Faking It Read online

  This wasn’t hard, as Megan Vodianova flaunted a size eight perma-tanned body with two giant stuck-on boobs, and nails that looked like teeth veneers growing from her fingertips. Her hair was so white it was blinding to look at. I was more mouse-blonde, wore a 34B bra and went red in the sun before peeling. Bah, I was her opposite. In terms of what I could do for Jack that was different to Megan, I was the better option by far. For one thing, I would support him and never ever question his whereabouts. I would be an ultra-modern girlfriend, and that would make him love me more, right? After all, I wasn’t clipping his wings to keep him with me. Since meeting in the staff canteen where I work two and a half years ago – he had taken a casual job washing pots – I, unlike Megan, had displayed wondrous perfect-girlfriend traits, such as the ability to be ultra understanding of his obsessions with female megastars such as Jessica Hilson, Sharon Stone, Madonna and the lesser known female cast of Hollyoaks. I was incredibly loyal, faithful, great in bed and paid for everything so he didn’t have to do that grotty job after about a nanosecond of our second date. I was mesmerized by his energy, his big ideas and his dreams. I fell in love harder than I ever thought possible, and Jack swore he felt the same way too. Within a month, he had moved into my house in Bethnal Green and we’d bought our cat, Grum.

  The only thing that bugged me about Jack was that he was a bit thick. I couldn’t have a joke with him without explaining the punchline, in great detail. Also, as he spent the only free time I had to spend with him, without me, out gallivanting with other women on the weekends, and frequenting underground West End bars where he had no signal on his mobile to reply to my texts – where did that leave me? I sat happily at home revelling in my supporting role, comfortable and relaxed, eating biscuits and watching EastEnders. Now you could easily forgive a girl for getting fed up with never seeing her boyfriend, but when he reappeared in the early hours of the morning gently singing my favourite songs, ‘our songs’, I would melt and passionately snog him until his lips fell off. Then we’d have sex and it would be oh so worth it.

  In general, I didn’t mind paying for his nights out or for his new expensive boots with the slight heel to give him extra height, if it helped him secure his dream of becoming a household name. I had faith in him, and he promised to repay me when he hit the big time. Besides, he did other things for me which more than made up for my giant credit card bills. For example, it was thanks to him that I not only got to see Orlando Bloom in the flesh, but also got his autograph on a coffee cup. Orlando popped into Jack’s work for a drink incognito, or so he thought. Jack immediately texted a picture of him sipping his drink in the corner with his cap pulled firmly down and I hopped on the Tube from work to catch him in action. The location of Jack’s work in Primrose Hill meant that lots of cool celebrities chose his café to sip their coffees and read their books, which meant I’d seen plenty of famous folk I admired so much they’d made me giddy. So, Jack staying out late and acting erratic was not unusual for him. Anyway, he couldn’t possibly be having an affair, we were still having sex. And he still laughed at my jokes, made me cups of tea and thoughtfully recorded Jeremy Kyle for me when I was at work. Any signs or distant behaviour I may have worried about were quickly wiped out by a longing glance over dinner or a cuddle before bed on the nights he wasn’t out partying. Sometimes, I would joke that he was having it off with his agent, a shifty-looking cockney geezer named Joel Farthing, who, in my opinion, was a bad influence on Jack, leading him into Soho peep shows and the like. I hadn’t seen his ears go red since I asked him if he liked my mother after their first meeting. He said he simply adored her, but his ears told a totally different story. He knows now that he can’t lie to me and get away with it.

  I was still racking my brain as to why he’d walked out on me, and also why Danielle shot out of the bagel shop, down the street and into the taxi faster than the day we went to see Michael Jackson live – God rest his soul – and had to race to the front to catch backstage passes. I decided to go and make a cup of tea, as that normally solved most things. En route to the kitchen I flicked the TV on and whistled the theme tune to the news as I opened a packet of biscuits.

