Jemima isn’t a drinker, has never particularly liked the taste of alcohol, nor has she ever quite known what to order in a bar when asked what she wants to drink. Vodka or gin and tonic sounds too grown up, too much like her parents; Malibu and pineapple, which is the only drink she loves, is too downmarket, and pints or even half pints of beer are too studenty.
Thank God for imported bottled beers, because these days Jemima never has to think. She’ll just order a bottle of Beck’s, knowing that at least she will fit in.
Ben sits down on a brown leather sofa covered in cracks just under the window, then slides up to allow room for Jemima, who is about to settle herself in the armchair adjacent to the sofa.
Jemima squeezes in next to Ben, feeling more than a touch faint-hearted at such close proximity, and she pours her beer into a glass, because although we all know it’s far more cool to drink imported beer straight from the bottle, Jemima can’t quite get to grips with it.
“What do you think?” says Ben, looking around the room. “It’s nice here isn’t it.”
“Lovely,” I practically choke as I gulp my imported beer through nerves and wonder why places like this always make me feel so awkward.
“So how’s work?” Ben opens with the standard question, the question you always ask when you don’t know someone very well, but quite frankly I don’t care. It’s enough that he’s here. With me. Tonight.
“Boring as hell,” I say, my stock answer. “I keep thinking I should really start looking around but then I still have this ridiculous hope that they’re going to promote me.”
“They should,” said Ben. “I know you rewrite most of Geraldine’s stuff and you’re very good.”
“How did you know that?” I can’t believe he knows that!
“Oh come on,” says Ben with a smile. “Geraldine’s a good operator but she can’t write to save her life. I saw that piece you wrote for her today, the one on dating, and there’s no way Geraldine would have written an intro like that. I don’t think she could write an intro of any sort.”
“But she’s so nice.” I always feel vaguely guilty whenever anyone says anything negative about Geraldine. “We shouldn’t really be talking about her like this.”
“Like what? As I said, she is very talented, just not at writing. That’s your problem, Jemima, you’re a very good writer but you haven’t got the confidence to be a good journalist. There’s a huge difference. Journalism means digging, it means making hundreds of phone calls, standing on people’s doorsteps if necessary, to get your story. It means operating on hunches, chasing leads, not stopping until you’ve got what you want. You haven’t got that instinct, but Geraldine has. I know she’s not a news reporter, but she could be.” He looks at Jemima carefully. “You, Jemima, are a wonderful writer, far too good to be wasted on a newspaper, any newspaper, never mind the Kilburn Herald.”
“So what could you see me doing?”
“I think you should be going for a job on a woman’s magazine.”
I look down at the half-empty bottle of beer and idly start picking off the foil around the rim of the bottle. I know Ben is absolutely right, even though I’m not sure I like hearing it from him. I mean, it’s one thing recognizing your own weaknesses, but quite another hearing that someone else can see them that clearly, particularly when that someone happens to be Ben Williams. But, having said that, I’d kill to work on one of the glossy magazines I love so much, but I also know the type of women who work there, and I know quite categorically that I’d never fit in.
The type of women who work on glossy magazines are pencil-slim. They have highlighted hair, and hard faces covered in too much makeup. They always wear designer black, and always, like Geraldine, have sunglasses pushing their hair off their faces.
They go out for long liquid lunches, and network every evening in the trendiest bars in town. I could never look like that nor live like that, but of course I can’t tell Ben this, so I shrug. “I don’t know, maybe you’re right. What about you then, Ben? Are you a writer or a journalist?”
“Actually,” says Ben with a shy grin, “I think I’m kind of neither.” Confusion crosses my face as Ben reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper.
“Here,” he says, handing it to me. “What do you think of this?”
I skim-read it quickly then double back and read it again more slowly. “What do you mean, what do I think?” Horror suddenly courses through my veins. No! Don’t leave! My God, if you left the paper what would I have to look forward to? I would be completely desperate and I would not want to carry on.
“What do you think?” Ben repeats, a different emphasis on the words. “Could you see me on television?”
“Yes, of course!” I say, because Ben needs to be reassured, and the truth is I could see him on television. Absolutely. “You’d be brilliant on television, you’d be perfect!”
Ben sighs with relief. “Do you think I’d get it?”
“Well, they’ll be nuts if you don’t. You’ll definitely get an interview, and I’m sure you’ll be in with a chance. You’ve got a background in journalism and perfect white teeth, what more would you need?” Listen to me. I’m actually teasing Ben! I, Jemima Jones, am teasing the gorgeous Ben Williams! Ben laughs, showing off those teeth, and I suspect he’s surprised at this side of me he’s never seen.
Ben bares those beauties in a great big false cheesy smile, and says, “This is Ben Williams on London Today.” I start laughing, he looks ridiculous, and he raises one eyebrow and says, “There, what do you think of that?”
“Too much white teeth,” I laugh. “Even for you.”
“Can I read you my application letter?” he says. “I’m sending it tomorrow, but would you tell me what you think?”
“Sure.”
“But you mustn’t tell anyone. I know I can trust you but I wouldn’t want anyone else at work to know about this.”
