Faking Friends Read online

  Jane Fallon

  * * *

  FAKING FRIENDS

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  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

  Part Two

  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

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Three Months Later

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  FAKING FRIENDS

  Jane Fallon is the multi-award-winning television producer behind shows such as This Life, Teachers and 20 Things to Do before You’re 30. Her books include Getting Rid of Matthew, Got You Back, Foursome, The Ugly Sister, Skeletons, Strictly Between Us and My Sweet Revenge.

  Prologue

  ‘Why are you ringing me at half past five in the morning? Is everything okay?’

  I can hear the concern in his voice. Even though he’s three years younger than me, my brother’s always been the protective one.

  ‘I’m not in New York. I’m in London, remember?’

  Thankfully, he does. ‘Of course! The big surprise. How is it? Are you having a lovely time?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say. I don’t know how to begin to tell him that I’m currently sitting on my bed looking at a suitcase full of another woman’s clothes. That I found unfamiliar toiletries in my bathroom. That a week ago I had both a job and a boyfriend that I loved and now I don’t seem to have either.

  ‘What’s up?’

  I lie back on the – my – bed, in the bedroom I painted myself, on the duvet cover Jack and I chose together, and stare at the ceiling.

  ‘You still there, Amy?’

  Later, I type a text.

  Guess what??? I’m coming home for the weekend!! I arrive late tonight. Flight gets in about half eight. Don’t tell Mel. Big surprise!!!! Call you later. Love you xxx

  I press send before I can change my mind.

  Part One

  * * *

  1

  The second my plane hit the runway I was already beginning to wonder if I’d done the right thing. Didn’t surprise visits always end in disaster? But, up until the moment the flight took off, a big part of me had been worried that I would have to cancel at the last minute, that work would call and say they’d rejigged things again and they needed me after all, so it had seemed safer not to tell anyone. No expectations, no disappointment: that was my rationale. And, besides, I thought it would be fun.

  Not to mention the fact that I needed a bit of home comfort. I was still reeling from my big news. It felt, to be honest, a bit like the world was about to end, but I knew deep down that I was overreacting. I had always known it was a possibility. I had watched as many others had suffered the same fate. I just hadn’t been expecting it to be so sudden.

  I’d been living in New York for seven and a half months. In two weeks, I’d be home for good.

  And I thought that breaking the news to Jack face to face would help. Because sad though he’d be for me that I was losing my job, I was pretty sure his main reaction would be happiness: that I was coming home, that we could get on with setting a date for the wedding we’d announced before I’d left, that we’d be back to being a normal couple who lived together rather than more than three thousand miles apart. And I knew that would rub off on me. I needed a bit of perspective.

  My heart was kicking up a storm as I approached our road, sweaty and overtired with the jet lag that was kicking in already. I have never done anything like this – flown halfway round the world on a whim. Over and over again, I’d been imagining Jack’s face when he found me at home – shock, but I had no doubt it would be quickly followed by sheer delight. I knew, of course, that he would already have left for work by the time I arrived, but there was always a chance he’d have taken the day off sick or as a random holiday. Not that I have ever known him to do either of those things. He loves his job. Or, at least, he loves his work – which is in advertising. He’s finding his actual job a bit frustrating. He’s impatient to move on and up.

  I had spent the whole flight trying to decide what I would do – should I hide and jump out on him? (Might give him a heart attack.) Stand proudly beside a lovingly cooked meal with a serving spoon in my hand? (Too Stepford Wives.) Or be lounging on the sofa wearing nothing but a basque? (He’d probably laugh. Also, the slight hitch that I don’t own a basque, wouldn’t know where to buy one if you paid me. I barely know what one is.) In the end, I decided that booze was the way to go. Wine bottle in one hand, glasses in the other. Don’t tell me I don’t know the way to a man’s heart. Or a woman’s, for that matter. I was already planning a trip to the offy around the corner.

  I lugged my – way too big for a weekend – suitcase up the stairs. I was transporting as much of my crap home as I could manage before the big move: another reason why this trip made sense. I smiled when I saw that Jack must have been watering the rubber plant on the landing that is my pride and joy, because it looked so healthy and shiny. He might even have polished the leaves, too. That would be a first. This, I realize in retrospect, is when I should have known. Thirty-eight-year-old men do not suddenly start buffing up the leaves of houseplants for no reason. I let myself in, calling out his name, crossing my fingers that today might be the day he had decided to go in late. It was still only a quarter past nine but deep down I knew he’d already be at his desk. He wouldn’t be home till half six, quarter to seven at the earliest. And I hadn’t even dared think about the fact that he might go out straight from the office. When I spoke to him last night – just before I boarded the plane, although he didn’t know that – he didn’t mention any plans, but these things change.

