“Can I just have a few minutes to think about it and then I’ll call you right back?” asked Ben, unaware that nobody, no first-time presenter, had ever had to think about an offer from Diana Macpherson before.
“Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll be in the office for another ten minutes, and if I don’t hear from you I’ll ring up our second choice. Sorry to be brutal, but that’s television for you.”
“Don’t worry,” said Ben. “I understand.”
Ben went running round to Jemima’s desk, and they sat there, heads huddled together, while Ben told Jemima what had happened and what his reservations were. Don’t be ridiculous, said Jemima, it’s the chance you’ve spent years waiting for, you wouldn’t be pigeonholed, and all it took in television was to get your foot in the door. “If you screw this up,” she said seriously, “you don’t know when the next opportunity will arise. Or indeed if,” she added ominously, “it will arise.”
That was what did it for Ben. He checked his watch, two minutes to go before the ten minutes were up, kissed Jemima on the cheek, picked up her phone and dialed London Daytime Television.
“Diana?” he said in a much firmer voice. “It’s Ben Williams. I’ve thought about it and I’m phoning you to tell you I’d love to work for you, and as soon as we organize the dates, I’ll be in the office.”
“Phew,” said Diana Macpherson, who was smiling. “You gave me a right fucking scare, especially because we didn’t even have a bloody second choice!”
And with just one phone call Ben’s fate was sealed. It may not be the job he always wanted, but it’s certainly a start, and a very good one at that, but before a new beginning must come an ending, and tomorrow night is the last night of his time at the Kilburn Herald.
Jemima Jones feels sick at the thought, so sick, in fact, that she commits an unforgivable sin and confides in Sophie and Lisa, only because she has no one else to talk to, and she doesn’t mean to say anything, it just comes out by mistake.
“You seem a bit down,” says Sophie, as they walk in. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” I say, and before I can help it a huge sigh has escaped my lips. “I think I’m just overdoing it a bit maybe.” I try and cover it up.
“You are spending a huge amount of time at the gym,” agrees Lisa. “Maybe you should cut it down, I mean, no one needs to exercise as much as you.”
Shall we take a look at what’s going on here? Lisa is beginning to see that the Jemima Jones of old is well on her way to being the JJ of the future, a JJ that could well be the unthinkable. A threat. Because Lisa, as addicted as she is to the superficialities of life, can see that as the weight is dropping off, a real beauty is emerging, and Lisa doesn’t like this. Not one tiny bit.
“Maybe,” I say, but actually I’d like to be spending a lot more time in the gym. If I had my way I’d move into the gym, I’d work out all day every day, but I can’t expect her to understand this, I can’t reasonably expect anyone to understand this. I know what this is, I’ve seen it on a daytime show. I’m addicted to exercise. Ha! Me! If someone had told me six months ago that I would become addicted to exercise I would have rolled on the floor laughing. But I know about this, I know that this addiction is more or less the same as being addicted to alcohol or drugs. I know my body is now overflowing with endorphins, and I feel fantastic almost all the time.
I once, just once, missed an evening class when I went out for a drink with Ben, and the next morning I felt so damned guilty I doubled my workout, and nearly collapsed with the strain.
“There is another reason, I suppose,” I say because I have to say it. I have to tell someone and I can’t tell Geraldine. “Ben’s leaving tomorrow.”
Sophie and Lisa perk up. “What?” says Sophie. “Not the gorgeous Ben that we met?”
I nod miserably.
“Where is he going?” asks Sophie.
“He’s going to London Daytime Television. He’s going to be a reporter on a new show.”
“You mean he’s going to be on screen?” Lisa’s eyes are wide, and they’re so bloody superficial I can see exactly what they’re thinking. Finding a handsome man is all well and good, finding a rich man is even better, but finding a famous man almost goes off the Richter scale, and Ben is not only gorgeous, he’s about to be famous. They’re so impressed they can hardly speak.
