“Geraldine, I’m speechless. But what do I need it for?”
“To look the part. Everyone carries a Louis Vuitton vanity case when they’re traveling. And now,” she says, “for the pièce, or pièces, de résistance.” She opens the vanity case and pulls out a pair of large tortoiseshell Cutler & Gross sunglasses. “These were used in a fashion shoot a couple of weeks ago and I lost them. I feel terrible, I phoned the PR and she’s just about forgiven me. I can’t think where they’ve got to.” She grins wickedly as she hands them to me. “You don’t actually need to wear them on the flight. Wear them at the airport, and when you’re not wearing them on your eyes, wear them on top of your head.” She shows me how to loop my hair back perfectly with the glasses, which, it has to be said, do seem to add a touch of instant glamour.
“Hmm,” she says, rifling around in the vanity case. “What else have I got here?” She pulls out two bottles of Evian water and a can of what looks like hair spray, followed by a selection of exotic-looking jars. “The water is obviously for you to drink on the plane. Whatever you do, avoid any alcohol, it will only make you retain even more water than you already will. The can is a spray of Evian water, which you have to use as follows.” She flicks back her hair and, with a flourish of her hand, sprays the mist finely over her face, breathing a sigh of relief when she’s done. “There,” she says. “It’s what all the models do, as it stops your skin drying out. These,” she adds, gesturing to the pots, “are also freebies. I phoned the company and told them I was writing a piece about their products so they sent me the whole range. They’re super-duper moisturizing products, and I would suggest you use them every couple of hours. Darling, you have no idea how flying dries out your skin. And finally,” she says, pulling out a tiny little white plastic bottle, “eye drops to give you those bright, white, sparkling eyes, even after an eleven-hour flight. God,” she adds, almost to herself, “someone should pay me for this.”
“Geraldine,” I say, shaking my head but unable to stop smiling, “you, are a godsend. What would I do without you?”
“What you’d do, Jemima, is look like every other wannabe flying to Los Angeles with stars in her eyes. Now you look like a there.”
“A what?”
“A there. A made-it, whatever you want to call it.” She looks at her watch. “Jesus, we’d better leave if we’re going to make it. Are you all set?”
“Nearly. I’ve just got to write a note for Sophie and Lisa.” Geraldine rolls her eyes. “I have to, Geraldine. Just in case there’s an emergency.”
“I bet you’re glad to see the back of them.”
“I don’t mind. They don’t bother me much, they’re quite amusing in a sad sort of way.”
“Yup, an ugly sisters sort of way.”
“Exactly,” I laugh.
“So how do you feel?” Geraldine asks, as we lug my cases to the front door.
“Nervous as hell?”
“Don’t be. I wish it was me. You’re going to have a blast.”
Jemima Jones is getting a lot of attention at the airport, although she hasn’t really noticed, too caught up in the excitement of her trip to take in the admiring glances. Perhaps it’s the fact that she does indeed look like a made-it, particularly when she puts the sunglasses on to hide her exhilaration, perhaps it is simply that, with the help of her fairy godmother Geraldine, she seems to have perfected the art of looking impossibly cool, not to mention beautiful. Whatever the reason, the package-tour people are nudging one another and whispering, “Who do you think it is?” “I’m sure she’s famous.” “Isn’t she the girl from that film?”
“I’m going to miss you,” says Geraldine, putting her arms around me and giving me a huge hug. “Who’s going to make my days bearable for the next two weeks?”
“Who’s going to rewrite your copy, you mean.” I grin, hugging her back and completely forgetting to mention that Geraldine has the joy of writing the Top Tips column in store for her.
“That too,” says Geraldine, “but seriously, I really am going to miss you. Have the most fantastic time. Will you call me?”
“Of course I will.”
“As soon as you get there? I’m dying to know what he’s like. God, he might be short, fat, and balding.”
