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

by Rebecca Smith

  Nick smiles and puts his arm around me. ‘He’s trekking to Base Camp, not climbing to the summit,’ he tells me. ‘And he’ll be fine. He’s not a duffer. He just wants an adventure, that’s all.’

  I take another swig of wine. Dylan isn’t a duffer, I know that. None of our kids are. It’s just hard having to take a step back and watch them get on with their lives when what they want to do doesn’t involve me.

  But what I’m doing right now doesn’t involve them either. Maybe I need to stop constantly focusing on their lives and sort my own out. They aren’t the only ones allowed to get out there and have adventures and take risks and I have got to stop waiting for someone to give me permission to live my best life.

  Sex Con is happening and I can step up and start behaving like a grown-up or I can faff around worrying about whether or not I really deserve to be there and waste this incredible opportunity.

  I wake up on Friday morning and leap out of bed with a spring in my step. If Dylan can go to Everest then I can climb my own mountain. I will take charge of the things that are bothering me and I will stop waiting for someone else to solve my problems. It’s time to take control. This morning I will deal with the small issue of finding clothes that will be appropriate attire for a Sex Goddess and this afternoon I will address my other issue and turn myself into an effective, proactive parent and finally deal with what’s going on with my daughter.

  Town is absolutely heaving but I am a woman on a mission. We’re going to be eating baked beans on toast for the next six weeks to make up for my purchases but I am determined to have no regrets. This is absolutely the last spending I’ll be doing for a while and I intend to make it count. I know that this is utterly reckless when we’re so low on cash and I recently spent out on the jumpsuit but it was payday yesterday and I just can’t see any other options. Besides, I’m intending on buying an outfit that will make me feel good, not like a sex fetishist. I’m bound to be able to get tons of use out of whatever I buy today.

  Two hours later I am heading home laden down with bags. Once I’m back in the house I go straight upstairs, drag out my author shoes from under the bed and put everything on. Then I stand in front of the mirror in order to admire the full effect.

  I’ve bought a new pair of black, skinny jeans that are, quite frankly, a revelation in denim. Jeans manufacturing has obviously come on somewhat since my last purchase and it is highly possible that I will be living in this particular pair for the rest of my days. They were marketed as being ‘uplifting and slimming’ and they certainly live up to the hype. My arse hasn’t looked so firm in two decades.

  And things aren’t looking too shoddy up top, either. I’ve invested in a sleeveless black top with tiny little black beads and sequins stitched onto the fabric. I look sparkly and shimmery while also managing to exude (I think) a slightly moody, gothic look which is definitely enhanced by the incredibly trendy black leather jacket that I bought at the last moment because I’ve always wanted one but always thought that they’re for other people.

  Because fuck that. I can totally be other people if I want to be.

  My mother arrives at one o’clock. I take a moment to compose myself and remind myself of the strong, feisty woman that I now am and then I fling the door open and usher her inside.

  ‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ I suggest, following her down the hall. ‘The kettle’s on.’

  She starts to walk towards the battered old sofa where Dogger is stretched out, but I pull out a chair and wave her towards it. This is not a social call. I’ve invited her here for one reason and one reason only and I am determined to have my say.

  ‘How’s the writing going, darling?’ she asks.

  I ignore the question and sit down opposite her at the table.

  ‘Why does Scarlet keep coming to talk to you?’ I have debated many opening sentences and this was not one of them – but it seems that my Twinky mouth would just prefer to dive straight in.

  Mum smiles at me.

  ‘I can’t tell you that, Hannah. It’s like I said last time you asked, I can’t break the Circle of—’

  ‘Yes, yes – I know all about the bloody Circle of Trust,’ I snap, not letting her finish. ‘And I couldn’t care less about it. She’s been hiding stuff from me and then I found out last night that she’s been seeing an older man and that you knew all about it – yet you said nothing to me and where’s MY arsing Circle of Trust, hey? Tell me that! Because I’m her mother and she should be talking to me and you should be helping with that, not coming between us.’

