Faking It

Faking It by Lynda Curnyn

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It

Chapter One "I'm in love!" my friend Veronica trilled over the phone. It was Monday morning and a little too early for such displays of emotion, especially at work. But that was Veronica. And since she was my best friend — had been since we were 10 — I was stuck with her. In a good way, of course. "With who?" I demanded. b Then she proceeded to tell me about the guy she had met at — of all places — the Salvation Army. Veronica was a set designer who often culled the thrift stores around New York for materials. But men? This was new, even for Veronica, who met — and fell in love with — men on a bimonthly basis. And as she chirped merrily on about this actor (read: jobless) with the most "amaaazingly soulful" brown eyes (read: she wouldn't make it till date three without sleeping with him), I felt enormously grateful for Troy. Troy Hillbrand was my boyfriend of nine months and you might say, my own little accomplishment. He was what you'd call Good on Paper: 33, Senior Accountant at a Big Six firm. Blue eyes, golden brown hair, and a killer body, honed from lunch hours spent playing racquetball with the senior-most partner of his firm (read: a few racket swipes away from making partner himself). "Oh, Carly, I think he could be the one," Veronica said now. "Sometimes you can just tell, you know?" Yeah, I knew, I thought, imagining a night, not too far in the future, when I would be holding Veronica's hand as she sobbed about the cruelty of mankind — specifically, her latest man find, whose name, she purred, was Devin. Why did everyone Veronica date sound like the romantic lead of a made-for-TV movie? "Carly Moran, to Mr. Horowitz's office, Carly," came the call over the P.A. system. "I gotta go," I said. "The man wants to see me." The man was Lenny Horowitz, my boss and founder of Diana Fine, a line of dresses, blouses, and trousers fashioned with the sophisticated suburban wife in mind. In other words, not me. "Uh-oh. You better bring your bulletproof vest," Veronica warned. "Wasn't he supposed to review your ideas for the spring line?" "I'll call you later," I said, hanging up and heading for what would probably be the gazillionth confrontation I would have with Lenny. It's not that I didn't love the guy. After all, he'd given me my first real break in the fashion industry when he'd hired me fresh off my first heartbreaking realization that I would never get promoted from senior peon at Urban Legends, the hip clothing line I worked for for three years after graduating from FIT. Though judging by the amount of flexibility Lenny allowed me in my designs, I sometimes felt more like a merchandiser whose only role was to keep the Diana Fine line looking as dull, dated, and tastefully tailored as the designs Lenny's now-deceased wife used to sew in a storefront in Queens in the early days of the company. Yep, the rise of Diana Fine was the American dream. Started up by Lenny and his wife, Lenore, who began with a small nest egg and an even bigger dream. Too bad it wasn't my dream. "Come in," Lenny barked once I stood before his corner office. "And close the damn door." Uh-oh. I closed the door while Lenny glared at me, his brown eyes menacing beneath bushy gray brows. "What are you doing with these," he said, standing up to his full 5'5" height and looking somewhat intimidating, in spite of it. He held up a sketch — one of my favorites. An evening dress that was a knockoff of something I'd done for our fall collection, except I'd shaped the top like a corset — after all, corsets were in this season, weren't they? Lenny was having none of it. "How in God's name are you going to keep a 40-year-old woman's goods intact in thisthis contraption!" "Well, I thought if we added a little Lycra" Page 1

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It "Lycra!" His normally composed features flushed red. "What kind of middle-aged woman wears Lycra!" "A lot of women" I protested weakly. He threw his hands in the air. "I'm beginning to think you have no idea what a woman wants!" * * * "Can you believe he said that?" I complained to Troy that night as I paced his spacious living room. Though I was strictly a downtown girl myself, I didn't mind traveling up to Troy's Upper East Side one bedroom. It was a welcome respite from my cramped West Village studio. "Don't get so worked up. It's not like you'll be working there forever," Troy said, pulling me into his arms. "You never know what the future has in store for you," he continued, gazing at me with a mysterious look. Come to think of it, he'd been giving me that mysterious look all night. I wondered what it meant now, as his lips met mine in a kiss. It wasn't his usual post-dinner-with-cocktails plunder, but I liked it just the same. Still, I wondered what was on his mind. It didn't take me long to find out. Pulling back, he said, "My parents are coming to town this weekend. I'd like you to meet them." PPP...Parents? He wanted me to meethis parents? Suddenly my own mother's voice loomed in my mind. "When a man wants you to meet his parents, it's serious." "That's ummyes, yes I'd like to meet them, too," I replied, studying the glow in his eyes and feeling an answering glow rise inside. I was going to meet Troy's parents! As if spurred on by my response, Troy's kiss turned hungry and soon enough my body-skimming Betsy Johnson dress (with Lycra, I might add) had landed on my strappy sandals and Troy was back to the Troy I knew and adored. The wild man beneath the Brooks Brothers suit, which soon joined my dress on the floor. "Leave the shoes on," he said, his gaze raking over me as he pulled me down on the butter-soft sofa and braced me over him. Ahhhh This was what it was all about, I thought, sliding down, and gazing into those blue, blue eyes, which were half-closed and filled with heat. "Baby, you are really turning me on," Troy said, his ministrations turning fierce. I matched him then closed my eyes. But the moment I did, everything changed. No longer was I straddling Troy on his sofa, but sitting across a table from a well-dressed couple. Brooks Brothers on the husband. And was that Diana Fine on the wife? I'd seen these people before, I thought, opening my eyes and spying a photo on Troy's endtable. Oh, God, I realized, squeezing my eyes shut, these were Troy's parents I was imagining, smiling at me, sipping expensive wine and plotting my future with Troy in Connecticut (that's where they were from). Connecticut? "Ohhhhh" I groaned. A groan Troy clearly misinterpreted. "Damn, Carly, I don't think I can hold out much longer. Are youare you almost?" he asked between gasps. Almost what? I thought, trying to shake that Suburban Nightmare from my mind. Insane? "Yes, yes!" I shouted, trying to mask everything I wasn't feeling and causing Troy to lose whatever control he had left. "Oh baby, that was beautiful," he said moments later as he rained kisses over my face. "I think we came together." And as I smiled shakily in affirmation a sudden horror filled me. Oh, dear God, I'd really done it. I'd faked an orgasm. With Troy. The man I loved. The man whose parents I was meeting and, according to my mother's theory at least, my future husband! Chapter Two "You faked an orgasm?" Veronica said. We were in Bloomingdale's. At least, I was in Bloomingdale's. Veronica was in la-la land, having just finished telling me about her first dreamy date with Devin Manley (yes, that was really his name) at a dive bar on E.14th that she claimed was "sooo romantic." I quickly brought her down to earth when I filled her in on my passion disaster with Troy the night before. Troy, my perfectly perfect boyfriend with the six-figure income and well-over six inches that had kept me quite the happy Page 2

