Fake It For Me, page 3
I turned to face the elevator again, and to my dismay, it’d closed and moved on to the next number. I pressed the button, but this time, the elevator first delivered its cargo onto another floor. So, there I stood facing the elevator, knowing that Liza was burning a hole into my back with her eyes, daring me to turn around and face her. I refused to give her the satisfaction of knowing she could get to me. Because, of course, she couldn’t, not even on a good day.
Saved by the ping and I exhaled as I entered the elevator. To freedom and beyond, maybe today should be the day that I run away. I gently chuckled to myself. I entertained the notion almost every day, the idea of just leaving my old life behind and taking to the road, to a country where nobody knew me. Probably England. Then the Queen would hear about my awesomeness or something, and immediately award me a position at MI6 and a License to Kill. So, I’d become, like, the American Double-Oh-Seven.
And all the English girls would hang around me because of my exotic accent. Or something.
I quickly kicked the idea to the curb, just like I always did. There was no way I was running away from home. What, and give up all of these privileges? Never. With a smile on my face, I leave the elevator on the basement level, and I walk towards my car. It’s easily spotted, of course, being that it’s the most expensive thing in the car park. And that’s only one reason.
It’s pretty easy to distinguish between, say, a Toyota Prius and a 2005 Edition Maserati Birdcage with gold-plated brake calibers, tinted windows, and a white racing stripe. I’d gotten the car at an auction, it was one of four in the world that had left the factory with a special matte black paint. However, I’d quickly gotten bored of that and re-did it to bright crimson red.
What can I say, I like to be spotted. As I walked toward my car, I heaved a sigh of exasperation. Showing my face at the office each day for a minimum of two hours really wasn’t a high price for playing games.
Sometimes I feel sorry for my Dad, he really is a sterling man, a very reasonable boss, and a role model of a father, but he ended up with me. A hellishly handsome spoiled brat, not having any problems or guilty feelings regarding spending my allowance, on booze, parties, and girls. This is the life of a billionaire’s son.
Maybe my mother would have been able to keep me grounded, but as she passed away all my restraints were lifted as Dad thought it would help me cope with grieving, but it only opened a whole new world to me. With his head in the company and almost never available, I was left to my own devices, and I took full advantage.
The media loved me; I always have some journalist at my parties; some of them exchange favors for an exclusive, which they enjoy just as much as I do. Like the hot boob-job waiting at this pool party, I’ve given Cassandra three exclusives now, and each time the sex is wild. It’s like she has no inhibitions; she would literally do anything for a story.
That’s my kind of girl.
Chapter Three
Sandy
As I opened my small apartment’s door, I switched on the light, dropped my keys into the glass bowl and that familiar tingle that you get when you get home confirmed that I had, at last, arrived at my place of Zen, solitude, and tranquility. No one to harass me with any crazy expectations or demands was waiting for me; it was just me, myself and in my own small world. I was once again on Planet Sandy in the Solo Mio galaxy, and whatever else the rest was, I was too tired to play this game with myself again.
As I always did when I walked in from work, I made a beeline for the kitchen, opened the fridge, and poured myself a generous glass of orange juice. As I closed the fridge, I noticed on the schedule that tonight was my weekly movie night. Yes, I have a schedule. For without order, we are animals, right? Honestly, you’d be surprised how many nights that you fall asleep doing anything that you can cut out by writing down an activity for every night of the week. Thinking of an activity isn’t even the hard part, the hardest part is sticking to the schedule once it’s up there on the fridge.
I can’t lie, it took a few months for me to get into the routine of following the schedule every night, but once it’s sorted, it’s locked in. Monday was “surfing the internet” night, then you had “Rosé Bordeaux and Kindle” night on Tuesdays, then Wednesday was “movie” night, Thursday was “board game” night with pretty much anyone who wouldn’t get bored out of their mind playing a game of Scrabble. Monopoly could actually be a lot of fun, but it had caused some heated disputes in the past, one of which had ended in someone (naming no names) being stabbed in the thigh with a fork. So, I’d had to permanently put it on the blacklist of games for board game night.
And Friday, of course, was either “bar” night, or “stay at home and drink wine until you pass out” night. Either way, very productive.
So. Movie night tonight. The question was, what would I put on? In this day and age of watching things illegally on the internet, I was literally spoiled for choice. You could even get all kinds of porn on the internet these days as well! Back in the day, there was no “watching porn on the net,” that wasn’t always a thing. It was either old video tapes or magazines, and if you didn’t have either of those, then you had to get up off your old rusty-dusty, go down to your local Blockbuster’s or whatever, and rent an adult DVD like you had some god-damn class. Jesus Christ, here I was, reminiscing about Blockbusters. Was I old?
Out of nowhere, I had a sudden vision. Actually, it was more of a flashback. A kind of montage of every family gathering that I remembered going to as a kid when my grandparents, my Great Uncles or Aunts or really any old person who was in attendance would say words to the effect of “back in my day”, followed by a blow-by-blow account of how things were better back in their day before there was internet or electricity or color television. Or pretty much any of the things that made life livable.
