Faking It: The most hilarious and laugh out loud page turner you’ll read this year!

by Rebecca Smith

  I nod my head and gather my thoughts and then I throw myself onto the sacrificial altar.

  ‘You’re right,’ I lie. ‘I’m laughing because I wrote Ashley Dunsford a detention note.’

  Dogger pads across the hallway and stares at me balefully.

  ‘You are a terrible parent,’ my daughter lovingly hisses. ‘There are literally hundreds of people at our school and yet you decided to single him out. Why couldn’t you have chosen another kid to punish?’

  I push myself off the ground and look her in the eye, my relieved laughing fit over. I don’t need her to tell me that I’m not going to be winning Mother of the Year anytime soon. I’m pretty sure that the award criterion doesn’t include spending your days trying to figure out the sexiest way to describe a penis.

  Although for what it’s worth, in my esteemed opinion there is no sexy way to describe a penis.

  ‘Because it wasn’t “another kid” who was vandalising school property with a can of spray paint, was it?’ I give her a firm look. ‘It was Ashley Dunsford and quite frankly, he should consider himself extremely fortunate that I only gave him a detention and not community service or a prison sentence.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s your jurisdiction, is it?’ enquires Nick, relief plastered across his face. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’

  ‘Can we get back to the game?’ Benji asks Dylan. ‘I think Scarlet’s stopped yelling at Mum now.’

  Dylan nods but I see him giving me another curious glance before he disappears back into the living room and I know that he’s suspicious. I’m going to have to cover my tracks even more carefully if he’s going to start sniffing around my business.

  ‘Have you stopped yelling?’ I ask Scarlet, once the door is closed.

  She nods, her face flushing pink.

  ‘And do you have anything else that you’d like to say to me?’ I enquire. The terror that my secret was out is abating and I’m ready to address the appalling manners of my daughter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbles and I resist the urge to ask her to enunciate her apology more clearly. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I was just really embarrassed that you’d given Ashley a detention. It makes me look bad.’

  ‘It doesn’t have anything to do with you,’ I tell her. ‘He did something stupid and now he has to deal with the consequences. That’s the end of it.’

  ‘I just thought that he might, you know…’ Scarlet shuffles from one foot to the other. ‘He might blame me for you giving him a detention and then he might go off me.’

  ‘Oh darling, that’s not going to happen!’ I say.

  More’s the pity.

  ‘Not that I really like him anymore,’ she rushes on. ‘So don’t go thinking that I care or anything, because I don’t. I’ve got bigger stuff going on like running for Head Girl, which is way more important than boys.’

  She pauses and flicks her hair over one shoulder. ‘And he doesn’t even think about me like that now we’re in the Sixth Form. Obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ I agree, as she starts to head up the stairs. ‘But perhaps you could inform him that if I catch him graffitiing the words “Scarlett Thompson Is Blazing” on the wall of the gym ever again, I will not be held accountable for my actions.’

  Her head whips round.

  ‘Is that what he wrote?’ she asks. ‘Oh my god! He’s such a dick. I’m never going to live this down at school. I’m mortified!’

  The huge grin plastered across her face suggests otherwise.

  ‘You can also tell him that Scarlet is spelled with just one “t”. If he likes you enough to get a detention for you he should take the time to learn how to correctly spell your name.’

  But my words are lost in a draught of floral body spray as Scarlet dashes upstairs, her phone out and her thumbs darting across the screen as she rushes to update her friends on this new and scintillating detail.

  ‘Here you go, Hannah.’ Nick hands me a mug as I step inside the kitchen. ‘That was a bit of a close call, wasn’t it?’

  I shudder and wrap my hands around the warm tea.

  ‘I really thought they’d found out about the book,’ I tell him. ‘I think I’ve aged about ten years in the last ten minutes.’

  Nick nods and sinks down onto a chair. ‘I know what you mean. But I suppose we should think about what we’re going to say when they do find out. Because they will find out, Hannah – you know they will.’

