Faking it, p.1
Faking It, page 1
Faking It
Also By Beth Reekles
The Kissing Booth series:
The Kissing Booth
The Beach House
The Kissing Booth 2: Going the Distance The Kissing Booth: Road Trip
The Kissing Booth 3: One Last Time
Other YA novels:
Rolling Dice
Out of Tune
Adult novel:
Lockdown on London Lane
Adult novella:
It Won’t Be Christmas Without You
Faking It
Beth Reekles
Contents
Dedication
Hookd Profile
Single, Swipe, Repeat
March
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
April
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
May
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
June
Chapter 13
Hookd Profile
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
July
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
August
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
September
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
October
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
November
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
December
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
January
Chapter 39
Hookd Profile
February
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Lockdown on London Lane Sample Chapters
For Aimee—
here’s to all the frogs we’ve kissed
in the search for Prince Charming.
Sophie, 25
Marketing Assistant at Local Paper
About Me
Let’s face it, you’ve already decided if you’re going to swipe right or not just based on my first picture. I promise it’s a recent one. I won’t promise I roll out of bed looking that put together, so it’s best for both of us if you lower your expectations a little now.
Height: 5'7"
Active: Sometimes
Astrological sign: Libra
Education: Undergraduate degree
Drinks: Frequently
Smokes: Never
Looking for: Relationship
My interests: Photography, Burlesque dancing, Museums and galleries, Indie music, City breaks
Perfect first date: Picnic in the park and being a local tourist
A review by a friend:
Sophie, you went to *one* burlesque dance class, that doesn’t count. The only dancing you do is when you’re hopping around trying to shave the backs of your knees in the shower. What do you mean, this isn’t the kind of review you were hoping for? —My Best Friend.
Never have I ever . . .
. . . been in a long-term relationship.
SINGLE, SWIPE, REPEAT
I know it’s a commercial fad . . .
but I just want somebody to love.
Views on Valentine’s Day from our Dating & Relationships columnist
Published Friday, February 26
Like many single people all over the world this month, I spent Valentine’s Day with the people I love most: my friends.
Not in person, of course. Not even over Zoom or FaceTime.
No, I spent Valentine’s Day stalking my friends on social media, obsessing over every single loved-up, rosy, romantic post, while my own soul shriveled up with a combination of envy and the looming fear that I’ll be alone forever.
A very real fear that my happily settled siblings are all too quick to remind me of whenever I see them.
A very real fear that my friends don’t realize they’re reminding me of each time they ask after a recent date of mine, and I am forced to tell them I’ve been ghosted—again.
My friends, by all accounts, had a spectacular time celebrating Valentine’s. One was given a dog— a dog! —by her boyfriend.
Another was proposed to at the restaurant where she and her S.O. have celebrated many an anniversary. Some enjoyed cozy nights in, though a vase of fresh roses and the glitter of some new jewelry could be spotted not so subtly in the photo. A few went all out with a spontaneous trip to Cornwall, prompting the upload of several sickeningly sweet holiday snaps from the oh-so-happy couple.
Full disclosure, readers: I love my friends, and I am happy for their happiness. Any other time of year, I am not so affected by seeing them on social media with their partners that I end up ordering my favorite takeaway, opening a bottle of wine, and wallowing in self-pity that no Netflix binge of Gilmore Girls can cure.
But every year, Valentine’s Day brings a barrage of successful love lives, making it impossible to ignore the harsh reality that I am entirely alone.
And as much as I tell myself the holiday is a Hallmark gimmick, a commercial fad designed to sell jewelry and chocolates and two-for-one cinema tickets, it also forces me to admit something else I know to be true: I just want somebody to love.
March
LENA AND JOHNNY’S ENGAGEMENT PARTY
Dear Sophie,
You are cordially invited to celebrate the engagement of
Helena Rose Shelton &
Jonathan Edward Richards
at Eden View Plaza and Hotel
Sunday, March 14, at 11 a.m.
The gift registry can be found at: http://bit.ly/HandJwedding.
We look forward to seeing you there!
One
“Here on your own?”
The temptation to look around in surprise and say, What do you know? So I am! right in her face is almost too hard to ignore, but given that I’ve only just arrived it feels far too early to make a prat of myself.
I would at least like a couple of mimosas before I do that, so I have something to blame it on afterward.
“Oh, yes,” I say, smiling politely at Lena’s mum. I’ve met her twice: once at graduation and the second time a few months ago when I went to visit Lena after her heart surgery.
I guess she must know about me, the same way as I know about her—through secondhand stories and the occasional appearance on Lena’s social media. I wonder what she knows about me, and decide that I’ll give her a pass for asking me if I’m here alone.
