Faking Friends

by Jane Fallon

  ‘Well, whoever they are, they clearly know about you and John. It can’t have been a lucky guess. I thought you couldn’t stand him?’

  ‘I can’t. Not really. The only person I told was Shaz and I never thought she’d tell anyone, because they all know about his wife …’

  ‘Oh God, Mel.’

  ‘It must have been her. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense.’

  ‘Do you think she’d do that? Really?’ I feel a bit bad that Shaz seems to have been found guilty without trial but, on the other hand, she’s always been a bit of a bitch to me so maybe this whole thing is karma.

  ‘No one else knew. Literally, no one.’

  ‘Is it going to get you into trouble at work? I mean … if everyone finds out and he’s meant to be your boss –’

  ‘Of course it will. Plus, he’ll go spare. I don’t think he even knows yet. I just got told this morning, and God knows how long it’s been up there.’

  I leave a meaningful pause. ‘Don’t you feel bad about his wife?’

  ‘Jesus, I don’t need a lecture. And do you know what? No. He’s the one cheating on her, not me.’

  ‘I’m just thinking about you. Don’t get in a mess.’

  ‘I won’t. Oh, and don’t tell anyone about this, will you? Anyone who doesn’t know already. Don’t tell Jack.’

  Ha! ‘Of course I won’t. But why do you care if Jack knows? He’s the least of your worries, I would have thought.’

  ‘I know. I just wouldn’t want him to think badly of me. People get very judgemental about this kind of thing.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone. Let me know how it goes at work tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh shit. I might just call in sick.’

  ‘Brazen it out. Way fewer people will have seen it than you imagine.’

  ‘Love you,’ she says, as she always does.

  ‘Yep,’ I say.

  When I sneak back in to the flat on Monday to retrieve Jack’s passport – I hide it in a messy pile of papers on the desk, somewhere he will probably have checked a hundred times during his search – I check Mel’s laptop. Of course, she will have changed her Facebook password but, of course, she will have saved it on the computer because otherwise she’d never remember what it was. Her relationship status has been changed back to ‘Single’. I can’t help myself. I go back to the edit page, delete ‘Single’ and write ‘Fucking one of my supervisors at Safeguard Insurance, even though he has a wife’. I press save before I can talk myself out of it. Go back to the home screen. Delete history.

  A couple of hours later, Mel FaceTimes me in tears.

  ‘Oh, thank God you’re there,’ she says when she sees me nestled in my pillows and the pink cushion.

  ‘Day off,’ I say. ‘Are you okay? Are you crying?’

  ‘Someone’s really got it in for me. They did it again – the Facebook thing. And it can’t have been Shaz because I was with her all afternoon. What’s John going to think? There’s no way someone won’t tell him now. He’s going to hate me.’

  ‘Do you really care?’

  ‘I was only shagging him in the first place to get him to go easy on me at work! This’ll probably make him even meaner.’

  ‘Didn’t you change the password?’

  ‘Of course I did! That’s what’s so strange. I mean, how could they know?’

  ‘God knows. I’d just disable your page, if I were you. Then forget about it. It’s just someone playing a stupid joke.’

  ‘No. No one would risk me losing my job for a stupid joke.’

  ‘You won’t lose your job. Does it even say which one of the bosses it’s supposed to be?’ – I know there are several. Probably all male and mostly married – ‘And it’s not as if there’s any proof, even if they could sack you for that, which I’m sure they can’t. Just brazen it out.’

  ‘Someone’s properly out to get me.’

  She lets out a wail. Mel has never been anything other than the most popular girl in the room. Even though there have been plenty of people who couldn’t stand her over the years, they’ve always somehow managed to do it without her having the slightest idea. Despite everything, the sight of her in tears gets to me. I can’t help myself.

  ‘It’ll all blow over. Just tell John you were hacked. No one’s out to get you, Mel. It’ll be okay.’

  She sniffs loudly. ‘Do you really think so? Because I couldn’t stand it if, you know, someone really hated me.’

