The Truth About Faking It

By Cassie Hamer

Lie to your friends. Lie to your family. Just don't lie to yourself... Funny, smart, heartfelt fiction for readers of Holly Wainwright from a distinctive new voice.

'Cassie Hamer is a merging of all that is wonderful about authors like Marian Keyes, Liane Moriarty and Sally Hepworth... She's here to stay.' Better Reading

The Trainor women have always been excellent at hiding their true feelings... until now. Ellen's estranged husband, David, has managed to interrupt her fabulous life of bridge and zumba by getting himself killed in a Thai boating accident. She's hardly surprised. It's simply the final in a long line of mistakes, the first was leaving her to go on a worldwide sailing trip with his mysterious, long-lost brother. Ah, well. At least she's now free to marry her rich but dull boyfriend, Kenneth.

Regrettably, her daughter, self-possessed TV news broadcaster Natasha and granddaughter, reality TV producer Georgie, seem to take the whole 'dead' thing very personally and they decide to dig deeper, though neither really has time. Natasha is on the nose at her network and a toxic secret from her past is about to set off a catastrophic personal crisis. Meanwhile, Georgie is furiously focused on denying her true feelings for a contestant on her show, The Single Gal.

Neither Ellen, Natasha, nor Georgie are agreed on quite how they should feel about David's death but they're certain about one thing - it isn't quite what it seems - and discovering the truth will unravel the tapestry of lies they've been spinning to themselves and each other.

One way or another, all three women are faking it and as matters come to a head, the truth wills out in the most unexpected of ways...

'This well-crafted piece of commercial fiction is both warm and full of light... satisfyingly chunky and intermittently very funny.' Fairfax newspapers

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: May 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781489293008

Cassie Hamer

Cassie Hamer has a professional background in journalism and PR, but now much prefers the world of fiction over fact. Her debut novel, After the Party, was published in 2019, and her second novel, The End of Cuthbert Close, in 2020. Cassie lives in Sydney with her terrific husband, three mostly terrific daughters, and a labradoodle, Charlie, who is the youngest and least demanding family member. In between making school lunches and walking the dog, Cassie is also working on her next novel, but she always has time to connect (or procrastinate) with other passionate readers via her website - CassieHamer.com - or through social media. You can follow her on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Ellen Trainor put on her reading spectacles and allowed her eyes to zero in on the phallus, displayed in all its sausage-like glory before her. Yes, thoroughly delightful. Not to mention large. More kransky than cocktail frank. Spectacles completely unnecessary.

She took them off and her hand began to move.

After a few seconds, she stopped. It was no good. Her fingers were virginally tentative. The strokes meek and uninspired.

You’re mature and fabulous, she chanted silently. Own it.

Pushing back her chunky turquoise bangle, she tried again. The following stroke was far bolder and more decisive than her limp, first attempt.

‘That’s more like it,’ she murmured as the object of her focus started to spring to life beneath her hands. Her fingers moved at a faster pace. Yes, this was it. She’d found her rhythm. It was, as they say, like riding a bike. Her hands flitted and danced. Skittered and brushed. Almost frenzied. Yes, yes, yes, pumped the beat of Ellen’s heart. It was glorious and liberating. She was young again. It was, dare she say it, better than sex. Or, at least, better than sex with Kenneth.

Two minutes later the job was done. Ellen let out a sigh of satisfaction and rolled her right shoulder to relieve the pinch. This was one of her best efforts, even if she did say so herself. Her gaze swung between the sketchpad on her knees and the gorgeous nude model standing six feet away looking soulfully through the window at the lilac blooms of the just-flowering jacaranda. Blades of late afternoon November sunlight shone through the lead-light windows of the art studio and fell like soft fingers on his finely sculpted torso. The model was new and thanks to her side-on view, she’d captured both his penis and left buttock perfectly.

Where was Suzie, their usual model for Monday afternoon life drawing?

Snorting hormones, hopefully. The woman was moody as a stormy sky and her droopy facial expressions about as inspiring as a tea bag. Too often, when Raphael the drawing teacher had surveyed Suzie’s pose and said, ‘I think there’s something missing …’ Ellen had been tempted to shout, ‘HRT!’ Life drawing was supposed to be an escape, not a reminder of the decrepitude of ageing. Women of certain years (and men, for that matter) had no business being nude in public. Ellen herself took a Victorian-era approach to dressing: the display of a delicate wrist or an ankle was acceptable, but nothing else. Occasionally, she had the misfortune to catch a glimpse of herself naked in front of a mirror. Who was that prune-like person with a décolletage as wrinkled as the bellows of a piano accordion and knees that reminded her of two sad clowns commiserating with one another?

Oh god. It was her.

