Faking It

by Lotte Daley

  16th July 2006

  ‘Bastard!’ I shrieked at the letter, spilling red wine down on to my boobs. In one angry swoop I scrunched up the love letter and threw it across the bathroom where it came to rest by the loo. How could I have been so stupid? Of course he didn’t mean any of that, he’d have said anything back then if it meant getting his jollies three times a day and a round of lightly browned toast for his breakfast. I suddenly felt very stupid. All the gaiety and vigour I felt from just having munched a biscuit and noticed my slender-ish thighs was crushed with the knowledge that I’d been hoodwinked. In the living room, Grum meowed and plonked his furry behind on the remote control, inadvertently changing the television channel from BBC1 to what sounded suspiciously like Radio 2. I was super confused. Yes, I hated Jack so much for faking the last years of our romance and leaving me in the most disrespectful way possible, but I knew he loved me, at one point. Even if it was only for a short while. I loved and hated, hated and loved and then thought about Bailey, my potential Band-Aid boyfriend.

  ‘And now,’ the dulcet tones of the radio guy filled the room, ‘we have a very special evening for lovers …’

  ‘Urgh!’ I groaned aloud, before squidging my bottom downwards so that I could immerse my head beneath the hot soapy bubbles, away from the torture of the radio.

  ‘A song that never gets old …’ he warbled, as the opening bars of my favourite Cure song began to play.

  Dit dit doo … dit dit doo … the synthesizer trilled.

  ‘Argh!’ I screamed to myself. Moments later, I emerged suddenly from the water and began to wring my hair dry in my hands as the song continued to play. Our song!

  That’s it, I thought, feeling sick to my core as I heaved myself out of the bath and grabbed my towel.

  ‘Why did I have to get a cat that could change the bloody television channels with his bum?’ I asked Grum as he looked up at me quizzically. Poor sod, he didn’t know we were listening to the song that Jack sang to me to make me laugh, to make me melt when he’d been out all night and I was sitting at home waiting for him, as though I was his bloody mother. I switched the channel and was now listening to ‘Love Songs for Lovers’ on a drive-time show. Good old eighties music, I thought, bittersweet, matches my sombre love mood. I shamelessly joined in the chorus of T’Pau, singing and dancing with Grum, who was struggling to get away from his mad, crazy owner. That’s it, I decided, letting him bounce down and into the kitchen en route to the cat flap. I am definitely on a man ban. No more thinking about Jack, I am going to end it with him. I mean, I know it’s over, he’s ended it, but I am ending it with him emotionally. This means no drunk dialling, no drunk texting and definitely no drunk Facebooking. Not that I have done any of those things yet, but give me time. This break-up was still fresh. It was still raw. I still thought about him every second of every day. Life was occasionally made easier by the presence of stuck-up-his-own-arsehole Bailey and the freebie clothes and whatnot, but Jack was still a huge presence in my mind. I would cut the ties with pretend emotional scissors.

  I went into my bedroom and violently tore at the sheets. I pulled them off the bed and screamed and grunted and pushed until there was nothing left of him on my bed. I took the sheets and threw them into the laundry basket in the bathroom and tried to shove the lid down over the enormous amount of fabric. I pulled out some horrible old flowery beige jobs from the airing cupboard that Mum had given me for Christmas. They were disgusting and tasteless but they would have to do until I get to Harrods where I will buy the very best kind of sheets that they make. Ones with Egyptian cotton, with 800 thread counts or something equally as extravagant. The flowers lay flat against the bed frame, looking gloomy and brown. I threw off my towel, pulled on my tartan pyjamas and made my way into the kitchen to eat a muffin and have myself another large glass of red. Who cares that it was only 8pm and I was a bottle of Rioja down!

  Flopping back on the sofa, I took out my mobile phone and deleted Jack Hunter’s mobile number, his Mum’s, his agent’s and his work’s. I scrolled through and deleted every single text I’d sent him and every single text I’d received. I also got rid of all pictures I had of him on my phone. By the end of it, tears were trickling down my face and the music had hit a poetic crescendo. I’d now suffered through two Take That songs, a Texas tune, Barry White and Madness. It must be love? Yeah, right. I was beginning to feel more than a little tipsy now. Where was Danielle? She said she’d be here by nine. I need to bitch and moan and hold a pity party in aid of Katie and her week from hell!

