I recover my composure and look Ben in the eye, willing him to notice how I look, to see the new Jemima Jones, to like what he sees and fall in love with me. But Ben just says, “Here, have a glass of champagne,” and as he hands it to me he looks over my shoulder and says, “Diana! You made it.”
“Couldn’t let my new star reporter down could I?” says Diana Macpherson, striding through the room as people part to let her through, because, after all, Diana Macpherson is famous in the media world.
And I can’t help it, I watch with a mounting sense of horror as Diana almost gives Ben a kiss on the cheek, but then evidently thinks better of it and straightens up, extending her hand, which Ben shakes warmly. Phew.
“Let me introduce you,” he says, turning first to the editor, who is so impressed with Diana Macpherson that his mouth, once open, is captured in a fish pose, the editor having forgotten to close it. Diana shakes hands with him, then with me, but just as Ben’s about to introduce her to Geraldine she turns to Ben and says, “Come with me to get a drink,” and Ben shrugs at us and allows himself to be propelled by her towards the bar.
“What a bitch!” says Geraldine, who, quite understandably, feels snubbed by the great Diana Macpherson, and only Geraldine would say what everyone else is thinking but would never dare voice out loud.
“Don’t worry,” I soothe, “I’m sure it wasn’t personal,” but of course it was personal, I’m not stupid, I saw the way Diana Macpherson’s eyes swept over Geraldine with a cold, flinty stare, and from what I’ve heard Diana Macpherson is not a woman’s woman, even more so when the woman happens to be as attractive as Geraldine.
“God, I’m really sorry about that,” says a voice next to us. “Diana is a law unto herself, and sometimes she can seem rude.” We both turn to look at a young, good-looking guy, dressed in an old pair of Levi’s and a brushed cotton shirt. “Sorry,” he says again. “I’m Nick. I’m here with Diana.” Nick holds out his hand to Geraldine as he says this, and holds her gaze for longer than is altogether necessary, before shaking my hand and making me feel more of a spare part than I do already.
“Here with Diana?” asks Geraldine with a raised eyebrow. “Does that then mean that you are her”—she pauses coolly—“other half?”
“Hardly,” laughs Nick. “I’m more like her occasional date.”
“And this is where she brings you?” Geraldine’s teasing him, but neither Nick nor I misses the flirtatious tone in her voice.
“Yes, but I’ve promised to take her out for dinner later on.”
“Do you, er, work in television?” I venture, trying to be polite but feeling more and more unwanted.
“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Do you know Cut Glass?”
Everyone knows Cut Glass. Initially a small, funky optician’s shop that specialized in hard-to-find trendy glasses that couldn’t be bought elsewhere, Cut Glass is now one of the largest, if not in fact the largest, optician chains in the country.
“You’re an optician.” It’s a statement, not a question, and Geraldine’s eyes instantly dull as she starts thinking of ways to get away from him. I know her so well, I smile to myself. Cute, she thinks, but boring, boring, boring.
“No,” laughs Nick. “Not exactly.”
Oh God, I can see Geraldine think, this gets worse. He’s not even an optician, he’s a bloody sales assistant.
“It’s my company,” he says reluctantly, after a pregnant pause.
“What do you mean it’s your company?”
“It’s my company,” he repeats.
“Oh my God!” Geraldine suddenly pales. “You’re Nick!”
Nick’s looking at her in confusion. “I told you I was Nick.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “But you’re Nick Maxwell, I know all about you.”
“What do you mean, you know all about me?”
“I’m a friend of Suzie.”
“What?” he says, his smile growing larger. “Suzie Johnson?”
“Yes,” says Geraldine, who cannot believe her luck because Nick Maxwell, all six foot one of him, is not only gorgeous but hugely wealthy, very nice, and enormously eligible, and Geraldine knows all about him already. “Suzie’s one of my oldest friends, I’ve been hearing about you for years.”
“Oh my God!” Now it’s Nick’s turn. “You’re Geraldine Turner!”
I’ve been feeling more and more surplus to requirements, and finally I can see that it really is time to leave these two to get on with it. “Drink?” I say, but they both shake their heads, already lost in the geography of discovering who else they have in common, so I wander off to the bar.