The physical act of ageing was a heinous crime against the body and dressing was now an exercise in concealing the evidence. Buttoned shirts, turtlenecks and pants were Ellen’s daily disguise, but she had a trick up her (tailored, naturally) sleeve. That was to top the boring pieces with elaborate (and cheap) beaded necklaces, chunky bracelets and a chic, short hairdo. These she called her ‘red-herring’ or ‘look-over-here’ pieces: the ones designed to show the world that although Ellen’s skin had become more sultana than grape and her entire body tended to ache after a few minutes in the same position, she was still utterly fabulous.

Because she was, wasn’t she?

‘Ten seconds, everyone.’ Raphael stopped at her shoulder. ‘Excellent, Ellen.’ He touched a hand to the paisley scarf around his neck, which was what he did when he approved of something. ‘The energy is … exciting me.’

From the flutters in her chest, Ellen could tell it was exciting her, too. She pulled out her phone, typed in B for boyfriend and tapped out a message telling Kenneth to take one of his little blue pills. The reply was almost instant: a thumbs-up emoji.

‘All right, artists. I want you to take your work and hold it up.’ Raphael tossed one end of his scarf over his shoulder. He was a nice enough fellow, but quite mad. In five weeks of life-drawing classes he hadn’t once talked about technique or pencil grip or any of the things she had expected. ‘Ego!’ he yelled at them. ‘Or a lack thereof, is the key to great art.’ So extensive were his shouty lectures on the shedding of ego that Ellen considered Monday afternoon life drawing more counselling session than art class, not that she needed her head read. She was perfectly functional. Her ego was one of the few things that had escaped the vagaries of ageing and she wasn’t of a mind to let it go. She didn’t need life advice, she needed tips on shading and composition, how to inject light and dark into her pencil drawings.

‘Now, I’m going to tell you how to make your work one hundred per cent better.’ Raphael paused at the end of the room, beneath the portrait of Queen Elizabeth. Dust motes swirled about him. At long last! This was it, the tip she had been waiting for. The drawing advice that would revolutionise her artwork. Ellen tensed, pencil poised.

‘My friends.’ Raphael clasped his hands together. ‘I want you to rip up your work. Tear it in half! Right through the middle.’

Rip it up? She’d spent half an hour on the model’s left buttock alone. And it was excellent. Like a plump marshmallow aching to be squashed between fingers. She’d be blowed if she was going to tear it up.

What was everyone else doing? She met the gaze of the younger woman next to her, who gave an apologetic smile before gingerly tearing through her drawing, which, Ellen noted with a pang of envy, was even better than her own. Buttocks like plums.

‘Ellen.’ Raphael was at her side. His tone, reproachful.

‘You said it was good. And I want to take it home.’ And tomorrow morning, I’ll feast my eyes on that buttock while I drink my morning coffee.

‘Ellen, I’m disappointed in you.’ He spoke with condescending patience, like she was a four-year-old caught with her hand in the biscuit tin. ‘We’ve talked about this before. You are here to cast off your ego. Shed it as a snake sheds its skin. You are worried what people think of you. What you think of you. I tell you, none of this matters.’

She flinched, then squared her shoulders. Oh, rack off, Raphael, you poncy, paisley-wearing, pop psychologist. ‘I like this drawing and I’m going to take it home with me.’ She held the paper to her chest. ‘It’s good. You said so yourself.’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’

‘Of course it does! You’re the teacher.’

‘I’m your guide. This is a journey, remember. Not a destination. We are unlearning everything we have learnt before. We are harnessing the inner child. Shedding our inhibitions. Rediscovering our truths. You have so many walls you cannot even see them any more. You must look inside yourself.’ Raphael clutched his (not to be cruel but Ellen believed in frank honesty) terrifically oversized gut.

The man was delusional. The only thing wrong with Ellen was her bank balance. The chief humiliation of this whole experience was that even if she wanted to come back to this madman’s class next term, she probably couldn’t afford to.

Ellen tore a tiny piece from the corner. ‘There, it’s ruined now. Happy?’

Raphael shook his head and moved on. ‘Tex!’ he called to the model. ‘New position, please. Sitting this time.’

There was a rustle of paper as the class of ten or so prepared themselves for the new pose. Fools. Treating this Raphael like some Svengali, when in real life the all-knowing, all-seeing Raphael the great was, according to his website, an ‘emerging artist’. Emerging? At the age of fifty-one? That spoke of tardiness in the extreme. Raphael’s ‘pieces’ (more like childish scribble) sold for less than a thousand dollars a pop, a price that somehow alleviated Ellen’s annoyance at being unable to afford one. Artwork that cheap had to be a bad investment.

