Chapter 6
Chapter 6
I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of the Nick Zachary conundrum by the time we’re saying good-bye to Sophie.
“Is it weird not to have Alex working here anymore?” I ask her.
“Oh, he doesn’t have time for us now. He’s too busy with his sold-out solo exhibitions and being in love with Darcy.”
“Darcy’s my roommate,” I explain to Nick. “And she’s totally loved up with a photographer named Alex who used to work here.”
“I hope you enjoyed your first experience here at Cozy Cottage High Tea, Nick,” Sophie says.
“It was awesome. I’ll have to train extra hard after those chocolate mousse things, though,” he replies.
“The chocolate and coconut mousse tartlets,” Sophie says. “A man who likes chocolate, huh?” Her eyes flick to mine meaningfully, and I pull a face. Why would I care if Nick likes chocolate? He’s entitled to his choices. “Did you know Erin’s a huge chocolate fan, too?”
He places his hand around my shoulders. “Something else to love about her.”
Wow. Did he really just drop the L-word?
I smile back at him, playing the part of the doting girlfriend. I get that this whole thing is meant to show the world that we’re in a relationship, but we did not discuss use of the L-word.
Now that I think about it, we didn’t really discuss how this thing was going to work at all. I’ll add that to my to-do list. I take a mental note: discuss use of L-word and other important aspects of fake relationship. There. That ought to do it. Now all I need to do is channel my inner-Darcy to check the list off, like she does in her job as personal assistant to a highly fickle celebrity.
“You know, there’s a lot to love about Erin, Nick,” Sophie says with a twinkle in her eye.
I narrow my gaze. What the heck is she up to?
“Is there now?” Nick replies.
“Oh, yes. She’s very sweet and very loyal. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”
“Sweet, huh?” he asks, his brows at full mast.
I glare back at him. “That’s right. I’m very sweet.” I adjust my features and add, “honey,” in what could only be interpreted as an excessively sweet tone.
His lips curve into a smile. “Not the word I’d have used, but good to know.”
“Is that so?” I question as I hand Sophie my Hawks credit card, and she processes the payment.
“Well, yeah. When I think of you, the words that spring to mind are more like condescending , irritating , rude . Yeah, those fit a lot better than ‘sweet.’” He flicks his gaze to Sophie and adds, “as well as wonderful , of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t be dating her.”
Sophie’s eyes bounce between the two of us before she replies, “Okay.”
I shoot her a look that says, “Look at what I’ve got to put up with.”
She hands me back my card. “Thanks for coming to High Tea today. Oh, look, Erin. Your grandmother and her sister are here.”
I turn to see my granny and my great aunt Betty (known affectionately in the Andrews family as G.A.B. or Gab for obvious reasons) chatting in the doorway. They’re wearing their Sunday best with their hair freshly set and have even managed some red lipstick for their big afternoon out at Cozy Cottage High Tea. I adore my elderly relations. I grew up with them both living only a stone’s throw from my family home, and in recent years they’ve lived right next door. They’re sweet if a touch doddery, and they’ve always got my best interests at heart.
Hi, Granny. Hi, Gab. What are you two doing here?”
Granny pulls me into a hug, exclaiming, “Chook! Oh, how lovely it is to run into you here at the high tea place. Now, let me look at you.” She holds me at arms’ length. “Oh, Ernie, don’t you look smashing today? Is this one of your originals?”
“It is, Granny. I made the dress and the jacket,” I reply with a surge of pride.
“She’s right, dearie. You look lovely,” Gab says.
I give them both a quick hug and say a silent prayer Nick missed my family nickname. I don’t need him having that kind of info on me. Being called Ernie is embarrassing enough as it is. I don’t even let my BFFs call me that.
My granny and her sister emigrated to New Zealand from Britain back in the 50’s, and even though they’ve lived almost seventy years of their lives here, they still manage to retain their quaint British expressions. Depending on the day, I’m called chook, love, pet, or dearie, sometimes all four within the space of a single conversation. But I’m always, always Ernie.
It’s a name my kid brother, Tim, came up with after he’d watched Ernie and Bert on TV one day. Apparently, he found it easier than saying Erin, although I think that was just an excuse to name me after a chubby orange puppet with a red nose and preference for horizontal stripes. My efforts to call him Bert only made him cry, wailing about not being yellow and having one long eyebrow. Sadly for me, the name Ernie has well and truly stuck.
