Faking It

by Lotte Daley

  ‘You are vibrant, you are amazing, you are incredible and you are going to take the media world by storm!’ fashion guy number two says, somewhat less gay than the first.

  ‘And this,’ fashion guy number three says, ‘is how we do it.’

  Back to fashion guy number one. ‘Since Monday morning when Katie Lewis found out love-of-her-life Jack Hunter, an up-and-coming actor who worked in Primrose Hill’s Coco Caramels, was having intimate relations with Hollywood IT girl of the moment, talented actress Jessica Hilson, her private life and her knickers have been splashed across the media for all to see. Red tops to broadsheets have given column inches to the subject,’ he pauses for effect before fashion guy number two picks up where he left off. ‘And in less than a week, what are we on, day three now, websites have popped up all over the internet championing Katie Lewis. The elusive Katie Lewis, who shops in Tesco’s and wears giant flowery pants. Katie Lewis had a bubble perm in the late nineties when she really ought to have known better …’

  ‘Fuck!’ I swore. Janice, bloody Janice, argh!

  ‘Katie Lewis is a role model! She has conducted herself with a quiet dignity throughout this hurtful and very public relationship breakdown.’

  I’m nodding in agreement here, I guess I have been a smart girl, I haven’t screamed and hunted him down, I haven’t gone to the papers, but then I have been doing my best to escape from this whole thing, I mean, who wants to be reminded about it? Not me, that’s for sure.

  ‘Katie, you have a following that’s growing bigger by the hour, thanks to that picture of you going arse over tit on Richard’s shoulder,’ Hanna said, inspecting her long crimson nails.

  ‘But how?’ I query, still bemused.

  ‘In times of recession, people are looking to each other for support, for reality. You aren’t like those reality television ejectees, you actually are real, this is happening to a real woman, one of their own, and who wouldn’t be able to relate to you, a girl after their own hearts?’

  Fashion guy number three steps in. ‘Normal women don’t like skinny minnies either, darling,’ he says.

  Cheeky sod, I’m not that fat! God, do they think I’m fat?

  ‘Katie,’ he continues, ‘you have a potential voice, you could make yourself a very wealthy woman, change the lives of others, change your own life, make a success, a difference, anything you want. I propose we fix you up and we do something so unique, so innovative, a PR exercise to end all PR exercises! We are going to make you a real reality celebrity!’ He claps his hands together and all three of them make simpering noises and deliver high fives.

  ‘In simple terms, please?’ I turn to Richard and Hanna.

  ‘We want to build the hype around you. We want to fix those teeth, get you hair extensions, a spray tan, a personal trainer, designer clothes, everything Jessica Hilson has, except you, my darling, will be the high-class version. We’re going to put you with Danny Divine, Brit-flick actor of the moment. He’s bisexual, loves boys, loves girls, but no one knows that yet, his commercial viability in the teen market would sink, so we are going to say that you are dating him. You’re going to go to all the best parties, you’re going to dazzle and you’re going to shine, and all the while, you’re going to give in-depth interviews on how you brought yourself back from the brink of a nervous breakdown – in short, we’re going to style you into being the kind of girl anyone can be, with a bit of hard work and determination, and we’re going to get you back with Jack.’

  ‘But I won’t be me, will I, and it won’t be self-made, will it?’

  ‘No, but we’ll market you as if you are and it is,’ Richard says, grinning. ‘And the best bit is, we’ll work in conjunction with products that you will lend your name to, you will wear what we tell you, shop where we tell you and you will say the carefully scripted words we will prepare for you.’

  ‘And what do I get in return?’ I say.

  ‘How can you say that?’ fashion guy two gasps, whilst fashion guy one elbows him in the ribs.

  ‘You get £10K, a one-year contract with Poets Field PR, and the potential to make squillions. So, here’s the contract, take it away and have a think and come back to us.’

  ‘Or what?’ I say dubiously.

  ‘We’ll let the media eat you for breakfast, lunch and dinner.’

  ‘But I thought you said I was a media darling?’

