Faking It

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘You never cease to amaze me, Ella,’ he replies. ‘Not just with your stories, but with your criminal damage rap sheet.’

  ‘I guess that’s my go-to,’ I reply. ‘But that’s how you hit rich people where it hurts.’

  ‘And potentially how you end up in the cell next to your sister,’ he adds.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I reply. ‘But that’s why I’m trying to make amends.’

  ‘Well, OK, let’s get digging,’ he says.

  It’s cold out, and quite dark without the bigger outside lights on. We’re at the side of the house, so not in Rich’s eyeline, if he’s still downstairs watching TV, but I don’t want to take any chances. We’re looking pretty dodgy right now.

  We both search through the flower beds, careful not to disturb any of the plants, but we don’t find anything.

  ‘My hands are seizing up, it’s so cold,’ I say, dropping the trowel for a second to rub my hands together. ‘There was nothing here but mud when I buried it.’

  ‘If they’ve had it all landscaped, it might be gone,’ Marco points out.

  He stabs his trowel into the soil, dusting off his hands before he rubs my arms to keep me warm.

  ‘You don’t understand. I have to make amends,’ I tell him. ‘I can’t have this hanging over me, I really can’t.’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling this is about so much more than the hand of a statue?’ he says softly.

  ‘Sorry, I was reading my mum’s book earlier, and now I’m thinking about what’s going to happen to me, if I don’t put this right, and if perhaps my negative behaviour is the reason for my, shall we say, negative life.’

  I sigh.

  ‘This coming from the woman who wanted to report the Blackpool fortune teller to the fraud squad,’ Marco reminds me.

  ‘I didn’t like the way she said my pink aura made me highly sensitive,’ I tell him.

  ‘Yeah, because you’re not highly sensitive at all.’ He laughs. ‘She told me I didn’t even have an aura.’

  ‘That checks out,’ I joke.

  Marco stops rubbing my arms and instead wraps his arms around me to keep me warm.

  ‘It’s not that I think something magical is at play,’ I insist. ‘I meant it quite literally. Am I a negative person who seeks out negative things?’

  ‘Of course, you’re not,’ Marco replies with a reassuring smile. ‘Ella, I don’t think you realise just how amazing you are.’

  ‘I’m not amazing, I’m ridiculous,’ I insist. ‘This isn’t me having a pity party, this is just me stating the facts, and the facts are—’

  Marco plants his lips on mine. He kisses me, lightly, just for a few seconds, before he releases me again.

  ‘Was that just to shut me up?’ I ask, a little taken aback, and with no idea what else to say. Thinking about it, that probably wasn’t my finest line.

  ‘It was only partly to shut you up,’ he tells me. ‘It was mostly because I’ve wanted to do it for a really long time, but I figured your fake husband might frown upon it.’

  I bite my bottom lip gently as I wonder what to do next.

  This time I kiss him, with a little more passion, for just a few seconds longer.

  ‘Do you want to come inside?’ I ask him.

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea,’ he replies. ‘Your fake husband really wouldn’t appreciate that.’

  ‘Come with me,’ I insist. ‘Quickly – and quietly.’

  We sneak around into the back garden, only just stepping around the corner, so we’re not in view of the bi-folding doors.

  ‘Follow my lead, OK?’

  I place my hands on the side of the pergola and test one of the lower pieces with my foot.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Marco whispers in disbelief. ‘Are you climbing up the wall?’

  ‘I used to do it all the time, it’s fine,’ I insist as I finally make my first move. Thankfully it holds my weight.

  ‘When you were a kid,’ he reminds me. ‘I’m a grown man, it’ll never hold my weight.’

  ‘Chicken,’ I tease – which is very much something a kid would say – before I clamber up on top of the pergola and then over the little wall to the terrace.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this.’ Marco laughs to himself as he follows my lead. He makes it to the top and, right as he swings his body over the little wall, the pergola makes a snapping sound.

  We both peer back over the terrace wall, and it looks absolutely fine, but I don’t think it would have taken Marco’s weight for another second, and I’m not sure it’s going to be safe for anyone to do it again – if it ever was. My last act of teenage rebellion.

  I find the key and let us into Rich’s office, which is in total darkness, apart from the light coming in from the moon outside.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re sneaking me into your room,’ Marco whispers, pulling me close for a moment as he runs his hands up and down my back. ‘That’s kind of hot.’

  ‘I’m technically sneaking you into someone else’s room,’ I reply.

  ‘Well, that’s even hotter,’ he says, leaning in for another kiss. This time I quickly pull away.

  ‘Wait,’ I tell him. ‘Wait until we’re upstairs.’

  This sounds like me being sexy, making him wait, but it isn’t. I’m just worried if I start kissing him again here, I won’t be able to stop.

  I lock the terrace door behind us before we sneak towards the hallway. I check the landing for things like husbands, children or dogs. Once I’m sure the coast is clear I grab Marco by the hand and drag him towards the door that leads up to the third floor. Once we’re through it, and it’s closed behind us, we start kissing again. Marco picks me up so I lock my legs around his waist. He carries me up the stairs, eventually dropping me down on the bed, once he works out where it is with some impressive peripheral vision.

