No More Horrible Dates

by Kate O'Keeffe

  He passes me the phone. Part of me admires the rather flattering image, and I take a mental note to compliment Miranda on her choice of photographer. The other part of me, the much, much bigger part, is going into freefall right now, hoping I won’t have to field any tricky questions, but knowing I most certainly will.

  “So?” Tim questions, his eyebrows high on his face.

  Slowly I place the phone down on the table. “It’s a work thing. Nick Zachary is on the team, as you all know, and I was talking with him about his sponsorship deal with Bennett Motors.”

  “At a high tea place instead of at an office?” Tim questions, clearly still dubious.

  “Business people like myself have meetings at any number of different venues around the city, Tim. We simply chose to meet at Cozy Cottage High Tea for our meeting, that’s all.”

  “Oh, we had high tea there, didn’t we Betty?” Granny interrupts.

  “Oh, yes. I loved the little things they served on the thing. And a right smashing cup of tea, too,” Gab replies.

  “I know you like that Cozy Cottage place,” Tim continues, ignoring Granny and Gab, “but I was meaning more Nick Zachary. A guy like him and a place like that don’t exactly mix. You’ve got to admit that, Ernie.”

  “Why not?” I say defiantly. “Nick Zachary is a citizen of this country, free to do whatever he chooses. And if one of those choices is to meet with me to discuss business at a place that just so happens to serve delicious morsels of food on a three-tiered cake stand, then that’s his prerogative.”

  Tim pulls his eyebrows together and asks, “You done? Because by the looks of that photo, it seems to me like there might be something in the rumors about you and the guy you have ‘business meetings’ with over bite-sized morsels of food.”

  “Rumors?” Dad questions.

  I give a nonchalant flick of my wrist. “It’s nothing, Dad. Tim’s just teasing me for fun.” I throw Tim the most patronizing older sister look I can manage while balancing precariously on the back foot. It’s not an easy feat, I can tell you. “And anyway, Tim, you work construction. You don’t know about the world of business and how it operates.”

  “I think I know about the world of Nick Zachary and his wild reputation,” he retorts.

  “This man’s got a wild reputation?” Dad asks, his face creased in concern.

  “Ooh, a wild reputation isn’t good for our Ernie. She’s a good girl,” Gab states.

  “Yes, she is,” Granny agrees.

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the media, Tim? Half the stuff they write is made up, anyway. You know that. Look at all those stories about the royals. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother reading anything about Nick Zachary at all.” I look around the table. “Any of you. I know the guy, and I know it’s all made up.”

  “Is that so?” Tim questions.

  “Yes, Tim. It is,” I reply firmly. Casually I pick up my fork and take another mouthful of lasagna. “Dad, this is so good tonight. Did you do something different?” I can still feel Tim’s eyes on me, boring big smoking holes into the side of my head.

  “Mom’s old recipe, just like always,” Dad replies. “But I’m concerned about this. What is Nick Zachary’s reputation, exactly?”

  Before I get the chance to reply, Tim begins to count off his fingers. “Drunk, womanizer, partying too hard. Oh, and his car got washed out to sea.”

  “Let me see that,” Dad said as he points at Tim’s phone on the table.

  I know the headline states clearly that Nick and I are officially a thing. I’ve seen it before, and I read it on Tim’s screen. I don’t want Dad seeing that. “Dad, it’s nothing, really,” I reply nervously.

  “Well, it’s enough to make you look like you’ve eaten a live snail,” he replies, referring to the time when I was about three and plucked a snail from the garden and made the cortically-undeveloped decision to eat it. It did not taste good. Crunchy. Slimy. Ugh.

  “What?” I say with a laugh that’s easily a few decibels too loud for the size of the room. “That’s crazy, Dad. I’m fine. And this is nothing, you gotta believe me.”

  He gives me a stern look. All he does is say, “Erin,” and I know I’ve got no choice but to hand it over. No one in my family calls me by my actual name, not unless a) I’ve been naughty, and being a grown-up that doesn’t happen all that much these days, thank goodness, or b) they’re telling me on no uncertain terms that they’re the boss. Dad’s doing that right now, and I’m powerless to resist.

