“So JJ, did you have a good day?”
“It was fine. I did a bit of filming this morning, which was fun.” Don’t ask me what it was, please don’t ask.
He doesn’t. “I can totally understand why you’re on television, you look so groomed, I think is the word.”
“What, even on my bicycle on a hot summer’s day?”
“Absolutely. I had to show your picture to everyone here, and boy, let me tell you, you have a fan club already in California.”
“God, that’s so embarrassing.” I groan audibly.
“Don’t be embarrassed. I think it’s great that you work out and keep healthy, you’re exactly my type of woman.”
“Good,” I say, recovering my composure. “I aim to please.”
Brad laughs. “So listen, Jemima, what I don’t understand is how come you don’t have a boyfriend. I mean I know you said you just broke up with someone, but you must have men falling at your feet.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I do meet a lot of men through work but I suppose I’m picky.”
“Well I am honored that you liked my picture enough to call me. So, talk to me some more, I love your accent. Tell me everything about yourself.”
“God, where do I start?”
“Okay, tell me about your parents, do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No brothers or sisters. I’m an only child and my parents are divorced.”
“Oh that’s tough,” says Brad. “Mine are too. Did yours divorce when you were young too?”
“Yup,” I say, wondering why on earth I’m telling all this to someone who is practically a stranger, when not even those closest to me, well, Sophie, Lisa, and Geraldine, know anything about my past. “My mother is not a happy woman. She bitterly resents being on her own, and tries to have far more input to my life than is healthy, which is mostly why I moved to London.”
“You’re not from London then?”
“No, I was brought up in the country. In a small town on the outskirts of London, which I suppose is really suburbia.”
“And did you ever get lonely as a child? Did you want brothers and sisters?”
I wasn’t just lonely as a child, I was achingly, heartbreakingly lonely. I used to go to bed at night and clasp my hands together, praying to God to deliver a baby brother or sister, not fully understanding that without a father, there was little, if any, chance of that happening. But although I have already revealed more than I planned, this would be too much, so I take a deep breath and say breezily, “Sometimes, but not often. I was fine by myself.”
“Look,” says Brad after I’ve filled him in on the finer details of my childhood, the pain-free details. “This might sound crazy, because this is the first time we’ve actually talked and we hardly know each other, but I have a feeling that we could have something special here.” He pauses while I try to digest what he has just said, because truth to be told the only reason I’ve been doing this is through boredom, not because I thought there could be something special here.
And for God’s sake, this man is practically a stranger. Admittedly, a particularly good-looking one, but this seems bizarre. We’ve never met, this is our first phone conversation and he could be some psychotic killer. And how does he know I’m who I say I am? Oh. Perhaps I’d better get off this train of thought.
“JJ? Are you still there?”
“Yes, sorry.”
“Well, it’s just that I know it sounds kinda crazy to meet on the Internet, but then people are meeting like this all over the world, and sometimes it does work out. Look. I think you are great. I think you’re funny, and honest, and beautiful and I love your accent and I don’t want to scare you off but I’d really like to meet you.”
Thank God Brad cannot see me, see how my face has paled, how I am thinking seriously about killing Geraldine because I knew, I just bloody knew that this would happen.
“I’m not suggesting you come over here, I mean I know that would be a big step for you and you’re probably really busy in your career, but how would you feel if I were to fly over to meet you?”
“Um,” I say imaginatively, stalling for time, praying for divine intervention, which of course doesn’t come. “Um,” I repeat.
“Okay,” says Brad. “I can hear that I’ve thrown you a bit, but would you just think about it?”
“Okay,” I lie. “I’ll think about it.”
Then, as if that isn’t enough, I do the unthinkable. I give Brad my telephone numbers, both home and my direct line at work (because I wouldn’t want to blow my cover as a top TV presenter), and when we say goodbye I put the phone down and go into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror.
I look at my chins, my cheeks, my bulk, and as I stand there I make a decision. A huge decision. A decision so momentous that even in this split second I know that it will change my life. I run back to my desk, well, run/lumber, grab my bag, and run down the stairs.
I’m not going far. I’m walking, almost sprinting, up the Kilburn High Road to the brand-new fancy gym that just opened. I pass it every day, barely registering its existence because what, after all, would a gym mean to me.
But today is the day I’m going to change my life. And pushing through the double doors I approach the pert blond receptionist with as much determination as I can muster.
“Hello,” I say. “I’d like to join.”
Chapter 12
“I’ll just get you a form,” says the blonde behind the reception desk, looking at Jemima Jones with more than a touch of curiosity, because she can’t quite understand why someone the size of Jemima would want to join a gym.
Of course she should have realized that she wants to lose weight, but the fact of the matter is that this brand-spanking-new gym isn’t just any old gym. The joining fee is £150, and the monthly fee after that is £45. A lot of money, precisely to keep out people like Jemima Jones.
It’s a good thing Jemima doesn’t wander around before joining, because had she seen the type of people who do frequent this gym, she would have been off faster than you can say Stairmaster.
