‘OK, sure,’ he replies. ‘That would be great. Does tomorrow suit you?’
As I make plans with Christian, I can’t help but think about how this is not a very Emma thing to do, but I wasn’t thinking like Emma when I asked him, I was thinking for myself.
‘OK, well, I’ll see you later,’ he says.
‘Yep, see you then,’ I reply casually, but as I walk to my car, I can feel a big smile on my face. Oh, God, do I have a crush on a teacher?
There’s no point worrying about it; it’s just lunch, to talk about the fundraiser, and he thinks I’m Emma, and Emma is married, and blah blah blah, but still. I’m really looking forward to it. I just need to remember who I am… or who I’m pretending to be, anyway.
20
‘I think I have a bit of a crush on one of Henry’s teachers,’ I blurt.
‘Oh, God, that’s kind of gross – which one?’ Marco replies.
We’re currently sitting on the sofa in the kitchen, watching daytime TV, and eating instant noodles, straight out of their plastic tubs, because when Marco asked me what I wanted for lunch, they were the first things that sprang to mind. Well, I have to make real food here, so my usual culinary favourites are severely lacking from my life.
‘It’s not gross. He’s not my teacher,’ I insist with a slightly embarrassed giggle. ‘Whoops.’
A string of noodles slips from my fork and lands on my T-shirt. During the day, when no one else is around, I like to slip out of Emma’s clothes and into my own comfy ones. Today I’m wearing my scruffy trackies and – mostly just to make Marco laugh – one of the smutty Blackpool T-shirts.
‘That’s gross,’ he points out with a laugh. ‘So, go on, which teacher? I feel like I’ve spent my life talking to teachers since I took on manny duties. They really want you to feel like you get your money’s worth, don’t they?’
I smile. It’s nice to have a friend to confide in. I never thought I’d have someone here I could talk to like this.
‘Mr Clegg,’ I confess.
‘Oh, Ella, no, come on,’ Marco says. ‘He’s a drama dork.’
‘Are we not grown adults now?’ I remind him. ‘And are you not a dork?’
‘I’m a nerd, nerds are cool,’ he points out.
‘Sure, sure… anyway, I asked him out for lunch tomorrow,’ I say.
Marco gasps.
‘Ella Emma Cooper, you are a married woman,’ he teases me, as though ticking me off with my full name is best done with my name and my sister’s name mashed together.
‘It’s just to plan the fundraiser,’ I tell him.
‘Is that what the kids are calling it these days, you dirty girl?’ he teases.
I lift the noodle off my top and lean over to drop it in his tub. Then I drink from mine, as if it’s a cup, to get the last of it out.
‘Erm…’
A voice snaps us from our conversation.
‘Rich… hi, erm, what are you doing home?’ I blurt guiltily, as though I were his actual wife, and he’d just walked in on me with another man.
‘Can I have a quick word with you?’ he asks me. ‘In the hallway?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I say.
As I head for the hall, I notice a look on Marco’s face – sort of like when you were at school and another kid would be in trouble, and you’d want to laugh your head off, but you didn’t want to get in trouble too, so it would be more like an amused grin.
‘What’s up, hubby?’ I joke.
‘What’s up? What’s he doing here?’ Rich replies.
‘Marco?’ I reply. ‘We’re friends… look… he knows the truth.’
‘He knows? How does he know?’ Rich asks, panicked.
‘Listen, don’t worry, he rumbled me pretty early on, but now he’s helping me, OK? It’s going to be fine,’ I insist.
‘Ella, he’s a criminal,’ he tells me, in a somehow raised whisper.
‘OK, first of all, he was never charged, so that’s not strictly true,’ I point out. ‘Second of all, snobby much? Your wife is literally in prison right now.’
Rich places his head in his hands.
‘Rich, seriously, he’s all right, I promise,’ I remind him.
‘Regardless, this… this won’t do,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘You look like a student, you smell like a student, you’re acting like a student,’ he rants. ‘You look nothing like Emma right now and, worse still, it’s going to look weird, if you two are hanging around like that – people might think you’re having an affair!’
