“Darling Jemima,” she writes on a compliments slip. “If I had time I’d write a letter, but I wanted you to see this. Can you believe it?!! Ben Williams splashed all over two pages!!. Wish I’d known then what I know now . . . maybe I would have taken him up on his offer after all!! Hope you’re having a spectacularly marvelous time, and give Brad’s pecs a lick from me. Speak to you very, very soon, all my love, Geraldine.”
Smacking her lips, she seals the envelope and addresses it to Jemima, and on her way to the post office she smiles with delight at the thought of Jemima’s surprised face when she gets it.
Ben’s sitting at the breakfast table about to dig into a bowl of cereal when he hears the thud of the paper on the mat. Shit, he thinks. Today’s the day the interview goes in. He hates doing publicity, but Diana, in her professional mode, has told him he has to do everything, because everything depends on the ratings and good PR means better ratings.
For the last few weeks Ben has had daily conversations with the head of publicity at the TV station, who’s constantly arranging for Ben to see journalists, or to take part in one of those rent-a-celeb pieces in which Ben’s opinion on complete crap sits alongside other celebrities’ opinions on the selfsame complete crap. But never has he had a profile this big. He agreed to the interview, under duress, and it was only afterwards that he discovered they were doing more than just talking to him, they were ringing up all his friends as well.
So with heavy heart he opened the paper, immediately cringing with embarrassment as he saw the pictures. Now where in the hell did they get those from?
I can’t believe I said that, he thinks, starting to read the piece, before realizing that he didn’t say it, that Jo Hartley had taken what he had said and paraphrased it into more tabloid-friendly language.
He carries on reading, shocked at what they’d found out about him. Nothing spectacularly juicy, just stuff that he’d forgotten about. They’d dug up people he’d vaguely known at university, and there are several paragraphs devoted to his life as a rugby fanatic, but luckily no real kiss and tells, just mentions of previous girlfriends.
“Jemima was right,” he murmurs, scanning the rest of the page. “Being famous isn’t quite what it’s cracked up to be.” Bloody hell, he thinks. Jemima Jones! Now why the hell didn’t I think of Jemima. She’ll give me advice about Diana, he thinks. She’ll tell me what to do. And then he thinks of how long it’s been since he last called her, and how she had always known just what to do.
Jesus, Ben, he thinks to himself, you’ve been a real bastard not calling Jemima. Geraldine, he thinks, he could live without. Yes, he fancied her, but there was never the connection that he had with Jemima. You should never have left it this long, he thinks, and with that he picks up the phone and dials her home number.
“Hello. Is Jemima there, please?”
“No, she’s on holiday in Los Angeles for a couple of weeks.”
“She’s what? What’s she doing there?”
“Who is this?” Lisa vaguely recognizes the voice.
“This is Ben Williams. Is that Sophie?”
“No,” says Lisa, mentally rubbing her hands together with glee because Sophie’s popped out to get some cigarettes and she’ll go ballistic when she finds out Ben Williams phoned. “This is Lisa,” she laughs. “The brunette.”
“Oh hi. How are you?”
“Just fine,” she says. “And I don’t need to ask how you are, all I have to do is switch on my television.”
“Yes,” Ben laughs, because what is he supposed to say? There’s a silence while Lisa tries to think of something clever to say next, but she can’t think of anything at all, and the silence stretches on.
“Sorry,” says Ben, finally. “I thought you were going to say something.”
“Oh. No.”
“What’s Jemima doing in LA?”
“She’s staying with her new boyfriend.”
“You’re joking!” Ben’s flabbergasted. “Not that Internet guy?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“You haven’t got her number by any chance have you?”
“Hang on,” says Lisa, reaching for the pad by the phone. She reads the number out to Ben, and then says, “Um, you should pop in some time. Have a drink with us.” Which of course means have a drink with me.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll do that,” says Ben, which of course means he’ll forget about her the instant he puts down the phone. Which he does. He also neglects to phone Jemima in LA, because Diana Macpherson is next on the line, presumably hoping to soothe his furrowed brow. But he will phone Jemima, he honestly will. As soon as he remembers again.
