“Isn’t he great?” says Brad, putting his arm around me as we stand next to one of the benches that line each side of the street. I nod, because it is great, and as I turn to look at Brad I notice that sitting on the bench is an old homeless woman. You can tell she’s homeless, her gray hair is long and matted, her raincoat is ripped and torn, and strewn around her feet are a dozen plastic bags. Her eyes are closed, and she’s humming along, and suddenly she opens her eyes and sees me.
She stands up, collects her bags, and as she walks off she touches my arm and says, “You gotta hear ‘New York, New York.’ He does it last. It’s wonderful,” and with that she disappears.
“Now that,” I say, looking at Brad, “is bizarre.”
“Not really,” says Brad. “This guy’s an institution. He’s here practically every week.”
“But that woman . . .”
“Right. Santa Monica seems to be a mecca for the homeless. Listening to this guy is probably the highlight of her week.”
“But how did she get here?”
“Who knows,” he says, shrugging. “How did any of us get here?” and with that he leads me to the bucket, throws in a couple of dollar bills, and we go back to the car.
We drive through wide residential streets, huge roads lined with grassy verges and large houses, and eventually we hit Montana, a quiet road that reeks of money, simply because the small boutiques and restaurants on either side are so quaint, and Brad pulls up outside a small coffee shop which looks packed. Outside, on the street, there’s one spare table, and Brad tells me to grab it while he gets breakfast.
Don’t think I’m being egotistical, please, but I can’t help but notice that three—three!—men put down their papers, stop their conversations, and turn to stare at me, and although my initial thought is that it must be because I have something on my face, I soon realize that it’s because I look good.
Tutored by Geraldine, I’m in my new secondhand Levi’s, 26 waist, a white shirt, and brown suede loafers, and when I put them on this morning I thought that, perhaps for the first time, I really do look like the woman I wanted to become.
“One coffee,” says Brad, placing the cup in front of me as the men look away, because one look at Brad and they know they couldn’t compete, “and one fat-free blueberry muffin.”
It’s delicious. He’s delicious. This life is delicious. I think I could stay here for the rest of my life.
I suppose this is the time when we ought to be talking, getting to know each other, but we did so much of that last night, and now that we’ve slept together all we seem to be doing is staring at one another and grinning. Brad holds my hand, only allowing me to have it back to pick up my muffin and take the occasional bite, and even as I’m eating he strokes my leg, or my arm, or something. It’s as if we have to have permanent contact with each other, and everyone seems to be staring at us, or perhaps that’s my imagination.
But in my imagination I imagine that they’re staring because they wish they had what we had. I have no idea what it really feels like to be in love. I loved Ben, it’s true, but I never had Ben, and, as I sit here with this man I’ve just made love to, I wonder whether perhaps it wasn’t love with Ben, it was merely infatuation.
Not that I love Brad, not yet, of course not. But I feel so high, I can’t stop smiling, and I’m sure that my glow is lighting up the whole of America.
“You’re so beautiful,” Brad says to me again, and I bask in the glory of his admiration. He checks his watch and says we should go blading because he’ll have to do some work when we get to the gym.
And so we stop at the rental shop and pick up some blades for me then we drop the car home, Brad picks up his blades, and we walk, in sock-clad feet, down to the promenade.
“Um, there’s something I have to tell you,” I start nervously, as Brad looks concerned. “I lied about Rollerblading. I’ve never done it before in my life.”
Brad throws his head back and laughs. “Why on earth bother lying about that? Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” He continues chuckling as I shakily put the boots on and stand still, too terrified to move.
“Here,” he says, taking my hand, “This is how you blade,” and he shows me how to start with my feet at right angles to one another, how to push off with the right and glide forward with the left, and wonder of wonders, me, clumsy, oafish Jemima Jones, can do it. I’m not very good, admittedly, but Brad keeps hold of my hand, and with those strong arms he balances me every time I threaten to tip over.