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It woman. Until last night. Maybe I was just nervous about meeting his parents, I thought, fingering a blue silk dress I would never have given a second look until now. Now that I had a dinner date with Troy's parents. Dr. and Mrs. Hillbrand. From Connecticut. "Don't tell me you never faked before," I replied defensively, adding the dress to the pile on my arm. "Mmmm" Veronica said, twirling a long brown lock between her fingers, her wide gray eyes pensive. "Maybe once, when I was like, 21. But at least I thought I was having an orgasm. Boy was I wrong!" "C'mon," I replied, frustrated, as I dragged her to the dressing room. How could I expect sympathy from Veronica, who never lasted long enough in any relationship to experience a lull. Because that's all this was, right? A lull? Right. Troy and I were a couple. A very happy couple, I might add, though in truth I would have never thought we'd get this far. We had met at one of those Upper East Side bars I normally despised. An upscale cigar lounge with vaulted ceilings and even more esteemed men. I had just broken up with Mitch, my boyfriend of four years and the man whom Veronica had dubbed the Man Who Shattered Your Heart into a Million Pieces. Veronica had dragged me there to meet her Boy du Jour, who happened to be the bartender. And while Veronica batted her lashes at him across the gleaming mahogany bar, I sipped Cosmopolitans and wished I were anywhere else. Until Troy sidled up to me, bought me a drink and proceeded to charm my BCBG shoes right off my freshly pedicured feet. In truth, Troy wasn't my type. He was a suit, after all. But there was something about his clean-cut good looks and the firm muscle I sensed beneath all that Italian wool that won me over. He was so confident, so availableand so completely into me. And coming down after my breakup with Mitch, who had drifted off to pursue his dreams just as I was imagining myself a part of them, I couldn't help but feel a rush when Troy whipped out his PalmPilot and promptly programmed me in for the following night. And the one after that. And so on and so on, until all my weekends — and not a few weeknights — were booked with dinners at the hottest new restaurants, celebrity-studded fund-raisers — and sex. Amaaazing sex. That is, until last night. "You're not really gonna wear that, are you?" Veronica said as I stood before her in the dressing room in a black sheath with a bow beneath the left breast that screamed "prim." "Maybe with the right shoes. My hair up," I argued, piling my unruly curly brown locks on top of my head and narrowing my blue eyes at the mirror in an attempt to see some of my slight (but usually apparent) curves in all that material. Eyeing me speculatively, Veronica said, "First a fake orgasm, and now this," she said, gesturing at the black body bag I wore. "What is going on with you, Carly?" That was another thing that bothered me about Veronica. Despite her lack of clarity about her own life, she somehow could always see right through me. "Nothing is going on with me!" I said, but I didn't believe it. * * * Couldn't believe it, I thought, gazing at Troy that night across a cozy little table at a restaurant a few blocks from my place. I had just finished a succulent plate of soft-shell crabs, over which I had confided that I had finally given in and begun reworking my designs to suit my boss's blah-but-somehow-bestselling taste. "Maybe I've just outlived my days as a designer at Diana Fine," I said now, the wine in my system bringing out a sudden clarity in me. "Then get your résumé together," Troy said encouragingly. "You're so talented. I bet some other company would be damn happy to get you." Troy, sweet Troy, I thought to myself. So good to me, so supportive. I wonder what he would think if he learned that his "talented" girlfriend couldn't even conjure up a simple outfit for a dinner date with her boyfriend's parents? Twenty-four try-ons later, I'd left Bloomingdale's empty handed. I never left Bloomingdale's empty handed. Clearly there was something wrong with me. "Let's go home," I said, suddenly exhausted. Once inside my tiny studio, I wished I had ended my post-work shopping bonanza an hour earlier so that I could have straightened up. Shoes were strewn all over Page 3