  I sit down next to him, resisting the urge to ditch the tea and pour a glass of wine instead.

  ‘We can’t let that happen,’ I tell him. ‘They are in no way mature enough to understand what I’m doing – they’d totally get the wrong end of the stick and it’d all get completely out of hand.’

  He nods again thoughtfully and stares out of the window. ‘We’re just going to have to be more careful. You can’t panic like that again – you almost told them everything.’

  I make a huffing sound. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t think about that when you sent off my manuscript to an agent then, isn’t it? None of this would even be a thing if you and Cassie hadn’t stuck your big noses into my business.’

  He turns to look at me, the corner of his mouth twitching. ‘Right. So you wish we hadn’t helped to launch your porn writing career, then? You hate everything about it and you’re never going to write another word?’

  For the love of all that is holy. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him fifty gazillion times; I do not write porn. I write tasteful, informative and highly accurate erotica.

  And I don’t hate it.

  I actually love it.

  It’s the first time in forever that I’ve had something that is purely just for me and, on the days when I’m stressed about my teaching job or the kids are driving me insane or everything just seems like hard work, my writing is a warm little secret. It makes me feel special and daring and unique.

  I take a sip of tea and think about what just happened. Nick does have a point. The kids don’t know about the book but I almost blew the whole thing. I’m going to have to be much cooler if I want to maintain my anonymity, which I absolutely must do at all costs. There’s no way that I can allow anyone to find out about my side-hustle. Other than Nick, my best friend Cassie, and my mother, nobody knows that Twinky Malone, the author of More Than Sex, is really me – and they never can.

  I’ve shared every aspect of myself since becoming a wife and a mother but I’m not sharing this. Even if sometimes I want to shout about my triumphs from the rooftops, I know that I have to keep quiet. Not that I don’t imagine myself being interviewed on daytime television sometimes (mostly when I’m in the bath after having drunk a couple of glasses on Wine Wednesday). The presenter will ask me how I came to write erotic fiction and I will smile at her coyly before telling her what I told myself on the day that I stumbled onto this particular side-hustle.

  I wanted a job that I loved and I wanted my teenagers to see me as more than just ‘Mum’. I also needed to make some money so I had a good, long think about what sells and the answer was right there because, as everybody knows, there is one thing in the world that has always sold.

  Sex. Sex sells. So I decided to have a go at writing erotica because I thought it would be easy, but I can tell you right now. It’s hard. Very, very hard.

  And that is usually where my fantasy ends because by then, one of my delightful children is usually hammering on the bathroom door and demanding that I vacate my bubble bath because they need a wee and they need it now…

  Chapter Two

  It’s Friday night and I’ve invited my mother to join us for a nice, relaxing family meal. One day I’m sure that I’ll figure out that those four words don’t belong in the same sentence, but that day is clearly not today.

  I serve up plates of my specialty dish and sink into my seat, reaching gratefully for my glass before remembering that I am absolutely determined to complete Dry September and, as I have somehow managed to make it to the fifth day of the mont
h without a single drop of alcohol, a glass of wine is out of the question. Which is a shame because, in retrospect, September was not the wisest of months to choose for this particular challenge. I’d probably be finding it a bit easier if I’d chosen a nice relaxing month like July, rather than the horror that is Back-To-School, especially when we’ve got Off-To-University to contend with too, not to mention the fact that I’m supposed to be writing the sequel to my first book.

  I spent a large part of today at The Daily Grind, our local coffee shop, trying to get started and I’m actually pretty tired. Unless you’ve ever tried to write a book it’s impossible to understand how challenging and exhausting it is just to even think of an appropriate title. I tried for several hours before deciding that it was probably acceptable to refer to it as Book Two (untitled) and that maybe my time would be better spent trying to think of a plot.

  ‘Cheers!’ I say, to the table at large, raising my glass of water. ‘Bon appetit.’

  ‘This looks lovely, darling,’ says my mum. ‘What do you call it?’

  ‘Pesto pasta,’ I tell her. ‘With sausages.’

