Faking It

by Lotte Daley

  ‘A car? What am I, the next Princess Di?’ I joked.

  ‘Of sorts,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, puzzled.

  ‘Look, just get yourself looking more va-va-voom and less kaput and for heaven’s sake, wax your tash. It was like looking at a spider’s fandango on your top lip yesterday afternoon.’

  I gave a startled cry. My top lip! ‘I forgot!’

  ‘Darling, you have a little over an hour to de-fuzz and sort your outfit … oh actually … hang on … are you serious? You are … OK … yes, yes, yes, will do. Katie?’ Richard appeared to be taking orders from another source.

  ‘Hmm?’ I replied.

  ‘Magenta says stay as awful looking as possible, and all will be revealed when you arrive!’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Just get your things together, you’ll soon see!’

  And with that he hung up on me.

  Chapter 4

  I stood by the living-room window, nervously tapping my foot against the skirting board, waiting for my driver. My driver! How posh am I? I pulled on one of Janice’s old Primark jumper dresses with a dropped hemline and a pair of old woolly opaques that had seen better days from Mum’s chest of drawers. As penance, I had to then spend a good ten minutes explaining to Mum that I had to look awful, and that my employers wouldn’t think any less of her parenting skills for my turning up to the office in a snagged pair of tights. Janice had left for sixth form college right after breakfast, wearing the world’s shortest skirt, complete with knee-high boots, her face covered in inch-thick slap and her hair styled to within an inch of its life. I swear she must have gone through at least two cans of Elnett. She looked as though she was going to a glamour shoot. Thankfully, Dad was in the garden picking up stray fag ends, which left only Mum to tut and sigh disapprovingly about what people would think of her for letting her younger daughter out of the house dressed like a hooker and how my sister would be one sorry girl when she caught a chill from the weather. Janice didn’t care, though, as she was revelling in her newly found popularity at school, which had shot up thanks to Jack. Janice had been busy prancing about in her bedroom, posing for the camera, taking pictures of herself, pouting her lips and squeezing her boobs together suggestively. Her bra was clearly stuffed with socks. She’d even requested some highlights for her mousy brown hair ahead of the family visit to Betty Baxter’s beauty salon this afternoon, which thankfully I will now not have to attend, courtesy of my summons back to the office.

  With Mum still muttering in the background about misplaced values and how things used to be ‘in my day’, I stared at the stretch limo that was rolling on to our driveway.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Mum exclaimed, her hands clasped against her cheeks in surprise. ‘The neighbours will think we’ve won the lottery!’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. This was something else! I was just the office girl at Poets Field PR, I wasn’t anyone special or important, so why on earth had they sent a limo? And why did Richard tell me to dress down and make an extra effort to look shit when he was sending something as grand as this to ferry me back down the motorway?

  ‘Why do you have to look like such a midden!’ Mum tutted as she busied herself with smoothing down her wild curls and undoing her food-stained pinny.

  My mobile chirruped with an unknown number. Could it be Jack? I immediately hoped, as my mind went into ‘ex-boyfriend calling me from a withheld number’ fantasies.

  ‘Hi, Katie?’ the unfamiliar male voice said.

  ‘Yes?’ I replied nervously, quickly realizing it wasn’t Jack and must be my driver. ‘Is this the posh car?’

  ‘This is Bailey from Poets Field PR to pick you up for your scheduled meeting. If you’d like to come on outside …’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ Duh! How stupid of me, of course it wasn’t ever going to be Jack. Still, my heart sank a little. OK, a lot.

  I put on Dad’s old skiing balaclava that Mum had him fetch from the loft last night. Covering my face to disguise my identity should any errant photographers be poised to take photos, which didn’t seem to have happened so far, thank the Lord, I opened the door and stumbled down the driveway towards the car. In the bright morning sunshine, standing right there in front of me, I saw this Bailey boy, enormous brown eyes glinting in the sun, all six feet two of him.

  ‘Whoah, call the police!’ he joked, as he stood in a so tight it must be illegal white t-shirt, with his arm outstretched against the rim of the car door, laughing at my get-up. He gestured for me to climb in. I flashed him a smile that looked like a snarl through the black dense wool and quickly turned my head back towards the neighbouring houses. There was a ridiculous amount of curtain twitching going on.