‘Rich, chill,’ I insist. ‘First of all, no one would ever think Emma was having an affair, because she obviously never ever would. Secondly, I promise you, I’m staying in character when it matters, OK?’
‘This is really important to your sister, Ella,’ he reminds me. God, he looks frazzled.
‘I know, I know – anyway, what are you doing home from work at this time?’ I ask him.
‘I forgot my bag,’ he tells me.
I notice a sports bag, over by the table where his phone is. He must have come back for it and then heard me and Marco joking around and decided to investigate.
I grab his bag and his phone.
‘Listen, get back to work, don’t worry about things here,’ I insist, but as I hand over his phone for a split second the screen springs to life, and it’s in his hand before I know it, but I could swear I saw a love-heart emoji on his screen.
‘Erm… yeah, don’t worry…’ I continue, as I try to compose myself again. ‘Marco is helping me. It’s all going to be fine.’
‘Yeah, all right, OK,’ he says. ‘Sorry. It’s just hard.’
‘I know,’ I tell him, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.
‘OK, see you tonight,’ he says as he slips his phone in his pocket.
‘Yeah, see you later,’ I tell him.
I head back to the sofa and plonk myself down next to Marco.
‘Wow.’ He laughs. ‘You’d think he thought you were having an affair.’
‘You would,’ I reply.
And now I can’t help but wonder if he might be…
21
I arrived for lunch with Christian in the most Emma outfit possible. Something a little more sensible than I’ve been opting for recently, but still stylish, none the less. It’s going to be really hard going back to my high-street wardrobe when all this is done. By the time I get my inheritance, I’ll probably blow the lot on clothes, and do you know what? I wouldn’t even mind. I suppose thoughts like that are why I’m always skint.
We’re at the cutest little café called Joan’s, not too far from the school, which I kind of remember being here from my childhood.
It’s like a proper café, if you know what I mean, not one of those quirky, modern ones with odd themes and meta names and seventy-eight different coffees to choose from.
A very smiley woman, in a navy-blue Joan’s branded polo shirt, carries our food over towards us.
‘Fantastic, I’m starving,’ Christian says, almost excitedly.
The woman places my cheese and pickle sandwich down in front of me. Next, she presents Christian with an omelette and the biggest bowl of curly fries I have ever seen in my life.
‘There you go, Mr Clegg, my love,’ she tells him.
‘Ah, Shirley, you’re a star,’ he tells her. ‘Thank you.’
‘Are you a regular here?’ I ask him once we’re alone.
‘It’s embarrassing how often I eat here,’ he says as he sprinkles pepper on his omelette. ‘I’m trying to go for healthier options though.’
I imagine he’s talking about his omelette but, erm… I just stare at the curly fries.
‘I said trying.’ He laughs. ‘I don’t ask for so many, that’s just what they give me. They’re such friendly ladies here.’
I notice Shirley smiling over at Christian. When her gaze meets mine her smile drops. Wow, is she jealous? It has to be that, unless perhaps Emma has been in here and given her a lectu
re about frying food in the past.
‘How’s your sandwich?’ he asks me. ‘I love the sandwiches here – proper old-fashioned sarnies. Not a panini in sight.’
‘Yeah, it’s really good,’ I reply. ‘Cheese and pickle is my favourite – it could have more pickle in it for me, to be honest.’
‘Uh-oh,’ he replies. ‘If pop culture has taught me anything about women and pickles…’
‘Oh, God, you don’t think I’m pregnant because I’m looking fat too, do you?’ I blurt.
‘What? No! God, no!’ he insists. ‘Sorry, that was an ill-judged pickle joke. I had heard the rumours that you and Rich were trying for another though. I always wish I’d had more than one.’
Wow, it’s astounding how personal information is passed around this village. I’m not surprised Emma was so desperate to keep her time at Her Majesty’s pleasure out of the public domain.
‘Well, no, not pregnant, and I can confidently tell you that we won’t be trying any time soon,’ I point out firmly, suddenly so awkward at the flicker of the suggestion of me and Rich having sex, even though, obviously, Christian thinks I’m Emma.