  ‘Just ride it out.’

  After she hangs up, I call Kat.

  ‘I’m done.’

  ‘What? Really? Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker.’

  ‘Really. I’ve given them both a miserable few weeks, but I haven’t ruined their lives irrevocably. And that’s a good thing. I get to be the bigger person.’

  ‘Good move,’ Greg says.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Kat says, and I can tell she’s a bit disappointed. I think, in her fantasy, we were going to reduce Mel to an unconfident quivering wreck – and in mine, too, when this all started, if I’m being honest. I don’t have it in me, though.

  ‘They don’t deserve the attention. Fuck ’em.’

  Greg echoes me. ‘Fuck ’em. To moving on.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘To moving on.’

  ‘So are you going to tell them you know?’

  ‘Not yet. Not while my life is still such a mess. I may not care any more but I care enough not to want the pair of them to think I’m a failure.’

  ‘You’re a million miles from being a failure,’ Greg says, which is a lie, but I love him for saying it anyway.

  ‘I’m keeping the copies of her keys, though,’ Kat says grumpily. ‘Just in case.’

  Part Two

  * * *

  24

  ‘Hello, is that Paul Hatfield? … This is Anna Freeman and I’m calling from Huntley Media Marketing. You expressed an interest in a subscription to Motorcycle Monthly …’

  Guess where I am.

  Nothing has changed, only the people. That’s the one good thing about Huntley Media Marketing (well, apart from the flexibility and the freedom to let them down at a moment’s notice with no penalty, that is), the turnover is so rapid and no one works regular hours so you can often go days without coming across anyone you know. Which means I don’t have to face a barrage of questions about why I’m back and what happened. Plus, because, like I said, they pretty much only employ actors, everyone understands how temporary success can be. Laughably, none of us uses our real names on the phones because we’re all convinced that, one day, those names will mean something. And for maybe 0.01 per cent of us that could be true.

  During the thirty-minute lunch break the talk is all of who is auditioning for what. Considering the competitive nature of the business, most people are pleasingly generous with their intel. There’s a big new touring production of Blood Brothers that’s about to start casting (no use to me, I can’t sing a note), Emmerdale are looking for a new family (but the mum, the only one for whom I am age appropriate, is Asian), the BBC have just announced they’re doing an adaptation of Middlemarch (but not until next year). Still, it’s fun to talk shop, even if that shop is empty.

  By five thirty I’m exhausted from doing a proper day’s work, hoarse from talking so much and my brain is fried from repeating myself: only the names and the titles of the publications ever change. My soul is a little bit destroyed. I am, however, grateful to have survived the regular lunchtime cull, when anyone who hasn’t hit their target is let go for the day. I personally have achieved the princely total of three sales – two this morning, which kept me my spot, and a measly one this afternoon. I head down in the lift and out to the street towards the Tube, turning my phone on for the first time since lunchtime. It beeps with a message. Sara.

  Amy. Are you around for a casting tomorrow? Couple of scenes in EastEnders. I have to let them know by six so call me when you can.

  I can’t help myself, I get a buzz of excitement. I always do when
I know I might be going for an audition, it doesn’t matter how small the part. I hit Sara’s number and turn on my heels to walk back to the call centre. If I’m not going to be free tomorrow after all, I need to let them know now.

  ‘Is Sara there? It’s Amy Forrester.’

  I wait while Alexis, the assistant, relays the information.

  ‘Amy! Hi!’ Sara always booms a greeting, as if you’re just the person she’s been wanting to talk to each day. I’ve learned that it means nothing. She’d adopt the same tone of voice if Spielberg wanted to see me as if I had a shot at being seen for an ad for cream to clear up thrush. I hold the phone away from my ear.

  ‘Right … now, where is it … Okay, so, EastEnders, two days the week after next. But they’re scenes for two different episodes, so that’s good, because you get paid extra. They’re seeing people tomorrow – they’ve got ten fifteen, ten twenty-five or twelve twenty left, or they did when they called me. Auditions are in Elstree. Interested?’

