Faking It

Portia Macintosh

Description

‘A brilliantly funny and unique story about love, loss, family and fitting in. I laughed, I cried - I loved it.’ Holly Martin

The perfect house, the perfect husband and the perfect life... or is she just faking it?

Life has been a bit of a rollercoaster for Ella. Growing up as the 'less successful' identical twin to her 'perfectly successful' sister, Emma, has left her feeling isolated, inadequate and let's face it... a little bitter.

When Emma unexpectedly reaches out to Ella in a time of need, Ella suddenly finds herself with the opportunity to fill in for her sister and experience how the other half live.

But as Ella navigates the world of gossiping mothers, rebellious teens and trying to play the model housewife (not to mention avoiding the temptation of attractive men at the school gates...) will she discover that all is not always as it seems on the other side?

Discover the laugh-out-loud new romantic comedy from top 10 bestseller Portia MacIntosh. Perfect for fans of Mhairi McFarlane, Sophie Ranald and Lindsey Kelk.

What readers are saying about Faking It:

'I loved Ella, the heroine of this book. She's a truly "real" character, and everything you would want in a friend!

'I loved this book easy reading, funny at times good story line. It’s hard to find a book I can easily get into with having dyslexia. But this one worked for me.'

'Completely hilarious even with actual laugh out loud moments.'

Sujets

• Vie de famille
• Relations familiales
• Mashups
• Holidays
• Siblings
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Men
• Friendship
• Contemporary history
• Workplace
• Romantic Comedy
• Sibling
• General officer
• Woman
• The Women
• City Life
• General
• Holiday
• Contemporary
• Topic
• Family Life
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 26 janvier 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 29
• EAN13: 9781800481107
• Langue: English

