Fake It For Me, page 15
“Good afternoon!” a vibrant voice called out.
I glanced to the front of the atrium, and a woman had just appeared from the elevator there. She wasn’t old, appeared to be in her late thirties, or perhaps early forties wore a pencil skirt and a cream-colored blazer.
I looked around the room. The few couples there all looked unsure of whether they were supposed to reply or not. Join the club, I thought.
“Afternoon!” Nick replied, cheerily.
I rolled my eyes. Always one.
“My name is Liz Twain,” the woman said, by way of introduction. “I work for Lifestyle Magazine, in their Public Relations department, and I’m designated Director for this little competition we’ve set up. So, this competition, as you know, is for couples, but is centered around the world of interior design and decorating. So, we hope you brought your thinking caps because, in this arena, there can be only one winner. And this won’t only test how well you know your field, but how well you and your spouse know each other.”
My heart skipped a beat there. How well did I know Nick? All of a sudden, all of my insecurities at getting married specifically for this competition started to come flooding back. What if some of these couples had been married for months longer than us? Or years? They would surely know each other like the back of their own hand. And if that were true, didn’t that mean that Nick and I didn’t have a chance?
Ms. Twain took us in the elevator up three floors and through an office bullpen, where we took seats around the offices. Then Ms. Twain’s assistant started handing out clipboards and pens.
“Okay, so as you know, the winner of this competition walks away with a cool million dollars,” Ms. Twain reminded us. “But if you’re expecting this competition to be a walk in the park, you’ve no idea what you’ve signed yourself up for. The first task is the only one that will be so easy, and it’s one for the interior designers and one for the spouses.
“I’d like my interior designers in the building to design their dream front room,” Ms. Twain went on. “Go all out. Sofas, armchairs, shelves, anything your mind can conceive. Fill out these worksheets according to what you see in your mind’s eye, and when you’re done, your spouse will attempt to guess the colors you used. The team that scores lowest, i.e. the team that has the least cohesion, will be eliminated from the competition, and the rest will advance to round two.”
I felt a sharp intake of breath in the room as everyone hissed. And for a good reason, too. One of the teams would be leaving the competition this very afternoon. I found myself hoping to God that Nick and I were reprieved, after all, we had done outrageous things in order to be here today. And the loss of a million dollars was no small blow.
Nick handed me the clipboard. “You’re the interior decorator,” he said simply. “Just…follow your instincts and trust me, we’ll be fine.”
“Can we start?” I asked Ms. Twain.
“You may begin,” Ms. Twain nodded her head. “You have ten minutes.”
I placed the tip of the pen against the paper and found myself filled with worry. Design a front room? Easy. Piece of cake. But I had no idea if Nick knew where my head was at. Needless to say, we had very different tastes when it came to…well…taste.
Before I knew it, my hand was moving, the pen scribbling words on the form, adding in colors, designs, shades, tones, different types of paint, wallpaper, carpets, curtains. The interior designer in me was taking over. Before long, Ms. Twain was calling time. “Time to switch over now loves,” she said, a smile on her face. “And good luck to you all.”
A quick inspection of the room told me that most of the women were handing blank papers to their husbands, rather than the other way around. Was interior designer considered a “traditionally female-led” job? I removed my paper from the clipboard, leaving a blank sheet underneath, and handed the clipboard to Nick, along with the pen. “Good luck,” I whispered.
Nick winked at me as if to say I got this. Confident and cool to the last.
“Ten minutes, hubbies,” Ms. Twain quipped. “Your time starts…now.”
I didn’t take my eyes off of Nick for the whole ten minutes. He didn’t appear to be rushing. Instead, he was jotting down all of his answers patiently and taking his sweet time. As the clock ticked down into its last, dying seconds, Nick finished up the worksheet and put the pen down. Ms. Twain called it.