Tex flexed his muscles and stretched and Ellen’s groin fluttered in appreciation. He really was a fine specimen. Gosh, now he was looking in her direction. Ellen inhaled. A younger man. Hmm. Perhaps it was time to give Kenny the flick and try online dating, as her granddaughter, Georgie, had been suggesting for months: ‘Everyone’s doing it, Grandma. Even old people like you.’

Charming.

But at least the girl could acknowledge Ellen’s needs. Natasha—her daughter—was in complete denial. Couldn’t even bring herself to describe Kenneth as a ‘boyfriend’ but simply referred to him as ‘your friend’. Natasha was dead against online dating and on that point, she and Ellen were united. Who could be bothered with all that typing and swiping? Not Ellen. Kenneth gave her companionship, affection and mildly satisfying sex. For titillation, there was life drawing. What more could she want? Online dating. She shuddered. Who knew what you could end up with, except for a nasty dose of the clap. Only yesterday she’d read a news article about over-fifties contracting STIs in record numbers. Honestly, how was it that these old biddies knew how to wrangle those dating-app thingies but not buy a condom? Ellen had no sympathy.

She held up her pencil, ready to draw again, and the male model’s glance shifted away to the younger woman beside her. He gave a lazy smile and winked.

The cheek of him! Now there was a flush spreading up the poor girl’s neck and she looked like she might cry.

Ellen raised her hand. This was unconscionable.

‘Yes?’ Raphael sounded bored.

‘There’s something you need to know.’ Ellen eyeballed Tex, now seated with one leg crossed over the other to cover his penis. ‘It’s about the model.’

Oh, crumbs. Now everyone was looking at her. What was she actually going to say? That Tex had winked at a class member? Hardly a sackable offence, whatever those modern feminists would have you believe. As an eighteen-year-old legal secretary in the sixties, Ellen had suffered far worse and it hadn’t bothered her a bit. A misplaced hand got a smack. Problem solved. No, it wasn’t the wink itself that was the issue, it was that he hadn’t winked at her. She paused, playing out the complaint in her head, how it might sound to the class.

He should have winked at me! At least I would have winked back.

Oh, how they would chortle. At her. What a daffy old duck. What a funny old sausage. No one else in this class was a day over thirty-five. They wouldn’t understand how a woman of sixty-nine (such a lascivious-sounding age!) had needs and was, in her own mind, not a day over thirty-five.

‘What about the model?’ Raphael raised his eyebrows.

‘I don’t like the pose.’ She sniffed. ‘I think it’s too … egocentric. He’s hiding something. I want to capture him more … openly, if you will.’

Raphael nodded. ‘Interesting feedback. Tex, could you interpret Ellen’s thoughts?’

Tex froze. ‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a break, thanks,’ he muttered, uncrossing his legs and placing a protective hand over his nether regions. A small titter rippled across the class as the source of Tex’s embarrassment became apparent.

‘Don’t be embarrassed, dear,’ called Ellen. ‘You’re only a man, after all.’

Shooting her a look, Tex flung a dressing gown around his finely sculpted muscles and flounced off the podium.

‘Was that my fault?’ whispered her neighbour.

‘Course not, darling,’ said Ellen. ‘Men are weak and can’t control themselves. Not like us.’

‘All right, people. Ten-minute break,’ Raphael called.

Ellen stood carefully to give the blood time to rush to all corners of her body, though ‘rush’ wasn’t quite the right word. At her age, it was more like a slow amble. She bent left, then right, and was about to try forward when there was a small commotion at the door—two policemen.

Or were they? In the first week of life-drawing class there’d been something of a scandal when a group of six giggly, liquored-up young women arrived at the class with tulle veils on their heads, champagne under their arms and a substantial dose of pre-marital mischief on their minds. Raphael soon set them straight—this was serious drawing, not drinks and giggles—and sent them off into the night, clouds of tulle flying behind like jet stream.

Was that what was happening here? Were these ‘policemen’ in fact exotic male dancers in disguise? She hoped so and it seemed a distinct possibility, given the unhappy expression on Raphael’s face. Then again, one of them was quite old and chubby. She did not want to see him nude.

‘Ellen.’ Raphael turned and beckoned. ‘Could you come here for a moment?’

Her? The exotic male dancers were for her? Was Georgie up to mischief again? The girl was incorrigible.

The chubby policeman extended his hand. ‘Ellen Trainor? I’m Sergeant Tom O’Hare of the Kings Cross police. Could we have a word?’

‘Certainly.’

He gestured to the hallway and, as the three of them trooped into it, she glimpsed their expressions of concern. Not strippers, then.

