Thursday Evening
I tap the end of the pen against my nose as I look over the notes spread out across the floor in front of me. I’m glad I finally agreed to the hotel room. We wouldn’t have had enough space if we stayed in the workshop. The undeniably real Jaques Glarean sits on a couch nearby, watching me pensively, violin resting on his knees. I point to my knapsack.
‘That bag, could you grab it?’
He steps over and lifts it, looking surprised at the weight. I lay some pages of notes on the table.
‘So we met at the Grove Shopping District, six months ago, which is near where you were staying while you played at the opera house. I was commuting there for work.’
I wave at the rumpled uniform draped over the arm of the couch.
'That's what I was wearing.'
He looks mildly disgusted.
‘You saw me near the food court on my lunch break. I’ve never actually been to that food court, so we’ll have to fix that at some point, that way I can describe it accurately… I was sketching.’
He places the knapsack on the table, and I rifle through the ratty sketchbooks inside, looking for one with the right dates.
‘What was I drawing?’
I hesitate to open the book. I hate showing people my sketchbooks. I especially hate showing them old sketchbooks. I have no idea what might be in there. Most of it is garbage. I reluctantly open the cover. The first page is a miniature city set design I never built. Could have been worse.
I flip through the pages, drawing attention to sketches that might work. Animals, fantasy monsters, costume designs from past plays. He looks on blankly.
‘You’re good at drawing.’
I glance at him and realize he hasn’t understood.
‘I’m not fishing for compliments. You need to pick one of these.’
‘Oh. That one’s fine.’
‘No, it’s a man on a bus. We met by a food court, not on a bus.’
‘Ah.’
I wonder if he's ever been on a bus in his life. I suspect he hasn't.
I keep turning pages.
‘That one.’
It’s a cowboy riding a unicorn. Not my best work. It’s still cute though.
‘This one?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
I turn the page and, below the date, I write ‘for Jaq, my #1 fan!’ along with my phone number. Then I carefully tear the page out of the book. It feels like desecration. I don't know why. The last time I moved house I put a bunch of these sketchbooks into the recycling bin. I hated doing it, but I didn't have the space. Tearing out a single page is far less extreme.
I hand the drawing to him.
‘This is now your most prized possession. This is how you met your future wife. It’s also a receipt with a date that will hopefully act as proof that we’ve known each other for at least as long as you’ve been lying about it.’
He looks over it, brow furrowed.
'Is there a problem? Should I have written out your whole name?' I probably should have asked about the spelling too. The name 'Jaques' has like, a dozen different variants. Abbreviating it compounds the problem. I guess it doesn't matter in the long run - if I've made an error it will add a tiny bit of flavour and charm to the story.
He shakes his head.
‘No, that's fine. It's just… what do I do with it?’
I sigh, exasperated.
‘You’ve been hiding it all this time. Maybe you were embarrassed it’s such a goofy picture, so you don’t flash it around and show people. You put it in a drawer with cherished knick-knacks, or hang it somewhere people wouldn’t normally see. Maybe you frame it and hang it in your wardrobe. This way, if your parents want to snoop, they find it. You only bring it out if you’re seriously accused of lying, and even then, reluctantly.’
He nods and tucks it into his violin case.
I watch sadly as the lid closes.
Goodbye unicorn cowboy. I miss you already.
He straightens up and then frowns.
‘I’ve been evasive about everything. The whole relationship. Even basic details about you.’
‘Yes.’
‘So, what you just said… all these things you’re planning out, I’m not supposed to talk about any of them.’
‘That’s correct.’
Finally. Verbal proof it’s getting through.
‘Then why are we doing this?
He makes a broad motion, encompassing the ocean of notes.
I sit on one of the chairs and lean on the table.
‘We’re getting our story straight. You’ve been evasive with your parents thus far, and I expect you to continue because it’d be weird if you suddenly started blabbing about every single thing. I'm not you, so I don't have to be so evasive. It would raise flags if I were as evasive as you. I’m going to be asked about all these things. I’m going to have to talk about these things. Then, you might have to talk about them with someone who knows my side of the story already. At that point, if you contradict too many details it’ll look incredibly suspicious.’
He nods again, then yawns.
I glance over at the wall clock with surprise. It's much later than I thought it was.
‘Shit. I should be getting home.’
Actually, I should have gone home hours ago. I’m pretty sure I’ve missed the last bus.
I start to stack pages together, ready to go back in my bags.
‘You can leave them here.’
