Faking It Read online

  Faking It

  Jade Winters

  Faking It

  by Jade Winters

  Published by Wicked Winters Books

  Copyright © 2014 Jade Winters

  www.jade-winters.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Edited by Lisa Frederickson

  Other titles by Jade Winters

  Novels

  143

  A Walk Into Darkness

  Caught By Love

  Guilty Hearts

  Say Something

  Novellas

  Talk Me Down From The Edge

  Short Stories

  The Makeover

  The Love Letter

  Love On The Cards

  A Story Of You

  Acknowledgements

  Though my name is solely on the cover of this book, it would not have been possible but for two people: Lisa Frederickson and my partner, Ali. I was incredibly lucky that Lisa took on the task of editing this book and guiding me through the previously uncharted territory of humour. Thanks for your invaluable creative input and great wit.

  I also owe a huge debt to Ali for the tireless work she does on every book I write. This one was no exception. Without her, none of it would have been possible. I am eternally grateful.

  For Ali, as always

  Chapter One

  “You’re fired!”

  Danni’s smoky, emerald green eyes glared at her boss. Who did Pete think he was, Donald Trump?

  “You’re kidding me!” she retorted, shaking her head from side to side, her butterscotch blonde ponytail swishing midway down her back.

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  To be fair, he didn’t. He looked pretty stressed. His balloon-like face was crimson with a quivering bulge pulsating at his temple. As much as she would have loved to tell the jumped-up squirt where to stick his job, she couldn’t – her rent was due at the end of the month and without her wages, she would be out on the streets.

  She scanned the Mediterranean style restaurant, desperate to avoid further eye contact with Pete. As Danni’s gaze finally rested on the rustic pizza oven, her delicately sculptured face grew even more lost and forlorn knowing she didn’t have long to plead her case. The evening shift started in fifteen minutes. “Come on Pete, give me a break! I’ve only been working here three weeks.”

  “That’s the problem. In three weeks you’ve smashed more plates than a whole season of weddings in Greece!”

  “That’s not fair,” she immediately protested, watching as he used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his greasy forehead. Yuck. She dreaded to think how many of those salty droplets made their way into the coq au vin of unsuspecting diners as he prepared their tasty casserole. “Chef’s special” indeed.

  Pete threw down the T-towel he was holding in his large veiny hands. “Not fair, Danni?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Follow me.”

  Heart pounding, she followed Pete to the kitchen, the scene of her latest disaster. There, he revealed a pile of broken dishes she had “hidden” beneath scraps of tiramisu in the bin. A pretty sorry effort, she had to confess. Evidently her attempts at a cover-up were about as effective as a chocolate teapot.

  She glanced around the familiar kitchen nervously. Stainless steel pots and pans dangled from a silver rack above the ten-ring hob. Jimmy, a dark haired, wannabe chef, stopped wiping down the surfaces, made a quick dash past them and headed to the back door.

  “Well, I can explain what happened there,” she said, grappling for words she knew wouldn’t come.

  Pete moved to stand in front of her and held her gaze; there was a strange melancholic expression on his face. “Look, Danni, you’re a great girl. The customers love you, but love isn’t going to pay the bills. You’re too much of a liability.” With that, he turned on his heels and strutted purposefully towards the door.

  Danni gasped at Pete’s final insult. Liability! How rude! She stood dumbstruck, watching him retreat from the kitchen, his head bowed down as if he was looking for something. Manners perhaps?

  Resting her hip against the worktop, she absent-mindedly picked up a raw carrot from a white chopping board and angrily bit the tip off. “Fan. Fucking. Tastic,” she muttered between crunches as she ripped the white apron from around her waist. Twenty-four and unemployed again.

  ***

  “It’s going to be all right!” Danni told herself as she began the drawn-out ascent to her flat on the sixth floor. She had to put things into perspective. It was only a job and a crap one at that. It wasn’t as if she’d lost a limb or that waiting tables was ever going to make her a millionaire. All that thankless job had ever given her was minimum wage and chronic lumbago. By the time she reached her floor, she was fighting to catch her breath. She was secretly convinced the air was thinner up there. Why she’d ever agreed to rent a flat in a building without a lift she’d never know. It was just another one of those decisions she made without thinking – she seemed to be doing more and more of that lately.

  Normal breathing resumed, she crossed the small landing and slipped the key into the lock on her rickety front door. Before she could make the triumphant step over the threshold she heard a shuffling of feet behind the door opposite and then a creak. Danni turned to look and saw a swirling cloud of smoke filter through the small crack in the doorway. Her pot-loving neighbour’s head appeared through the gap, scanning the hallway nervously.

  “Danni – you want some ganja?” he whispered in a pseudo-Caribbean accent, his pupils the size of saucers.

  Mick was a tall, anaemic looking, twenty-something from Reading. The nearest he had ever come to the Caribbean was a portion of rice and peas at the Notting Hill Carnival in 2004.

  Her evening marred by her “unexpected” sacking, she would just about take a hit of anything if it promised her a few minutes of amnesia. “Thanks Mick.”

  “Bad day?” he asked, opening the door a fraction more and leaning forward to pass her the joint.

