‘Well, that’s us official,’ he says. ‘I’m going to sneak in with your things, hurry them up to your room without anyone seeing. Just head in whenever you’re ready, OK?’
‘OK, sure,’ I reply, suddenly not at all confident about any of this, and Rich must be able to hear it in my voice because his face falls, just for a second, before he regains his role as a supportive husband.
‘Ella… or should I say Emma… it’s going to be fine, OK?’
‘OK,’ I say again – like I mean it this time.
Rich helps me on with Emma’s coat, which, truth be told, feels glorious on. It’s cold and dark but, not only is this coat super toasty, I feel chic as hell. I watch as he disappears inside with my bags, leaving the door ajar for me.
Oh, God, am I really doing this? Am I really going to get away with it? I can’t believe it’s come to this, for me and for Emma; my mum would be spinning in her grave – if Emma hadn’t insisted we have her cremated, because apparently that’s what she told Emma she wanted instead, in the days before she died, despite what her will said.
I belt up my coat to hide my Primark tracksuit that’s seen better days and adjust my hat to hide my hair. OK… here we go…
As soon as I step inside the large hallway, I realise just how much the whole house has probably changed since the last time I was here. The original polished wooden bannister is still the same, and the cast-iron fireplace is still there (although it looks more like it’s there for decoration than for use) but otherwise everything seems ultra-modern. Brilliant white walls, patterned ‘feature floor’ floor tiles, weird and wonderful (mostly weird) art on the walls. Were the shape of the room and the distinctive cast-iron fireplace not so familiar, I could think I’d just stepped foot into this house for the first time, it’s that much of a departure from what it was like when Mum owned it. I guess the modern mansion matches the flash cars and the fancy coats, so I’m not all that surprised; I guess I was just expecting the place to feel a little more like home.
I walk through the door on the right, where the living room used to be, and it’s still a lounge but it’s like something fresh out of a catalogue. The walls are a neutral shade of grey, providing the perfect backdrop for a variety of pastel furnishings and accessories. The centrepiece of the room is a millennial pink banana-shaped sofa – not exactly the kind you’d curl up and watch TV on, but there isn’t a TV in here, so I don’t suppose that matters. Most notably, of course, no one is actually in the living room (it barely looks lived in at all). I wonder if they might be in the kitchen.
My mum loved her kitchen. She never really had much time to cook, not while she was travelling all over the country dishing out advice, but she always said how important it was to have a kitchen that could accommodate the whole family. I understand the logic, even if she didn’t practise what she preached, because I have lots of memories of sitting at the wooden breakfast bar while our nanny prepared our food. I think, especially because the house was so big, it was nice to all be gathered together in one room, even if Emma and I were just sitting there quietly doing our homework.
As I walk through the kitchen door, I’m overwhelmed by too many things at once. First of all, I hadn’t mentally prepared myself for the humongous rear extension that has opened the kitchen up into one of those massive open-plan living, kitchen, dining areas – you know the ones, the big rectangular rooms with a wall of bi-folding doors that lead out into the back garden. The kitchen area is more than anyone could dream of, with a large island and a fridge freezer bigger than the bathroom at my old flat. The dining area is just beyond it, with a large ten-seater table in front of the glass doors, and then next to that is the living space – a huge grey corner sofa with a small boy sitting on it, half pointing towards the doors and the other half facing the massive wall-mounted TV that sits above one of those trendy three-sided glass fires. The extended half of the room has a huge glass, roof lantern, window above it, which is currently jet black because it’s dark outside, but it’s framed with tiny spotlights. It’s nothing like it was when I lived here, but I can’t deny how amazing it is. This house is a dream.
I don’t have time to truly take it all in before a skinny blonde with an angry look on her face pushes past me.
‘Finally,’ she moans as she passes me. ‘I told you, I’m not your babysitter.’
She heads into the hallway just as Rich walks down the stairs.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks her.