Instead I focus on the disappointment in Christian’s voice, when he says he wishes he’d had more than one kid.
If this were a romcom, and I were a somewhat unsavoury leading lady, this would be about the time in the movie where I suggest to Christian that I’ll give him another kid, if he helps me get my hands on my inheritance. We’d be in love by the end of the movie, so I hopefully wouldn’t be too unlikeable for my actions, but we’re about ten years too late for me to consider it (and ten years ago I probably felt as if I had all the time in the world). Even if I would consider it, which I really, really wouldn’t – yep, even me – there’s no point now. My birthday is nine months away. I’d probably have the birthday before the baby.
‘At least you’ve got your little Ch-uhh, your little angel,’ I reassure him.
Was his kid called Chad? For some reason I have Chad in my head.
‘Yeah, I love Calvin, don’t get me wrong,’ he says.
Calvin! Not Chad! I really should be writing these down.
‘He’s just… he’s so quiet, and I’m not sure he has any real friends at school. I think he finds it hard.’
‘Oh, no,’ I say. ‘I totally feel for the kid. I didn’t have many friends at school – and it carried on into secondary school for me.’
‘Really?’ he says, his eyebrows shooting up. ‘You seem like the kind of girl who would have been really popular at school.’
Right, that makes sense, because he thinks I’m Emma, and Emma was the most popular girl in my year, and, no, that didn’t help my social standing at all.
‘Thanks, I think,’ I reply with a smile.
‘It’s been a year or so, but you can tell he misses his mum,’ he says. ‘But she’d rather be living in London, with her banker boyfriend.’
He grits his teeth as he says the word ‘banker’, as though he wishes he were pronouncing it with a different letter.
‘What kind of things does Calvin like?’ I ask.
‘He’s really into nature. Loves being outside, fascinated by bugs. He’s such a curious kid. Does Henry ever mention him?’ he asks. ‘They’re in the same classes, so perhaps he notices things?’
Oh, OK, so Henry and Calvin are in the same year. In that case…
‘Why don’t the two of you come over for a play date?’ I suggest, hoping a play date is a real thing people say and not just something I’ve picked up from American TV shows.
‘What, really?’ Christian says as his face comes back to life. ‘Emma, that would be amazing. I think that’s all he needs, just a chance to make some proper friends.’
‘Yeah, no worries,’ I say with a bat of my hand. ‘Henry is always happy to have friends over, so…’
‘Well, maybe we can use the time while they’re playing to do some proper planning,’ he suggests. ‘Because we’ve just chatted this lunch away.’
I look at my watch.
‘Oh my gosh, we have. It’s just flown by,’ I say. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting Marco in ten minutes, to do some revamping of the village website.’
And I’m pretty sure Emma wouldn’t ever be late.
‘Marco…’ Christian starts. ‘Hmm, is that Joshua Mancini’s uncle?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply – I didn’t know his last name, but he’s definitely Josh’s uncle.
Christian scrunches up his face.
‘Watch that one,’ he says.
‘Watch him?’ I reply.
‘Yeah, I’ve heard some rumours about him, sounds like a shady tosser,’ he replies. ‘And he sent Joshua to school with an Easter egg in the first week of term.’
‘God forbid,’ I say with a laugh, quickly stopping as soon as I realise, he isn’t kidding.
‘Well, yeah, thanks, I’ll watch my back,’ I say, but I’m not going to cry if he gives me an Easter egg. It’s not like the shops aren’t selling them already.
‘I tell you what, I’ll give you my number,’ Christian says. He searches for a pen in his pocket and writes it on one of the cheap serviettes. ‘We have literally no life, at all, so just call us when you think is best to get the boys together, and then we’ll talk about the fundraiser… which is just before half-term, remember. It will sneak up on us in no time.’
It certainly will, because I genuinely have no idea when half-term is. Will I even still be here then?
‘OK, great, I’ll give you a call. We’ll put something in the diary,’ I reply – something I’ve also heard on TV.
