Faking It, page 4
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, even though it does. “Don’t worry.”
“Text me later? Let me know how it goes with Rainbow Joe?”
“Will do.”
Tally finishes her lipstick, tosses it into her bag, and starts wrestling herself into her coat.
“Do you want to hang out this weekend?” I ask.
“Huh? Uh, I think we might be going to Sam’s parents’ this weekend, and we’ve got another couple of viewings. I’m sorry, babe, I know I’m being a pain.”
“No, no, honestly, it’s fine! I know you’re busy. We’ll sort something out some other time.”
She blows me a kiss and squeezes my arm as she walks past, calling goodbye over her shoulder and leaving me by myself to finish my tea.
Which is fine. It’s the same with pretty much all my friends: they have things to do, people to see, houses to buy, and whatever else. Half the time, it’s a logistical nightmare to meet up.
So I open up Hookd to see if I have any new matches.
April
FRANKIE AND FRANKIE’S HOUSEWARMING PARTY
APR Come celebrate F&F’s new home!
17 Francis Donnelly invited you
Going Maybe Can’t Go
Details
23 people are going, including Tallulah King and Helena Shelton
Event by Francesca Collins
16 Kenton Drive, York
Hi, everybody! Now we’ve finally moved into the new house (yay!) we wanted to invite you all for a bit of a get-together! We’ll provide the nibbles and booze so please don’t worry about bringing anything. There’s limited room for any sleepovers, so if you do need somewhere to stay, there is a Travelodge at the nearest motorway junction and the air beds/sofas here will be first come, first served! We really hope you can come to celebrate this next chapter in our lives with us! xxx
Five
Seriously, can we stop asking someone how long they’ve been single? Especially on a first date.
Views on a dating minefield from our Dating & Relationships columnist
“So how long have you been single, then?”
Oh wonderful. We’re starting out strong.
I take a sip of my Diet Coke to buy me a little time and assess the guy in front of me. It’s a Friday night and I’m out for dinner at a local Jamaican place I’ve never heard of. His name is Sebastian (“Like the lobster in The Little Mermaid,” he said, ignoring me when I pointed out that Sebastian is actually a crab).
Sebastian (not the crab version) is twenty-eight and works in corporate finance. His profile says he’s six foot, but he looks more like five-ten on a good day. He has too much gel in his hair, but he’s wearing nice cologne and has nailed the smart-casual dress code for a dinner date. He likes mountain biking, the Batman movies, and while he did not once meet Barack Obama, he did break his arm in a high-school production of Grease and is a partially qualified sommelier.
Also, he suggested dinner instead of drinks for our first date.
Things with Rainbow Joe didn’t work out. He canceled our third date at the last minute, canceled the rearranged-for-Sunday third date, and then never replied when I messaged to see if he still wanted to grab a drink.
I haven’t told Tally, and she hasn’t asked. I haven’t told anyone, actually.
One, because it’s not a big deal, it was only a couple of dates. And two, because then they’ll ask What happened? I thought your first two dates went so well! and I don’t know what happened, but if I try too hard to answer I’ll just think of all the ways I might have messed up and go right back to feeling miserable about being single for the rest of my life. Which is a lot of emotional turmoil to deal with, considering it was only two dates and a few bland text conversations.
Tonight, I’m back on the proverbial horse once again.
We’ve only just got our drinks and already we’re diving in at the deep end.
The question “How long have you been single?” might seem harmless and ordinary enough for a first date, but it’s a minefield, and you have to adjust your answer based on the kind of guy you’re talking to.
For instance: Do you want to be the girl who took some time to “find herself”? Did you put your career first and dating went on the back burner? Have you just been enjoying single life and are only looking for something casual? Do you refer instead to the last time you were in at least a sort-of relationship so it doesn’t seem like you’re a pathetic loser who can’t get a man or else like someone hideously uptight that people prefer to steer clear of?
It’s not about lying, of course. It’s just about the way you frame it.
I look at Sebastian’s expensive shirt, the arrogance of the way he’s sitting—one elbow hooked over the back of his chair, legs sprawled wide, one hand loosely around the twist-top wine he actually insisted on tasting before letting the waiter pour him a glass.
“A while,” I say, in my breeziest tone. “My job can be pretty demanding.”
“You’re a journalist, right?”
“Not exactly. I work in marketing for the local newspaper.
Managing some of our advertising accounts, the social media, our website. But I do some writing, too, sometimes! In December I wrote a column featuring a local spa hotel.”
It’s a bit of a stretch but it’s also not untrue. It’s best foot forward, the sort of positive spin I’d put on it if this was a job interview.
But Sebastian nods, like I have said something important and meaningful. “Yeah. Yeah, for sure. Working in media, can imagine that gets pretty hectic. Lots going on.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I’m about to ask him about his job, but apparently I don’t need to. He launches into talking about it—but, to his credit, he does ask me a few questions in the middle of it, and when our food arrives he turns the conversation back to me and, picking off the list of first-date conversation starters, asks, “So have you got any nice plans coming up? Holidays or anything?”