‘Fay’s,’ she replies, without making eye contact, low-key slamming the front door behind her.
‘That’s Millie,’ Rich whispers to me as I hover in the kitchen doorway. ‘That will be her out for the evening. And Henry is going over to his friend Josh’s for dinner. I’ve got some work to do this evening so I’ll pick him up on my way back. So, you’ll have the place to yourself, settle in, get an early night – you look knackered.’
As soon as he says this, I get the overwhelming urge to yawn. He’s right about me being knackered; I’ve hardly slept over the last couple of nights. I’d love nothing more than to climb into bed.
‘You’re going to need the energy tomorrow, trust me,’ he says, before raising his voice back to a normal level. ‘Henry, let’s go.’
Henry must be the small brown-haired boy sitting on the sofa staring down at a Nintendo Switch.
‘Hi, Mum,’ he says as he shuffles past me, his eyes still glued to his game.
‘Erm… hi,’ I reply.
‘I caught three new fish today,’ he tells me.
‘Oh yeah?’
Oh, God, I don’t know how to sound mumsy at all.
‘Yeah. See ya,’ he says, heading for the door.
‘OK, Emma,’ Rich says, putting a little emphasis on my new name, but not so much Henry notices. ‘We’ll see you later. Oh, and I didn’t see the dog anywhere, so I think he must be in the back garden, if you want to let him in.’
‘OK, yeah, see you later, erm… darling?’
Rich just laughs.
I walk into the kitchen – that’s what I’m going to call this room, because it’s where the kitchen used to be – and, honestly, it’s just so overwhelming. As I near the back doors I can see a golden retriever sitting there, waiting to be let in, patiently wagging his tail. The doors are made up of six large frames of glass. As I scan them for a handle, I finally spot one right in the centre – I should have been tipped off by the dog sitting in front of it. I fiddle with the handle and I’m relieved when I realise you can just open the middle doors like regular doors, because I was starting to have visions of the very first thing I did in the house resulting in me destroying something.
The dog runs in from the cold and bounds towards me with excitement before stopping in his tracks. Wow, I can’t even convince the dog.
‘You know what’s up, don’t you, buddy?’ I say, in a whisper, because I’m that terrified of blowing my cover. ‘It’s OK, I’m nice, I’m going to look after you. Come here, boy.’
The dog decides I’m OK and continues over to me so I crouch down on the floor to scratch his ears. He kisses me all over my face.
‘At least you love me, huh…’ I fumble with his collar to look at his name tag. ‘… Marty, don’t you?’
I yawn again. A combination of knackered and overwhelmed, I think Rich might be right: I should get an early night, ready to tackle a full day of being my sister tomorrow. I’m nervous about so many things, from how to act around the kids to how to work pretty much every appliance in the kitchen, but I know it could be worse. I could be in prison…
6
I jolt upright in bed, rudely awakened by what turns out to be the loud, solitary drumbeat at the start of ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice’ by The Beach Boys, before the onslaught of the first verse keeps me awake.
Don’t get me wrong, I love The Beach Boys, who doesn’t? I just wasn’t expecting to be woken up by them at 6-fucking-30 a.m.
I scoot over to the side of the super-king bed where the
noise is coming from, and notice both Emma’s phone and a small screen next to the bed alive with noise and notifications. The music – which, now that I’m awake, I’ve realised is Emma’s alarm clock – is coming out of the screen. It’s a Smarty Home thingy, kind of like an Alexa, I guess, but I’ve never used one.
I notice the button, to make the alarm stop going off, which I delight in pushing, but as soon as I do the screen fills with what looks like the house schedule for the day. I rub my tired, blurry eyes to get a better look and that’s when I realise it’s not the house schedule, it’s my schedule, and it is hectic. Too much to take in. My eyes can’t even process it. I don’t imagine Emma always puts so much detail on her day-to-day schedule – maybe – I suppose this is for my benefit, so I know where I’m supposed to be, when, and what I’m supposed to be doing, but… wow… I had no idea this was going to be such a full-time gig.
