal pregnant, does it? WAG might be a bit of a bimbo, but I reckon Jessica knows exactly what she’s doing…

  ‘Not pregnant,’ I say firmly and finally. I keep my face neutral and my clenched fists inside the excess of my long sleeves.

  Jessica looks down into my trolley, pulls a face at my shopping, and then looks back at me with a knowing grin, implying that she thinks I’m getting fat because I’m eating shit.

  I meaningfully grab two more boxes of chicken nuggets and place them in my trolley with a smile.

  ‘I’d better get going,’ I say through gritted teeth and the best fake smile I can muster.

  ‘Well, it was lovely seeing you,’ she says. ‘Don’t forget our coffee morning this week.’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ I reply, fake smile still firmly in place. It drops the second I turn my back on them.

  The high of being able to buy a load of shopping and pay for it without wondering if my card is going to be declined is somewhat dampened by the encounter I just had with the yummy mummies my sister – for some reason – calls her friends. She needs to get better friends, or take a leaf out of my book and have no friends at all. My non-existent friends have never insulted me by suggesting I was pregnant when I so clearly wasn’t.

  I load my shopping into the boot, sling my coat in the back of the car, hop into the driver’s seat and head for Oakley Primary to pick up Henry.

  Seriously, how does Emma do this? I’m knackered, I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly, and do keep in mind that I had a nap through – what Smarty tells me was – my suggested house-cleaning time, and poor Marty is way overdue his afternoon walk.

  Now that I’m more familiar with how the school drop-off and pick-up system works, I manage to make it to the collection point for Henry’s year with minimal trouble. I wedge my monster car into a space and realise that I’m actually somehow ten minutes early, which means I finally get to catch my breath.

  I recline my seat, ever so slightly, just so that I can rest my head back a little. Enough to relax but not so much I can’t eat the £4 bag of chocolate-covered honeycomb pieces I just bought from the shop.

  As hard as I try to relax, I can’t help but feel as though this is the calm before the storm, and that this evening is going to be non-stop too. This almost certainly requires chocolate. I pour a little handful out and toss them into my mouth. Mmm, they’re so good. If looking ‘not pregnant’ means stopping eating things I like then consider me eating for two.

  I glance down at my chest and notice a few pieces that I dropped so I pick them up and throw them into my mouth – right as I hear a knock on the window next to me. It’s a man – or at least it is as far as I can tell. I can’t see him properly from this angle with where he’s standing. Am I parked in the wrong place again? This is ridiculous!

  I hurriedly mess around with the car controls to get the window open.

  ‘Look, I followed the blue cones, I parked here – what on earth have I done wrong now?’ I blabber.

  The man moves forward to lean just inside the car window, so I can see him. Christ, he’s gorgeous. What is it with all the dads at this school, that they’re all so ridiculously good-looking? He’s tall and broad – so broad he couldn’t lean further into the car if he tried, and these are big windows. He has dark brown, slightly wavy hair that’s blown back, and a stubbly beard… maybe… It’s so short I can’t tell if it’s a short beard of if he just hasn’t shaved. Either way he looks great, and he looks even better when he smiles, when he flashes those dimples…

  ‘Hi,’ I say, retreating a little now I’ve got love hearts for eyes.

  ‘Hi, Emma,’ he says, with an amused grin. Well, of course he’s amused, he just watched me eating chocolate off my own boobs. ‘Henry left this at Josh’s last night.’

  As he hands me a knitted Captain America hat through the window our hands touch for just a second and all I can think about is having him ravish me right here on top of the blue cones. But I really don’t think the car-park monitor from earlier would be too happy with me if I did – that would definitely stop traffic more than a Range Rover going the wrong way.

  ‘Oh, right, thank you,’ I say. I need to snap into polite mumsy mode. ‘Most kind of you, much obliged… er…’

  Not only do I sound like a character from Oliver Twist, but I just made out like I was going to say his name, and obviously I don’t know his name.

  ‘Marco,’ he reminds me.

  ‘Marco,’ I say back to him. ‘I was just going to say that.’

  He looks confused as he laughs at me.

  ‘OK, well…’ Marco reaches into the car and steals a chocolate from the bag. ‘See you around, Emma.’

  ‘Yeah, see you later,’ I call after him.

  God, I really would like to see him later. But I’m pretty sure Josh’s mum would have something to say about that.

  8

  The kitchen here is somehow a confusing combination of simplicity and complexity.

  Reasons it’s so easy to use range from the sheer number of appliances and gadgets, coupled with the fact that – and even a novice like me can tell – someone has put a great deal of care and attention into where every single thing has been placed. Everything just makes sense, which makes using the kitchen feel a little bit like dancing, as you move gracefully from one point to the next.