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It the floor, discarded clothing choices draped over every available chair. Fortunately, there was only one place in my apartment Troy ever wanted to be. The bed. Which I had (thank God) remembered to make that morning. So good, so good, I reminded myself again as Troy peeled off my stretchy black tank and lacy bra and paid homage to my 36B's. He was so tender tonight, I thought, as he laid me back against the cool sheets, slid his hands up my skirt and gently plundered until I was so slick with desire I practically came right then and there. She's back, a little voice cried joyfully in my head as Troy stood to shuck his trousers, briefs, and button-down. "So good, so good," I whispered aloud this time once Troy pressed his hard body into mine. But instead of giving me what my body now clearly craved, he kissed my forehead, the tip of my nose, my chin. Meeting my gaze, he said, "Spoke to my mom today," he said, "She can't wait to meet you." Then with one thrust, he was inside, his mouth on mine, eyes closed. Mine, unfortunately, stayed open. Wide-open. Damn, damn, damn, damn — DAMN! Suddenly, despite Troy's powerful, steady strokes, I was back in the fitting room at Bloomingdale's. What the hell was I going to wear?! I tried to concentrate. I really did. And Troy, sweet Troy, was giving it all he had. But all I could see when I closed my eyes were visions of silk and wool, in styles so hopelessly out of fashion not even Diana Fine would dare to market them. Then came a vision of a sleek, black pantsuit I had yet to own. Tasteful, elegant, and, I thought, opening my eyes and spying a pair of Cynthia Rowley slides on the floor across the room, funky — with the right pair of shoes. "That's it!" I cried, sending Troy into a final, frenzied thrust. "Ohhhhhh" he moaned, his body going slack. Ohhhh nooooo, I thought, completely freaking out. "Sweetheart," he said, staring at me with boyishly joyful blue eyes. "That's two simultaneous orgasms in a row." Then he touched his lips to mine, in a kiss so loving it silenced any truths I might have confessed, had I had any courage. Which I didn't. "That must mean something, huh?" he said, rubbing his nose with mine. Clearly it did, I thought with anxious dismay. But what? Chapter Three The strange thing was, now that my sex life had gone down the tubes, my mother thought the rest of my life had taken a turn for the better. "Oh, Carly, his parents?" she declared when I called her from work the next day and gave her the news. "Thank God!" Thank God? And while I was contemplating the meaning of that, I heard her shout, "Carl. Carl! Pick up the phone. Carly has news." Carl was my father and as my parents' last and only hope for a boy, I was named after him. "What's this news your mother is shouting down the walls of the house with?" came his smooth baritone over the line. "It's not really news, it's just —" "Carly is meeting Troy's parents this weekend." "Is that right?" he said, clearly impressed. As a man who'd spent his life as a financial advisor, my dad didn't even need to meet Troy to know he would be a solid asset for his spendthrift daughter. "I can't tell you how relieved we are." my mother exclaimed. Relieved? "I mean, what with Trish and Phil celebrating their seventh wedding anniversary next week" she explained. Trish was my sister. A mere three years older than me yet light years ahead when it came to getting all those things my mother thought any self-respecting woman was entitled to have. A husband. A three-bedroom split-level in Bethpage, Long Island, the town we grew up in and I left as soon as was feasible. And two of the most adorable little boys I had ever laid eyes on, my nephews, Billy and Jake. "And after what happened with that Mitchell Turner" she continued. Mitchthe man I had pledged my heart to, only to find out, after four rapturous yet semitumultuous years, that his heart was somewhere else. Just after I had Page 4

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It realized that Urban Legends wasn't going to make me the hottest designer in NYC and had settled into life at Diana Fine, Mitch had decided having a girlfriend was hindering his ability to make it as a rock star. And he was probably right. While I was busily picking up said pieces of the aforementioned heart, Soul Dog, the band Mitch was lead guitarist and singer for, landed a recording contract. "Not that we thought you should marry Mitch," she went on. "In truth, I didn't think he was the marrying kind. Which is why I was positively shocked to read about his engagement. "His what?" "Oh, honey, we thought you knew. It was all over the style section of the New York Times — when was it, Carl? Three weeks ago?" "Umm-hmm." My father interjected, as I scrambled frantically through the piles of newspapers I had kept on my desk in some vague hope that I would actually read them. And there, sprawled on page one of the wedding announcements, was a picture of Mitch Turner, the man I once dreamed was my soul mate, gazing tenderly at none other than Brigitte Long, model of the moment for Urban Legends. The woman he had met at my office Christmas party. "I have to go." I said, feeling my heart plummet. "Go? Carly, we want to know when we get to meet Troy." "Soon. Listen, I've got more important things to worry about right now." Like why Mitch Turner, who once claimed he didn't have time for me, suddenly had time for a wife. I called Veronica. "Get this. Mitch is getting married. To Brigitte Long. That model he started dating not three weeks after we broke up?" "No way!" "Yes way. I'm looking at a picture of the happy couple in the weddings section of the New York Times as we speak." "Oh, Carly" she said, her voice filled with all the sadness she knew I was feeling. After all, she had held my hand during those painful weeks after Mitch walked out of my life. Then, in an attempt to commiserate, I suppose, she said, "This couldn't have come at a worse time. What with you and Troy on the rocks" On the rocks? "What are you talking about?" I said, horrified. "Everything with me and Troy is perfect!" I said, a little more heatedly than absolutely necessary. "Okay, okay," she said, "I just thought after what you told me the other day" "That was nothing," I replied quickly, resolving to hide — from my best friend, no less — the fact of my, uh, encore performance the previous evening. "I have to go." "Carly —" "Listen, I'm okay, really," I replied. "I'm just stressed aboutwork," I said, spying my sketch pad on my desk, where my ultracool designs waited to be turned into something hopelessly blah, at Lenny's demand. And all by week's end. "Okay, but call me later," she demanded. As if on cue, the moment I hung up the phone, Sherrie Horowitz popped her head over the cubicle wall where I sat. "Problems?" she said, a gleam in her golden brown eyes. Sherrie was Lenny's daughter, fresh out of FIT and sporting a two-carat engagement ring from her cute little number-cruncher boyfriend, Mark. With her wavy auburn hair and all the designer fashions her daddy's money could buy, Sherrie seemed to have everything a girl could want, and all at the ripe old age of 22. Everything except the chief designer's job at Diana Fine, which was, much to her dismay, occupied by yours truly. "Nothing I can't handle," I said, covering the picture of my happily engaged ex with the sketch pad of designs I had been fruitlessly reworking all morning. That pert little head disappeared, and suddenly Sherrie was standing over my shoulder, a vision in soft pink silk. "Are these the designs my father was yelling about the other day?" she said with a smirk. "Uh...actually, I'm reworking them a bit." "I know. My father told me," she said. "I had a few ideas, too, that I wanted to show Daddy. Just some sketches I did in my spare time," she continued cheerfully as she dropped a drawing pad on my desk. A few sketches in her spare time? I thought, and flipped frantically — and somewhat enviously, I'll admit, through pages and pages of dresses, blouses, and Page 5

