The Lying Game

Chapter 3

At 3:45pm, Eric stood in front of his bedroom mirror and regarded his appearance with an emphatic frown. Sure, he looked okay in the grey tuxedo he'd worn a year earlier to his Aunt Susan's wedding – but only if okay meant looking like a five-year-old whose mother had dressed up for a school dance.

Somehow, he knew okay wasn't going to quite cut it when it came to Celia and whatever plans she had for him that night.

Not that he had any other fancy clothes. Or that he had any idea what he was supposed to be wearing.

All she'd said was, "we'll pick you up at 4pm" and "make sure you're ready."

Ready for what, exactly?

He couldn't even get in contact with her – she hadn't handed him her phone number on a piece of perfumed paper or whatever they did in those boy-meets-girl movies. And she didn't tell him her last name, so Facebook stalking was out of the question.

Eric had the overwhelming sense that Celia thought the world revolved around her, that she could expect people to drop everything at a moment's notice.

"Bloody rich kids," he muttered, adjusting the coral dicky-bow threatening to suffocate him.

At least it was half-term. He didn't have to worry about school, so that was something...even if he did spend the last three days worrying about being outed as an imposter.

Dammit, Eric, he thought, bumping his forehead against the mirror, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?

"You look nice," a voice sang to him from the doorway, "special occasion? A date, perhaps?"

Eric rolled his eyes as his fifteen-year-old sister, Eva, hopped onto his bed with a questioning glance. "You could say that," he shrugged.

Eva wrinkled her nose, "It's not with Jay, is it? I mean – I know he bats for the other team, but I thought he had better taste."

"Ha," he pulled a face. "It's definitely not Jay."

"So who is it? Spill! Give me all the deets!"

"There's nothing to spill."

Yeah – that was a lie. There was a lot to spill, but he hadn't even told Jay or Henry or Vince yet, so there was no way he was telling his little sister. He was sure as hell not bringing that magnificently worded escort ad up with Eva.

He was about to shoo Eva away when the distinct sound of heavy tires crunching over the gravel out front wafted in through the open window, and she leapt from the bed for a sneak-peek.

"Jeez," she said, turning to him with wide eyes, "just who the hell are you dating?"

Eric furrowed his brow and joined her, then internally face-palmed as he saw what Celia thought was an acceptable mode of transport.

A limo.

A white fucking limo.

A white fucking limo that was wider than his tiny little cottage.

"Christ," he muttered. That's one way to draw attention.

The sunroof of the limo slide open slowly to reveal Celia waving at him as if she were the Queen and he were a mere peasant. Her long, dark hair had been styled into one long braid, and she was dressed in a short, pink cocktail dress and white, fluffy jacket.

"Oh," said Eva, "she's pretty. Are you sure she's here for you?"

I wish she weren't, he wanted to say.