“Don’t!” I admonish, because I’m nervous enough as it is. “That would be awful,” and then I remember that although I’ve never been short and balding, I was once fat, and in a split second I remember how people judged me, how they misjudged me, more like. “But it would be okay if he was a nice person,” I add, although I’m crossing my fingers and praying he has a full head of hair. “Anyway, we’ve seen his picture, I’m sure it really is him.”
“If you’re sure, I’m sure,” says Geraldine, “but whatever he’s like you’ve got a ticket to Los Angeles. Are you absolutely certain you can’t fit me in your suitcase?”
We both look down at my suitcase, so full all the sides are positively bulging. “Quite certain,” I laugh, “although what I wouldn’t give to have you come with.”
“Take care,” says Geraldine, giving her another hug, and as Geraldine leaves Jemima she realizes that she really will miss her, that Jemima has become very important in her life, that Jemima has helped her to rediscover the joys of female friendship, for, up until recently, Geraldine always considered herself a man’s woman, a woman with no time for female friends. Isn’t it strange how things change . . .
And that’s it. I’m on my own. I walk up to the Virgin check-in, a bottle of mineral water in one hand, the Louis Vuitton vanity case in the other, and a pile of glossy magazines, “to keep you from getting bored,” from Geraldine under my arm. I hand my economy ticket over the counter, and someone, somewhere, must be smiling upon me today, or perhaps Geraldine’s ploy is working, but whatever it is the check-in girl seems to think I might be a made-it as well, and although she tells me it’s not airline policy to upgrade those who simply look the part, the economy class is full, and Virgin would like to upgrade me to first class.
What a result!
“Gosh! Really? That’s fantastic!” I say, forgetting to act like a famous film star, like someone who would naturally be upgraded. “Actually, I’ve never even flown before! And now I’m flying first class! Thank you, thank you so much.”
Needless to say the check-in girl looks shocked, she realizes her mistake, but lucky me, it’s too late, and I don’t even care that I’ve been desperately uncool because I’m the one with the upgrade! I’m the one flying first class!
And then I have two hours to kill in the airport, and I buy books at the airport bookstore, splash myself with perfume in Duty Free, and look longingly at the jewelry shops, picking out what I would buy if I had the money.
I also spend far too much time looking longingly at the Silk Cut cigarettes, but no, I do not smoke any more. Not even when I’m so nervous I could be sick. No. I’m fit and healthy. I do not need to smoke. So, when a voice comes over the loudspeaker telling me my flight is boarding, I bounce down to the departure gate, trying to control the urge to shout with excitement and joy.
Eleven hours is a hell of a long time to spend on a flight, but eleven hours can pass incredibly quickly when you’re Jemima Jones and you’ve never flown before. Eleven hours can pass incredibly quickly when you are sunk in the height of luxury, when you are fed and watered at the drop of a hat, when you have your own personal video screen and can choose any film that catches your fancy. Jemima Jones is far too excited to sleep, and when the stewardesses pull down the shutters on the airplane windows and the rest of the people in first class pull on their sleeping masks and gently snooze, Jemima Jones watches videos, reads her magazines, and spends a disproportionately long time with her head leaned back, thinking about her life.
She thinks about the way her life has changed. She thinks about Brad, about what he’s going to look like, what he’s going to think of her, what she will do in Los Angeles. And she thinks about Ben, but she tries not to think about hi
m too much, for every time she does she cannot help but feel a physical pull, a pang perhaps. Try as she might to get on with her life, the fact remains that she misses him, that she suspects she’ll never feel quite the same way about anyone ever again, and this is something that she doesn’t think she’ll get over for a very long time.
So she sits in first class and sprays her can of Evian on her face, drinks her mineral water, and religiously rubs moisturizer in to stop her skin dehydrating. An hour before they arrive she goes to the lavatory to put on her makeup, and as she stands there, as she brushes her mascara on, the butterflies suddenly start flying around her stomach and she looks at herself in the mirror and says disbelievingly, “Jemima Jones, what the hell are you doing?”
Chapter 17
They always say that you’re supposed to feel tired after a long-haul flight. I don’t feel tired, I feel excited, and happy, and nervous. It’s almost as if up until now it’s been a big game. There I was, playing around on the Internet, having this make-believe romance with someone I’d never met, and it was fun, it gave me something to look forward to, but now, now that I’m actually here, I’m so frightened.
