Page 3 of Fake It 'til You Make It

The waiter returns with another margarita. I don’t think I give active messaging to my legs, but I stand from my seat, take the drink, finish it, and hand the glass back to the waiter.

‘Did you sleep with her in my bed?’

Andrew looks like Bambi facing an oncoming truck.

What I want to say is:Fuck you, you dirty, lying, cheating, no-good Neanderthal!

What I actually do is: collect my purse from the floor and quietly walk out of the restaurant, glancing up to Blake House apartments as I leave. Realizing how utterly ridiculous I look, all dressed up to become a bride-to-be and winding up a dumpee, I tuck myself down an alleyway, which is empty but for two green dumpsters. Pressing my back to the wall right next to the stinking trash, I let myself cry.

2

ABBEY

The sound of Shernette blending a breakfast smoothie in her kitchen wakes me. I’m on her sofa, which is where I spent the night, and I’m still wearing the dress I chose for the night my long-term boyfriend was supposed to propose to me.

I bring myself up to sit, my eyes stinging and puffy, possibly from tears, maybe from sleeping in my daily contact lenses, perhaps because I drank the most alcohol I have ever consumed in one night.

‘How are you feeling?’ Shernette asks, handing me a large glass of green juice. ‘Detox juice.’

I take the glass and stare at its contents like it’s cyanide.

‘A movie night and some carbs might have fixed you if you’d stopped at the restaurant cocktails, but the bottle of red wine you near finished when you got here has shifted you into the Emergency Detox category.’

‘I suppose it can’t make me feel any worse,’ I say, registering the pain in my head, the fur lining my tongue and teeth, and the ache in my neck from Shernette’s hard sofa. ‘And to answer yourquestion, I feel somewhere between numb, stupid, and completely discombobulated.’

Shernette brings herself to sit on the sofa next to me, our thighs touching, both holding our smoothies in two hands, like peas in a tightly packed pod.

‘I want to cut off his dick and feed it to cockroaches,’ she says, needing to give no explanation as to who she’s talking about. Then she sobers and adds, ‘I am sorry, Abbey. I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m also sorry for getting so excited yesterday and putting the idea of a proposal in your mind. Truth be told, I didn’t love Andrew before all of this but I was happy for you.’

‘This isn’t on you, Shernette. You’ve got nothing to apologize for. I was naïve and too trusting. It backfired.’ We both stare at the view of a brick apartment block through her lounge window. I suppose I’d better get used to this view for a while because I’m currently homeless.

‘This really happened, didn’t it?’

‘What are you going to do?’ Shernette asks.

Still staring out of the window, I tell her honestly, ‘I have no idea. I can’t really get my head around it. Truthfully, I don’t even know if I’m still drunk, hungover, or both.’ I put my smoothie on the coffee table in front of us, press my hands to my knees and come up to stand. ‘So, I am going to go and vomit in your bathroom. Then, I’m going to borrow the least bright clothes you have that will fit me and I’m just going to get through today with my head down. After that, I’m going to beg you for a spot on your sofa until I can find a new place to live.’

‘Well, you can tick clothes and a bed off your list. Stay as long as you want.’

Ah, checklists. A great idea when they’re going to plan.

At least I have work. As painful as it’s going to be gettingthrough today, nothing brings me comfort like numbers and structure.

I was definitely still drunk this morning in Shernette’s apartment. I know this because now, in the office, my hangover has landed with vengeance. My head feels like trash metal getting squeezed at a junkyard.

I’m nursing the super-strength, triple-shot latte in my little compartment desk, my head buried in emails, praying that my boss doesn’t speak to me today. I’d like nothing more than to lose myself in the monotony of a spreadsheet to take my mind off Andrew.

Naturally, because today is today, I have no such luck. I feel a shadow hovering over me and raise my tired eyes to see Cassandra.

My boss is just as impressive for being in command of her skyscraper stilettos – and never secretly taking them off under her desk the way I do my significantly shorter heels – as she is for being a partner in the firm. Towering over me, she grips the divider that separates my desk from others in the pool. Despite being relentlessly busy, she always manages to have immaculate red nails and a smooth blow-dry.

‘My office, now, and bring Greg with you.’

Cassandra is standing in front of the window of her office, which has a killer view of Lower Manhattan, but the thunderous look on her face is less than appreciative right now.

Greg and I close the door behind us and sheepishly make our way toward her desk, braced for some kind of tongue lashing with no idea of the reason, which scares me more than if I did know.

Greg reaches to pull out one of two seats facing Cassandra’s empty and swanky leather desk chair. I think better of it and when she snaps around to face him and says, ‘Don’t bother taking a seat,’ I internally gloat. Greg is senior to me and gosh does he flaunt it.

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