A small flutter of worry flitted through her chest. What could the police want with her? It wasn’t the small marijuana stash she kept in her cutlery drawer for special occasions, was it? Or that little bottle of perfume she’d ‘accidentally’ forgotten to pay for at the chemist last week? That was one upside of ageing: no one ever suspected little old ladies of anything.

‘Apologies for interrupting your class, but we felt it was a matter that couldn’t wait. Your neighbour told us we’d find you here.’

Maisie. That busybody. She would have wet herself at the sight of two uniformed officers banging on Ellen’s door. Apartment living was so crass.

‘How can I help, sergeant?’ Ellen asked.

The officer removed his peaked cap. ‘It’s about your husband.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘Three, two, one … and cue.’

Natasha Trainor nodded curtly at the camera, ignoring the mild prick of adrenaline that always came over her when the red light went on. She sat up straight on the stool, focused on the autocue and the studio fell away—no longer did she see thick black cables snaking across the floor, nor people talking in hushed tones into headsets, nor make-up artists hovering, nor sheafs and sheafs of paper piled up just out of shot. She didn’t feel the glare of at least fifteen different spotlights on her, nor the silent and constant cool waft of air-conditioning that kept the studio at a brisk twenty-one degrees, nor the bulldog clips cinching her jacket at the back. No, when the red light went on, it was just her and the audience and a perfect world in which every word was scripted, every hair in place and nothing ever went wrong, because if it did, they simply stopped and recorded it all again until it was right. In this strange, tightly controlled and artificial environment, Natasha was completely at home.

‘Tonight on Deep Dive we bring you our exclusive investigation into the mysterious death of Darren Chea—a death that has haunted his family for close to twenty years. Police claim it was a straightforward accident with a shotgun. His parents say it simply doesn’t add up. How could—’

‘Cut! Cut!’ bawled the director’s voice in her ear.

Natasha stopped reading and let her spine relax. Her tone and inflection had been perfect, the diction crisp. She raised her eyebrows at the floor manager—problem?—but he shrugged and muttered into his mouthpiece.

Natasha tapped a pen against her clipboard. The autocue made printing of scripts unnecessary. But she was a creature of habit. She liked to write the story intros herself and memorise them before recording. That way she could focus on her delivery and look past the electronic words right into the souls of her audience. The clipboard had the bonus of giving her fingers something to do. Hands were more trouble than they were worth to a TV presenter; clasping them made her look prudish and judgemental, waving them around was distracting, assertive gestures made her look like a politician. For twenty years, as long as she’d been a presenter, she’d given them the job of holding a clipboard. Now it was somewhat of a signature.

The floor manager cleared his throat. ‘There’s a flare off your head. We’re just adjusting the lights.’

‘I can move.’ Natasha dipped her head and twisted slightly. ‘Any better?’

‘Nah.’ The floor manager sidled up to Rick—the hair and make-up artist—for a brief, whispered conversation.

‘Had your roots done lately, lovey?’ Rick approached, wielding his enormous can of hairspray and began to fuss about her lacquered helmet of hair, honey blonde and straight but not too straight. The most common feedback from viewers was that Natasha tended to look a bit too headmistressy. The focus groups couldn’t quite articulate why but the network chiefs thought a few extra hair rollers and going blonder (she was a natural mouse brown) might fix the problem.

‘My appointment’s next week. Why?’

‘The light’s picking up your greys,’ said Rick. ‘Kind of a halo effect.’

‘Saint Trainor. I don’t mind the sound of that,’ she joked, while inwardly cursing herself for not having made the appointment a week earlier. Silly mistake. She knew better than that. Looking her best was part of the gig. ‘Got anything in your bag of tricks?’

‘Leave it to me, honey.’ Rick produced a smaller can from his bumbag. Grey away. Erase the years …

Natasha closed her eyes, breathing through her irritation. Why the hell should she have to erase her years? She’d worked bloody hard for them. Maybe she could stage a rebellion, be the network’s first female presenter to go fully grey? The bosses wouldn’t like it but someone had to take a stand.

Rick sprayed efficiently about her crown before stepping back. ‘There,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Not a day over forty.’ He showed her in the mirror. All traces of grey, gone.

And if I want to keep this job, that’s the way it’s got to be.

She sighed out her anger like she was extinguishing the flame of a candle.

‘All right, positions, people.’ The director was back in her ear. ‘Let’s try this again.’

Natasha squared her shoulders and looked down the barrel.

* * *

Fifty-two unread emails, two hundred and twenty-seven Twitter notifications, twenty-five new Facebook friend requests and a missed call from her mother.