I puff air from my cheeks as I lie back down on the bed. I just need a couple of minutes, before I tackle everything on that intensely detailed list.
I probably should have made more of exploring the house last night but, truth be told, I was so tired and so nervous, that I just went upstairs, lay down, just for a moment, and that was it, I didn’t wake up until the alarm woke me. I’m glad I managed to sleep for so long, given my very early, very harsh awakening.
I’m in Emma and Rich’s bedroom – the master bedroom, another new addition to the house, in the loft conversion. Their bedroom has this sort of bright monochromatic vibe going on, shunning the soft and subtle colours of downstairs in favour of a daring cobalt-blue theme. I’ve never slept in a super-king bed before and it really is something. Not only is the mattress unrealistically perfect but I feel as if I could just keep rolling and rolling and never fall out.
I make myself get up and notice the dressing gown and slippers that Emma has left for me on the chaise longue at the end of the bed – I feel as if I’m in a fancy hotel.
I take off the clothes I accidentally slept in and slip on the fluffy robe and slippers. Around a corner in the bedroom is a massive walk-in wardrobe with fitted drawers and cupboards that leads to the en suite of my dreams. There’s a double sink, a big, deep bath, and a shower that could fit an entire rugby team in it – which, incidentally, genuinely would feature in my dream bathroom. One of the walls is entirely mirrored, which looks gorgeous, but I’m not sure how much I fancy seeing a play-by-play of my naked self, climbing in and out of the bath.
I wash my face and brush my teeth before looking myself in the eye for a few seconds, silently psyching myself up in the mirror, preparing for the day ahead, which I can absolutely do. It’s hard to take a pep talk seriously from someone with such a ridiculous fringe though.
I grab Emma’s phone – my phone from now on – from the bedside table and slip it into my pocket.
I could tell from the signs on the doors, on the floor below, that the kids’ bedrooms and Rich’s office were down there. There’s another door, up here on the top floor, and I can’t help but wonder what’s behind it. This house was already massive – I can’t believe how much bigger it is now.
I open the door and feel around for the light switch. At one end of the room is a massive screen, with a series of sofas facing it at the other. A cinema. A literal cinema. Of course, they have a cinema. Gosh, how the other half live.
I head downstairs into the massive kitchen where Marty is waiting for me, wagging his tail. I pull my phone from my pocket and see that he has a little bit of food on a morning, so I give him that before searching through the seemingly millions of cupboards to find the things I need to make a cup of tea. I find everything but the kettle, which is when I realise, they’ve got one of those taps that gives you boiling water, well, on tap.
I sit on one of the stools at the white marble island, my mug cradled in my hands. Marty is sitting at my feet, looking up at me, steadily but constantly wagging his tail, batting it against the tiles, so at least he likes me, I guess. We always wanted a dog growing up, but Mum always said no. She never really explained why though – I suppose she had enough on her plate and didn’t think Emma and I would take care of one properly.
‘Morning,’ I hear Rich say as he walks into the room.
‘Good morning,’ I say, turning around to greet him.
‘Whoa…’ he says when he sees me.
‘Oh, God, it’s my fringe, isn’t it?’ I reply. ‘I… the hairdresser I went to cut it too short or too blunt or both, I guess.’
‘It’s not that – well, it’s partly that – but just, for continuity, Emma usually gets dressed before she comes downstairs. You could go see Emma’s hair stylist,’ he suggests, obviously trying to sound helpful. ‘Which reminds me, these are for you…’
Rich places car keys and a purse down in front of me.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘I’ve left the car out front, all the necessary paperwork is completed for you to drive it – assuming no one has taken your licence off you?’
‘Har-har,’ I say sarcastically.
‘And there’s a credit card in there – I’ve stuck a Post-it on it, with the pin number, if you can memorise it and get rid of it asap. Feel free to go get your hair done – her stylist’s number will be in her phone – and feel free to spend whatever you like on that card, money no object. We’re so grateful for everything you’re doing for us.’