‘Don’t we have to be out by 10 or something?’
‘What? No. I booked it for the rest of the week.’
I look around at the plush and spacious room. That can’t have been cheap.
‘You’re right though. It’s late. I’m going to head home. Need a lift?’
I shake my head.
‘Suit yourself.’
He collects his violin and coat, and walks to the door.
Once he’s gone, I shuffle over to the king-size bed and flop down onto it, face first. It's soft like a cloud and smells of fresh linen. I’m not going home tonight. Not while there’s a bed like this I could be sleeping in. I clap my hands above my head, and the lights turn out. I grin.
Luxury.
FRIDAY
I awaken to bright sunlight, tangled in covers that absolutely aren’t mine. I struggle for a few moments to get an arm free and sit up.
Ah. The hotel room.
Well… The wreckage of the hotel room. Paper and sticky notes are strewn across every flat surface. I check my bank account. The first installment is already in there. I feel like I won the lottery.
I stand and stumble to the bathroom. The blissfully hot water wakes me up properly. The hotel soaps smell earthy and sweet. I feel clean. Once I'm done drying myself, I wrap myself in the complimentary towel and wonder if there’s a laundry available for customer use in the hotel. The only change of clothes I have with me is the old uniform from the office tech job I lost months ago.
It’s better than nothing.
I put it on. The cheap synthetic fabric is incredibly unpleasant against my skin after the plush cotton towel. It sticks and scratches, clinging to me with static electricity. If my hair weren’t wet I’d be tempted to see how much charge I could build up by scuffing my feet on the thick carpet.
Of course, I have more important things to do.
I survey my handiwork as I wrap the towel around my head – the past six months of our lives are laid out in sequence, side by side. Dates, times, venues. Where my path comes close to intersecting with Jaq’s, imaginary moments blossom outward – stolen from some alternate timeline where everything is rose-tinted, and I magically don’t find him obnoxious.
I grimace. There are flaws with the plan. We don’t see each other that frequently, and there are no call logs on our phones. No text chains. Sure, I’ve got excuses – ‘he wanted to keep it a secret, to keep me safe from paparazzi, so we took no photos and deleted our texts regularly in case of phone hacking,’ and ‘he warned me about his nosy parents.’ His reluctance to talk about me is covered fairly easily – ‘He just wanted to keep our relationship separate from the rest of his life for a little while, so we could get to know each other without all that fame and fortune crowding in around the edges, making things difficult.’
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But there should at least be logged calls on my phone from private numbers, or… something.
What I wouldn’t give to be able to plant back-dated stalker photos on social media from jealous fans who want to know ‘who’s that ugly girl with him? Is that his sister?’
Anything more solid would be good. Something with time and date stamps that are hard to fake. The proof I can manufacture is flimsy at best, ready to fall apart under any level of inspection... and I don’t like resting on the hope that there just won’t be a close inspection.
There’s a knock at the door. I freeze.
I look like a serial killer.
Dressed in this all-black tech uniform, furniture buried under drifts of paper, in a hotel room that absolutely isn’t under my name? I’d call police on me. Well, maybe not. I’d at least take a few surreptitious photos of whatever I was doing in this web of crazy with my phone camera just in case I turned out to be a criminal of some sort. I frown.
Not much I can do about it now.
I go to the door. There’s a little peephole, and I can see someone from the hotel on the other side. I open the door a crack.
‘Yes?’
‘Good morning Ma’am! I was wondering if you would like today’s lunch menu?’
Food. Yes. I didn’t eat breakfast.
‘Ah. No thank you.’
‘All right then! I hope you have a lovely day!’
‘Oh, wait – is there a laundry service?’
I mean, if I already look like a serial killer, why not double down and make myself seem even more suspicious.
‘Yes, there is!’
He explains how to get my dress laundered. It seems needlessly complicated.
I glance around the room once more while I fiddle with the little package of helpful hotel door-knob hanger things and pull out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.
That should mean a cleaner won’t come in and have a fit when they see the mess… and I should be safe to head out. I collect my handbag. I need to go home and get proper clothes, and some food that doesn’t cost twice its weight in gold. If only I’d had the foresight to bring something yesterday when I was gathering props for this… heist? Fraud isn’t really a heist. Heists are cool and exciting. Fraud is just stressful. Charade is a good word. I can't call it a play. I'm not an actor. Just a liar.
I didn’t know the room was booked for a whole week yesterday though.