  With as much enthusiasm as a kid told to go to bed early, I pick the phone up from the table and pass it to Dad. I bite my lip as he looks at it, scrolling through the article with his finger. Eventually, he places it down on the table and looks up at me.

  “Erin, are you dating Nick Zachary?” he asks.

  This is it. This is the moment I’ve been dreading ever since Nick told me it was inevitable that my family would find out. And so freaking quickly! Damn him for being right.

  What am going to say? I love my family more than anything—chocolate, karaoke, ABBA, even Darcy and Sophie—and the very last thing I want to do is lie to them. But I can’t tell them the truth, that we’re faking it to repair Nick’s terrible reputation. They wouldn’t understand, let alone approve, particularly when I tell them I’m doing it to get publicity for my designs. They’ll think I’m manipulating people for my own means, trying to find a shortcut to realize my dreams, rather than simply working hard.

  There’s a small part of me that agrees.

  I purse my lips and throw daggers across the table at Tim. Ooh, the things I’d like to do to my kid brother right about now… I flick my eyes to Granny and Gab. As well-meaning and sweet as they are and as much as I know they love me and would never do anything to hurt me, if they knew the truth, everyone at their knitting group, at their book club, and down at the local stores would know. Project Fake Relationship would be blown to smithereens, and all our efforts would be for nothing.

  When I don’t respond, Dad asks, “Well? Are you dating Nick Zachary, Ernie?”

  “Oooh, I know him!” Granny says excitedly, the reading glasses she wears on a string around her neck now balanced on the end of her nose as she peers at the phone.

  I let out a relieved breath of air as the spotlight is taken off me, at least for a momentary reprieve.

  “Yes, Granny. We’ve watched him on TV,” Tim says.

  “No. We met him. Didn’t we, Betty?”

  “Who?” Gab asks. She’s been so focused on eating dinner, I’m not sure she knows what’s been going on at all.

  “This one. The handsome young man we met at the high tea place with Ernie,” she explains as she passes the phone to Gab.

  Gab holds the phone at arm’s length and squints at the screen. “I can’t see him,” she complains. “I need my glasses.”

  Tim points at Gab’s bouncy hair. “They’re on top of your head, Gab.”

  “Oh, so they are, pet.” She puts them on and says, “Oh, he’s the one we thought did that home improvement show.”

  “Oh, I do like that show,” Granny replies. “It was a shame he wasn’t the one who did it.”

  This again?

  “He plays rugby for the Hawks,” Tim explains. “And he’s been in the All Blacks squad, too, although I think that’s up in the air right now.”

  “And you think Ernie here is dating him?” Gab asks incredulously.

  “That’s what the article says, Gab,” Dad replies.

  Gab gives a flick of her skinny little wrist. “Oh, don’t be silly, Leonard. Ernie’s not thingy-ing anyone. She would have told us if she was. Wouldn’t you, love?”

  “Oh, no. Our Ernie’s not the dating type,” Granny adds with a shake of the head.

  I blink at her. I’m not the ‘dating type’? What does she think I am, a nun?

  “She’s a good girl,” Granny continues. “She doesn’t need to go dating men all over the place. She’ll know when the righ
t man comes along, the one she’ll marry. Isn’t that right, poppet?” Granny looks at me with such confidence in my ability to choose a husband, my insides begin to twist.

  “That’s right,” I reply feebly.

  “So, you’re not dating Nick Zachary?” Dad asks, like Jellybean with a bone.

  I bite my lip and shake my head. “No. Not.”

  “But—” Tim begins, only to be stopped in his tracks by a swift kick to the knee under the table. High heels have additional benefits to increasing my height, you know.

  “Oww!” he complains loudly.

  I shoot him a pleading look, and despite being the one who caused this whole furor at the dinner table in the first place, he glares at me but clamps his mouth firmly shut.

  I let out a relieved puff of air.

  “Well, that clears that up,” Dad pronounces. “Who’s for dessert? I’ve made Mom’s apple and rhubarb crumble.”

