No More Horrible Dates

by Kate O'Keeffe

  “Let’s get in there. There’s plenty more time for us to bare anything we want to in this fake relationship of ours.” He shoots me a flirtatious waggle of his eyebrows, and I press my lips together.

  “You’re hilarious,” I deadpan.

  I begin the long climb down to the road. I’m surprised when Nick appears at my side, his hand extended.

  “Because I haven’t got any steps for non-talls,” he says.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” I sniff. Why does he have to drive a truck that should belong to The Hulk? I ignore his hand as I jump onto the street, my high heels making a clanking sound as they hit the tarmac. I do my best to ignore the way the impact ricochets up my legs.

  “Suit yourself,” he says as he closes the door after me.

  He holds the door for me as we walk into Cozy Cottage High Tea. Immediately heads turn to look at us, and I wonder whether it’s because they recognize Nick and are wondering what a guy like him is doing with an “ordinary” girl like me.

  Wow, Miranda really got to me.

  “Erin!” Sophie greets me with a hug. “Tonya said you’d booked for this afternoon.” Her eyes lift to Nick’s face and widen with astonishment. “Hi there. I’m Sophie. I’m the manager here,” she says.

  “Hi. I’m Nick.”

  “It’s great to meet you. Of course I’ve seen you on TV but never, you know, in the flesh. So this is great. You look great, and you’re here with Erin, which is also…great.” She flushes and adds, “That’s a whole lot of great, right there.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her. Is she nervous?

  “It’s great to meet you, Sophie,” Nick says.

  “Ha!” Sophie replies with a laugh. “You’re funny. You know, my boyfriend, Jason, is going to die when I tell him I’ve met you.”

  “I hope to get to meet him someday too.”

  “Oh, that would be awesome. Thank you.” She stands there grinning like a super fan until she asks, “Do you like high tea?”

  “I’m a big, big fan,” Nick replies with a smile. “I eat it with the guys all the time. It beats ribs or burgers, hands down.”

  Sophie shoots him an uncertain look. “Well, I’ve not seen you at Cozy Cottage High Tea before.” She tucks some menus under her arm. “I’m sure you’re going to love it. Come with me, you two.”

  As we follow Sophie across the room to a table by the window, there are so many eyes trained on us I feel like I must have something stuck to my face. We take our seats, and I look around. There are a couple of women about my age who are blatantly staring at us and a group of older women who look away as soon as my eyes land on them. I lean across and whisper, “Is it always like this?”

  He glances at the girls in the corner and raises his chin at them in greeting before he returns his attention to me. “Sometimes, I guess. It’s good though, right? They’re seeing us together.”

  “That’s true.” I sit back in my seat and wish people would mind their own business. I study the menu, even though I’ve been here enough to know every item on it.

  “Excuse me?”

  I look up to see one of the gawking girls standing next to us.

  “You’re Nick Zachary, aren’t you?” she asks, her voice breathless.

  “That’s me,” he replies with a pleasant smile. He nods at the phone she’s clutching in her hand. “Did you want a selfie?”

  “Oh my gosh, yes!” she squeals. “Sadie, quick. He’s going to take a photo with us,” she calls across the room.

  Her friend arrives, and Nick takes a series of selfies with each girl, all with a smile on his face.

  I sit back and watch the whole thing unfold. I may as well be invisible to these girls. And to Nick, now that I think about it. He didn’t tell them who I was or introduce me to them. He just took their phones and snapped away while I sat here like a total chump.

  Why am I surprised? He is a pro rugby player, after all.

  “Thank you so much, Nick,” one of the girls simpers. “My friends are gonna die when I post this!”

  “Good luck for the new season. We’ll be rooting for you,” the other one says.

  “You’re welcome. I love my fans,” he replies with a grin.

  Yup, a little too much when it comes to the female ones, which is why I find myself in a fake relationship with him in the first place. Well, that and the drinking and the nightclubs and the drowned car and the… Okay, so women are just part of the image issue, but still. Invisible right now, remember?

  I feel a light tap on my ankle under the table and look up in surprise to see Nick wink at me.

