Page 7 of Fake It 'til You Make It

Horrified, I drop the box, snatch the underwear and repeatedly hammer the close button, until finally, the doors comply.

The man isn’t smirking or sniggering at my underwear; he’s just getting on with the next thing – unlocking the mailbox for apartment 8B – seemingly oblivious to my embarrassment.

When I make it to my new home, Dee is in the lounge, standing at the Juliet balcony with the French doors open.

She turns my way when I set my box on the floor with an exaggerated grunt, fanning myself with my T-shirt, an absolutesweaty mess. ‘Would you get a load of this view?’ she says, looking back across East River to the city skyline.

Momentarily, my worries abandon me and I remember why I have pined after this apartment block for so long. The view is incredible. Even from where I’m standing at the back of the lounge, I can see the sun’s rays dancing on the water. I see small motorboats cruising the river and a larger sightseeing boat.

There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and it makes me feel like this place might just hold possibilities, that maybe my luck isn’t entirely doomed.

It isn’t just the view. The apartment is everything I want it to be. From the cream walls and immaculate hardwood floors to the blush-pink soft furnishings on the cream leather sofa and the glass top of the oak trunk table in the dining area. From the black granite countertops and gleaming white kitchen units to the fancy tap that offers me cold water, boiling water, water with gas and water without.

Along the hallway are the abstract oil and watercolor paintings I remember from my viewing. In the master bedroom is a brand-new, fancy queen-sized bed, and I tell myself that getting to sleep like a starfish will be a wonderful, liberating experience, as opposed to an unwanted and lonely one.

Through the bedroom, there’s an ensuite of the size that someone in my unemployed position, who was only allowed to lease on the proviso I paid the entire six months’ rent upfront, shouldn’t be able to afford. I try not to focus on the ‘his’ part of the ‘his and hers’ basins. Instead, I imagine where I will place my toiletries – my toothbrush, in its own area, where no man will be able to put his dirty, soggy one next to mine. There’s a bath –a bath!– as well as a shower.

Buoyed with excitement, I take myself off to the enormous walk-in wardrobe with a sofabed that could be big enough for asecond bedroom, but not for me because I am man and child free. No ties. No obligations. No one to please but myself.

It’s seven thirty in the evening. My sister left around 3p.m. without having helped me at all to move in. I wouldn’t expect a pregnant lady to do heavy lifting, but the reality is, pregnant or not, Dee wouldn’t have lifted a finger anyway. I love her for what she is, and in spite of what she isn’t.

I’ve hung up my clothes in the walk-in wardrobe, which seem pathetically few in the large space. My shoes are neatly lined along the purpose-built shoe rack, also looking like a truly meagre offering, moreBig Bang TheorythanSex and the City.

Now alone and pooped by my efforts, I’m streaming a NASA moon-landing documentary on my laptop, I’ve ordered a chicken pesto pizza and a tub of peanut butter ice cream, and am enjoying my queen bed, just me. The irony is, I’m squished onto one side, on one set of pillows, as if waiting for someone to join me. And those joyous thoughts of my new single life, the hot girl summer I imagined, have abandoned me.

I’ve paid an extortionate sum of money to pretend that I’m some sassy city girl, living her best life, yet I’m sitting in my bed in paisley cotton sheets, an old T-shirt and shorts, much like the girl who left Alberta four years ago.

Is Andrew alone right now? Is he still seeing the woman he was sleeping with behind my back? The woman Dee found after extensive social media searching on my behalf?

My cell phone is lying next to me on the bed covers. I could call him. Be casual.

Why? Why would I do that?

Hecheatedon me.

It’s just… our story doesn’t feel complete.

Everyone liked Andrew. He was perfect for me. Until he wasn’t.

Everyonestilllikes Andrew because I haven’t shared the truth of what happened with anyone – except Dee and Shernette.

In everyone else’s minds, he isstillperfect for me.

Staring at the screen on my laptop, I try to think positive thoughts, like my sister and Shernette have told me I have to do. Finally, a positive thought comes to me, but even as I think it, I know it’s not enough: at least I’m not an astronaut stuck on the moon with no sustenance or comms.

Sighing, I close down my laptop, slide it under the bed, double check that my bear spray is where I left it (you can take the girl out of Canada…) and lie back, exhausted.

When there’s nothing better to do, sleep. That’s what my dad has always said. So I’ll sleep and tomorrow will be a new day. A much better day because I won’t have to lug heavy boxes from my car to my new, extortionately priced apartment.

I can feel myself sliding toward slumber when…boom, boom, boom.

What the fudge?

There’s a rhythmic banging, as if someone is repeatedly hitting something full throttle against a wall above me.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

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