I’m pretty sure everyone had that one old person who said words to that effect, it may even have been more than one person. But that’s the circle of life, not to rip off the Lion King. The young ridicule the old only to then become the old themselves. If they’re lucky, that is. If they’re unlucky, they never make it to old age. Which is a really morbid thought, to be honest, but those are the harsh realities of the world in which we live.
So, what to watch? Maybe I would just order a pizza and watch an old-time favorite — something like Beauty and the Beast, or a romantic comedy. I really could never get enough of The Princess Bride. I would say that it was my guilty pleasure movie, except for the fact that there’s no guilt there whatsoever. That movie has one of my all-time favorite lines of dialogue from cinematic history: life is pain, and anyone who says otherwise is selling something.
Well, being an interior decorator, I was usually the person selling something, which was probably why that quote spoke to me so much. I walked back to the table where I placed my bag, and as I pulled out my cellphone, I accidentally tipped out the Lifestyle Magazine. It fell flat on the laminated floor with a loud smack, and my eyes were drawn to the cover.
On the cover, there was the small section advertising the couples’ competition, and I was suddenly and forcefully reminded about my sad single existence. As though I needed another reminder of that little situation. My parents did well enough on that front all by their selves. Every single Christmas, every Easter, every Thanksgiving they took it upon themselves to remark loudly and obviously about how “Sandy still doesn’t have a man.” And they didn’t do it as though they were concerned, or something, no they used it to take cheap shots at me, which I’m almost 100% sure it should be illegal for parents to do.
For example, about two years back on Christmas, I was tucking into a plate of my mother’s famous turkey. As all meat-eaters know, turkey is perhaps the driest thing ever to claim to be meat. And yet, my mother does something with it that makes it, somehow, not drier than the Sahara Desert. I’m not always privy to my mother’s kitchen secrets, but as I understand it, it’s something to do with a combination of moist stuffing and delicious gravy that not only makes turkey edible without causing cellular dehydration, but it makes it more delicious. And, of course, I resent her for not passing down more of her cooking genes. I make a mean English Breakfast, but that’s about it.
Anyhow, my mother has never been a fan of the way I eat, she says it’s not ladylike to eat with your elbows on the table or burp, which I considered very unfair considering I was chewing with my mouth closed and everything. But when mother saw me wipe my mouth on my sleeve, that was the last straw for her, and she hit me with Sandy, this is why you don’t have a boyfriend, and you won’t if you keep up this disgusting behavior!
The dining room went quiet, and all that could be heard was the sound of my kid brother Elliot cackling. He loves it when I’m the one on the hot-seat, it takes the spotlight off of him for a while.
I guess that that was the funny thing about parenting. The funny thing that always recurred. No matter how much you, as a parent, loved your children, they always grew up to be someone different. Different than how you envisioned them when they were a baby, different from what you wanted for them. Just different. That was the curse of parenthood. You were bound to always love your children, no matter who, what, when, where, or why. But there was no law, no rule, no instinctive urge to make you like them.
And I knew for a fact that my mother and father didn’t always like who I was. To this day, I don’t know what they wanted for me, or who they wanted me to be when I was a baby, but I wouldn’t put money on them envisioning being an interior decorator. Maybe they wanted me to be lawyers like they were? Maybe they envisioned me being a doctor, a surgeon, or maybe they didn’t see me making anything of myself. Who knows?
I’d asked my father this question before, and I didn’t expect the answer he gave me. He said that it didn’t matter what he and mom wanted for me, it mattered what I wanted for myself. And that was something that always stayed with me, and it was a mantra I tried to live by always. To always be me regardless of the circumstances. And to never blame myself or feel any guilt for not being who my parents wanted.
As much as I hated to admit it, I had to agree that sometimes - not often - but sometimes, my mother had a point. Not about the sleeve-wiping thing, that’s just efficient in my opinion, but about the fact that everybody needs somebody sometimes, as she used to cheerfully sing whenever I called myself “a loner” or “the lone-free ranger.”
The Lone Free Ranger was my de facto nickname for pretty much the most of Junior High school. According to her, I did that as a defense mechanism because I was lonely and depressed. And I do stress the words “according to her.” My mother fancies herself some kind of therapist or psychoanalyst. All she’s missing is the official doctorate degree and the seven years of college. And, honestly, who needs those bits?
Nonsense, I suddenly thought. I’m not depressed. Sure, I’m alone but lots of people are alone. I just happen to be one of them. Doesn’t make me the only one.
Having said that, maybe Abby had a bright idea on how to get me into this competition. With that thought in my head, I called my best friend. As usual, she answered on the third ring.
“Hey, babe, how was your day?”
“Good, thanks,” I replied. “So, I’ve got a real important question that you need to say yes to.”
“Oh, really?” Abby asked. “I know exactly what you’re about to say and no, I haven’t watched Game of Thrones yet. Jesus Christ, stop asking.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” I frowned. “And why haven’t you?”
“Because you keep telling me it’s the best show ever,” Abby said sarcastically.
“I do not use that word,” I said indignantly. “I’m not a retard.”
Abby gasped. “Sandy, you can’t use the “r” word anymore! It’s a microaggression!”
