Just got real, p.1
Just Got Real, page 1
Jane Fallon
* * *
JUST GOT REAL
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
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Acknowledgements
About the Author
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 Sunday Times bestselling books - Getting Rid of Matthew, Got You Back, Foursome, The Ugly Sister, Skeletons, Strictly Between Us, My Sweet Revenge, Faking Friends, Tell Me a Secret, Queen Bee and Worst Idea Ever - have sold over a million copies in the UK.
facebook.com/JaneFallonOfficial
@JaneFallon
By the same author
Getting Rid of Matthew
Got You Back
Foursome
The Ugly Sister
Skeletons
Strictly Between Us
My Sweet Revenge
Faking Friends
Tell Me a Secret
Queen Bee
Worst Idea Ever
Dedicated to the wonderful people at Feline Friends London who rescued my beautiful Pickle www.felinefriendslondon.uk
1
She has no idea what she’s doing here. Why she had thought this might be a good idea. She’d lain awake half of last night, wondering whether or not she could go through with it, kicking the covers aside because she had broken out in an uncomfortable sticky sweat, and then shivering as the cool air hit her damp skin. Restless. Anxious. No, scrub that. Absofuckinglutely terrified.
It’s only a date. What’s the worst that could happen? Actually, Joni doesn’t want to answer that. She can think of plenty of examples: making a list of them wouldn’t help. He has let her dictate all the terms: daytime, outside, a busy location, a café of her choice. She got there early, scouting out the seating arrangements, choosing an outdoor table up against the window where she could have a view of the whole terrace and be seen by the staff inside at the same time. She doesn’t want to be taken by surprise when he arrives. If he arrives.
She takes out her phone and looks through her photos. As if his face isn’t imprinted on her brain already. ‘Always add at least ten pounds and ten years,’ Imo had said when she’d persuaded her to sign up to the dating app in the first place. It had been a condition of her daughter’s agreeing to leave home. ‘Then subtract hair. And maybe teeth. No one looks like their pictures, that’s a given. Just don’t be naive.’
‘I don’t know why you’re so keen on me doing it if everyone on there’s a liar,’ Joni had said. It was the weekend before Imogen moved away to start a new life in Manchester, and she was clearly feeling guilty. Joni, if she were being honest, was feeling devastated, but she hoped she’d protected Imo from that knowledge. She wanted her to be able to throw herself into her training at a TV production company without worrying about whether her mother was lonely or not. She is, by the way. Heartachingly. Painfully. But that’s another story.
A waiter is hovering, so she orders a coffee, cursing herself for choosing such an up-itself venue when he points to a list of about thirty versions of the same hot drink and asks her what kind. She’d wanted to impress Ant. To have him think she was the kind of woman who was at home in the smugster cafés of Kensington, when actually she’d just picked it because it was easy to get to from both her home in north London and his in Notting Hill, and it had tables outside.
‘Just a latte,’ she says, closing the menu and trying to ignore the waiter’s dismissive expression. She feels as if she’s let him down.
‘Milk?’ he says.
‘Yes please.’ She realizes her mistake immediately. Feels her face colour. Why is she so nervous?
The waiter puffs out his cheeks as if he’s trying to suppress a sigh. ‘I mean, what kind? Cow’s, goat’s, soy, almond, oat, pea, cashew, hemp or coconut?’
‘Oh. Um … actually oat sounds nice.’ She tries a smile on him. Hates herself for resorting to her harmless middle-aged-lady default position. Look, I’m old enough to be your mum, the smile says. Indulge a silly old woman. It doesn’t work. Either he hates his mother, or he thinks oat is a terrible choice. The missionary position of the plant-milk world. When did coffee become such a thing? Didn’t everyone already have enough decisions to make in life without adding caffeinated beverages into the mix?
‘Chia, matcha or turmeric powder?’ She looks at him, wonders for a second if he’s taking the piss but his expression is deadly serious. She thinks about saying ‘Chocolate sprinkles’ just to get a reaction, but she fears he might throw her out in disgust. ‘Just an oat latte,’ she says. ‘Oat milk, coffee and water. Nothing else.’
He finally leaves, oozing disappointment, and she checks the time. Five minutes to go.
If he turns up.
She has been talking to Ant for nearly two months. At first via the app, then text and finally on the phone. The first time it had shocked her how perfectly his voice had matched his face. She’d wondered if he felt the same. That sudden rush of relief. She knew she had a nice voice. Her ex-husband Ian had always told her she sounded as if she was purring when she spoke. Smooth. Soft. Obviously, that was before he decided he preferred the noises Holly made. Loud, confident, strident noises as if she was so secure of her place in the world that she didn’t care who heard her. The Screecher, Meg had christened her. ‘Imagine what she sounds like when they have sex,’ she’d said. This, to be honest, had been the last thing Joni had wanted to imagine but she’d smiled anyway. ‘It must be like shagging a goose.’ Meg had always been able to make Joni laugh. But then Meg wasn’t here any more.