  The presenter’s chirrupy voice was drowned out by the sing-song of my old-style, boil-on-the-hob kettle. I tapped my foot impatiently on the kitchen floor as I waited for Danielle to appear at the door with details of her mysterious sighting of the elusive Jack Hunter. I poured the milk into my mug and accidently dropped my spoon on the floor. I bent over to get it and as I resumed a standing position, I glanced over at the telly and received the biggest shock of my life …

  Large as you like, there he was, his tousled dark hair falling slightly over one eye, winking at the camera. There was no mistaking the sight of Jack’s face grinning back at me, in full Technicolor widescreen. He was plastered all over my 52-inch plasma man-telly that he begged me to buy, right alongside a picture of mega famous A-list actress Jessica Hilson! The two pictures next to one another looked like glamorous mugshots. A flashing caption read: LOVE SHOCKER! JESSICA HILSON CAUGHT CANOODLING WITH MYSTERY MAN!

  ‘That’s my mystery man!’ I managed to squeak. According to last week’s Sizzle Stars, Jessica was still with her billion-dollar boyfriend, Italian shipping heir Fabio Matravers! Swoon! He was the epitome of suave glamour. What was she thinking?

  In slow motion, my mouth agape, I dropped the teacup in horror. Grum sprinted out of the way of the shards of china bouncing in all directions off the kitchen floor. The milk splashed all over the counter top, spilling down the sides like a milky waterfall coming to rest in a puddle by my feet. I stood absolutely gobsmacked with a teaspoon in my hand. I strained to hear what the presenter was saying.

  A slinky yet serious-looking blonde sits next to a man with a beard in a bright suit jacket on a sofa with this morning’s newspapers fanned out on the table in front of them. She stares vacantly ahead as she appears to process information being sent into her earpiece. Pictures of Jack’s face, hand up at the camera, Jessica Hilson’s head under his armpit in an attempt to duck for cover from baying paparazzi, were clearly visible on at least two front pages. So he finally got his chance, then, I screamed inwardly.

  ‘We’ve just had news in right this second that Jessica Hilson’s mystery guy is an actor.’

  ‘Actor?’ I squealed at the television. ‘If you count one line in Emmerdale and multiple walk-on parts in crappy movies that went straight to DVD,’ I fumed.

  The presenter continued: ‘His name is Jack Hunter … worked with her on Cowgirls, which is set to smash the box office in July.’

  The words became blurred in my head as the two presenters effectively joked about the scandal that is my boyfriend leaving me for an impossibly thin blonde actress with supermodel looks who carries designer bags that are worth more than anything I have ever owned! It’s the stuff of nightmares! I hear the words ‘his girlfriend’, ‘wouldn’t want to be in her shoes’ and ‘affair’ before I almost lose the will to live. I could have died right there and then on my kitchen floor had I not needed to gather absolutely every single shred of information about this, this betrayal! As if I didn’t have content for at least five nightmares already this week, this has to happen.

  ‘OH MY GOD!’ I screamed, as the next picture showed the familiar window box in front of my house! My house was on bloody national television. Christ, I was in my house, shit, could anyone see in? My heart racing, I quickly looked either side of me, and thanked God that my curtains were still drawn. This meant the whole of the UK thankfully couldn’t see me, humiliated Katie Lewis who was heartbroken, bedraggled and with no make-up on to speak of, aside from faint mascara trails that lay upon my cheeks. I was now hideously aware of my unfashionable tartan pyjamas that my nan had bought me last Christmas. I quickly moved towards the kitchen window and pulled the blind down before running upstairs and doing the same in my bedroom and bathroom. Fuck, what on earth is going on? Why is he with Jessica Hilson? I raced downstairs and continued to ga
wp at the screen but the images of my house, his face and her highness had been replaced with the weather. I moved into the hallway and sat down with the cat in my arms and my back against the front door and tried to process what was going on. I could hear people talking outside on the pavement.

  ‘Yes, dear, the lad lived in there with Katie, lovely girl … why do you ask?’ I could clearly hear Mrs Bellamy from next door shimmy along on her electric wheelchair to whoever was asking her the questions, presumably a reporter. Now I understood why those vans were parked on my road, they were news teams reporting back to BBC-bloody-Breakfast about my stupid boyfriend and this ridiculous charade! It’s one thing for your boyfriend to leave you, but another thing altogether if your neighbours are getting a first-hand, warts-and-all, blow-by-blow account of it. My street hadn’t seen this much dramatic action since the Blitz. All of a sudden, there was a knock on the door and the sound of someone crouching down to my level on the other side.

