Marco laughs.
‘Is that so?’
‘Just what I heard,’ I joke. ‘So, it didn’t seem worth the risk.’
I fire up the website to see what sort of advice Emma – or ‘Ask Alison’, that’s what her title is – is giving out.
‘Oh, God… Emma, no, what are you thinking?’ I say to myself. ‘Someone wrote in asking for advice because she thought her husband might be cheating and Emma is telling her to leave well alone – no! That’s awful advice. I could definitely do better than that, look…’
I open up the incoming letters and select the newest one.
‘OK, let’s see what the problem is here…’ I say, before reading aloud. ‘“Dear Alison, I hope you can help me, as I’m having trouble with a house guest. My brother-in-law recently lost his job after a run-in with the police and now he’s living in our spare room…”’
‘Is that…?’ Marco glances at the sender. ‘It is! That’s my sister-in-law! She’s talking about me! “He keeps going on about this big pay-day that’s coming. It sounds like a pipe dream. I think he needs to get a job, and that we need to show him tough love and throw him out, but my husband says it’s his brother and we have to give him another chance.” Absolute crap. Run-in with the law? She makes me sound like a criminal, and I’m basically the help in that house, but free, obviously. Unbelievable.’
‘Sorry,’ I tell him. ‘This is probably why we shouldn’t be looking… Shall we just—?’
‘You should reply,’ Marco suggests eagerly. ‘Reply and tell her not to kick me out.’
‘OK, so I’m not exactly the CEO of ethics, but even I know that’s kind of wrong, and manipulative,’ I point out.
‘That’s a strong ethical stance from someone tricking a nine-year-old into thinking she’s his mum,’ he teases with a cheeky smile.
I shoot him a look.
‘Sorry, just a joke, but, OK, tell me this – what advice would you give my sister-in-law?’ he asks. ‘And you can be honest.’
‘Well… knowing what I know about you, it sounds like you need support right now. You’ve lost your job and – whether your plan to make money is going to pay off or not – tough love isn’t going to help you, it’s just going to make things even harder, and the longer you’re down, the harder it is to get back on your feet, I know. Of course, Emma would probably tell her to kick you out, because that’s basically what she did with me, and it fucked me over so… Yeah.’
‘Two things,’ Marco starts. ‘Obviously it’s in my interest for you to tell her that, because I really don’t have many options right now, but also, you clearly are much better at giving advice than she is. You should do it. Take over from her for a while – you’d be doing her a favour.’
‘Do you really think so?’ I ask.
Could it actually be good for Emma, if I step in and try and keep things going here?
‘Definitely,’ he replies. ‘And, if you want some honesty from me, this website is really bad.’
‘Is it?’ I ask.
I mean, I know it looks bad, kind of old-fashioned, not very exciting. It seems to be doing its job though.
‘There’s so much wrong with it,’ he tells me. ‘For one, it isn’t even responsive, so it won’t scale down for users on mobile devices.’
I just stare at him for a second.
‘All websites these days fit to whatever screen size they are being viewed on, and having to zoom in and out of the page to browse content really hampers the user experience,’ Marco explains.
‘I think that guy out there, the younger one…’
‘John,’ he reminds me.
‘Yeah, John,’ I continue. ‘I think this is all his handiwork. But imagine, if the two of us started making changes, if I tackled the content, and you made the website better… it could be amazing.’
‘Well, it couldn’t be worse,’ Marco says with a laugh.
‘Plus, think about it, if we can get you some work here, then you can start saving. It will get your sister-in-law off your back,’ I say. ‘It must make money, right? Jessica said Emma was paid for it.’
‘It’s monetised,’ he says. ‘Not well – I could get it making more money, fast – but it has adverts on it, and I’ll bet they sell ad space to local businesses and so on.’
‘OK, follow my lead,’ I say before heading back out into the main office.
‘So, are we compromised?’ Arthur jokes.
