Make Me Believe

by Karen Ferry

“Tell me about the fainting spell,” she answers back, a sombre tone to her voice.

  I look around me, not sure I have the energy left to tell her about the last part of my morning. When my stomach growls madly, I stand up and walk towards a “7-Eleven”.

  “I’ll tell you all about that in my email later, Nan,” I evade her. “I haven’t had much food in me yet, and I really need to eat.”

  “Are you sure, Emma? I worry about you, you know. Why on Earth did you have to move to another country?” she scolds me. “I miss our Sundays together.”

  “You know why, Nan,” I quietly answer, and I can hear her take a long inhale.

  “I do.”

  “But I miss our brunches, too,” I add, somehow apologetic.

  “Alright, email me later, darling, and about Daniel . . . ” She stops and that grabs my attention.

  “What about him?” I urge her.

  “Say yes to the tutoring job, and just relax . . . be young, darling. You need to stop overanalysing everything to death and simply be. Those are my words of wisdom,” she finishes, and I can tell that she is satisfied.

  I chuckle. “I don’t know if that’s the kind of advice I can use, Nan, but thanks. It was lovely that you decided to ring me, though. I needed that.” I have reached the shop but hesitate to go inside.

  A thought strikes me, and I ask, “Nan?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Do you miss granddad?” I ask her.

  “Every day.” No hesitation, no humour in her voice. Just a sureness that I can’t help but admit I envy.

  “But . . . he’s been gone for so long now, for over 20 years. If you still miss him after all this time, how can your heart bear it?” This is something I have wanted to ask her for so long, but I have not had the courage to do it until now.

  I can hear the smile in her voice when she answers me. “Because I have my children and you, Emma darling. You keep me going; you always have. Besides, I know I’ll be with him again. Not in Heaven, though,” she mutters as an afterthought. “The way we acted in our youth? We’ll probably go to Hell instead,” she chuckles.

  I laugh, “It’s likely a much more fun place to be.”

  “Indeed,” she chuckles, and then says her goodbyes. “Don’t forget to email me, Emma.”

  “I’m glad Dad taught you to do that,” I say, and I truly am.

  “He was a much better teacher than you,” she teases me. But then continues in a more sombre voice, “I love you, darling . . . ”

  “I love you, too,” I reply, just as quietly. “Always and forever.”

  “Goodbye, Emma.”

  “Bye, Nan.”

  I look down at my mobile for a few seconds before heading into the shop. My grandmother has given me even more to think about.

  A perfectly nutty idea begins to form in my mind, and I can’t believe I am even contemplating it. ´My stomach chooses this moment to make its hungry presence known again, and I almost run inside the shop to buy food.

  Chapter 9

  I knock frantically on Daniel’s door, my crazy, yet perfect plan, firmly in my mind.

  Not much time passes, and when he opens the door, I blurt out, “I need you to be my boyfriend.”

  “Wh . . . what?!” he stutters, clearly confused, and he even looks a bit scared.

  I plant a palm on my face. “Sorry. That came out wrong. May I come in?”

  Silently, he moves back from the entrance, and I walk past him and enter his living room. I don’t take it in, though, and when I hear him following me, I turn around and smile.

  “Look, I know that sounded mad, but let me explain, please.”

  He just nods, and I continue, “I had a crazy idea, and I’ll completely understand if you don’t want to do this, but . . . here goes.” I take a deep breath. “My brother will be coming to Copenhagen soon, on a business trip, and for reasons I can’t really tell you, we don’t have the best relationship. However, while he’s here, he wants us to get together, and I already know that I can’t get out of this meeting. So I was thinking that if you pretend to be my boyfriend and come with me, he won’t be able to ask me questions I have no desire to answer, and he’ll get out of my hair and let me be.”

  “And why do you think he’ll fall for that kind of charade?” Daniel asks me as he crosses his arms. He looks uncomfortable, and I can’t say that I blame him.

  “Well, we just have to act like we’re dating and madly in love with each other,” I answer. “I’m sure it can’t be that hard to do.”

  “No,” he says firmly and shakes his head.

  “What do you mean, no?” I ask him, confused. I don’t get this guy.