  ‘Of course. What’s the part?’

  I wait while she scans the information she’s been given. ‘Woman in Pub.’

  ‘That’s all you have?’

  ‘That’s all I have. Well, the breakdown says thirty-five to forty-five.’

  ‘Well, that’s me, I suppose. Any of those times is fine, just let me know.’

  Even though I know my chances are slim, I allow myself to indulge in a tiny fantasy. Mel watching EastEnders, her favourite show, enjoying a glass of wine, getting caught up in whatever drama is going on in the pub. And then suddenly up I pop. Priceless.

  Sara books me the ten twenty-five slot. She has found out a few more details, Alexis tells me, when she rings to confirm the time.

  ‘You witness a fight in the pub between two of the main characters. There’s two scenes in there, one at the end of one episode, so the big boom-boom-boom moment, and then the next episode picks up just after. The reason there’s a second day is because you’d be in an exterior of the pub, leaving with everyone else before the police arrive.’

  ‘Right. Any lines?’

  ‘Three,’ she says.

  I try to keep the sigh out of my voice. ‘Great. Thanks.’

  ‘Have you noticed how you’re always a witness to something?’ Kat asks when I tell her later. ‘It must say something about you.’

  ‘It says I’m good at being a woman with no specific qualities other than her approximate age.’

  If I had a car, I could do the drive in about a third of the time it takes me to get a bus to the station, the train to Elstree and walk up to the studios. I arrive red-faced and puffing. I announce myself to the guard on the gate, who checks me on a list and then tells me to wait with an assorted bunch of other actors until a runner comes down to collect us. I meet two other Woman in Pubs, three Man in Pubs (also potential witnesses, but only one line) and two Lens. I assume the Lens are more important than the rest of us because the character actually has a name, but one of them tells me it’s only a one-episode part, although, as it’s the cousin of Kathy Beale, he’s hopeful there could be a possibility of more.

  After about fifteen minutes and with two new arrivals (I would guess two more Lens), we’re shepherded across the car park and inside.

  Eleven minutes later, I’m walking back out, having read my lines several times with the casting director. Apparently, roles this small don’t necessitate the director or producer being involved.

  ‘Vodka and tonic and … what you having?’ I say over and over again. ‘Hey, watch yourself!’

  I assume that’s when the fight breaks out, although I am only given the page with my two lines on, to avoid leaks to the press.

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ This is from the second episode. By the third time of repeating it, the words no longer have any meaning.

  ‘Thanks, Amy. We’ll be in touch,’ the casting director says, effectively dismissing me.

  And that’s it.

  One day’s work missed, fifteen pounds spent on fares, self-esteem at an all-time low.

  ‘There’s a serial killer haunting the streets of New York. Detective Sienna Coburn is leading the hunt to find him. But will he catch up with her first?’

  Kat, Greg and I sit there open-mouthed, staring at the TV. ‘Oh my God, is this it?’ Kat says finally.

  ‘Shit. Yes.’

  We’re eating a paella cooked by Greg, sitting in their living room, waiting for the first episode of a new Scandi drama that caught our eye. A montage of shots from Murder in Manhattan whips by. I knew it was airing in the UK at some point, because that had been part of my original fee, but, up until now, I had no idea when.

  ‘That was you!’ Kat squeaks, as an image that lasts no longer than a millisecond of me and ‘sister’ Sienna touching beer bottles flashes up. It’s almost subliminal. If you didn’t know it was me, then you would never know it was me, if you get my meaning. But I do, and it is.

  ‘The hit US drama everyone is talking about. Coming soon to Channel 4,’ the booming voice says ominously.

  As Kat scrabbles for the remote to rewind so we can watch again, it hits me that this means two things.

  I am going to be on prime-time TV every week for eleven weeks, casting directors will see me, directors, producers, my mum and dad. People I haven’t seen for years will pause and say, ‘Isn’t that Amy Forrester?’

  And then, in the twelfth week, it will no longer be a secret that my contract is over. I’ll no longer be able to pretend to be living on the other side of the world. Jack and Mel will want to know where I am.

