Page 16 of Fauxmance in the City

It’s a fair assumption. He’s done it to every woman in his life before me.

five

“How did the walk-through go?” Natalie’s voice blares from the speaker of my phone. I hold it up between the front seats of the rental car as Sam and I drive over the Brooklyn Bridge on our way to the townhouse. It’s Friday afternoon, and we’re meeting the production crew at the house.

Day one of shooting isn’t until tomorrow, but Gillian thought Max would feel more settled if we all gathered the day before and spent the night in the house. There was no point arguing with the boss, so Sam and I are about to embark on this parody of a married couple for the first time.

“It was tense. The schedule’s tight, and the crew was annoyed to be working over the Thanksgiving holiday to prepare. Not that I blame them. But the house is gorgeous. A three-story brownstone, newly renovated, with an expansive backyard and patio. And this is only one of their homes. Gillian and Charles have sick money.”

We hiccup down a cobbled road after we exit the Brooklyn Bridge, then enter the quiet, tree-lined streets of Brooklyn Heights.

“When is the guest of honor arriving?” Sam asks as he flips through the stations. The car swerves, and I slap his hand off the radio.

“Eyes on the road.” I settle against the front passenger seat. “Gillian’s meeting him at JFK now. They’re coming straight from the airport. The shoot doesn’t officially start until tomorrow, but they’ll have the cameras rolling in case Max regains his memory before the official shooting begins. If he does, I’m sure they’ll do some editing to make it appear as if he regained it at the end of the special. Oh, TV magic.”

“This entire special is insane,” Natalie says. “They’re using this guy’s serious injury for ratings. I can’t believe people can be so insensitive.”

“Believe it,” Sam says.

“Do you feel prepared?” Natalie asks me with slight trepidation.

Fuck no. But I give her the only answer that will ease her mind. “Yep!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep!”

I can hear an announcement in the background, then rustling. “There’s Wi-Fi on the plane. Text if you need anything!”

“Sure thing. Have a great trip! Everything’s gonna go great. Don’t you worry. Byeee!” I hang up before Natalie can question the apprehension in my voice.

Turning my mind to the shoot, I open the email with the itinerary Kyle forwarded me last week. Attached is a picture of Max Chase. A twenty-six-year-old with an angular face and serious eyes stares back at me. His russet-colored hair is short, and he wears khakis and a black leather jacket.

The road has smoothed. We turn right and then left onto Grace Court. Nearly identical brownstones line the quiet street on both sides, and the East River sparkles at the end of the road where it dead-ends into a walking path. We pull up outside the townhouse, the sun falling behind the buildings on the far side of the river.

My heart rises into my throat. I take several deep breaths until my heart rate slows. I’ve been living this charade for the past four years. What are another few hours in front of the cameras, right?

“Wow. This place is sick.” Sam grabs a box filled with containers of prepped food and groceries from the back of the car.

“Wait until we get inside. It’s stunning.” I stretch my arms above my head, relieving my tense muscles.

I lift one of the crates, and Sam leads us up the steep steps and opens the double doors. A grand staircase sweeps up to the second floor. Impressive white crown molding lines the edge of the high ceiling, and a white-and-gold pendant hangs above our heads. It’s magnificent.

The townhouse has been refreshed to look more closely like it did when Max lived there with Charles and Gillian. Still, the set designer and I discussed where I could add signature Catelyn Bloom touches.

Jack Cavalli already took pictures that will be in a digital issue of the magazine to coincide with the special.

I push open a pair of tall, white double doors to my right, then walk into the living room. The ceilings are twelve feet tall, and two floor-to-ceiling windows bathe the room with light. The south wall is dominated by a gray stone fireplace.

I walk through a swinging door that leads to the kitchen, holding it open for Sam. He dumps the heavy box on the counter, then takes the crate from my arms.

The kitchen is a state-of-the-art chef’s paradise, with an eight-range gas stove and three ovens. It does nothing for me, but Natalie would have a happy heart attack if she were here. She’d be opening cabinets and drawers like a kid at FAO Schwarz, picking up and trying every new toy she found.

I pull up the list of kitchen items and small appliances I’ll need for the meal tomorrow, then begin checking each off as I unpack.

The doorbell draws Sam out to the foyer. A few moments later, he rushes into the kitchen, his eyes wide.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

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