“Yes, he’s going to be on screen, and I’m just a bit down about it. I mean I’m thrilled for him, really, I am, but I’ll miss him. He’s become one of my closest friends at work, so maybe that’s why I’m feeling a bit low tonight.”
“Where’s the farewell party?” says Sophie nonchalantly. As if I’m that stupid. As if I’d tell her. Honestly. As if!
“I can’t remember,” I say, shrugging, standing up and heading out of the room. “Some wine bar somewhere.”
Jemima Jones walks upstairs to her room while Sophie looks at Lisa. “Thank you, God,” she says with a smile, “for providing me with this golden opportunity.” For Sophie has kept Ben’s number, just hasn’t had the nerve to call him. Until now.
“What are you going to do?”
“Watch me.” Sophie digs her Filofax out of her bag, pulls out Ben’s number, and picks up the phone.
“Hello, is that Ben? Hi, it’s Sophie, Jemima’s roommate. Yes, the one with the hair. I just phoned to say good luck, Jemima just told me about your new job and I’ve never met anyone who’s been on television before. You must be really excited.”
“Er, yes,” says Ben, who can’t imagine why this girl he hardly knows is phoning. “I am.”
“I just wanted to say well done, because now you’re practically famous you probably won’t be coming round here too much, so just in case we don’t meet again, good luck.”
“Thanks,” says Ben, with a smile. “Really, that’s ever so nice of you.”
“Have you had a farewell party then?” says Sophie innocently, winking at Lisa.
“No, it’s tomorrow night.” There’s an awkward silence where neither of them knows what to say, but Ben fills the gap first. “Come along if you like.”
“I’d love to!” she breathes. “Where is it?” She writes down the address as Lisa jumps around in front of her, pointing at herself and making faces.
“Is it okay if I bring my friend Lisa?” she finally says grudgingly.
“Sure,” says Ben, thinking what the hell, he’ll be far too out of it to notice.
“Wonderful. We’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Hi Sweetie
Thanks for your e-mail, it always brightens my day to come in to work and find a message on screen from you. I can’t believe how close I feel to you and we’ve never even met, but as soon as you’re less busy you’d better come straight to LA, although I’m not too sure I can wait another three months!
I’m already planning all the things we can do together once you come over here. There are so many things in Los Angeles I want you to see. I’ll have to take you to Universal Studios, Rollerblading down Venice Beach, to all my hangouts so you can meet all my friends.
I know this sounds crazy but I’ve been telling everyone all about you, and I made a copy of your picture which I carry around so everyone’s seen you too and they can’t wait to meet you.
I’m sorry your friend is leaving, but you seem to have so many friends one less probably won’t make that much difference. Wear something beautiful tonight, I’d like to picture you in a black silk dress, cut so it swings around your legs as you walk, and if you have any high-heeled strappy sandals, wear them tonight and think of me.
On second thoughts, if the weather in London’s as bad as I think it is you might be better off in a sweater and boots!
Anyways, my darling, take care and don’t be too sad. I’m sitting here in the sunshine thinking of you, and I’m still here for you.
Call me when you get home and I’ll call you back right away, and have a good time.
Huge hugs and kisses, Brad, xxxxxxx
I’m not sure I like this familiarity, and something about the words might just possibly put me off if I stopped to think about it. It’s not that there’s anything nasty about them, about his letters, I think it’s just that he seems a bit bland, but maybe that’s just a cultural difference. Anyway, I’m sure he’s completely different in the flesh. He’s probably just not very good at writing letters. That’s all.
“That was nice of your roommate to call.”
“What?” I turn from my screen and look at Ben in horror. “What are you talking about?”
“Your roommate. Sophie. She phoned last night after you told her about the job to wish me luck.”
Little cow. I can’t believe her! “But I didn’t give her your number. Where did she get it from?”
Now it’s Ben’s turn to look surprised. “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “I assumed you gave it to her.”
“Strange.” I’m wondering what she’s up to.
“Anyway,” said Ben, “I said she could come along tonight.”
