Faking Friends

by Jane Fallon

  50

  Mel

  Georgie and Simon Rigby’s house is picture-postcard pretty, with flowers climbing around the door and stylish black window boxes full of lavender. It’s only small – part of a terrace of narrow, yellow-brick, two-storey-and-an-excavated-basement cottages on a quiet road, but you can tell from the outside that it’s both homey and chic. I’ll be honest, I’d die of boredom living in a place like this. Give me lateral living, roof terraces and big windows any time. But I can appreciate its appeal to families. Even ones where the husband is playing away.

  She opens the door, all hesitant smiles. Big man’s shirt streaked with paint over some kind of leggings. Blonde hair just past her shoulders, side parted and tucked behind her ears. Skinny in a way that screams an excess of nerves rather than concern for how she looks. Freckles on her nose. She’s beautiful in a kind of sixties-waif way. You can imagine some randy old artist using her as a muse. Despite everything I’m about to do, I feel protective of her. She’s fragile. It wouldn’t take much to break her.

  ‘Alison?’ she says, in a posh but sweet voice.

  That’s me. I’m Alison for the day. Alison Butler. It’s ironic that, the past few weeks, I’ve been doing more acting than I’ve done in years.

  ‘Yes! Hi, Georgie. I’m so grateful for this.’ I feel I need to get inside before I let off my bomb. Although, inside, she could stab me with some kind of implement for cutting clay and no one would see, I suppose. I’m also banking on Simon not having taken the day off; I’ve checked the whole road and his van is nowhere to be seen. It’s handy when you’re trying to avoid someone if they drive a vehicle with their name plastered on the side.

  ‘Come on in,’ Georgie says, and she leads me into the hall and down the stairs. The basement is basically a large kitchen that takes up the whole floor, with doors open at the back on to a patio leading up to the small garden. It’s beautifully done as, of course, it would be, given what Simon does for a living.

  ‘My studio’s out the back,’ she says, indicating a pale yellow wooden summer-house-type thing.

  ‘How cute,’ I say, which probably sounds patronizing but isn’t actually meant to. It looks as if – with one huge exception – she has an idyllic life.

  ‘Would you like a drink of something, and then we can …’ She wafts a hand at the shed.

  ‘No. I’m fine … well, just water, maybe …’ My mouth suddenly feels dry. Am I really going to do this? Ruin this woman’s life? Assuming she doesn’t already know, which seems unlikely.

  ‘Did you have to come far?’ She runs one of those fancy taps that basically do everything. I make a note to myself: must get one of those when I find a new place. Speaking of which, still no firm offer on my beautiful flat, which makes no sense to me. I might have to drop the price. Just as well, probably, because I haven’t even started thinking where I might move to. I was going to head north to be closer to Jack and Amy, but that doesn’t seem like such a great idea any more. I have no idea how long he and I are going to last now we can be out in the open. The deception was half the thrill.

  ‘Notting Hill,’ I say, making it up on the spot.

  She smiles. ‘I love it up there.’

  I try to compose myself, steel myself for my big moment. I’ve been rehearsing this in my head for days.

  ‘The thing is, Georgie, I …’ I start, just as I hear a noise on the stairs, and my heart thuds alarmingly. I stop what I’m saying and stand there frozen, desperately trying to work out how I’m going to explain myself to Simon Rigby. What is Annabel Phillips doing in his kitchen and calling herself Alison Butler?

  ‘It’s just Ruby,’ Georgie says, as a girl – dressed in PJs and big, fluffy slippers – shuffles down into the kitchen. She’s fair-haired – how could she not be, with these two as parents – but with none of Georgie’s ethereal qualities. She’s a grumpy-looking, robust but pretty soon-to-be teenager and I would put money on her just having woken up.

  Georgie hands me a glass of water.

  ‘Hi,’ I say to Ruby, and she grunts in my direction, then slumps at the kitchen table, phone in hand.