  ‘I was thinking about going out tomorrow.’ Scarlet’s voice is suspiciously nonchalant. ‘Is that okay with you guys? And can I borrow your scarf?’

  I mentally review the calendar. We don’t have any plans for this weekend and quite honestly, with the way that Scarlet and Dylan are always winding each other up these days, it might be a bit of a relief to have her out of the house for a few hours.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say, scooping up a forkful of pasta. ‘And if you mean the scarf that Dad gave me for my birthday then yes, you can borrow it as long as you don’t lose it. So where are you going?’

  Scarlet makes a mumbling sound and when I glance up at her she is smiling at me so sweetly that it instantly makes my blood run cold. I know this look and it only heralds the start of bad things.

  ‘I didn’t quite catch that, sweetheart,’ I tell her, returning my laden fork to the plate. ‘Where are you going? And who are you going with?’

  Scarlet takes a long swig from her glass. I know this tactic. She’s stalling for time while she tries to decide how much of the truth to tell me. I need to be alert and on top of my game. This is not a time for taking my eye off the ball and I may well require backup. Surreptitiously, I reach out my foot and try to kick Nick on the ankle.

  ‘Ow,’ howls my mother. ‘That was my leg!’

  ‘Oh god, Mum – I’m so sorry!’ I wince sympathetically and reach across to put my hand on her arm. ‘I was aiming for Nick, not you.’

  We both glance at my husband who is deep in conversation with Dylan and Benji about an article he read in his latest Land Rover magazine.

  ‘I think you’re going to need more than a kick to get his attention,’ murmurs Mum. ‘He hasn’t stopped banging on about that ridiculous vehicle since I got here.’

  I turn back to Scarlet and wait patiently until she has drained every last drop of water in her glass. She blinks twice (which I happen to know is another one of her tells and suggests that she’s keen to introduce some kind of conflict to our relaxing evening meal) and then sits back in her chair, attempting a look of extreme relaxation.

  ‘I’m just going to hang out at a friend’s house,’ she informs me, her voice impressively casual. ‘Nothing exciting.’

  I lean back in my own chair. We are like two cowboys facing off in a Spaghetti Western, the kitchen our OK Corral.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say, my voice dripping with insouciance. ‘Not unless this friend has a name.’

  Scarlet scowls. ‘What difference does it make whether they have a name or not? Why do you need to know?’

  I scowl back. ‘I need to know their name so that I know where they live. If you think I’m letting you go off without us knowing where you are, then you’re daft.’

  ‘She is incredibly daft,’ Dylan informs me, joining in the entertainment. ‘So she probably did think that.’

  ‘I’ll have my mobile though, won’t I?’ Scarlet rolls her eyes and I grit my teeth. I’m determined to enjoy a pleasant family mealtime even if it kills me and I’m not going to let her goad me into shouting at her. ‘You can ring me whenever you want to.’

  I smile at her, hoping that I’m hiding my insincerity. ‘No name and address – no hanging out. It’s that simple. Now can you pass the water jug please, Dylan?’

  ‘There’s no need to be snarky about it,’ she sniffs. ‘God – it’s like living in a prison. I’m applying to be the Head Girl at school, you know? You’d think my own mother would treat me with a bit of respect.’

  I do know that she’s applying to be the Head Girl. Possibly because she has mentioned it approximately seventy-five times a day since nominating herself.

  ‘You’re very lucky, Hannah,’ my mother tells me. I raise one eyebrow, wondering what it is about this particular exchange that labels me as blessed. ‘When you were a teenager I had no way of knowing what you were up to. If you went out for the evening I just had to hope you eventually came back – I couldn’t stalk you, the way you do with your kids. There was none of this Track My Phone business back then, oh no.’

  She. Did. Not. Just. Say. That.

  This calls for some instant damage limitation.

  ‘Oooooh, snap!’ crows Dylan, tipping back in his chair. ‘This should be interesting.’