  Just then, as if on cue, there was a tiny, just about audible knock on my door.

  Excellent, this must be her! I thought. I can tell her all about today’s meltdown, what a total bitch Hanna Frost is, how she has a tiny, blonde, bitchy, skinny, nasty, horrible, cow-bag journalist friend whose name sounds like an STD and who, if she was a dog, would be a cross between a mangy terrier and a whippet.

  I walked towards the door and opened it to greet her, stopping only briefly to wipe away the smudged remnants of my waterproof mascara and to push my tears off my face. I gave a hearty sniff, took a deep breath and opened the door.

  ‘Am I glad to see you …’ I trailed off.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ Bailey said.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I said, rather haughtily.

  ‘Um, I’m sorry,’ he said, looking at his toes. I stared back at him. He looked up at me and our eyes connected. My feet were on fire as the electricity shot straight through my eyes and right down to my loins. Shit, shit, shit, I thought, catching sight of myself once again in the hallway mirror. My apparel was perfectly acceptable for a turbo moan with my best friend, not so for a hot guy I fancy … Why did he have to see me looking like a baboon’s backside all the frigging time? I had a lime-green scrunchie on my head containing my bird’s-nest hair which was frizzy and wet from my bath. I was wearing tartan pyjamas and my face was tear-streaked and puffy. My eyes looked like two piss holes in the snow. Why was I not wearing my cute little La Senza sex nightie? Where have I put those eye-brightening drops that Janice used to use to conceal the fact she had been down the back of Jimmy’s Bowling Green smoking pot? Why don’t I think of these things and plan ahead? Ah yes, because Bailey is about as consistent as the winner of the Eurovision Song Contest. You never can tell what’s happening with him. Tactical voting perhaps? Voting for his country on account of any wars past or present? Hanna being the war, fought against me for daring to leave the room without permission, even though I did tell them, it’s really not my fault if they chose to ignore me. Anyway, let’s go back to the brooding hunk on my doorstep.

  ‘Have you been sitting in your car all this time outside my house, twiddling your thumbs?’ I ask, my voice now unexpectedly deeper and huskier. Sex thoughts must be transmitting out of my vocal cords. His face visibly reddens.

  ‘No,’ he lies. I totally know he’s lying because, oh God, his ears! His ears, which stick out slightly, have totally gone bright red. Maybe it’s a man thing? A hot man thing? Who knows? I think it’s kind of cute. But still, what was Bailey doing outside my house for the past few hours?

  ‘I was thinking,’ he says, shuffling his trainers against my doorstep.

  ‘About what?’ I ask, hoping, praying, that it’s about me. Now I’ve got rid of Jack officially in my head, it means I can indulge in guilt-free sex, if I want to. Although I had split with Jack, it had felt like I was cheating on him when I felt that pull of my hand towards Bailey’s pert bum. I also felt that way every time I saw a movie with Brad Pitt in it, but Danielle soon talked me out of that one. No one should feel guilty about getting their jollies from a Brad Pitt movie. Now standing in my doorway in his trademark tight white t-shirt, his lips curled slightly at one side of his mouth, I noticed for the first time Bailey’s freckles on his nose and a dimple on his chin. I decided he could quite easily surpass Monsieur Pitt in the gorgeous stakes.