  The moment I opened the door I knew something wasn’t right. The flat looked tidy, for a start. And there was a smell I didn’t recognize. Just a hint of it, mixed in with Jack’s earthy blend of coconut shower gel, takeaway curries and laundry with a hint of unwashed gym kit. I sniffed loudly, trying to work out what I was finding so unsettling. Could it be me, a faint trace left in my possessions, even though I hadn’t been back since Christmas, over three months ago?

  I ditched my case and my computer bag and snuffled my way around the flat like a bloodhound. There was more evidence of extreme tidiness – the dishwasher was empty and everything put away, papers were stac
ked neatly on the coffee table; even the remotes were in a straight line. Maybe he’d invited his mum up, it occurred to me. I should have checked with her, let her in on my secret. He probably wants to show her how well he’s coping without me. I know how concerned she was when she heard work was taking me to New York. Maybe she was here already and she’d just gone out for the day, leaving a lingering, unidentifiable but most definitely female scent behind her.

  I jumped as Oscar, our portly black cat, appeared out of nowhere and ran towards me. Grateful that he remembered me, I picked him up and made a fuss of him, but I was distracted. I looked in the fridge for his food.

  Hummus? Jack thinks the only thing hummus is good for is grouting the bathroom. He thinks it tastes like old sofa cushions, although when he’s ever tasted those I have no idea. I shut the fridge door, plonked a handful of Dreamies down for Oscar, who looked at me, disappointed.

  I checked in the spare bedroom for signs of life. The bed was stripped and piled up with junk, like it always is. Most of it has been there since the day I moved in four and a half years ago. Pictures we’d never got around to hanging, two tennis racquets we’d used once on holiday, a lamp neither of us liked. No visiting mother, then. I went back out and along the windowless hall. In the bathroom, I stopped short. There was a little cluster of girly toiletries on the windowsill. None of it belonged to me. Shampoo for fine hair. Toner for combination skin. I suddenly felt light-headed. Put out a hand to steady myself on the sink.

  In the bedroom, the bed was made. I don’t think I’ve ever known Jack to make the bed in the five years we’ve been together. Not because he’s lazy, he just doesn’t see the point. He’s only going to get back in and mess it up again. There was an unfamiliar suitcase on my side. I flung it open, riffled through the clothes inside. She was a size eight, whoever she was. In the wardrobe, a row of dresses, blouses and skirts edged my own stuff to the far corner. Some of them looked familiar, but I couldn’t work out why. The labels revealed they were from Zara, Top Shop, Maje. Half my friends probably have the same things.

  I resisted the urge to phone Jack to demand answers. He didn’t even know I was in the country. I retrieved my bags and made sure I’d left no trace behind. Then I exited the flat and headed down to the street. I went straight to the park across the road and sat on a bench. I needed time to think.

  2

  My name is Amy Jane Forrester. Actually, strictly speaking, it’s Aimee Jayne. I was born in the 1970s, when, apparently, it was essential to spell names using random extra letters wherever possible. 1977, to be exact. I gave up correcting people when they spelt it wrongly years ago and started using the simplified version. Life’s too short. Average height (five foot five), average size (twelve on a good day), middle child of three (Nichola, forty-one, and thirty-six-year-old Christopher. The extra-letter thing only applied to girls, it seems), auntie to Nichola’s two boys.

  In New York, I’ve been filming a new series that has just made its prime-time network TV debut. My big break after years of ‘Second prostitute’ or ‘Woman at station’. Sometimes even just ‘Woman’. I’ve made a living, don’t get me wrong. Sort of. Most of it working in actor-friendly call centres, to be completely honest. When I say ‘big break’, I mean I am a properly named character who appears in every episode. In this, the first season, at least. Not that I am one of the stars. I am part of the ensemble. I bear an uncanny resemblance to the English actress who plays the lead, which led to the happy stroke of good fortune that was me being cast to play her big sister. Actually ‘bear an uncanny resemblance’ is a bit of an overstatement. By that, I mean we both have near-black, shiny hair, brown eyes and a roundish face. We’re close enough, and the English accent swung it.

  I say I appear in every episode. I should add ‘up till now’. Because the big sister of the hero English detective is about to get bumped off by the very serial killer the detective is hunting for. And I only found out the day before yesterday, when the latest script was issued and there I was being strangled on page thirty-six.

  The first thing I did was try to phone Jack. There was no reply. So I went out for a few drinks with sympathetic castmate friends instead, and that’s when my plan for a surprise visit home was born.

  I live – when in London – with Jack. There was no question that he would be able to relocate with me. We thought about it. He was tempted by the idea of living it large in the Big Apple, until we realized that there’s only so large you can live it without a job and an income. And it wasn’t as if I was going for ever. We both knew that my adventure would only be temporary.