She scours the other tables just to make sure she hasn’t missed Ant. There’s only one man sitting on his own. God, she hopes that slightly seedy-looking bloke with a greasy mullet isn’t the person she had phone sex with last night. She feels a wave of both arousal and embarrassment. She doesn’t know how they ended up there on their third phone call, how discussing the arrangements for meeting for the first time segued into uncensored lust, but it was both shocking and thrilling. What had she been thinking? She’s a forty-nine-year-old divorcee who hasn’t had actual sex for over four years, let alone simulated it over the phone. Ever. Certainly not with a virtual stranger. Except that was the thing about Ant. He didn’t feel like a stranger. Not at all.
She watches as Mullet Man is greeted by a smiling woman. ‘There’s someone for everyone,’ Imo had said to her as part of her online-dating sales pitch. ‘That one perfect person.’ Imo had always been a romantic despite also being wise beyond her years. And maybe it was true, although it seemed a bit random. What if you never came across that someone? And, even if you did, how would you ever know that in a world of seven billion people the bloke you said hello to every week in your local Tesco was the One? It made no sense. Joni had always been much more pragmatic. There were probably thousands of people around the globe you could comfortably match with – tens of thousands even – it was just a question of settling for one who was reasonably local. And nice. She knows that ‘nice’ is a damning word. Too vanilla. Too beige. But, the truth is, it’s what she wants. She’s done with arseholes.
The waiter delivers her coffee in a bowl. Joni wants to ask him if they have any mugs she could decant it into but she’s too intimidated, so now she’ll have to wait until it’s cold before she can drink it. She’s furious with herself for letting it go. Is she getting old? Is that why everything suddenly seems so overwhelming? She feels her forehead. Is it the menopause? She’s heard of women being consumed by rage as they sweat from places they didn’t even know had sweat glands. Or is it just that serving boiling-hot coffee in a handleless vessel is a stupid fucking idea in the first place?
She checks the time again. Still a couple of minutes to go. A movement at the edge of the terrace gets her attention. A man. She feels her pulse quicken. It’s unmistakably him. Ant. He’s here. And not only that but he looks exactly like his pictures. No extra poundage, no surplus years. He scours the terrace; she assumes trying to spot her. She catches his eye.
She can see him scrutinizing her. She’s the only single woman there after all. She almost smiles. Almost raises a hand to wave.
But she doesn’t.
She looks away.
2
Joni buries her face in her phone, trying to catch her breath. Ant has decided she’s not who he was looking for and settled at a table at the front of the terrace. She watches as he greets the waiter with a smile. She can’t hear exactly what he’s saying but she can tell it’s friendly, polite. The imperious server even cracks a smile himself. You can tell a lot about someone’s character from the way they treat waiters or shop assistants or bus drivers when they think no one is watching. It’s so strange to see Ant animated. A mythical figure brought to life. He had suggested, on the second phone call, that they use FaceTime, but she had resisted. She didn’t want the first time they saw each other to be made even more awkward by bad angles and unnatural lighting, she told him. She should have known for certain then that he was genuine.
‘You can’t be sure, though,’ Imo had said when she’d filled her in. ‘You could make all the arrangements and then on the day he’d claim he didn’t have a strong enough signal and you’d have to settle for a voice call instead. But he’d know you now trusted him just because he’d suggested it in the first place.’
‘When did it all get to be so complicated?’ Joni had said. The last person she had dated had been Imo’s dad, and they had been married for nearly twenty years. They’d met in a pub through mutual friends. There simply hadn’t been any possibility that either of them wasn’t who they said they were. Unfortunately.
Ant looks up and down the street. Joni studies his profile. The straight nose, chin covered by neat stubble. His dark hair is cropped close, possibly to hide the fact that it’s thinning, but it suits him. He’s tanned – it’s been a hit-and-miss summer so far, but he looks as if he has the kind of skin that tans easily. She can see the smile lines around his eyes that attracted her to his photos in the first place. Shit. Why does he have to be so perfect? So … him? She thinks about going over anyway. Introducing herself. Trying to explain. But what would be the point? They’ve talked endlessly about how much they value honesty, how there’s no way you can build a relationship on deception. She should have come clean then.
She sips her now cool coffee. She can tell Ant is getting anxious. He looks at his phone. She reaches for her own and turns off the sound just in case. He makes a call, and she glances down and sees his name light up her screen. Looks on as he leaves a message. She can hear concern in his voice.
She can’t watch any more. It’s too painful imagining how it might have been. How she could have sat in the empty chair next to him and picked up where they last left off. (Well, maybe not with the orgasms. That might be a little inappropriate.) There’s no point in her staying. She’ll just have to learn from her mistake. Move on. She’s thankful at least that she hadn’t told Imo she and Ant were planning to meet today. She couldn’t face the inquisition.