‘See you next time, Shirley,’ he says as we walk through the door. ‘Excellent curly fries, as always.’
‘And, I’ll be seeing you soon too,’ he says to me as he walks me to my car. ‘Again, thank you so, so much for your offer. You don’t know what it means to me.’
Christian pulls me close and hugs me. He squeezes tightly, just for a second, before quickly letting go of me and putting a few feet of distance between us. He looks at his feet, as if the reality of him hugging a parent has just set in, before he politely says goodbye and heads off towards the school.
I hate to say it, because I know I shouldn’t say it – I shouldn’t even be thinking it, but… it’s true. I have a crush on Christian.
When he touched me just now, I felt a shiver down my back and heard a voice in my head that told me that a man like Christian is exactly the kind of man I need in my life. Someone normal – but not perfect; I mean, he swears quite a lot, he eats shit, and his office is a genuine dump – but he’s nothing like the hot messes I usually date.
If anyone is my usual type, it’s Marco. Crashing with his family, jobless, chasing some ridiculous get-rich-quick dream, while possibly the police are chasing him. Sure, he’s gorgeous, and a lot of fun to be around, but it also sounds like he’s had his heart broken, and he’s got a bit of a time-bomb vibe – which is usually how people describe me, which is all the more reason I need someone like Christian in my life. Someone sensible and stable – both qualities I’ve always lacked myself, and I’ve never found in a partner, or even a friend.
OK, how about I tell myself this: Christian is exactly the kind of person Emma would spend time with, and helping out a kid with no friends is probably a very Emma move, now at least – she didn’t care too much how unpopular I was when I was at school.
I just need to forget the crush, forget how good Christian could be for me, and just get on with the job I came here to do.
Speaking of jobs, I’m going to be late to meet Marco if I don’t set off now. I’ve got the work emails coming back through to Emma’s phone now – it turns out she’d disabled her notifications – and I’ve been mentally planning all the things I’m going to do to make the website better, with Marco’s help, of course.
I’m just going to focus on that for now, because I’m only meddling with the website to make it better, but otherwise I’m just supposed to be keeping Emma’s life th
e same.
Potentially making it worse is absolutely not an option.
22
I don’t know why I was expecting Marco to be workshy… I suppose it’s the semi-slippery nature of the way he operates, and the big pay-offs rather than a steady wage, that tricked me into thinking he wasn’t the type to sit around and put in the hard work. Turns out I had him all wrong.
Marco is currently showing me the new website – live – because he’s been working on it at home, in his free time, for no money – and, wow, it looks amazing.
‘The new design is really polished,’ he explains as he navigates me around the site. ‘It’s the perfect balance of minimal design and punchy, visual calls to action, leading your eyes instantly to the most important bits of information.’
I don’t completely understand what he’s saying but it sounds good, and the website certainly looks good. And Marco seems so proud of his work, which is just so nice to see. He comes alive when he knows what he’s talking about. He’s already a pretty confident person anyway, but when it’s his time to shine, it’s as if a few extra light bulbs flick on, and it’s ridiculously sexy… even if it is totally nerdy.
‘You’ve done such an amazing job,’ I tell him. ‘The guys out there aren’t going to be able to say a bad word about it.’
‘There’s more to do, too, that will make it run even better. SEO, finding better ways to monetise it… I’ll crack on with it now, if you like?’ he suggests.
‘You’re a dream,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you. I’m just about to submit my replies to some of the latest problem letters. It’s funny, I found this book of my mum’s – the last one she wrote before she died – and I’ve been searching it for answers to the questions sent in, and I just disagree with her on so many points.’
‘Oh, really, like what?’ he asks curiously.
‘Well, like this one man who has written in, saying his son is acting up, because he feels like his parents are always breathing down his neck, and they’re worried he’s up to something… Going off my mum’s advice, you should be in your kid’s business as much as possible, they shouldn’t have an ounce of privacy. And that totally checks out, because we weren’t allowed a lock on the bathroom doors until we were well into our teens.’
Faking It Page 14