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It pantsuits that were perfectly tailored, perfectly sophisticated, perfectlyDiana Fine. "Not bad," I said begrudgingly. For a girl who has nothing better to do, I thought, suddenly realizing that Sherrie Horowitz, heir apparent to Diana Fine, was more dangerous than ever before now that Lenny had finally given in and set her up with a cute little office and a somewhat vague job description as "executive assistant." Up until now, I thought Sherrie was cheerfully puttering around, gazing out at her view of Seventh Avenue, doing what little tasks her father would allow his darling daughter, whom he loved, but wasn't ready to trust with anything more than choosing buttons or commenting on fabrics. One look at these, I thought with horror, and Lenny might think his precious little girl was ready to take over the only position Sherrie apparently wanted. Mine. "Do you really think so?" she said, her perky features lighting up. "I thought about running them by Daddy this afternoon." Uh-oh, I thought. If I even hoped to hold on to what I had, I needed to get serious. Because if I didn't, I was in serious danger of losing everything I'd worked for all this time. My perfect boyfriend. My perfect job (I mean, how many 27-year-olds did you know who were chief designers?) My whole perfectly perfect life! Chapter Four I needed to get serious if I hoped to make the most out of this thing with Troy. I needed to go to Soho. Where else would I find a Meet-the-Parents outfit that was perfectly tasteful, perfectly elegant, and yet...perfectly me? I left work early on Friday, resolving to finish my designs over the weekend. Once I landed my future husband, I would worry about securing my spot as chief designer of Diana Fine, Sherrie Horowitz notwithstanding. But after trudging through boutique after boutique with no results (if you didn't count the three pairs of Kenneth Cole heels I couldn't live without, or the cute little halter top and jeans that would go perfect with pair number two), I realized that if I didn't find something soon, I was doomed to wear something I already owned. Which would not do at all. Everything I owned seemed too slinky, too low cut, toofunky for Dr. and Mrs. Hillbrand. (Of Connecticut.) I was about to give up when I turned onto Mercer Street and discovered the most beautiful little boutique I had ever seen. Wish Upon a Starr, the pretty little painted plaque above the doorway read. I didn't get the extra r but since a miracle seemed just what I needed, I slipped inside. And found myself surrounded by sleekly designed dresses, trousers, and skirts in all the latest colors and fabrics. Surely I would find what I wanted here. "Carly? Carly Moran? Is that really you?" came a happy little voice from the back of the store. Looking up, I spied Serena Babowski, my former fellow peon at Urban Legends. The woman whose graceful dancer's figure, shiny black hair, and sparkling blue eyes might have made me completely envious during those harrowing years there, if Serena hadn't been a suffering designer wanna-be like myself. "Serena!" I said with surprise, then found myself enveloped in a cheek grazing hug. "You look fabulous," she said, studying me with that same sparkle in her eyes. "So do you," I said. So this is what had become of Serena, I thought with surprise. We had left Urban Legends at about the same time, both of us disgusted at our lack of a future at the Future of Fashion, as Urban Legends dubbed itself. And while I had gone on to a chief designer position at Diana Fine, apparently Serena had gone on to chief sales clerk. Or so I thought. "So what do you think of my shop?" she said, gesturing around proudly. "Wish upon a Starr? You get it?" she continued, waving her hand at me, where a large emerald-cut engagement ring sparkled. "Oh, that's right, you don't know I got married since I left Urban Legends. Starr is my married name." How convenient, I thought. Snag a husband, and a fabulous new name. A name, I realized as my eye grazed over a chic black dress, that was embroidered into the collar of every fabulous creation in the store. "Are these your designs?" I asked with disbelief. "Of course!" Then she explained how she had met her perfectly perfect surname on Page 6

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It a business trip for Urban Legends. According to Serena, Paolo Starr, entrepreneur (read: family money), took one look at Serena and decided he had found his mission in life: to make Serena a Starr and back her in her next venture: a hip woman's line based out of Soho. But before I had a chance to be bitter, I decided that maybe Serena Starr, wife and designer extraordinaire, could help me. I explained my situation. "His parents? Oh, Carly, that sounds serious," she said with a wink. "I have just the thing." Then, with a toss of her shiny dark hair, Serena led me to the kind of hip black pantsuit I'd been fantasizing about the other night when I missed my, uhcue. I glanced down at the price tag. Three hundred and seventy-five dollars for polyester and Lycra? Who was she kidding? But once I stood before the fitting room mirror, saw the glow that said "fashionably married" surrounding me, I surrendered. "I'll take it," I said. "Perfect," Serena replied with a smile. "Cash or charge?" "Uh, charge," I said meekly, stepping down from the pedestal as a shiver of panic went through me. Could my credit card handle this? I wondered, eyeballing those three pairs of shoes I had purchased during my shopping despair. Suddenly I was incredibly sorry I had allowed my father to talk me into lowering my credit lines when, after he had helped me bail myself out of my college debt, he tried to show his fashion monger daughter the value of being fiscally responsible. But this suit was a down payment on my future as the wealthy, successful wife of one Troy Hillbrand, right? I thought, stepping into the dressing room and out of all that well-cut fabric. As if she sensed my doubts, Serena pounced upon me the minute I exited her fitting room, reaching for the pantsuit to ring it up and seizing upon my last vulnerable spot: my ego. "That handbag is fabulous," she said, eyeballing the animal-print tote I carried proudly on my shoulder. I say proudly because I had made said fabulous tote myself, along with a whole collection of others, which crowded up the meager storage space in my apartment. I had started making my own bags during my ill-fated career at Urban Legends, to keep my sanity and my creative juices flowing while the powers-that-be there were ignoring my desire to do something more than production work. Handbag design had always been a secret love of mine, until I realized I couldn't find anyone who would hire me to do it. "Thanks. It's one of my own designs," I said, reaching into that well-made bag for my wallet and handing over my credit card with new confidence. "Really?" Serena replied, eyes wide with admiration and new respect. And after she slid my Visa through her credit card machine, I proceeded to show her the interior, which I had equipped with an inner pouch for money, cell phone holder and — clever girl that I am — lipstick compartment. "You know I've been thinking of adding a line of handbags to the store," she said, eyeing me speculatively. My heart leapt, but before I could tell her about the various designs I'd already dreamed up, the credit machine beeped and Serena glanced down with what looked decidedly like a frown. "Hmm For some reason this card is not going through. Do you have another?" Yeah, I thought. Cut in a million pieces in my desk drawer at home, at my father's instruction. But I couldn't tell successful Serena that. So I made up some excuse about how I had been having trouble ever since I had lost my card while traveling with Troy in Bora Bora (I have never been to Bora Bora) and with a few abject apologies and a promise to return with my checkbook, I fled the store, my pride in tatters and my heart permanently positioned at the bottom of my stomach. Who did I think I was fooling anyway? I wondered as I headed home to my too-small apartment with my three pairs of shoes purchased on a pauper's salary. This wasn't the kind of thing that should happen to the future Mrs. Troy Hillbrand, the name conjuring up another image of Troy's mother, decked in diamonds and pearls and smiling graciously. Ack! Just who did I think I was? Chapter Five By the time Saturday night arrived, I knew exactly who I was. I was the future Mrs. Troy Hillbrand, judging by the way Dr. and Mrs. Hillbrand were gazing Page 7