  As I settled in the back of the car with my seatbelt digging into the middle of my chest, I worked on trying to get my tits to look less like beach balls parted by the waves.

  ‘I’ve not seen you around before,’ he said, attempting small talk. I felt utterly ridiculous sitting in the back of a plush limo, with an Adonis driving me around like I was Lady Muck or something, looking like a thug with no fashion sense. This could quite possibly trump the pillowcase escapade.

  ‘You can take that off now,’ he said, gesturing to my headgear, his eyes meeting mine for a brief second in the rear-view mirror. I felt my heart unexpectedly skip a beat, as though he’d asked me to remove my underwear in order to ravish me. What was going on? It was far too early to be getting skippy beats and fancying gorgeous chauffeurs like this Bailey guy. He was a dish, though, with his rippling biceps commanding the steering wheel and his penetrating eye-lock that seemed to bore right into my soul. I was a little bit lost for words and I couldn’t quite work out if it was down to being in the company of a man who looked like he could be modelling Calvin Klein pants, or the fact my life was turning increasingly into some kind of James Bond film, complete with ex-boyfriend espionage and covert meetings at work.

  ‘Oh, sure, of course!’ I said, bitterly regretting the absence of my make-up this morning. I sat in the back seat looking like death warmed up. I shouldn’t care anyway, after all I love Jack, no one else compares. My hair had been subjected to some serious static underneath the woolly material and was now attaching itself to the inside roof. I looked like a scarecrow. I thought I’d better say something.

  ‘I work as a PA for Magenta Rubenstein, and I also, you know, help out the other PR account managers, Richard Dewberry, Hanna Frost, Bowman …’

  ‘I know Hanna well …’ Bailey said with a wink and a smile. I wonder if that meant they were shagging each other? I thought Hanna Frost was a lesbian. She was known within the company and the canteen to have a feisty streak, a no-nonsense demanding approach and was well respected as a ball-breaking business woman – one of the best in her field, according to London Lowdown’s Office Awards on the South Bank in 2007.

  ‘Hanna’s nice, isn’t she?’ I probed further as we rolled over country lanes towards the city.

  ‘At times,’ he smiled sheepishly.

  ‘Well, I don’t really know her all that well …’ I replied.

  Annoyingly, Bailey didn’t offer any more titbits of information about Hanna Frost. I started to wonder whether Hanna had anything to do with this important meeting of mine?

  ‘Does Hanna have anything to do with this summons?’ I blurted out, immediately regretting it, as Bailey shuffled his lovely cute bum in his seat.

  ‘I know nothing …’ he said, and I almost believed him, until he smiled at me and then looked away.

  The rest of the trip passed quickly as we talked about music we liked (him, Kasabian and Jeff Buckley, me, Madonna and Britney Spears) and exchanged other exciting bits of information about one another. Interestingly enough, he didn’t ask me one thing about Jack and Jessica, or this whole furore that seemed to be enveloping the country’s media. For heaven’s sake, we were at war, people were dying, we were in a recession, yet the only topic on Loose Women was mu
ch ado about my relationship.

  Bailey never even touched upon the subject.

  Refreshing, I thought, a man with sensitivity.

  For approximately one hour and forty-five minutes or so until we hit London traffic and ground to a halt, I felt like Katie Lewis pre-Jackgate, the normal chatty Katie instead of the creeping about, badly dressed, crying woman sans make-up that I was beginning to resemble of late. I began to wonder if there was any point in wearing mascara when even the waterproof brands gave in to my turbo tears. There was barely an hour that had gone by since this whole kerfuffle began that I hadn’t had a mini breakdown. I smoked whenever I could feel one about to come on; my lungs must resemble a smoky blancmange. Luckily for me, most of my extreme crying was conducted in the dead of night under my duvet, or under my pillowcase/balaclava disguises.

  ‘We’re here!’ Bailey announced as we pulled up into the staff car park. I must have dozed off for a minute or two, thankful that in Bailey’s company I had enjoyed some slight respite from reality, and now I had a handprint mark on my cheek from where I had rested my head. Never mind, I thought, it was now time for the balaclava to make another sexy appearance.