  “Hey, girls. I didn’t introduce you to Erin,” he says, gesturing at me.

  Can this guy read my mind?

  “Erin, say hi.”

  “Hi,” I parrot.

  The girls glance at me and dismiss me in one movement.

  “Erin’s my new girlfriend,” Nick says.

  Both the girls’ eyes swing back to me and give me the once over.

  “You’re dating Nick Zachary?” the blonde one says in astonishment as her eyes sweep over me.

  Yeah, like the idea is that implausible! Nick might be sporting royalty, and he might have impressive abs and muscles in places I certainly don’t have, but I’m no slouch in the looks department. Or at least I didn’t think I was until this whole fake dating Nick Zachary began. Now I’m just the “ordinary” girl whose currently on the fast track to some serious self-esteem issues.

  Both girls gawk at me as though the very thought of me coming within five feet of the god-like Nick Zachary is completely beyond their comprehension.

  “That’s right. I’m-I’m Nick’s girlfriend,” I reply and shoot him a coy look across the table. “I’m Erin Andrews. It’s—” soul destroying? confidence shattering? utterly horrendous? “—so nice to meet you girls.”

  They look about as happy to meet me as a kid finding out Santa isn’t real.

  Well, too bad girls! He’s mine. Or at least he’s mine in a totally fake, short-term way.

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Nick says. “Let’s take a photo of all of us together.”

  “Sure!” the girls trill.

  A moment later, Nick has one of his arms slung around my shoulders, the other one holding the phone up, as the girls pose and pout like a couple of Kylie Jenner wannabes beside us.

  “You okay?” he asks me under his breath.

  “Sure,” I re ply, suddenly uncertain I am okay and no clue why I wouldn’t be.

  “Good.”He gives my shoulder a little squeeze before he drops his arm. “Hey, tag me in that photo, ’kay?” he says as he hands the girl back her phone.

  “Of course,” she says with a dreamy look in her eye. She doesn’t move.

  “Err, if you don’t mind, my girlfriend and I would like to enjoy our high tea,” Nick says with a charming smile.

  “Oh, sure.” The girl’s eyes dart to mine, and she gives me a brief smile. “Enjoy it. The food here is amazing.”

  “Byeeee,” the other one says, stretching the added syllable right out.

  With the girls gone, we’re alone once more, and I’m suddenly feeling inexplicably shy. Well, not inexplicably, exactly, because I know that including me in the photo was unexpected and really sweet and thoughtful of him.

  Wait, what? Nick Zachary is sweet and thoughtful? What am I, drunk?

  “Right,” he says as he picks up his menu. “What’s good here?”

  “All of it.”

  He lifts his eyes to mine and with a smile on his face says, “Not helpful, Erin.”

  He returns his focus to the menu, and I wrestle with conflicting thoughts duking it out inside my head. Nick including me with those girls and checking in to make sure I was doing okay does not fit with my fixed (and I suspect absolutely accurate) image of the type of person he is. It’s the Nick I think he is versus the Nick he showed me now.

  As we order our high tea and sit and chat about nothing much at all, I wonder which is the real Nick Za
chary?

  Chapter 6

  I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of the Nick Zachary conundrum by the time we’re saying good-bye to Sophie.

  “Is it weird not to have Alex working here anymore?” I ask her.

  “Oh, he doesn’t have time for us now. He’s too busy with his sold-out solo exhibitions and being in love with Darcy.”

  “Darcy’s my roommate,” I explain to Nick. “And she’s totally loved up with a photographer named Alex who used to work here.”

  “I hope you enjoyed your first experience here at Cozy Cottage High Tea, Nick,” Sophie says.

  “It was awesome. I’ll have to train extra hard after those chocolate mousse things, though,” he replies.

  “The chocolate and coconut mousse tartlets,” Sophie says. “A man who likes chocolate, huh?” Her eyes flick to mine meaningfully, and I pull a face. Why would I care if Nick likes chocolate? He’s entitled to his choices. “Did you know Erin’s a huge chocolate fan, too?”