“Oh, suck a dick,” I said unabashedly. “I’m too tired to be politically correct right now.”
“That’s fair,” Abby said reasonably. “So, what was it?”
“Huh?” I asked frowning. I couldn’t even remember what the conversation had started about!
“Jeez, you are tired!” Abby exclaimed. “You called me, remember? You said you were going to ask me a question and-”
“Oh, right, thanks!” I snapped my fingers. “I remember now. So…would you like to come over for a pizza and a movie? There’s something I’d like to discuss.”
The line went quiet for a moment, “Please tell me it’s not work-related, my mind is fried, and you have to believe me when I say I really would love pizza, but I need some fun tonight.”
I laughed at this. “Don’t worry, it’s definitely not work. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. It’s a million-dollar competition, and I need to find a way to enter.”
“Hmm,” Abby mused. “Well, now I’m intrigued, I will be there in twenty minutes.”
The line went dead, and I was still standing with the phone next to my ear, expecting to get a chance to say “Bye.”
Which probably doesn’t make sense if I’m going to see her within the next twenty minutes anyway. I called the pizza place and placed our usual order, two large pepperonis, and extra pineapple. Great, the pizza would be here just after Abby arrives, then it is hot pizza, fun chats and a classic movie for tonight.
Half an hour later, we were sitting on the sofa, each with a piece of pizza in our hands and Abby was reading the article that I showed her. “You sure you want to enter into this competition, the one that specifically states for married couples only? You do realize that you have one glaring disadvantage in this situation, right?”
“I know Abby; I know that I’m not married, but isn’t there a way around that?”
Abby looked at me as if I was completely crazy. “You haven’t done anything stupid, like getting married to that new intern of yours, right? Or booked a flight to Vegas already?”
I burst out laughing so hard that a piece of cheese fell on my lap. “No, Abigail, I did not propose to my intern.”
Abby moved into a different sitting position, turning her body to face the TV, and then she suggested we watch a movie, and wait for a burst of inspiration to hit us.
We watched a classic romantic comedy about a girl attending her best friend’s wedding, but then she finds out it is all a fake set-up so that the bride can get her hands on the inheritance. As she tried to warn her friend, he just walked out on her not willing to hear anything wrong about his bride. But as all romantic movies go, once he overheard his Bride’s conversation with her bridesmaid and found out the truth, he wanted to call off the wedding, but then decided to get married to his best friend instead.
Abby and I immediately looked at one another as the credits started to roll over, “That’s perfect. I have to stage a fake marriage just for the duration of the competition. But where do you get a fake groom?”
Abby looked at me with a raised eyebrow, “Anywhere on the internet, dear.”
“I really don’t want to end up with a Russian husband-in-a-box kind of situation where we have no history or interests in common,” I said, shuddering at the thought. “That would be a set-up for disaster. The rules state that there will be some private and personal questions that we will have to answer to continue to each round.”
Abby sat there deep in thought for a while and then said, “Thanks for the pizza and the movie, and of course, the new juicy project. I will look into it, but for that, I need a fast laptop, not that old Rosetta Stone that you call technology.”
With that, she gave me a sneaky smile and rubbed her hands together. I knew she was going to enjoy this very much.
Abby stood up, and as I followed her to the door, she turned and hugged me. “Please don’t back out on number ninety-nine, that would ruin my reputation as Cupid.”
“You don’t have to find me true love, just a one-month job,” Abby gave me a stern look, and I knew I was barking up the wrong tree, so I raised my left hand, and with my right, I made a cross over my heart. Abby rolled her eyes, “You’re not a scout, but I will take it.”
Chapter Four
Nick
The pool party was getting wild. People were eating a little, drinking a lot, and the karaoke was coming out. That’s when parties get really crazy when people have drunk enough to forget that they really shouldn’t be singing in public. As for me, you wouldn’t catch me going anywhere near a karaoke machine, what do I look like, Michael Jackson?
Besides, I had much more pressing matters to deal with. Such as Cassandra, for example. She was all over me, and she hadn’t even taken any interviews or asked a single person any questions. I thought that I must have been damn handsome to make quite a sharp journalist forget her job completely, but looking back on it, I should have been thinking that this was a sign that she’d fallen for me. And that what we had, whatever it was, wasn’t just a publicity agreement anymore, well not to my benefits in any case.
I’d have to cut her loose and move on to the next one, which I found myself feeling some extreme disappointment about. I really thought Cassandra had more ambition than to go and fall in love with me, but what can you do? I guess I’d just have to get what I could get from her and then cut her loose. In other words, time for Nick McConnery to do what Nick McConnery did the best.
I leaned over to Cassy and whispered in her ear, and she gave a cute little giggle and stood up. Yeah, I tend to have that effect on women. I’m not complaining.
I took her by the hand and led her to the staircase next to the pool, leading to the main bedroom upstairs. As we went in and closed the glass doors behind us, I walked over to where she was standing in front of the sloshing waterbed. I know what you’re thinking, why does the rich, son-of-a-billionaire, Nick McConnery even know what a waterbed is? And that’s a good question. I guess you could say I have it for…logistical reasons? Yeah, that’s technically not lying.