  Bailey had already released himself from the seatbelt and had shimmied round to my side of the door and opened it with a flourish.

  ‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ I simpered, as I swung my rucksack over my shoulders and made for the back entrance. In keeping with the undercover nature of the meeting, Bailey led me to a set of secret stairs – stairs I’d not previously noticed, anyway – and into a sumptuous velvet-walled lift with lovely dim lights that made me look beautifully serene instead of like an exhibit in a crime lab. I was used to the strip lighting in the main lifts and ladies’ loos, which made you feel positively suicidal, magnifying each and every micropore on the end of your nose, not to mention the bags under your eyes which glowed luminously no matter how many layers of Touche Éclat you put on.

  ‘This lift is a dream,’ I commented.

  ‘It’s used for the mega rich and important clients, so you ought to feel honoured,’ Bailey said with a wink.

  On the seventh floor, the doors parted to reveal a swanky loft-style apartment-cum-office. It was split on two levels with a clear glass mezzanine running along the perimeter. Directly ahead of us stood a gigantic table and sitting right at the head was my flamboyantly dressed boss, Magenta. Sitting on her left was Richard, and on her right, Hanna Frost.

  ‘Darling!’ Magenta cooed, as she stood up to greet me. Richard, Hanna and Magenta grinned megawatt smiles. They were all slick, polished and oozing glamour. On the other side of the room there were several odd-looking fashionistas, crowing at one another and pointing at a number of different whiteboards, each containing indecipherable patterns and bold lettering. This must be where they come up with their ideas, I thought, excitement bubbling up inside of me. Perhaps they have finally recognized my artistic talents and are now going to promote me away from my grotty desk and into this funky space of fabulousness!

  ‘Now, Bailey, darling,’ she addressed him, ‘can we have a tray of skinny lacto-free organic Fair Trade mochas? And make it quick,’ she said, snapping her fingers as she talked. I figured Bailey must be the office assistant for the bigwigs, to be bossed around like this.

  Magenta came right up to me and embraced me like a long-lost friend.

  ‘I am so sorry to hear about your loss,’ she said, with an air of gloom. ‘In time, you’ll see it’s for the best.’ She hooked her arm through mine and positioned me at the far end of the table. I felt like a contestant in a game show, as all eyes descended upon me. I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat, aware that Janice’s jumper had a bit of dried dribble on the lapel, from my accidental snooze in the back of the limo.

  ‘Well, you did say come looking your worst!’ I laughed nervously, referring to my unkempt appearance. Three pairs of eyes stared back at me, nonplussed.

  ‘OK, I’m going to cut to the chase here, Katie,’ Magenta said, with an air of authority about her. Friendly Magenta had been replaced with ball-busting Magenta.

  ‘Richard, show her,’ she wafted a perfectly manicured hand in his direction. Richard sheepishly pulled out a copy of what looked like London Lowdown and placed it face down in front of me.

  ‘I think you should see this,’ he said, gesturing for me to turn it over. ‘But may I suggest you take a deep breath first …’

  Cripes! I thought, what is it now? Jessica Hilson’s Miracle Baby? Jack’s sordid past being dragged up from when he was an eighteen-year-old adult film worker? He confessed one night after a game of spin the bottle and a succession of tequila slammers to having worked on three blue movies. Soft core, he said, meaning he groped some boobs and showed his dong but didn’t go any further than that. Certainly no sex took place, so I doubt I’ll be staring that in the face …

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Deep breath, it can’t be that bad … OH MY GOD NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!’ I wailed, as I looked at a giant, full-colour, double-page spread of my arse, complete with big flowery pants, my love handles spilling either side, legs akimbo, over the shoulder of Richard, who was visibly struggling to contain my weight. Various surprised and shocked faces held up camera phones in the background. Pippa bloody Strong, that big-nosed, frizzy-haired journalist, was to blame for humiliating me further than I ever imagined possible.