----------------------------------------
Sometime after lunch, there’s a knock at the door. This time it’s Jaq looking fidgety. I open the door to let him in, but he just stands and stares at me.
‘…’
‘…’
‘What?’
I look down at my clothes. I didn’t spill anything on myself, did I?
‘What are you wearing?’
‘A cardigan?’
‘No, yesterday you were in normal clothes, now you’re dressed like a...’
Yikes. That’s painfully blunt.
I grab his arm and pull him into the room.
‘Those weren’t normal clothes. That was my fancy dress for attending weddings, baptisms, and funerals. These are normal clothes.’
He continues to stare.
'You're supposed to wear black to a funeral…'
‘Okay, maybe not funerals, but that's not the point. What I mean is; the clothes I had on yesterday cost the same as a year and a quarter’s supply of food.’
‘What?’
‘These cost me significantly less.’
By less, I mean mostly free. The majority of my clothes are hand-me-downs from friends and family. Some I salvaged from a bin behind a vintage clothing store. I won't be telling him that.
‘You can’t be dressed like that when you meet my parents.’
‘Sure, I’ll wear the nice dress.’
‘No, even that was too casual for the party they’re throwing.’
Oh jeez. This is going to be worse than I thought. Probably something involving an evening gown. Absolutely not something I want to wear.
‘The planning’ – he waves at the drifts of paper blanketing the room – ‘can wait. You need clothes that don’t make you look like you’re following me to steal my wallet.’
Again. Ouch.
Leaving the hotel, he drives me to an upmarket shopping center. We completely skip the bottom floor, with the few retail chains I recognise, and go straight to the top floor. I’m convinced that the air up here costs more to breathe. I feel completely out of place.
‘Get dresses from whatever store here. Just, call me over when you’re ready to pay.’
I stare at him as he goes to stand out of the way, by the window of a suit store. He’s surreptitiously miming the finger positions for some song. I follow, and take his hand.
‘Jaq. This isn’t how you go shopping with your fiancée. You don’t stand outside like some kind of overdressed, nervous scarecrow, waiting for her to demand money. That’s how you shop with a daughter.’
Pulling him along, I peer in windows and point at things that I think are pretty, and ask his opinions. He silently blushes a deeper and deeper red. I’m concerned he’ll burst a blood vessel.
‘Okay, I’ll stop asking for advice, just… stop being so stuffy. Loosen those shoulders. The world isn’t going to end if you look at clothes with me. You’re supposed to want to be here with me. Nobody will think it’s weird.'
He tries to adjust his posture.
‘Actually, it’s kind of sweet you’d go clothes shopping with your fiancée. Lots of guys would refuse a shopping outing like this with their partner because they think clothes are boring, they don't want their date to think they have bad taste... and sometimes they don’t want to admit that they’re colourblind.’
He nods, uncertain. I guide him into an elegant boutique with a name in calligraphy so curlicued that it's barely legible. Lucinor Solis? Something like that. It's like the girliest version of a death metal band logo.
The store is spacious and elegant, and the clothes on display aren't too far outside my comfort zone. A clerk rushes over to ask if we need help a little faster than I had expected. Does she recognise Jaq?
‘Yes! We would love some help! My luggage was lost on the way here, and I had to borrow some clothes, so I need a completely new wardrobe to last a few weeks! Could you pick out some basics for me?’
The clerk takes my free hand -
‘I’m so sorry to hear that! You must be dying in that outfit. Let me bring you some of my favourites that I think will suit you perfectly.’
I’m starting to feel concerned about my fashion sense. I thought this cardigan was cute.
I try on dresses, skirts, and blouses. I stop occasionally to check on Jaq, but he just sits silently, refusing to meet my gaze. I can see there's no chance of shopping around. If he's already in such a bad state after such a short time, I have to get everything I need from just this store. It's not ideal. Most normal people wear more than one brand. Perhaps I can shore up the holes in my 'opulent lady' wardrobe at a later date… though I shouldn't count on it. This guy is flaky.
It's really no wonder he’s had so much trouble keeping a girlfriend. He’s a terrible date… bad enough that I worry the clerk might get some unpleasant ideas about the nature of our relationship. If she’s a fan of his she’s far more likely to care if he gets engaged. If she remembers me… she might gossip about how awful we are as a couple. I doubt it will be good for the ruse if there's someone out there telling the world that I'm a gold digger, extorting money out of this sheltered, innocent dupe.
Think fast…
I confide in her as she helps me with a zip;
‘He’s not always this way. He just can’t handle being around unfamiliar people. He’s a bit of a genius recluse – he’s awfully sweet when we’re alone.’