  The downsides – which are glaringly obvious, and exclusive to me – are that for the most part I don’t know where anything is and/or I don’t know how to work it. But for everything I can’t figure out – like what the hell actually is an Aga? I can’t even work out how to control it, I just know that I love standing next to it to keep toasty – there’s always a plan B.

  Tonight, I have made the organic chicken nuggets I picked up earlier, cooked in the regula
r oven, along with some curly fries and baked beans. So at least I got to dance from the freezer to the oven effortlessly. I absolutely loved eating stuff like this growing up – and I still do, to this day.

  I hear Marty barking before the front door opens and closes. That must be Rich home from work.

  I know that Rich works in finance, and that he makes a shit-load of money, but that’s the extent of it. It makes sense though, right? If there’s money in any industry, it’s the money industry.

  ‘Wow, dinner smells good,’ he calls in from the hallway. ‘Is it ready now?’

  ‘Just putting it out,’ I call back.

  ‘Kids,’ I hear him shout upstairs. ‘Kids… Henry… Dinner’s ready, tell your sister to come down too.’

  By the time Rich has entered the room he’s already discarded his coat, jacket and tie. He unfastens his top button as he heads for the table.

  ‘Thanks so much for doing this,’ he says quietly. ‘I had an awful feeling today that you might not be the kind of girl who cooks.’

  I wonder if perhaps Rich sees me as quite immature, reading between the lines there. I suppose I am, and I’m happy with that, but for the sake of the part I am playing, it just makes me want to try even harder to get this right.

  ‘Have you had a good day at work?’ I ask him – ever the dutiful wife.

  ‘Yeah, not bad,’ he replies. ‘But I’m shattered now. I think I could do with an early night.’

  ‘Ergh, that’s so disgusting,’ I hear Millie chime in. She must think that was a euphemism. ‘I’m putting my AirPods in.’

  ‘No, you’re not, you’re sitting down for dinner with your family like a human would,’ he tells her.

  ‘No one wants to think about their parents having sex before they eat,’ she complains as she sits down.

  Henry snorts to himself as he takes a seat too.

  Christ, do nine-year-olds know what sex is?

  ‘We’d wait until after dinner,’ Rich jokes. ‘Now, can we just have dinner like a normal family, please?’

  Right on cue I start placing items in the centre of the dining table. I head back to the kitchen island, to grab the sauces, but by the time I get back I can tell something is really wrong.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Mum, are you having a meltdown? Seriously?’ Millie asks. ‘Like, do you want us to get fat and die?’

  ‘Millie, don’t be so hysterical,’ Rich tells her before turning to me. ‘This is, er, quite the departure from our usual dinners, Emma…’

  I shrug.

  ‘I thought you guys might fancy a change,’ I say, although I have no idea what kind of things they usually eat. Not chicken nuggets and curly fries, I’ll bet. Perhaps there was something in the schedule but I haven’t exactly had time to read the detailed notes on everything.

  ‘You never call Mum “Emma”,’ Henry points out as he loads up his plate. ‘Why aren’t you calling her “Emmylou”?’

  I glance over at Rich because I don’t know what to say to that. This only raises Millie’s suspicions.

  ‘Oh my God, he’s right,’ Millie blurts. ‘It’s embarrassing AF but it’s true – are you getting a divorce?’

  Henry drops his fork.

  ‘No, don’t do that, please don’t do that,’ he protests.

  ‘Kelly Barker’s mum and dad got divorced and now she and her brother have to go stay with her dad every weekend – in a flat,’ Millie tells us, as if it’s genuinely the worst thing she’s ever heard in her life.

  ‘Oh my God, not a flat,’ I reply sarcastically.

  ‘I know, right?’ she says, not detecting my tone at all. ‘And Henry has a friend with divorced parents and he’s miserable too.’

  ‘It’s not Josh’s parents, is it?’ I can’t help but ask. Of course, I immediately wish I hadn’t, because surely, I – Emma – would know such a thing.

  Rich stares at me.

  ‘Just a joke,’ I insist, not explaining the punchline.

  ‘Josh’s mum and dad really love each other. They’re always kissing – it’s gross,’ Henry informs me.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I reply dutifully. Nice, but a tremendous shame for me, because Josh’s dad is hot.

  ‘Millie, give it a rest, OK,’ Rich interrupts. ‘One minute you think we’re getting an early night, the next you think we’re getting a divorce. It’s neither. Now, eat your dinner.’

  ‘I’m not eating that,’ she insists.

  Rich sighs.

  ‘I could make us a couple of omelettes, then?’ he suggests.

  ‘Fine,’ she replies, staring at the ceiling.

  I feel relieved that she’s almost too self-involved to find any of this suspicious. Emma was right about her.