“Oooh, aren’t you the clever one then?” Granny beams at me. She doesn’t quite pinch my cheeks—I asked her to stop doing that when I was twenty-four—but I know she’s itching to. “Isn’t she the clever one, Betty?”
My great aunt Betty replies, “Oh, yes. Right clever, our Ernie. So very good at the sewing and the things. Isn’t she talented, Marlene?” she says to Granny.
“Oh, yes. Talented, smart, and a beauty,” she replies as they both beam at me.
I glance at Nick’s amused face and flush with embarrassment. “Thanks,” I murmur.
The two of them could go on like this all day, bouncing between themselves with how amazing I am. Really, they’re my number one cheerleaders—although the image of Granny and Gab running around in short skirts with pompoms, asking the audience to give them an E , give them an R , give them an N , give them an I , give them an E , with their frail, arthritic legs kicking up has me needing to suppress the urge to giggle. Thank goodness my name only has four letters, that’s all I’ll say.
“And who’s this young man?” Granny asks, looking up, up, up at Nick. Both Granny and her sister are non-tall like me. In fact, I tower over Granny when I’m in my killer heels, mainly because she wears the types of shoes they put kids with polio in back in the 50’s.
I glance nervously at Nick. That’s another thing to add to the list for us to discuss: what to tell family.
“This is Nick Zachary,” I say as an odd sensation hits me. What is it? Do I feel proud? No, surely not. It must just be the sugar from our high tea treats.
Gab rolls his name around. “Nick Zachary? I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”
“So have I, Betty. So have I,” Granny adds as they both size Nick up.
I hope they don’t ask too many questions. It’s one thing to lie to the world about Nick, but it’s quite another to lie to my family.
“That’s right, Gab. Nick and I, ah, work together. We’ve been here having a meeting about…work stuff,” I reply and shoot him a look that says just go with it .
“We covered a lot of ground, I think. Don’t you, Erin?” he asks, and I let out a sigh of relief.
“Yup. Good meeting, Nick. Good meeting.” I pat him on the arm in a work colleague kind of way. “We got that important business project back on track.”
He arches his eyebrows, his eyes lit with mischief. “We are so good at the business.”
“Where have I seen you before?” Gab repeats, our little performance clearly falling on deaf ears.
“Oh, I know you,” Granny says suddenly. She places her little, bony hand on Nick’s large muscular forearm. “You don’t work with my granddaughter. You’re pulling my leg, pet. You’re from the telly.”
He smiles indulgently. “You saw right through me, huh?”
Gab peers at him over her glasses. “What do you do on the telly? Do you read the news?”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t read the news.”
“What do you do then?” Gab asks. “Oh, I know. You’re on that home improvement show, aren’t you? The one where they kick the people out for a few days and remodel their house. I do feel sorry for those poor people, having to stay goodness knows where. But in the end, they’re always thrilled with their new thingies.”
“Houses,” Grannie corrects.
“That’s what I said.”
“You said ‘thingies.’”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Well, I meant houses,” Gab huffs.
It’s a bad habit of Gab’s to replace words with “thing” or “thingies.” Sometimes, she replaces the vital words in a sentence, and you’ve got no clue what she’s talking about. It irks Granny the most.
Gab turns her attention back to Nick. “You’re always telling people what to do with their lamps and cushions and telling them they need to haul their style into the twenty-first century.”
“Oh, I do love that show,” Granny says, giving Nick a look of approval. “You can be very tough, you know,” she scolds. “But you are talented with all of your color combinations and ideas. Who knew olive green and pink could work together?”
“Not me, that’s for sure,” Gab agrees with a shake of her head. “What’s your show called? It’s the Home Thing or the Thingie House. Oh, I always forget.”
“I’m not sure what it’s called either,” Nick replies, the look on his face telling me he’s equal parts amused and bemused by my elderly relatives.
“Oh, you must know the name of your own show,” Gab says with a crinkled brow. “What sort of man would you be if you didn’t know the name of your own show? He should know it, shouldn’t he, Marlene?”
Granny elbows her. “Maybe he’s on the drugs and can’t think straight? Or the booze. A lot of those celebrities on the telly are, you know.”
They both examine Nick critically for evidence of drugs and booze.