  “I mean, no, I won’t do it. It’s got nothing to do with you, Emma,” he hurries on. “But I wouldn’t know how to pretend to be your boyfriend.”

  “Oh. I see.” But I’m lying; I don’t see why this can’t work.

  Daniel uncrosses his arms and looks at his feet. Even though I don’t know him that well, I can tell that he’s embarrassed.

  “Why?” I decide to ask him, and he looks up, a pained expression on his face.

  “Please don’t ask me that,” he pleads with me.

  I know that I should relent, let him be, but the devil in me takes over, and I put my hands on my hips and ask stubbornly, “Why don’t you think you can pretend to be my boyfriend?”

  Daniel sighs and comes closer to me. He looks intently into my eyes, and I can’t read him at all. There is a hard look on his face, but he still seems vulnerable somehow.

  He looks away. “For one thing, we don’t know each other --“

  “Well, I expect that will change a bit once I start tutoring you,” I interrupt him. Yes, I have made my decision -- lord help me.

  His head snaps back. “You’ll be my tutor?” he asks, a hopeful smile starting to spread on his face.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be your tutor,” I wave a hand and then ask him again, “What’s your other objection to pretending to be my boyfriend? Is it the way I look? The piercings? The tattoos?” For once, I feel self-conscious, an emotion I’m not used to feeling, and that makes me rather angry at Daniel.

  His eyes widen and he shakes his head madly. “No, no, it’s nothing like that! I promise, Emma. You’re . . . ” He looks up and then sighs. “You’re gorgeous, Emma.” Then he sighs, still keeping his eyes from meeting my own, and he sighs, defeated. “Are you really going to make me say it?”

  “Yes, I am.” I tap my foot, becoming more and more aggravated. “I’m stubborn, Daniel. You might as well know this about me from the get-go.”

  “Fine!” he exclaims and then moves away from me so that I can’t see his face at all. “I don’t know how to be your boyfriend, because I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

  I’m stunned, speechless. Did he just say what I think he did?

  “Say that again . . . ?” I move hesitantly closer to him.

  His words are almost a whisper, but because I so desperately want to hear what he says, I strain myself: “You heard me.”

  I don’t know what to say. I swallow, but it is a futile attempt. My mouth has gone completely dry.

  “Never?” I finally ask him. “Does that mean . . . ?”

  “What do you think it means, Emma?” he snaps at me, clearly mortified. He doesn’t turn around to face me, but he lifts his head, causing his profile to become more visible to me.

  “I told you how my speech impairment did not make talking with girls easy for me -- I’m a klutz, I stutter, and I become so lost in my head that when I finally muster up the courage to talk with one of them, some other guy moves in. And I’ve lost my chance.”

  “But . . . but you’re 24 years old,” I protest. “Surely, it can’t be that bad.” I honestly don’t understand how this gorgeous guy, despite his shy ways, hasn’t been snatched up by anyone yet.

  Daniel moves to open the door to his balcony, and I have no trouble understanding why; it’s hot as hell in the flat.

  He chuc
kles darkly. “Yeah, I know,” he says, and the sarcasm in his voice isn’t lost on me. At last, he gives me his eyes, and I become lost in the vulnerability I see there; somehow, it mirrors my own, but for completely different reasons.

  I take a step towards him but stop, opening my mouth but then close it again, unsure of what to say. I decide that honesty is probably best.

  “I’ve never had a boyfriend,” I confess to him, a defiant hilt to my chin. He frowns.

  “What? Why?” he asks me, a blush starting to creep up on his neck, and my tummy erupts with butterflies again.

  “It’s my own choice, Daniel, and I won’t tell you why that is. I’m no virgin, though, if that’s what you want to know.” I hold his eyes, but it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain. He looks confused, lost in thought.

  Another idea begins to form, and I take another step towards him. “I’ll teach you,” I tell him.

  He frowns again. “What do you mean?” he asks me suspicious.

  The more I think about it, this plan is perfect, and I can’t help but show my enthusiasm by smiling widely at him. “I’ll teach you how to interact with girls -- wait, you’re not gay, right?” Damn, that would be a real shame.