  ‘Can I come in?’ he says, half smiling.
<
br />   ‘Suppose,’ I say, playing hard to get. Can’t have him thinking he holds all the cards in this thing, whatever it is, that’s charging between us. Even though he so does. I flatten myself against the wall to allow him in, his body slides between me and the door. Neither of us moves. He’s now looking at me with such intensity I may just spontaneously combust right here, right now, all over my hall carpet. Within a second, his lips are upon mine, feeling his way into my mouth with darting tongue movements. I quiver with excitement and let out a deep, sexy sigh. We kiss, and it’s hard, then it’s soft, it’s fast and then it’s oh so slow. He bites my lip gently, then a bit harder, I moan softly in his ear as his lips move down to my neck and he sucks gently, his hands are on my body. One hand moves down towards my bum, and he gently cups my cheek, squeezing, touching me, with such skill. He manipulates the buttons on my pyjama shirt, so that they gently come undone, only one, then two, and then three. My nipples are pressed hard against his T-shirt. I can feel his skin against mine and it’s driving me fucking wild. I gingerly move my hands up and down his torso, and oh my God I can’t resist, I move my hands down his chest, finding that little line of hair that I love the most on a man, from his belly button, down to his crotch. Sure enough, he was hard and bulging from his tight, skinny jeans. Oh my God, how could I possibly have even considered, for even a moment, putting myself under a man ban? I want to be under this man more than anything. More than life itself. More than Jack? Oh gosh, now there is a conundrum. No, no, no, must not think about Jack. ‘Oooh yes, yes, yes!’ I whispered, as Bailey’s hand snaked along the inside of my elasticated bottoms. Oh, how I inwardly cursed the pyjamas.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, breathlessly.

  ‘For what?’ he panted back in my ear.

  ‘The tartan,’ I giggled, wriggling in his grasp. My hair was damp against the wall.

  ‘Fuck the tartan,’ he said, and in one fell swoop, he lifted me up, and proceeded to manoeuvre me, somewhat more gallantly than Richard’s impromptu fireman’s lift. This one was most definitely a princess lift, oh yes, he moved with grace and ease and made me feel as light as a feather, which was no easy feat. Just ask Richard Dewberry.

  ‘Which way?’ he said, and I pointed up towards my bedroom. Thank heavens I changed the sheets! It would have been criminal to have had Jack’s DNA mixing with what I’m sure will be the remnants of Bailey’s sweat and sex all over my sheets. Bailey kicked the door open gently with his foot and lowered me on to the bed with a bounce.

  I was like a woman possessed. My hands were all over him, moulding into the curves of his body as his hands grasped my hair, my breasts and my shoulders. Breaking off from our mega snog, I slunk to my knees and peeled his jeans off with my teeth, OK, and my hands, but I undid the zip with my teeth, which he seemed to take pleasure from. He was naked and ready for me, so I unrolled a condom grabbed from the side drawer and on to his hard cock, also with my teeth, actually. I know he was impressed with that. He pulled me up from my arms and lowered me on top of him where we moved together as he gently pulled on my nipples. I was so hungry for him, hungrier than I had ever been before, and his touch was urgent and needy. He wanted me after all! Our bodies moved rhythmically in heavenly synch until with one final lurch of his body, he came, and I felt him push harder into me until he brought me to the edge, where I let loose and dug my fingernails into his shoulders as I gave in to an earth-shattering orgasm. I flopped back on to the pillow, spent and happy. His breath was loud as his chest fell against mine before he gently kissed me on the lips. We lay in relative silence, entwined, sweating and hot. It felt like one of the most romantic, sexually-charged moments I’d had in my whole entire life. It totally trumped the first time that I had sex with Jack. He was all fingers and thumbs and I had to show him where my clitoris was. But it didn’t matter to me that he wasn’t as blessed in the bedroom as he was in his looks. I guess this is what happens to most hot men. They can get any woman they want by simply standing next to her. They can be self-obsessed, they can be thoughtless and they can be rubbish in bed, but if he’s amazing to look at, you make exceptions. Besides, Bailey and Jack had to make an exception for my wobbly bits. Bailey, however, as smoulderingly hot as he was, didn’t need an A–Z to find my erogenous zones. He teased and stroked with great efficacy. Suddenly, permeating the atmospheric ambiance of Spandau Ballet (love songs were still filtering through from the television) Bailey’s phone trilled and beeped. Silently, he removed my legs from his thighs and bent over the bed to retrieve it, giving me a full-on view of the crack of his arse. I scrunched up my face and looked away. When I moved my eyes back towards him, he was lying flat out next to me, his hands above his head furiously typing a text. His body was delicious, I thought to myself, but what could be so important that he had to pierce our erotic moment with the tap tap tap of a text message? How rude, I thought, but never mind, I was so ready for round two. I slowly tickled his underarms to get his attention and grinned wildly at him. I just knew it, he was special and he quite possibly had fallen for me after all! We’d have to work out a way of telling Hanna Frost, because I’m pretty sure she mentioned that she was setting me up with Danny Divine, the actor from that East End wannabe ganster film Murked. Well, I’m sure we can work something out, now that Bailey is no longer denying his feelings for me. I felt on top of the world. He was mine now! Hurrah!