  As the chorus of yeses ring out, I clutch my hands under the table. That twist in my belly tightens. Even though I know it’s for the best, when it comes to my family, not pretending I’m dating Nick is my only option. If I told them the same thing we’re telling the world, they’d get their hopes up at a time when my family needs as much happy news as they can get. And when we break up, as we inevitably will, it will feel completely real to them.

  Seeing the inevitable hurt in their eyes would almost kill me.

  Chapter 8

  It’s official. Word is out.

  People are talking about us, we’re all over the media, and it feels like Nick Zachary and his new “girlfriend” are everywhere.

  “Erin, this is all so encouraging.” Ed looks up at me, his eyes bright. His bald head seems particularly shiny today. Or maybe it only appears like that because I’ve spent the last five minutes staring at it while he reads Miranda’s Project Fake Relationship report.

  Well, it’s not called that, naturally. That would give the whole game away, and we’re not that stupid. They’ve called it Operation Weka after the native stealth-like bird that will wander into your tent and come out with your most prized possession without you even noticing.

  “It’s incredible when you think about it. One afternoon together and we’re the country’s hot new obsession,” I say.

  He takes his glasses off and looks at me. “Which is exactly what we were hoping for.”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s great, but as a barometer on the state of our society today, it’s a little concerning.”

  He shoots me an uncertain look. “Have you taken up social commentary now as well as becoming Nick’s fake girlfriend?” he asks, and I shake my head. “You’ve even got your own hashtag.”

  “I have?”

  “Both you and Nick. They’re calling you Nerick. Nick and Erin.”

  I pull a face. “#Nerick? As far as celebrity couple names go, that’s truly horrible.”

  He shrugs. “Take it, Erin. It means people are talking about you as a couple and not focusing on Nick’s partying. That’s precisely what we want them to do.”

  “How did they even know my name?”

  “Miranda’s people made sure it got out there. She’s got this whole thing worked out. She’s quite something.” His face is bright with admiration.

  “Ah-huh,” I reply noncommittally. Miranda is definitely quite something, that’s for sure.

  I take a note of the frankly disappointing celebrity name on my phone. I’ll add it to my posts about my designs, complete with photos of me in them. That ought to garner some more interest. I searched through everything I could find online about us, looking to see if anyone has said anything about my clothes. So far, it’s a big fat nothing, which may be disappointing but not surprising. It’s only been a few days.

  “You know, Erin, going to that fancy tea place of yours was a stroke of genius,” Ed continues. “The media was trying to work out what the Wild Boy of Rugby was doing sipping tea and eating cake. It’s brilliant!”

  I give a modest shrug. “It’s just a place I like to go, that’s all. And he had coffee, by the way.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s got the media talking and rethinking the Nick Zachary they thought they knew. This is beginning to turn their concept of him on its head. Well done, you. I knew you’d be the right person for this task.”

  I beam at him. “Thanks, Ed.” I might not want to spend the rest of my life working for the Hawks, but it feels good to get compliments from my boss—even if it’s on my ability to manipulate the general public into thinking something that isn’t real.

  But I’m not going to dwell on that.

  “Where else do you like to go?” Ed asks.

  “Well, as I said, I like karaoke.”

  “Nick was not keen on that one, though, was he?”

  “No. I also like to visit this cute café next door to Cozy Cottage High Tea. It’s called Cozy Cottage Café. They’re owned by the same women, hence the name.”

  Ed laughs. “Cozy Cottage? That does not sound like the kind of place the Wild Boy of Rugby would go. It’s perfect.”

  The door bangs open, and Miranda bustles in. “I know I’m late. We had a fire to put out. Public Relations can be a battlefield of emotions, you know, and everyone seems to think I’m the only one who can deal with these things.” She pulls out a chair and sits down heavily. “Now. Did you read my report? It’s all started off with a hiss and a roar, which is exactly what we wanted.”

  “Absolutely,” Ed replies. “We were just discussing next moves. Erin knows this cute little café that—”

  “It’s all worked out,” Miranda says, interrupting him. She turns to me. “Do you like dogs?”