She smiles understandingly. She has no reason to doubt the lie.
‘I’d always wondered what kind of person it takes to be a musician like him – and I guess it’s too much to ask for someone with that much talent to also be a perfect gentleman. He’s lucky to have met a woman that’s willing to put up with his eccentricities – oh, I’m sorry, that was rude!’
That confirms she knows who he is. I laugh. It's a little too shrill. Her observation hit pretty close to the truth. Of course, he's paying me to stick around, so I'm not exactly the noble figure I might appear to be from the clerk's vantage point. So long as she keeps thinking I'm just that smitten with him.
‘It doesn’t normally feel like I’m putting up with him… but I think next time I lose my luggage I’ll have to excuse him from the ordeal of shopping with me. I feel awful putting this much stress on him this close to a big performance.’
She looks relieved that I haven't taken offense to her comment, but that doesn't tell me much about her opinion of our relationship. I hope I'm seeing empathy or sympathy on her face. I can't be sure. I feel guilty for trying to manipulate her like this.
Dress done up, I step back out onto the shop floor and strike a pose.
‘Jaq? How about this for meeting your parents?’
He can barely lift his gaze from my feet. I walk over and gently lift his chin so that he’s forced to look at me.
‘Come on. You know better than I the type of event this is going to be. Is the dress okay?’
‘…sure.’
I can see the clerk reflected in the shop window, sneaking a photo of the moment with her phone. The guilt evaporates. She's taking a photo of a stranger who's in a vulnerable state. It's unprofessional. It's cruel. I lean in and kiss Jaq on the forehead. Might as well make the picture as juicy as possible. It'll be more likely to be picked up by gossip sites that way.
I don't even know how to feel about what I'm doing. None of this is right.
Before leaning back, I whisper;
‘I’ve got some things ready to buy. I’m going to change out of this and into one of the more casual outfits so you’re not photographed with an obviously lower-class girl. If this is enough, we can go back to the hotel room and you can practice all afternoon while I continue planning.’
‘...k.’
The relief on his face is clear.
‘Jaq. You’re doing great.’
I pat his cheek gently and head back to the dressing room.
I can hear the clerk trying her best to chat with him while she rings up the total. He mumbles noncommittal nothings to her, and when I come out, he’s holding several bags awkwardly by the exit. The clerk smiles at me sympathetically. I make the cheeriest expression I can.
‘Thank you for all your help – you’ve been a real sweetheart. I’ll have to come back here again.’
‘My pleasure! The new line will be out in a couple of weeks! If you’re still in town, I’d be more than happy to help you pick out some things!’
‘Whatever your boss is paying you, it’s not nearly enough. I’ll try to make sure I’m back for that.’
I wave, and we walk out of the store.
Jaq seems to have completely shut down. He walks stiffly, unable to look up from the tiles under his feet.
I pushed him too far. Blast.
I didn’t know it taxed him this much to go shopping with a woman to begin with – this is far beyond mere awkwardness. It had been his idea, though. So perhaps he didn’t know his limits either. The kiss certainly wouldn’t have helped. Mental note; less intense public displays of affection in the future.
He’s silent the entire way back. The moment we step into the hotel room he swoops over to his violin and begins to play. The shift from stiff to fluid motion is almost instantaneous – all the tension is gone.
I shake my head as I hang the new clothes in the spacious wardrobe. I feel a little uncomfortable not putting them through the wash first, but it should be fine, right?
There are a few items in here I was sure I'd tossed into the discard pile. It's fine. I'll probably need it all. I clip the swing tags out with the scissors from my nail kit, and discover one with the brand name printed in plain text - it's actually 'Lucinda's Solace'. Kind of cute. Definitely better than the vaguely Latin sounding nonsense name I thought that curly scrawl said. I really think they should have hired a different designer for the logo. It shouldn't be that hard to read.
I glance over at Jaq. I’m kind of glad I didn’t see the total cost. Then we’d both be having breakdowns, and I don’t think I'd have recovered as quickly. The poor clerk would have had to call us a taxi to get us out of her hair.
I text Casey to ask her how the rehearsal is going. I need a few moments of normal human interaction before I start work again.
Things are fine at the theatre. She asks if I'm enjoying my new job. I tell her I had to go on a rush shopping trip to get clothes that fit the dress code. I wish I could tell her everything.
I wish I had anyone other than Jaq to talk to about any of this.
I feel sick.