I watch as Ben pulls a copy of the letter out of his briefcase and as he hands it to me I feel totally honored that he’s trusting me.
“Dear Diana Macpherson,” I read silently. “Re: Vacancy for television reporter as advertised in last Monday’s Guardian. I am currently working as the deputy news editor on the Kilburn Herald but would love to move into television . . .” My eyes glaze over as I finish reading what can only be described as a completely standard letter, and definitely not a letter that would even get him an interview, let alone a job.
I put the letter down and, trying to be as honest as I know how, I say, “It’s a great letter. It says everything you need to say, but if you want my honest opinion I don’t think it’s going to cut it. I think you need something more dynamic, more creative.”
“Oh God, do you think so?” Ben’s face falls. “I was trying to write something interesting but I was in such a hurry I just wrote down the first thing I could think of. You wouldn’t . . .” His eyes light up as he looks at me.
“Of course I would!” I laugh, because I’ve been dying to since I read the first sentence, and grabbing a pen out of my bag I turn the letter over and start scribbling on the back.
“Health and beauty may not be my strong points,” I write, speaking the words out loud so Ben can hear, “although I do have a bathroom cabinet fully stocked with men’s cologne (freebies passed to me by the women feature writers at the Kilburn Herald), and my interest in show business and entertainment may be limited—I have a healthy interest because of my work as the deputy news editor, but offer me the chance of a film premiere ticket and I’ll run a mile. However, my knowledge of news and politics is exemplary.
“I am, as I briefly mentioned, currently working as the deputy news editor on the Kilburn Herald. Not, I’m sure you’ll agree, the most prestigious of papers, but nevertheless the perfect place for a solid background in journalism. I started as a trainee reporter and have now been with the paper for five years. Needless to say, it is now time for a change, and I firmly believe that the future for all good
journalists lies in television.
“I am, naturally, addicted to news and politics, and am an avid viewer of programs not dissimilar to yours. I’m afraid I do not possess a demo tape, however, I enclose a photograph together with my CV, and look forward to hearing from you.”
“There,” I say, slapping the pen down as Ben shakes his head in amazement.
“God, Jemima,” he says, rereading the words. “You’re amazing.”
“I know,” I sigh. “I just wish someone else would notice.”
“That is just so inspired,” he says, a wide grin spreading across his face.
“At the end of the day, Ben, they’re either going to love it or hate it, but either way they’ll definitely notice it.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I really think so.”
While Ben and Jemima sit there chatting, mostly about work, it has to be said, Sophie and Lisa have got dressed—the pair of them in almost identical black lycra dresses, knee-high boots (Sophie’s are suede, Lisa’s are leather), with little black Chanel bags over one shoulder. Sophie is wearing a soft black leather jacket with a fur collar, and Lisa is in a cape. These are their pickup outfits—the clothes they wear when they venture to an unknown club to attract potential millionaire husbands.
They do look wonderful. They also look completely out of place in Kilburn, tottering down the street in their smart clothes, leaving bystanders open-mouthed at these two exotic beauties.
They’ve already been in to the Queen’s Arms, a bit of a mistake, they realized as soon as they walked in. They had to wave their arms to see through the smoke, and when they did they saw hundreds of men, all propped up against the bar, who went completely silent, presumably in admiration at the sight of Sophie and Lisa.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” groaned a builder, clutching his heart while his mates laughed.
“Looking for me, love?” said one to Sophie, as she looked around the pub, wishing fervently she was somewhere else.
“Will you marry me?” said another to Lisa, who kept her nose in the air and kept walking.
Both girls, to their credit, ignored the men, and walked out, heads held high, while the men jeered, and a couple ran to the door to try and jokingly persuade them to come back.
“God, what a nightmare,” says Sophie to Lisa as they walk up the road. “Are you sure this is worth it? Shouldn’t we just jump in a cab and go into town?”
“Are you mad?” Lisa turns to her in horror. “When we’ve just met the best-looking man we’ve seen in ages.”
“He is gorgeous,” agrees Sophie, “but he works at the Kilburn Herald. I mean, he’s hardly in our league is he?” Sophie, bless her, has forgotten that she is a receptionist, because in her dreams she is a rich man’s wife.
“With looks like that I couldn’t give a damn. I don’t want to marry him, but I’d kill to have a fling with him,” says Lisa, adding, “Phwooargh,” with a faraway look in her eyes.
“Okay,” says Sophie. “One more try.” They walk past the picture windows and into the bar, taking note of the beautiful and fashionable people, and feeling instantly superior. They, after all, are not only fashionable, they are also wearing designer labels, and both make sure the gold intertwined C’s on their Chanel bags are facing outward just so that everyone can be sure of this fact.
“They must be here,” says Lisa, looking slowly at each table.
“I can’t see them,” says Sophie, walking past the bar and into the room at the back. “Nope,” she says as she surveys the room. “Where the hell can they be?”
Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? Both our glasses are empty, so I stand up to get some more drinks, hoping to prolong this evening for as long as possible, praying that Ben won’t stand up and say it’s time to go. “I’ll get this round,” I say as nonchalantly as I can. “Same again?”