  He places his hand around my shoulders. “Something else to love about her.”

  Wow. Did he really just drop the L-word?

  I smile back at him, playing the part of the doting girlfriend. I get that this whole thing is meant to show the world that we’re in a relationship, but we did not discuss use of the L-word.

  Now that I think about it, we didn’t really discuss how this thing was going to work at all. I’ll add that to my to-do list. I take a mental note: discuss use of L-word and other important aspects of fake relationship. There. That ought to do it. Now all I need to do is channel my inner-Darcy to check the list off, like she does in her job as personal assistant to a highly fickle celebrity.

  “You know, there’s a lot to love about Erin, Nick,” Sophie says with a twinkle in her eye.

  I narrow my gaze. What the heck is she up to?

  “Is there now?” Nick replies.

  “Oh, yes. She’s very sweet and very loyal. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

  “Sweet, huh?” he asks, his brows at full mast.

  I glare back at him. “That’s right. I’m very sweet.” I adjust my features and add, “honey,” in what could only be interpreted as an excessively sweet tone.

  His lips curve into a smile. “Not the word I’d have used, but good to know.”

  “Is that so?” I question as I hand Sophie my Hawks credit card, and she processes the payment.

  “Well, yeah. When I think of you, the words that spring to mind are more like condescending, irritating, rude. Yeah, those fit a lot better than ‘sweet.’” He flicks his gaze to Sophie and adds, “as well as wonderful, of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t be dating her.”

  Sophie’s eyes bounce between the two of us before she replies, “Okay.”

  I shoot her a look that says, “Look at what I’ve got to put up with.”

  She hands me back my card. “Thanks for coming to High Tea today. Oh, look, Erin. Your grandmother and her sister are here.”

  I turn to see my granny and my great aunt Betty (known affectionately in the Andrews family as G.A.B. or Gab for obvious reasons) chatting in the doorway. They’re wearing their Sunday best with their hair freshly set and have even managed some red lipstick for their big afternoon out at Cozy Cottage High Tea. I adore my elderly relations. I grew up with them both living only a stone’s throw from my family home, and in recent years they’ve lived right next door. They’re sweet if a touch doddery, and they’ve always got my best interests at heart.

  Hi, Granny. Hi, Gab. What are you two doing here?”

  Granny pulls me into a hug, exclaiming, “Chook! Oh, how lovely it is to run into you here at the high tea place. Now, let me look at you.” She holds me at arms’ length. “Oh, Ernie, don’t you look smashing today? Is this one of your originals?”

  “It is, Granny. I made the dress and the jacket,” I reply with a surge of pride.

  “She’s right, dearie. You look lovely,” Gab says.

  I give them both a quick hug and say a silent prayer Nick missed my family nickname. I don’t need him having that kind of info on me. Being called Ernie is embarrassing enough as it is. I don’t even let my BFFs call me that.

  My granny and her sister emigrated to New Zealand from Britain back in the 50’s, and even though they’ve lived almost seventy years of their lives here, they still manage to retain their quaint British expressions. Depending on the day, I’m called chook, love, pet, or dearie, sometimes all four within the space of a single conversation. But I’m always, always Ernie.

  It’s a name my kid brother, Tim, came up with after he’d watched Ernie and Bert on TV one day. Apparently, he found it easier than saying Erin, although I think that was just an excuse to name me after a chubby orange puppet with a red nose and preference for horizontal stripes. My efforts to call him Bert only made him cry, wailing about not being yellow and having one long eyebrow. Sadly for me, the name Ernie has well and truly stuck.

  “Oooh, aren’t you the clever one then?” Granny beams at me. She doesn’t quite pinch my cheeks—I asked her to stop doing that when I was twenty-four—but I know she’s itching to. “Isn’t she the clever one, Betty?”

  My great aunt Betty replies, “Oh, yes. Right clever, our Ernie. So very good at the sewing and the things. Isn’t she talented, Marlene?” she says to Granny.

  “Oh, yes. Talented, smart, and a beauty,” she replies as they both beam at me.

