Faking It

by Lotte Daley

  ‘Would you, uh, like to come in for coffee?’ I said, regretting the words as soon as they came out of my mouth. Bailey’s face crumpled up and he looked at the floor. ‘I can’t tonight,’ he said.

  Fuck, he was totally not interested and I have completely blown it and oh my God, please open up a cavernous pit beneath me full of snakes and monsters to eat me up alive, and do it immediately so I can remove myself from here.

  ‘OK,’ I said, as bright and as breezy as I possibly could. He opened his mouth to say something but I didn’t give him the chance to humiliate me further.

  ‘Bye, then!’ I said as I grabbed the keys from his grasp, flung myself through the door, locked it behind me and threw myself into the cushions on the bed. My cheeks were bright red and shame was burning a hole in my eardrums. I pulled out my mobile phone to text Danielle.

  Asked Bailey in 4 drink – he declined. Booo

  Beep Beep

  If at 1st u dnt succeed, put the MAC lippy in St Germain on and try try again!

  I guess she’s right, I thought to myself, pulling my face up and back in the reflection of the giant mirror so I could imagine what I would look like if I had as much Botox and filler as Hanna Frost. Even though I had an abundance of silky, pretty little wispy bits of undergarments and sleep wear at my disposal, I suddenly felt homesick for my little house in Bethnal Green and my fluffy cat, Grum. I missed his gentle purrs as he snuggled up to me at night whilst I splodged out on the couch, stuffing my face with biscuits and watching my soaps. I knew my life was going to change tomorrow, and would continue to do so for the foreseeable future, but just for tonight, it was me and my borrowed pyjamas.

  ‘Obviously, Katie’s bum has grown bigger since the days we used to bop around our handbags to the Backstreet Boys back in Little Glove Community Centre. She had that perm done at my mum’s salon, Betty Baxter’s – HI, MUM!’

  Nicola Baxter sat on Lorraine Kelly’s sofa warbling on about my style faux pas and the fact my arse was now considerably bigger than it was back then.

  ‘Oh, big wow,’ I said aloud whilst crunching organic wheat-free muesli with something called almond milk over the top of it. Tasted funny, but I was under strict instructions to eat it for breakfast, after discovering a frightening note all about chemicals in your food and whatnot attached to the fridge.

  The phone in the kitchen trills loudly, I reach across the breakfast bar, pressing mute on the telly and answer it, mouth full of muesli.

  ‘Herrro?’

  ‘Darling,’ Mum said flatly down the phone. ‘I have just seen Betty Baxter’s daughter Nicola on television talking about the days you used to smoke ten Royal Blue between you round the back of Jimmy’s Bowling Green!’

  ‘Um …’ I said, swallowing hard.

  I heard a sharp intake of breath before she continued with, ‘And shoving bottles of alcohol inside her knickers is something no mother ever wants to hear about her daughter.’

  ‘Nicola lied!’ I spluttered, as I tried to neck my tea, with one eye on the clock which was ticking towards 8.20am. In ten minutes Bailey, in all his man glory, would arrive to take me to my secret location for phase one of Project Katie.

  ‘I am so disappointed in you, Katie, I thought you were the responsible one out of my two daughters. This is a stunt that Janice would pull!’

  ‘Mum, it was like, fourteen years ago, I’m a grown-up now!’

  ‘And now I also know that it was your footprints in the flowerbeds and not those of a burglar, when you scaled the garden trellis up to your bedroom window at night! What on earth would you have done if your father had caught you!’

  ‘I have to go now, Mum, I really need to …’

  ‘I am not a well woman, Katie, I have nerves that are as frayed as the ends of ribbons, what with all this hullaballoo you’re putting me through, and I just don’t know what to do with myself and you want to see your sister, dressed up to the nines for her maths lesson today and –’

  ‘I HAVE TO GO!’ I shouted at her. Silence enveloped the other end of the phone.

  ‘Well, you could have just said, Kate Lewis. There is no need to shout.’

  ‘Mum, we can talk later, OK? I’ll have a word with Janice.’

  I hung up the phone and raced into the bathroom to clean my teeth, using the special gold-leaf, minty-fresh floss that sat proudly on the shelf alongside every other fancy product under the sun. I didn’t have time to play with them all, so I splashed my face, patted it dry and put on a slick of pale pink lippy. I know they said no make-up but after last night’s embarrassment with Bailey, I ought to really make a small effort. I was beyond nervous about seeing him again. I wanted to look semi-perfect the next time he claps his soulful eyes upon my face. I was worried things would be awkward between us, now that he had a slight idea that I could fancy him a little. How will he react to me today?