  ‘Katie Lewis?’ a woman’s voice said authoritatively through my letterbox. ‘My name’s Pippa Strong from London Lowdown. I’m looking for your comments regarding the relationship between Jack Hunter and Hollywood hot property, Jessica Hilson?’ I shirked backwards and attempted to flatten myself against the wall so she couldn’t see me. My heart was racing like the clappers. Relationship? So it’s true, really, actually true? No, it simply can’t be, the papers make stuff up all the time, especially the tabloids – secrets, lies and Paris Hilton sex tapes. No, this was just some hideous mistake. Not my Jack! The bed was barely cold, the sheets still had his stray pubes lying in them, and his organic water-activating, mineral-particles facecloth was still in my bathroom. He’d never up sticks without that.

  ‘Shove it, bozo,’ a familiar voice said, as the reporter with her big nose shoved firmly in my letterbox went flying.

  ‘I’ll have you for assault!’ Pippa squealed. I opened the door gingerly to Danielle, wearing my giant comedy pink heart-shaped shades I’d found underneath the radiator whilst sitting on the floor. Jessica Hilson wasn’t the only one who could do glamour! The glasses did a good job of almost obscuring most of my features. ‘This is harassment and I’m a lawyer!’ Danielle screamed, with such velocity that Pippa, who had now come forwards again to get a glimpse of me, jerked her head right back as though she was a tortoise retreating into her shell. She said nothing as Mrs Bellamy and other assorted neighbours of pension-drawing age and a couple of mumsy types who had no doubt spied their houses on TV gathered before my gate as though they were witnessing a macabre accident.

  ‘Nothing to see here OK, so beat it!’ Danielle continued to bark at them all, as I stood aside to let her in. Closing the door, double-locking it and sticking on the chain that I only use when I’m on my own overnight, I sank to the floor and cried big, fat, salty tears.

  ‘Shh,’ Danielle soothed. ‘It’s OK,’ and she took me into her arms for a much-needed hug.

  ‘I was hoping I would get here before that lot,’ Danielle said sullenly, as she gestured towards the window.

  My mouth was still hanging slightly open as I tried to process this morning’s insanity. Last night, Jack was here, in my house, eating spaghetti bolognaise and watching Antiques Roadshow whilst I sat next to him on the sofa, polishing off a bottle of red. He left around 9pm to go and nurse his sick mother who had a cold that wouldn’t budge. He was worried that she had pneumonia and therefore would need to take a rather large bag for an extended stay. Did I mind? he asked, chivalrously. No, darling. How could I refuse that beautiful face?

  ‘I need a biscuit,’ was all I could say, as I realized now exactly when Jack had left me. Coward that he is couldn’t even tell me about Jessica Hilson, had to let the world tell me. On the inside, a zillion and one questions were pummelling my weary head from every direction.

  ‘OK,’ Danielle said to me, opening the chocolate digestives. She handed them to me, staring at my face, looking for clues as to how I felt.

  ‘I have to know everything,’ I said quietly.

  Chapter 2

  Handsome vest-wearing muscleman Jack Hunter has been seen emerging from The Dorchester by our eagle-eyed photographers several times over the past week. Wearing casual attire, Jack smouldered as he carried a distressed-leather man-bag whilst sporting designer stubble. Jessica Hilson, wearing a chic multicoloured Diane von Furstenberg dress and carrying this season’s Balenciaga Giant City handbag in Maldives, was spotted leaving via the back entrance with her giant minders, before speeding off in a chauffeur-driven limo, which, on closer inspection, also contained Jack Hunter. Their elusive getaway was well and truly foiled. As Sizzle Stars went to press, no official announcement has been made regarding the status of their relationship and what this now means to their significant others, Fabio Matravers, 35, the well-respected businessman and shipping heir and the as yet unknown girlfriend of Monsieur Hunter.