Chapter 22
A week can pass incredibly quickly when you’re having fun. A week can also pass incredibly slowly when you find that you’re actually quite lonely, you’re not surrounded by the safety network of your friends, your home, familiar surroundings.
Not that Jemima Jones isn’t having a good time, how could she not? Her evenings are a riot of new sounds, tastes, smells, and naturally the whirlwind of passion that she’s having with Brad.
But her days aren’t quite what they could be, and even after a week Jemima Jones is discovering that being on your own, in a strange city, albeit a city where the strangers treat you like old friends, is not quite the same as being on your own at home. Particularly when you’re as strapped for cash as poor Jemima is now. The Kilburn Herald, as we already know, pays her a pittance, and all the money she saved by not having a life has almost trickled away. For now she’s just about okay with Brad paying for everything, so let’s just hope he continues to treat her as well as he has been . . .
Her daily routine here has changed enormously. She and Brad wake up at 8 A.M., and thus far they have had wild, wanton sex before both getting up and going for a run along the beach, which is sheer bliss for Jemima, so unused to living near the water, to the warm, early morning sun, to the friendly smiles of passing people.
They stop for breakfast on the way back, a glass of vegetable juice, a fat-free, sugar-free blueberry muffin or cranberry scone, and then Brad climbs in the shower at home. He kisses her goodbye, and Jemima showers, makes herself some coffee and climbs back into bed, poring over the magazines that are scattered all over Brad’s coffee table, but no longer does she tear out the pictures of models. She doesn’t need to, she’s fulfilled that dream, and, while she’s still interested, that degree of desperation has disappeared.
At around 11 A.M. she puts on her tiny Lycra leotard, her leggings, her sneakers, and she goes to do her workout at the gym. If Brad’s not too busy, he’ll take her out for lunch, or she may go wandering by herself, although it’s hard for her to get around, because Brad needs his car, and Los Angeles, even Santa Monica, is not a place to be without a car.
But Jemima is slowly running out of places to wander. She has been up and down Third Street Promenade more times than she cares to mention. She has been into the bookstores, and has emerged with nothing, because all of the titles seem to be geared to those working in the film world, and Jemima, frankly, has no interest in books telling you how to write a film script, which director did which work, and why the film industry is so wonderful.
She has been into all of the shops lining Third Street Promenade. Repeatedly. She has been into the Santa Monica mall, into the eating section, and stood for a while, completely flabbergasted at all the stalls offering every type of food you could imagine. Chinese, Japanese, Italian, gourmet coffee, croissants, Ethiopian, Thai, and at the hundreds of tables planted in the middle of the mall were hundreds of people, all tucking into oversized portions in Styrofoam containers. She stood there, and she thought how six months ago, had she walked in here, she would have worked her way round all the stalls, but now, despite enjoying all the exotic smells mingling together, the thought of actually eating anything slightly repels her.
She has been up and down Montana, into all the smart, expensive boutiques and coffee shops. She was even extremely te
mpted to buy a cream designer suit that looked like a dream on her newly skinny body—which, incidentally, much to her delight is getting skinnier by the day thanks to a completely fat-free diet and an exercise regime that would make Cher jealous—but she didn’t buy the suit, because where, after all, would she wear it? How, after all, could she afford it?
She has discovered that people don’t dress up in Los Angeles, that anyone wearing a suit with anything other than sneakers on their feet is regarded as somehow strange, an outsider, someone not to be trusted. So she is living in her jeans, and if she and Brad go out in the evening, she teams the jeans with a cream bodysuit, a brown crocodile belt, and a jacket.
She has sat by herself at a long wooden trestle table in Marmalade, and flicked through the Outlook—the local Santa Monica paper—while eating a selection of three salads, and trying not to look as if she is desperate to talk to someone.
