Chapter 11
FRANKIE
‘How’s your love life going?’ Simon asks with a pantomime wink the next morning as I spoon blueberry and lime muffin mixture into cases and he carefully ices a red velvet cake.
‘Very well,’ I say. ‘The unwilling victim is slightly more willing now after I helped him out with a lasagne yesterday evening, and I think he’s all good for Gran’s party.’
‘You know you’re going to have to do some prep before that?’ Simon finishes his cake with a very impressive icing twirl in the middle of it.
‘That’s gorgeous,’ I say admiringly.
‘As is Marcus,’ Simon says.
‘True,’ I admit. He is unquestionably the ultimate personification of tall, dark and handsome.
Irrelevant, though. ‘On the prep front, surely there’s no need?
I mean, we’ve already crossed the how-did-you-meet bridge with Gran.
We can just repeat that, and beyond that what is there to ask people in a new relationship that would catch them out? ’
‘I mean… loads? Like…’ Simon ponders for a moment and then starts listing things on his fingers.
‘What have the two of you been up to this week? Are you going to spend Christmas together? Where was your first date? What’s his favourite drink if someone asks you what he’d like?
Does he have any food intolerances?’ He pauses and then, with the air of someone pulling a rabbit out of a hat, completes his list with: ‘When’s his birthday and how old is he? ’
‘You’d be a nightmare fake-new-boyfriend interrogator,’ I gasp, in horrified awe.
‘I would,’ he confirms. ‘So it’s a good job I know the truth. But I’m not the only interrogator in the village. So you’re going to need to get to know each other a bit better.’
Hmm. He might be right. I don’t really want to text Marcus and ask him to meet, though. I’ve clearly imposed more than enough already.
‘Also,’ continues Simon, ‘just thinking. When you move into the flat at the weekend he’s going to have to help, isn’t he. Otherwise it will look very odd. And people will notice you moving.’
‘I can’t ask him to do that!’
‘I think you’ll have to?’
‘What if—’ I wave a spatula for emphasis, because I think I’m onto a good idea ‘—I move while one of his children has a sports match or something so you help me instead and that’s what we tell people?’
‘But wouldn’t you just choose to move at a different time so that he could help you?’
‘I don’t have that much stuff,’ I say triumphantly. ‘It all fitted in my car. Admittedly it was full to the brim, and all I could see in my rear-view mirror was bags, but it isn’t exactly like when someone needs three large removals lorries.’
‘A carload is still quite a lot when you have to carry it all up two flights of stairs. And your boyfriend would want to help you celebrate your new home. It wouldn’t be normal for him not to be there.
And, even if we could in our heads concoct a reason that it had to be during a possibly non-existent sports match, we couldn’t exactly walk round telling people: “Don’t worry, there’s nothing fake about this relationship.
Oh no, Marcus would totally be here; it’s just that he’s currently watching his kid play football and this was the only moment that you and I could both do because, er, why?
” You’re going to have to ask him to help. ’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘I know.’ Simon shakes his head. ‘This is what happens when you start a tangled web. It just gets more tangled.’
‘It isn’t tangled at all,’ I point out. ‘There’s only one lie.’
‘Yeah, whatever, just text him now and explain and ask when would be best for him to help you.’
‘I’ll do it later.’
‘If I were you I’d do it now so he has more notice. If you’re lucky he’ll be going away for the weekend or something.’
‘Oh yes.’ I brighten. ‘Does he often go away for the weekend?’
‘He’s a single dad with two school-age kids and it’s the middle of term. What do you think?’
‘Oh. Okay. Fine. Fine. I’ll do it now.’
The café door chimes at that point, signalling that someone’s coming in, so I’m literally saved by the bell, and soon there’s a bit of a rush, so I have no time to do anything other than serve people, and then I could reasonably just forget about moving plans, except Simon, now elsewhere doing his interior design thing, messages me to ask if I’ve texted Marcus yet.
I accept the inevitable and send a quick message, saying:
Hi Marcus. Sorry sorry sorry to ask but Simon has pointed out that it would look REALLY odd if my ‘boyfriend’ doesn’t help me when I move out of Ellie’s and into here at the weekend, so, and again I am SO SORRY, is there any chance that you could possibly help?
And by help I don’t mean ACTUALLY help really.
I mean you just need to be visibly here.
Like carry a couple of boxes inside but that’s all.
It probably has to be when the café’s closed, because Simon and I will both be working when it’s open.
If you have other plans PLEASE don’t worry – in fact great!
! But anyway, sorry again to ask and let me know…
He replies quite quickly, saying:
Good morning. I should have messaged before now to thank you for the lasagne – it was delicious. We all loved it. Yes, of course I’ll help you move. Would the early part of Saturday evening work for you?
