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‘I suppose I can’t expect you to fork out for an outfit for a wedding,’ I reply. ‘And you’ll need clothes while you’re here – that hadn’t crossed my mind. I’ll pay for them out of my half, but you have to let me pick them.’
‘You worried I can’t dress myself?’ he laughs.
‘No,’ I reply, pausing to think about a polite way to say this. ‘But, if you’re pretending to be John, you’re going to have to… adjust your look.’
Jack runs a hand through his hair.
‘What’s wrong with my look?’
‘Well… it’s just… it’s a bit scruffy.’
‘Scruffy?’ he echoes, his voice significantly higher than usual. ‘How am I scruffy?’
I examine Jack’s outfit. He’s wearing grey baggy trackies, resting low on his hips, teamed with a tight-fitting vest top and matching hoodie.
‘Well, I mean, look at what you’re wearing. You look like you just got out of bed.’
‘I look like I just got out of bed because I just got out of bed,’ he reminds me. ‘I woke up, realised I was married and that my wife was about to literally take off for ever on a plane, so I grabbed the nearest items of clothing and my passport, and headed for the airport.’
‘Oh,’ I reply. It’s not even that he doesn’t look good – he looks great. The hardest sell of our little lie is going to be convincing people I could pull someone so far out of my league. The problem is, he doesn’t look like a boring John, he looks like a cool Jack. ‘Your hair and facial hair might be a problem, though.’
‘I’m not cutting my hair,’ he says insistently. ‘It’s my hair that helps me pick up chicks.’
‘Speaking as a chick, I can tell you it isn’t your hair that helps you pick up chicks,’ I admit. ‘It’s the fact that your biceps are thicker than my waist.’
Jack wiggles his eyebrows, clearly only taking the compliment from what I just said.
His light-brown hair is only a couple of inches long on the sides, but it’s way longer on top, and right now he’s got it swept to one side, falling down to cover an eye on one side. He’s constantly sweeping it away – and it’s bizarrely sexy to spectate – but, again, it’s not the right look. Neither is his trendy short, well-groomed beard.
‘You don’t look like you’re part of an orchestra,’ I point out. ‘You have to look smart and polished. We don’t need to cut your hair, we just need to slick it back. You do need to shave, though.’
Jack frowns, but his face softens after a few seconds.
‘Who are your mom and dad, the King and Queen of England?’ he asks sarcastically. ‘Are you royalty?’
I exhale deeply
‘You need to be what they’re expecting,’ I reply. ‘Or this doesn’t work. And if it doesn’t work, you don’t get your $10k.’
‘You drive a hard bargain, princess,’ he submits. ‘OK, fine. I guess having a shave and using a bit of hair gel is a small price to pay for ten grand.’
‘Thank you,’ I tell him sincerely. I know exactly what it feels like to be dressed in clothes you’re not used to. I feel two kinds of uncomfortable – firstly because I’d got out of the habit of flashing flesh, and secondly because this outfit is so very, very tight.
I adjust myself in my seat a little, trying to get a bit more comfortable. Jack might be finding flying for the first time fun and exciting, but I’m sick of these long-haul flights. My family might drive me crazy, but I do miss them, so if I want to see them, fourteen hours on a plane is the quickest way. I suppose I could move back home, now John isn’t in the picture any more. As I’m creeping up on thirty, it feels like I’m too old to break into the acting scene now, but I feel equally too old (and too embarrassed) to move back home with no fiancé, no money and a useless acting degree. I’d be starting from scratch, from the point most people are at when they hit their twenties. I might feel like the unremarkable middle child now, but to give in to that, everyone would see me as such a loser…
‘I can’t believe I’m married,’ he laughs. ‘Never even really had a serious girlfriend.’
‘You’ve never had a serious girlfriend?’ I reply in disbelief.
There’s a telling glint in his eye. Obviously he’s not the dating kind, just the hump ‘em and dump ‘em kind. He’s probably broken the hearts of so many tourists. I suppose working in a hotel full of ladies looking to have a good time makes pulling pretty easy – why would he tie himself down?