  I watch as he takes off his jacket and peels off his T-shirt to reveal his muscular torso. Marco’s body tells me that he’s no stranger to the gym. My body tells people that the only working out I do is what my pizza is going to cost me with my ‘20 per cent off’ code. But do you know what? I genuinely don’t think Marco cares about where I’m squashy, or the parts of my legs I haven’t shaved, and while I’m sure he’ll tease me for the tramp-stamp tattoo I regret having done as an act of rebellion on my eighteenth birthday, I just know he’s not going to kick me out of bed for it. And because of that, I don’t really care either.

  ‘Smarty, play romance music,’ I command, just loud enough for it to hear, as I wrestle my top over my head.

  I don’t need to worry about anyone hearing the music – they certainly don’t hear The Beach Boys every morning.

  ‘All right, playing music by My Chemical Romance,’ she replies.

  I launch my top across the room before leaning over the bed to unplug the Smarty from under the bedside table.

  ‘Why do people even have these things? They’re useless,’ I say with a breathless laugh.

  ‘It’s the thought that counts,’ Marco replies as he climbs back onto the bed. ‘They listen to everything all the time anyway.’

  ‘Oh, well, I definitely don’t want them listening to this,’ I tell him, pulling him down on top of me so that we can pick up where we left off.

  Call it a bit of a delayed reaction but a voice in my head has just pointed out what I’m doing. I’m kissing Marco – I’m in bed with him, my sister’s bed, no less. How very, truly Ella of me. I couldn’t think of anything more on-brand. And I’m doing exactly what I said I shouldn’t do, the very thing I worried about, the thing I’ve told myself all along was a bad idea. It doesn’t feel wrong though, being in bed with Marco (apart from feeling wrong in the sexiest of ways, obviously) it feels right.

  I just need to make sure I find a way to sneak him out of here in the morning. Because wouldn’t it be terrible if my husband caught us…?

  40

  What are you wearing?

  I blush as I read Marco’s message
. There’s something about getting sexy messages when you’re in a public place that makes you blush something fierce. I know that I’m the only person that can see my phone screen but it still feels like something hot in my hand.

  Behave yourself. I’m working.

  I’m currently at Henry’s school, getting things ready for tonight. School is still in session, for another fifteen minutes at least, and then it’s officially half-term. This means that, not only have I successfully got the kids through to their break under my watch, but tonight is the big fundraiser we’ve all been looking forward to.

  I do find it amusing that people pay so much for their kids to come here, but then essentially have a whip-round as soon as something needs paying for. That said, this fundraiser is worth every penny, because it’s going to be epic.

  Rather than the school just essentially extending an open hand and seeing what people give them, the fundraisers are more like fancy parties for the parents, with the proceeds just happening to go back into the school, which is good. It’s going to be one hell of an event, and it had quite the budget behind it, so everything is amazing.

  For some of the decorations they’ve actually had the students creating things in their art lessons. So we have our massive toilet-paper sculpture from the school dance scene in Grease, and we’ve got this beautiful dark blue material that we’re going to hang on the wall, covered in twinkling stars and the iconic face of the man in the moon from Moulin Rouge!, which is my absolutely favourite musical, and I wish so much that I were dressing as Satine tonight, but I really didn’t think that would go down well with the Parents’ Association.

  I’m currently dragging a life-sized papier-mâché Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors across the room, which is absolutely incredible; I can’t believe kids made this.

  So far, it’s just me and a couple of other volunteers, setting things up for this evening, but once the school day is over and the kids go home Christian and a few other teachers will be in to help too.

  I haven’t spoken to Christian since I cancelled our plans, and he hasn’t even tried to contact me, but it’s probably for the best. He’s a lovely man, and I enjoyed hanging out with him, but I don’t imagine Emma wants to continue a friendship with him when she gets her life back in just over a week.

  I can’t believe my time here is nearly done. It feels as if it’s flown by, but I’m not all that worried about what comes next any more, not now I’ve found Marco. We’re kind of a thing – not that we’ve labelled it or anything, but we’ve been sneaking around like a couple of lovesick teenagers all week.

  I check my phone the second I feel it buzz again, because every message from him is like a drug to me; I just can’t get enough of them. Two messages from him this time.

  I meant what are you wearing tonight. I wish you’d tell me.

  I can see that you’re working – look out of the window.

  I glance around the room until I spot him standing outside. As soon as I have eyes on him, Marco presses his face up against the glass and pretends to kiss it.

  I reply…

  Careful, someone might see you… Thanks for picking Henry up for me. Just want to make sure everything is perfect for tonight.

  I see him typing on his phone, as well as the little dots on my screen that tell me he’s replying. A man who texts back straight away – did you know such a man existed?

  No problem. Have you seen this?

  An image comes through. It’s a selfie that Millie took of the two of us the other night, in our facemasks, watching Pretty Woman.

  My brother found out Tom was at the party and had me block his social media access on his computer. It was the first thing on his newsfeed so it caught my eye.

  You can tell how much she loves you. But how many teenagers have an auntie who will commit criminal damage to get back at a boy for them?

  I smile to myself as I reply.