  Mum’s face drops but I plough on. I should have said all of this weeks ago. Hell, I should probably have stood up to my mother years ago.

  ‘She is seventeen years old and she thinks that I have nothing to offer her because every time she disagrees with me you’re right there, with your right-on vibes and your liberal views and your bloody lust-for-life and quite honestly, I can’t compete with it all because I haven’t got the time or the energy to be a hip, funky mother as well as all the other people who I’m supposed to be right now.’

  I stop and glare at her. ‘So, are you going to tell me why she’s been spending so much time with you and why you didn’t tell me that she was seeing an older man?’

  My mother nods. ‘I’m not really sure what you’re so upset about, Hannah – but I think in this instance I can probably bend the Therapist-Client rules a little.’

  I nod stiffly, gesturing to her to continue.

  ‘First of all, I don’t know what Scarlet has been telling you but I had no idea that she was seeing someone older. I may be a Sex Therapist but I’m also her grandmother and I wouldn’t ignore something like that.’

  ‘You’re not a real Sex Therapist,’ I mutter unkindly. ‘And she said that you’d met him.’

  Mum looks puzzled for a moment and then smiles. ‘Oh! Do you mean that lovely young man she was with when I bumped into her in town the other week? The boy with the funny name? Barbara’s grandson?’

  ‘I don’t know about any of that.’ My teeth are so gritted that the word struggles to push itself out of my mouth. ‘But his name is Skinz.’

  Mum nods. ‘That’s the one! Well, I really don’t know what all the fuss is about, darling. He’s the same age as she is.’

  I shake my head firmly. ‘Nope. That’s definitely not right. She said that he was…’

  I stop and think back to our exact conversation. She said that he was a bit older.

  ‘She said that he earns his money doing this and that,’ I tell my mother.

  She nods. ‘That’s true. He’s been mowing Barbara’s lawn for a few quid every Sunday. And last week he cleaned her downstairs windows.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘She said that he has a beard.’

  Mum chuckles. ‘That bit of bum-fluff sticking out of his chin?’

  ‘So I assume that the motorbike riding and facial tattoos and criminal career are all completely bogus as well?’ I hardly need to ask.

  My mother looks at me pityingly. ‘I doubt that boy has ever been in trouble with the law in his life,’ she tells me. ‘He was riding one of those silly push-along scooters though, if that sheds any light on the matter?’

  The devious, sneaky madam.

  ‘I think she’s been having you on, Hannah!’ she tells me helpfully. ‘I wouldn’t pay any attention to what she says. You were the same at her age. It’s like teenagers think telling their parents the truth is the equivalent of handing over their soul.’

  ‘So what has she been coming over to talk to you about?’ I ask, trying to get back on track. ‘Because this is all very well and good but she’s always at your house lately. If she isn’t asking you for advice about boys then what is she doing?’

  Mum finally has the grace to look a bit abashed and I brace myself for whatever is coming next.

  ‘I really don’t think that I should tell—’ she starts.

  ‘Just say it!’ I narrow my eyes and glower at her. ‘Show me that Circle of T
rust, okay, Mum?’

  She sighs and puts both hands on the table. ‘Fine. If you absolutely insist. But don’t breathe a word of it to her and don’t blame me when you wish that I hadn’t told you.’

  That is not going to happen. I am a strong tigress of a mother. I can handle whatever she is about to reveal and I will do whatever it takes to make sure that my relationship with my daughter is secure and robust.

  ‘Knitting.’

  The word takes me by surprise and I tilt my head to one side, trying to understand what she is telling me.

  ‘Scarlet wanted to learn and she didn’t want you to know about it. She’s been coming over to my house several times a week and we’ve been working on something together.’

  ‘Knitting?’ I snort. ‘Okay, Mum – very funny. I might be a rubbish parent whose daughter never talks to her anymore but I know her well enough to know that she wouldn’t do something as lame as knitting for anyone.’