‘Excuse me,’ a young air hostess says to get our attention. She places two slices of sweet-smelling, delicious-looking red velvet cake down in front of us. ‘These are for you guys. We know you’re newlyweds, so it’s to celebrate that, but also because we appreciate you didn’t go back to the toilets together.’
She giggles nervously as she flutters her eyelashes at Jack.
‘Aw, thanks,’ he tells her before turning to me. ‘Isn’t that sweet?’
‘Thank you,’ I tell her, the smell of the cake causing my appetite to come creeping back up on me.
‘I could get used to this,’ Jack laughs, tucking into his cake.
‘Don’t,’ I reply, a little too quickly. ‘It’s just a week.’
Chapter Nine (#ulink_1d10769e-23c1-5945-893d-1ee68b31893a)
It had occurred to me Jack was taking this whole real marriage/fake relationship for money thing quite well, but I figured it was just because he was a really easy-going (recently unemployed) person. But I’ve been waiting outside the men’s toilets for half an hour now, and I think he might have done a runner.
I gave him two bags to take into the loos with him, one containing several items of smart-casual clothing and another with toiletries. I bought disposable razors and shaving gel, which made Jack wince when he saw them because, apparently, the proper removal of a beard requires an electric razor – something I couldn’t get in any of the airport shops. That said, I didn’t look too hard, because this is coming out of my share of the money, and I’m technically unemployed, too. He should think himself lucky I didn’t just give him one of the razors I’ve brought to keep on top of my leg-hair growth while I’m here. I didn’t cheap out on the clothes, though, I dashed through the clothes shops and picked appropriate outfits straight off the mannequins, so Jack would be smart and on trend. It’s going to be uncharacteristically warm here – even for June – so I made sure I bought things that would be weather-appropriate as well as ‘I’m definitely a refined gentleman who plays piano in an orchestra’-appropriate.
I got him everything he could possibly need, so why hasn’t he come back out?
I pace back and forth outside for a few more minutes before a middle-aged man in a suit comes walking out. He’s glancing around, as though he’s looking for something. When his eyes land on me, he walks over.
‘Excuse me,’ he says, in his Queen’s English accent. ‘Georgie, is it?’
I nod.
‘Ah, well, there’s a gentleman in the toilets asking for you. He wants you to nip in and see him.’
‘He wants me to go into the men’s loos?’ I ask in disbelief.
‘Indeed,’ he says, clearly stifling a chuckle. ‘He said you’d probably refuse, but that I had to tell you he’s not coming out. Ever.’
Oh my God, he’s like a child. I thank the man, exhale deeply and dash inside. Obviously, because we’re in an airport, the toilets are quite busy, and each man greets me with an awkward, uncomfortable gaze.
‘You’re, er, in the gents’, love,’ a man points out, as though I hadn’t noticed.
‘Cheers,’ I reply.
I have to admit, it’s nothing like I thought it would be in here. The place is absolutely packed with men, rushing around, brushing their teeth and getting changed. For most, my presence here isn’t startling; they’re in too much of a hurry. It doesn’t smell like I expected in here. It’s unpleasant, for sure, but I expected it to smell like pee instead of the cocktail of strong cleaning products and mixture of deodorants and aftershaves that permeates the air.
I glance around the crowd for Jack – doing my best to avert my eyes from the urinals – but he’s nowhere to be seen.
‘Jack,’ I call out, quickly losing my patience and raising my voice. ‘Jack!’
‘In here,’ I hear him call back from inside one of the cubicles.
‘What’s the problem?’ I ask, leaning towards the door.
‘I look like a dick,’ he calls back.
‘Do you know how much those clothes cost me?’ I ask angrily through the door, but he doesn’t reply. I try a softer approach. ‘Can I see?’
‘Is it still busy out there?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
I hear the sound of Jack unlocking the door before it opens just enough to allow a person through.
‘Quick, inside,’ he insists, pulling me through.