Phone in hand, Natasha paused at the doorway to the glamorous conference room known by the crew as the ‘good room’ due to the ten-foot-long mahogany table and leather office chairs, but also because they were only allowed in once a week to watch the show go to air and have their team debrief. The rest of the time it was used by the sales team to meet with potential advertisers and give the illusion that the network was cashed up, which it definitely wasn’t.

She scrolled through the emails—mostly invitations to events that Natasha had no intention of attending. There were breathless entreaties to attend drinks in fashion boutiques (why would anyone want to drink in a shop?) for clothes she wouldn’t buy, morning teas for miracle eye creams and outdoor yoga breakfasts for new wellness smoothies. Natasha deleted them all with grim satisfaction. Publicity was just one big pyramid scheme with people trying to claw their way into celebrity off the backs of other people’s fame. Of course, there were exceptions. Charities and not-for-profits always received her due consideration and, after many years of experience, Natasha had gained a reputation as a rainmaking MC: when she hosted an event, the money poured in. All other invitations were generally a no. She went into journalism to tell stories, not to have her picture taken at red carpet premieres.

Natasha scrolled down the list and stopped. Class of ’88—30 Year Reunion. Damn. Not another one. Why did they insist on staging one every five years, and not ten, like most normal schools? Her stomach roiled with nerves.

Hi Tash,

How are you? It’s been too long …

Hope you don’t mind me contacting you on your personal email—the school alumni office seems to have one for your publicist, but not you.

Anyway, I recently ran into your mum and she said you wouldn’t mind if I got in touch (BTW—how fabulous is she! Still the coolest mum around!)

Can you believe it’s thirty years! Where has the time gone??!! We thought it would be lovely to have a ‘Back to St Cecilia’s Weekend’ in the new year (this one is disappearing too quickly!) to celebrate—all the details are attached in the invite. The school’s been kind enough to give us a date in late Jan before the students come back. We’d really love you to come this time—it just wouldn’t be the same without our fearless school captain! Maybe you could give a little speech? I know the girls are dying to hear about your exciting life and we’re just so proud of everything you’ve achieved.

Take care,

Lou Higgins (nee McGee).

It was worse than she imagined. They wanted her to talk? No way. That last one she went to—when was it? Fifteen years ago?—was so incredibly awkward. All those selfies and stilted chit-chat about kids, divorces, careers and how well everyone was doing, especially Natasha, but then again, they always knew she’d be wildly successful. Look at her tenure as school captain. Outstanding. The best the school had ever had. She was always destined to make St Cecilia’s proud.

Awful. Even when Natasha brought up her failed marriage and single motherhood, just to prove she was human, it was seized upon as yet another example of her superhumanity. You’re raising a child on your own and have an incredible career. You really are a star!

For the entire night, her eyes had stung with barely repressed tears and the knot of anxiety drew tighter and tighter in her stomach until she’d begged off early, claiming a stomach upset—only a half-lie. In the safety of her car, she’d vowed never to return—for their sake and hers. She’d thought she could go back. Thought she’d erased that one terrible year, ripped it from her mind as easily as tearing pages out of a book. That was the way to deal with bad memories.

If only.

The metaphor didn’t work. Those memories weren’t pages; they were more dangerous than that. They were a bottle of poison, to be placed to the very back corner of the cupboard, never to be touched. Most days, she forgot it was even there and could almost believe it hadn’t really happened.

She couldn’t uncap that bottle. Going back would undo all her good work.

Natasha’s finger hovered over the delete button. No. She had to reply; it would be too rude not to. Manners, as Ellen was so fond of pointing out, cost nothing. She’d give the excuse she gave for the last one: that her schedule was hectic and tended to change at a moment’s notice. She didn’t want to let them down but she’d be happy to make a generous donation to the school’s bursary fund and would raise a toast, in absentia, to all her terrific former classmates. She tapped it out quickly and pressed send as her phone vibrated with a text message from her mother that she didn’t bother reading. Probably asking her to buy some milk or fix her mobile or emails.

‘Coming to the weekly mind-fuck?’ Ross Lam—one of the show’s senior producers—brushed past.

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ She gave a wry smile and took her place at the conference table.

CHAPTER THREE

The hallway outside the art studio seemed quite narrow thanks to the bulk of the men and their boots and guns and whatever other deadly devices they had on those intimidating belts.

Ellen folded her arms. ‘So what has my former husband done this time?’

The sergeant’s frown deepened. ‘He had you listed as his next of kin.’

‘That’s rich! I haven’t seen him in more than a year.’ Actually, one year, twelve days and eight hours. Not that she was counting. All that sudoku was certainly paying unwanted dividends. Mind you, she did still tend to forget her own mobile number.

O’Hare spoke again. ‘I’m sorry, but we’ve received some information about your husband from the Thai embassy.’

‘The Thai embassy?’ Oh dear, she sounded like a parrot.