I reply:
The early part of Saturday evening would be PERFECT for me. THANK YOU.
* * *
My phone vibrates with another text from Marcus a few minutes later, which surprises me, because he doesn’t come across like someone who will text-chat unnecessarily.
I’m right. He’s texting with purpose:
How long is it until your grandmother’s party? It’s just occurred to me that in order to be convincing as a couple we’re going to have to ‘see each other’ occasionally.
I write:
Oh fuck.
And then:
Ha, sorry, rude, I mean I’d LOVE to see you, I mean, you know, I don’t mean I wouldn’t love to see you.
Anyway. You know what I mean. Can I buy you a thank-you-for-moving-my-stuff takeaway on Saturday if you have no other plans?
You and the kids? The café will be closed.
OR with Ellie and Jack? And Simon? I’ll check who’s around if you’re up for that.
There’s a short pause and then Marcus comes back with:
Sounds great.
Well, that isn’t what I expected: I have a fake date for Saturday night.
* * *
Saturday morning arrives at a strange pace.
I love baking, I love people, I love Simon.
So you’d think this would be the dream job.
The thing is, though, when it’s busy it’s very busy, so you don’t have a lot of cake-appreciation time or quality chatting-to-people time, it’s more just serve, serve, serve.
And then when it isn’t busy… well, time goes slowly.
Things improve when I decide that I’m going to bring my laptop and get on with some party planning, some new-career research (honestly, I have no ideas right now other than not working in a café, in fact) and finishing the book I’ve been writing for the past three years.
The thing is, though, that I’m stuck inside the whole time and I want to get outside and drink in the remains of the long summer we’ve had and enjoy the leaves turning brown and amber as autumn rolls in.
Basically, overall, my work days are dragging.
The evenings, though, well those are lovely with Ellie (and Jack when he’s around).
I’m a little bit worried about how it’s going to be when I’m living alone in the flat and having empty evenings on top of empty days.
It’s definitely for the best, though. Ellie and Jack are accustomed to living by themselves, just the two of them, and, even though we’re extremely close, I don’t want to intrude for too long given that they don’t have that much time now before Jack leaves school and hopefully goes to uni.
(At the moment he’s thinking he’d like to study engineering.)
Anyway. I shouldn’t think about time dragging; given the situation I was in only a week ago, I’ve been incredibly lucky.
And right now I should jump out of bed and get myself over to the café because, according to Simon, Saturdays are always crazy-busy.
He’s proven right, and we have barely any time to chat during the day.
When we’ve closed and finished cleaning up, we drive over to Ellie’s to fill my car. Marcus arrives shortly afterwards.
It doesn’t take long to pack everything into the car because I didn’t fully unpack in the first place.
‘Marcus, why don’t you leave your car here and drive with Frankie,’ Simon suggests (instructs), ‘so that you look like you’re together? And we’ll follow you. And we can order the takeaway when we get there.’
It’s going to be just the four of us – Marcus, Simon, Ellie and me – for the takeaway. Ruby and Sam both have sleepovers again, and Jack’s out with his friends.
‘We won’t both fit in my car,’ I point out. ‘The front passenger seat’s completely full.’
‘I’ll drive behind you in my car now,’ Marcus says.
‘And we’ll wait a few minutes and then join you,’ Simon tells us.
Marcus is amazing at carrying boxes and suitcases up two narrow flights of stairs.
I lug bags step by step, and have to stop at least five times each time I go up, for rests.
He, meanwhile, just runs up and down, his biceps very nicely flexed, overtaking me several times, until everything’s out of the car and into the flat, with me having done maybe ten per cent of the work that he did.
As I’m getting us both glasses of water to recover from the unpacking (although Marcus doesn’t look like he has anything to recover from), a text comes in from Ellie:
So sorry but I’m not going to make it until later – save some bubbles for me – I’ll be there maybe about nine to help you celebrate your new home
And then about twenty seconds later I get one from Simon:
Hun I am SO sorry – got a hot date this evening – and I mean HOT – he is GORGEOUS – he’s just texted me – he’s only around this evening before he jets off to Chicago – am going to have to bail but see you in the morning for a debrief of BOTH our evenings… because Marcus is hot too… phwoar HAVE FUN.
P.S. You do HAVE to have him in the flat for a couple of hours or tongues might wag. Love you. Have funnnn
P.P.S. I left a bottle of bubbles chilling in the fridge to welcome you. Drink it.
‘Erm,’ I say. ‘Ellie’s coming later and Simon has a date.’