  I needn’t have worried – Bailey rapped on the door and began singing to me about what a beautiful day it was outside and had a massive grin plastered on his face.

  ‘Whaasssup!’ he said, holding two takeaway coffees. ‘For you, Mademoiselle,’ he said, holding one out.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, pulling the hemline down on the slightly-too-short-for-my-liking dress I had been given in my goody bag yesterday. ‘I hope they’re organic!’ I laughed, thinking back to the note on the fridge about scary evil chemicals in all food.

  ‘Why are you so happy?’ I queried, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Ah … we are going on an adventure! Zee car is waiting!’ he said, in a rubbish French accent.

  I grabbed my handbag and my mobile and made for the door. With the balaclava placed firmly back upon my head, I must have looked a sight walking from Poets Field PR to the luminous white stretch limo which was waiting for us in the car park. Bailey, ever the gent, opened the door for me and I ducked my head to climb into the back seat. Once again, despite my dramatic sighs and evident emotional rain cloud above my head, Bailey failed to mention anything to do with Jack and his real-life Barbie, or the fact my childhood best friend was colluding with the media and ratting me out to my mother on breakfast television with her tales of stolen cigarettes and underage drinking. He kept his eyes on the road as we headed into central London.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Daaaaahllliiiiing,’ said fashion guy number one from yesterday’s meeting. ‘How are you?’ he asked, his face etched with concern.

  ‘Great,’ I said, still sitting in the limo as the windows were rolled down.

  ‘I’m Aubrey,’ he said, holding out a honey-coloured hand with short fingers jangling with coloured jewels. ‘I’m your stylist and we are going to have a un-believe-able day today, isn’t this just the best!’ he said, clasping his hands together and doing a little dance. ‘Here, here,’ he said, opening the door. He turned to Bailey. ‘Be outside Great Portland Street at ooooh, say,’ he looked at his massive gold sparkly watch before continuing, ‘5 pm?’

  ‘Sure,’ Bailey replied before throwing me one of those sexy smiles. ‘Good luck, Katie,’ and off he went.

  I stood on the corner of Covent Garden in a flimsy, too-short dress and my father’s balaclava. Aubrey takes my hand and whispers into my ear, ‘Don’t worry, once Ziggy Wang is done with you, you’ll never have to go near that hideous headgear ever again!’

  ‘Thank fuck,’ I said beneath the material.

  ‘Sorry?’ Aubrey said, spinning on his heels.

  ‘I said, what luck that I have got an appointment with Ziggy Wang!’ I’d read about him in Heat!

  ‘I know!’ Aubrey simpered. ‘Now come along, we have a full morning ahead of us, with your roots to contend with!’

  Ziggy Wang was the most celebrated hairdresser in London, actually, probably the whole entire world. He was funky, sexy and from Japan. His salon was decked out like a spaceship, everything was cool, chrome and futuristic. Everyone wore white. If I thought I got a gay welcome from Aubrey, Ziggy Wang was off the scale.

  ‘My. God. It’s
you!’ he trilled, spinning me around on my heels – it’s hard to be spun when you can barely see for black wool.

  ‘Yikes!’ I squealed, as he pulled off the balaclava, the material of which wiped my pale pink lipstick halfway up the side of my face. My hair … well, you guessed it.

  ‘Come, come, see,’ he said, as they both fussed me into a giant space chair.

  ‘Now, Katie!’ Ziggy Wang stared long and hard at me.

  ‘Yeah …’ I said tentatively.

  ‘I have only so far seen that delightful peach of a bottom with what looked like Cath Kidston underwear …’

  ‘Tesco’s.’

  ‘Tescows … never heard of them … are they Italian?’

  God, Ziggy Wang really did live on the moon.

  ‘We cut your hair,’ he said, making snippy scissor gestures with his fingers.

  ‘I’d really rather we didn’t cut my hair, I’ve been growing it for ages now, please don’t cut my …’

  ‘We cut your hair, only a little bit, and we,’ he turned to Aubrey, ‘whaddya think? I’m thinking we colour with honey and beige, infused with …’

  ‘Pale sand and biscuit,’ Aubrey said without hesitation.