Not because he could be anyone, he could be an axe murderer, a pedophile, a rapist, although that had crossed my mind, but more because I’ve come all this way and what if he doesn’t like me. I know what Geraldine would say, what if I don’t like him, but that’s kind of irrelevant, I mean, I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve had a choice. And I know things are different now, I know I don’t look like I used to, but it still seems ridiculous that I might not like someone who likes me.
What if I’m not what he expected? What if he sees through the illusion and sees the fat unhappy girl lurking beneath? After all, it wasn’t that long ago that I was a laughingstock. It hurts me to even say that, but I know it’s true. I know that despite the few people who saw through, who were kind to me anyway—people like Geraldine and Ben—most of the people I knew simply felt sorry for me.
And although I look in the mirror and I don’t recognize myself, in a weird sort of way this feels like a game too. It feels like it can’t be real, that I’m playing at being thin, and that at some point I will be fat again. I know I’m thin because I’m buying size 8 clothes (even they are slightly big on me) but I still feel the same, and I’m so scared that Brad will see that. And, more to the point, where the hell is he anyway?
I’ve got my suitcases, I’ve walked through customs, and I can’t see Brad, or even anyone who looks remotely like him, anywhere. I thought he’d be standing right at the front, I suppose, if I’m honest, I had stupid daydreams about this gorgeous hunk running over to me and scooping me up in his arms, but although there are many, many people here, none of them looks like Brad.
What if he doesn’t turn up? What if he’s not in? Where will I go? What will I do? As the panic starts to set in I realize that now I really do want a cigarette more than I’ve ever wanted one before in my life, but even as the thought crosses my mind I notice that all around are signs saying that it is a no-smoking airport, implying that anyone caught smoking will be hanged, drawn, and quartered, so I just sigh deeply and try to look like a woman who knows what she’s doing.
“Excuse me?” I turn, breath catching in my throat as I see a short, fat, balding man standing in front of me.
“Brad?” Sorry, sorry, sorry, but I haven’t got a hope in hell of hiding the disappointment in my voice. Oh my God, I’m thinking. You lied to me, you lied about your picture. I conveniently forget that I also lied about mine because that is hardly relevant now. Shit, I think next, I’ve got to spend two whole weeks with this revolting man, and then I think no! I’m not going to judge him, he might be really nice, but even as I stand here thinking that, I’m looking at him and wishing I hadn’t come. Wishing I’d left it as a game.
“No.” He shakes his head as I exhale loudly in a sigh of relief. “I’m Paul Springer. I’m a film producer.”
“Oh?” I say uninterestedly, wondering what on earth he wants.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you’re very beautiful, I assumed you had to be an actress.”
“Thank you,” I say, with a genuine smile this time, because when compliments have always been things that other people get, you do feel ridiculously thrilled when you start getting your own. “But I’m not,” I add, and I start to turn away, because at first I thought he might have been Brad’s driver, or someone he sent to pick me up, but he quite obviously doesn’t know him, or me either.
“A model then?” He grabs my arm.
“No. Afraid not.” I try and shake off his arm.
“Well you should be. Are you new in town?”
“Yes.” I’m now wondering how to get away from this man without seeming rude but I’m not entirely sure how to do it because his hand appears to be stuck to my arm.
“I’d be very happy to show you the sights.”
“Thank you, but I’m here staying with a friend.”
“Here’s my card.” He stands there holding out a business card with a chubby hand, and as I reluctantly take it he comes up with what is obviously his number one pick-up line. “I know you don’t act, but I have a part in my next movie that I think you’d be perfect for.” I’m amazed that Geraldine was so right, I’m actually speechless, and I look at him open-mouthed because it is so obviously a line, but what is most bizarre is that this line must work, but not, obviously, on me.