Extrait

FAKING IT


PORTIA MACINTOSH
For my husband, Joe
CONTENTS



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47


More from Portia MacIntosh

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Portia MacIntosh

Love Notes

About Boldwood Books
1

‘I love a man in uniform,’ I tell the man standing in front of me
Is it obvious, from that terrible clichéd line, that I’ve always been crap at flirting? Everyone is bad at it when they’re a teenager, trying to get the attention of whichever horrible teenage boy they have a crush on, only for him to break their hearts because he prefers his PlayStation and pretends he doesn’t care. But when you get into real adulthood, the power is supposed to shift. Men have to grind to get the attention of women. Flirting as a grown woman should be as simple as existing, surely?
Unless, of course, you believe the old binary bullshit perpetuated by romcom movies that all women are either a Beyoncé or a Bridget Jones. A total goddess or completely hopeless. To be honest, I never really understood what was supposedly so unattractive about Bridget, to make her so solidly single for so long, which made me think the spinster trope was probably a figment of fiction too. But anyone looking at me now, attempting to flirt while this poor chap cringes in front of me, would almost certainly file me under: Bridget.
‘Erm, thanks,’ he says awkwardly. I’m surprised he doesn’t hear this more often – don’t all women love a fireman? – Then again, I suppose people don’t say it out loud, do they? They just buy the sexy calendar and hide it in a drawer.
This clearly isn’t working. And it’s reminding me why I’m single. But to be honest, I hadn’t been all that worried about it until the events of today.
I often wonder who decided that two’s company and three’s a crowd because, for some reason, they completely overlooked one. It’s not as though I need validation for my life choices, it just would have been nice to be included, that’s all.
It’s not all bad, being a ‘one’. I get to decide what I want to do and when I want to do it. I – and I alone – always get to choose what’s for dinner, what I want to watch on TV, whether I want the radiator on full blast or the window wide open. I am my own person, free to do whatever I want, accountable to no one apart from yours truly…
I grew up being told by everyone I knew, and every bit of media I consumed, that I had two options. I was supposed find myself a fella, asap, settle down, get married, have kids – you know the drill – or I could take the more modern, feminist-y route of shunning all of that in favour of being a ball-busting career woman who doesn’t need a man, or kids, who battles her way up the career ladder to smash the glass ceiling, and lives her best self-sufficient life.
There’s a third route no one talks about though, and it’s not so much the route I have chosen, more the road I wandered down, and now I think I’m probably too far along to turn back.
I know I’m not alone, as one of these third-routers, being in my thirties, unmarried, with no kids, not owning my own home, bouncing from job to job. There are plenty of us out there but many are too embarrassed to admit it. Well, of course they are; it’s the pitying looks that follow the prying questions. ‘Oh, has it not happened for you yet?’ – as though I’ve lived my every waking moment on this planet just searching for a man, any man, with enough sperm to keep me popping out babies on the regular, and for what? Sometimes people say, ‘But it’s your job, to keep the human race going.’ Well, guess what, I didn’t apply for that job (and I’d probably suck at that job as much as I do my actual job anyway).
I just wish people would stop making women feel like failures for taking the third route. You never know a person’s personal circumstances. You don’t know why they don’t have kids, or why they haven’t met the right person yet. And, I promise you, the further you wander aimlessly down the third route, the harder it is to turn around.
I’m just me, alone, with a low-paying job, a crippling rent-paying addiction, and no one or nothing to fall back on. And sometimes, when you are just you, alone, things can go wrong, and there’s no one around to have your back. That’s when you end up in big messes, like I am right now, with no option but to try and – as a last resort – flirt your way out of sticky situations.
‘I used to stay up late to watch London’s Burning when I was a kid, even though I was far too young,’ I say, because of course I do. What else am I going to do, when my flirtatious advances don’t work, other than double down?
‘ Soldier, Soldier too – loved that,’ I continue, but double-doubling down doesn’t help my case either. ‘Did you watch that?’
‘I’m twenty-five,’ he tells me, without a flicker of emotion. I’m not even sure he knows what I’m talking about.
Oh my God, this practical baby standing in front of me is nine years younger than me. It always blows my mind, when I meet people who are so much younger than I am, but seem so much more mature – like a real adult. I’m thirty-effing-four and I certainly don’t feel like one of those.
‘Sorry, when I asked you to tell me everything, I meant about your flat, not about your childhood,’ the fireman explains. I think he thinks I’m stupid – stupid is preferable to arsonist though, right?
That’s another thing pop culture has misled me with – I thought women were supposed to be able to use their sexuality to get them out of any bind? But, nope, more bullshit.
The fireman is tall, broad and handsome – exactly like the firemen in the calendars, but he’s the only one here who makes the cut. The rest of the team, all rushing around me, doing their jobs, are a mixture of older men, and a couple of women. I’m not fetishising this man’s job, I’m just saying, the calendar must be a really small sample from all over the country, rather than representative of firefighters everywhere.
And now I see where I’m going wrong. You know how they say, that if you wind up in prison, you find the biggest person and you punch them in the face? Well, what I’ve done here is try to flirt with the hottest fireman – and failed. But give me a break, it must only be 6 a.m. – it’s not even light out yet.
‘Ohhhh,’ I say, as though I’ve just had some big epiphany. I cough to clear my lungs before I continue. The icy cold January air hurts my insides. ‘Right, yeah. Well, I guess it set on fire.’
‘Yes,’ he says, ever so slowly, as though he were talking to an idiot. ‘We’re up to speed on that part.’
I rent an absolutely tiny flat above an Italian takeaway, run by a man called Antonio, whose cuisine is about as Italian as he is (which is not at all, he’s Welsh, but he seems to think pretending to be Italian is good for business). Antonio is my landlord, and kind of a sleaze, so he’s always either ticking me off for something I’m doing wrong or flirting with me for something I suppose I’m doing right. The only thing my sexuality gets me is free pizza – and the only thing free pizza gets me is an arse that jiggles when I run – I imagine. I definitely don’t run. Even just now, from a burning building, I’d probably call it more of a jog.
‘Just talk me through what happened with the fire,’ he suggests. ‘Before, during and after.’
Oh, God, where to begin?
‘Well, it was the smoke billowing… billowying? Billowing?’
‘Billowing,’ the fireman insists. He’s starting to get frustrated with me now. Looks like I’ve burned my bridges as well as my flat.
‘Right, billowing. It was the smoke billowing into my bedroom that woke me up, so I grabbed my phone, ran outside, called you…’
‘OK, so before you went to sleep?’
‘Before I went to sleep…’ I say slowly, stalling when I have one big realisation that gives this whole saga a new and horrifying spin.
I went out with some work colleagues last night and things got a little messy. The night out was in honour of Greg, the new guy, to welcome him to the team. I’m a receptionist at a digital agency – not that I’m all that sure what they do, but it doesn’t matter too much to me, I just answer the phone. Not everyone likes to stay out late. But I do, and Greg clearly does, so when I finally called it a night at 3 a.m. he ran after me, asked if I lived locally and, when I said I did, he asked if he could crash on my sofa, because he had missed his last train home.
At first, I thought this might have been a chat-up line but he really did just come back to my place and make himself at home on my sofa, which was perfect, because even I know you don’t sleep with the new guy on his first day. So, I left him there, sound asleep. I went to bed and then the next thing…
‘Just a quick question,’ I say, casually. ‘If someone had been, say, fast asleep on the living room sofa, while it was on fire, would you be able to tell?’
The fireman’s eyebrows shoot up into his helmet.
‘If someone died in the fire would we be able to tell?’ he asks in disbelief. He doesn’t wait for a reply. ‘Yes, yes, we would be able to tell if someone died in the fire.’
I try my hardest to mask my relief that Greg didn’t burn with the sofa, but I exhale so hard I probably blow away the last of the smoke. To be honest I’d forgotten about him, and, with my bedroom door being nearer the front door than the living room is, I jus