“Time,” she said. “Pens down, please. Now, it’s here that I’d like to offer you an interesting opportunity. Before I announce the winners, you may look at your spouse’s worksheet. However, if you take this option, you have to re-take the test with a different worksheet.”
I arched my eyebrow. On the one hand, I would get to see where Nick’s head was at, but at the risk of invalidating this entire round! What if he’d done great, and I was just wiping out all of his hard work? What if the next worksheet we got was harder? No, I couldn’t risk it.
“Is anyone interested?” Ms. Twain asked.
Nobody spoke - everyone’s minds seemed to be going along the same lines as mine.
“Very well,” Ms. Twain smiled. “I’m going to collect the worksheets, then.”
She worked her way around the room, collecting all the worksheets into two piles. Then she got out her own pen, a scarlet red one, and sat down to mark the sheets. I felt like being back in middle school, when my math teacher, Miss Lorna, would make the whole class sit in silence while she marked our worksheets. All that could be heard apart from breathing and the odd cough (which Miss Lorna tended to reward with a ferocious scowl) was the scratch of Miss Lorna’s red pen.
Finally, Ms. Twain was finished. She capped her pen, placed it on the desk, and knit her hands together purposefully. “Okay,” she said. “Unfortunately, we have a clear loser here. And the couple that will be leaving us is…”
She paused for dramatic effect, gazing at each couple in turn with her shrewd eyes. She licked her lips with suspense and then exhaled. “Bruce and Fiona.”
My jaw dropped so fast it nearly hit the desk. Bruce and Fiona? No way, they seemed like they were joined at the hip!
Bruce and Fiona were as shocked as anyone else. They looked around the room with bamboozled expressions, like they were waiting for someone to jump out and yell Sike!
But nobody did.
“Unfortunately, Bruce and Fiona, you two scored lowest,” Ms. Twain said apologetically. “If it’s any consolation, the next couple up, Shane and Janet, beat you by two points.”
Shane and Janet shared looks of relief at this, although perhaps they should have been worried, seeing as we were going onto the next round.
“Whoa!” Nick said out loud, and everyone looked at him.
“What?” Ms. Twain asked.
“I just…” Nick faltered. I was surprised. Nick, faltering?
“We’re kind of newly-wed,” I explained. “I kind of assumed we were going to come last.”
“Last?” Ms. Twain echoed. “Far from it, Mrs. McConnery. You actually came in second place.”
“Second?” I’m pretty sure my eyes popped.
“Behind Jack and Emma,” Ms. Twain nodded.
I was far too surprised to notice Jack and Emma’s smug looks. “Second?” I whispered into Nick’s ear. “We came second!”
“The next round will be next week, at the same time,” Ms. Twain was saying. “I’ll see you all then.”
Nick and I were elated all the way to Cloud Nine when we left the building and returned to one of Nick’s hotels in Manhattan. Nick had a business meeting with his Dad, and so he left quite promptly, which left me with a surplus of Me time, which I was just fine with. I was so relieved to have placed so high in the contest. It was an indication that perhaps Nick and I weren’t such a bad match after all.
But, of course, all things joyous come to an end, and it wasn’t long before misfortune began to rear its ugly head. Within an hour, I felt sick, and within two, I was hurling up my guts into the en suite bathroom. Instinct told me to go to the doctor, but I knew that there was no point.
This explained everything. The moodiness, the chocolate chip cookie craving. The question was, how would I tell Nick? How would I break it to him that I was pregnant? And did I even want to?
Chapter Twenty
Nick
If you asked me, I was as surprised as anyone that we’d passed through to the next round of the interior decorating competition. I’d had such a bad feeling about the first round, and when I’d confessed these feelings to Sandy, she was surprised. You seemed so confident, she said. Silly girl. Obviously, I was putting on a confident façade because I didn’t want her to start worrying. I had no idea what she was going to put on that paper, but thank God, I trusted my instincts. I knew about Sandy’s affinity for warm-ish colors, and I just let my mind run with it.
