Go Fake Yourself Excerpt

01. Weirdest. Interview. Ever.

AUDREY

I’ve always liked to think that if I met a celebrity—or, say, my all-time favorite author—I’d be able to play it cool. In my imaginings, I have enough strength of will to project at least a semblance of nonchalance, no matter how loudly my inner fangirl is screaming.

Well, it was a nice thought anyway. A comforting delusion—one I enjoyed until a few minutes ago, when I walked into this room and came face-to-face with none other than Victoria Trulette. In an instant, any hope of “cool” (much less “calm” or “collected”) flew straight out the second-story window of this postcard-worthy Beacon Hill brownstone, where the most famous romance author of the century apparently lives. Now I’m seated on a velvet-upholstered chair across from a sleek black desk and the woman whose name has been a permanent fixture on best-seller lists for more years than I’ve been alive.

Suffice to say, my level of chill is absolutely zero.

“I-it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Trulette,” I stammer, once I’ve recovered my faculties of speech.

Plum-colored lips curve upward in a smile that reaches her pale blue eyes. Despite their frosty hue, her gaze is warm behind the turquoise frames of her cat-eye glasses. An overall aura of approachability emanates from her, which helps mitigate the intimidation factor of her presence, at least a bit. Unfortunately, that factor was so high to begin with, I’m still firmly planted in my current state of totally freaking out.

“The pleasure is mine, Audrey. Though, please, call me Victoria.”

I’m pretty sure this is what people mean when they talk about having an out-of-body experience. Victoria Trulette just told me to call her Victoria!

Callie would die if she knew about this—not that I can tell her, thanks to the series of scary nondisclosure agreements I had to sign prior to this interview. For the first time in six months, I’m almost glad my best friend moved to Ireland. If we were still living together, I don’t know how I’d manage to keep this to myself.

Of course, we both knew there was a chance I’d meet someone famous today, given the nature of the employment agency our friend Jamie works for, which set up this interview. When I caved and let her submit my résumé to their applicant pool, Jamie assured me any placement with her firm’s high-profile clientele would pay well enough to make the stringent vetting process worthwhile, as well as the anxiety of dealing with all the cloak-and-dagger tactics. As a junior agent, even Jamie wasn’t privy to information about what I’d be walking into today, meaning I showed up to the interview equivalent of a blind date knowing absolutely nothing about either the identity of my prospective employer or the job I’d be interviewing for.

Well, I now have the answer to the former. As for the latter, that remains to be seen.

“Tell me, what brings you here today?” Victoria asks.

Truly, the million-dollar question—because, really, what kind of crazy person even puts themselves in this situation?

A desperate one, that’s who. But of course, I can’t exactly say that to Victoria freaking Trulette. (Nope; not over the starstuck-itus.)

“I recently left my last job…” I trail off, still struggling to calm my racing nerves enough to form full sentences.

“Your position as a personal assistant, for the attorney?” Victoria asks, peering down at a copy of my résumé.

“Um, yes,” I reply, trying not to cringe at myself for the lack of eloquence. “I worked for Mr. Simmons for about a year.”

I hold my breath, hoping she won’t ask why I left. It’s not like I’m about to tell her my old boss was an insufferable bully I only worked for because I couldn’t find a job in my field after graduation, or that I’m ashamed of myself for staying so long in a position in which I was overqualified, underpaid, and very underappreciated. There’s definitely no way I’m going into that day a month ago when I quit on the spot, leaving behind my steady salary along with any chance at a positive reference in an uncharacteristic moment of spontaneity. It was the only reckless act of my life, until today.

“Go on,” Victoria encourages, those eyes that have yet to leave my face full of patience.

“Well, I’ve had some trouble finding a new job, so my friend who works at the recruitment agency suggested I submit my résumé. I suppose I thought…why not?”

Way to sound like an intelligent go-getter, Audrey!

A familiar ache rises, shame threatening to pull me under as it does whenever I think about my failures. Unlike my friends, who are thriving in careers they love and settling into long-term relationships, I’m no further along as a successful adult than when we graduated from college a little over a year ago.

With a mental slap, I yank my mind back to the present. I cannot afford to get lost in my head right now;I need this job. The failure I’m failing is nothing compared to what will happen if I mess up this interview. Moving back to Florida to live with my mother would be the equivalent of sounding the death knell for my independence. My spine straightens at the reminder, resolve shooting through me.

My answers to Victoria’s subsequent queries are far more poised, and I finally start to settle into the interview with a bit of confidence. Until she veers away from the safe topic of my time at Boston University in a turn so drastic it has me choking on air.

“Pardon me, ma’am, would you repeat the question?”

Surely I misheard her—because there’s no way she just asked me about my dating history! Right?

“I want to know about you, not just what I can learn from this.” The piece of paper holding my résumé makes a flapping sound as she waves it in the air. “So, let’s talk about relationships. I want to hear everything: dating, formal partners, casual sexual encounters, et cetera.”

Lord help me. Victoria Trulette, the woman dubbed the “Queen of Spice” by her fans, actually wants to hear my romantic résumé! I’m uncomfortable discussing such matters even with my friends, so this conversation would be awkward no matter what—but with her? I vividly recall the first time I snuck one of her books home from the library, how equally titillated and scandalized I was as I devoured it by flashlight late at night after my mom was asleep. (Let’s just say Victoria Trulette books do not fade to black after a sweet kiss!) In fact, I recognize that very title on the bookshelves which take up an entire wall of the room. Remembering the parts that so shocked me at fourteen, I feel my cheeks, which were already growing warm, blaze into what I’m sure is an unflattering red.

Victoria literally claps with glee, exclaiming, “Oh, she blushes! That’s wonderful. Readers really eat that up in a protagonist.”