Everyone is having too good a time to remember that they are at this party to bid farewell to their much loved deputy news editor. The lights have got dimmer, the music’s been turned up, and Jemima is leaning against the bar sipping her cheap white wine—the champagne finished a long time ago—and surveying the room.
She sees Ben standing with Diana Macpherson and the editor, Diana in mid-flow, pressing her hand on Ben’s arm every now and then to emphasize a point. Funny, thinks Jemima, how she isn’t touching the editor in the same way. In fact, she doesn’t seem to be touching the editor at all.
She’s far too old and far too rough for Jemima to feel truly threatened—surely she is not Ben’s type in the slightest—but nevertheless every time she places a long manicured finger on Ben’s sleeve, Jemima feels her heartstrings tug a little bit more. Leave him alone, she thinks. He’s not yours.
Nor, Jemima, is he yours, but Jemima, having rarely, if ever, had a crush on someone before, does not see this. Most women, it must be admitted, spend their teenage years falling in and out of love. They are more than familiar with the pain of going to a party and watching the object of their young desires end up with another girl. They are well versed in talking to their girlfriends about “the bitch” that stole him, and they are equally well aware that, although it might feel it at the time, it is not the end of the world.
But Jemima didn’t have an adolescence like most teenage girls. While her classmates were at parties, experimenting with makeup, clothes, and fumbling in darkened bedrooms on beds piled high with coats, Jemima was at home with her mother, eating, watching television, and daydreaming.
Jemima didn’t go to any parties until she went to university, and even there she rarely ventured to large social occasions once Freshman Week was over. Jemima Jones found a group of friends who were, she thought, as inadequate as herself. The social misfits they called themselves, pretending to delight in their difference, but each of them wishing they belonged elsewhere.
And up until recently Jemima had shown very little interest in the opposite sex. Yes, she had lost her virginity, but she had never felt what it was like to pine for someone, to lie awake all night praying they will notice you, to wince with pain when you realize they will never reciprocate your feelings.
“Mimey!” My reverie is interrupted by a voice I know well, and I turn slowly, trying to figure out why I am hearing this voice at a work do, and as I turn I know that the cheap, white wine I have been gulping all evening to relieve my nerves has gone straight to my head, and I am, how shall I put it, slightly woozy with alcohol. Oh all right then, I’m slightly drunk.
And when I see them, Sophie and Lisa, standing together, I smile broadly, grin, actually. I’m pretty damn sure I’m doing about as perfect an impression of a Cheshire cat as I know how. “You both look . . .” I pause as I look them up and down, head to toe. “Wonderful!” I exclaim magnanimously, despite the silence that appears to have descended upon the room at their arrival.
For Sophie and Lisa have really gone to town, except they’ve done it in Kilburn, and somehow what would look magnificent in Tramp looks completely ridiculous in the Wine Cellar just off the Kilburn High Road. They look extraordinary, extraordinarily out of place.
Lisa has obviously been to the hairdresser, who has sent her away with hair so big she almost has to watch her head w
alking through doorways. She is wearing a tiny piece of black fabric masquerading as a dress, and high, high, strappy sandals.
Sophie has caught her hair in a french twist, much like mine, and has squeezed herself into a sparkly black cocktail dress, which shimmers and shines every time she moves.
They look like a bloody parody of themselves, and I can’t, I just can’t wipe the grin off my face, and as I say hello to them I see that over their shoulders both Geraldine and Nick Maxwell are also grinning, and just for a second I feel a wicked, wicked glee that they should be so awkward.
Except, of course, Sophie and Lisa don’t feel awkward, they feel beautiful, and they have obviously done it for Ben. Bad move. Big, bad move. Ha! Serves them right.
“So where is the clever boy then?” asks Sophie, looking around the room to try and find Ben.
“See that tall blond woman over there?” I point out Diana Macpherson, knowing that Diana, should Sophie or Lisa break in on her territory, will make mincemeat out of them. “He was talking to her a minute ago, he’s probably just gone to get her a drink.”