  ‘Alison has come to look at some of my pots,’ Georgie says with her nervous ‘look at little old me’ laugh, as if this were an everyday occurrence. Clearly, Ruby knows differently, because she looks at her mum in confusion, as if to say, ‘What pots?’

  ‘Sorry, what were you about to say?’ Georgie says to me as she gets Ruby a glass of pink juice from the American fridge.

  ‘Oh … I don’t remember … is it school holidays already, Ruby? They come round so quickly now, don’t they?’ I’m boring myself. Ruby looks at me with barely disguised disdain.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ruby’s been off for a couple of days with a bad tummy,’ Georgie tells me. ‘They don’t break up for another couple of weeks.’

  I give Ruby a look that I hope says, ‘You’d better not have anything catching and come anywhere near me,’ but she just sits there, slurping her juice.

  ‘Well,’ Georgie says brightly. ‘Shall we …’

  She heads towards the garden and I follow. The summer house is deceptively big when you get close and, to be honest, absolutely adorable. There are window boxes stuffed with cheerful flowers both on the sills and on the steps and two wooden rocking chairs side by side. The whole front is opened up, I assume in honour of my visit, and I can see a potter’s wheel and pots of paints and glazes and tools laid out. There are shelves full of Georgie’s shapeless creations lining the walls on two sides. If she had any talent, this place would be inspirational.

  I wait until we’re inside and I know Ruby won’t be able to hear what’s being said.

  Georgie waves an arm around expansively. ‘So … here we are …’

  It’s now or never. I have a brief moment of panic when I wonder if she might be unhinged and come at me with a scalpel. I mentally run through my escape route, through the patio doors and back up the stairs. Try to remind myself why I didn’t just do this by phone or in a letter. I think I thought she would be more likely to believe me if I was standing in front of her, willing to come all this way just to make sure she knew the truth about her husband. I have to just spit it out and get out of there. What happens then is out of my hands.

  ‘The thing is, Georgie, I’m not really here to buy ceramics. Lovely though they are …’

  She looks at me with utter confusion. I imagine she’s scared for a moment, as if I might have come to rob her and her family. Which, in a way, I have.

  ‘Right …’ she says, and I can see she’s trying to work out what’s going on.

  ‘It’s Simon.’ I don’t even stop to let her take that in. I just blunder on with my prepared speech. ‘A friend of mine … well, she’s not a friend, she’s just someone I know … she’s been seeing someone … Simon … and then I found out he was married and it seemed so wrong, so awful, that they could be doing that when he has a wife at home … and I just felt you had the right to know, that’s all. I’m sorry.’

  Georgie reaches out a hand and steadies herself on the work bench. ‘I don’t understand. Who are you again …?’

  ‘Alison. Butler. There’s no reason why you’d know my name. This friend. Acquaintance, really. She’s been bragging about her new boyfriend for ages and how he’s married but she doesn’t care, and then I met him and he mentioned how he has a daughter and everything … Ruby … and, you know, I just … I tried saying to her that it was wrong but she just said she couldn’t give a fuck. I know it’s nothing to do with me and I probably should have kept out of it, but I feel really strongly about these things. I’ve been on the other end, you know … my husband – ex-husband … so I know what it’s like and I know I wish someone had told me what he was up to rather than just all laughing behind my back …’

  I’m doing well, I can tell. She one million per cent believes me.

  ‘No. You’re sure that it’s my Simon?’ Georgie says in a small voice. ‘Could you have mixed hi
m up with someone else?’

  ‘Simon Rigby Interior Design,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen them in his van.’

  I expect Georgie’s face to crumple, but she holds it together and I realize she’s stronger than I gave her credit for. It dawns on me who she reminds me of. Mia Farrow. Looks like a fawn, but I bet she’s got lion-like qualities underneath if you threaten her family.

  I put a hand on her arm. ‘I’m really, really sorry to have to be the one to break it to you. I hope you don’t think …’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘You’ve done the right thing. Thank you.’

