Page 31 of Fake It 'til You Make It

With my girls hot on my heels, I stomp my fluffy boots to the elevator.

12

TED

Having started the morning well, my call with Mel obliterated my Friday plans. I can’t create an AI persona whilst feeling devoid of any personality myself.

I feel as if I’ve raced through almost every stage of grief today, then rinsed and repeated, over and over. I’ve felt shock, denial, anger, bargaining and waves of sadness.

Shock. Unbelievably, I’ve felt shock. I thought I was all shocked out after walking in on Fleur and Roman mid-act. But somehow, finding out the inevitable, that tongues have started wagging, took me by surprise. I’m not sure how long I thought I could keep the whole sordid thing under wraps for, but I thought I’d at least have more control over the release of the information.

Denial. From believing the entire thing must be some kind of mistake, to disbelieving that Roman would help spread the rumors. From believing Fleur still loves me, that she’s been lured into a false sense of love by Roman’s charm and cunning, to finding it completely unfathomable that Roman might have concocted this whole thing as a way of forcing me to IPO our business.

Anger. I’m really fucking angry. I throw the baseball in my hand against the lounge wall, again. I’ve been sitting on the sofa for lack of anything better to do, tossing a baseball over and over.

Bargaining. Telling myself that if I could be more confident, more charming, a little less Ted and a lot more Roman and Michael, that Fleur might still love me, or that maybe I could wake up and everything would be back to where it was just over a week ago.

Is that enough of a backward travel? One week? When did the affair start? How long has it been going on? Did I notice changes between Fleur and me? When did they start? Between my work and her modelling career, we spend so much time apart, I just don’t remember when we were last in a really great place. Not that we weren’t; I just can’t place us together, laughing, smiling, making love.

I pound the ball at the wall and bend forward to retrieve it from the floor where it lands, not bouncing back far enough for me to catch it.

Stupid ball. Stupid throw. Stupid fucking everything.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Either my head is throbbing or someone is hammering on the door to the apartment.

‘Answer this door right now, Mike!’

Thud. Thud.

Abbey from downstairs?

Taking the ball with me, I peel my ass off the sofa and pad barefoot to the door.

Sure enough…

‘Abbey.’

Her hair is tied messily into a ponytail. She isn’t wearing make-up. Her lounge bottoms are outrageously vivacious but they hug her hips in a way that’s subtly sexy. Her black tee fitseverywhere it touches her top half. For a moment, my mind blanks. I see nothing but the relaxed yet crazily alluring woman in front of me.

Then I see her big fluffy boot slippers. My mouth betrays my grumpy mood as I feel myself smirk.

‘Mike.’ Her scowl is melodramatic and she plants her hands on her hips, really overplaying the part of a madwoman.

I’m not sure why but I find myself leaning into the door frame, a move which shifts my position such that I see Abbey has brought a girl gang with her. I hold up a hand, aloof, as I say, ‘Ladies.’

Ha, the Mike Thomas version of me is pretty cool.

The other women both smile. One of them twinkles her fingers at me.

The move, or the exchange, has the result of angering Abbey, who is already irate for some reason. This woman is certifiably, off the charts, nuts. One minute she’s sobbing into a hazelnut chocolate spread calzone; the next she’s chasing me down in our apartment block, again.

In a move I’ve seen on my brother, a move that has made me even more pissed with him when he’s done it to me mid-argument, I casually toss the baseball I’m holding and catch it one-handed.

That would have been horribly embarrassing if I’d dropped it. Douche risk to take. Mental note made.

But it seems to have the desired effect because with her next inhale, Abbey’s nose widens like a dragon lady’s. ‘I don’t care if you’re some major league baseball player with a swanky penthouse apartment or just some… some dweeby jackass. If you don’t stop banging and banging and goddamn banging every night, I’m going to take a baseball bat and shove it up your stupid, pigheaded ass.’

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