“Oh.” So that’s what she’s up to. “What did you think of her? Is she your type?”
“Jemima!” he admonishes. “The only time I’ve ever met the girl she looked a complete state, plus you know that she’s not the type of girl I’m interested in.”
“Sorry,” I say, smiling a little inside. “I just thought maybe it was time you had a girlfriend.” Careful, Jemima, this is a dangerous game you’re playing.
“Girlfriend?” says Ben, laughing. “What would I do with a girlfriend at this time in my life? I’m far too busy being famous. By the way, do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” I laugh. “You’re Ben Williams, the amazingly large-headed man, whose head is growing by the second.” I shake my head in mock disbelief. “God knows what you’re going to be like when you’re actually on television.”
“I will be marvelous,” says Ben, throwing up his arms in a dramatic gesture. “I will be a stupendous presenter of rubbish. I will be Ben Williams, panderer to the stars, ass-licker of the famous.”
“Ben!” I giggle, thrilled that our friendship has reached this stage of easy teasing. “You won’t forget me, will you?”
“But you are lowly Jemima Jones, of the crappy Kilburn Herald. I have to forget you, I know no one from anything as downmarket as the Kilburn Herald!” Ben is speaking in an extremely exaggerated upper-crust accent, but he stops as he sees a shadow of doubt cross my face. He couldn’t be serious. Could he?
“ ’Course I won’t forget you, Jemima. You’re my only real friend here, how could I possibly forget you?”
I smile, and adjust my rapidly shrinking bottom on the chair as I turn to reveal a cheekbone that’s only just starting to emerge, but Ben doesn’t notice the cheekbone. Ben doesn’t seem to notice my weight loss at all, which means only one thing: I’m not thin enough yet.
Perhaps in an abstract way he has noticed I’m looking better, but I suppose when you’re with someone for long periods of time it’s very difficult to perceive any change in their size. You would instantly notice if they had a drastic haircut, or wore something they never normally wear, but weight is something you rarely notice. Particularly if you’re a man. At least that’s what I hope.
The only way Ben will notice that Jemima has lost weight is if he doesn’t see her for a while, which would be Jemima’s idea of living hell, a living hell that, she suddenly realizes, could become a reality.
”So you will stay in touch?” ventures my insecurity, refusing to let the subject drop.
“Only if you promise to respect and adore me.”
“But of course, oh-famous-one,” I say, when of course I, unbeknownst to Ben, already do.
Chapter 14
At lunchtime Jemima watches Ben walk up the road with his colleagues from the newsdesk. She stands on the corner, holding on to her gym kit, and feels as if her heart is going to burst with sadness.
She had been invited to join them for lunch—the pre-farewell party lunch at which Ben will be forced to drink far more than he should in the middle of the working day—but she had declined because tonight is the party, and since it is starting straight from work Jemima would not have been able to make it to the gym tonight, so she skips lunch and exercises during her lunch break instead.
Who would have thought that exercise would ever be a higher priority than the opportunity of spending time with Ben Williams? Might it be thus assumed that Jemima has become just a touch obsessive . . .
For when she has finished in the gym, when she is certain there is nobody around to walk in on her, she stands gingerly on the scales in the ladies’ changing room, squeezes her eyes shut and then looks down. 166 pounds. Jemima steps off and steps on again, just to check, because Jemima Jones has never weighed this little in her entire life.
Cause for celebration, I think we all agree, but on a Friday lunchtime on the Kilburn High Road there is, unfortunately, very little that Jemima can buy to celebrate. She would like a dress, the dress that Brad described last night, but even though she is down to 166 pounds she doesn’t want to spend the money just yet.
“When I’m 140 pounds,” she tells herself as she walks back to the office after her workout. “When I’m 140 pounds I shall treat myself properly.” And as she walks along she stops outside the drugstore and peers through the doorway at the makeup counters. Oh what the hell, she thinks. I may as well give myself a small treat now, and I do want to look the very best I possibly can for tonight, so in she goes.