  ‘Pale sand it is. A beautiful collision of blonde and biscuit!’ he squealed, spinning my chair violently round to face him. ‘You are a star!’

  ‘Great!’ I grimaced. As long as they didn’t make me look like I’d had a fight with a bottle of Toilet Duck bleach, I was game.

  Aubrey had instructed the staff to put blackout props against the windows to prevent any wayward photography before I was unveiled to the world, a better, more wholesome Jessica Hilson.

  ‘Here’s some magazines for you to read whilst your colour is setting, Katie,’ a stick-thin assistant gushed, as various other bodies slathered dye on my head.

  All of a sudden, my heart skipped a beat and very nearly stopped altogether. Right on the front cover of Scorcher magazine was my Jack with a whole heap of blonde and tan wrapped around him, gallivanting in the sea! Jack was looking effortlessly chic, a flower garland draped across his chest which looked much more buff than usual. He was grinning like a lunatic whilst Jessica Hilson threw her head back dramatically in the most cringe-worthy pose I have ever seen since, well, this week’s Sizzle Stars. The headline read: LOVERS ENTWINE IN HONOLULU AS COWGIRLS SET TO SMASH BOX OFFICE RECORDS!

  ‘Gaaaah!!!!’ I wailed aloud, completely forgetting where I was and abandoning my dignity once again. In an instant, Aubrey and Ziggy Wang were whipping away every gossip magazine that I held in my lap, screeching at the sinewy assistants who saw fit to give me a lovely front-page account of my sodding ex-boyfriend and his stupid new girlfriend.

  ‘Remove!’ Aubrey bellowed, his arms flailing. ‘Immediately!’ Assistants scattered around the room searching out and destroying anything with Jack and Jessica on the cover or in any kind of spread.

  ‘What is the point?’ I cried. ‘I will never, ever, ever match up to her!’ I was fighting back tears. ‘There isn’t a hair colour in the land that can save me now!’ I threw my arms up into the air for effect.

  ‘Katie,’ Ziggy Wang said, with an air of Zen-like calm surrounding him, despite the pandemonium of the salon.His eyes were kind and gentle. He got down to my level and cupped my face gently with his hands.

  ‘I know this isn’t easy for you right now, I know that I would have committed suicide by now if it were me. But this isn’t me we’re talking about, and you are made of stronger cookie dough than that. Hair colour can and does save, change and enhance lives all over the world, when done correctly,’ he said solemnly.

  I sat on my chair and for the next hour and a half I was chopped, coloured, washed and blow-dried, whilst Ziggy Wang continued to pep talk me with a paddle brush.

  ‘You will see,’ he said breathlessly, ‘that you are …’

  ‘Oh my God, you so are …’ Aubrey interjected.

  ‘Shiiiiit,’ I whispered, as I was spun round dramatically to face my new reflection.

  ‘Beautiful,’ they whispered together, before erupting into a rush of compliments to each other for having worked so well on completing section one of Project Katie.

  Hand waves and twirls galore, Ziggy Wang hissed in my ear, ‘Believe me now?!’ and with that, he threw his skinny handwoven scarf around his neck, turned on his kitten heels in the other direction and clapped his hands. He didn’t look back for confirmation. He didn’t have to, I felt like a million squillion pounds and this time, my tears were of pure joy. Ziggy Wang could indeed perform miracles.

  I left the salon with hair from an advert bouncing around underneath my balaclava.

  ‘I thought we were going to be through with the face mitten,’ I said, upset that my super-shiny, bouncy tresses were now flattened, probably beyond redemption, underneath the offending wool.

  ‘We have to go for some lunchtime plastic surgery,’ Aubrey said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Then,’ he continued blithely, ‘you have to have manicures, pedicures, a spray tan and we go shopping. Well, you don’t go shopping – myself and uber-stylist to the stars, Tom Theodore, will do that for you.’

  ‘Tom Theodore …’ I mused, ‘wasn’t he the stylist to mega successful funky girl band Pop Girls?’

  ‘Oh yes, and he styled Jessica … ooh … Jessica … Rabbit … uh …’ he said, trailing off at the end of his sentence, quickly realizing his faux pas.

  My stomach lurched at the very mention of her name.

