Page 78 of Fake It 'til You Make It

Mike was right; there’s every chance I’m going to end up hurt, again.

I need to protect myself. Forget Nick’s dislike of egos; I need to bring Mike into play in a big way. Do what he does – love ’em and leave ’em with just an air of arrogance in my wake.

32

ABBEY

I find Mom outside, sitting on the patio furniture with Gail, who I know to be a florist because she has decorated many of Mom’s parties. They’re sitting on opposite sofas, with books on the glass-top table in front of them and alongside is tea, served just as Mom likes it – poured from a fine China pot into matching teacups and accompanied by a tray of cakes that I know she’s unlikely to eat herself, but which she likes to have out whenever we have guests.

‘Mom,’ I say gently, so as to not startle them when I step onto the patio. The expanse of our lawn rolls into forest around us.

‘Abbey, darling!’ Mom rises from the sofa, her wide beaming smile that I love drawn on her painted lips, arms outstretched.

She folds me into her chest, where I smell jasmine and lily of the valley – nostalgia.

My mom has embraced aging and wears her grey hair with just a few platinum highlights. It’s loosely gripped by a butterfly clip with a few wisps of hair intentionally left dangling either side of thick bangs. Though she’s in her own home, she always looks immaculate – her cream blouse is tucked neatly into duck-egg blue tailored pants, both itemsfitting her perfectly and matched with a cute kitten-heeled sling back.

I breathe her in, tightening my hold and feeling her do the same. I never realize quite how much I’ve missed her until I’m home. She drives me crazy and I think I probably do the same in return, but I love her beyond measure.

I also know I’m going to need to remind myself of that over the coming days.

‘Look at you,’ she says, taking one step back from me and turning the ends of my hair in her fingers, scrutinizing me from head to toe, reminding me of my recent makeover. ‘Your hair. Your clothes. Shame about the footwear but I can’t remember the last time you dressed to complement your figure. Maybe this acting business, as absurd and temporary as it had better be, has done you some good.’ I roll my eyes but Mom misses it, as she’s too busy telling Gail, ‘She might like wearing a vow-maid dress after all.’

I can feel my frown crease my face.

Mom makes her way back to the sofas, beckoning me to follow. ‘I’ve picked out the most wonderful dress for you. You’ll look magical, darling.’ Now sitting, she turns over a clean third cup and starts to pour what I know will be Lady Grey tea for me, then pats the sofa next to her with her free hand. ‘Just wait until Andrew sees you.’

He has seen me since the wardrobe transformation – and it hasn’t made a difference. No U-turn.

Not that I want one, not anymore.

‘Mom, Andrew and I aren’t together. I’m here with someone else. Andrew has met Mike multiple times.’ After all, isn’t that where this whole make-believe me began? I take my tea cup and saucer, avoiding making eye contact with her. I don’t want to see the look of disapproval I know she’ll be wearing. ‘Let’s just makethis weekend what it should be.’ Finally, I glance up from my drink. ‘All about you and Dad.’

She smiles sweetly. Things being all about her generally makes her happy. But as she shifts her attention back to Gail’s sketch pad on the table, she adds, ‘Though you should know that Andrew isn’t bringing a plus one anymore. Apparently, he doesn’t want to hurt you.’

Grrrrrrrrgh!

What I want to say is:He ripped my heart out. He broke us. He cheated on me.

But what’s the point in having everyone hate him? It doesn’t change anything. Our families still have to be friends long after this is all swept under the rug – why make things awkward for everyone?

So, what I actually say is: nothing.

Whilst my mom starts telling me that there’s a last-minute change to the table decorations as the forecast is showing a light breeze, making shorter flower arrangements a more sensible option, my mind starts to process the fact that Andrew isn’t bringing a date.

Why? Does he really want to spare me? Does he want me back? Or is this all a big ploy to have everyone on his side? He knows I haven’t told people our truth.

Thankfully, my insanely handsome fake date appears from inside the house, interrupting my thoughts, not least because he’s changed into a tailored shirt and Bermuda shorts with suede slip-on shoes.

I’ve never seen him dressed like this. Where are his sneakers? Is this part of his performance? Or is this what he’s really like, at home in San Francisco? Whatever the reason for the new look, it reminds me of the suave version of him I saw on the day of hisGQinterview. Similar to that day, his shirt displays his physique in away I’m ashamed to admit I am ogling. I seem to have softened to my new boyfriend wearing suits.

‘Mrs Mitchell, it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Mike says, extending a hand to my mom. There’s something about his manner that’s slicker than the man I’ve gotten used to, more like the version of him I first met.

My mom rises from her seat, full of elegance and etiquette, and it’s comical how disarmed she looks. Did she expect him to be dressed in sports kit and wearing a baseball cap? I can tell that on appearances alone, she approves of my sportsman beau. I can also tell that it’s absolutely killing her to approve, and that is what’s making my insides jiggle with amusement.

That and maybe the fact that I’m taken back by Mike’s presentation, too.

Mom sits and offers Mike tea, noticeably not telling him to call her Anna in place of Mrs Mitchell.

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