  ‘Yes, well – what we’re actually talking about here is—’

  ‘Track my what, now?’ Scarlet’s voice is so chilly that my arms erupt with goose bumps. ‘What is Granny talking about, Mum?’

  I laugh merrily. ‘Oh, nothing darling! She’s just a bit confused. Technology can be rather baffling to the older generation, you know? So, as I was saying—’

  ‘I am neither confused nor baffled,’ barks my mother, slamming her fork onto the table. ‘And quite honestly, Hannah, I resent the implication that just because I’m no longer in my youth then I don’t have a clue. I’m surprised at you, I really am. You need to be a bit less judgemental about others.’

  ‘Burn!’ snorts my oldest and most disloyal child, while Scarlet holds her hands in the air.

  ‘Preach it, Granny.’

  I shoot them both a quick glare and then turn back to my mum.

  ‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ I tell her, soothingly. ‘It’s just that all this silly talk about stalking makes it sound more devious than it really is and I don’t want Scarlet getting the wrong idea.’

  I don’t want Scarlet getting any idea about it at all, full stop. So thank you very much, Mother. You’ve just completely destroyed my cover.

  ‘Have you been tracking me?’ asks Scarlet and my goose bumps disappear under the heat of her fierce gaze. ‘Tell me the truth.’

  ‘It’s called maternal protection,’ I snap back. ‘And you should be thanking me for keeping you safe.’

  ‘It’s called stalking!’ howls my daughter. ‘And it’s a complete invasion of my privacy! I can’t believe you sometimes, Mum.’

  ‘I told you it’d end in tears, Hannah,’ my mother helpfully adds. ‘No good can ever come from meddling in your child’s business.’

  The irony of this sentence is clearly completely lost on her.

  ‘For the record, I’ve known about this for ages,’ says Dylan, smirking smugly at his sister. ‘It’s not really a problem unless you’re going somewhere that you shouldn’t be.’

  ‘Don’t lie,’ snaps Scarlet. ‘You’ve just disabled the app on your phone.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve—’ I start, turning to Dylan but Scarlet interrupts me.

  ‘Well, you don’t need me to give you my friend’s name then, do you?’ she says, narrowing her eyes at me. ‘Not when you can follow my every move from the comfort of the sofa. God. It’s so pathetic.’

  ‘I don’t track you from the comfort of the sofa,’ I hiss. ‘I’d be so lucky. No – I’m too busy running around picking up all the half-empty cups of tea that you leave strewn around the
place as if it’s a hotel.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ Scarlet’s face is screwed up in fury. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  My weak attempt at regaining the moral high ground is obviously failing.

  Nick finally stops his fascinating monologue about Betty the Land Rover’s rust problem and looks across at us. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Our daughter wants to hang out with a friend,’ I inform him, retreating to a safer foothold. ‘A friend who has no name.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ says Benji, through a mouthful of pasta. ‘Imagine having no name.’

  Scarlet groans under her breath.

  ‘Why are you so stupid?’ she asks him. ‘Like, actually? It’s a genuine question. How have you even survived this long with so few brain cells?’

  Benji wrinkles up his face, the way he always does when he gets upset and I leap in before Scarlet’s attempt to distract us from the real conversation is a success.

  ‘I’m assuming that your reluctance to share information means that it’s a boy?’ I enquire. ‘Does he go to school with you? Have I taught him?’

  My daughter shakes her head. ‘I didn’t say that it was a boy, did I?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum,’ adds Dylan. ‘Did you just assume her sexuality?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ Scarlet retorts. ‘She makes out like she knows everything but she doesn’t actually have a clue about what it’s like to be Gen Z.’

  ‘Who are we talking about?’ asks Nick, looking confused. ‘And why?’

  ‘I just want to hang out with some friends, Dad,’ Scarlet tells him, throwing him a huge smile. ‘Tomorrow evening. I was just checking that you guys didn’t have any plans.’

  Nick smiles back at her. ‘It’s fine with me,’ he says. ‘I’m intending on spending most of the weekend underneath Betty, sorting out her under-carriage.’