It takes a while, but soon we’re blading side by side, on this wide tarmac boardwalk that runs alongside the beach. I don’t even care that every few minutes these gorgeous women pass, headphones on, perfect figures gyrating to the music that’s filling their ears. And I don’t even care that these women all eye Brad up and down as they approach, because he’s not looking at them, he’s looking at me. And I don’t even care when one of the blond bombshells turns to her friend skating alongside her, also with a headset on, and mouths “gay,” gesturing at Brad, who doesn’t see. I don’t care. Actually, I think it’s funny, and in a way I know what she means. It’s almost as if Brad is too damn perfect to be straight. It’s not something I would ever have thought in England, but here, where the gay culture seems to be so much bigger, here I can understand why she would have said that.
I laugh to myself, especially when I picture what Brad was doing to me at ten past nine this morning, and then I stop laughing to myself and I start shivering with pleasure at the memory.
“This is so much fun,” I shout, as we pick up speed and head down towards the Santa Monica pier.
“I thought you’d never done this before,” he says, and with a grin I shoot off in front of him, amazed that I’m so confident on these wheels.
“I lied,” I shout back and he grins and blows me a kiss as he races to catch up with me.
Jemima and Brad look like the perfect couple, like they’ve just stepped out of a romantic love story, and even though they’re not really talking, they’re giggling together and teasing one another in a way that is increasingly like two people falling in love with each other. Or could that be two people falling in love with love itself?
Two hours of Rollerblading has completely done me in, and when we’ve finished we stop at a deli and help ourselves to salad, which we put in a container and take to Brad’s gym to eat in his office. Just in case you’re wondering, I’m even more conscious of keeping my figure here, so I bypass the salads of rice and pasta, which, delicious looking as they are, are not what I need to maintain my figure. I opt, instead, for mounds of exotic salad leaves, piled high with roasted vegetables and sesame seeds, not, according to the woman in the deli, roasted in oil. Completely fat free. Aren’t I good? Aren’t you proud of me?
The gym, just off 2nd Avenue, when we get there, is much like I expected. A sun-filled reception houses a huge desk, behind which sit two gorgeous women in perfectly coordinated aerobic gear. One is wearing a pink bodysuit with tight, tiny orange Lycra shorts, and the other is in an orange bodysuit with pink shorts, both with tiny thongs at the back. They are extremely tanned, extremely fit, and extremely friendly, which surprises me somewhat, because back at home, when women look like this, they usually turn out to be class-A bitches.
“Hey, Brad!” says one enthusiastically as they walk in.
“Hey, Brad!” says the other, looking up in her wake.
“Hey, Cindy, Charlene. I’d like you to meet JJ.”
“Hey, JJ,” they both say at the same time. “It’s so great to meet you.”
“And you.” I suppress a laugh, because what could be so great about meeting me?
“You’re JJ!” says Cindy suddenly. “Oh my God, we’ve heard so much about you. We’ve even seen your picture. Wow, you’re here.”
“Yup.” Is anybody over here ever going to say something that makes sense? “I’m here.”
“And you’re from England?” It’s Charlene’s turn.
“Uh huh.”
“That’s so great. I had a boyfriend from England once. He was from Surrey. Gary Tompkins?” She’s looking at me expectantly, as if I might know him. As if. I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. “Sorry,” I apologize. “It’s a big place.”
“Don’t worry,” says Charlene, “he wasn’t so hot anyway. But welcome to Los Angeles. Do you think you’ll stay?”
“I’m here for two weeks,” I say. “Then I have to get back to work.”
“That’s too bad,” says Cindy. “It’s a great place. Maybe you could come back.”
“Maybe,” I say, wondering if everyone here is so friendly. I mean, I’ve heard Americans are like this, but I never really thought it would be true.