  I glance at Nick’s amused face and flush with embarrassment. “Thanks,” I murmur.

  The two of them could go on like this all day, bouncing between themselves with how amazing I am. Really, they’re my number one cheerleaders—although the image of Granny and Gab running around in short skirts with pompoms, asking the audience to give them an E, give them an R, give them an N, give them an I, give them an E, with their frail, arthritic legs kicking up has me needing to suppress the urge to giggle. Thank goodness my name only has four letters, that’s all I’ll say.

  “And who’s this young man?” Granny asks, looking up, up, up at Nick. Both Granny and her sister are non-tall like me. In fact, I tower over Granny when I’m in my killer heels, mainly because she wears the types of shoes they put kids with polio in back in the 50’s.

  I glance nervously at Nick. That’s another thing to add to the list for us to discuss: what to tell family.

  “This is Nick Zachary,” I say as an odd sensation hits me. What is it? Do I feel proud? No, surely not. It must just be the sugar from our high tea treats.

  Gab rolls his name around. “Nick Zachary? I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”

  “So have I, Betty. So have I,” Granny adds as they both size Nick up.

  I hope they don’t ask too many questions. It’s one thing to lie to the world about Nick, but it’s quite another to lie to my family.

  “That’s right, Gab. Nick and I, ah, work together. We’ve been here having a meeting about…work stuff,” I reply and shoot him a look that says just go with it.

  “We covered a lot of ground, I think. Don’t you, Erin?” he asks, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Yup. Good meeting, Nick. Good meeting.” I pat him on the arm in a work colleague kind of way. “We got that important business project back on track.”

  He arches his eyebrows, his eyes lit with mischief. “We are so good at the business.”

  “Where have I seen you before?” Gab repeats, our little performance clearly falling on deaf ears.

  “Oh, I know you,” Granny says suddenly. She places her little, bony hand on Nick’s large muscular forearm. “You don’t work with my granddaughter. You’re pulling my leg, pet. You’re from the telly.”

  He smiles indulgently. “You saw right through me, huh?”

  Gab peers at him over her glasses. “What do you do on the telly? Do you read the news?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I don’t read the news.”

  “What do you do then?” Gab asks. “Oh, I know. You’re on that home improvement s
how, aren’t you? The one where they kick the people out for a few days and remodel their house. I do feel sorry for those poor people, having to stay goodness knows where. But in the end, they’re always thrilled with their new thingies.”

  “Houses,” Grannie corrects.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You said ‘thingies.’”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You did.”

  “Well, I meant houses,” Gab huffs.

  It’s a bad habit of Gab’s to replace words with “thing” or “thingies.” Sometimes, she replaces the vital words in a sentence, and you’ve got no clue what she’s talking about. It irks Granny the most.

  Gab turns her attention back to Nick. “You’re always telling people what to do with their lamps and cushions and telling them they need to haul their style into the twenty-first century.”

  “Oh, I do love that show,” Granny says, giving Nick a look of approval. “You can be very tough, you know,” she scolds. “But you are talented with all of your color combinations and ideas. Who knew olive green and pink could work together?”

  “Not me, that’s for sure,” Gab agrees with a shake of her head. “What’s your show called? It’s the Home Thing or the Thingie House. Oh, I always forget.”

  “I’m not sure what it’s called either,” Nick replies, the look on his face telling me he’s equal parts amused and bemused by my elderly relatives.

  “Oh, you must know the name of your own show,” Gab says with a crinkled brow. “What sort of man would you be if you didn’t know the name of your own show? He should know it, shouldn’t he, Marlene?”

  Granny elbows her. “Maybe he’s on the drugs and can’t think straight? Or the booze. A lot of those celebrities on the telly are, you know.”

  They both examine Nick critically for evidence of drugs and booze.

  How did we get to this? Nick’s a home improvement show presenter with a drinking and drug problem now? It’s way beyond time to straighten this out. “I think you two have gone down a road that leads to a very weird place,” I say.

  “Don’t worry, ladies. I’m not on drugs,” Nick says.

  They’re not listening to me. They’re still hell-bent on the idea of this show.