“Actually, I’m going up to York soon, visiting some friends.
Not exactly a holiday, ha-ha, but I’ll make a bit of a weekend of it.
They’ve just bought a house together, so—”
“Oh, brilliant! The market’s really strong right now. First-time buyers?”
“Yeah, they’re—”
“Mm,” he says, nodding and chewing his food. “Great time to invest. And the returns you can get on the rental market right now—”
“No,” I interrupt. “They’re living there.”
Sebastian looks surprised, which is baffling to me. He’s only a few years older but how can he possibly know that many people buying a place with the intention of renting it out rather than living there? Aren’t all his friends scrabbling to balance rent and bills while saving what they can every month in the blind hope that they’ll eventually pull enough together for a deposit on a place somewhere?
“Do you own property?” I blurt, and cringe at the way I’ve phrased it, how accusatory it sounds.
“I’ve got a two-bed flat in the city center,” he tells me, like this is no big deal at all.
Something triggers in the back of my mind: I’m sure he mentioned something about his commute to work, which doesn’t make sense if he lives so close to where he works. I say, “But you’re not living in the city center.”
“What? Oh, no. I rent it out. Much more lucrative. I live with my parents.”
“Oh! Right. Fair enough. So I guess the plan is to put the profit back in to get yourself somewhere?”
Sebastian gives me a strange look and then laughs. “The profit is what pays for my BMW.”
Well, hey. To each their own.
I don’t really want to keep talking about our personal finances—it feels like a risky topic for a first date anyway, but there’s something off about his attitude. I can’t determine if it’s more arrogant or defensive, but either way, I think I’d rather steer the conversation back to some kind of neutral middle ground or next thing I know he’ll ask me how I voted in the last election.
And since I never got the chance to ask him earlier tonight, I say, “So how long have you been single, Sebastian?”
He shrugs. “About six, seven years. I’m just looking for something casual, though.”
• • •
At work the next day, I really want to tell Duncan about my date.
Tally and Lena never replied to my messages last night—actually, they never replied to my messages that I had a date, let alone asked how it went—but I know if I tell Duncan, he’ll see the funny side.
And then I’ll see the funny side, and things won’t look so bleak.
But he’s not in the office, having gone out to do some research for an article, and soon enough I’m swamped with my own work.
My week ends up going from a bit rocky to an earthquake that’s nice and high on the Richter scale. Maybe with a tornado thrown in for good measure.
Basically, a complete fucking disaster.
I spend the morning working through a backlog of emails and some notes on my next article from Andy in the editorial department, when an email sent by Satan himself lands in my inbox.
Technically, it’s from Steffan, my contact at the chain of local pubs I’ve been managing our advertising contract with. With a dozen pubs scattered across the city and nearby, they’ve been advertising with our paper for the last three years. Jenny let me have the responsibility of renewing their contract. I’ve been taking on more tasks like that over the last year or so, hoping it’ll help me work my way up from marketing assistant to marketing executive one day, and this one felt like a big coup.
Plus, I really needed to prove I could do it, especially after the graffiti disaster. (Like it was my fault the artist we hired defaced a shop front with our ad campaign back in January. It wasn’t like I told him to do that specifically. But since we had to pay the shop owner damages, I’m sure that particular project landed me with a big black mark next to my name.)
A mark I was hoping this pub contract would help get rid of.
Hi, Sophie, hope you’re doing well . . . Steffan’s email begins.
And then, ensuring I feel the exact opposite of “well,” he informs me that they feel the cost to renew the contract is too high, and the team did not agree with my pitch to move from twice-weekly half-page ads in the physical newspaper to monthly physical ads with regular online slots to better suit their audience.
As if they know anything about their audience, I want to reply.
As if they have their own stack of statistics somewhere that brought them to that decision.
. . . wish to inform you that we will be terminating our contract with you in June this year . . .
Shit. What am I going to do?
This was my chance to redeem myself, and I’ve messed up royally.
My eyes drift to Isaac, the marketing assistant who sits at the desk opposite mine. I glance over at Karl and Oscar, the execs on our team at the next bank of desks, and then over at Jenny’s office, where she’s in a meeting with a couple of people from the finance team.
I barely manage not to scream or groan or cry out loud. The finance team. Yeah, this will be great, let me just go to her office, interrupt her meeting, and have them know I’ve just lost the paper a considerable sum of money.
Again.
Shaking, I reach for my phone and make an escape to the bathroom. I message my friends to see if they’re free, telling them something bad has happened at work and I need their help, but none of them reply.
I call Mum, but it rings out—and then I remember she’s in New Zealand and it’s the middle of the night.
What am I going to do?
Several slow, deep breaths later, and no calmer, I emerge from the toilets and wait nervously at my desk until Jenny’s meeting is over. I knock on the glass door and she looks up, her warm smile making me all the more nervous, and try not to vomit all over her office as I tell her just how badly I’ve messed up, and what a mistake she made in trusting me.