She has been to every Starbucks that she can find, and she has perfected the art of ordering coffee, American style, be it latte, mocha, or frappuccino.
She has walked up and down Main Street, past the New Age bookstore, which she is sorely tempted to try, but hasn’t, as yet, had the nerve to go into. She has, however, been into the designer aerobic shops and has finally succumbed to outfitting herself in the very latest exercise wear. Now Jemima looks more like an Angeleno than most Angelenos.
She is constantly meeting people, or should we say, people, men, are constantly meeting her. Wherever she goes she is accosted by someone offering to buy her coffee, take her out, show her around, and although there have been times when she has been tempted, she has never said yes, because that, as far as she’s concerned, would be tantamount to infidelity. So she smiles sweetly and tells them she has a boyfriend, before wishing them a nice day and walking off.
She has discovered American television, and, although she feels slightly guilty, a large part of her afternoon, when not Rollerblading by herself with Brad’s Walkman attached to her waist, is spent watching shows that she’s never heard of. She thinks she has just about got the plot of The Bold and the Beautiful. She is addicted to Days of Our Lives. She adores Rosie O’Donnell, and the Seinfeld reruns, as far as Jemima Jones is concerned, are a positive gift from heaven.
Yesterday she found that the best place to have lunch, on those occasions when Brad could not make it out of the office, is a large, bustling restaurant called the Broadway Deli. She hit upon the deli by accident, and, while she was standing there, scouring the restaurant area, wondering if she had the nerve actually to sit at a table by herself when everyone around her was in couples, threesomes, foursomes, and moresomes, she noticed a lunch bar on the right.
And not only that, there was a spare stool, and she squeezed in next to a man who was just leaving, and picked up the paper he’d left behind.
“Coffee?” said the man behind the bar, as I nodded vigorously. As he placed a huge white cup and saucer in front of me and poured the coffee, I smelled a smell I hadn’t smelled in what felt like years, a smell that instantly propelled me back to London, back to Geraldine, back to Ben, back to the Kilburn Herald.
Bizarre as it may be, I suddenly realized that the Broadway Deli was the first restaurant I had been into that allowed smoking, albeit only at the bar, and as I sat there sniffing I have never wanted a cigarette more badly in my life.
And as if the gods were listening, there, just in front of me, a little to my right, was a pack of cigarettes, calling me, tempting me. Nothing strange about that, I know, but they weren’t just any old cigarettes, they were Silk Cut. King Size. Ultra Low. My brand.
“Excuse me,” I said to the girl sitting next to me, “but are those your cigarettes?”
“Yes, help yourself.” The girl watched as I greedily pulled a cigarette out of the pack and gratefully bent my head as she held out a light. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke hit my lungs, and, partly because it was so forbidden, so naughty, the acrid taste was at that moment in time possibly one of the greatest tastes of my life.
“You look like you really needed that,” said the girl in amusement.
“God, yes. You’d never believe this is now my only vice would you?”
“Sounds boring.”
“I have a horrible feeling you might be right.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m JJ.”
“I’m Lauren. You’re English too aren’t you?”
I nodded. “Where are you from?”
“London.”
“Me too. Whereabouts?”
“Kilburn.”
“You’re joking! What road?”
“Mapesbury. Do you know it?”
“Know it? That’s unbelievable, I’m in the Avenue.”
“God, what a small world.”
“Wouldn’t want to paint it.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled, feeling a bit stupid. “Just something I heard someone say once, but I can’t believe we’re from the same place.”
“I know,” echoed Lauren. “Bloody incredible.”
As we sit there smiling I suddenly breathe a sigh of relief because for the first time in Los Angeles I think that I may have found a friend. You know how sometimes you just know that you’re going to be friends, sometimes within seconds of meeting someone? That’s kind of what it was like with Lauren. She was just so natural that she put me at ease instantly.