Until, that is, she clicks her tongue and pats my arm with sympathy I never asked for.
“Helena did mention you’ve had a hard time meeting someone.
Such a shame.”
A muscle twitches in my face, my smile becoming strained.
Hard time meeting someone? Is that what my friend said about me, or is that just what her mum took away from the conversation?
I doubt it’s what Lena actually said; in all fairness, she loves hearing stories about my dating antics as much as I enjoy telling them.
“Not like my Lena,” Mrs. Shelton goes on, with one of those I’m such a proud mum but if I smile demurely enough we can both pretend I’m not bragging smiles. “Gosh, she got so very lucky with Johnny, didn’t she! Meeting on the first day of university and now engaged! Just wonderful, isn’t it? Oh, is that your gift?”
Her eyes drop to the card in my hand, barely giving me time to recover from the emotional whiplash. And, because Lena’s mum is apparently That Kind of Person, she looks a little bit insulted at the fact I’m only holding a card and have not shown up wielding the outdoor pizza oven that was on the registry.
(And, honestly, a registry for an engagement party! Is this a thing now? Is this really the same Lena who adopted us donkeys for our twenty-first birthdays?)
Mrs. Shelton blinks, and then the disdain really settles into her features when she gives my outfit a very slow, very critical once-over.
I shuffle from one foot to the other. Even without yet having entered the party, I know I’ve made a mistake: my swishy green midi skirt and white T-shirt are way too casual compared to the cocktail dresses and casual suits everybody else is wearing. I left my dark, shoulder-length hair natural today and wonder if that was a mistake too.
Maybe I should’ve made the effort to curl it or attempted some classy updo? Mrs. Shelton’s gaze lingers for a while on the scuff on the toe of my ankle boot, and I clear my throat to get her attention. Better hand over my gift and get this whole thing over with, I think.
I keep the smile plastered on my face as I hand her the card to be placed on the small table, which she appears to be guarding.
I mean, I guess “guarding” might be a little harsh, but Mrs. Shelton does somewhat remind me of a dragon guarding its haul, not least because of the garish burgundy two-piece she’s wearing with its crocodile-scale effect.
“It’s a gift voucher for a manicure,” I find myself explaining. “
“Oh!” Suddenly her face splits with a wide smile. “Gosh, that is thoughtful! Well done, you! Oh, just a moment, Sophie, that’s Johnny’s great-aunt and great-uncle arriving, I’d better—”
She’s off before she even finishes her sentence, leaving me to breathe a sigh of relief and grab a mimosa off a passing tray.
It’s a challenge not to down it all in one.
Instead, I take a very reserved (but very long) sip, and scan the party.
It’s a helluva venue. The Eden View Plaza is one of those fancy boutique hotels in the town center, and it’s got a lovely conservatory area. There are tasteful arrangements of bouquets, a few sets of tables and chairs, and waiters milling around the room with trays of canapés or drinks. It looks posh and beautiful. The only (literal) dampener on the party is the fact that it can’t extend outside, since it’s currently pouring rain.
It’s a bigger event than I’d imagined. Not that I’ve been to very many engagement parties—three, I think? Maybe two?—but this all feels a bit above and beyond. Actually, it feels a lot above and beyond. When my stepsister Jessica got engaged last year, we just had a family trip to our favorite restaurant. And she definitely didn’t have a gift registry for the occasion.
Then again, maybe Lena and Johnny are the kind of couple who go above and beyond for everything now. He did take her on a spontaneous weekend away for Valentine’s Day—a holiday she always pooh-poohed as pointless before now. But I suppose that’s bound to change when your boyfriend uses the day as the perfect opportunity to propose.
It seems like Lena and Johnny have invited all their family as well as plenty of friends to celebrate their engagement. I recognize a few faces from their Instagram accounts, and a few more of our mutual friends.
Finally, I spot the happy couple themselves.
I make a beeline for them just as they wrap up a conversation with some other guests I don’t recognize, and wave my free hand to get their attention before someone else can steal it.
“Lena!” I call.
They both turn—as do a few other people—and Lena grins her gap-toothed smile at me, bouncing on the balls of her feet and throwing her arms around me once I’m close enough to be hugged.
“I’m so glad you made it!”
I hug Johnny, too, and tell them both, “Congratulations! I’m so excited for you both. And thanks for the invite today.”
It’s not like I haven’t spoken to them since he proposed a month ago, so I’m not totally sure what else to say. Do I repeat all the things I said over WhatsApp or in the comments of her Instagram and Facebook posts?
I settle for grabbing Lena’s hand and saying, “Let’s see it, then!” like I’ve seen people do in films.