  ‘Well, I’m eating this,’ I say.

  ‘Me too,’ Henry replies, messily sucking a curly fry into his mouth like it’s a long wiggly worm.

  I pick up a chicken nugget in my hand and hold it towards him.

  ‘Cheers, kid,’ I say.

  Henry laughs as he grabs one of his own nuggets, clinking it with mine.

  ‘Cheers,’ he replies.

  I know you’re not supposed to have a favourite child, but Henry is definitely mine.

  9

  In a disturbing plot twist that I did not see coming at all, it turns out that Emma likes to be woken up by ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice’ by The Beach Boys booming out of the Smarty at a deafeningly loud volume at 6.30 a.m. every damn day. The gentle little guitar intro is so soft and so easy to sleep through, which means it’s always the bang of the drum before the passionately belted-out first verse that wakes you up, like waking up to someone throwing a brick through the window before loudly singing you a love song.

  Still, the alarm went off, so I got out of bed, headed for the en suite and jumped into the shower. I absolutely hate showering first thing on a morning, just minutes after getting out of bed; it gives me this icy cold shiver all over my body, no matter how hot the water is.

  By the time I stepped out of the shower and slipped on the fluffy dressing gown I realised that the underfloor heating had turned on, which was absolutely glorious. I’m tempted to drag my duvet in there tonight and sleep right there on the hot floor – not that the house is cold, not like it used to be when I lived here, but just because it feels so good. The version of this house that I grew up in is long gone in favour of this swanky modern pad. If I hadn’t known what it was like before I never would have believed it.

  I decided, when I woke up today, that I needed to up my game. Yesterday did not go to plan at all. I don’t think I did a single thing right, and the thought of struggling through today too sounds far more exhausting than trying harder to get this right does. I really did think this was going to be a walk in the park, but it turns out I’m going to have to try a bit harder if I want to convince people I’m Emma. So, no more dry shampoo – not more than a couple of days in a row, at least – and no more scruffy tracksuits. I’ll have to think of some different things to make for dinner, because if I suddenly can’t cook, that’s not going to check out, and I need to make more of an effort at school, to show people that it’s business as usual.

  So, I dried my hair with the fancy Dyson hairdryer, and I used Emma’s posh make-up (to the best of my ability), but while the bags under my eyes may be covered, the fringe is still giving me a hard time. I’m going to head to the salon later, but in the meantime, I’ve used bobby pins to grip it to the sides, as though it were never there, which begs the question, why did I need to bother in the first place, if I could have just made out like it was gripped?

  I decided to raid Emma’s walk-in wardrobe for something to wear and, oh… my… God…! She’s got some serious designer gear in there. Dresses, shoes – things that are way sexier than anything I have ever seen her in, and the pictures I’ve seen dotted about the house of her confirm the same. Emma has always been like that though; she’s collected things she had no intention of using. It’s so like her to have this epic wardr
obe but to never have the confidence to wear most of the stuff in here. She’s always played it safe – unlike me.

  After finally picking out an outfit, I managed to drop Henry off at school without a hitch, and with no ‘hot dad’ sightings unfortunately. I was looking a little more the part perhaps, in a pair of black skinny jeans, a red top, a leather jacket, and the most enormous Burberry scarf I have ever seen – it’s practically a Burberry blanket – teamed with a pair of black biker boots and a decent face of make-up. I don’t look quite so much like the poor sister today.

  I’m back home now, currently juggling launching a tennis ball repeatedly through the back door for Marty with trying to work out how to use this pod coffee machine. I’ve used a few different ones, at different places I’ve worked at, but there never seems to be any consistency in how each of the machines work, so I’m having to learn from scratch how to work this one.

  ‘Someone is at the door,’ the Smarty announces suddenly, causing me to jump out of my skin. Christ, why do I feel as if I’m in a Purge movie all of a sudden? Do I need to go and open it or do I ask her to open it? Surely technology isn’t there yet?

  I try to force my game face to engage – whatever that looks like – as I hurry to the front door.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I say when I see Josh’s dad standing there. Was it Matt? No, it was Marco. Sexy Marco.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sure,’ I reply. ‘Come through to the kitchen.’

  I’ve no idea if Emma calls it a kitchen – there’s probably some name for these rooms I’m not aware of – but hopefully Marco isn’t so finely in tune with Emma’s vocab.

  He is wearing what I like to call a handsome man coat – you know the ones, long, black material, stiff collar. They’re smart, with big black buttons. They’re usually worn by dishy businessmen over designer suits but when Marco removes his I can see that he’s wearing jeans and an oversized, kind of scruffy jumper. Wow, I’ve only walked a few steps in my sister’s actual shoes and I’m already judging people’s clothes.