The officers exchanged glances. ‘Yes. Thailand … Phuket, actually.’ Another pause. ‘Are you sure we can’t have this conversation somewhere more private. Maybe back at your flat.’

‘Officers, I assure you I’m fine. Whatever you have to say can be said right here.’ David had cost her enough in this lifetime. She would not miss another thing for him. Not even an art class.

The older of the policemen shifted his weight, his leather belt creaking under his considerable girth. ‘Mrs Trainor, I’m sorry to say there’s been an accident.’

She recoiled at the ‘Mrs’. ‘What kind of accident?’

‘We believe it was on a boat. A yachting accident.’

The flutter of worry turned to a squeeze of pain in her heart before Ellen remembered herself. This was the husband who’d left her. The husband who’d plundered their finances and run off to sea to sail the world on a fabulous global voyage with his long-lost brother—not her.

‘Is he in hospital? Bones broken?’ She could not give David the satisfaction of caring too greatly. To her, it made no difference if her poor excuse for a husband was in a fullbody cast, but her daughter and granddaughter would want to know. She had to think of them.

‘We don’t have the full details but we’re told there were head injuries. Serious ones.’

Another one of those silly chest pains forked across her sternum. She did not care. She did not. ‘How serious?’

‘I’m so, so sorry …’ O’Hare’s eyes were glassy.

‘I’m sorry? Excuse me?’ Ellen took a step back. ‘Do you mean he’s …’

‘Yes … I’m sorry. His body was found washed up on a local island.’

She put a hand to her breastbone. Her heart had taken up a wild rhythm, a bit like the samba music she danced to in Zumba. ‘Where is he now?’

‘In a mortuary. In Phuket.’

She stared at their serious faces. ‘I’m sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong David Trainor.’ Her wrists were suddenly cold. She rolled down the cuffs of her white linen shirt and attempted to button them but her fingers were trembling too badly, fluttering like the delicate purple jacaranda blossoms outside. No. This could not be right.

‘Was there someone with him? He was supposed to be with his brother … Robert, I think. I don’t know. I’d never met him.’ Oh, these blasted cuffs. How was she supposed to explain Robert, the biological brother that David had recently discovered? All too complicated for the hallway of an art studio. Such a mess.

O’Hare checked his notepad. ‘There was no information about another person present. The Thai police were quite firm on this. Single person accident, according to them. A man possibly knocked off a boat. David Trainor. Seventy years old.’

‘Well, they might need to check again. David has salt water in his veins and when it comes to safety on that blasted yacht, he’s worse than a policeman.’ The sergeant raised his eyebrows and Ellen went on, ‘What I mean is, my husband might be deficient in some areas but he’s not so stupid as to get himself killed in a boating accident. Trainor is quite a common name and those dear, sweet, little Thai police have probably cocked up the spelling.’ Ellen smiled, satisfied with her explanation. Oh, how the bridge girls would laugh when she told them the story. Between the handsome nude model and nutty Raphael and the earnestly sober police, she’d have them in stitches. What was the Mark Twain line about the reports of his death being greatly exaggerated? She’d trot that one out. And if Ellen could bring herself to forgive, she might even tell David one day—journalists always appreciated a ‘great yarn’, as he called them.

‘We have a copy of the passport if you’d like to confirm the identity?’ The sergeant produced a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it with care and presented it with reverence.

‘Your specs are on your head. I know my nan can’t see a thing without them,’ the junior officer said.

Ellen wished he hadn’t spoken. ‘I’m fine.’ Large objects were perfectly visible. The real problem was the world’s predilection for small things: tiny screens, minuscule fonts and miniature photos. At home, Ellen had a drawer full of nasty little reading glasses from the chemist, purchased for her by Natasha in honour of her habit of losing them.

She brought the paper closer to her nose. The image blurred and swam. It was a photocopy of a passport. The black and white accentuated the grim quality.

‘Is that your husband?’ the sergeant asked, his voice now sounding to Ellen as if it were coming from another room.

Was it her husband? She turned the question over in her mind, breath caught in her throat, and she extended her arm to bring the photo into focus. She had an urge to trace a finger over the image. She felt … she felt very strange. Outside of herself.

Unless her cataracts had multiplied overnight, this did indeed appear to be her husband. Or former husband. There he was, summed up on a piece of paper to prove his existence in the world: his photo (unflattering, but identifiably him), his nationality (Australian), his scrawly signature (he could have been a doctor in another life), where he was born (Sydney) and his date of birth (Valentine’s Day, 1948—frustratingly impossible to forget).

‘Mrs Trainor, is that him?’