“God,” says Sophie, smoothing down her dress and giving Diana Macpherson the once-over. “Talk about mutton dressed as lamb. Who is she?” Sophie doesn’t turn back to me, just keeps her eyes glued to Diana as Ben walks back and hands Diana a glass of wine.
“Dunno,” I shrug, trying desperately to hide an evil grin. “She’s not from the paper and I haven’t seen her before. Maybe she’s a friend of Ben.” I stop talking and the three of us watch in silence as Diana brushes a bit of lint off Ben’s jacket in a gesture that is way too intimate for simply a boss.
“Maybe she fancies him,” I say, wondering exactly what the outcome of this peculiar conversation will be.
“She should be so bloody lucky!” says Sophie indignantly, before she evidently remembers that I, her roommate, have a crush on Ben, and she shouldn’t be quite so obvious.
“Tell you what, Mimey,” she says in a confiding tone. “Why don’t I go over there and get rid of the old bag then you can come over and talk to him. I bet you haven’t said a word to him all night.”
I can’t hide the evil smile any longer, and as the grin spreads across my face I say, “Would you? That’s so amazing of you.”
“What are friends for?” says Sophie, who’s already started striding through the tightly packed people to reach her prey.
“I’d better go with her,” says Lisa, tottering behind her.
“What is going on?” Geraldine comes to stand next to me. “What are your roommates doing here, and, more to the point, why the hell are they dressed like that?”
This is too much for me. I start laughing, and the more I laugh, the harder it is to stop, but I’m not that drunk, okay? Just slightly. Eventually I manage to gasp, “Just watch. I think this is going to be one of those Kodak moments.”
“Does your roommate know who Diana Macpherson is?” says Geraldine in confusion.
“No,” I splutter. “And nor does she know what she’s like, but she fancies Ben and she thinks that Diana is mutton dressed as lamb and Sophie’s going to drag him away from her, come what may.”
Geraldine looks shocked, but swiftly realizes she’s in on a classic moment. “Classic!” she whispers in awe, as she watches Sophie’s approach.
Sophie, being the rather silly girl that she is, seems to have decided, in the space of less than a minute, that Ben has obviously been cornered by this overblown, overaged blonde, and as she walks purposefully towards them she is already planning her strategy. Ben, she has decided, is looking as if he doesn’t want to be there, so Ben will probably be eternally grateful to anyone who has the presence of mind to take him away from this woman who is, Sophie assumes, ruining his party.
I am, she thinks, as she draws closer and closer, infinitely younger than this blowzy blonde, and far more attractive. Plus, she notes, as she finally walks over, I have better legs. Ben, she decides, now has a girlfriend who will send this woman scarpering. This girlfriend, she thinks, is me. Brilliant! she tells herself. He will never be able to thank me enough!
“Ben!” she shouts, as Ben looks up from his conversation with Diana and stares at her blankly, primarily because he finds it hard to focus on her, she appears to have two, if not three, heads, and secondly because he does not recognize her in the slightest.
His blank stare swiftly becomes mild alarm, because she certainly seems to know him, indeed to know him very well.
“Darling!” she exclaims, grabbing his face between her hands and planting a big wet kiss on his lips. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Have you missed me?” she adds, in a kittenish purr.
“I . . . er . . .” Ben is completely and utterly flummoxed. Who is this strange woman, is she perhaps some PR girl he might have spoken to on the phone?
“Hello,” says Sophie, turning coolly to Diana Macpherson, whose face has suddenly turned as hard as steel. “I’m Sophie.” She holds out a hand as Diana just looks at her. “Ben’s girlfriend.”
“My what?” slurs Ben, who has suddenly realized who she is.
“Don’t be coy, darling. It’s hardly a secret anymore, is it?” Sophie reaches up and affectionately ruffles his hair.
“But . . .” Ben splutters, “but we’ve only met once. You’re Jemima’s roommate, aren’t you?”
Sophie hesitates, but only for a split second. “Is this a little game, darling? Do you want me to play along? All right then, we’ve only met once.” She turns to Diana and rolls her eyes, while Ben stands there looking flabbergasted.