  ‘I have to go,’ he muttered, with about as much warmth in his voice as a snowman.

  ‘Um?’ I said. Fuck fuck fuck, he wants to go, must play it cool, no wild declarations of love just yet, even though I may be in love with him already. Oh God, look at him, his body is rippling even as he coughs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. What for? I thought. Spluttering beside me or the fact you’re upping and leaving me? I instinctively handed him a tissue and he blew his nose. ‘Thanks,’ he said, barely looking at me. For what? I thought. For the tissue or the shag? Approximately five minutes ago, I was blowing him, and now, he was getting ready to walk out of the door. Fucking wonderful. I harrumphed a bit, trying to evoke some reaction from him, more than a sorry, a hug maybe, something longing and delicious and with a promise of more naked time. He said nothing.

  Hmm. Obviously a man of few words. He pulled his pants on, buttoned up his jeans and stood up as I wrapped myself up in the duvet. My hair was wild, all over the place, and I still had mascara smudged on my cheek from earlier. My lips were chapped from kissing his stubbly mouth.

  ‘I’ll see myself out, Katie,’ he said, as he leant in for a polite kiss. He kissed me on my cheek and lightly patted my shoulder. Who did he think he was, kissing me like that? That’s the kind of goodbye you give to your nan, not your new love interest! Before I could open my mouth to clarify where we now stood, although it was evidently nowhere, he was on his feet and I stayed in the bed, which now smelled of Bailey rather than Jack. The door clicked shut and I buried my head in my hands. I was so confused. I mean, that did happen, right? I did have sex that was instigated by Bailey and not by me, didn’t I? He made the love move, right? God, men, they really honestly do come from another planet. I sat there racking my brain, wondering why he had to dash off like that so soon after our incredible sex session, when I heard the door click again. Yessss! I thought, clearly he can’t keep away and he’s back for more.

  ‘Couldn’t keep away from me, you big love tiger?’ I called out to him.

  ‘Hey babe, I’m so glad you’re in, listen we really have to talk about something …’ Danielle cooed back from the hallway. I could hear her heels on the hardwood floor clip-clopping towards me, along with the jangle of what sounded like bottles of wine in a plastic bag. She sounded happy enough, not like she’d split with Stewart again, so what could this mega important thing be that she had to tell? She had wine so it must require some emotional anaesthetic of the booze variety.

  ‘Where are you?’ she called. ‘And why are you listening to Duran Duran?!’

  ‘I’m not!’ I said, as she edged neare
r to the bedroom.

  ‘Yes, you are, “Rio” is my favourite song!’ she called before pushing open my bedroom door and flicking on the big light.

  ‘Oww,’ I said, as I shielded my eyes from the too-bright glow of the light.

  ‘What are you doing all on your own in here?’ she said, as she eyed my get-up which was, um, nothing but a gross duvet set which would have looked more at home in the seventies.

  ‘Honey, either you have a migraine or you’ve just had sexual relations with someone …’ she winked and grinned before her expression suddenly changed. ‘Dear God, please tell me that Jack Hunter hasn’t been sniffing around!’ she wailed.

  ‘Noooooo!’ I replied, wondering why she momentarily looked as though she was about to keel over with heart failure at the possibility that I may have been shagging Jack. Didn’t she want me to be happy, back in the arms of my ex-boyfriend, even if he was a no-balls creep with zero decorum?