‘Sooo,’ Marcus says, ‘just to clarify, it’s just the two of us?’
‘Yep.’ I wince, and then decide that I’m being silly. I mean, this is not my fault; it’s Simon’s fault. Okay, fine, yes it is my fault in that I started the whole fake-relationship thing, but right now, this evening, it’s Simon’s fault.
In fact… I reread his messages. Is he trying to set me and Marcus up? Seriously. I think he might be. How extremely ridiculous. Does he even really have a date this evening? And what is Ellie doing? Has Simon got her in on this too?
I lift my head from my phone and look at Marcus.
‘Erm…’
‘I should stay,’ he says. ‘For the relationship thing.’
I screw my face up. ‘Would you mind? Just for a bit?’
I look across the room at the big TV hanging on the opposite wall.
‘We could watch a film? Also, I’ve just remembered: Simon pointed out this morning that if we’re going to go to Gran’s party as a, um, couple, we need to make a plan, as in know the answers to a few questions about each other and our relationship. ’
‘Good point.’
‘Bubbles?’ I ask. ‘I think it’s the only thing I have to drink currently other than water.’
Marcus opens the bottle – very deftly, I have to say – and then I fill two lime-green-stemmed champagne flutes I’ve just found in a cupboard.
‘I love that Simon has gorgeous glasses like this in the flat he rents out,’ I say.
‘Yes, he definitely likes perfection in all areas.’ Marcus raises his glass. ‘To your new home. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’ I have to say Marcus is not the person I would have expected to share this first drink in the flat with, but there you go. Life is just odd sometimes.
I take a drink and say, ‘Mmm, that’s nice.’
‘Simon has good taste.’
‘He does.’ I take another big sip. ‘Yum. Okay. So. Do you have any allergies?’
‘For the takeaway?’
‘No. In case anyone expects me to know that about you at Gran’s party.’
‘Oh. Really?’ He shakes his head. ‘That is not the most likely question we’re going to get asked. But, no, I don’t.’
‘Okay. Me neither. Any food you don’t eat?’
‘Not really?’
‘Same for me,’ I tell him. ‘Although, saying that, I don’t like lamb. And I cannot stand peanuts. And also mango. Hate it.’
‘So we won’t be ordering lamb satay with extra mango chutney?’
‘Correct.’ I smile at him. ‘What’s your favourite takeaway?’
‘Thai. Every time.’
‘Okay, cool.’ I get my phone out. ‘Where do you usually order Thai from?’
‘No idea. I’m not sure there is a Thai takeaway within striking distance.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ I frown. ‘But you just said… Oh, you thought that was another prep question. No, it was a genuine one. So for our real takeaway, do you prefer pizza or curry?’
There are only two takeaway options in Milbury as far as I know, both from Chartfield, the nearest town. Deliveroo and Uber apparently don’t find the residents of Milbury rich enough pickings to be bothered to send anyone out here, so we’re reliant on servers driving out on mopeds.
‘On that subject, I’ll tell you something really exciting,’ Marcus says.
‘I was excited when it happened, anyway, because as we know I am not a great cook but I do enjoy my food. Not relevant to today, and maybe not relevant to you generally given that you are a good cook. But…’ He pauses for effect and I wait expectantly, and then with an air of fanfare, he continues, ‘The pub now does takeaway burgers, fish and chips, all your typical pub food, Sunday to Wednesday.’
‘Really.’
‘Yep. New management.’
‘Well I did not know that. Big news. I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Yeah, but not on Saturdays, so curry?’ He grins at me, and I find myself smiling back, because, basically, it’s impossible not to. ‘Or pizza?’
‘Curry’s good.’ I get the (short) menu up on my phone and, when we’ve made our choices, phone the curry place.
‘Oh,’ I say a minute later. ‘They’re too busy to do delivery this evening.’
‘Pizza it is then.’
Another minute later I’ve discovered that they’re too busy too.
I have to admit, I do feel a little dismayed. In summary: my life’s a joke, I’m toasting my new flat with the man I’ve basically forced to be my fake boyfriend, and we can’t even get a takeaway.
‘Please don’t feel that you have to stay if you’re hungry,’ I tell him.
‘Oh, yes, good idea, I’ll go home and have a lovely meal there and leave you to… hunger?’
‘Fasting’s good for people,’ I say. ‘I read that recently.’
‘Yeah, okay, I’ll leave you to fast. No. Better idea. Let’s go out for food. I’ll drive. I’ve only had half a glass.’ He nods at his champagne. ‘We can go to Chartfield.’
I text Ellie to let her know that we’re going out for dinner.
And then Marcus and I set off on our first proper fake date.