Faking It, page 2
“I didn’t get any on you, did I?”
Lena doesn’t even look at her pretty white tea dress to check, only waves a hand dismissively. She beckons a waiter over, switching the napkins for a glass of water, which she hands to me. “It’s fine.
You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m—sorry, you just . . . are you serious?”
“About what?”
“Don’t call you Lena? Because Johnny’s family don’t like nicknames?”
She blinks at me, startled, too surprised to say anything at all.
“Johnny’s family,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“Johnny’s.”
She huffs, pulling a face that’s somewhere between embarrassed and exasperated, although I’m not sure if that’s aimed at me or her soon-to-be in-laws. “Well, it’s just, you know. They’re very posh.”
I do know. Johnny comes from old money. Johnny was a university student who was baffled by the idea of an overdraft, and whose parents own property. As in, multiple. Including holiday homes—again, plural. There were rumors one of Johnny’s aunts knew Prince William and Kate. Johnny has a family crest with a Latin motto.
That’s not why I’m confused, though.
“Johnny is a fucking nickname, Lena.”
She pauses. “Oh. I guess so.”
She can’t be serious. This cannot be the first time this thought has occurred to her.
Except it obviously is, which means I shouldn’t have said it.
While I’m at it, I may as well also point out that the link they made for their gift registry says HandJ, which looks a bit too close to hand job.
“Lena’s quite modern, though, I suppose,” she says, her tone shifting to something prickly and defensive. “And I go by Helena at work. It’s not like everyone calls me Lena.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I know.” Shit, shit, shit. Where is the Ctrl+Z for real life? “No, I get you. Helena. I’ll remember.”
Helena smiles at me, but it’s a bit strained and a clear indicator that it’s time to wrap this up before I inadvertently insult her and the groom any further. I give her another hug and tell her congratulations again, because that feels like the way you’re supposed to wrap up a conversation with the bride-to-be at her engagement party, and she makes an excuse about seeing her cousins and needing to go and speak to them, which suits me just fine.
I cannot get away fast enough.
Two
The Right Honorable Lady Helena might have escaped my mimosa incident unscathed, but as I quickly discover in the ladies’ room, I haven’t. My top is stained with orange juice and my face and neck and hands are sticky from it. There’s also a large wet patch on the end of my sleeve where I’d covered my mouth with my hand.
I spend a while in the bathroom scrubbing my sleeve with soap and water, and then sticking it under the hand dryer. At least it’s a good excuse to hide out for a bit.
This is the problem with my friends achieving things in their lives and hitting all those conventional success milestones. I’m always worried about saying the wrong thing. I’m terrified of the first friend who has a baby, because I don’t know anybody with babies, so I don’t know what “the done thing” is. I don’t know how much to drink—or not drink—at weddings, and if I’m supposed to mingle or stick with the handful of other people I know. When someone buys a house, do you give them mugs and candles—or not, because that’s what everyone else is probably buying them, but then again can you ever have too many mugs or candles? And are you supposed to ask them if you can visit so you can see the house or is that rude? Is it ruder still to not ask about visiting and then risk looking totally disinterested and like a terrible friend?
I learned the hard way that, when it comes to a friend’s relationships, I should never bad-mouth their significant other. At least, not to their face. Magda, my work bestie at my first job out of uni, was having a tough time with her boyfriend, so I thought I’d have her back and cuss him out, but then they got back together and all of a sudden she “didn’t feel like she could talk to me if I had such a low opinion of him,” and that was the end of that friendship.
I do like Johnny. For the record.
But come on, it’s her name! If she wants to go by Lena, what does it matter to them? And if they’re going to be interfering with a simple thing like that, what about the rest of her life? And what does Johnny think about it—does he let his family walk all over him? Does he support her on the things that matter to her, because he bloody well should. Is she really sure about this?
Except obviously you can’t say that to someone, even one of your closest friends, and especially not at their engagement party.
But, you know, also, it’s just a name, and if it doesn’t bother her, why should it bother me? Who am I to get on my soapbox when she hasn’t even asked for my opinion?
With the vague intention of distracting myself (and half a mind to message someone who’s not here, so I can vent) I get my phone out. Distraction wins out, if only because I have some notifications to catch up on.
The family group chat is going off, from the looks of it. My stepsister Jessica’s been at the florist today with her big sister, Nadine, but since their mum—my ex-stepmother, Camilla—couldn’t make it, they’ve been flooding the chat with photos and comments. Dad’s pitched in a few times, but it looks like all he’s said is “that’s nice” about basically everything. I snort quietly, imagining how worked up Jessica is probably getting. She’s taking wedding planning very seriously. I don’t think I’ve seen her this serious since A-Level results day, or that morning she was trying to get tickets to the Jonas Brothers’ tour.
There are so many messages that I just skim through the notifications. I notice one from Camilla about a bridesmaids’ dress fitting next weekend, if that works for everybody.
And I notice a reply from Nadine, that she’ll call to book it in because I’ll definitely be free.
I bristle, glowering at the notification.
I mean, I am free. But it feels a bit rich for them to assume. Is it because I don’t have a boyfriend to make plans with? No wedding of my own to plan?