  Danni took the roll-up and dragged on it deeply before exhaling a plume of smoke. “You could say that,” she said passing it back to him.

  He let out a small giggle. “You wanna come in and play Grand Theft Auto?”

  Her head drooped dejectedly – the last thing she needed was company. “No thanks. Maybe some other time.”

  Mick nodded and without a word, ran his tongue over his dry lips and closed his door. She had been living next door to him for over a year and didn’t think she had ever seen him when he wasn’t stoned. He had offered her “da herb” most days during that time. Though dabbling in illegal substances wasn’t a habit of hers, she occasionally took him up on his offer, though not very often – she liked her brain cells firing on all cylinders. Now, had he been offering a daily supply of chocolate chip muffins, it might have been a different story.

  The brief interaction over, she stepped into the hallway of the shabby two-bedroom flat she shared with best friend Josh and stopped suddenly in her tracks. She stood as if paralysed, staring at a single self addressed envelope resting innocently on the mat beneath her. Her heart was thumping uncontrollably. Could this be it? Her ticket to the fabulously glam lifestyle she so desired? She truly believed every living soul had a pre-destined path in life and that everything happened for a reason. Maybe just maybe, there was good cause for her losing her job so suddenly.

  Nervously, tentatively, she knelt down and scooped up the cream coloured envelope between her fingers. Mercilessly, she tore at the envelope with the tip
of her nail – today was not the day to be afraid of paper cuts. Heart in her mouth, she withdrew the crisp white paper, the bold lettering – Desti Publishing – flashing before her eyes. This was one of the best publishing houses in the UK. Surely the fact that they had taken the time out of their busy schedule to reply meant it was good news.

  Excitement bubbled up inside of her as she scanned the page below. “Dear Danielle”. Danni’s free hand clapped over her open mouth. Oooh, they had addressed her by her first name! That had to be a good sign. She read on. Her wide eyes began to shrink. Why was she finding it so difficult to swallow? As the words floated across the page, she blinked to dislodge the tears welling in her eyes. Her fate was sealed.

  She knew she should be used to receiving these letters by now. Rejection letters. “You’re no good” letters. “Don’t-give-up-the-day-job-that-you–just-got-sacked-from” letters. This was number fifteen. Instead of becoming stronger with each damning blow, the insult struck harder, taking another part of her poetic soul every time. Not bad for a piece of work that had taken her two years to write! Twoooo whoooole years. Seven hundred and thirty days of creative toil all dismissed in a single sheet of A4.

  Danni flicked on the hallway light, kicking the door shut behind her with her foot. Right, where was the vodka? Had she polished it off with rejection letter fourteen? No, that night it was the Babysham and Red Bull combo. Another bad decision.

  Five minutes later, she was reclined in the cramped box they called a living room, sipping on a glass of flat Fosters she’d found behind the numerous take-away cartons in the fridge. That was the funny thing, no matter how poor she was, she always seemed to have money for a take-away.

  “What the hell am I going to do now?” she asked herself, eying the pile of laundry balanced on top of the TV. She didn’t have anything left to sell – everything of any value was either in Cash Converters or the pawnshop. Her life was pathetic. She had always thought by the time she had hit twenty-four she would have her life sorted. She’d be settled down with the woman of her dreams – smart, brunette, part-time cake-baker (preferably muffins, though willing to compromise). She would be on her second bestselling novel and the toast of literary circles.

  In her fantasy, she saw herself as the female Oscar Wilde, full of sardonic wit, a celebrated storyteller. She and her beautiful lover luxuriating in a moderate sized house in Islington (she wasn’t a showy sort of gal) with four bedrooms and a terrier named Sparky. Her days would be spent writing and replying to the thousands of messages she’d received from fans from around the world. Her evenings filled with charity events and dinner parties with other successful writers, where they would debate the huge pressures of being a successful international author.

  Danni grimaced as the fantasy disappeared along with the last few drops of flat lager. Maybe she was getting ahead of herself; she did only write chick-lit after all.

  There was only one course of action – first thing tomorrow, she’d scour the papers for a way out.

  Chapter Two

  Brooke removed her black-rimmed glasses and eyed the time on her mobile phone. She let out a long sigh. Ten o’clock. Megan had promised she would be there by six at the latest. What would her defence be this time? A drunk passenger? A delayed departure? A flat tyre on an Airbus A380? No, surely she wouldn’t use those ones again. If there was one thing that Megan was good at, it was making up elaborate excuses. As an air hostess, Megan had a lot of material to work with.

  Loosening her thick cocoa coloured tresses from a hair band, she clicked save on the Word document – she was done with the manuscript she was editing. Trying to concentrate on “Think Yourself Happy in Four Days - Volume Fifteen” was all she needed tonight. But what did she need? Even she didn’t know anymore. She rested her head against the back of the seat, her blue eyes half circles of fatigue. Eight months ago, things had seemed a whole lot clearer. The classic tale of “girl meets girl, girl has lots of sex and girl lives happily ever after”, was not quite running to plan. The sex was good, really good, but Brooke wanted, needed, something more.