“Sorry,” she says to Diana, who, it has to be said, is far, far brighter than Sophie, and is slowly getting an inkling, thanks to the expression on Ben’s face, that this is not quite what it seems. “We just have these little games we play.” continues Sophie, blissfully unaware that her plan is not going to, well, to plan.
“Oh?” says Diana, switching on the charm and smiling a smile that her colleagues know means only one thing—she’s going in for the kill. “So you’re Ben’s girlfriend? I’ve heard so much about you.”
Sophie’s smile fades for a second before she recovers. “Nice things I hope,” she offers, because as far as she knows Ben doesn’t have a girlfriend, and, if he does, she might be here, and if she’s here then Sophie’s in big trouble.
“Oh wonderful things,” says Diana. “I was so sorry to hear about your sister,” she says, now knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sophie is some stupid tart who fancies Ben, who thought that she could drag him away from her.
“My sister, yes, it was a shame. I’m surprised Ben told you,” says Sophie, who’s beginning to think that the sooner she gets away from here the better.
Jemima and Geraldine have inched forward until they are feet away, and both are straining their ears to hear what’s going on.
“Mmm,” says Diana confidently. “Ben tells me a lot of things. I’m his psychiatrist.”
“What?” says Sophie, who’s completely unsure of what to do next.
“Well, you know,” says Diana, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “After the problem last year with the voices and the schizophrenic tendencies, Ben and I have been seeing one another three times a week. He didn’t tell you?”
“Yes, come to think of it he did mention it, but you know how private Ben is.”
“Absolutely,” agrees Diana. “Just as long as you keep your kitchen knives well hidden, if you know what I mean.” She nudges Sophie. “I shouldn’t really say this,” Diana says, “but do be careful, I mean we wouldn’t want you to end up like his last girlfriend would we.”
“Er, no.”
“No, exactly. Anyway, Ben tells me you’re an osteopath. Come with me to get a drink and tell me all about your work.” Before Sophie has a chance to protest, Diana has grabbed her by the arm and propelled her to the bar, while Geraldine and Jemima collapse in tears of laughter.
“What the fuck?” says Ben, who has temporarily, perhaps due to shock, sobered up somewh
at. He turns to me, slurring slightly. “Was that my girlfriend?”
“No, Ben,” I smile gently. “You haven’t got a girlfriend, remember?”
“That’s what I thought,” says Ben, looking into his wineglass in confusion. He looks back up at the girls. “Jemima,” he says, downing his glass in one. “Geraldine,” he says, swaying gently and looking at Geraldine. “What am I going to do without you both?” He flings his arms around both our shoulders while Geraldine, who has not touched a drop all night, rolls her eyes in disgust and disengages herself.
“You’ll be fine, Ben,” she says. “You’ll doubtless find thousands of gorgeous young women at London Nights who will fall in love with you. And speaking of love . . .” She looks up until she catches the eye of Nick Maxwell, who has just returned from getting Diana Macpherson’s coat. “I have got a date with one of the most eligible men in London.”
“Who?” says Ben, who, by the looks of things, is far too drunk to care.
“Never you mind.” Geraldine, being sober as a judge, has thankfully realized that Ben is the last person she should be telling, because you never knew how Diana Macpherson would take it.
“Excuse me,” she says, checking that Diana isn’t around so she can go and say goodbye to Nick. “Back in a sec.”
But Ben’s arm is still around my shoulders, and I’m so nervous that I seem to have suddenly sobered up, and I can see everything in minute detail, and feel every pressure of Ben’s arm on my body.
“You’re my only friend,” he says to me, turning and burying his face in my shoulder. “I love you, Jemima,” he mumbles into my shirt, and I freeze.
And the world stands still.
“What did you say?” I ask haltingly, convinced I misheard.
Ben focuses on me for a few seconds then, much in the manner that Sophie, who has now left the party, kissed him, kisses me. It is a big, wet, sloppy kiss on my lips, and thank you, God, thank you, thank you, thank you. It lasts a good four seconds, and when it’s over Ben stumbles off, leaving me rooted to the floor, shaking like a leaf.