And to my great surprise, that instinct had secured us second place out of the entire group, barely a breath behind Jack and Emma, the supposed G.O.A.T (Greatest of All Time) of couples. I thought that that title was a bit much, but the entire group had already started calling them that, and I was popular enough at High School to know that once a nickname sinks in, it doesn’t come out. Like…ever.
And nobody ever has cool nicknames that they like and appreciate, either. No, that would be way too easy! Back at school, the three biggest bullies use to roll around together. I really have no idea how they got their names, but they eventually became known as Snapback, Beanie, and Fedora. Yes, like the hats. I have no recollection of what their real names were if I ever knew them at all. Go figure.
So, Sandy and I had advanced to the next round. It was a surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one. That evening we went home, both elated beyond anything we’d ever experienced in each other’s company. Unfortunately, I had to run out on urgent business, and by the time I got back to the hotel, Sandy was already asleep on the sofa. I tucked her up in bed and climbed in next to her. I figured that that’s what a good husband should do.
When I awoke the next morning, Sandy was still out like a light. After I took a shower, got dressed, and put a pot of coffee on, I jumped online and checked my emails. As I’d suspected, we had an email from Lifestyle Magazine, detailing the next round of the competition. As I read through the particulars, Sandy came up behind me, looped her arms around my neck from behind, and kissed me on the temple.
I was surprised at this, yet pleasantly so. “Morning, you,” I smiled. “What was that for?”
Sandy shrugged. “I’m just still feeling pretty excited. You know, about the competition. I kind of assumed we’d have a lot of ground to make up, but we came in second in the first task.”
“I know,” I nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I think it’s best that we try and remember not to get too cocky, or complacent,” I reminded her. “For all we know, it could have been beginner’s luck.”
Sandy made a face. “You really know how to spoil the mood.”
I rolled my eyes. “Be serious, babe, you know I’m right. Remember, Ms. Twain said that the first contest is the only one that’ll be so easy. So, the one coming up next week could find us out of our depth.”
“I guess you have a point,” Sandy admitted. She plodded over to the coffee maker and began making herself a beverage. Then she suddenly smiled. “Did you…call me babe?”
I felt my cheeks grow hot. I partially hid my face behind my laptop screen so she wouldn’t see me blushing.
“So, what if I did?” I asked nervously.
Sandy laughed. “Anyone would think that you’re taking this whole marriage thing seriously.”
I scoffed. “I’m many things, Sandy. But serious? Bitch, please.”
Sandy laughed at this. She sat across from me at the table and propped her feet up in my lap. “So…what do you suggest we do?”
“About what?” I asked.
“You know what!” she said indignantly. “You’re the one who said what if the second part of the contest catches us with our proverbial trousers down, for lack of a better term. So how do you suggest we prepare for it?”
“Well, the only thing I see that we can do is prepare for the whole contest at large,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Sandy arched her eyebrow inquisitively.
“What I mean is remember how Ms. Twain let it slip that the contest is not only going to be about interior decorating,” I reminded her. “But about how well we know each other?”
“Yeah,” Sandy nodded. “Where are you going with this?”
“I think there was a hint before that,” I said thoughtfully. “Remember all those…sexually intimate questions that there were in the questionnaire?”
Sandy nodded again. “Ah, I get you. So, you’re saying that we should practice for the second round by getting to know each other as best we can?”
“Bingo,” I snapped my fingers.
Sandy laughed. “If this is your way of trying to fuck me in the ass again, nice try, buster brown.”
I went red again. “Sandy! That is an outrageous accusation. I would never do that…twice.”
Sandy laughed into her coffee mug. “So, you claim, Nichol-ass.”
This time, I’m fairly sure I went white instead of red as the blood drained from my face. “What did you just-where did you hear that name?”
“Your Dad,” Sandy admitted. “He told me at the wedding. He told me to call you Nichol-ass when you’re not behaving. He said that’s what he used to do.”
I narrowed my eyes at this. “That’s got Dad written all over it.”