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It rapturously at me from across the table at a quaint little French restaurant on Madison Avenue. And why wouldn't they love me, sitting beside their perfectly suitable son in a perfectly suitable Diana Fine dress I'd pulled from our sample inventory in a last-minute wardrobe panic on Friday. I had even managed to tame my unruly locks into a French twist and dig out a set of pearls I hadn't worn since I received them from my parents at my college graduation. The only saving grace was that I had a perfectly Carly Moran handbag to jazz it up, with enough funky beading to make me feel likeme again. "That's aninteresting purse," Mrs. Hillbrand said, her soft blue gaze beneath her tasteful ash-blond bob alighting upon it as if it were some kind of intruder at our well-dressed table. I ignored the fact that I had never called anything I created a "purse," and proceeded to tell her, in that strangely well-modulated voice that kept coming out of my mouth, that I had designed it myself. "Really?" she said, her brow furrowing as she studied the bag, as if the fact that I had not plunked down 200 bucks for someone else's design somehow made me suspect. But before I could tell her about the rest of my collection, Troy grabbed my hand warmly and proceeded to tell his parents about my illustrious position as chief designer at Diana Fine. "I wouldn't be surprised if old Lenny Horowitz lets her take over the reins some day," he said proudly, beaming at me. "Not a bad racket," Dr. Hillbrand said, his gaze imperious, very much like Troy's when he was faced with a sound proposition. In fact, Dr. Hillbrand looked like an older, more austere version of Troy, with the exception that he was almost completely bald. I glanced uneasily at Troy's own hair, seeking out the signs of thinning I had only begun to notice that night. Could I love a man with a comb-over? I wondered now. "Of course, it's a lot of responsibility," Mrs. Hillbrand warned. "But I suppose once you start having children, you would have a staff who could keep things running while you weren't home." I nodded meekly as a sudden — horrific — vision of myself placing a pie on some well-dressed table in some tasteful, spacious home (in Connecticut, no doubt) filled my mind. The image would have been numbing, if not for the piercing shriek of the aforementioned children playing in the yard. Did I even want to have children? I wondered now. Had I even begun to think of these things? I was only 27 years old for chrissakes. Help! Help! But my cries were muted by the gentle clink of silverware as we dined on filet mignon, sipped expensive wine, and talked about all those things in life that were important. At least according to Dr. and Mrs. Hillbrand. Real Estate. Children. Insurance. Lots of it. I was powerless to do anything but nod meekly. After all, they were right, right? A person didn't just give up a perfectly good job, a perfectly safe life, just because she knew what women wanted when it came to shoulder straps and inner compartments. Right? Right, I thought, by the time the check came and Dr. Hillbrand calmly and efficiently handed over his platinum card. It was clear by this point I had passed the Meet-the-Parents test with flying colors. Bolstered by their approval — and two numbing glasses of good wine — I realized I could do this. I could marry Troy. After all, there was a lot to be said for marrying money, I thought, gazing at the diamonds sparkling on Mrs. Hillbrand's tasteful necklace, her Escada dress, practically pulled from the runway, judging by the up-to-date cut of the skirt and neck. Clearly this woman was a professional shopper. And apparently, besides her volunteer duties at the Garden Club of Connecticut, that was all she did. Suddenly it occurred to me that if I married Troy, I would get what I needed most: time. While he was off making us millions, I would have all day long to pursue my dreams — all with the benefit of health insurance. This could work. I could have my own shop, I thought, remembering Serena's beautiful boutique, compliments of her rich, entrepreneurial husband. I could spend whole days designing handbags. Or, I thought, studying the tasteful wrap Mrs. Hillbrand slipped over her shoulders as we headed for the door, I could spend all dayshopping. "Let's walk off dinner a bit," Troy said, once we were outside, grabbing my Page 8

