Page 40 of Fake It 'til You Make It

I had better start helping because she’s right, it’s as if my brother rounded up the filthiest of his New York friends and sent them here last night. I can also sense the genuine anger in her voice – she’s clearly here to stay true to her word and nothing more.

I have all good intentions but… my phone starts to ring.

‘Yo yo, little bro. How was the party?’ My phone has defaulted to the surround speakers in the apartment. I make to switch the sound to come through the phone but not before Mike continues. ‘A nice distraction? I hear I have a new neighbor and given who told me and the tone of her telling, I’m assuming she’s a looker?—’

‘Shit.’ I thumb the screen of my phone, switching my brother to my ear. ‘Sorry, I’ll be back in a minute,’ I tell Abbey. If looks could kill, I’d be a very, very dead man right now.

‘Whoa, not alone. Yes, little bro! I like your style,’ Mike says into my ear.

Glancing back, horrified and trying to determine how much of that Abbey heard, I move into the downstairs bathroom, where I find a half drank glass of wine – at least I hope it’s wine – and, more disturbingly, a pair of boxer briefs that aren’t mine hanging on the toilet-roll holder.

‘Jesus. You should know your friends are disgusting. Like, really grim, dude.’

‘They can be,’ he says, without a care in his voice. ‘I hope the one you still have in my apartment this morning wasn’t one of thereallydirty ones.’

‘God, Mike, come on. I literally broke up with Fleur just over a week ago.’

‘Good riddance.’

‘She wasn’t just some girl, Mike; she was the woman I was going to marry.’

‘A narrow escape, if you ask me.’

His tone is so astonishingly flippant, I’ve half a mind to hang up. Catching sight of myself in the over-sink mirror, I see my irritation. I also see how exhausted I look. Understandable really. And how utterly shambolic my bed-hair looks. Less acceptable.

‘So, who is she?’

‘Who’s who?’ I ask, dampening my hands and trying to dampen the cowlick that’s worse than even Alfalfa’s fromThe Little Rascals.

‘Duh, the woman in my apartment?’ Mike says, with mock-stupidity that suits him for real.

‘That’s just Abbey from downstairs. She’s helping me clean up.’

‘She wants a piece of you.’

‘What?’

‘Who in their right mind helps a guy clean up after a party?’

‘Abbey. She lost a bet. And believe me, if she wants a piece of me, it’s my head. She wants to murder me this morning. Most times, come to think of it.’

‘Hold up. Do I know an Abbey from downstairs? Holy crap, is it the new hot neighbor?’

‘She’s not… Well, she is attractive actually… but not like the girls you know. More stuck up and uppity.’ Big panties, fluffy boots and the fact she’s cleaning the apartment aside.

‘Ah-ha. Well, I’m looking at her Tinder profile right now and I’d say she’s tickling my taste buds.’

‘Mike, that’s invasive, man, come on. Don’t—’ My phone givesme a notification.

‘I’ve sent you a screenshot. She’s an actress; of course she’s good looking.’

An actress? She doesn’t seem gregarious, like other actors I’ve come across – admittedly few of them and always loosely known by my brother or Fleur – but she is into designer labels and fake lashes.

She must be good, too. That I can surmise from her being able to afford to live in this apartment block. I wonder what else she makes up. Probably the parts of her I do like – the version of her who felt a bit nerdy last night. The part who doesn’t seem interested in a big party and working a room. Then again, why would anyone want to appear nerdy and introvert? Maybe someone who didn’t feel herself being at a party in her slippers. Someone who had charged upstairs to confront me without giving thought to what might be going on in my apartment.

People who aren’t truthful are pretty much top of my list of dislikes.

The irony is, I’m playing a part with her, too. This confident guy, a Mike type, a Roman type. It’s not me at all.

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