  ‘You have the potential, sure. The public like you, yeah, that’s true … but the media? Fickle bunch … they will be digging up dirt from your ex-boyfriends, any school friends, ex-work colleagues, anyone and everyone you can think of, they will descend upon until they get a story. If they don’t get a story, they’ll make one up. You are far better off going with us and allowing us to market you, to guide you through, for however long this attention lasts, Katie.’

  ‘So … whaddya think?’ fashion guy one says. I look up from staring at my lap to see all three fashion guys with their heads cocked to the side in eager anticipation of my response, Richard with a massive grin on his face, Hanna with her smug frozen look and Magenta, who had reappeared with a fresh coat of lipstick on her plumped-up lips, smiling warmly. Bailey saunters over with a tray of coffees, putting one down before each person.

  ‘Thanks,’ Magenta coos, as Bailey almost curtseys in her presence.

  ‘Well, it’s a lot to think about,’ I begin, ‘and uh, I will need an hour or two and a stiff vodkatini before I make my decision,’ I say, solidly, before adding quietly, ‘if that’s OK?’

  ‘Sure is. Hey, guys,’ Magenta says, turning her attention away from me and towards her team, ‘let’s reconvene at say … what time is it now?’

  ‘It’s just before midday,’ Richard says.

  ‘Midday, fabulous, OK, let’s see, Katie … let’s rendezvous back here at 5pm. That’s plenty of time to go do what you have to do … Here,’ she says, sliding some leather-bound A4-sized pads towards me. ‘These are “look books”, they detail all our ideas about your mega transformation, ranging from your hairstyle to your clothes. Everything you need to know, and then some more, you will find nestling in the pages of these beauty bibles.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, as I pull them towards me and stroke the soft leather with my fingers, ‘they’re beautiful.’ I smile back at everyone. I suppose I ought to be getting used to feeling like a monkey in the zoo, what with all eyes being on me for the past few days. I would much prefer to be one of those beautifully elegant sculptures found in an art gallery, though. Perhaps this whole makeover idea is worth thinking about after all? Perhaps it could turn me into a masterpiece, instead of the bit of art a person really has to stare at to ‘get’. I gingerly slide my chair back and, clutching the books, I make my way to the door.

  ‘Wait a second …’ Richard says loudly. ‘Wait there, I just thought!’

  ‘What?’ I say, startled.

  ‘You can’t leave right now, not looking like that!’

  ‘Oh, thanks a lot, Richard, but may I remind you, it was you lot, I mean, sorry, Magenta, it was everyone here who asked me to come dressed down and with no make-up on … which is why I look like this. God, we’ve been over this a zillion times so far!’ I am losing my patience. I am tired, I feel like the most heinously ugly woman ever to grace their presence, and you know what? I feel like that most days working in a PR company which is filled with women with legs like whippets and wardrobes from Vogue. Maybe I could take on this ridiculous project, well, the project being me, and transform myself into a goddess who not only rivals Jessica Hilson, but trumps her. Good work that these crafty PR types have done on me, I already have their power buzzwords shrieking in my brain about being the best, the most fabulous, with the best shoes money can buy. I feel dizzy now – I must get some fresh air.

  ‘Bailey,’ Magenta commands and he appears. It strikes me how much their synergy reminds me of my mother barking at my father, who also appears from nowhere ready to take the next instruction whenever the mood takes her.

  �
�Take Katie down to the guest room, make her comfortable, give her anything she wants.’

  Bailey nods. ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘Anything I want?’ I question.

  ‘Anything you want,’ she replies.

  ‘As an afterthought, darling,’ Richard says, dolefully, ‘I meant don’t go showing your face in public because the paparazzi will still be waiting to take pictures of you and we can’t have that, darling, not if we’re the ones who are going to make you a star.’

  ‘Come on,’ Bailey says, gently pulling my arm towards his body. His touch sends little shivers up my spine.

  He hustles me out of the room and into the posh lift and as we descend, I give out a big sigh and fall back against the mirrored walls.

  ‘Tough day?’ Bailey says to me. His hands are awkwardly tucked in the belt of his jeans. I couldn’t help but look down to where they were pointed, to his crotch area. And what a magnificent crotch he appeared to display.

