The Lying Game

Chapter 4

Eric unfolded the piece of paper that Demi had passed him and, biting his lower lip, began to study the neatly hand-written details of his new, made-up life.

Name: Eric Valentine

"Valentine?" he raised an eyebrow. "You can't be serious."

"It's cute," shrugged Celia, "Celia Valentine, I like that."

"This isn't for real," said Eric, flatly.

"A girl can dream..."

Age: 18

School: Home-schooled

"You're home-schooled by a private tutor," nodded Demi.

Family: Mother (Olive Valentine), Father (Ivan Valentine), no grandparents, no uncles/aunts/siblings

"Hopefully all the V sounds will help you remember their names."

"I'm not completely stupid," he muttered, screwing the paper up into a ball.

"Nooo!" whined Celia, "you haven't finished reading it!"

"I think I'll be fine."

Eric folded his arms across his chest and frowned, staring out of the window as the scenery rolled by; country lanes, fields and cows had been pretty much the only things he'd seen for the past half an hour, so they definitely weren't headed towards the city.

Duh, he thought to himself, why would a Country Club be in the city?

He thought they'd at least have taken him to London or something. Wasn't that where the aristocracy and all the rich people lived? He'd have been able to show off to Jay and Henry – none of them had been to London before; train prices were a nightmare, and none of them could drive. Jay had attempted the practical test, but totally lost his nerve when reversing around a corner and backed up into a junction cabinet. He'd cried for about three days.

"The club is in Hertfordshire," said Nina, reading his mind, "we're actually nearly there."

Eric didn't say anything, but simply nodded. He couldn't have said anything if he'd wanted to – there was a sickly feeling materializing in his stomach, and he was sure that if he opened his mouth, all that would come out was that afternoon's lunch. He grabbed a glass of champagne and downed it in one, praying that the alcohol would calm his nerves.

"Careful," said Celia, "I don't want you to meet my parents drunk. Oh – here!" She pulled a garment bag down from one of the ceiling handles and placed it on Eric's lap, "get changed!"

He blinked, "in here? In front of you all?"

"There's nowhere else," she grinned.

"You really are perverted."

"We'll close our eyes. Pinky promise!"

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When the limo finally pulled up to the Country Club, Eric was dressed smartly in dark grey trousers and waistcoat and a duck-egg shirt. Somehow, the clothes Celia picked out actually suited him, and he actually felt like he could pull off being a snobby rich kid. That was, until he departed the limo and took a look around.

There were people in cocktail dresses and fancy suits everywhere, with meticulously styled hairdos and fake tans and weird hats that tilted in odd ways. The sort of clothes you saw on TV if you watched the Royal Ascot or something. He half expected the Queen herself to show up. He secretly wanted it to rain.