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It hand, which was about to fly into the air to flag a cab. "Sure," I said gamely, when suddenly all I wanted to do was slump into some dark, upholstered corner and forget this night ever happened. And as we ambled in companionable silence beside Dr. and Mrs. Hillbrand, Troy suddenly let out what sounded decidedly like a guffaw. "Hey, Carly, check that out," he said, pointing up at the side of a building. "Isn't that your ex-boyfriend?" Sure enough, there, beaming at me from an Urban Legends billboard on the corner of 65th and Madison, was Mitch. Actually, he wasn't smiling, or even looking out me. He was gazing down with a considerable amount of heat at Brigitte Long, Urban Legends model of the moment, who was crushed against his bare chest. The embrace might have seemed pornographic if not for the well-fitting jeans they both wore. "Ex-boyfriend?" Mrs. Hillbrand said, her voice cracking a bit and causing me to tear my gaze from Mitch's, which was burrowing into Brigitte's with what looked liketenderness, despite the way his groin was pressed into hers. When my eyes met Mrs. Hillbrand's, heat filled my face, as if I were the one who was half-naked on Madison Avenue. "Uhit was a college thing," I said. Post-college, but I didn't feel it necessary to mention that. After all, we'd only lasted long enough for me to go from the next great thing at Urban Legends to the last and only hope for Diana Fine. "Oh," Mrs. Hillbrand said, but I could tell the fact that I had ever been associated with a man whose body was screaming "SEX" all over her beloved Madison Avenue made me suspect. Fortunately, Troy decided that we'd done enough walking and was hailing a cab for Dr. and Mrs. Hillbrand, who still embraced me somewhat warmly in spite of my misspent youth, before she sat her well-fragranced self comfortably beside her well-chosen husband in the cab and sped away. "I think they really liked you," Troy said, flashing me that perfect smile and linking his arm in mine, as he hailed us a cab. "Yeah," I mumbled, my eyes roaming to that billboard once more and seeking out the passion portrayed there. Passion I no longer felt for Mitch, I realized with relief. Or Troy, I thought, with a sudden sinking feeling. Chapter Six By the time Monday morning rolled around, I had convinced myself that having a good life only required a little strength of mind. The ability to commit to someone and something. How did anyone get anywhere in life otherwise? Of course, there were compromises. And I knew a lot about compromising. "Carly, these designs are perfect," Lenny said, beaming at me from behind his desk, where my newly refurbished designs lay before him: Pages and pages of blouses that flattered without being flashy and dresses and trousers cut generously enough to disguise the dieting habits of the hopelessly disenchanted. In a word: frumpy. But tastefully frumpy. What else could I feel but relief? Especially since I had heard Sherrie Horowitz on the phone that very morning, complaining to someone or other that her father hadn't even looked at her designs, dismissing them as child's play. Despite the stab of guilt I felt for poor Sherrie, I couldn't help but surrender to my fate when I saw that look of satisfaction on Lenny's face. After all, I had eaten enough cheesecake at dinner last night to make me realize that I, too, might find myself in need of Diana Fine's tasteful, flattering designs some day. And I would have been fine with my fate, if I didn't find myself sitting across from a rapturous Veronica that very night at Bar Six, a swanky little bistro in our neighborhood. As predicted, Veronica had surrendered to Devin Manley. And on date two, no less. "It was just.amaaazing," she breathed over her barely touched Cosmopolitan. Then, lowering her voice, "Can you believe I had a multiple orgasm the very first time we did it?" I slugged down the rest of my own Cosmo, narrowed my eyes at her. "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure!" she said, looking offended. But only momentarily before she went on to describe every amaaazing detail of her night of passion with Page 9

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It Devin Manley, her newfound soul mate. Soul mate, shmoul mate. It was just sex. And sex wasn't everything, right? Right, I thought as I headed home to my tiny apartment, my head dizzy from drinks and my heart curiously empty, in spite of the fact that I found a message on my machine from Troy, in which he gushed about how much his parents had adored me. I decided to call my mother. She would set me straight. Make me realize that a quiet, sexless life in suburbia was what I truly craved. But the phone rang and rang in my ear, and just as I began to wonder where my parents could be on a Monday night (after all, the big social event for them these days was bridge games with the neighbors, and I knew that didn't happen until Friday), my mother answered, sounding somewhatbreathless. "Carly!" she practically shouted at me. "Mom," I said, concerned at the note of alarm in her voice. "Is everything all right?" She sounded as if she had just run six flights of stairs, which I knew wasn't possible, since my parents lived in a ranch house. A sprawling ranch house, but still "Everything's fine," she said, then lowering her voice, added, "your father and I were justmoving the couch." Moving the couch? At 9:30 at night? "Rhonda, hang up that phone and come back to bed," came my father's rough command in the background. Oh my. Oh my, oh my, oh my. My parents were! "I'll let you go," I said, feeling my face go red to the roots of my hair. "Are you sure? I mean, is everything okay, sweetheart?" my mother asked, clearly embarrassed. "Rhoooondaaaaaa!" came my father's voice once more. "Everything's fine. I'll call you tomorrow," I muttered frantically, hanging up the phone as a sudden horror filled me. Even my parents were having sex. Good sex, judging by the excitement in my mother's voice as she hurriedly said her goodbyes and rushed off the phone. Get a grip, I told myself. Of course my parents had sex. They had me, didn't they? But that was 27 years ago! Surely they couldn't still They could and they did, apparently. It was just a fluke, I thought, glancing out the window at the full moon. But in the weeks that followed, I discovered that what was happening (or not happening, I should say) between Troy and I, was not a fluke. Because ever since that oddly defining — and strangely deflating — evening with his parents, we stopped sleeping together altogether. Oh, we slept together, as in shared the same bed, but that was it. Oh, and we talked. More than we probably had in the past nine months. But the more we talked, the more I realized we shared nothing in common. And the more "quality" time we spent together, the more I realized that I did not love him. Not in the way a woman should when faced with forever "You have to break up with him," Veronica said as she sat across from me on my bed. She had come over within a half hour of my calling her to confess that far from being in love with the man I was devoting all my evenings to, I was freaking out. I had just spent an evening with Troy, during which he waxed poetic about the value of good investments, even proposed a budget plan that would bring his fiscally responsible dreams to fruition, all in under three months' time. Dreams, I was sure now, I didn't want to share. "Maybe I'm justjust a commitment-phobe," I pleaded. Veronica shook her head vehemently. Though she sometimes seemed fuzzy when it came to her own life, she was surprisingly sure when it came to the direction mine should take. "You went out with Mitch for four years!" "Need I remind you Mitch is marrying someone else?" "That's not the point. The fact is that you are capable of having a longstanding relationship. But with the right guy. Maybe Troy is just your rebound guy. And maybe the next guy you meet, maybe he'll beyour destiny." Now she was starting to sound like dreamy-eyed Veronica again. "And is Devin Manley your destiny?" "I sure hope so," she said with a sigh. Then, probably because I was eyeing her suspiciously, she continued. "Look, maybe you and I have a different approach to relationships. I jump in heart first, and I will admit, it has resulted in a lot of heartbreak. But that's the way I am. I have to leap before I look, otherwise Page 10