  She rose to her feet upon hearing the familiar sound of the front door slamming shut. She could just imagine Megan standing in the hallway rehearsing one of her ridiculous stories. Megan always went into a little too much detail, making the tale seem all the less plausible.

  Tonight was one night too many. She didn’t know how much longer she was going to be able to put up with living under a cloud of uncertainty. Although Megan told her she loved her, her actions said otherwise.

  Brooke remained motionless, anxiously waiting for her lover’s entrance and the familiar “confrontation scene”. She stood gazing at the study door a few moments longer, before realising Megan wasn’t coming to look for her at all. Instead, she heard footsteps heading in the other direction, towards the bathroom. Could she really be bothered questioning Megan yet again? Would it really do any good?

  Against her better judgement, she made her way along the corridor to the bathroom and stood “casually” in the doorway, just as Megan was fixing her long dark hair into a ponytail. Though Brooke had seen her naked a million times before, she couldn’t suppress the wave of desire that rose within her. She ran her eyes over Megan’s slender form; her strong shoulders, her pert breasts, her wonderfully firm thighs. She really was something.

  Megan jumped as she caught sight of Brooke. “Won’t be a sec,” she said as she quickly stepped into the bath and dragged the shower curtain across, symbolically dividing the two even further.

  No apology then? No “How are you? How has your day been? Were you worried I was in a plane crash?” Nothing. Brooke eyed the pile of discarded clothes strewn across the floor and was tempted to scoop them up and throw them into the wash bin. It was as if she had been programmed to pick up after Megan despite the fact they didn’t even live together. Why couldn’t things be like they were at the beginning?

  With that, Brooke was suddenly plunged back in time, reliving every detail of their first night together. It had been during a weekend away in an old cottage in Norfolk. Brooke was there with friends and had asked Megan to join them. Respecting Megan’s wishes to take things slowly, Brooke had reassured her they’d have separate rooms. She had wanted Megan so much, yearned for her even. There had been weeks of flirting, texting, teasing, all leading to that one moment when everyone else had gone to bed. That one moment when Megan had knocked on her door. Brooke opened it and not believing Megan had come, just grabbed her, kissing her with aching passion, tearing her clothes off almost as though she was afraid she might never have this moment again. She remembered how Megan’s lips felt; soft, warm, so sensual that every nerve ending in Brooke’s body tingled. She remembered the first time she felt her beautiful breasts, her nipples standing erect, so inviting that Brooke felt as though she might explode if she didn’t have her. She recalled the feel of her silky skin, her smell, the way she tasted, the moment she climaxed in her arms. Brooke remembered it all, she felt it all; it had been one of her favourite nights on earth.

  The sound of the gushing shower jolted Brooke back into the present. The rose-tinted glasses of the past were gone. She turned away and walked to the bedroom to wait.

  As she sat on her bed and looked around the room she saw traces of Megan everywhere. Her shoes on the floor by the chest of drawers, her jewellery on the bedside table, a solitary trainer sock in the centre of the room. But nothing permanent – none of her clothes hung in the wardrobe, none of the books on the shelf were hers. She didn’t even leave her toothbrush.

  “What are you still doing up?” Megan smiled, entering the room wearing nothing but a fluffy yellow towel.

  Brooke frowned. “I’ve been worried. You could’ve had the decency to call.”

  Megan opened a drawer and withdrew one of Brooke’s T-shirts. She never used to wear anything to bed except perfume. Another sign that things were different.

  “Don’t you think I tried? Your phone was switched off,” M
egan retorted casually.

  Brooke looked puzzled for a few seconds. “Really? Funny how nobody else had trouble getting through.”

  Megan let the towel drop to the floor and pulled the T-shirt over her head. “Lucky them.”

  Brooke stripped down naked and lowered herself into bed, waiting until Megan turned around to face her before speaking again. “So, are you going to tell me where you’ve been? What was more important than spending time with me?”

  Megan’s eyes flickered momentarily. “If you must know, a new girl started today. We took her out for a quick drink. I couldn’t get out of it. Is that all right with you?” She slid into bed, lying on her side facing Brooke.

  Brooke narrowed her eyes. “I don’t call four hours a quick drink. And don’t you think it’s kind of late to have someone new out on their first day at work?”

  “Not everyone’s like you Brooke. Some people actually live in the moment and don’t obsess about tomorrow.”

  Brooke snorted. “Are you saying I’m a stick in the mud?”

  “Slightly …”

  “I’m boring, is that it?”

  Megan turned to face away from her and let out a sigh. “No, just that some people are impulsive and we both know you’re not. Nothing wrong with that but it’s the truth.”

  “The truth, huh?” Brooke said, deliberately taking a deep breath to control her temper. “If we’re being so truthful tonight why don’t you just tell me why you’re still with me? My sister said–”

  “–Oh God, what’s Mandy said now?”

  “That you’re a commitment-phobe and–”

  Megan let out a laugh. “A what? I seriously don’t know why you listen to that woman. You know she doesn’t like me. She’s just jealous ‘cause you’ve got a partner now and don’t spend all your time being used as a dumping ground for her pathetic life.”