‘I didn’t even get that far,’ Marco tells him. ‘I was too distracted by your UI.’
I don’t think Arthur knows what that means – I know I don’t know what that means. It sounds almost funny.
‘We’re in luck, gents, because Marco here is going to work with us to revamp the site, make it more user friendly, make it work on mobiles, get more revenue coming in,’ I tell them.
‘And are you going to give him your wage, or pay him out of your own pocket?’ Arthur asks, sounding rather ticked off.
‘I’ll work for free, to start with,’ Marco says. ‘I’m that confident I can turn this website around, but I’ll wait until we get results. Then you can pay me out of all the extra money coming in. Sound good?’
‘John, what do you think?’ I ask him.
He looks at me, then at Marco, then back to me.
‘Well, if you vouch for him, and he’ll work for free, then sure, why not?’ he says, although he doesn’t sound too happy about it either.
‘OK, fab, well, we’ll head back into my office and make a plan,’ I say. ‘And we’ll take it from there.
I give them both a huge smile as I clap my hands together, almost signalling an end to the conversation.
‘I’m not sure they’re happy,’ Marco says once we’re alone.
‘They don’t seem like the sort to be happy,’ I reply. ‘But they’ll come around, once what you do starts working, if it starts working…’
‘Oh, it will,’ he tells me. ‘You just focus on giving advice to other people, I’ll take care of my end.’
‘Which reminds me,’ I start, sitting back down, clicking back to the agony-aunt emails. ‘I’d better email your sister-in-law.’
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘And thanks for the job.’
I shrug my shoulders.
‘We’d only be getting in trouble here if we were bored, right?’ I say.
I know I’ve only known him a few days, but Marco seems a lot like me, kind of down on his luck, a bit of a wild card at times, but ultimately a good person.
What he needs right now is a good friend and, to be honest, so do I. And at least now I’ve got someone else in on my little secret. I know they say that the more people know a secret, the harder it is to keep, but I can’t imagine Marco giving the game away. I’m probably doing a brilliant job of that all on my own.
15
Is it weird, that I’m excited about the website? I know, I probably have enough on my plate right now, and Emma did keep it from me, but only because she didn’t want me finding out she was playing agony aunt to the whole village. Man, I can’t believe it. We were always both so adamant we weren’t going to grow up to be like Mum and yet here she is, living in the same house, giving out advice, with one nice child and one not so nice one.
Henry is lovely, just like his mum was at that age, such a sweet and thoughtful child, never putting a foot out of place (I don’t blame him for the gaming all-nighter he pulled; that was me dropping the ball). Millie is… kissing a boy!
I slow the car down, keeping just enough distance between us and them, so that I can see them but they can’t see us.
‘Why are we stopping?’ Henry asks.
I forget how many questions kids ask.
Henry had an afterschool club today – football practice. It has become clear, on the drive home, that Henry absolutely hates playing football, and going off what he’s said today it sounds as if he’s really bad at it, but that his dad likes him to go, so he goes.
I remember Mum making me go to ballet classes when
I was younger. Emma loved them but I found them so boring. It was too stiff for me – and so straight-faced. I always preferred drama to dance, which my mum eventually said made sense, and so she let me quit ballet, but I never quite heard the end of it.
I find it hard thinking about my mum sometimes, my thoughts caught in a middle ground between what a nightmare she was and how she only had my best interests at heart. I would prefer it if she hadn’t got her boobs out on TV though, even if it was for a good cause.
We were only just around the corner from home, when the most obnoxious car caught my eye. Lime green with matte black detail. Exhausts so big you could fit your feet in them. The sickening display of wealth you expect, driving around these parts, but while it was the car that caught my gaze, it was my niece stepping out of it, with a boy clearly much older than her, that kept it. And they’re kissing, and I mean really kissing.