  ‘This just gets better and better,’ I moaned to Danielle as we ate breakfast. Toast crumbs dropped down my front and all over the pages of the tabloid that I had pinched from Danielle, that she had pinched from some poor startled girl in the bagel shop yesterday morning.

  ‘I know,’ she mused, drinking her tea. ‘The press are still camped outside your door … I called work for you this morning. They understood you can’t get out of your door, let alone into Leicester Square.’

  ‘Who did you speak to?’ I asked her gingerly, lighting up a cigarette.

  ‘Richard Dewberry.’

  ‘Richard will love this. I’m surprised he’s not here now.’

  As if on cue, the doorbell gave a loud shrill.

  ‘Ignore it,’ Danielle said, turning to an article about Tom Cruise. ‘Did you know that Tom Cruise wears high heels?’

  ‘Yeah, I bought the same ones for Jack. They’re not like ladies’ high heels, they have special inbuilt heels to assist a man in the height department,’ I said. God, I knew so much about men’s fashion now, I could run a specialist PR department.

  ‘Darling!’ The unmistakeable sound of Richard’s estuary accent shouted through my letterbox. Then he turned to the gaggle of information-thirsty reporters.

  ‘No, I am not going to give you any kind of quote on Katie, you horrible woman. Don’t you think you lot have done enough to the poor girl?’

  Pippa was still camped out on her knees outside my door, peering in my letterbox every so often and calling my name. I could hear her talking back at Richard, eager to misquote him.

  ‘I’m just saying,’ he continued, ‘that Katie has had her heart broken on national television and that little turd Jack is off swanning around The Dorchester with Jessica silicone tits, living the life of Riley!’

  I put my massive pink heart shades back on and tied my dressing gown tight around my middle. Flashing my grey underwear to the national press was not something I wanted to have happen today. I slowly unhooked the chain and opened the door, keeping as much of me as possible out of view. The flashbulbs went off as Richard made for the door. He turned round and stuck his middle finger up and told the press to ‘Eff off’.

  ‘Richard!’ I squealed before pulling him in by the coat-tails. ‘I don’t want attention! At least, not until I have had some kind of extensive face-changing makeover!’

  ‘Jesus, who died here?’ he said, looking at me with his hand clasped to his face in mock horror.

  ‘I’m supposed to look like shit,’ I bit back. ‘I’ve just been dumped and now everyone on my street knows that Jack’s been having it off with Jessica bleedin’ Hilson.’

  ‘Um, the whole world knows, practically. I saw it on Sky news last night in The King’s Head. I’ve been trying to call you ever since, Katie, why haven’t you answered your phone?’

  ‘It’s on silent,’ I lied. It’s not on silent, it’s on the loudest tone possible due to the fact I insanely thought that Jack hadn’t meant to have this affair with Jessica Hilson. I thought that now that it’s exposed, he would come running back to me with his tail between
his legs and a plausible explanation, such as, he was using her to forward his own career, still loved me, never stopped in fact and could I just play along a little bit more because soon enough he’s going to make it and we’ll jet off to the USA, live in the Hollywood Hills, shop all day long and get fabulous-looking tans. I thought he would call me, make a midnight return, something more than the pathetic-looking text of yesterday morning. I ignored all calls on my mobile last night, which included a zillion from my mother Jo, my sister Janice and Richard. No doubt they’d all seen the unfortunate demise of Jack & Katie plastered all over the tabloids and, of course, the telly. I had briefly logged on to my Facebook last night to discover twelve emails in my inbox, multiple wall posts and one less friend on my list – Jack. Jack Hunter had not only erased the past few years of his life with me in favour of some American bimbo, he’d also severed virtual ties on Facebook, MySpace and Gmail chat, and he wasn’t following my life on Twitter any more. Any shred of what we had, had been blown up in a puff of smoke and I, like our relationship, had been deleted.

  ‘So, why are you really here, then?’ I said sarcastically to Richard.

  ‘To see you, darling, to check you are OK, I mean, the whole office is tremendously worried about you. Magenta sends her love too. She says to tell you to take some compassionate leave, we’re all thinking of you. Even that snarled face Hanna Frost sent her condolences.’

  ‘Condolences?’ Danielle said, aghast. ‘No one’s died here, Richard.’