I could have plans.
Defeat sinks in, and I sigh. Well, I definitely have plans now, I suppose.
There’s a message from Duncan too. My best friend at my job at the local newspaper, and fellow pathetic perpetual singleton.
He’s sent a screenshot of some rave comments on my anonymous (and admittedly somewhat snarky) Valentine’s article, accompanied by an I told you so message about how he knew I’d do a great job of it, and congrats again on it being made into a regular monthly feature on the paper’s website instead of just a one-off. I roll my eyes but can’t keep the smile off my face. I was so scared of the article tanking that I didn’t tell anybody outside of work.
Now I’m scared it was a little bit too honest. I know that if my friends and family knew it was me I’d have to bite my tongue and watch what I say in future editions of the column, which is the exact opposite of what my editor is looking for. I’ve only published one so far; I can’t afford to fall at the first hurdle.
I stay in the bathroom long enough to realize that no amount of posh hotel soap will fix my outfit. It will only make me smell very strongly of peonies.
By the time I get back, the party is in full swing. Lena’s mum has left her post by the now-full gift table, the drinks are flowing a little quicker, and Johnny’s dad is calling for quiet to give a toast.
Even the rain that was thundering against the glass roof has let up a little bit.
With the toasts beginning, this is not the moment to go looking for my friends. Everyone stands around in a crowd, clustered in the center of the conservatory to listen, so I can’t start barging through.
I’ll find them later. They’ll be here somewhere.
I loiter near the back of the crowd and fidget awkwardly. I have to crane my neck to see Mr. Richards, but his voice carries well enough over our heads as he talks about how thrilled they all are to have “Helena” cemented as a member of the family, even though, of course, she already is after seven years of dating Johnny, ha-ha!
And when Johnny came to talk to him a few months ago to ask for his advice on proposing . . .
A throat clears right by my ear.
I jump, knocking against someone, my right shoulder and arm brushing against them. I open my mouth, ready to whisper a hasty apology to whatever relative I’ve just bumped into, only to find a glass of champagne being pushed into my hand and a brown-haired guy in a crisp gray suit standing very close beside me.
“You’re looking a little bit lost. And I’m not sure if you’ve just walked into the wrong party or not but, if you have, it’s too late to leave now—and either way, you can’t make it through the toasts without one of these,” he murmurs, gesturing with his own drink.
“Thanks.”
I rack my brain, trying to remember who he is. He looks about my age, but he’s definitely not one of our crowd of uni friends.
Someone Johnny knows through work? A cousin? I must’ve seen his face once or twice on Instagram but can’t for the life of me place him.
“Bride or groom?” I whisper to him.
“Bride. I’m Hel’s friend. Family friend, from our school days.
Sorry, I mean—”
“Helena,” we chorus at the same time, loud enough to earn a glare from an elderly couple just in front. I smother a giggle, and the guy rolls his eyes, clearly sharing my exact sentiments about the whole nickname nonsense.
Finally, someone sane at this party.
“What about you?”
“Bride,” I say. “We lived together through uni.”
“Ah! Yeah, I think I’ve seen you on her Facebook and stuff. It’s, uh . . . ?”
“Sophie.”
“Sophie. That’s right.”
He smiles at me, and my stomach does that weird flip-flopping thing that usually means trouble. The suit is the kind that obviously costs a lot of money, and he looks like he spent too much time on his hair, but he’s quite good looking. A little bit shorter than me in my heels. His suit must be tailored judging by the way it shows off a toned body that looks like it’s spent a lot of time in the gym. Plus, he’s doing that weird smiling-but-not-really thing where one corner of his mouth is quirked up and his eyes crinkle a little at the corners, but it also looks a bit aloof and very casual, and damn him, but it’s working.
“Mitch,” he introduces himself quietly.
A noise ripples through the crowd in front of us; a titter of laughter at whatever anecdote Johnny’s dad has just shared.
And all due respect to Mr. Richards, I’m sure it’s a great speech, but right now it’s sexy Mitch and our whispered conversation taking my full attention.
Johnny’s dad wraps up his speech, everyone claps, and Mitch and I interrupt ourselves to chime in, “To Johnny and Helena!” only to pick it right back up when Lena’s dad takes over with his speech.
“God, this is going to go on forever, isn’t it?” Mitch whispers, so close that his lips actually brush the shell of my ear. I shiver. Bold move but, hey, I’m not complaining. “Her sister’s got one prepared too.”
“Bloody hell,” I say, although I’m actually looking forward to Lena’s sister’s speech, if only because I know she’ll embarrass Lena at least a little and it’ll be a bit of a laugh.
We lapse into quiet for a moment until Mitch says in a casual murmur, “Do you want to nip to the loos for a quick shag?”
Prince Charming, I have found you at last.
Three
And then he slid into my LinkedIn DMs.
An alternative to dating apps from our Dating & Relationships columnist
On the bright side, Lena’s engagement party dissolves into something a bit more fun and carefree after a light lunch is served and music starts to play—a careful balance of upbeat pop music and catchy ’80s tunes that has everyone bobbing their heads, and most people up dancing.
