Fauxmance (Showmance #2)(16)
I’d gotten away with it, albeit fumblingly. I’d pulled off a ruse. Mastered some trickery. Convinced Julian I wasn’t some weirdo girl with a complicated and very deeply thought out alter ego. Elodie was a glove that fit perfectly to my hand, but perhaps Ellen wasn’t such a bad actress either. Or maybe my supreme timidity clouded the fact that I was a fake. After all, anyone as awkward as me couldn’t possibly have the confidence to pull off a con.
Either way, in my somewhat uneventful life, this gave me a thrill.
When I arrived home that evening, I ran my hand along the familiar hallway wall, painted in a mural of climbing roses. Something I haven’t mentioned yet, my house was sort of unique, or well, visually striking was probably a better description. It was my haven, the place where I spent most of my time, and I’d put a lot of effort into making it special. Sometimes it felt more like a work of art in progress than a house.
My kitchen was a jungle of lovingly cared for potted plants, with Rainbow’s and Skittles’ antique birdcage the focal point. Behind it, I’d painted a mural of a cherry blossom tree in full bloom, so that it spanned out around their cage in all its soft pink glory. Painting was a hobby I indulged in whenever I wasn’t writing.
When I was about eleven, I discovered the joy of writing fiction. I also loved to draw, so I’d create illustrations to accompany my stories. It was how I released all my unspent, creative energy. My stories no longer required pictures, so now my house was my canvas.
My brother, Nick, said my paintings were an outward expression of my inner self. My other brother, Cameron, said all the colours gave him a headache.
I told you he was the cranky one.
Anyway, Nick liked to psycho-analyse people. Some folks in our hometown called him the Shrink Barista, though he wasn’t exactly qualified. He dropped out of his Psycho-therapy degree in year two and now worked in a coffee shop full-time. His take on me was that since I was so socially phobic, I channelled all my unused social energy into art. I tended to agree with him, since up until the age of five I had what they termed ‘selective mutism’. I would only speak around a select group of people. In my case, that was my immediate family. With anyone else, I was completely silent.
At school, my teachers tried to lure me out of my shell by giving me special treatment, letting me sit right by their desk or draw pictures while the other kids did maths. My memories of that time were hazy, but somewhere between the age of five and six, I started talking. I was still unbearably shy, but I was no longer totally mute. My dad thinks my mutism was a form of post-traumatic stress from Mum dying. But I was only two when she passed and even now I barely remembered her.
Others (Nick) thought it was anxiety. That social situations made me so anxious as a kid I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I was more inclined to believe this theory, since I still suffered from the dreaded social phobia. However, I wasn’t nearly as bad as I used to be. Ever since I created Elodie, I was coming on in leaps and bounds.
She freed me from the oppression of choking every time I had to talk to an unfamiliar human being.
Cases in point, Julian and Suze.
Before Elodie, I never would’ve had the courage to befriend a woman like Suze. Nor would I be ballsy enough to lie to a man like Julian.
Was it ethical? No. But it was helping me, so I had to convince myself the pros outweighed the cons.
I heated up some leftover stir-fry for dinner and opened my email. My agent, Daniel, had sent another message with requests to book public appearances, but there was no way I could do a book signing. Not unless I went as Elodie, and she looked so much like my character, Sasha, that it would only back up the theories she was a real person.
Still…
The idea set my deceptive, black heart aflutter. To be Elodie and revel in the adoration of hundreds of fans would be a thrill ride like no other. Maybe I could…
I clicked on ‘reply’ and started to type.
[email protected] to [email protected]
RE: Book Signing Offer (I’m not above begging)
Let me think about it.
P.S. I’m making no promises.
His response came minutes later.
[email protected] to [email protected]
RE: RE: Book Signing Offer (I’m not above begging)
Anything I can do to convince you? A holiday in the Caribbean? A case of Dom Perignon? Foot rub? Just say the word and it’s done. I did say I wasn’t above begging ;-)
I chuckled. I was fond of Daniel, even though we’d never met in person. We spoke on the phone every once in a while, and aside from Bernice and Felicity, he was the one other human connection I’d made here in London. Some days I felt so down, so lonely, especially when I went a full day or two without talking to another human being. The fact that I could pick up the phone and talk to Daniel was a big relief.
[email protected] to [email protected]
No bribery needed. Just…give me time.
I closed out my email, made short work of my dinner, then opened my newest manuscript. I was only two chapters into the latest Sasha novel, but it was an important one because it was to be the last in the series. It was bittersweet, and although I adored this world and the characters I’d created, I knew it was time to say goodbye. I already had several ideas for a new series, but for now, I was going to enjoy taking Sasha on one final adventure.
Two days later, I was a few hours into my shift at the bookshop when the bell over the door rang, signalling someone’s entrance. I sat by the counter, reading the Agony Aunt section of a celebrity gossip magazine. I enjoyed the stories because they were always so ludicrous and clearly made up. It was a relief to know I wasn’t the only out there who enjoyed weaving fantasies.