A phrase like ‘money no object’ is really quite vague – there’s a difference between buying a purse and a car and a house, although it’s probably not that different in this household.
‘Thanks,’ I reply.
‘And obviously, all the shopping and everything, just stick that on there too,’ he says. ‘Have you got the kids up yet?’
‘Got them up? Do I have to wake them? I thought I just had to help them get ready,’ I say. I really should read the notes Emma leaves with the reminders.
‘They’re kids, Ella, they’ll sleep forever if you leave them to it,’ he replies. It makes me laugh, the way he speaks normally but then says my name under his breath.
‘OK, well, I’ll go do that, then,’ I say.
‘I’m going to grab a coffee and get to work,’ he tells me. ‘So, I’ll see you at dinner this evening – good luck, I guess.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply with a laugh. He says that as if it’s going to be hard but, really, how hard can it be? Now that I’m here and I’m settled in, surely, I just need to drop them at school, make them some chicken nuggets later and boom – parenting!
‘Well, Marty, let’s go wake up the kids,’ I say to my new best friend, who seems eager to go wherever I’m going, even if he has no idea what I’m talking about.
‘I’m sorry but “wake up the kids” is not an action I am currently able to perform.’
A smooth woman’s voice comes out of the device on the kitchen wall.
I stare at Rich.
‘Yeah, you’re going to have to get used to that,’ he says with a laugh. ‘The Smarty thinks you’re talking to it when you’re talking to Marty – and vice versa.’
He whispers both names, not wanting to trigger either party.
‘We had the dog long before the devices,’ he says. ‘So, we can’t really change his name, and it’s the only command that works the device… so… just be aware.’
‘Well, that is absolutely ridiculous,’ I tell him as I make a move for the hallway. ‘One of the most middle-class problems I can think of.’
Rich just laughs.
‘See you tonight.’
I walk up the large curved staircase with Marty at my side. The wooden bannister is one of the few things in this house to give me a genuine nostalgia hit, because it’s one of the few things to remain the same.
The first door I come to is Millie’s and suddenly I’m a little nervous about seeing her again – properly this time. There’s a piece of A4 paper stuck to the door with the word ‘KNOCK’ written on it in capital letters – somehow even the writing looks angry.
I
knock, as instructed.
‘Millie… Millie, time to get up,’ I say as softly as I can, given that I’m calling through a door.
‘Oh my God, I am up,’ she snaps back, putting an angry emphasis on some of her words in that way moody teenagers always do.
Wow, they told me Millie was difficult, they didn’t tell me what a dick she was. I don’t care if she’s only fifteen, I call it like I see it. She’s sixteen in few months. I remember thinking I was so grown up when I was sixteen – I thought I was an adult – but when I look back at pictures of myself from then, I look like a baby. A chubby little kid with too much blue eye make-up and gothy Tammy Girl outfits that made me look like my number one choice on UCAS was Stripper University.
Henry doesn’t have an aggressive note on his door so I open it slowly and peep inside. He’s still fast asleep, bless him. I only wonder how best to wake him up for a couple of seconds before Marty takes the initiative and jumps up onto the bed, kissing Henry until he’s awake. Henry just giggles.
‘Good morning,’ I say to him.
‘Morning, Mum,’ he replies.
‘Do you want to get ready and come down for breakfast?’ I suggest. It didn’t say anything in the notes about him needing any help with anything but, truthfully, I don’t remember being nine, and I have no idea how capable nine-year-olds are of anything.
‘OK,’ he says, still giggling as he plays with Marty.
At least this one is cute. I can’t believe they called him Henry though. That’s Rich’s dad’s name, except I’ve never heard anyone call him anything other than Hank, which really does sound like an old man’s name.
‘OK, kid, see you down there,’ I say, relaxing into the part a little.
Faking It Page 5