Six
Francis, affectionately dubbed Frankie One, is my internet friend, despite the fact we have been IRL friends for years now. We met on Twitter, bonding over a shared love of photography. It was the sort of friendship where we’d just send each other links we thought the other would appreciate, and it evolved from there, though it never even nudged into flirtatious territory—and for once in my single life, that hadn’t left me gutted and disappointed; I was just happy to have a new friend. The first time we met up, I took Tally and Lena with me, and he brought a mate along as well. We all ended up getting drunk and going to karaoke, and then staying up until four in the morning eating pizza on the floor of the Premier Inn room we’d booked.
I don’t see Frankie very often but he’s one of those fail-safe friends who are always there when you need them. Even if he didn’t see my recent help, I messed up at work message until the next day, he still tried to help after the fact.
We’ve hung out a bunch since meeting, usually staying with each other for a weekend or so, which means we know a lot of each other’s friends. I met his girlfriend Francesca (aka Frankie Two) twice, and Lena has gotten quite friendly with her—it turns out they have mutual friends, having both grown up in Nottingham—so the invite to their housewarming extended to Lena and Tally too.
The three of us have booked a hotel for the night and we’ll go out for brunch on Sunday morning, which takes the pressure off for the party itself. I’m not convinced Francesca likes me very much, so I’m relieved to have the girls there as a buffer.
I’m glad for the invite to the housewarming, full stop. The girls have been too busy to hang out and I was too embarrassed about how much I messed up the pub contract at work to tell my family, so I really need this weekend.
Lena, though, is stressing out. I’ve been parked outside, idling, for twenty-eight minutes now as she runs back and forth between the house and my car.
The first crisis was over what to wear (Tally has opted for jeans and a nice top whereas I’ve got a going-out dress, so we were no help between us for an indecisive Lena). The second one was because I said she could sign my new-home card, only to realize I’d left it behind, so she went hunting for a spare she was sure she had. I’d turn around, but I’m already more than an hour away from home.
As the only one of us who knows how to change a tire and check the oil in my car, and since Tally shares a car with her boyfriend, Sam, it’s been an unspoken rule for years that if ever the three of us take a little road trip somewhere, I’m the driver.
Now Lena leans through the passenger window where Tally is sitting and asks us, “What are you bringing?”
“What?”
“Do I need to bring something as well?”
“Like what?”
“Well, wine or something.”
I blink, and stare at her.
“I’ve gone for red,” Tally says without missing a beat. “A nice cabernet; it’s a brand Frankie Two likes. I’ve seen it on her Instagram.”
“Shall I bring white, then? I bought them a nice box of chocolates too. What’ve you got, Soph?”
“I haven’t—” I look between the two of them, nerves scratching at my throat. “She said on the invite we didn’t need to bring anything!”
“You’ve got to bring something. You can’t show up empty-handed.”
“Says the girl who had a pizza oven on her engagement registry.
Says the girl who has an engagement registry.”
Lena blushes, mumbling something about her and Johnny’s mums getting carried away, but Tally gasps, scandalized, and smacks my arm. “Sophie! You can’t go to their housewarming party without anything!”
“I got them a card! Or I did, until I left it at home. What? Don’t look at me like that! She said, don’t bring anything! Why would you say that if you didn’t mean it?”
They both roll their eyes, and I get that pang. Like I’m out of the loop, like I’ve missed the obvious social cue that they know.
Eventually, Lena gets in the car, and we stop off at the nearest supermarket. She buys them a bottle of midrange prosecco to match the box of chocolates she’s already bought. I choose some spiced rum. Tally meets us at the till with a basket full of snacks and sweets for our little road trip.
• • •
My mouth falls open and I whisper, “Shiiiiit,” as our taxi draws up outside 16 Kenton Drive, home of the Frankies. It’s an estate of newly built houses, and even though Frankie sent me the link to the show home on the website when they put in the offer a few months ago, I was not expecting this. There’s a small, immaculate lawn on either side of a paved pathway leading to the front door. It’s three bedrooms, but I’m realizing now that it’s a large three-bedroom. There are hanging baskets, bright and vibrant, either side of the door.
Tally whistles. “I need to move up north. Bet our deposit would get us something like this up here.”
The three of us swallow our awe (and jealousy). Lena pays the taxi driver, since she’s the only one smart enough to bring cash, and we make our way to the front door.
Frankie Two answers—bloody hell, she looks elegant. Black midi skirt, floaty white top, sparkly diamond necklace . . . has she had her hair blow-dried? I bet she hasn’t. I bet she can get it to look that good all by herself.
Her outfit isn’t miles away from what I wore to Lena’s engagement party, and yet it’s so much nicer. So much prettier and more sophisticated.
She should be one of Lena’s bridesmaids, I think, not me.
She’s like a perfectly curated Instagram profile, except in real life.
Francesca Collins isn’t the kind of person who would show up empty-handed to a housewarming party after being told not to bring anything.
She smiles brightly, holding the glass of wine in her right hand out of the way to hug us one by one with her left arm, kissing us each on the cheek. “You made it!”