We ordered our food, a plain salad, no dressing, for me, and Lauren ordered the Chinese chicken salad, and as soon as the waiter behind the bar disappeared we turned to one another in amazement.
“So what are you doing here?” I asked, assuming Lauren must live in Los Angeles because she looked so tanned, so fit, so healthy, so LA. But then I took a closer look and saw—this is Geraldine’s influence on me—that her trousers and belted cardigan were, if I’m not mistaken, definitely designer, that her shoes were definitely expensive, and that her bag was definitely a Prada. Just how much more stylish can you get?
“I came out here about a month ago to be with this man, and now it’s all gone horribly wrong and I can’t face going home again because I told everyone this time I’d met The One, so I’m stuck here in this grotty little apartment, and every night I dream of curling up in one of the sofas at the Groucho, or drinks at the Westbourne, or dinner at the Cobden, and I miss home but I just have to sit it out. What about you?”
“This is more and more weird,” I laughed, shaking my head. “I mean, I came out here to meet a man too, but I’ve only been here just over a week, and so far it’s going fine. I think. He is gorgeous, and he’s being lovely to me, but . . .” I tailed off and shrugged my shoulders. Do I want to reveal my doubts to this stranger? Not just yet, I have to see whether I can trust her.
“So where is he now?” asked Lauren.
“At work.”
“Didn’t he take time off to show you the sights?”
“He wanted to, he just has too much going on at the moment.”
“What does he do?”
“He owns a gym. B-Fit Gym, I don’t know whether you know it?”
“Oh my God!” Lauren’s eyes opened wide, filled with admiration. “You’re the one who came out to meet the hunk. I know exactly who you are. I can’t remember his name. Damn,” she said, almost to herself.
“Brad?” I was feeling slightly nervous, did she really know all about me, and if she did know, how did she know?
“Yes! Exactly. The most perfect specimen of manhood I’d ever seen. Bloody hell. Congratulations!”
“I don’t understand how you know all this.” Still feeling a bit bemused.
“Oh don’t worry,” said Lauren breezily. “Nothing sinister. I go to the B-Fit Gym, I’ve been going every day since I got here, and you get to know the people. Not that I know your gorgeous Brad, he’s never even looked at me, but I overheard someone saying he was flying out an English girl that he met on the Internet or something.”
“That’s me, I’m afraid.”
I cringe as I admit it.
“Why sound so embarrassed about it?”
“It’s just it sounds so naff, meeting on the Internet.”
“Nah, not at all. Us single girls have to go wherever the opportunities are. So what’s he like then? I’ve got to be honest with you, I really am impressed. He’s just so perfect.”
Do you know what’s weird? If Lauren wasn’t so open, so friendly, so natural, I probably would have been intimidated by her and I would almost certainly have taken offense at this candidness, but just then I was so relieved to have found an ally. To have found someone who, despite the long dark hair and slight cockney lilt, was somehow reminding me more and more of Geraldine with every word she spoke.
“He is gorgeous isn’t he,” I said, smiling like the cat that got the cream at the thought of his gleaming white teeth, the softness of his hair, the hardness of his muscles.
“Phwooargh, is he ever.”
And then I couldn’t stop this sigh escaping. “I know, I know. I just think that everything should be perfect, and I suppose I had this vision of us spending all this time together and doing all these things together, and although I see him in the evenings I’m starting to feel a little bit lonely.”
You might think it strange that I’m being so open with a girl who’s practically a stranger, but then isn’t it sometimes easier to pour out your heart to someone you hardly know, who doesn’t matter, who won’t judge you?
“Don’t worry about that,” said Lauren, giving me a friendly shove. “You’ve got me now. I’ll be your friend. God knows I could do with a reminder of home right now.” She looked dreamily into space. “Keep talking. I’ll close my eyes and pretend we’re at the K bar.”
I laughed.
“So,” she carried on. “Friends? How about it?”