“So, what do you mean by ‘get to know each other better’?” Sandy asked. “Like, do you mean…trade likes and dislikes and stuff?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean,” I nodded. “It seems kind of weird that we’re doing this now after we’re already married, but what can you do?”
“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Sandy grinned and shrugged. “So, you already know the thing about me and Autumn colors-”
“Fall colors,” I murmured by way of correction, but Sandy gave me a dangerous look, and I desisted.
“What colors do you like?” Sandy asked, taking another sip from her coffee cup.
I made a face. “Sandy. I’m a dude. Dudes do not have favorite colors, alright? We’re pretty straightforward compared to you ladies.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sandy asked, indignantly.
“Allow me to give you an example,” I said, all too willing to shed some light on the subject. “When guys go shopping, we go to the shop, buy what we went there to buy, and then we leave the store and go back home. Very efficient, direct, to the point.”
“And women don’t do that, is that what you’re trying to say?” Sandy narrowed her eyes.
I gave her a very condescending look. “Remember when you convinced me to go “shopping” with you and Abby last month?”
“Were the air quotes really necessary?”
“Yes, Sandy,” I nodded firmly. “Yes, they were. I used air quotes because a mean total of about three percent of the four hours that we were at the shop was spent on actual shopping. Most of it was you two just touching random clothes and saying, “this is cute,” but not actually buying anything.”
Sandy cracked a grin at this. “We don’t do that, do we?”
I rolled my eyes. “Trust me, it’s an experience I’m not going to forget in a hurry. So, to answer your question, I don’t put too much thought into colors. I guess when it comes to clothes, I’m partial to black.”
“Oh, I know,” Sandy grumbled. “I had to almost beg you to wear your khaki’s to the competition yesterday, you always want to wear that black top and your black jeans and your black sneakers, you look like Criss Angel.”
I gaped at this. “Criss Angel, the magician?”
“No, Criss Angel the ophthalmologist,” she replied sarcastically. “What do you think?”
She pursed her lips, disapprovingly in a very mom-like way.
“Okay, so,” I decided to change the subject. “What about kitchens?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you had to design your own personal kitchen, how would it look?” I asked.
“And money’s no object?” Sandy checked.
I gave her a look. “When is money ever an object with me?”
Sandy suddenly giggled very mischievously and excitedly. I was half-amused and half-alarmed, I hardly ever saw her so excitable. “Okay, well, I’d have to have an island right in the middle,” she said. “And all the surfaces would be dark grey, like flint-color, because that’s just so swaged out.
“And tiled panels behind the stove and toaster and stuff,” Sandy went on. “All the cupboards would be either oak or Brazilian cherry, I mean the cherry is a pretty endangered species of tree, but the hue is just gorgeous. The oak might offset the flint a bit better, though, but then it might look a bit…typical?”
I merely watched her go, an expression of polite bemusement on my face. It’d been a while since I’d seen someone so excited for…well…anything!
“-at least sixteen hobs because, well, who knows?” Sandy was saying. “And last, but oh so not least, I’d have LED lights underneath the cupboards, to illuminate the workspaces in the dark.”
She finished with a cheeky little smile and placed her palms flat on the table. She really did look far too cute wearing her plush bathrobe that was way too big for her.
I smiled. “We’re going to do just fine.”
“Huh?”
“At the contest,” I clarified. “Trust me. I can feel it. I don’t understand how I know, but I just…I believe in us.”
Sandy smiled back. She reached out and took my hand in hers. “So, do I.”
The hours passed and turned into days, and before I knew it, the competition was back upon us. As the remaining six teams congregated in the atrium of the building in Brooklyn once more, it wasn’t long before Ms. Twain came out to greet us.
“Good afternoon, teams,” she said brightly. She was dressed in a tracksuit this time, which was quite a wardrobe change from her pencil skirt and blouse that she’d been wearing last time. “How are we all doing?”