How did we get to this? Nick’s a home improvement show presenter with a drinking and drug problem now? It’s way beyond time to straighten this out. “I think you two have gone down a road that leads to a very weird place,” I say.
“Don’t worry, ladies. I’m not on drugs,” Nick says.
They’re not listening to me. They’re still totally focused on the idea of this show.
“Why don’t you know the name of your own show?” Gab asks him.
“Yes, tell us. Why?” Granny echoes, and the two of them stick their necks out and stare at him like a couple of tortoises of the Galapagos. Seriously, they’re like a couple of bumbling elderly investigators out to solve a telly-related crime.
Nick leans down closer to the two tortoises and says gravely, “There’s a very good reason why I don’t know the name of that show.”
“And what’s that?” enquires Granny, thoroughly riveted.
“I’m not on it,” he says with a shake of his head.
He’s being very patient with them, and I can’t help but smile at the way he’s handling them.
Granny and Gab both recoil from him in surprise. “So you’re not that handsome young man with all the wonderful ideas on how to freshen up kitchen cabinets?” Gab asks, and he shakes his head once more.
“And I suppose you’re going to tell us you’ve got no idea how to pep up a wilting orchid before the family comes over for dinner?” Granny asks, sounding thoroughly put out.
“Granny, that’s very specific,” I say with a laugh.
“It was on the show last week, Ernie,” she explains. “I’ve been pepping up my orchids all week.”
Nick shrugs. “I don’t know about orchids or kitchen cabinets or any of it. Sorry. Although you’re right. I am on the telly,” he replies, quoting their British name for TV, although it’s not in the least bit cruel. It’s gentle ribbing, probably for my benefit, if the quick smile he shoots me has anything to do with it. “And I do work with Ernie .”
I whip my head in his direction at the mention of my family-only nickname. Not even my BFFs use that name!
“Well, that’s a shame, because we like the man on that show. Don’t we, Betty?” Granny says.
“We do, Marlene. We do,” she confirms with a firm nod of her head.
“Well, maybe you could ask your granddaughter to date him next,” Nick suggests with a cheeky grin.
“Oh, you!” Gab bats him on the arm. She’s so little and so frail, and he’s so big and so muscular, I bet he doesn’t feel a thing. “You’re a cheeky one.” She shakes her head. “He’s a cheeky one, this one, love,” she says to me.
“Yes, he is,” I reply.
Granny crosses her arms across her chest (above her breasts, as only the elderly can with any comfort) and narrows her eyes at him.
Uh-oh.
“What do you mean by dating him next ?” she asks. “Are you dating our Ernie now?”
My insides twist as I scramble for a reply. “It was just a slip of the tongue, right, Nick? Nothing more than that.” I shoot him a deploring look.
“It was my attempt at humor. Nothing more,” he replies.
“Well, dear, I think you should stick with being handsome,” Granny says as she reaches up and pats him on the cheek. “He’s very handsome, don’t you think?” she asks me.
Heat builds in my cheeks. “Hmm, yes he is.” Because the truth of the matter is Nick is very handsome. He’s got what people call chiseled good looks, with his olive skin, dark hair, and super-fit, super-buff physique.
He shoots me a questioning look, those perpetually smiling lips of his twitching. “It’s official, Ernie: Gab and Granny rock.”
My smile is one of relief and something else. He’s being so patient and sweet with my family, a small part of me wonders whether he’s not so horrible after all.
Hang on. Back up the bus here. What am I thinking? He’s an arrogant, self-interested professional rugby player. Of course he’s horrible. Isn’t he?
“I’ve got it!” Gab declares, pulling me back to the conversation. “He’s on television playing that thing.”
“What thing?” Granny asks.
“You know, the thing with the thing,” she says completely unhelpfully. When Granny simply looks at her with a perplexed expression, she exclaims, “He wears shorts and chases a ball!”
“Do you mean sports?” Granny asks.
“Yes!” she replies.
“Shall I put you both out of your misery?” Nick offers, and not a moment too soon.
“That might be for the best. Her and all her ‘things.’ Betty, you need to use the words, or no one will know what you’re talking about,” Granny grumps.
Gab waves her comment away with a flick of the wrist. “Let the man speak, Marlene.”
They do their tortoise impression once more as they peer at him.
“I’m a rugby player. I play for the Hawks, which is how I work with Erin. You might also have seen me playing for the All Blacks, too, which I did last year.”