“Thank you,” I say uncertainly. “I’ll be in touch,” and with that he licks his lips slowly and repeats, “Perfect, just perfect,” and this time I forget my British reserve and politeness, pick up my bags, and move to the other end of the hall.
I’m looking at my watch when a voice says in my ear, “JJ?” and this time my heart starts pounding as I turn around and look into the eyes of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! His picture didn’t do him justice, nothing could do this man justice. Can a man be beautiful? Can anyone be as perfect as this man standing before me, looking at me hopefully, doubtfully, for I still haven’t said anything.
“Brad?” I say eventually, when I’ve got my breath back, and he doesn’t say anything, just nods before sweeping me up in his arms and giving me a hug, a huge, enveloping hug, and, in those few seconds that I’m in his arms, I feel like this is the moment I’ve been waiting for all my life.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” he says finally, when he releases me, and we stand there trying to take one another in, remembering our pictures, trying to work out whether we are the respective people we thought we were. I look at him and think, you could not like me, you could not be with me, you are far too beautiful to be with me, but he hasn’t backed away as I thought he might, there is nothing on his face that is showing disappointment, and I am the first one to tell him he is not what I expected.
“Your picture doesn’t do you justice,” I say nervously, so scared he’ll see through me to the fat girl I’ve fought so hard to hide.
He smiles, perfect white teeth which I look at with amazement, because I have never seen teeth more perfect, nor lips more sculpted, nor eyes so blue. “Neither does yours,” he says, and I feel a familiar heat rise up my face, the blush that Jemima Jones so hated, the blush that JJ is supposed to have banished forever. I stand and I blush, and all the while I cannot take my eyes from his face, and I cannot believe my luck.
Brad laughs and pushes his hair, his sun-streaked blond hair, out of his eyes and he shakes his head. “You are so much better than I expected. You’re gorgeous, JJ, you really are.” He reaches down with a suntanned arm, an arm covered in fine blond hair, and my stomach twists in an unfamiliar feeling, a feeling which, it slowly dawns on me, must be lust, pure and simple lust, and he stands tall, taller than me, and says, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
And as we walk out of the airport to his car, I allow myself to exhale with relief, because I am good enough, and as I lower myse
lf into the tan leather seats of his sleek black convertible Porsche, I cannot wipe the smile off my face and I surreptitiously pinch myself, just to confirm this isn’t all a dream.
He turns the ignition on and looks over at me with a grin, and I still cannot wipe the smile off my face, and I still cannot quite believe this is reality. Thank you, God, I pray silently, closing my eyes for a brief second. Thank you for making me slim. Thank you for delivering me this perfect man.
What a couple they make, Brad and JJ. Even before they’ve hit the highway everyone is staring at them, drinking in their beauty, this vision of the Californian dream. Two beautiful people, in a beautiful car, on a beautiful day. They drive on to the Santa Monica Freeway, the wind whipping their hair back, sunglasses protecting their eyes, and Jemima Jones tips her head back in her seat and gazes at the sky, at the tips of the palm trees that rush past her, and she thinks that for the first time she understands about being happy. She keeps sneaking a peek at the vision sitting next to her, still unable to believe that she will be spending the next two weeks with him. They don’t talk, the noise of the engine and the cars rushing past make it too difficult to hear each other speak, so the music is turned up, and every now and then these two beautiful people look at one another and smile. When something looks this good, how could it possibly go wrong?
“This is Santa Monica Boulevard,” says Brad, pulling off the freeway. We stop at a traffic light and a sports car I don’t recognize pulls up next to us. I turn to look at the driver and it’s a young, good-looking guy, who, much to my astonishment, gives me an appreciative glance before shouting to Brad, “Nice car, man. Nice babe.”
Brad smiles and puts his foot down as we drive down this huge, wide road lined by huge shops that are far bigger, far brighter than any at home. Right at the end I can see palm trees, and beyond a hazy blue, and just as I’m about to ask him where this leads, he turns to me and says, “This road takes us all the way down to the ocean. We’ll drive down there, then take Ocean Boulevard to my place. I think you’ll like it a lot, it overlooks the water.”