He’s obviously dropping her off around the corner so that her parents don’t realise she has a boyfriend. God, I wonder how old he is. He’s a confusing mixture of clearly way too old for her, but he still looks like a kid. Still, he must be at least seventeen, to be driving that car, which was no doubt gifted to him via the bank of Mum and Dad.
Their lips finally part. Millie heads off on foot, in the direction of home, whereas the boy leaps into his car and speeds off in the other direction.
I feel parental rage – and for a child that isn’t even mine. See, I was right, it was never worth getting knocked up for the money, because kids are nothing but trouble.
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ Henry asks from the back.
Oh, Henry. Sweet Henry. Even a cute kid like him would probably betray me one day. It will only be a matter of time before he’s the one driving far too fast around these streets, harassing someone else’s underage daughter.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘Just… promise me you’ll always be a good boy.’
Henry laughs.
‘That’s weird, Mum,’ he says. ‘But OK.’
I hover for just a few more minutes, giving Millie time to get home, because for some reason I find it embarrassing that I caught her out. Well, I’m not her mum, am I? I’m supposed to fill in for Emma, but I’m not supposed to be tackling big stuff like this, and, sure, I could tell Rich, but he’s clearly got enough on his plate right now.
I’ll just keep a very close eye on things and see how they play out. I’m definitely the person for the job; I was just like her when I was that age. Well, like a version of her who couldn’t contour away her chubby cheeks or get the boy she liked to text her back.
At least it’s finally the weekend tomorrow. No kids to get ready in the morning, no school run. I had a quick chat with Rich this morning and he said that, although he was pretty busy with work this weekend, moving forward he was going to try and be around more, to take the pressure off me as much as possible, which sounds great. In the meantime, I’ll just look forward to my lie-in in the morning. I’ve definitely earned it.
16
The good news is that I absolutely do get a lie-in on a Saturday. The bad news is that I only get to lie in until 7 a.m. Big whoop, an extra half-hour. Honestly, I don’t know how Emma keeps up this pace. When does she sleep?
As ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice’ boomed out of the speaker, just as it does every day, two things occurred to me. One: wouldn’t it be nice if The Beach Boys shut the fuck up? Two: while I’ve heard the song a million times, I’d never really considered what it was about. But now that I’ve heard it so many times in a row, every day, I can’t help but really hear the lyrics. A young couple in love, talking about the future. Ergh, young love. I really hope Millie knows what she’s doing.
I couldn’t get back to sleep so I went downstairs and made myself a coffee – because, honestly, now that I can work the damn machine I’m making barista-quality coffee – and now that I’ve drained every last drop I figure I might as well take advantage of that massive bath in the en suite while I’ve got some downtime.
As I head back upstairs, I notice Rich’s office door is open. I peer inside and see that he’s gone to work already. Wow, money really doesn’t sleep, does it?
Curiosity gets the better of me, as I wonder whether or not the terrace is still the same. When I lived here this room was the guest room, and it had a little outdoor terrace, just outside a set of patio doors. The original doors have been swapped in favour of something more modern and energy efficient, but as I approach them, I can see that the terrace is still there, still the same. I guess I’m just surprised – I thought they would have turned it into a helipad or something. The house really doesn’t have all that many original features left – if things don’t match the new aesthetic, they’re gone.
I let myself outside and take in the view of the back garden. It’s massive, and completely private thanks to all the trees and bushes that grow around the perimeter. All the houses on this street are like that, tucked away behind a big gate and walls of trees. It could feel quite lonely here when I was a teen, if I was ever the only one home, especially at night. Well, a teen alone in a big house, completely hidden away from the outside world – that has all the makings of a horror movie, doesn’t it?