What in the what? Weirdest. Interview. Ever.

I somehow manage to survive the next several minutes as Victoria prompts me through a recitation of my first crush, first date, first kiss, and so on—blushing like crazy the entire time. My gaze keeps drifting to the side, where the rows of paperbacks bearing Victoria’s name seem to taunt me with reminders of the explicit contents within their pages. Am I really sitting here telling the woman who wrote such erotic scenes that the entirety of my sexual history can be counted on a single finger? I’ve never been so mortified.

Where’s a hungry black hole when a girl needs one?

When we’re finished with that line of questioning (thank goodness), Victoria remains silent for a long moment, eyeing me as though deep in thought.

I try to maintain eye contact but fail, shifting my focus to her hair. The dark red bob falls to a couple of inches below her chin, where it tapers to an angle so crisp I wonder if she had it cut this morning. It is classy with an artistic flair, just like the rest of her appearance. Regardless of the three-plus decades she has on me in age, there’s no question that this woman is cooler than I could ever hope to be. I mean, if asked, I wouldn’t think the combination of maroon hair, plum lipstick, pale blue eyes, and turquoise glasses would work together, especially paired with floral-patterned kimono-style top and wide-legged slacks, yet Victoria pulls them off to perfection.

By comparison, I feel downright frumpy with the bun I wrestled my unruly hair into this morning and the outfit of skirt and blazer I’d thought was stylish when I charged it to my poor overburdened credit card for this interview.

“All right, then. Now that we’ve gotten to know each other a bit…” A bit? She knows more about my sex life than my BFF! “Let’s get down to business.”

Finally! I sit up straighter, eager to hear about this mysterious job opening. For curiosity’s sake, at least—because, let’s face it, my chances aren’t looking good. My romantic background is even less impressive than my work history.

“Where else are you applying in your search for employment?” Victoria asks, all but confirming my suspicions—while, I note with disappointment, still not shedding light on the job.

I shrug, not wanting to admit that the last month drained my meager savings and I’m willing to do just about anything at this point if it will save me from having to return to Florida.

“All kinds.”

“What would you pursue if you could do absolutely anything with your future? What are your dreams, Audrey Mitchell?”

I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. Victoria’s eyes on me are bright, eagerly awaiting my answer. Now would be a great time to say something impressive, even if I have to lie, but my mind is completely blank of anything but the dismal truth.

“I…actually have no idea.”

Dear black hole, please hurry up.

“Hmm,” Victoria murmurs. Instead of the disappointment I’d expected to see on her face, she’s looking at me as though I’m a puzzle that needs solving. “Well, we can’t have you simply sit around all day. Readers want a multidimensional protagonist with a full life and an interesting character arc. Though I suppose your plight might be relatable to some in the demographic.”

Is she talking to me, or herself? Unfortunately, her next words provide no illumination.

“Are you aware I write romance novels?”

I nod my affirmation, feeling more confused by the minute—not to mention a bit woozy from the conversational whiplash.

“Do you know how difficult it is to devise a truly fresh fake-relationship scenario?” Fortunately, she doesn’t wait for my answer, as I don’t have one. “It’s nearly impossible! The trope is immensely popular, meaning it’s all been done already. In some cases, not simply done, but arguably overdone. Now, I’m not casting judgment. I, too, find myself hard-pressed to innovate on the theme, beyond the standard scenarios.” She holds up a hand and begins counting them out on her fingers.

“The prince of a kingdom in need of a queen, or vice versa… The heir or heiress to a fortune, whose trust or inheritance includes a marriage stipulation… An athlete or celebrity who needs to be seen with a nice, wholesome partner to heal his or her soiled public image… I’ve even seen a variation where the athlete wants a fake girlfriend to ward off fangirls so he can focus on his sport.

“Let’s see… We have the hired escort or faux wedding date—a timeless classic. There’s the My Fair Lady coaching slash makeover scenario. In modern adaptations, that often presents as the popular boy raising a girl’s social profile for the benefit of another whom she desires, or vice versa… The bodyguard who needs to stay close but keep their role incognito publicly… The charade to appease pushy parents… Custody battles… ‘Marriage of convenience’ is a trope in and of itself… Undercover agents… And immigration scenarios, such as unions created so one character can earn citizenship, of course.”

“Of course,” I echo, as she seems to expect a response now that she’s run out of fingers.

I’ve read books with quite of few of those general plotlines, so at least what she’s saying isn’t entirely out of my frame of reference. Still, I have no idea why she’s telling me all this.

“So you see, it’s terribly difficult to come up with something readers haven’t seen before. Yet there’s a singular satisfaction to being the first to explore new territory—a product of ego, perhaps, but true, nonetheless. And I do so enjoy a challenge.”

When she pauses, I finally ask the question that’s been on the tip of my tongue since I arrived.

“Ms. Trulette…”

“Victoria.”

“Victoria… May I ask, what exactly is the job we’re talking about?”

She beams, appearing delighted with herself. “I find myself in a fortunate financial situation—gratuitous, even—and I’ve had some difficulty coming up with a compelling idea for my next release. So, I thought, why not make use of that prosperity to contrive my very own fake relationship scenario, then gain inspiration from real life as I watch it play out?”

“And the job…?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?”

She pins me with eyes that are intent and expectant, waiting for me to connect the dots. Seconds pass, but no “aha” moment occurs. From where I sit, there is nothing obvious about any of this. Victoria eventually sighs, as though by needing it spelled out for me I’ve spoiled some of her fun.

“Audrey, darling, I’m going to pay you twenty thousand dollars to be in a fake relationship for the next two months. And then I’m going to write a book about it.”

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