She would have seen the beautiful people glowing prettily on the treadmills, a hint of sweat showing their suntans off to maximum potential. She would have seen the women in the changing room carefully applying their makeup before they ventured out, just in case the man of their dreams should happen to be cycling beside them.
She would have seen the middle-aged housewives, wives of high-flying businessmen, who drip with gold as they step up and down and up and down and up and down to keep their figures perfect for the round of dinner parties they attend.
She would have seen the muscle-bound men, all young, all fit, all good-looking beyond belief, who go to the gym partly to keep in shape and partly to eye the women.
And Jemima Jones would have been far too intimidated to set foot through the door, but luckily the manager isn’t around, and there’s no one who can show Jemima all the facilities the gym has to offer, so Jemima just takes the form and sits down in reception to fill it out. She blanches slightly at the price, but then it’s a small price to pay for being thin, and this gym is so close she won’t have any excuse not to go, so with pen in hand she starts ticking the boxes.
As anyone who is currently spending each night in front of the television eating take-aways will know, the hardest part of an exercise regime is taking the first step. Once you find the motivation to start, exercise can be strangely addictive, much like, in fact, the Internet.
When the form has been filled in and she has written down her bank details for the direct debit, she goes back to the desk.
“Um, I’ve never actually been to a gym before,” I say, feeling faintly ridiculous as the blonde hands me a stack of papers, timetables for classes, information about the gym.
“Don’t worry,” says the blonde with a bright smile. “Many of the people here haven’t been before. We need to get you in for a fitness assessment and they’ll work out a regimen
for you.” My body tenses as I wait for her to look me up and down with a withering glance but she doesn’t, she just smiles and opens a large diary on the desk and flicks through the pages. “You normally have to wait around three weeks for a fitness assessment, but we’ve had a cancellation tomorrow morning. Could you make it at eight A.M.?”
Eight A.M. tomorrow? Is she mad? Eight A.M. is the middle of the night.
“Eight o’clock’s fine,” I hear myself say, the words hanging in the air before I’ve had a chance to think about what I’ve just said.
“Lovely,” says the blonde, penciling in my name. “You won’t need a leotard, just a T-shirt and shorts . . .” She takes a look at me and sees my face fall at the prospect of wearing a leotard. “Or sweatpants would be fine. And sneakers, you need to wear sneakers.”
“That’s fine,” I say, wondering where the hell I’ll get all this equipment, but in for a penny, in for a pound, and looking at my watch I see it’s 6:15 P.M., and I know there’s a sports shop in a shopping mall in Bayswater that will still be open.
I leave the gym and, crazy as this may sound, I’m convinced that already my step feels lighter, my frame seems somewhat smaller, and in my mind’s eye I can already see myself as I’m going to be. Slim. And beautiful. As I once was, I suppose, when I was a child, before my father left, before I discovered that the only thing to ease the pain of being abandoned by an uncaring father was food.
I hop into a taxi—my, my, Jemima, you are being extravagant these days—and instruct the driver to take me to Whiteleys, where I ignore the clothes shops, the shoe shops, even the bookshop, and go straight up the escalator to the sports shop.
Half an hour later my arms are being dragged down to the floor with shopping bags. I’ve bought a tracksuit, two pairs of lycra leggings, three pairs of socks, and a gleaming pair of Reeboks. I have spent so much money today that there’s no way now I can change my mind. That was the idea.
And as I walk out of the shopping mall I stand for a few minutes looking at the bustling crowds, listening to the mix of voices from every part of the world. I could go straight home, that is what I would have done a few weeks ago, but look at this street, look at the last rays of the sun. It’s a beautiful evening and I’m not ready to go home and sit watching television, not just yet.
And as I wander down Queensway, pushing through the crowds of tourists, I start to feel like I’m on holiday, and what better to do on holiday than to sit at a sidewalk café and enjoy a drink.
Normally I’d order a cappuccino, and eat the chocolate off the top before adding three sugars, but things are about to change, and I find a small round marble table outside a patisserie, and order a sparkling mineral water.
She doesn’t have anything to read, nor does she have anyone to talk to, but Jemima is feeling happier than she has felt in a long time. Happier, perhaps, than she has ever felt in her life. She sits in the fading sunshine and without realizing it she has a huge smile on her face because for the first time she starts to feel that life isn’t boring. Life is the most exciting it has ever been.
Jemima Jones’s life has been rumbling for a while now, but today is the day it finally turned over.
Ben Williams has just got home to find the answering machine winking three messages at him. Two are for his roommates, and the last one is from Richard, his oldest friend.
Ben picks up the phone and calls Richard because (a) he wants to talk to him as it’s been a while, and (b) he has to tell someone about his interview today or he might possibly burst.
“Rich? It’s me.”
“Ben! How are you, boy?” This is the way they talk to each other.
“I’m fine, Rich, how ’bout you?”
“Rolling along, Ben. Rolling along. I haven’t seen you for ages, what have you been up to?”
“Actually, I’ve got some news.”
Richard’s voice drops to a whisper. “I know a good doctor.”
“What?”
