Lights, Camera, Christmas!

Chapter 1:

In terms of all the catastrophes in my life (and oh, there've been many) this was a category 5, no holds barred shit show of epic proportions. My goose was almost certainly cooked.

As I navigated the winding road to my aunt's farmhouse in picturesque Cape Breton, it occurred to me I better mentally prepare for the consequences because this last-ditch Hail Mary play was never going to work. I mentally logged what was in store for me in the coming days.

Public humiliation? Certainly.

Loss of income? Most definitely.

Jail time? OMG.

I hadn't thought of that. I'd never make it in jail, I'm too soft. And they have such uncomfy beds there, just metal cots really. Not the elegant, king-sized ultra-luxe mattress I sleep on now, with the organic bamboo sheets. I like the finer things in life, so sue me.

I took a hand off the steering wheel to smack my forehead. Sued. I'm going to get sued, almost certainly.

"How did I get into this mess," I asked the borrowed dog in the passenger seat beside me who let out a short, snuffly sigh through his nose before laying back down. I got him from the SPCA five hours ago, they said he was the dog who was in the shelter the longest. He seemed to give me a dirty look and cocked his head to the side as if to say 'how do I know, bitch?'

It was as if he knew there was no way I could keep him — I'm allergic and my eyes and nose had been running like a tap for most of the trip. But he'd do for the weekend. After that I'd have to give him back, but there was no way for him to know that, so I didn't know why he was so salty.

"At least you'll get out of the shelter for a road trip, right? You're going to have the time of your life!" Another snuffle and he seemed to roll his eyes at me. A pang of guilt hit me in the side like a shiv to the kidney. "Don't look at me like that," I said. He turned his head away to look out the window

"You don't understand," I pleaded with the back of his head. Dogs were supposed to be perceptive to emotions so he should know how stressed I was. "I have to find a husband, a farmhouse and a baby by 4 pm tomorrow or I'll lose my job. And everything." He stayed sitting with his back to me. I sighed. Even the dog was disappointed in me. That made two of us. 

In my haste to recreate my perfect life, I nearly forgot about the dog I'd been writing about for three years. The elderly golden lab Smuckers was a main character in my fake life. Every time I wrote about Smuckers, my engagement shot through the roof.

I couldn't find an elderly lab at the shelter, just this scrawny Maltese mix with three legs named Buckley. I could have chosen any dog, all of them were miles away from looking like an actual lab. But they said this little guy was there the longest likely because of his wonky leg situation, like that since birth. I wanted to at least treat him to a weekend in the country before giving him back. 

"I don't need this guilt, OK? You're the least of my worries. I have 24 hours to find a husband and a baby!"  I cringed when I thought about him barfing his guts up all over my leather seats and felt a mix of deep sympathy and irritation. This must be what it's like to be a dog owner, I thought. Equal parts love and annoyance. I reached out and stroked his soft little head. He sure was cute.

Then I grimaced and took my hand back. I didn't like dogs, I reminded myself. They were smelly and messy and a lot of work and besides they sent my sinuses into overdrive. I cleaned most of the dog barf when we stopped at the gas station, but I'd have to get the whole car detailed when I got back to my regular life.

If I got back to my regular life. What a mess.

I'd been driving for nearly four hours. The sky had threatened rain since I left the city but never followed through. Thank God Aunt Martha agreed to lend me her farmhouse for the weekend. At least that was covered. I loved the place; a refurbished 150-year old house at the base of Kelly's Mountain on the picturesque Cabot Trail, one of the most beautiful places in the world. It was my happy place, a restorative, peaceful oasis from my hectic life and the inspiration for my fake and fabulous Instagrammable life. In social media world I had a doting architect husband Thaddeus – we were high school sweethearts - and three children, Evelynne Lavender, Poppy Persimmon and little baby Cara-Belle Blossom. And of course, Smuckers the lab.

Farmouse: Check. Dog: Not exactly right but check. Now all I needed was the husband and the kids. Easy, right? I groaned.

"Smuckers-sorry, Buckley .. what am I going to do?" The dog raised his head and turned to me, his soulful, golden-brown eyes looking right into my soul. "Liar," they seemed to say. "Cheat."

"I'm not a liar! I'm just a con artist," I shot back realizing that I was arguing with a dog. He seemed to curl his lip in my direction before settling back down again to go to sleep.

I'm a terrible person. A terrible, awful person and now I'm paying the price for years of scamming the public. The dog knew it, I knew it and soon everyone would know it. I flushed with shame. 

How did it all start? Why did I ever embark on this massive fraud?

The answer was easy.

Money. Fame. Nearly a million engaged followers on social media. My job as a highly paid mega lifestyle influencer was surprisingly lucrative, affording me an enviable life. The fact that I was not a traditional wife getting up at five to make homemade cereal and applesauce for my adorable cherubs and organic oatmeal for my husband was a secret I worked hard at keeping over the past few years and it was all about to blow up in my face. I suppose it was a miracle I was able to keep up the lie for all this time.

Even without the picture perfect home and family, my job was hard work. Spending 14-hour days creating content, having strategy meetings with my team, filming sponsored content, editing and posting constantly, lunch with PR contacts and other influencers, brand collabs, going over engagement and analytics data to see what content is performing best and adjusting my strategy accordingly, live-streaming and planning for the next day. And then wake up the next day and do it all over again while the cash and swag rolled in,.

It was a gruelling schedule, but I loved every minute of it. And now I was about to lose it all.

There was just one chance. It was all or nothing, winner take all. Shame, lawsuits and possible prison, or launch my brand into the stratosphere. The stakes could not be higher.

There was a 99 per cent chance I would flame out this weekend and the big crash and burn all my haters wished on me was about to happen.

But there still that one per cent chance.

I was more likely to vacation on the moon than to pull this off. But my entire life had been a series of near-misses and pulling my ass out of the fire at the last possible moment. This could be no different.

As long as there was a chance.

Cape Breton always had its own weather system. Before I crossed the small causeway that joined the island to the mainland, the sky had been a perfect, cloudless sapphire. Now it looked like I meandered into the highlands of Scotland or west Ireland, hills rising from the mist to stand sentry over the bay of St. Anne's. The drab, melancholy sky deepened into navy as the night fell distressingly early. It wasn't even five pm.

Just as a cold rain began to splatter the windshield, the headlights of my rental swept the familiar mailbox signalling the driveway was near. I slowed down and took the sharp turn, grateful to see the huge farmhouse standing tall on the hill.

"This is it," I told Buckley-Smuckers who jumped to his feet and pawed at the car window to get out, tail whipping back and forth.

"Showtime."