Page 16 of Fake It 'til You Make It

She finally clocks my presence as I navigate around her in the direction of my brother’s mailbox.

She looks up to me through lashes that are clearly not her own. I’ve seen Fleur wearing fake eyelashes enough times to recognize them.

As this woman meets my eyes, my first thought is sympathy for the sadness she seems to carry.

But my second thought, as I take in her immaculate curled hair, red painted lips, and the overdone color on her cheeks – what Fleur would callcontouring– is that the woman on the floor is exactly that: another Fleur. Another outstandingly pretty but fake person. The kind of person a man can’t trust. No matter how much the depths of her eyes draw me in and make me want to believe a different story.

Ignoring her and her doubtless superficial plight, I set down some bags and open Mike’s mailbox. It looks like a couriered package and otherwise junk but I can’t sort through it one-handed, so I set it all on top of my pizza box and move toward the elevator.

I hear Big Panties sniff and despite myself, I turn to make sure she’s okay. But she looks to the ceiling, shakes her head and comes to stand, somewhat unsteadily.

Day drinking on a Monday. So, likely a trust-fund offspring who’s never put in a day of hard work in her life, or someone like Fleur: a model who can keep whatever hours she likes.

She picks up her letters from the floor.

‘You dropped one,’ she says, glancing down at an envelope in her hand as she steps into the elevator with me. ‘Michael.’

‘It’s Mike,’ I say, taking the letter from her. No one calls my brother Michael, not in real life.

She presses the button for floor seven, then turns her back to me, facing the doors. ‘Thank you wouldn’t hurt,’ she mutters.

Was that aimed at me?

Stuck upandcrabby. Yep, most definitely not my kind of person. Anymore.

‘I wouldn’t have dropped it if I hadn’t had to navigate around you and all your stuff.’

She turns her head sharply, as if her griping at me is acceptable, but I can’t retort. Her glaring gives me a second to notice herbig eyes are hazel brown, with flecks of gold. Unusual. Exquisitely so.

When the elevator signals we’re at the seventh floor, she steps out.

‘Enjoy your pizza. I really hope you didn’t ruin it when you dropped it, Mike.’

She’s as catty as a kindergarten kid who wants the toy I’m playing with. And she thinks I’m called Mike.

‘Enjoy the vow renewal!’ I shout back.

The doors are closing and she makes me jump when she sticks her shoes between them, forcing them to reopen.

‘Are you always this ill-tempered?’

Actually, I’m not. Horizontal. Amiable. Discreet. Respectful. These are all words that have been used to describe me. But today…

‘Yes, always. Now, can you take your fancy shoes out of the doorway so I can go?’

She’s scowling at me. She clearly wants to say more, get something off her chest.

But she removes her shoes and I watch her stagger ever so slightly into the corridor.

The doors close as I’m rolling my eyes.

Throw me an olive branch here, Universe.

7

TED

It’s Tuesday. Circa 144 hours post-apocalypse.

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