“You’ve got some bird pregnant.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ben starts laughing. “I haven’t got anyone pregnant, chance would be a fine thing! No, I had a job interview today.”
“That’s great, what for?”
“Come on, Rich, you can do better than that. What’s my dream job?”
“No! You had a job interview as a newsreader? No way, that’s serious.”
“It wasn’t for a newsreader, but it is for television. I went for a job interview with London Daytime Television as a reporter on a new show.”
“Good work. When d’you hear?”
“I’m not sure. They seemed keen but I have to do a screen test.”
“Good luck, I’d like to see my best mate on television. Think of the women you could date then.”
Ben just laughs, because Ben wants to tell Richard everything. He wants to tell him about walking in and sitting in the huge domed glass atrium of the TV company. He wants to tell him how it felt sitting surrounded by pictures of the stars of the company, and how a very famous presenter of the morning show came and sat next to him.
He wants to tell Richard about going up in the lift, about stepping out feeling sick with nerves, and waiting just outside for the secretary to come and get him. He wants to tell him how friendly the secretary was, if anything slightly too friendly, but how he assumed that is how they all are in television.
He wants to tell Richard about walking in to meet Diana Macpherson. About her micro miniskirt and high heels, about how she kicked her shoes off after a few minutes and put her feet on the desk.
He wants to tell Richard how Diana fixed him with a cool gaze and said, “Well, fuck me, Jackie was right, you’re even prettier in the flesh.”
He wants to tell him how he made her laugh, how they ended up talking about the nightmares of being single, about how he pretended to equal her horror stories with stories of his own, because he really felt there was some sort of a bond.
He wants to tell him that they didn’t really talk about television, or about work. That she seemed far more interested in him, and that it didn’t feel like an interview, that it felt more like having a chat with a friend, and did Richard think that was a good thing or a bad thing.
And he wants to tell Richard how, at the end of their “interviews,” Diana shook his hand and said, “All right then, Ben Williams. I won’t say you’re in ’cuz I don’t know what you look like on screen, but our viewers would fucking love those pretty-boy looks of yours, and I want you in on Thursday to have a screen test.”
But of course he can’t say any of this, because Richard is a bloke, and as well we all know blokes don’t do detail, they do facts, and Richard would probably fall asleep with boredom.
So they sit and chat, and all the time Ben’s mind is far away in the land of London Daytime Studios, and as soon as he says goodbye to Richard, he picks up the phone and dials Jemima, because who better to listen to the details than Jemima Jones, his newfound friend.
“Hello, is Jemima there, please?” Listen to how well spoken he is.
“Sorry, she’s out at the moment. Can I take a message?”
“Um, yeah. It’s Ben from work. If I leave my number could you get her to call me?”
Sophie nearly drops the phone. “Oh hi, Ben!” she says enthusiastically. “It’s Sophie, we met the other night.”
“Were you the one with the face pack or the one with strange things in her hair?” Ben’s laughing.
Sophie groans. “Please don’t remind me. We both looked awful, but for the record I was the one with the strange things in her hair.” Lisa looks up from the magazine she’s reading on the sofa. Her eyes widen as she mouths, “Is it him?” Sophie nods.
“Ah,” says Ben, who can’t think of anything else to say.
“But I don’t usually look like that,” adds Sophie, who wants to keep Ben talking, who wants this conversation to develop into the sort of hour-long conversation women always try to have with men they have only just met, and
who they fancy madly.
“I should hope not,” says Ben. “I wouldn’t have thought Curve would appreciate it.”
“Jemima told you where I work?”
“She mentioned it,” says Ben, wondering why this message is taking so long to deliver. “Look, can I give you my number?”
“Sure. Sorry. I’ll just get a pen,” she says, flying back to the phone in an instant. “Okay, shoot.”
Ben leaves his number and asks if Jemima could call him back as soon as possible, and they say goodbye.
“Guess what I’ve got,” she says to Lisa, waving the piece of paper in the air then clutching it to her chest.
“You bitch,” says Lisa, who sort of does mean it, but sort of doesn’t. “You can’t keep that, you have to give it to Jemima.”
“I will,” says Sophie, “but first I’m going to copy it down for myself.”
“But what excuse will you use? You can’t just phone him, and he wasn’t exactly on the phone with you for long,” she says triumphantly. “It didn’t sound like he was that interested.”
“Not yet,” says Sophie. “But I think we should invite him somewhere, maybe a party or a club, and if we have to we’ll invite Jemima too, but we are going to see him again, and this time we are going to look better than we’ve ever looked before in our lives.”
Lisa grins, happy now that she has been included, and confident that, given the choice, Ben would opt for her tumbling curls.
The girls hear the front door slam, and Jemima comes upstairs, dumping her bags on the living room floor.
“Oooh,” say the girls in unison. “You’ve been shopping. Show us what you’ve bought.”
“It’s not very exciting,” I say, when in fact I’m very excited, I’m so excited I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight. “I just bought some gym stuff. I joined a gym today.”
“You’re kidding,” says Sophie, looking completely shocked.
“I kid you not,” I say happily.
“But what for?” says Lisa.