“I knew it!” Gab announces immediately in triumph.
“No, you didn’t,” Granny huffs.
Gab raises her chin. “I did. The shorts and the ball. If that’s not rugby, I don’t know what is.”
“Betty, that’s every sport,” Granny replies. “Really, you may be twenty-two months older than me, but there’s no need to act all superior.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” I say, my hands in the air. I love Granny and Gab, but they bicker like a couple of, well, old women. Which figures, really. They’re both in their early eighties, after all. “You know where you’ve seen Nick before, and now, it’s time for us to get back to work and for you two to go enjoy your fabulous high tea.” I shoot them both an encouraging smile.
Granny pecks me on the cheek. “All right, Ernie. We know when we’re not wanted.”
“Yes, we do,” Gab agrees. “Nice to meet you, young man.”
“Gab, it’s Nick,” I say.
“Oh, you know me. I’m really quite…what is that word?”
“Forgetful?” Granny offers.
“All right. Keep your voice down. You don’t have to announce it to the whole room,” Gab protests.
I glance at Nick to see him watching the two old biddies with a smile on his face.
“We’d better get going, Ernie ,” he says. “We’ve got that thing .”
“See?” Gab says, tugging on Granny’s sleeve. “Even the young ones forget words.”
I take my elderly relatives to the podium and hand them over to Sophie. Let her deal with their questions and chatter for a while.
Finally, Nick and I manage to extricate ourselves, and we walk to his truck.
I settle into the black leather seat. It’s so comfortable, I’m going to find it hard to go back to my little runaround after this. When Nick gets in his side, I say, “Thank you for being so kind to them.”
“They’re fantastic.”
I laugh. “They can be a little much. Sorry they put you through that whole home improvement thing.”
“No worries. I’ll have to find out who that guy is.” He turns the ignition and the truck begins to rumble, “Family is everything, you know.”
“Speaking of which, only my family calls me Ernie. Not even Sophie or Darcy use the name.”
“I think it suits you.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
All he does is laugh. “Tell me something. Back there when you introduced me to them, why did you tell them we worked together? Why not tell them we’re dating, like we’re telling everyone else?”
“Because they’re my family.”
“So what happens when they see us together online?”
“Granny and Gab think online is when you hang your laundry out on a sunny day, so I think we’re pretty safe on that front.”
“You know what I mean. Someone in your family or someone they know will see us online or in a magazine or whatever, and they’ll ask questions. What are you gonna tell them then?”
I chew on my lip. I hadn’t thought that through. As stupid as it sounds, I figured I’d leave my family out of the whole thing. Nick and me fake dating is a work thing, a way to help him with his image and get my fashion designs out there. Nothing more.
But of course they’re going to hear about us. They don’t live in some bubble floating up in the ether away from the rest of the world.
“You’ll need to lie to them, just like we’re lying to everyone else,” he says.
Anxiety twists my belly. “I don’t want to do that. They’re, well…they’ve got a lot going on. I don’t want to add to that by lying to them. It doesn’t feel right.”
“What are you gonna do then?”
“I don’t know. What do you plan on saying to your family?”
“I’ve already told them I’ve got a girl.”
“You’ve ‘got a girl’?” I repeat with a laugh. “Do they live in the 1960’s?”
“What’s wrong with saying ‘I’ve got a girl’?”
I press my lips together. “Nothing. It sounds old-fashioned, that’s all,” I reply before I add, “So, you’re lying to them about us.”
“Yeah, I am. Believe me, it’s better that way. With five sisters and a mum who knows everyone, there’s no way our secret would be safe.”
“You’ve got five sisters?”
“Yup. And I’m the baby of the family, so it was virtually impossible to avoid getting dressed up in Snow White costumes and paraded around the neighborhood. Seriously, I think I’m still psychologically scarred by it all. Gilmore Girls was just the tip of the iceberg.”
“No wonder you became a rugby player.”
“Exactly. I grew up surrounded by estrogen. I needed my man time.”
“I bet you did.” I let out a puff of air and watch as we whizz through the city on our way back to the Hawks office.
I chew on my lip, lost in thought. If I tell my family I’m dating Nick, I’m lying to them, and if I tell them we’re not dating and they see some article that says we are, then what do I do? It’s a hopeless situation, and in the end all I can wish for is that this fake relationship with Nick is swift and very short-lived.