  ‘Uh huh,’ I said, mumbling. I must focus … but how?

  ‘Can I call anyone for you?’ he said in concerned tones, as though he was addressing some kind of accident victim.

  ‘Yes, yes, I need you to call Danielle Kingsley, she is my best friend, she knows what is going on here. She’s a lawyer, you know.’ I never tired of showing off my best friend’s talents to the world.

  Danielle was kind but firm. She was strong, but not in the ball-busting, shit-your-pants kind of way that Hanna Frost was. Hanna made you feel like you were the most inept human being known to the office with her passive-aggressive behaviour, she could command a room in an instant and woe betide you if you ballsed up at work. She had gone through at least a dozen assistants in the time I’d been at Poets Field PR. Girls would arrive all bright-eyed and bushytailed, eager to make their mark within the world of public relations, all were wannabe media princesses, most slept with Richard, and all of them were so worn down by the end of their first fortnight that they left, saying that PR was simply not for them. No one so far had managed to please her. Hanna was frightening. But today, I must admit, I’d seen a different side to her. She was more gentle, more personable … dare I say it … more human? Could this be because she was now, nearly, in a way, working for me? Perhaps she meant to keep me sweet …

  Danielle, on the other hand, was different. She was firm, articulate and intelligent, just like Hanna, but she had that warmth about her that many scary women in power lack. I loved her for all that she was and all that she had achieved in her life. I had first met Danielle in a cute little bookshop in the East End of London that also served up hot drinks and blueberry muffins. It was the kind of place where you could lounge about on massive sofas or rest on beanbags looking indie-pretentious. It was tucked into a side street down Brick Lane and it was there I used to sit for hours on end on a Sunday, reading my books that I’d bought and admiring the clothes I had picked up from the quaint little vintage shops in the area. One Sunday morning, I sat down in my usual spot and saw Danielle. She was having a full-on meltdown on a giant floor cushion. She sat in a long flowing Pucci maxi-dress, her corkscrew curls bounced up and down on her head as though they were lovers romping in a barn, and her face contorted first with anger, then with pain. Heart-type pain, boyfriend-trouble pain, the very worst kind there is. People were looking, but this fiery little thing in six-inch wedges was still yapping ten to the dozen, pointing her arms and furrowing her brows until she reached a crescendo and with one violent shriek said: ‘And you can go and fuck yourself, Stewart, because I sure as hell will never go near your horrible flaky-skinned, small-penis self ever again!’ And with that, she ended the call with such ferocity she snapped her phone clean in half and her drink, which must have been cold by now, sprung up into the air drenching some poor sod next to her who was trying to read his paper.

  ‘Oi!’ the man said in alarm, clearly irritated.

  ‘Fuck off !’ she hissed.

  And then she slumped back into her massive seat pillow and looked up to the ceiling, her fingers delicately placed beneath her eyelids to capture her tears. I just stared at her from the brow of my book, along with everyone else in the room, stunned at such a candid display of emotion in public. The girl had some balls. The waiter approached me with a drink. It was a hot chocolate with all the works, marshmallows and cream, everything yummy and calorific.

  ‘For you?’ he questioned, setting it down on my table.

  ‘No, not for me,’ I replied.

  ‘It’s for me,’ the girl with the wild hair and beautifully wide-set eyes said, flatly, as she appeared at my table, hands outstretched to take it. Instinctively, I placed my hand on the mug – I decided quickly that I now wanted this hot chocolate, anything to do with chocolate provoked a reaction within me that was instinctive. Like a mother protecting her young.

  ‘Well, I think it’s mine really … after all, he did bring it to me,’ I replied haughtily, before adding, ‘he was probably scared witless after seeing you go nuts down the phone … but then, your guy must have done something pretty horrific to be told how small his penis was in public.’

  We locked eyes for a moment, both unsure of how to take one another’s humour. She threw me a smile and I smiled back at her, and we began to laugh, a proper belly-ache of a laugh, so I said, ‘Hey, we’ll just order another one, but I’m holding you fully responsible for breaking my diet.’