  ‘She’d do it for you,’ Mum stares back at me, her face impassive. ‘She’s knitting something for you because, contrary to what you may think, she doesn’t think you’re a rubbish parent. She thinks that you’re feeling a bit sad since Dylan left and she wanted to do something nice to surprise you.’

  ‘Oh.’ I whisper it so quietly that the word is barely audible. ‘That’s…that’s…’

  That’s the most insane and yet wonderful thing that I have ever heard. I feel warm and also ashamed. I feel moved by her thoughtfulness and also furious that she made me think all of those things about that boy. I feel relieved and loved and stupid and frustrated.

  Basically, all the emotions that I have felt on a daily basis since giving birth to Scarlet, seventeen years ago. You’d think I’d be better at this by now, you really would.

  ‘What is she knitting for me?’ I ask and then I shake my head. ‘Actually, don’t tell me. Whatever it is and however hideous it may be, I will wear it with pride. Unless it actually isn’t that hideous and I won’t actually have to wear it?’

  I stare at my mother with hope in my eyes and she smirks.

  ‘Oh, Hannah. It is more awful that you can possibly imagine. And you absolutely are going to have to wear it. In public and on a daily basis.’

  I guess I can’t win them all.

  ‘I’ll make that cup of tea now, shall I?’ I get up and walk across to the now-cold kettle. ‘Sorry for having a go at you, Mum. I was just really worrying about what Scarlet was up to.’

  Mum shrugs my apology off like it’s no big deal, just like she’s always done. I was wrong to get so angry with her – she’s only ever tried to look out for me and I should have known that she’d never do anything to jeopardise my relationship with Scarlet. I would have known that if I hadn’t been so tied up with all of this book stuff. I guess I’m just going to have to do a better job of compartmentalising my roles in future.

  ‘So how’s Book Two going?’ she asks, repeating her question from earlier as if the last ten minutes didn’t happen. ‘Have you nearly finished it yet?’

  I put two teabags into some mugs and turn to look at her, thinking about what I can tell her. I don’t want to rebuff her again after how I’ve just behaved but this is exactly the kind of conversation that I can’t stand having with her. She’ll dig and dig until I’ve divulged some personal information about myself or my emotions and then act like she knows everything there is to know about how I’m feeling. Sometimes it’s easier just to lie to her and feed her some misinformation, just to keep her off my case.

  Oh. For fuck’s sake.

  I have turned into my mother and Scarlet is turning into me.

  ‘Well,’ I say, pushing myself off the counter and resolving not to conform to type. What’s the worst that can happen if I trust her with my innermost thoughts? She’s my mother. She wants the best for me. ‘I took your advice about pushing myself out of my comfort zone and, while the results have been a bit mixed, I’d say that I’ve had more successes than failures. I think I’ve learnt a few things about myself – and my sexual self.’ I smile at her bashfully. ‘Including when I should be listening to my mother!’

  Her snort of laughter makes me jump. ‘Oh Hannah! I don’t have the first clue what I’m talking about! The last thing that you should be doing is taking advice from someone like me, especially when it comes to your sex life. Look at me – I’m not exactly a good role model for long-term relationships! The only good thing that I ever got from a man is you.’

  I frown at her, not understanding. She gets up and walks across to where I’m standing, reaching past me to pour hot water onto the teabags.

  ‘But you’re training to be a Sex Therapist,’ I say weakly, moving out of her way. ‘I thought it was a Sex Therapist’s job to give advice about – you know – sex?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ she declares, shaking her head from side to side. ‘I’ve just completed Module Four: It’s Not About You and it turns out that I’ve been slightly premature in my instruction and top-tip giving. Apparently, being a Sex Therapist isn’t about telling people what to do after all. It’s about listening to their problems and writing them down and then letting the clients find solutions for themselves.’

  They didn’t think it might be a good idea to introduce the Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby! Foundation One, Access to Counselling course with a section on not proffering your inexpert, bogus opinion to all and sundry? I’ve spent all this time trying to follow her advice and now she’s telling me that she didn’t know what she was talking about?