  ‘I should go, really, before he comes back and sees me here …’ I really can’t get out of there fast enough. Not just because I’m scared of being caught but because the look on Georgie’s face is heartbreaking. I’m relieved that at least what I’m telling her is mostly true. I’m not lying about the essential fact at the core, that her husband is cheating on her.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  I wait for her to ask me details, who this woman is – something. That’d be the first thing I’d want to know. And I need to let her know how to get in contact with Amy, otherwise this is all for nothing. She doesn’t, though. She just stands there, looking shell-shocked.

  ‘Her name is Amy Forrester, by the way. She’s an actress. I think, you know, maybe if she saw you, spoke to you, it might sink in what she’s doing …’

  ‘Oh …’ Georgie just stands there, not biting, looking blank, as if the Quaaludes have just kicked in.

  ‘I don’t have a number for her but she’s with the Sara Cousins Theatrical Agency. If, I mean, if you wanted to get in touch with her.’

  I can’t force her to confront Amy. Even though I’m relieved for myself that Georgie doesn’t seem the type to be openly aggressive, I just have to hope she has some balls under there somewhere. I grab a pencil from one of the shelves and a scrap of paper. I write down Amy Forrester and the name of the agent and put it down in front of her. What else can I do? It’s out of my hands now.

  51

  Amy

  I’m back in the same place in Percy Street: same producer, same director, same casting director. This time, though, there’s also Charlotte, the actress who has been cast as Miranda and who will be reading with all six of us re-calls. I’m the only one in the waiting area when I get there. Joy’s assistant fills me in a bit on the relationship between Miranda and Catherine – friends since their first day of secondary school, more like frenemies at times, but they’re joined at the hip. It’s a bit of a toxic friendship, she tells me, and I almost laugh.

  ‘I know all about those,’ I say.

  She rolls her eyes. ‘God, me, too.’

  She gives me five scenes to study from three different episodes (I only know this from the numbering at the top). They cover a range of emotions – in one we’re having fun, possibly a bit drunk; there’s one that’s a heart-to-heart, with Miranda confiding in me; one that’s a bit of everyday nothing – or maybe there’s a huge subtext you would only get if you’d seen the build-up; one where Catherine is being very passive aggressive to get her own way; and a full-blown row. It’s a lot to take in, and I have a moment of panic that they’re going to call me before I’m prepared.

  ‘They’re not running early, are they?’ I say to Joy’s assistant.

  She laughs. ‘You’re the second person to ask me that. They’re not, and they won’t see you before your allotted time even if they suddenly are. They know you need the time to get your head around that lot. They’ll just take a break.’

  ‘Okay. Phew.’ I take a few deep breaths. Try and calm myself. Start from the beginning.

  Even though it’s probably the longest audition I’ve ever had (Twenty-five minutes! Unheard of!), it’s over in a flash. Charlotte is friendly and offers up helpful bits of back story in between our readings. I give it my all. Nick, the director, suggests different interpretations and has us read all the scenes at least three times, and then we’re all saying goodbye. It’s gone as well as it can go but, as I know all too well, that means nothing. On the way out, there’s another woman about my age sitting in the waiting area, superficially similar to me, and we exchange nervous smiles.

  I’m walking home from the bus stop an hour or so later when my phone rings. At the sight of Sara’s name, my heart starts pounding. Surely they can’t have made a decision already? Maybe someone stormed the audition. Walked in and blew them away to the extent that they don’t even need to take time to consider. Maybe that someone was me? All that goes through my head in the few seconds it takes to yank my phone out of my bag and hit the green button. I stop in a shop doorway, finger in my ear so I can concentrate.

  ‘Hi!’

  It’s actually Alexis, Sara’s assistant-stroke-receptionist. ‘Amy. How did it go?’

  Of course. She’s just being conscientious and calling to ask me how it went.

  ‘Good. I think. It’s hard to know –’

  ‘Great.’ She cuts me off. ‘I’m actually calling because I’ve had a woman on the phone who says she needs to get hold of you urgently.’

  I break out in a cold sweat. Mel. It must be. She has no other way to track me down, short of turning up on my doorstep, but she wants me to know she’s not giving up. She can still get to me whenever she wants.