  I have just three months to get my life together.

  25

  Woman in Pub eludes me, just as Woman in Park did. Maybe I’m just not cut out to play a generic woman. Maybe casting people take one look at me and think, I just don’t believe that woman would ever be in a park. Or a pub. Or anywhere else, for that matter. There’s something intrinsically wrong with my womanness. My very womanosity. It’s just not womanish enough.

  I pester Sara enough so that she puts a bit of effort in and manages to get me two more auditions: Nancy in a touring production of Steaming which will be playing the smaller community venues rather than the prestigious Theatre Royals, and ‘Mum’ in an advert for washing powder. I attack them both with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning, but it’s to no avail. I actually get a call back for the commercial but, in the end, it’s a no. Still, I tell myself, that’s two more directors I’ve met, two more people who might remember me in the future.

  Simon calls me a few days after our date. The end of the evening had been both awkward and surprising. I had just assumed we’d end up somewhere together. I’d even tidied up in case he wanted to come back to mine, although his place in Barnes sounds infinitely nicer. Plus, I’d plucked and shaved and had bits and pieces of me waxed, buffed up my skin till it glowed, moisturized with mango-scented body cream. I couldn’t remember making this much effort since, well, since the early days of Jack, I suppose. In the bathroom, I’d stared resentfully down at the pouchy pockets of cellulite on my thighs. It wasn’t terrible, but it was there. I’d barely even noticed it before, but now I couldn’t imagine anyone seeing anything else if I stood in front of them naked. Okay, so no standing. Horizontal, it looked better. ‘Remember not to take your skirt off till you’re lying down,’ I’d said to myself like a mantra.

  Anyway, as we left, he’d put his arm round me, pulled me close to him and said, ‘Can we do this again?’

  ‘Definitely. I have to pay you back.’ He had insisted on paying after all, citing the fact that the restaurant was stupidly expensive and he knew that I was, as he put it, ‘in a bit of a transition period’. I knew I should have protested more. I wanted us to start off on an equal footing, but the truth was my half would mean my having to do two extra days at the call centre and even my staunchest principles gave way at the thought of that.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, there’ll be compound interest and in a few we
eks you’ll owe me a fifteen-course banquet.’

  The doorman had waved a cab over. I was just trying out the sentence, ‘Do you want to come back to mine?’ in my head when Simon said, ‘You take this one.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ I must have given myself away because he screwed up his face and said, ‘Early start.’

  ‘Of course! Well … thanks …’

  I made to grab the handle, feeling a bit deflated. Clearly, things hadn’t gone as well as I’d thought. And I had already decided I really wanted to jump him, somewhere between dessert and coffee.

  ‘How about Thursday of next week?’ he said, as I was just about to clamber in. ‘I’ve got Ruby for a few nights before that because her mum’s away so …’

  ‘Oh. Um. Yes, I think. Next Thursday would be good.’

  He rewarded me with a big smile. ‘Great. Let’s speak in a couple of days and make a plan. But Thursday, definitely.’

  ‘Lovely. ’Night.’

  As I turned away, he put his hand on my shoulder. When I turned back to face him, suddenly, somehow, he was kissing me. It was over in a second, and very soft, almost chaste. But it did things to me you don’t even want to know about.

  ‘’Night,’ I said again when he pulled away. Safely in the cab, I had replayed the moment over and over.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ he says now. ‘Your shout.’

  I’ve been thinking about this. I’m broke and I love to cook, so it’s a bit of a no-brainer really, but I can’t decide whether it seems too much to invite him round for the evening so soon. In the end, I decide that he’s been here before, even if it was during the day, with a scavenged rug under his arm, that we’re both experienced adults, so we don’t need to hide behind The Rules or teenage codes of etiquette, and that I have rerun that kiss in my head several times and have every intention of taking it further.

  ‘So …’ I start to say, and my resolve immediately falters. ‘I … um … well …’ Just spit it out. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come over to mine and I’ll cook?’