  ‘I bet that’s at least the fourth time this week, huh?’ she said, as though she’d known me for years. ‘You didn’t exactly need a lot of persuading.’

  ‘True,’ I said, and invited her to sit down. Every Sunday for quite some time afterwards, Danielle and I would casually meet and have hot chocolates with the full works, and I would listen to her moan and whinge about slimeball, small-penis Stewart, who was a big-shot media lawyer in the firm where she worked. Even though he was a cad, she loved him with such force that she was permanently skinny. Such was his power over her, she hardly ever ate due to the fact she was either in love with him or heartbroken. He was hot for her and then he was cold. He pushed her away and then he pulled her so close she feared she may burst with happiness. Stewart Smallthwait wined and dined and devoured her body like I devoured chocolate fudge cake. When she joined the firm where she worked, she had no idea who he was, or how powerful his influence was upon her colleagues. I guess that was what drove him wild, her complete face blank when it came to how much power this guy in a grey marl suit had at his disposal. He was, of course, the firm’s senior partner. But Stewart was the partner who worked from home or spent a lot of time abroad on business, so he was hardly ever in the office. He could have been the post boy for all she knew, and here he had found a woman who was his match. Almost …

  ‘He’s just bloody perfect!’ Danielle simpered on one of our coffee dates. ‘I think I’m in love with him …’ she blushed furiously.

  ‘Do you love his small penis too?’ I giggled, as we talked at great length, well at least in Jack’s case, about how much we loved the men in our lives.

  Unfortunately for Danielle, Stewart Smallthwait turned out to be the world’s greatest storyteller. He had told her solemnly he was separated from his wife and Danielle had seen no evidence to suggest otherwise. There were no cheerful photographs dotted about his office like her other married colleagues, never any reference to anyone else in his life aside from his dog Vince, a small black pug he had rescued from the arms of an oh-so-cruel owner. Until the day the pug came into the office, in the arms of one gregarious and very current wife. Lisa Smallthwait entered in a whirlwind of peachy-pink flowery clothing, wafting her expensive-smelling perfume all over the open-plan office and flashing her very-much-married-to-Stewart left hand, complete with enormous engagement ring and wedding band.

  ‘The bastard is indeed married and, according to his wife, very much in love,’ she snarled one day, several months after continuous simpering about how perfect and manly Stewart was. He went from Stewart, the big strong hunk of power to weak with no b
alls and a small penis every other day.

  ‘His wife Lisa crowed about him so much I nearly vomited right there on her moleskin shoes,’ Danielle spat, whilst filing her nail down with a hint of violence. ‘I swear she was one stop away from telling everyone which sexual positions they loved the most.’

  ‘Arsehole,’ I said, in between mouthfuls of blueberry muffin.

  ‘I know, so I told him, that’s it, ultimate betrayal, we’re over, but he begged me, convinced me to stay with him …’

  ‘You never forgave him!’ I was shocked.

  ‘He cried,’ she said, ‘and I just buckled.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘I stole another woman’s husband,’ she wailed. ‘I’m going straight to hell when I am hit by the inevitable double-decker karma bus on my way to work.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’ I said, putting my arm around her.

  ‘I am ashamed to say this but it’s too late to leave him,’ she said, looking up at me, tears glistening down her cheeks. ‘I told him I loved him, he said it back … as far as I knew it was all mini-breaks and impending commitment.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, nodding with her.

  ‘I’ve become one of those awful women who say that he’s different to the rest,’ she continued, ‘but he is! I know him inside out.’

  ‘Seriously, babe,’ I said, remembering this is what all married men who are cheating on their wives and girlfriends do in Coronation Street, ‘has he told you how he is in the process of gathering his thoughts before he leaves her?’

  ‘Yes,’ she sniffed, ‘how do you know that?’

  I gave a weak smile and continued, ‘And that they never have sex although deep down, you’re pretty sure that they do?’

  She looked at me whilst it dawned on her that Stewart with the small penis made up for it with his big massive lies.

  ‘Uh huh … he does … Oh God, you’re right! He’s totally playing me. How can I be so stupid?’

  ‘It happens a lot, Danielle, you’re not the first … I expect you won’t be the last …’