She leaves a ten-pound note on the table, wishing she had the guts to wait and ask for change because there’s no way the snotty waiter deserves the tip. She’s always been an over-tipper. As if asking for her own money back might be seen as an affront. He picks it up and looks dismissively from the bill to the note and back. She ignores him. Ant is calling again. She hears him leave another message as she gets up, sounding slightly more irritated this time.
‘I don’t know how long to wait …’ he’s saying as she moves closer, towards the little gate out on to the street. ‘Because it’s already been nearly twenty minutes … did I get the day wrong?’ She’s just coming up beside him as he ends the call.
‘You been stood up too?’ It’s out of her mouth before she can stop herself. She doesn’t know what makes her say it, she just feels as if she wants to make a connection with him. He glances up at her. She holds her breath, waiting to see if he recognizes anything familiar in her. It’s not out of the question. But his expression is blank.
‘Looks like it. Date?’ It takes her a second to realize he’s asking about her.
She smiles ruefully. ‘Friend. You?’
He sighs. ‘Date.’
‘Well, I hope they turn up …’ she says. She wonders for a second if he might recognize her voice; she’s made no attempt to disguise it, she realizes with a nervous jolt. But he just gives her a faint smile.
‘I don’t think so now.’
If this were a film now would be the moment where he would suddenly notice her, be struck by a lightning bolt of lust and ask her to join him. They’d bemoan their situation, but then find they had lots in common. Pass a long morning laughing and chatting and it would roll into lunch and then maybe a walk in the park. An arrangement to meet again. But this is real life, so Ant just turns back to his phone and Joni walks away with a cursory ‘Bye, then.’ He doesn’t even watch her go.
She hadn’t joined Keepers to deceive. Far from it. Well, only in so much as everyone else apparently did. Her conversations with Imo had left her feeling a little insecure. If everyone was presenting a carefully curated version of themselves using old pictures and editing out their flaws, wouldn’t she be at a disadvantage if she didn’t do the same? Wouldn’t every other forty-nine-year-old woman on there look younger and firmer than she did? So she had trawled through old photos trying to find ones where she looked like the self she remembered in her head before life caught up with her. It was odd how few there were to choose from. Even with everyone maniacally snapping images of everything these days, from their breakfast to their bedtime-scrubbed faces, she had almost none. She had never been one for selfies and Ian had long since lost any interest in capturing her face on film. Meg would have had a selection, of course. They had often snapped each other on a night out, after a few drinks. But who knew where those were now? She should ask Meg’s mum if she still had Meg’s phone. They could go through the photos together, have a cup of tea and reminisce about all the fun times before Meg got into the car that would claim her life. She knew she should make more of an effort to keep in touch with her friend’s mother but it was too painful, too raw. She pushed away the realization that she hadn’t contacted her in months. Hadn’t answered her messages.
She’d scrolled back and back, getting more and more frustrated. Surely there must be one decent snap of her somewhere in the world. She flicked past her sister, Lucy, laughing at a barbecue. Flicked back. She and Lucy weren’t unalike – both with heart-shaped faces, deep brown eyes, a bottom lip much fuller than the top – but Lucy was the Hollywood version of Joni’s B-movie looks. She was five years younger, with their mother’s aquiline nose, abundant auburn hair and thick brows. Joni had their dad’s neat snub, over-plucked brows that would never grow back, and her dark brown hair was barely shoulder length. If you put them side by side you would know, but apart – well, you probably wouldn’t make the connection. Their smiles were the same. Wide. Straight white teeth. As deceptions went it wouldn’t be the worst. She could probably convince most people that in five years Lucy had morphed into Joni with some hair dye and maybe a bit of rhinoplasty. It wasn’t the same as finding a total stranger’s image on Facebook and claiming to be them. Thankful that she had told Imo she couldn’t create a profile with her breathing over her shoulder, she’d added the picture. Pressed save before she could talk herself out of it.
She’d known, deep down, that it would backfire, of course. Maybe subconsciously it had been self-sabotage. She could say she’d tried but online dating wasn’t for her. But how was she to know that the first man she gelled with would turn out to be so real? So strikingly, handsomely, honestly real? She had assumed that he would have presented an unrealistic picture of himself too. A throwback to when he was in his prime. She wouldn’t have agreed to meet him otherwise. They would have laughed when they realized.
She’s an idiot, she knows that now. She’s blown it with Ant. She walks home through Hyde Park, stopping at a bench to send him a message.
I’m so sorry, it says. I wanted to come. I got cold feet. I hope you’ll forgive me.
A couple of long minutes later she gets a reply. These things happen. It’s been nice getting to know you. Good luck in the future.
Maybe I could explain more on the phone, she writes. She waits for the ‘delivered’ notification to tell her her message has been received. It never comes. She checks on the dating app. He’s already blocked her there too.