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It I'll never take that leap. You, on the other hand, are looking so hard at everything else, you never take that leap. Well, maybe once you did, with Mitch. But ever since Mitch, you've looking for a ledge to perch on. But that's only going to leave you clinging to a wall for the rest of your life." She was right, I realized. And I could no longer deny it. Troy had been my ledge, my security blanket — albeit a luxurious one — after my heartbreak over Mitch. But I couldn't make a life with blanket — cashmere or not. I had to break up with him. But this was easier said than done. "Carly, sweetheart," Troy said, when I called him the next day from work. "Meet me after work tonight? I have a surprise." Uh-oh. Chapter Seven Try as I might, I could not escape whatever "surprise" Troy had in store for me. And I was sure I knew what it was. "I can't see you tonight," I pleaded on the phone with him. "Why?" "My first samples came in today. And I have to stay late and go over them with Lenny." "You told me Lenny was on vacation this week." Damn. I forgot I'd told him that. "Ummm, I have a headache?" "Take some aspirin. C'mon, this is important." Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. "I can't tonight, Troy." Or any other night. And after a few minutes of pleading with me, he hung up, clearly irritated. I felt bad, I really did. Felt even worse when I came downstairs at 5:00 and found him waiting in front of the building for me, a boyish expression on his face. "What are you doing here —?" "Never mind that. C'mon," he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the cab he had waiting. "I made all the arrangements for tonight, so you have to come." What could I do but get in the cab with him? What could I feel but dread as the cab headed way downtown, past my West Village apartment and toward the Brooklyn Bridge. Oh, God. Was he going to propose to me on the Bridge? He knew how much I loved that bridge, how often I'd asked him to take a walk with me over it, but he'd always had something more important to do, like someone's taxes. Oh, Troy, why, oh, why did you wait till now to become such a romantic? But we didn't get that far. In fact, Troy signaled the driver to stop in front of a well-appointed building in Tribeca. This was an interesting twist, I thought, following him numbly as he used a key to open the front door, then another to operate the elevator. Clearly he had gone to a lot of trouble. And I didn't deserve it, I thought, as I rode the elevator up with him, all the while trying not to cry at the look of pure anticipation on Troy's features. The elevator came to a stop on the third floor and the door slid open, revealing a spacious interior lit only by the glow from the streetlights filtering through the enormous windows. I stepped numbly onto the hardwood floors, looking around for something to indicate what was going to go down here. But there was nothing. Not a scrap of furniture, or even a shred of carpet for him to get down on one knee on. "What do you think?" he said, smiling at me in the semidarkness. "Think?" I asked, dumbfounded. "Of the apartment? All I have to do is sign a few more papers and hand over the down payment and it's mine. You're the one with the taste in this relationship. I figured you could give me your opinion." "It'sit's beautiful," I said, a rush of relief washing through me and sending tears to my eyes. Fortunately he didn't notice. He was too busy showing me where he was going to set up his office, his shelves filled with tax accounting books, his bed. "What do you say we christen it?" he said, a predatory gleam in his eye. Huh? I thought, but then I didn't have time to think, because suddenly I was horizontal beneath Troy on the floor, feeling all that old, illicit excitement we used to share. I reveled in the feeling, despite my doubts about us. After all, it had been a while. And right there, with the cold hard floor against my flesh, I had the biggest orgasm I had had in months. I sighed and almost had a moment of regret for what I had planned to do. Kind of Page 11