‘Yes.’ She was surprised to hear what sounded like her own voice coming out of her mouth. Were her lips even moving? ‘It’s an awful photo … but, yes.’

‘Are you all right? Can I get you a water?’ asked the younger policeman, gently supporting her elbow as Ellen put her hand out for the wall.

‘I’m fine. Low blood pressure, that’s all. Happens all the time.’ She snatched her arm from the young man’s grasp. How dare he pity her!

‘Is there someone we can call for you?’ he asked gently. ‘Did you and Mr Trainor have children …’

There it was again, the pitying expression that somehow, despite his relative youth, looked extremely practised, like she was simply another sausage in the factory line of grieving people he encountered on a weekly basis. And the invocation of ‘children’ was no doubt an equally practised effort at making her cry. Her small swell of anger doubled. She was not a sausage and she was too fabulous for pity. She’d had more than enough of it when her husband left the first time around and she’d be blowed if it happened as he left her for a second time. Albeit this time more permanently.

‘Oh, yes. Of course,’ Ellen said calmly and rationally. She sensed a flicker of disappointment in the young constable’s eyes. ‘I’ll call my daughter, Natasha. She works in TV, in journalism, like her father. David was a newspaper man, foreign correspondent. Retired last year. Natasha Trainor—you probably know her. She hosts that current affairs show Deep Dive.’ Ellen was babbling but she couldn’t stop herself. ‘My granddaughter’s in television, too. Reality. The Single Gal—you’ve probably heard of it. Media is like a disease in this family.’ Ellen gave a high-pitched laugh.

‘My mum loves both those shows, especially that news one.’ The younger constable smiled. ‘Says she’s a smart woman, your daughter.’

Except when it comes to her father …

‘I should call her, if you’ll excuse me. She’ll want to know, obviously, right away.’ She fished her phone out of her pocket.

The officers retreated and conferred quietly at the end of the hallway while Ellen waited for her daughter to pick up. One ring, then two … three, and on it went. She tapped her foot as she counted.

‘Hello, you’ve reached Natasha Trainor’s voicemail …’

It was her daughter’s TV voice, cool and authoritative, and Ellen’s lips moved involuntarily with the message that she knew off by heart. Why was it her daughter could be so available to everyone except her own mother? Damn that caller ID thingy! Whenever Kenneth rang anyone, his number came up as private. It was, perhaps, the most devious thing about him. Sadly, he had no idea which buttons he’d pressed to achieve it or Ellen would have got him to do the same to hers.

‘Darling, it’s me. I’m at life drawing and I’m quite fine. Don’t worry. But you need to call me back immediately.’ She paused. ‘It’s—it’s an emergency.’

Not quite the truth, but it might make her daughter pay attention. By any measure, this was not an emergency. This was all a giant mistake and once it was proved that David was alive, then Ellen would simply return to her previous disposition of willing grievous bodily injury on her husband.

Former husband, she corrected herself. Not officially divorced, but close enough.

‘I’ve left a message,’ she informed the officers. ‘She’ll call me as soon as she gets it.’

The younger officer touched her elbow. ‘Could we give you a lift home? Will there be someone there for you?’ He really had the loveliest green eyes, which made it so much easier for her to forgive his expectation that she would, at any moment, completely drop her bundle. Because that’s what little old ladies did when they were told of the alleged sudden and unexpected deaths of their husbands—they dropped their bundles.

But Ellen’s bundles were all firmly secured.

‘Thank you, but I’ve got a half-finished drawing back there that is in desperate need of some judiciously placed pubic hair. And I’ve just sexted my boyfriend to meet me at home later, so you really don’t have to worry.’

Ha! The look of shock on the young officer’s face! The way his lovely cat eyes had almost fallen out of their sockets. Ellen nearly clapped in delight. Scandalising young people was like playing snap: ridiculously easy and surprisingly fun.

‘Mrs Trainor.’ Now it was the sergeant’s turn to speak. ‘Mrs Trainor, I think you may be in shock—’

Ellen went to protest but the older man held up his hand. ‘Look, I’ve done this many times before and everything you’re experiencing—dizziness, low blood pressure, confusion, saying things you normally wouldn’t—they’re all very common symptoms, and perfectly normal.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘But they can be life-threatening, which is why I think we need to call an ambulance.’

Ellen laughed. A tinkling, musical sound. ‘Sergeant, that’s completely ridiculous. You really have no comprehension of the situation. I’m fine. Look.’ She closed her eyes and adopted the tree pose with one foot lifted off the ground. In her head, she heard her yoga teacher, Leilani: You go, girl. After three seconds of excruciating discomfort in her right hip, she lowered her leg and opened her eyes. ‘A person in shock couldn’t do that.’