  ‘What the fuck am I going to do NOW?’ I screamed, forgetting boardroom etiquette, my cheeks burning as hot tears filled my eyes. Please don’t cry! Please don’t cry! I repeated like a mantra in my spinning head. Oh God, oh God, must keep control! I gripped the sides of my chair for support as I prayed to Almighty God that there was a secret trap door that I could command by the power of thought which would catapult me back into another dimension where none of this had ever even happened, or failing that, at least back to my own desk, within sprinting distance of the ladies’ loos, so I could have this moment in private.

  All three faces looked bemused at my diva-style meltdown, complete with high-pitched squealing and snot flying down my cheeks from my running nose. I gave up trying to contain the sobs and blubbered all over the magazine. Any shred of self-respect I may have had left was now lost, as I collapsed my head on to the table and tried to hide under my hands.

  Five minutes later my sobs had subsided into little sniffles and I was now able to hold a conversation. I looked around the room and realized that I was alone with Hanna and Richard. Magenta had wisely left the room – God only knows where she was now. Filing my P45 perhaps? After all, no one wants a liability at work, do they? Oh Christ, I thought, I’ve gone and done it now, with my candid emotions. I give a massive sigh and a weak smile. My face is sure to be blotchy and reddened beyond redemption. If I had worn make-up today, it would have been a wasted effort.

  ‘Darling,’ Richard says gently, ‘are you feeling a bit more in control now?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, blowing my nose on the tissue that Hanna has passed across to me. ‘It’s not so much the double-page spread of my backside, or even the pants … it’s everything, I guess. I mean, it’s every girl’s worst nightmare to find out her boyfriend’s left her, but to be left for someone who’s practically Madonna is just too much to bear. Her backside is small and cute and would fit on a Twitter blog, whilst my backside takes up two A4 pages of this magazine.’

  ‘Well, the photo was enlarged, Katie, so don’t pay too much attention to bottom envy,’ Richard says.

  Hanna’s face remains straight. She clearly has had so much Botox in her forehead she looks permanently startled. It had now been almost ten minutes since my public display of emotion – plenty of time to compose oneself and relax one’s face back into a normal expression? No, Hanna has definitely had work done. ‘As we were about to discuss before you, ahem, well, we have decided that you are in a wonderful position right now, Katie,’ Hanna says, without a twitch.

  ‘You have got to be joking, Hanna, how on earth can you possibly say that with a straight fa
ce?’

  ‘Botox,’ she says bluntly. ‘Let’s not waste time wondering whether I have or haven’t. And see these lips?’ she says, pointing to a full and wondrous pout. ‘Filler.’ She looks pleased with herself, before continuing, ‘And yes, it is impossible to have breasts as curvaceously perky as mine with a 23-inch waist to boot – surgery.’

  ‘Um,’ I say, lost for words. Richard scratches the back of his neck and looks skywards.

  ‘Katie, I noticed you staring at me, and I wanted to put you straight on a few things right away so that we have no issues in the future when working together,’ she says, matter-of-fact. She got it wrong – I was staring at her when I came in to see how she reacted to the delicious Bailey.

  ‘Working together? I don’t understand?’ My face contorts with confusion.

  ‘This is what we propose to you,’ she says, pushing a large A3 poster towards me. There is a picture of me, but it doesn’t quite look like me. I am slimmer, shinier, I have straight teeth …

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I muse. ‘I mean, it’s me, but it’s not me.’

  ‘Katie, you are going to get revenge on Jessica Hilson and Jack Hunter. No one likes a cheater, Katie, no one. Jessica Hilson may be popular right now, but you, my girl, have the potential to outstrip her at every single corner.’

  ‘But how?’ I cry. She’s completely lost me now. ‘How on earth can I get back at Jessica Hilson? Does it involve getting my beloved Jack back?’

  ‘You’ll get him back, in an instant,’ Hanna says, as she clicks her fingers. ‘You just have to listen very carefully to our proposal,’ and with that, she sat back in her chair and pressed a button. ‘Send them in now,’ Hanna barked to the little gadget-type thing strapped to her wrist. Very futuristic, I thought.

  Within a couple of seconds, three fashionistas trooped into the boardroom, carrying the boards I saw them working on earlier.

  ‘Katie Lewis, you are a star!’ the first guy says, clapping his hands together and doing a little skip.