  Daniel lifts an eyebrow, momentarily forgetting his shyness, so I hurry on, “Of course not. You did say girls and not boys. How silly of me. Right. I’ll teach you what a relationship should be like -- sans the-kissing-and-getting-naked-together part, of course -- and you’ll then be fully prepared to meet my brother in two months. Plus, you’ll also have gained some confidence -- at least I hope so -- about girls by then as well. It’s the perfect plan!” I feel giddy, exuberant, yet I know this is definitely not a perfect plan -- it’s quite mad, actually.

  “How can you teach me how a boyfriend should act when you’ve never had one?” Daniel proceeds to ask me.

  “I guess I’ll have to check my books,” I mutter, a bit distracted as I try to come up with a game plan.

  His voice, however, pulls me back to the present. “Your books?” he repeats incredulously.

  “Yes, my books: a lot of them are love stories, you know. Plenty of research material for me. Oh, I can also just work on your skills based on the guys I’ve met while clubbing, I guess.” I frown, and, for the first time, I become a bit worried about pulling this off.

  “You’re nuts,” Daniel then grins, shaking his head.

  I huff and cross my arms in front of me. “No, I’m not. I’m just . . . eccentric,” I finish with a satisfied smirk on my face. However, my satisfaction doesn’t last long. It never does. “Look, Daniel, what harm can it do? I’ll tutor you, teach you about the female mind -- and I know a lot of guys would love to know that last part -- and all you’ll have to do is pretend to be madly in love with me for one afternoon. That’s it. So . . . what do you say? Do we have a deal?” I uncross my arms and reach out my right hand, waiting for him to shake it. He looks at it for a couple of beats, and then takes a deep breath before moving closer to me.

  He looks into my eyes for a while, then rakes a hand through his hair, seemingly agitated.

  “Deal,” he says, and he shakes my hand, a nervous smile curving his lips.

  My fingers tingle from his touch, and I can’t ignore the warmth it elicits down my spine. I suppress a shiver, and I can’t help but feel that this is a pivotal moment in my life. I don’t know how my mind conjured up this mad idea, but maybe it was because of what Nan told me earlier. Or maybe Suzy’s pep-talk? Who knows?

  All I know is that the next few months are bound to be interesting.

  I just hope that I’ll be able to keep my distance from this charming boy.

  No matter what Suzy and Nan said, I won’t let my heart fall for Daniel. It’s just safer that way.

  Chapter 10

  You know that feeling you get when you think you know what you’re doing, but then, a while later, the reality of the situation hits you, forcing you to realise that you’re entirely clueless?

  That’s how I feel right now.

  Daniel gave me a copy of his English Literature syllabus before I left his flat an hour ago, and we agreed that we would talk with Mr. Andersen tomorrow about our work hours, etc. I’m still not sold on the idea to only work half-days and still being paid as if I were there full time, but I’ll have to speak with him about it. I don’t think I want to spend every single afternoon with Daniel. That’s a temptation that’s bound to become too much for me.

  I still can’t get over the fact that Daniel is a virgin. It seems so . . . odd. I know I sound sexist, but I’m really not. It’s just surprising to meet a 24-year-old guy -- and one who looks like him -- who hasn’t any kind of experience whatsoever.

  In the last hour, I’ve been sitting on my balcony, chain smoking, and berating myself for suggesting that ludicrous idea! How on earth can I, one of the most cynical people on the planet, profess to know anything at all about what a relationship should be like? I guess I can ask Suzy for advice . . . .or my mum. Err, no, not mum -- worst idea ever!

  I cringe and then stab out the latest smoke before heading inside to fetch my phone. I need Suzy. A dose of her positive attitude is the perfect medicine. I look at the clock over my bookshelf: three-fifteen pm. Ugh. She’s probably still on her date, but I decide to text her instead.

  Me: Hey, honey. Are you free or has Thomas already persuaded you to lose the knickers? ;-) x

  Almost immediately, a reply pings:

  Suzy: No, you tart, he hasn’t! You’ve got a dirty mind, my friend. But I AM still with him, and it’s going really well. Are you okay?

  I hesitate, then shake my head and quickly type back.