“They’re really nice,” I say to Brad, as we pass through the reception area and through the actual gym, and then I stop because I have never in my life seen a gym so well equipped, nor people so perfect. The gym is buzzing. Heavy hip-hop music, a song I vaguely recognize, is bursting out of every corner, and although everyone in here is sweating up a storm, they all look fantastic, the sweat only seems to set off their glistening tans and perfect bodies.
“God,” I whisper in bewilderment, because it’s worlds away from my gym, where most of the people are either there because they’re at the before stage and they look terrible, or because it’s a place to see and be seen, and they’d never let something as mucky as sweat mess up their makeup or hairdo.
“You like it?” asks Brad, obviously proud of this thriving business. “Meet Jimmy, one of the personal trainers here.”
Tall, bronzed, and buff, Jimmy shakes my hand. “It’s so great to finally meet you, JJ. Welcome to Los Angeles, and if you need any help here, anything at all”—looks at me meaningfully—“don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Hands off, Jimmy,” says Brad, pushing him playfully.
“Whoa, Brad,” says Jimmy, holding up his hands with a cheeky grin on his face, “you can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Hello?” I say. “I’m here.”
“Sorry, JJ,” says Brad. “But boys will be boys. C’mon, we’ll go to my office and eat lunch.”
So we do, and ridiculous as this may be—seeing as it’s the middle of the day and we’re eating salad out of plastic containers—we start feeding one another, and soon food is everywhere but in our mouths and we’re kissing furiously when the door bursts open and we leap apart.
Brad, for the record, leaps farthest, but then it is understandable, after all, he is the boss, and we both look up to see a large girl standing in the doorway.
“Oh,” says the girl. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“I just got here,” says Brad, dusting the food off himself and trying to straighten himself out, while I take a good, long look at the girl, partly to try and work out who she is, and partly because, and it’s a hell of a shock to see it, partly because the girl standing in the doorway looks an awful lot like the girl I used to be. She’s small with dark, glossy hair, and I can see that she would be pretty, she could be pretty, all she has to do is lose weight. Because this girl is huge, she has two, no, three chins. She is wearing a smock-type shirt to hide the huge bulk of her breasts, she has her arms crossed to hide as much of her body as she can, and she has that slightly wounded look in her eye. She could be me, I think as I carry on staring at her. I could be her.
“This is JJ,” says Brad. “And this is Jenny. My personal assistant.”
“Hi, Jenny,” I’m determined to be friendly, to make an effort, to show Jenny that her size doesn’t bother me, it doesn’t make me think Jenny’s any less a person just because there’s more of her. I stand up from my sitting position on the desk and walk over to Jenny with arm outstretched to shake her hand, but as I get closer I feel instinctively that she won’t be shaking my hand, that, for some strange reason, there’s a strong air of hostility in the room. And I’m right. I come to a standstill because Jenny doesn’t move. Jenny just nods hello. Jenny doesn’t say anything, and Jesus Christ, how I remember what it was like to be Jenny.
I remember how I felt when someone skinny and beautiful was introduced to me, how inadequate I felt, how I couldn’t look them in the eye, and I try desperately to think of a way to make Jenny feel at ease.
“That’s a beautiful shirt,” I say finally. “Did you buy it here?”
“No,” says Jenny, forced to speak, and then she turns to Brad. “I have some files here for you. Shall I just leave them on your desk?” Her voice is as cold as ice, and I recoil, but then I think how much worse it would be, how magnified those feelings of inadequacy would be if you worked somewhere where you were surrounded by bodies beautiful all day, so I try again.
“Have you worked here long?” I say, trying to offer her my friendship.
“Yes,” says Jenny, refusing, this time, to look at me, and with that she turns and walks out of the office.
“I’m sorry,” says Brad, running his fingers through his hair. “She can be difficult sometimes.”
“Don’t worry about it, I suspect I understand far better than you know,” I say without thinking.
“What on earth do you mean?” Brad’s voice sounds slightly harsh, and I wonder what he would think if he knew I used to be the same size as Jenny. I’m tempted, just for a second, to tell Brad how I used to be, but then I decide against it. Too soon.