At 5:15 P.M. I clutch my new makeup and walk into the bathroom, not really surprised that Geraldine’s already there, pouting in the mirror as she dusts some bronzer on her already golden cheeks.
“Hello stranger!” says Geraldine. “Getting ready for the party?” She stands back from the mirror and admires her red dress, which makes me think of Brad immediately, because it’s just like the black dress he wanted me to wear—a short, flippy soft dress that hugs her curves and shows off her legs, snugly encased in shimmery, sheer natural stockings, with flat red suede pumps on her feet. Bitch. No, sorry, only joking, but to be a bit more serious I look at Geraldine and feel as dowdy as hell.
“I just thought,” I start, feeling self-conscious and ridiculous. “I just thought maybe I’d put some . . .” I tail off as Geraldine grabs my makeup bag.
“What have you got here?” She pulls out the makeup, silently, and lays it next to the sink. “Well,” she says, looking at me. “Some of this will suit you but some of it won’t, but if you borrow some of mine then it will all be fine.”
“Don’t worry,” I mumble, trying to keep the dejected tone out of my voice because I’m suddenly rethinking the whole idea. “I’m not sure I can be bothered.”
“Jemima!” says Geraldine in exasperation. “You are hopeless sometimes. I’ve been dying to get my hands on you for days. What you need, now that you’re losing all this weight, is a serious makeover, and tah dah!” She holds her arms up in the air. “Guess who’s the perfect person to do it.”
I can’t help it, I start laughing, and I lean back against the counter, careful not to sit on the wet patches around the sinks. “Okay,” I say with a smile. “You can start by making me up.”
“Jemima Jones!” says the big, booming voice of the editor as I walk into the dark smoky vaults of the Wine Cellar a little after six o’clock. Geraldine is standing next to the editor, and Geraldine smiles with delight when she sees me, not to mention the look of amazement on the editor’s face.
“What have you done to yourself, young lady?”
I shrink in horror as a hand comes up to my face. Have I smeared my lipstick? Do I have mascara running down my cheeks? Is there spinach in my teeth?
The editor carries on. “Jemima Jones, you are a shadow of your former self.”
Thank God! I suppress the rising giggle and smile with delight, trying to be nonchalant, trying to look as if I’m not thrilled that someone has finally noticed, even if it is just the editor. “I’
ve just lost a bit of weight, that’s all.”
“Lost a bit of weight?” booms the editor. “Young lady, you are half the size you were. And not only that,” he leans forward conspiratorially. “You’re also a bit of a looker, aren’t you?”
Oh my God, I can feel the blush coming, but luckily I catch Geraldine’s eye and I can see that she’s also holding back the giggles, and the blush fades away.
Geraldine is trying to suppress the giggles, but she’s also smiling broadly at her handiwork, for Jemima Jones does, truly, look like a different person. Admittedly, thinks Geraldine, her clothes aren’t great, but she doesn’t know that Jemima is waiting to be even slimmer before she buys some new ones.
What she is looking at is Jemima’s face. She is looking at the creamy skin, given a hint of gold with the help of Geraldine’s supremely expensive foundation. She is looking at Jemima’s green eyes, large and sparkling with the help of Geraldine’s expert knowledge of eye shadows, eyeliners, and eye drops to turn the whites of her eyes brighter than snow. She is looking at her full pouting lips, made to look even more full with the help of Geraldine’s lip liner, lipstick, and lip gloss. And finally she is looking at Jemima’s hair, which Geraldine has gathered up in a french twist, soft tendrils falling about her face.
“You look gorgeous,” Geraldine mouths to me, as she reaches up and wipes off a tiny smudge of lipstick from my cheek, which, quite frankly, no one other than Geraldine would have noticed.
“Jemima!” My heart skips a beat as Ben comes rushing over and puts an arm around me. “For a minute there I thought you weren’t going to come.” He thought about me! He actually worried about me, he spent time worrying whether I was going to come. Now this, surely, is a result.