“Are you sure?” says Ben, who, being the perfect gentleman I think he is, would probably be more than happy to pay for the second round. And the third. But I insist and he agrees to the same again.
But as I stand up I suddenly have a horrifying thought. From the front, I am passable. I can just about hide my size, and hope that people look at my eyes or my hair, but from the back even I admit that I’m huge. Can I back out of the room? Would Ben think I was completely mad? Should I risk turning round and allowing Ben to see me from behind?
As I stand there in this dilemma, Ben starts rereading his application letter, so with a huge sigh of relief I walk, front first, out of the tiny room and into the main bar. BLOODY HELL! WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY DOING HERE?
I don’t bloody believe this. Sophie and Lisa never, ever, come to places like this. Drink in Kilburn? Are you mad? Those evil little cows, I know exactly what they’re doing. Look at them, tarted up to the nines and standing by the bar looking for something, and don’t think I don’t know exactly what they’re looking for. Me. Or to be more precise, Ben. Bitches.
What am I going to do? I can’t let them see me, I can’t let them join us, because look at them now, Ben wouldn’t recognize them as the two girls he met earlier this evening, and he might, just might, fancy them. Shit, shit, shit. I turn around and rush back to Ben.
“Ben,” I say, thinking, thinking, thinking.
Ben looks up. “Hmm?”
“I just wanted to ask you, before I forget, um. Well, it’s just that I wanted to ask you, do you have a demo tape because the ad said send a demo tape.” Jesus, I sound like a total idiot but it’s the best I could come up with, given the urgency of the situation.
“I’m going to send a photograph. Why, do you think I should send a tape?” Ben is, as I knew he would be, looking at me as if I’m a bit strange.
“Well,” I say, sitting down. “There are pros and cons, I suppose. I mean, a photograph doesn’t show them exactly what they want to see, i.e., what you’ll be like on television, but then a demo is probably bloody expensive to put together.”
“Right,” says Ben, now looking completely confused as to why I’m sitting down again minus the drinks.
I look over Ben’s shoulder and—thank you, God—see Sophie and Lisa walk out of the bar. Highly unusually, bearing in mind this is Kilburn, a black cab with an orange light shining happens to be driving down the road just as they leave, and both girls, on reflex, leap into the road with arms held high.
I can feel Ben watching me as I watch the cab drive off.
“Right,” I echo Ben, standing up purposefully. “Drinks,” and off I go to the bar.
Chapter 10
Jemima really doesn’t want to get out of bed, not when she can lie here daydreaming about last night with Ben Williams.
Unfortunately for Jemima, her daydream didn’t come true, but it was the next best thing, because, after Ben had insisted on walking her home, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
Jemima blushed bright red, and silently thanked God for being shrouded in darkness so Ben wouldn’t see. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he shouted as he walked up the road, and Jemima nodded mutely on the doorstep, too happy to speak.
She didn’t have time to think about him last night—the three beers had gone straight to her head, and as soon as she touched the pillow she was out like a light, but now, now that it’s morning, Jemima has time. Time to go over every word, every sentence, every nuance.
She has time to think about what happened, what could have happened, and what will, she hopes, happen in the future, and in all her fantasies Jemima is thin.
Jemima lies there for too long, and when she looks at the clock she knows that she’ll be late for work if she doesn’t get a move on. She hurries to the bathroom to run her bath, and completely forgets, yes really, completely forgets about her cereal.
And then, while she’s waiting for the bath to run, she decides to do something she hasn’t done for months. She stands on the scales. Holding her breath, she balances her weight carefully, not daring to look down until s
he is perfectly still. And when she does, she starts smiling, because Jemima Jones has lost ten pounds. There’s still a long way to go, but Geraldine was right, Jemima has finally managed to lose some weight.
Jemima stands there for a while and then she puts her hand out and holds on to the towel rail. She presses down hard and watches her weight plummet. The harder she presses, the more the weight goes down on the scales. I wish, she thinks. I will, she thinks.
And then, as she is about to get in the bath, she hears voices downstairs and realizes that Sophie and Lisa haven’t left for work. She looks at her watch. Nine-ten A.M., and they are never usually here at this time, they will be late.
“Jemima,” says Sophie from outside the bathroom door.
I lift my head out of the water. “What are you doing here? You’re going to be late for work.” Subtext: you’re an evil cow and I haven’t got anything to say to you.
“I know, we’re just leaving but we both overslept.”
“Did you have a good time last night? How was the club?” I try my best to be nice, and I don’t mention I saw them, that I know what they were up to.
“It was brilliant,” says Sophie. “But how was your evening?”
“Lovely.” I’m smiling.
“So that was Ben?”
“Yup.”
There’s a pause.
“He is gorgeous.”
My smile widens.
“Why don’t you invite him over for dinner one night?” says Sophie, a hint of pleading in her voice.
As if! “Maybe I will.” In your bloody dreams. I will keep Ben as far away from Sophie and Lisa as I possibly can.
“Okay, I gotta go. Have a good day.” I lie back in the bath and listen to both their high heels clatter down to the front door, the clicking punctuated by whispers and giggles.
Poor Sophie and Lisa. They really think I’m stupid enough to propel Ben into their arms? How wrong they are.