She giggles, letting me, and then twisting her fingers this way and that to show off the sparkling diamond on her left hand. It really is a beautiful ring; Johnny knows her taste well. It shines so brightly that the photographs she sent of it are only a paltry imitation.
Johnny wanders off to greet some of his own friends while Lena tells me all about the ring and the Valentine’s weekend away, gushing about how surprised she was, and then she hugs me tight again and says, “Oh, it’s so good to see you, Soph! You didn’t have to be up too early to get the train here?”
“I would’ve traveled all night to get here in time,” I joke, although I’m actually quite serious. When did meeting up with friends become so difficult and require so much advance planning?
I swear if I want to see more than one friend at a time we need at least five months’ notice to align our schedules. It makes me miss the impromptu afternoons mooching around the shops at uni or the summers where we’d just say, “Hey, I’m on my way to you! Let’s hang out!”
I say as much to Lena and she laughs.
“Maybe we all need to get engaged more often—give us a good excuse to meet up!”
Even though I laugh along with her, even though I smile, something prickles uncomfortably along my skin and sits heavy on my chest. It’s only a moment later that I realize what’s wrong: it’s panic. It’s the realization that my friends might not make the effort to come and see me without “a good excuse” like getting engaged, which is something that’s not looking likely anytime soon.
But obviously I don’t say that out loud, because it’s Lena’s day and I’m not going to be that girl who’s so upset about not having a boyfriend that she has to bring everyone else down too.
I think Lena must sense something is a little off with me because she changes the subject quickly. She grabs lightly at my arm and leans in close, cringing.
“I saw you got cornered by my mum. I keep telling her not to verbally attack everyone who walks in, but—” She rolls her eyes.
“She didn’t have a go about your outfit, did she?”
Oof, ouch.
But I know Lena means well, and she wouldn’t have cared if I’d shown up in grubby old pajamas so long as I was here to celebrate with her, so I laugh and grab her hand to squeeze it. “Honestly, you don’t have anything to worry about. She’s just welcoming people to the party. It’s keeping her out of trouble, right?”
“Hmm.” She purses her lips long enough to give me a withering, unconvinced look, but then starts laughing again, beaming.
And she is beaming; she’s so bright and sparkling even without that diamond ring on her finger. She is someone who is so obviously happy, so completely in love, so utterly content with everything in her life right now that it’s impossible not to notice.
I want that.
It’s a small but familiar flare of jealousy, the same kind I get when I see someone post about their promotion at work or that they’re on some fabulous, sunny holiday while I’m stuck in the office.
I want what you have. I want to feel like I have everything too.
It’s just so bloody miserable, being single. Watching my friends settle down, get engaged, get mortgages, even start thinking about having kids or getting a pet with their significant other . . . I’m happy for them, obviously, obviously, but each time they share good news I feel a little more alienated. Pushed aside, forgotten about—a little less important in their lives.
It’s lonely. I can see why nobody wants to be single.
I wish I had what they all have. I wish I had a boyfriend—and trust me, it’s not for lack of trying on my part. I just wish that whenever other people asked how my dating life was going or if I’d found myself a partner yet, they didn’t always look so sorry for me.
Like I don’t feel sorry enough for myself already.
Lena looks across the room at Johnny, where he’s now talking to some older family members, and I think, I want that too. I want that feeling, and I want someone to share it with. It doesn’t matter that he’s oblivious to her in this moment, because he’s hers, and she knows that if she needs him, he’s there, and their lives are so intertwined by now they know each other as well as they know themselves.
I hate feeling jealous of my friends. I don’t want to be.
“I’m so happy for you, Lena,” I say, and I really do mean it.
I clink my mimosa gently against her glass of champagne in a
“cheers” and take a drink.
“Thanks. But—”
But? There’s a but! Thank god. Looks like the grass is not always greener and—
“But do you mind not calling me Lena? It’s just that, well, Johnny’s family are . . . they’re very traditional, and they don’t like nicknames very much.”
I almost spew my mimosa all over her.
I catch myself at the last second, clamping a hand over my mouth and trying to choke it down, but I’m coughing so hard that some dribbles down my chin and Lena has to pat me on the back while all of her guests stare at me for making such a scene.
Well done, Sophie. A veritable model of poise and grace.
Lena manages to acquire a few paper napkins (so posh that, at first, I think they’re made of cloth, but it turns out they’re just ten-ply and disposable) and dabs at my chin and neck like I’m a child. Somehow this feels more embarrassing than when I had to help her take a bath after her surgery because Johnny was away for work for a week and her parents were off on holiday. My cheeks are on fire, and dozens of pairs of eyes are burning into me.
