The Fake Fiancée

Chapter 1

My mother believes in love. “Love is truly the Genesis of all,” She says.

Do I agree?......

Tonight is for relaxation from all the stress I have gone through this week. Casey, my best friend, is the best and only candidate for this. She makes hot chocolate as I rant.

“Calm down. Let me process this. You’re no longer training to be a chef?" She exclaims.

Casey takes a sip of the hot chocolate, then places the mug on the tiny breakfast counter which demarcates the living room from the kitchenette. We shared a ride here and decided to have a drink and decompress. Neither of us wanted to go out, so we opted to come back to Casey's tiny apartment. When my last landlord asked me to leave with less than a month’s notice, Casey—who’d been looking for a flatmate—asked me to move in, and I agreed.

"Turns out, the hours are too long, the pay is s**t when you’re starting, and not much better later, and you don’t even get weekends free." I glance down into the depths of my herbal tea. Why the hell did I choose chamomile? I hate the taste, but it’s supposed to be soothing, and I could do with a little of that right now. I squirm around on the bar stool, trying to find a more comfortable space.

Casey looks at me with curiosity. "You okay?"

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

"You look a little peaked."

"It’s the changing weather. Summer into autumn, the days drawing to an end earlier. I mean, I do like the turning of the leaves, but I much prefer it when it’s warm and sunny."

I take a sip of the chamomile tea and almost gag.

She looks at me skeptically. "You don’t have to drink that, you know."

"I do." I hunch my shoulder. "My ma always used to say there was nothing chamomile tea couldn’t make better."

Her gaze softens. "How is she doing?"

"Well, she recognized me the last time I saw her, so it was a good day." The slippery sensation of chamomile fills my mouth, and I force myself to swallow it. Maybe the more I do the things I don’t like, the more God will reward me with the things I want. It’s a strange logic, but one that has been drilled into me, thanks to the nuns who ran the school I attended. The same nuns who forbid swearing and thinking about s*x and boys. It was a strict upbringing, but a happy one.

For all the singing of religious hymns at morning assembly, and the talk of sacrifice, it was an innocent, carefree childhood. My father passed away when I was fifteen, and my mother picked up a second job till she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. She ensured I never wanted for anything and was my best friend.

Growing up, I remember my mom always keeping lists so she wouldn't forget things. She'd say, "I have a lot on my mind. I can't be expected to remember everything."

After my father’s passing, she became more absent-minded, forgetting where she left her lists, sometimes forgetting to even make one. On occasion, I’d notice her hands shaking as she made dinner, but she always had a ready explanation. She was too tired. She was missing my father and coming to grips with it. Work has been stressful, etcetera, etcetera. I never pushed her for an explanation, as involved as I’d been with my own changing body and hormones, and then the race to get accepted into college.

I was eighteen, loved cooking, and got a scholarship to the Institute of Culinary Education in New York City. I wanted to put off going so I could support her, but she insisted I go. I shuffled between school, home, and hospital. By the time I completed my degree, her case was severe. I’d been offered a job in a reputable restaurant in London. I refused to leave her and had to turn it down.

Her condition has been deteriorating, and we need money to pay for hospital bills. So, I need money. Fast. And here I am, unable to hold down a single job so my best option is catering gigs to pay the bills.

"I’m sorry, Estella." Casey reaches forward and grips my hand. "I wish there was something I could do to help you."

"You’re allowing me to stay here and pay a fraction of the money I should be paying in rent. I think you’re doing a lot already."

"I have a job. I can support us." She raises a shoulder. "Besides, if I’d refused to accept any money from you, would you have moved in here?"

I begin to object when she stops me with a raised brow.

"That’s what I thought." She lifts her mug of hot chocolate and slurps it up. "You make a mean hot cocoa. Also, I'm the beneficiary of your cooking experiments, so I’d say I got the better end of the deal."

"That’s you being generous. I’d hardly qualify my little cooking forays as sufficient to afford this apartment in London." I glance around the tiny flat. What it lacks in space, it makes up for in light. It's on the top floor of a two-story block, with skylights that allow the sunshine to stream in. And it's in the heart of Brooklyn, which is as prime as you can get, in terms of real estate locations.

"You don’t give yourself enough credit."

I laugh. "If you mean the cooking, I do like to cook; I love it. But I prefer it. I like to cook at my own pace, rather than being packed into the pressure-cooker environment of a kitchen run by a professional chef."

"That bad, huh?" Her tone is sympathetic.

"It took the joy out of cooking. I realized, very quickly, it's not for me."

"It’s good you realized it early, huh? This way, you can move on.

I take in her features. "Are you referring to yourself when you say that?"

"Who, me? Nah!" She places her palms together in front of her. "I mean, the big boss of my company is a jerkass, but I don’t have much to do with him, so it’s all right. I like what I do, so that’s a positive."

"I wish I could find a career I love. I’m twenty-three and trying to work out what I want to do with my life."

"You have plenty of time to work that out," Mira assures me.

"But my mother doesn’t." I swallow down the ball of emotions that block my throat. "I need to find a way to keep her in the home. She’s comfortable there. Everyone knows her and is kind to her. If only I could find a job that I could hold onto, I—"

As if summoned, my phone buzzes with an incoming text message. I glance at it. "It’s from my boss," I murmured.

"Oh, what does she say?"

I read the message again, groaned, and announced “ I have an unexpected shift tonight.”