Mitch, I wasn’t sorry to see, had to leave before lunch.
Honestly. Who asks someone for a quickie in the toilets like that?
If I didn’t think it’d be a great story for my next column, I’d be way more pissed off about it. As it is, I sit at one of the tables making notes on my phone, half engaged in conversation with some of the uni crowd.
The music shifts into another pop song that makes a couple of women shriek with laughter.
I don’t notice what it is at first.
It’s only when Lena rushes over, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, calling, “Sophie! Soph, come on!” that I realize what song is playing.
It’s by Beyoncé.
Lena’s sweaty hands grab mine. She puts my phone down for me and pulls me to my feet. “Come on! It’s your song!”
That’s right, you’ve guessed it—it’s “Single Ladies”! Come on down and claim your prize!
Fuck.
I don’t care if this is her engagement party. She could have just been named queen for all I care, I still wouldn’t have to oblige her.
But Christ, I forget how bloody strong she is.
Lena ignores my frantic, hushed protests and the way I’m digging my heels into the floor. My other best friend, Tally, whom I’ve hardly seen all day in all the party madness, is suddenly there too—but not to rescue me, only to grab me by the waist and push me along, laughing with Lena and oblivious to my panic.
A few feet ahead of me on the dance floor, a circle has formed of seven or eight other women dancing around. A couple look mortified but put on brave smiles as if to say, Ha-ha! Great joke!
I’m totally in on it! This is so much fun! Another person on the floor is Lena’s great-grandmother, shimmying like there’s no tomorrow and waving her walking stick in the air, having the time of her life.
There are two girls who look about thirteen, and even though their faces scream reluctance, they pull off some ubercoordinated dance I guess they learned on TikTok, absolutely showing off.
I shouldn’t be so caught off guard.
Like, I knew this was going to happen at some point. Everyone loves the “Single Ladies” song, and is it even a party if you haven’t played some Beyoncé? I’ve heard about this exact thing happening at weddings and stuff, but I really, honestly didn’t think my friends would do it to me.
But they did.
They’re shoving me forward into this newfound circle of hell for me to dance as one of the few single women at the party, while they all dance half-heartedly around us. Everyone in the room is singing and thrusting their hand in the air on the chorus, and they clap and cheer along.
One of Lena’s cousins is dancing near me. She’s not a very good dancer, nor is she enthusiastic, but sort of juts her hips from side to side and tosses her hair and pushes her face up, pouting. One of Johnny’s mates is nearby, though, watching her avidly, so I guess she’s doing a good job of looking sexy.
I wiggle and shimmy my way over to Lena’s great-grandma to dance with her. I throw in a few moves I learned from TikTok, as well as some old favorites from my uni days—probably making a fool of myself, but at least I do it with confidence. Grandma gives me a big smile, trying to copy me, and by now the teens have come over to teach us some arm-wiggle move, and before I know it, the DJ has moved into the “Macarena” and the floor is full of arms jabbing at the air and people jumping ninety degrees to the right, and the nightmare is over.
I give Grandma a high five and leave her learning a new dance with the teens, and storm off to grab my friends, who are Macarena-ing their hearts out. They both beam at me, laughing, and do not stop dancing.
“Brilliant!” Tally cries. “OMG, loved it.”
“So funny,” Lena echoes.
And I level her with the most ruthless, deadly serious glare I can muster, take her by the shoulders, and vow, “If you play ‘Single Ladies’ at your wedding reception, I will kill you with my bare hands.”
• • •
Later that night, once I’m home from the party, still reeling from having been propositioned during the speeches and having my single status flaunted for the entire party to see, I cannot believe that I also have to explain to my friends in the group chat that no, I did not disappear from the engagement party to have sex with one of Lena’s old school friends in the toilets; that is categorically untrue.
Yes, I’m sure I didn’t.
Well, it’s not my fault if nobody saw me during the speeches, I was there.
Lena, at least, thinks it’s hilarious. She knows it isn’t true and that an overheard snippet of conversation has gotten wildly out of hand, but she messages our group saying she wouldn’t blame me if I did do it.
You’ve got to have a doubly exciting single life now so we can all live vicariously through you, ha-ha!
Yeah, ha-bloody-ha.
If you need to live vicariously through me, maybe don’t get married, Lena. How about that?
My actual reply in the group chat is a photograph of how I’m spending my Sunday evening now I’m back at home: in faded fleece pajamas and fluffy socks, curled up on the sofa watching old episodes of Call the Midwife, one of my go-to comfort shows.
Does that mean you get to be doubly boring too?
I joke in the chat because it’s too exhausting to even think about picking a fight. Then I immediately read my message back and cringe because it sounds like I am picking a fight.
I promise myself I’m not mad at Lena, it’s just . . . it’s hard, isn’t it? Things will change when she gets married, they’re bound to, and she’ll start thinking about having a family, and that changes things, too, and it’s just that I miss how easy and effortless our friendship used to be. It’s not that I’m upset that she’s engaged; I’m upset we have to grow up. Grow apart.
Yes, that is the mature way to think about it.
I don’t think it’s necessarily true, but I would like to convince myself it is.
