Page 5 of Fauxmance in the City

“I write for a lifestyle magazine.”

Patrick shakes his head, looking like a disappointed father.

“What’s this all about?” Sam crosses his ankle over his knee and leans forward.

“This croissant is spectacular,” Patrick says, licking his finger.

“It’ll be featured in Catie’s next food blog,” Natalie pipes up.

“I didn’t hear that!” Patrick scrapes his hand through his short brown hair, making him look like a porcupine. “We’re so screwed.”

He’s so dramatic.

“Why are you stressing?” I ask.

“The hero, Max Chase, is Gillian Kennedy’s nephew.” Patrick lets this sink in. Gillian Kennedy is the owner of the media conglomerate, Kennedy Media, which owns Simply Chic and Edge and dozens of other publications.

Sam and I exchange a look, neither of us picking up what Patrick is putting down.

“Gillian has this grandiose plan to help him get his memory back.” Patrick shoves another piece of croissant in his mouth.

“What’s the idea?” I ask.

“To recreate happy moments from his childhood to jog his memory. And who better to create those idyllic moments than the queen of domestic bliss.”

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, trying to comprehend.

“And the worst part is she’s been talking to the producers of Good Day, and they want to film the whole thing!”

“That’s no biggie. I was on Good Day this morning.”

“Listen to me, woman. She wants you to orchestrate these special moments. She wants Max to be surrounded by a perfect family in a perfect home—as in you and your husband with all the Catelyn Bloom panache. And Gillian will be there too. As part of this weird reality show.”

Patrick eyes me as he waits for my reaction.

“I can’t do that!” I jump up, banging my knee on my desk. “I don’t have a perfect life. My doting husband is a myth, and there’s no way my apartment can fit all those people plus a film crew. This is Manhattan. I just paid a year’s salary for a shoebox!”

“No shit, Mrs. Lane.” Patrick digs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “We’re so screwed.”

“Mrs. Lane?” Sam asks, rounding the desk and standing next to me.

“Elizabeth Lane.” I drop my forehead to my knees. Sam rubs my hunched back, but his comfort does little to calm my prickly nerves.

“She’s a character from an old black-and-white movie,” Natalie explains when I can’t speak because I’m sucking down air that sticks in my throat. “A single woman writes a domestic column and pretends to be a Doris-Day type. She has to put on a charade that she’s happily married with kids over a weekend for a soldier she’s hosting for the holidays.”

“Breathe, Catie.” Sam’s large hands dig into my lower back, but it’s too many sensations coming at me and I bat him off.

“This isn’t art imitating life. This is my life,” I squeak. “Oh God. I can’t do this. It won’t be tied up in a cute bow at the end. I’ll tell Gillian no.” My mind is already whirling with excuses. “I’ll say a pipe burst and flooded the entire place. That I have lice. That my husband is permanently on assignment overseas. That she’s insane to think she can get this man’s memories back!”

“Someone like Gillian Kennedy doesn’t understand no,” Sam says. “We may need to find another way out of this.”

“We?” I snort. “This is my disaster. Not yours.”

“Calm down, Miss Bennet. Mr. Darcy is only trying to help,” Natalie quips.

“What’s that? Pride and Prejudice? Is Sam going to profess his love to me while insulting me next? I’m not Elizabeth Bennet. I’m not Elizabeth Lane.” I throw my hands up. “I just need to figure out how to stop this train wreck before I Anna Karenina myself out of this mess.”

I put my hands in a prayer position in front of my chest, swallow a gulp of air, then exhale. I’ve spent four years convincing millions of people that I’m a domestic goddess, dishing out nonsense and making lots of money for myself and Gillian Kennedy’s corporation.

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