  “I love dogs,” I reply with a grin, thinking of Jellybean.

  “Good. That will make your next public outing with Nick all the more authentic. And authenticity is the goal. Nick has a dog, and you’re going to walk it on the beach together.”

  “Are you sure the beach is a good idea after the car incident?” Ed asks.

  “Good point, Ed, but I don’t see it being an issue. I’ve got my people ready to take some candid snaps, and, Erin, you’ll need to meet Nick shortly. He already knows. I called him myself,” she adds with a slight flush in her cheeks.

  I bet she did.

  “One problem. I’m in a work dress,” I protest. “Won’t I need casual clothes for a beach walk?”

  Miranda shakes her head. “I think you in a work dress and bare feet, your heels slung over your shoulder as you two stroll hand-in-hand down the beach together totally works. It says, ‘I popped out for an hour from work to meet my boyfriend who I adore.’ It will make for a wonderfully wholesome image. Exactly what we’re looking for.”

  So, a matter of less than an hour later, I find myself sitting in Nick’s passenger seat once more, being whisked to a dog-friendly beach west of the city, his cute and bouncy dog in the back.

  “I didn’t know you had a dog,” I say.

  “I’m a multi-faceted human being, you know,” he replies with a sideways glance.

  “Sure you are,” I chortle. “What’s his name?”

  “Bruno.”

  “Cute name. When did you get him?”

  “About three years ago. He’s a rescue dog, so I’ve got no idea what his breed is or how old he is.” He looks at me and adds, “I’m glad you’re a dog person, Ernie.”

  I’m only half joking when I reply, “Seriously, dude? Erin. My name is Erin.”

  “Ernie suits you better.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m not going to win this, am I?”

  “Well, Ernie, that would be a hard no. Why don’t you like it, anyway? It’s cute.”

  “Because it means I’m akin to a puppet from Sesame Street. An orange puppet with bad hair. That’s why.”

  “Who said I meant the puppet? I bet there are plenty of cute, sexy Ernies out there.”

  “Reall
y?” I say with a chortle. “Name one.”

  “Well, there’s that centerfold from, like, ten years ago. She was Ernie.” He pauses and then adds, “Or was it Emily?”

  I give a snort of laughter. “A centerfold? Seriously? Very unlikely to be an Ernie. And anyway, Ernie is never a cute or sexy name, no matter how you look at it.”

  He glances at me, and his lips twitch. “I don’t know about that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I know a girl called Ernie, and she’s pretty cute and sexy.”

  My jaw drops as his words sink in. “Are you flirting with me?” I guffaw.

  He shrugs as he turns the car into a parking lot by the harbor. “So what if I am?”

  “Where do I begin with this?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m betting you’re about to work that out.”

  I count off on my fingers. “For a start, this is a fake relationship, which means neither of us has got to do any of that sort of stuff, particularly when we’re alone. I mean, hello! And secondly, there’s no way you and I are compatible.”

  He brings the truck to a stop and turns to look at me. “How do you know?”

  “Because you’re a jock.”

  He shifts in his seat so he’s angled toward me. “Okay, time to get it off your chest, Ernie. Did you date a pro rugby player and he dumped you or something? Is that why you’ve got this blanket disdain for us?”

  “No,” I reply. I sound completely unconvincing, even to my ears.

  He studies my face for a moment, and I do my best to look like he’s on the wrong track. “I worked it out, didn’t I? That’s it. Some rugby player let you down, and now you despise all of us on principle. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  I choose not to respond to his question. The fact that he inadvertently stumbled onto something I hold close unnerves me. Instead, I make light of it with a (fake) laugh, saying, “Who made you a psychotherapist?”

  He points his thumb at himself. “Multi-faceted human being, remember?”

  “Right,” I reply sarcastically. I unclick my seat belt and open my door. “Let’s get this thing done. Your dog needs his exercise, and I need to get back to work at some point this afternoon.” Before he has the chance to say anything else, I climb down from the ridiculously high truck and begin to undo my shoes.