  Me: Text me when you get home, okay? I’m fine. Just need a chat. Glad your date’s going well. Love you. x

  I head to the kitchen, not sure of what to do with myself.

  Suzy: Will do, darling. Love you. x

  Sighing, I lean back on the table. I feel irritated, unsettled, and even a bit scared. I look down at my feet, pondering what to do when the thought of Camilla, the pub owner across from me, springs to mind, and I immediately go in search of my sandals and my clutch.

  This lady is just the person I need to cheer me up.

  As long as I don’t get tempted to drink, I’ll be fine.

  I had my first drink when I was fourteen. It was New Year’s Eve, my parents had gone to a party, and my brother was out with friends. I remember telling them that I’d rather spend the evening with my Nan -- which was the truth -- but I also had an ulterior motive for staying home.

  Nan made a lovely dinner, and we just chatted throughout the night, watching the telly, and making jokes of all the celebrities who looked silly. She let me have one small glass of white wine for dinner, but I was feeling rebellious and didn’t want to stop there.

  So I faked being tired and headed home -- my parents and Nan lived, and still do, right next to each other -- so Nan, being responsible like always, waited by her front door until I’d waved goodnight and she watched me go inside.

  I remember going straight to my parents’ bar, looking through their collection of liquor, and at last settling on the gin. I don’t know why I chose that one -- I guess it was the only bottle open -- but I picked it up, put it to my mouth, and drank most of it.

  I don’t remember much about what happened afterwards. I guess I passed out, because I can vaguely remember my dad gently shaking me, asking me what I’d been drinking. My mum was standing in the background, worried sick, of course, and mad as hell. They let me sleep in their bed that night because they wanted to make sure I didn’t choke on my own vomit.

  I woke up with the meanest hangover ever, the lecture to beat all lectures from my parents, and, to this day, I still can’t stand the smell of gin: it makes me gag.

  Luckily, you don’t have to smell it in order to drink it.

  Camilla’s pub is called . . . well, “Camilla’s”. It looks a bit rundown from the outside, but once you climb the two steps and enter her pub,
it’s entirely different. There are beautiful, dark-brown wooded floors, a long bar with comfortable stools opposite the entrance, and if you prefer to sit down instead of at the bar, red leather-chairs as well as couches are scattered here and there. It’s a small pub, and it only offers beverages and light snacks, and Camilla runs it with her husband, George.

  Camilla is a plump, red haired woman with lots of freckles on her face and arms, and she has this knack of breaking down your defences, making you spill the beans about whatever troubles you find yourself in on that particular day. I actually think she is good at this because she doesn’t ask you what’s wrong. She greets you, of course, takes a good, hard look at you, and, depending on what she finds there, she either leans across the bar and gives you a certain look, or she continues doing what she’s doing while waiting until you’re ready.

  She’s a witch, I’m sure of it.

  George is a flamboyant kind of man: loud, he laughs a lot, and he can get quite passionate about politics and religion. He can break down every argument you put up when you discuss a topic, and it usually leaves your head reeling -- and confused about what you thought of in the first place.

  He’s probably also a witch.

  This afternoon, Camilla is, naturally, standing behind the bar, polishing a glass, and the stereo is playing Frank Sinatra’s “Witchcraft”. I love the old crooners . . . I also love rock, but there’s just something about this kind of music that has the ability to make me relax; I also quite often find myself wondering about what it would have been like to live in the 1930s or 1940s: in a way, life was probably a lot simpler for people. Well, minus World War II, of course.

  “Hi, lovely,” Camilla calls out as I walk up to the bar. “How are you?”

  I stop in front of her and take a seat.

  “Confused,” I tell her, and she stops her movements, tilts her head and looks at me. In a move well practiced, she reaches for a glass underneath the bar, picks a Coke Zero from the small fridge behind her, and she caps the bottle. She pours some of the cold liquid in the glass and sets it in front of me. Then she looks at me again, and I cringe a bit. I know myself well enough to be aware of the fact that I can’t keep myself from blurting out my troubles, but, at the same time, I really wish I could. I know I’ll cave eventually, though, so I might just get on with it.