It’s funny, I used to use this terrace to sneak back in here, late at night. I knew that whoever was downstairs would hear me arrive home and head up the front stairs, so I figured out an alternative route in. It wasn’t anything fancy, I’d just climb onto the patio furniture, up onto the pergola, then onto the terrace. My mum was a worrier, but only in the oddest ways, so rather than hide a key under a plant on the front doorstep in case of emergencies, she hid one up here, under a… oh my God, it’s still there. The little decorative stone my mum used to hide the key under. I pick it up and turn it over, and there it is, the little silver key, attached to the stone with a blob of white tack. Wow, the apple really hasn’t fallen far from the tree, has it?
I put it back where I found it, just as I used to, and head back inside.
Rich has a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in his office. There are so many books, you can safely call it a library – they’re even sorted as they would be in a library. Fiction, sorted alphabetically, and by genre, then there’s non-fiction, and there’s even a little section for Mum’s books, like a weird little shrine.
I scan their spines, gently running my fingertips across them as I refresh my memory. Whatever you thought about Auntie Angela, she certainly won’t ever be forgotten. People still buy her books, even now, long after she stopped appearing on TV. More than anything, I think it’s just so amazing that she’s been able to leave something behind like this. She’s made her mark on the world and, while we all might have moved on after her passing, we’ll always have her books. I’d wonder what I’ll leave behind when I die, but I already know the answer: three bags for life (the big ones though) and… wow, no, that’s actually it. So that’s a bunch of worn high-street clothes, some ancient GHDs that stink of scorched hair the second you turn them on, and my investment coat with the pink fur, that probably cost, oh, I don’t know, maybe 5 per cent of what the coat I’m currently wearing of Emma’s cost her.
There is one other thing though. As I near the end of the Auntie Angela section of the library, I notice two copies of her final book. She signed two copies, one for Emma and one for me, and gave them to us just before it was published.
One Last Thing…: Advice from a Dying Woman, unsurprisingly, is not something I fancied reading all that much. Well, it sounds like a drag anyway, and that’s without it being written by my mum. Plus, I’m sure she found some last-minute way to embarrass me unnecessarily.
I pull out a copy and open it. On the title page it reads:
To Ella. Something to remember me by. Love Auntie Angela.
It’s so strange, seeing her handwriting, it’s like seeing a ghost.
When someone dies, they usually say you only remember the good stuff. With my mum, it’s different; I find it hard to focus on anything but th
e bad, because that was what she left me with: one big, final act of forcing my independence on me. And I get it, she wanted me to turn out self-sufficient, but life isn’t always that easy, is it? I know people have much rougher starts to life than I did, but I think that’s half the problem. I had a comfortable life and then all of a sudden, I didn’t, I was out on my own, and I’ve never quite been able to get myself sorted.
If I force myself to focus on the good times, they’re not all that hard to find. I don’t think things were as bad when we were younger, and I don’t think Mum was quite so uptight. I don’t remember how often – it felt like loads – but the three of us used to get in the car and drive to Blackpool for the day, and I still remember it being the most fun I ever had as a kid. We would walk around, for what seemed like hours, past all the gift shops, out to sea, around the Pleasure Beach – for what felt like miles and miles before we would finally stop for our much-needed fish and chips and one of those bottles of pop with the panda on, that I’m not even sure if you can buy any more. We would admire the illuminations before heading home in the dark. I would always get one of those deep pink sugar dummies, and I would suck away on one until my hands and face were sticky, before falling asleep in the car. All in all, an absolute dream day out for a kid.
Of course, the trips got fewer and fewer as we got older, and Mum got busier, and then cheap and cheerful days out in Blackpool weren’t good enough. While an annual holiday in the Bahamas might sound like a dream as an adult, I always found beach holidays so boring when I was a kid. I would have swapped it for Blackpool in a heartbeat.
I take the book with me when I leave the room. Well, if I’m going to be dishing out advice on the village website, it might do me good, to see what my mum would have said – and then I’ll write the opposite, I imagine. Hell, I might even try – or not try – some of it out for myself. Now that I’m here, and I’m bored, it finally feels like the right time to rip off the plaster and see what’s inside my mum’s final book.
Faking It Page 11