  His response had been to get down on one knee when we were halfway through a Thai curry and an episode of House of Cards one evening a couple of days before I left and produce a blue Tiffany box from somewhere under the sofa. Inside was a ring pull from a beer can and a note: ‘IOU one engagement ring’. He’d pushed the ring pull on to my third finger. It was so sweet and unexpected that I’d cried, and so had he, and then we’d laughed about what idiots we were and how everything was going to be okay.

  We both studiously avoided discussing what would happen if the programme was such a success that it ran and ran, or if my small turn got noticed and I suddenly found myself with a flourishing US career. The odds on either of those things happening were so low, they weren’t even worth planning for. He visits when he can get the time off, and I’ve managed to get home three times, when the filming schedule has allowed. We’re making it work. Or so I thought.

  The deciding factor about this week’s visit, though – the thing that made it worth it, even though I’ll be home for good in a couple of weeks’ time – was my best friend Melissa. Mel. It’s her fortieth birthday tomorrow, and she’s organized a party, even though she didn’t feel up to celebrating in the slightest because she’s been having a really shit time of it. Her marriage fell apart without her even noticing. The first she knew of it was her husband, Sam, telling her he didn’t love her any more, he actually loved a woman called Camilla, and that he was off. To say that I felt bad for not being there while my closest mate tried to piece her life back together – well, you can imagine. Or maybe you can’t. But trust me, it was awful.

  She made no secret of the fact that she was gutted when I said I couldn’t get the time off for her party. Even though she knows that my time is never really my own these days, and that it’s a long way to fly just to get pissed and sing ‘Happy Birthday’. I promised I’d make it up to her when I came home for good. Spend a whole weekend in a spa, being pampered and catching up.

  So, as soon as I heard that my fate was sealed, my first thought – actually, my third, after Oh, shit, what am I going to do with my life now? and Which way is the writers’ room? I’m going to kill them all slowly and painfully – was Sod it, I’ll go home, celebrate Mel’s birthday with her, have a blast and fuck them all.

  I thought it would be fun to keep my visit a surprise. I spent days fantasizing about how happy both Jack and Mel would be to see me. How they would never expect in a million years that I would come halfway across the world just for a birthday party. And it seems, in Jack’s case, I was right.

  I find my mobile and call Mel. She’ll know what to do. It goes straight through to voicemail. She’s probably on the Tube, on her way to work. I’m about to leave a message when I realize I can’t do that to her. She’s been focusing on this birthday party as if it was going to be the thing that saved her life. I know she’s been working out extra hard and half starving herself in an effort to ‘show Sam what he’s missing’. Even though he won’t be there (obviously), she’s counting on the fact that they still share a lot of friends who might post pictures of the birthday girl on social media. I know, because she’s told me a hundred times, that she’s booked a facial tonight and that tomorrow is a blur of waxing, blow-drying and Shellac manicuring. It’s not that she wants him back, she just wants him to notice.

  I can’t put a damper on her night. Even though she’s been the first
person I’ve turned to ever since I was eleven years old, it’ll have to wait.

  I try to channel what she might say to me instead. I can imagine the incredulous look on her face. Big green eyes wide. Mouth a perfect O. Mel has a very expressive face. Sometimes it’s like watching an over-enthusiastic mime. And I know exactly what the first thing she’d ask me would be: ‘Who the fuck is she?’

  That’s a very good question.

  It hits me that this might be my only chance to find out who this woman is. If – when – I confront Jack, he might shut down and refuse to tell me. He might decide he cares about her so much that protecting her is more important than appeasing me. And for some reason, it’s imperative that I know. I’m sure Sun Tzu must have something to say about situations like this. ‘Before you can defeat your enemy, you must know who they are’ or ‘Don’t let that bitch get away scot-free.’ Something along those lines.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I’m back on my feet and heading over the road towards my home again, giant suitcase dragging behind me like a reluctant dog, oversized handbag drooping off my shoulder. The unidentifiable smell is still there. I look through the (neat) piles of magazines and papers on the coffee table, searching for anything with a name attached. There’s nothing, which makes me think that, whoever she is, she might not have moved herself in completely.

  I open the unfamiliar suitcase again and start flinging stuff out, not caring about the mess I’m making. It’s mostly underwear and definitely not the kind that’s gone grey through being washed too many times. It feels weird to examine it too closely so I pile it all up on one side. There are a couple of T-shirts and a pair of jeans, none of which give much away. A few brightly coloured tops. I start going through the pockets of the case. Keys, a novel, a few old receipts, a tissue, a few hairgrips, a comb. I examine the comb for stray hairs. None. I pick the receipts up again. They’re all for things paid for with cash – a sandwich from Pret, some Lemsip, a coffee. I’m none the wiser. Apart from the fact she’s a woman with a cold who likes ham.