  ‘She sounded a bit … well, I hope everything’s okay. I thought I’d better let you know asap, in case … you know … and she did say it was urgent …’

  ‘Melissa Moynahan, right? Mel?’

  ‘What? No. Her name was Georgie Rigby.’

  Rigby? Simon’s sister? I can’t remember what her name is, although I’m sure he must have told me. Shit. Something’s happened to Simon and this is the only way she could work out how to get hold of me to let me know. An accident on site? A car crash?

  I can hardly hear myself think for the blood pounding in my ears. ‘Oh my God, what exactly did she say?’

  ‘I wrote it down. Just that she needs to get hold of you urgently and that her name was Georgie Rigby. Oh, and that she’s Simon’s wife, but you obviously know that already. She sounded a bit hysterical, though, Amy. That’s why I thought I should call you straightaway, in case something’s happened. Is she family?’

  The blood that was thundering around my head floods to my feet and I have to reach out a hand to the wall to steady myself. Simon’s wife? Alexis must have got it wrong. She must have said ‘ex-wife’. That must be it. Although I thought his ex-wife was called Amanda and that they didn’t really speak unless there’s a change to Ruby’s regular arrangement to stay with him. Maybe Alexis got muddled up. She’s not known for her efficiency. That must be it.

  ‘Did she leave a number?’ I say, ignoring her question.

  ‘Yes. Can you write it down, or shall I text it to you?’

  ‘Text,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. My mind is running away with all the awful accidents that might have befallen Simon. Badly supported joists falling from ceilings, scaffolding collapsing, half-finished staircases giving way. Even though I know his job only really starts once the serious construction is more or less over, I know that building sites at any stage can be death traps.

  In the time it takes for Alexis’s text to reach me, I manage to get around the corner to a quieter street with a bench I can sit on. I fumble at the number she’s sent me, manage to hit call.

  It feels like an age before a woman answers, although it’s probably only three rings.

  ‘Hello.’ She sounds hesitant.

  ‘Is that Georgie? It’s Amy. Forrester. My agent … has something happened to Simon?’ I wait anxiously for her to say whatever it is she has to say. My left hand grips the edge of the bench and my knuckles glow white.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you how you know my husband?’ Her voice is tremulous. Maybe she can’t accept that it’s over between them. Or maybe it’s all a bit more recent than he led me to believe and the wounds haven’t healed.

  ‘He’s my …’ I hesitate.
What do I say? ‘Boyfriend’ sounds like we’re sixteen and we’re going to the prom together, ‘partner’ as if we’ve gone into business. ‘Lover’? No. Way too cringy.

  ‘We’re friends,’ I settle on in the end. ‘That is …’ I hope the implication will be obvious. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Are you sleeping with him?’

  Okay. This isn’t right. You don’t call someone to break the news that there’s been a terrible accident and ask that.

  ‘Georgie, sorry, I don’t know if you’ve got a problem with me, but I assume you called me to tell me something. Is Simon okay?’

  ‘Oh my God. You don’t know, do you?’

  No. I definitely don’t. Whatever it is. ‘Have I done something to upset you?’

  ‘Simon’s my husband –’

  ‘Ex-husband.’ I can’t help myself.

  She laughs a weird little nervous laugh. ‘Who told you that? Did he?’

  ‘Aren’t you …? I mean, I know I thought your name was Amanda …’ I’m rambling, like I tend to do when I get rattled.

  When Georgie speaks again, she sounds almost gentle. ‘Amy, I hate to break this to you but Simon and I are very much still married. I was calling to tell you I know about you and him and to ask you to please consider what you’re potentially doing to our daughter, our family. Please …’

  I find myself trying to work out if I can hear Mel in her voice as she speaks. Could this be her? Another nasty joke to try and fuck with my life? But there’s nothing. Not a trace. Could she have roped someone else in? Shaz, or some friend I’ve never met? It’s not impossible. Or, and this is the conclusion I really don’t want to have to come to, could Georgie really be who she says she is? Could it be true that Simon has been married all this time?