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It like when you make an appointment to get your hair cut, only to have your best hair day yet. "Wow, we are good together," he said, but I knew he was talking about sex. And sex wasn't everything, I realized now. But it may have been the only thing Troy and I had ever had. Which was why, when he cuddled close, and said, "So, do you think you could see yourself spending some time here?" I knew I had to do something. For despite those soaring ceilings and shiny hardwood floors, I couldn't base my relationship with Troy on real estate. No matter how good an orgasm I just had. Looking at him, I said, "TroyII can't marry you." "Marry me? What the —?" His shook his head, as if I'd just clocked him. "Who the hell said anything about marriage?" "Well, I just thought — I mean, first you want me to meet your parents, now we're looking at apartments. What else was I supposed to —" Then he let me have it. The whole boring truth behind the recent developments in our relationship. "My parents came to town because my father wanted to see the apartment I was considering investing in. For tax purposes, I had to buy something, so I figured I'd give up paying rent and pay into real estate." He shook his head. "Marriage? You know my only goal right now is to make partner." He sighed. "I knew this was going to happen. Why does every girl have to turn everything into marriage? Jeez, Carly, I thought you were different. I thought —" But I was no longer listening to what he thought. I was good and mad. Mad enough to end the whole relationship right then and there. Because the only thing worse than discovering I didn't want to marry Troy, was discovering he didn't want to marry me. I mean, if nothing else, a girl wants to be wanted. Truly desired. Loved. And I knew now that what was wrong with me and Troy was that neither one of us loved each other enough to take the next step. So I took the only step I could. I broke up with him. Chapter Eight "You broke up with him?" my mother asked when I called to give her the news. "But Troy was so perfect — so successful, so rich. Why?" I sighed, and decided to hit her head-on with the truth. "I didn't love him, Ma." "Oh, well," she said, getting her bearings. "Then that's that." Yes, that was that. Sort of. There was still one more heartbreaking thing I needed to do. I went to Soho. To return those three damn pairs of shoes, those way-too-expensive jeans and even that cute little halter-top. After all, I hadn't spent nine months with Troy without learning the value of good investing. And then, with a few sample handbags tucked into my shoulder bag, I went to Wish Upon a Starr, hoping to make my best investment yet. "Carly! You're back," Serena said when I walked through the door. "Good thing, too. I still have that pantsuit in your size." "Ummm Actually, I didn't come to shop." Before I lost my nerve, I pulled out my samples, showed her the workmanship on each one while I babbled on about every little shoulder bag, tote, and evening clutch I had shaped, sewn, and glued during those empty hours at Urban Legends when I was dreaming of taking over the fashion world, one well-clad shoulder at a time. Too bad no one at Urban Legends ever cared about the hopes of a starry-eyed designer tucked away in the production department. But Serena did. "These are fabulous," she said, "When can you work up some more samples?" So I told her I'd consult my workback schedule and get back to her. And as I walked up Mercer Street, my nerves still shimmering with newfound success, I realized I had a few more truths to face. Like the fact that I was broke. How was I going to pay for the materials I needed? I called my father at work and confessed all. That far from starting a savings account as he had advised when he'd succeeded in convincing me to curb my credit power, his designer daughter didn't have a financial leg to stand on. And I needed one. My dreams were waiting to happen. "Well, that's easy enough," my father replied, with the confidence of a man who Page 12

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It had spent his entire life advising others how to finance their dreams. "All you need to do is draw up a business plan and take a loan." A loan? My fiscally responsible father was now advising his credit happy daughter to take a loan? But when I started to protest, he proceeded to explain to me the difference between good credit and bad credit — and that, far from being fiscally irresponsible, taking a loan to finance your dreams was the first step to success. Providing you had a sound business plan. And a lot of courage. I discovered, in the months that followed, that I had both. Because suddenly, in that post-breakup phase, I became a powerhouse of activity, spending all those nights I used to spend lulled by the luxurious life I led with Troy, making bags for Serena, as well as a few other local merchants I soon landed with her help. By day I designed for Diana Fine, even took Sherrie Horowitz under my wing and showed her how to get her daddy's attention with her own designs. After all, someone was going to have to take over as chief designer once my dreams got off the ground. And, judging by the way my bags began flying off the shelves around town, they would. Life was moving merrily on. Even for Veronica, who had successfully made it to the six-month mark with Devin Manley. At least, I thought things were moving merrily along for Veronica, until she called me one night in a panic. "You are never going to believe this," she began, "but Devin is moving to Connecticut." Uh-oh, I thought. Veronica may have been ready for monogamy, but Connecticut? Then she explained that he was starting up a repertory company and had asked her to come along as his set designer. Apparently Devin Manley was not without prospects. He had a little nest egg and some pretty big dreams himself. "What should I do?" she said, the excitement in her voice telling me all I needed to know. "You should go for it," I replied, with all the wisdom of a woman who recognized when her best friend was in love and on the verge of the next best thing in her life. Because I was on the verge of my next best thing. I could feel it in my bones. My real life was just about to happen. And it wasamazing. * * * I don't need to tell you that there is nothing like looking your best when you run into the man who once broke your heart. And the day I ran into Mitch Turner, I was decked out in DKNY (a gift to myself now that I had finally started to turn a real profit). And, I might add, I had just exited the corporate offices of Urban Legends, where I'd just signed a contract to design a line of bags for its label. Needless to say, my Via Spiga shoes were walking on air. So much so, that I didn't even notice Mitch as I stepped off the elevator and into the lobby. "Carly?" came that voice that was once as familiar to me as breathing. Then I saw him. I will admit, he looked pretty hot, decked in leather pants and a T-shirt that showed off his broad shoulders and beautifully sculpted chest. "Hey, Mitch," I said, studying those cool gray eyes and remembering. Remembering what it was to feel so passionate about someone. And realizing that that someone was no longer him. Thank God. Because before I could even answer his "How are you doing?" he proceeded to tell me all about his new album, his new apartment, his fabulous life. As I listened, I saw that old familiar passion in his eyes. It was the excitement I had once mistaken as love for me, when really the only love Mitch ever had was for himself. "How's Brigitte?" I asked, wondering how his supermodel wife was bearing up under the weight of his ego. "Brigitte?" he said, as if he'd forgotten the name of the woman he'd married not even six months ago. "Oh, she's fine. Hey, did I tell you I'm going to be the next underwear model for Calvin Klein?" Then he almost looked humble for a moment. "You can't beat the residuals on those endorsements. Not that the royalties on my first album were bad," he added quickly, just in case I wondered why a rock god like him felt a need to stand around in his underwear. Well, he always did look good in his underwear. "Good seeing you again," I said, when our conversation reached a lull and I knew Page 13

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer

Harlequin - Curynn Lynda - Faking It I had nothing else I needed to say to him. At that moment I realized that I no longer felt any regrets about anything. Not Mitch. Not Troy, who once we got over that post-breakup awkwardness, had started doing my taxes (after all, a girl doesn't have to be in love to need a good accountant). Not even Diana Fine, where I had just handed in my resignation. Then I smiled with the satisfaction of a woman who knew she would always make the right choices for herself. As long as she listens to her heart. The End

Page 14

Create PDF with GO2PDF for free, if you wish to remove this line, click here to buy Virtual PDF Printer