  Not that I can complain too much. I’d have never thought about making a star chart if she hadn’t told me about rewarding myself for being brave and the seven shiny gold stickers that are now brightening up my fridge are also indicators of my much more sparkling sex life. I can’t really grumble.

  She adds the milks and then turns to hand me a mug.

  ‘I’ve decided that it’s not for me, Hannah. As I’ve told you before, I’m a do-er, not a writer or a listener.’ She shudders. ‘And if I’m completely honest I found it very difficult to understand what they were going on about, most of the time. I just kept hoping that some of it would sink in and I’d start to feel less of a phony, but there comes a point when you just have to admit that you don’t know what you’re talking about, doesn’t there?’

  Yes. I think there probably does. And I think I am possibly about to hit that point with an almighty bang.

  Mum takes a sip of her tea and then glances up at me.

  ‘I hope you won’t mind, darling – but I’ve transferred the rest of the online credits that you gave me and I’ve started a new course.’

  ‘Doing what?’ I ask, grasping hold of my mug tightly.

  ‘It’s called Hot Flush: Own your Menopause and I think it’s going to be really informative,’ she tells me, walking back over to the table.

  ‘I thought you went through that years ago, Mum?’ I follow her and sink down into a chair. ‘I’m not sure it’s going to tell you anything you don’t already know.’

  She laughs brightly and reaches across to grasp my hand. ‘It’s not for me, silly! It’s so that I can help you! Nobody talked about it in my day but it’s time we broke this ridiculous taboo. Everyone gets old and everyone’s body goes through changes, whether they’re male or female. You should be able to shout about your shriveling ovaries and your sweaty chest from the rooftops, Hannah! And I’m going to be right there alongside you. We’ll start a revolution, darling!’

  Fuck. My. Life.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I feel like a woman who hasn’t slept a wink, which is understandable. I was awake for most of last night, stressing out about what today is going to bring and it took me more than an hour this morning to put on enough concealer to hide the enormous bags under my eyes. I’m just praying that the bright, letterbox-red lipstick I’m wearing will distract from the exhaustion that I’m sure is plastered across my face. Hopefully the four coffees that I mainlined on the two-hour train journey here will k
ick in soon and I’ll find some energy because right now, I’m running on fifty percent adrenalin and fifty percent fear and it’s not making me feel particularly calm about the scene in front of me.

  At least this event is taking place a long way from home and there’s no risk of bumping into anyone who might recognise me. I’m fairly sure that nobody I know will be at an event like this, even though Cassie offered her wonderful support by suggesting that she bring Miss Pritchard and Pru and the others on a girls’ day out. I’m going to be doing her detention duty for the next two months as payment for declining her generous offer but it’s worth it. This would be so much more terrifying if any of them were here.

  ‘If you can just put this lanyard on then I’ll take you through to the Green Room,’ says the young girl who has been signing me in. ‘Sorry about the rush but it’s one of our busiest days of the convention today and everything is manic!’

  She’s not wrong. The foyer is packed with bodies and it’s complete chaos. I’ve been elbowed in the back at least eleven times since I arrived and I’ve only been here for five minutes.

  ‘Which hall is the Beginner’s Guide to Swinging?’ yells a girl in front of me.

  ‘Hurry up!’ screeches someone else to their companion. ‘We’re going to be late for Psychic Sex if you don’t get a move on.’

  My friendly guide gestures for me to follow her and we start to move through the room. This place certainly isn’t what I was expecting, that’s for sure. The visitors range from appearing as if they’ve just stepped off the set of an X-rated movie to looking like they’ve wandered in here by mistake, like the middle-aged couple in front of me who are standing right in the centre of the foyer, heads bent together while they consult their programme.

  ‘I think it’s saying that Porn for Parents is in Room 69,’ says the woman. ‘But I haven’t got my reading glasses on – can you see it, Donald?’

  I weave around them, wondering whether I should be checking out that particular talk. I probably should be keeping abreast of the latest developments, just so that I can make sure that I’m aware of the things that the kids might be seeing. Unless I’ve got it wrong and Porn for Parents means something else entirely.