Jack exhales deeply as I look him up and down. He’s wearing one of the outfits I gave him, and he’s clean-shaven (but with a piece of tissue stuck to the edge of his sharp jaw where he must have nicked his skin) and his hair is slicked back, just like I told him. He looks so different. Younger and more polished.
‘You look good,’ I tell him. Well, he does.
‘I look stupid. My cheeks look fat without a beard, not to mention I no longer look thirty, I look about fifteen. And this outfit – where do I begin?’
I shrug my shoulders. It’s smart and fashionable. I have no idea what his problem is.
‘Did I sail here on my yacht?’ he asks sarcastically. ‘Blue and white pinstripe shorts and a matching blazer? You’ve gotta be kidding me, princess.’
The buzz from outside the cubicle dies down.
‘People come and go in waves, we’re probably safe to step outside for a minute,’ he tells me. ‘Soon as the next rush of people comes in, I’m coming back in here.’
Once we’re out of the cubicle it’s much easier to look Jack up and down properly.
‘You really suit your hair like that,’ I tell him honestly.
‘It’s not the hair that bothers me,’ he replies. ‘It’s this sailor-boy get-up. No offence, but everything in these bags sucks.’
I am entirely offended. So much so, I start riffling through the bags to prove to him everything in here is stylish and cool.
‘That outfit you’re wearing is straight off a mannequin in Jack Wills,’ I inform him. ‘There is no denying they’re cool. Ditch the blazer if you don’t like it. You look good in shorts and even you can’t take issue with a white shirt.’
‘Why don’t I just put that navy jumper on that you bought me?’ he suggests. ‘Oh yeah, because it’s summer and boiling outside and I’d literally die.’
‘It’s not for wearing, it’s for draping,’ I tell him patronisingly, although it does occur to me that someone not so into fashion won’t appreciate that.
Jack stares at me blankly for a second.
‘I have no idea what that means,’ he tells me.
‘Here, put these on,’ I instruct, throwing him a pair of navy-blue chinos. ‘These with that shirt will look good.’
I walk over to him and gently pull the piece of tissue from his chin before placing my hands lightly on the sides of his head to smooth his hair down.
‘Could I almost pass for a gentleman?’ he asks.
‘Did you just quote Titanic to me?’ I reply in disbelief.
‘You think I haven’t seen Titanic? It’s a classic,’ he insists. ‘So, could I almost pass for a gentleman?’
I smile.
‘Almost.’
He laughs as he heads into the cubicle with his trousers.
He’s no sooner closed the door when the next surge of travellers pours in. The first few do a double-take, the sight of a woman tricking them into thinking they’re in the wrong place.
‘This is the men’s toilets,’ one man points out to me.
‘Yeah, thanks,’ I reply, making no attempt to move.
The man frowns at me so I tap on the cubicle door.
‘Jack, let me in,’ I beg. ‘I’m not getting the warmest welcome out here.’
‘Just let me put my pants on,’ he replies.
‘Just until the crowd clears out, then I’ll sneak out,’ I plead.
A few seconds later the door opens.
‘Wow, you look great,’ I tell him, a little taken aback. I can’t help but notice he hasn’t zipped up his trousers yet – probably because he rushed to let me in – so I keep almost uncomfortable eye contact with him. He’s right – the pinstripes were a bit much.
‘I feel less uncomfortable in this,’ he replies. ‘Kept the boat shoes on, though. I’m assuming your royal family lives on a boat?’
‘Far from it,’ I laugh. ‘It’s a semi.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s cold in here,’ he jokes as he does up his trousers.
‘Hilarious,’ I reply sarcastically, although I have to admit he is pretty funny.
‘Look, can we head back into the clothes store and find something we can both live with me wearing? Marriage is all about compromise, you told me that.’
I can’t help but laugh again.
‘OK, sure.’
The buzz of the travellers dies down again. Now is my time to sneak out without a scene.
I’m just about to open the door when I hear a single set of footsteps approach the cubicle door. Seconds after the steps stop there’s a knock on the door.
‘Sir, is everything all right in there?’ a deep male voice asks.
‘Yeah, fine,’ Jack calls back calmly.