  I’m so glad she knows the truth. I’m really happy with the way things are working out. And I’m really looking forward to tonight.

  I make an attempt to continue shifting Audrey II while I wait for his reply to come through.

  I can’t wait to get my hands on you later. Whatever you’re wearing, it won’t be on for long.

  I glance back towards the window, only to see that Marco has vanished. I look at my watch and see that it’s home time, so I’d better get a move on.

  Just when I didn’t think I could possibly be looking forward to tonight any more, suddenly, I’m even more excited. I just need to finish up here, get home, squeeze into my outfit, curl my hair, and hope that the fake cigarettes I ordered through the Smarty have arrived, because I’m really going all out to look the part.

  I can’t wait for Marco to see my outfit, and I really can’t wait to see what he’s wearing. Even if it does sound like we won’t be keeping them on for too long…

  41

  I’m going to say it: I look awesome. I may not be as thin as Olivia Newton John (I read somewhere that they had to sew her into the leather pants she wore in Grease), and I sound more like a character from Hollyoaks than an Australian babe, but I am really feeling this look.

  Disclaimer: my pants are not leather, they’re like super-shiny Lycra, so there wasn’t much squeeze into them to do at all, instead they stretched to fit me. I’m wearing a black form-fitting Bardot top, with a sweetheart neck, almost exactly like the one bad girl Sandy wears, and I’ve given myself big curls and sexy make-up to truly look the part. And then there’s the sky-high heeled sandals.

  My fake cigarettes arrived in time, and they’re just like the ones I bought from a joke shop when I was a kid. They appear partially smoked, with a fake burned end, and they’re packed with some kind of powder so that when you ‘smoke’ it looks as if smoke comes out; you just have to remember to blow, not suck.

  Rich looks wonderful in his ‘Danny at the dance’ costume. I reckon he chose the suit because it was the least out of his comfort zone, but the bright pink shirt and the black wig are not the type of look I’ve ever seen him sporting. Still, I think he feels cool in his outfit, and he’s clearly so excited for the evening, because he has the biggest smile on his face, genuinely, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘Hello,’ the host greets us cheerily – I think his name is Andrew, but I wouldn’t put money on it. It’s hard when people think you already know their names, because they don’t often have cause to say it to you again randomly.

  ‘Aren’t you both looking fantastic?’ he says. ‘That’s you both ticked off my list, you can head inside, but just before you do, we have a number of karaoke slots so that parents can show off their own musical skills, up on stage with our band. What do you say?’

  ‘Not a chance, pal,’ Rich tells him, making a move to head inside.

  ‘Erm, yeah, let me think about that,’ I say politely. ‘I’ll just check my coat for now, please.’

  ‘OK, well, slots are filling up fast, so don’t wait too long,’ he replies.

  I don’t think I fancy taking to this stage in front of this judgemental lot, and I don’t reckon Emma would be too happy with me hamming it up in front of all of her friends either.

  Now that it’s dark outside and the fundraiser is in full swing the place really does look amazing. We’re in the large school hall that opens up into an outdoor quad, which is usually surrounded by classrooms, but today the walls and windows have twinkling stars projected onto them.

  Inside the hall, up on the stage, the band are already doing their thing, currently performing a rather funky rendition of ‘Time Warp’. They’re doing such a fabulous job, I’m actually glad the original band pulled out.

  ‘I’m going to see if I can find Marco,’ I tell Rich. ‘And do the rounds, saying hello to everyone.’

  ‘I’m going to go find Alan Rodgers, see if he went through with the Edna from Hairspray costume he’s been threatening,’ he replies.

  God, I really hope he has.

  I
admire my own work – and the work of everyone else involved – as I walk around the room looking for Marco.

  Eventually I spot him, on the dance floor, doing the Time Warp. I almost don’t recognise him, in his costume, given how committed he is to looking the part.

  ‘Marco, look at you,’ I squeak as I approach him.

  He’s dressed as Danny from Grease, from the final scene in the fun house, where he’s wearing his usual black trousers and a tight black sleeveless vest, except he’s wearing a white and red replica Rydell High cardigan over it, just as the character does when he’s trying to be good. Most notably, he’s shaved away his stubble, and he’s managed to slick his own hair into that iconic greased-back style.

  ‘Oh, Emma, darling, look at you,’ one of the mums slurs at me.

  I recognise her as the woman who gave me Herman – I really hope she doesn’t ask about him, RIP – but I still don’t know her name. She’s dressed as Tracy from Hairspray and she’s absolutely nailing it. Just imagine a forty-something version of Tracy with a glass of wine in her hand and about six or seven under her belt.

  ‘Thanks. You look amazing too,’ I tell her.

  ‘Thanks, lovely,’ she replies. ‘Link was the only costume I could talk Peter into– it’s not much different from his usual look, is it? I told him I wanted to be characters from Frozen and do you know what he said?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘He said “Erica, piss off” – can you imagine?’

  As Erica gestures with her hands wildly she sloshes a little wine out of her glass, which makes her cackle like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  ‘Oh, “You’re The One That I Want”, this is your song,’ she tells me, pointing to the band, just in case I wasn’t sure what she was referring to.