“It’s just that I imagine it’s very hard for her, working somewhere like this, being surrounded by skinny people all the time. What I don’t understand is why she does work here. Surely it would be easier for her to work somewhere less . . .” I pause, wondering how to put it. “Less body-conscious.”
“I think you’re probably right,” says Brad, “but you see Jenny’s been with me for years, she’s like my right arm, and to be honest I think that’s the only reason she stays here, out of loyalty to me.”
“You’re sure she hasn’t got an eensy weensy crush on you?” I tease, too taken with Brad to remember that it’s no laughing matter being the fattest girl in the office and having a crush on the most beautiful man in the building.
“Jenny?” Brad snorts with derision. “No. She’s more like my sister.”
Hmm. Once upon a time that was what Ben would have said about me. “Well, I know someone who definitely does have a crush on you.” I reach out my hand and place it on Brad’s thigh.
“If I lock the door will you promise to tell all?” Brad’s moving over to the door and shutting it gently.
God forgive me for acting like a brazen hussy, but I can’t help it, he’s just too irresistible. I cross my hands over my chest and slide my shirt off my shoulders revealing nothing underneath except bare flesh. I push Brad into a chair and straddle his lap while slinking my arms around his neck. “Promise,” I purr, “swear, and cross my heart.”
Chapter 20
I stretch luxuriously in bed and fall back against the mound of pillows, thinking about my life. I think about Brad making love to me this very morning before going to the office and arranging to meet me later. I think about the life I’ve left behind, the sheer drudgery of working at the Kilburn Herald, and I think about what my friends would say if they could see me now, because, even though it’s only been just under a week, I know already that I could get used to this.
How can I go back there? Back to dreary old London, when Los Angeles is so warm, so exciting, so inviting.
And then, I can’t help myself, I start thinking about Ben. Funny how he crops up at the strangest moments. I can go for ages without giving him a thought, and suddenly he’ll pop into my head. And when he does, of course I still miss him, but these days only when I remember him, which thankfully isn’t all that much of the time because I’m having far too good a time.
Another thought creeps in, one I don’t want to think about, one I’m hoping I’ll be able to forget about, but no, the harder I try not to think about it the more I can’t help it. Okay. I give in. Last night we were at the Mondrian Hotel,
a huge, minimalist designer haven on Sunset Boulevard. A place that Brad insisted I see, even though I’m really not that bothered about “in” places, it’s not as if I frequent them at home.
But it was spectacular. I’ve never been anywhere like it. The vast, minimalist lobby, stark glass doors leading on to a wooden deck lit by candles. I loved it. I loved the oversized terra-cotta pots, the large Indian mattresses strewn with cushions scattered by the side of the pool. And I’m trying not to think about what happened after that, about what Brad said, because every time I think about it, all sorts of negative thoughts start flooding in, and I don’t want anything to go wrong, I don’t want to shatter this perfection. Not now.
But it was bizarre. Okay, here goes. I’ll tell you. There we were, sitting at a table in the bar of the Mondrian, the candlelight throwing flattering shadows on the faces of the beautiful people, but none more beautiful than Brad, in my opinion anyway. We sat, and we kissed, and we talked, and the more we talked the more we revealed about our lives, our loves, our hopes, our dreams, and the more we revealed the more I thought that this was it. Sorry. This is it.
“I’d like to live in a house on the beach,” I said, pictures fresh in my mind because earlier that evening I’d sat scanning the property section of the Los Angeles Times, escaping into a fantasy world of swimming pools, sand between my toes, crashing waves.
“I think I’d be happy anywhere,” said Brad, “as long as I was with you.”
Jemima, oh, Jemima. Didn’t you think it just a little strange that Brad was being quite so forward in just under a week? Were there no warning bells going off in your head? Would it not perhaps have been sensible to sit back and wonder whether he might just perhaps have an ulterior motive?