The sergeant looked even more uncertain, or was that his impressed face? He handed her a piece of paper. ‘Here’s a number for you to call about retrieving Mr Trainor’s … Your husband’s remains.’

Remains? Oh, David.

Ellen again reached for the wall but snapped her hand back to her chest as if the bricks were electrified. She did not need a wall to prop her up. She was fine. She could do a tree pose!

‘Many thanks.’

The sergeant raised his eyebrows. ‘I’d really be happier if you went to hospital, Mrs Trainor. A once-over couldn’t hurt, could it?’

‘Do what you like, sergeant, but I’m not going anywhere,’ Ellen huffed and strode back into the studio without so much as a backwards glance.

‘What was that all about?’ whispered the young woman next to her.

‘Oh, nothing. Just a couple of exotic dancers looking for a hen’s night, but I sorted them out.’

‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve gone all pale, and there’s a bit of sweat, just here.’ The woman’s fingers went to her upper lip.

‘Perspiration, sweetie. You’ll find out one day. They call it menopause but it actually goes on and on forever.’

The woman gave her a doubtful look and Ellen turned to the front of the room. Tex was back. Excellent. She picked up a pencil and tried to ignore the tremble in her fingers. It was a naked man, a Greek Adonis, before her. A little tremble was only natural. Actually, it was to be expected. And that fluttering in her heart, the feeling that little Shetland ponies were scampering through the field of her chest, that was just excitement taking a different form. It wasn’t shock over David. He didn’t deserve her shock, or awe, or trembles, or scampers. Alive or dead, he didn’t deserve her emotional energy.

He deserved nothing.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ethan Greenfield slid into a chair at the head of the conference table and the chatter among the reporters, editors and producers died to a murmur. The young executive producer opened his laptop and flicked his fringe self-consciously.

Why doesn’t he just cut it? Natasha didn’t mind that the new EP was young enough to be her son. The buzz around him was huge and you had to judge people by the work they did and nothing else. Ethan Greenfield was Australian TV’s wunderkind, the genius widely regarded as single-handedly turning around the ailing fortunes of rival current affairs show The Scoop, where he’d been second-in-command. At Deep Dive he had full control as executive producer, with the power to hire, fire, assign, delegate and dictate.

Ethan peered at her through his fringe. ‘Nice work on the intros.’ Flick. ‘But don’t forget that appointment next week, yeah.’

Natasha shifted in the chair. Shit. So, he’d been listening in on her during the studio record. Maybe she could facetiously suggest a double date to the hairdresser? No, he might take her seriously. All young people were serious when it came to matters of workplace socialising—as well they should be, Natasha reminded herself. As a very green cadet, she’d had more than her fair share of wandering hands and sexist gibes that now, when she thought about them, made her burn with a deep, inner rage. The thought of anyone doing to Georgie what had been done to her in the workplace … no. She just couldn’t allow herself to go there. The wound was deep and it was private. Scratching would only make it bleed and lead to fresh hurt. Hopefully everyone on that silly reality crap that Georgie worked on was just like Ethan: earnest, focused and virtually asexual.

Natasha tapped her phone and sat back. ‘Appointment is booked.’

‘Maybe think about getting a few lighter highlights. Soften you up.’

‘Like, totally,’ piped up Paris, the young platinum blonde reporter sitting next to Ethan. ‘My mum got them a couple of weeks ago. Made her look ten years younger. So good.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll text you our hairdresser’s deets. Juan will get you sorted.’

Ethan nodded in approval and Natasha forced a smile. ‘Thanks.’ Since when was her hairstyle a subject for roundtable discussion? What she did with her hair was her business. Well, not exactly. There was a clause in her contract that forbade her from changing her appearance too drastically without consulting the network, but there was nothing that gave them the power to direct her to get highlights to look younger—there didn’t need to be. At forty-eight, Natasha was definitely one of the ‘older’ women of commercial television. Their ranks were growing—fantastic!—and it would be nice to think it was because the audience valued their wisdom and experience. But maybe it was just the availability of botox. They were all doing it and fair enough too—their body their choice. But not Natasha. The idea of putting a toxin in her face to freeze the muscles was terrifying and weird. Her job was to communicate authentically, using the full array of expressions at her disposal. How could she do that with a frozen, albeit younger-looking, face? If that’s what Ethan expected, he could

Reviews for The Truth About Faking It

[oldblack-1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This story line was pretty much entirely predictable. It rambled its way towards a conclusion that any reader could tell was coming a mile off. It would have benefitted enormously from having an editor who wasn't afraid to cut about 50% of the text. As a Sydney dweller, I enjoyed the references to landmarks I knew well. The simplistic message about sexual assault has been proved by history to be cruelly over-optimistic.