  ‘Never mind, now, here, hop in this cab with me.’ And together, we stepped into the cab and headed to Great Portland Street.

  ‘Saggy …’ Doctor Dickhead said, as he wafted his hand against my breast. It wobbled in response to his touch.

  ‘I see …’ he continued, prodding the sides of my boob with a pencil.

  I sat there on his plush couch, wearing nothing more than my knickers. I shivered in the cold as all of me tensed up with sheer embarrassment. Doctor Vasquez prodded various bits of me, made disconcerting noises, tutted and sighed with a bit of headshaking thrown in, whilst he circled my nipples with bright blue marker pen.

  ‘Ah ha!’ he said, stepping back to admire his work. ‘We have progress, no?’ he addressed Aubrey, who had rudely stayed in the room while my clothes were taken off my back, in what I now realize is completely normal in this crazy world of gay men with a hunger for immediacy. I felt as if these days, bits of me and items of my apparel were whipped off, shoved here, strung upside down and spun round faster than you like. I looked around at Aubrey who had sensibly turned his back to check out imaginary spots and shapes on the pristine white walls. When I looked back, Doctor Vasquez was hovering around a computer screen, muttering to himself.

  ‘We do this here … and a little there … et voilà!’ He pressed a button and the giant screen above his head illuminated with a bright picture of my body.

  ‘Now, here,’ he said pointing, ‘is where age has worn down zee tissue of zee breast which results in this, what I call breast ptosis and what you may call a significant droop.’

  I am mortified. Aubrey’s face doesn’t even move. Must be one of the Botox crew.

  ‘We put small saline-filled implants into zee breast and perform a lift, and you wake up with zee breasts of a twenty-year-old!’

  ‘But I’m only twenty-six. They’re not that saggy, are they?’

  I look to Aubrey for reassurance but he quickly averts his eyes to the ceiling and whistles a tune.

  ‘OK, so you want to give me breast implants?’ I say. ‘To get zee look of Jessica Hilso—’

  ‘To get a more enhanced look,’ Aubrey jumps in, ‘to rival Jessica Hilson. Sorry, love, I know you hate me saying her name but needs must and all that. Take it in context, anyway, you need to be a champion brand, a better version.’

  ‘Sink of it like zees,’ Dr Vasquez says. ‘You right now are a Burger King.’

  ‘I’m a greasy burger?’

  ‘Enough, darling,
don’t need to know that much about your hygiene habits …’ Aubrey attempts a joke, I shoot him daggers. I cannot believe I am sitting here with my tits out in front of one gay guy and another ridiculously accented doctor who’s trigger happy about making my chest look more at home in a world atlas.

  ‘We all like a bit of junk now and again, darling,’ Aubrey says.

  ‘Speak for yourself …’ Dr Vasquez says snidely.

  ‘What he means is Jessica Hilson is a twenty-one-day matured Scottish rump steak and you are hovering on the “Do you want fries with that?” side of class.’

  I draw my breath in. This is so insulting, I think I am going to cry! My eyes well up in protest.

  ‘Don’t cry ma chérie!’ Dr Vasquez strokes my cheek gently, ‘Eet can be fixed, look, see,’ he says, as he clicks another button.

  Like the look book’s computer-generated vision of a better-looking version of myself, the screen fills up with a noticeably trimmer, perkier me.

  ‘Wow,’ I breathe.

  ‘Redemption!’ the men chorus.

  ‘We sign you in for Monday morning, you have all weekend to prepare, no food, no drink twenty-four hours before you come in. Now, which size breast would you like?’ He addresses Aubrey and not me.

  ‘Uh … don’t I get a say in this?’

  ‘Darling,’ Aubrey says. ‘It’s really not an option – you did read the contract, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did,’ I say, in mock horror. Well, if you count getting Danielle to check when I could get my hands on the £10K fee, which wasn’t until I fulfilled my end of the bargain, which was an extreme makeover … oh, I see … but then I have always wanted bigger boobs … just on my own terms. Having someone prod and poke fun at me and call me saggy doesn’t make me feel all that great about myself. I had been so high from my miracle hairdo. And now I felt grotesque, with Frankenstein lines dotted across my torso. I pulled my arms around my body, concealing my boobs. I suddenly felt even more naked than I actually was.

  ‘She’ll have a D cup,’ Aubrey says, as they both crowd around my chest to study me intently.