A gurgle of laughter emerges from my mouth. “Do you ever look anything less than perfect, Geraldine?”
Geraldine flicks her hair back and says, “Believe me, I look a mess,” but she’s pleased because, like all girls who are perfectly groomed, below the perfection is a writhing mass of insecurity, and she likes to hear that she’s beautiful. It helps her to believe it.
“So what happened last night?”
“Oh God,” Geraldine groans. “Dimitri took me out for dinner and I drank so much champagne I was positively comatose.”
“Where did you go?”
“The Collection.”
“I haven’t been there yet,” I say, knowing full bloody well that I’ll probably never go there, being, as it is, a restaurant for the rich and the beautiful, but I know all about it. I know about the bright young things from the magazines who go there, and I know about it from Sophie and Lisa, who naturally have been wined, dined, and seduced in both the bar downstairs and the restaurant above.
“I suppose it was filled with the famous and beautiful?”
“Actually,” says Geraldine, “actually, it was filled with lots of people who looked as if they ought to be famous, except neither of us knew who anyone was.”
“Bloody wannabes,” I say with a deep sigh. “They’re just everywhere these days,” and we both laugh.
Geraldine suddenly turns right and pulls up outside a large mansion block. “Sorry,” she says, turning to me. “Ben Williams was bugging me for a lift so I said we’d come and get him. You don’t mind do you?”
“No,” I say, heart suddenly pounding. “I didn’t know he lived here.”
“Me neither until he gave me his address yesterday, but even a rat must have a home.”
“Who does he live with?”
“Two other guys, apparently. God, can you imagine what their flat is like?”
“Ugh,” I say, even though I haven’t got a bloody clue. Me? How the hell would I know what a bachelor pad is like, but then again I’ve watched Men Behaving Badly and even I can pretend. “Stinking socks draped over all the radiators.”
“Porn mags piled up in the corridor,” Geraldine says, grimacing.
“Sheets that haven’t seen a washing machine in six months.”
“Piles of filthy washing-up overflowing the sink.” We both clutch our stomachs and Geraldine makes gagging noises. I laugh, but suddenly I see Ben running out the front door and the laughter stops as my stomach does its usual lurch on sight of this gorgeous man.
“Make him sit in the back,” whispers Geraldine. “I don’t want to sit next to him.”
So Ben walks over to the car and I climb out, trying to be dainty, delicate, feminine. “Morning girls,” he says, “both looking particularly lovely today.” He doesn’t mean me, he’s just being polite, so I stand awkwardly on the pavement and Ben looks at me patiently, waiting for me to climb in the back.
“Ben,” shouts Geraldine from the driver’s seat. “You don’t mind getting in the back do you?”
“Oh,” says Ben. After a pause, in which I wish more than anything in the world that the ground would open and swallow me up, he says, “Sure.” And in a swift and graceful movement he climbs in.
I buckle up my seat belt while Ben leans forward, resting his arms on either seat in front. “So girls,” he says, as Geraldine pulls out. “Good night last night?”
“Yes, thanks,” says Geraldine, while I stay quiet.
“What did you do?”
Geraldine tells him, and I start playing this little game I play a lot of the time. I do it when I’m in a car and we pull up to traffic lights. If the light stays green until we pass, then I will find true love. Sometimes I add within the next six months. I don’t know why I carry on playing it, as it never comes true, but I do it again now. I think, if you ask me what I did last night, then it means that we will end up together. Please ask me, Ben. Please. But then if he does ask me, what will I say? That I stayed at home and ate chocolate cookies? Oh God, how can I make myself sound interesting.
“What about you, Jemima?” Oh Christ. The question’s out there before I’ve formulated an answer.
“Oh, I went to a party.”
“Did you?” Ben and Geraldine ask the question simultaneously.
“You didn’t mention that,” says Geraldine. “Whose party?”
Quick, quick. Think, Jemima.
“Just an old friend.”
“Wild night, eh Jemima?” says Ben with a wink.
“Yup,” I say finally, deciding to throw caution to the wind. “I got very drunk, slightly stoned, and ended up shagging some guy in the toilet.”
A silence descends on the car, neither Ben nor Geraldine knows quite what to say, and I feel sick. I know I’ve said the wrong thing. It doesn’t come out as funny as I had intended, it comes out as peculiar, so I take a deep breath and tell the truth. Well. Sort of. “Actually, I’m lying. I stayed in and watched 60 Minutes.”
Ben and Geraldine get the joke and they laugh. Except unfortunately, at least if you’re sitting where Jemima Jones is sitting right now, it really isn’t very funny. It’s actually rather sad.
Chapter 3
I’d heard about the Internet, read about the Internet, talked about the Internet, but I never really understood what it was all about. Of course, this being the Kilburn bloody Herald we’re about four years behind the times technologically and are getting online access for the first time so even Ben’s presence doesn’t distract me from the computer screen where we’re being shown how to use it.
And it’s fascinating. Rob, the man who’s teaching all of us, is explaining so clearly, so concisely, that I’m beginning to understand exactly what the big deal’s all about, and wish I’d had the money to buy a computer so I could have learned about this sooner.
I can see that Geraldine’s bored, and to amuse herself she’s flirting with Rob, who seems delighted that someone like Geraldine would even look at him, but Ben’s my ally in this, Ben’s as enthralled as me, and together we’re visiting newsgroups, sites, forums.
Rob shows us how to create a page, and explains that this is the Web: that all over the world people are designing pages filled with whatever information and pictures they choose, and from those pages there are links to hundreds, often thousands, of other pages.
He shows us how to search for a topic, and then how to follow those links until we find what we’re looking for, and it’s like a completely new world opening up for me.
And as the day carries on, the more we learn, the more I start to relax with Ben, the less he seems to intimidate me, maybe because we’ve got something in common now, I don’t have to struggle for something to say.
At 5 P.M. Rob says we’re done, and I catch Geraldine’s eye as she rolls it to the ceiling. The three of us walk out together, and as soon as we’re out the door Geraldine digs into her Prada bag and pulls out her cigarettes.
“God, I needed that,” she says, inhaling deeply as we stand on the corner. “That was the most boring thing in the world. I knew most of it, for God’s sake. Talk about Internet for idiots.”
“I thought it was really interesting, actually,” says Ben. “What did you think?” He turns to me and I nod vigorously, because I would agree with Ben no matter what I thought, and it’s just a happy coincidence that I happen to feel the same way.
“I loved it,” I say.
“I know,” echoes Ben, “there’s so much it’s almost impossible to take it all in.”
“Oh shut up you two,” says Geraldine, as a little glow lights up inside me because, stupid as it may be, she has linked me with Ben. “Look,” she says, gesturing up the road. “There’s a really nice bar up here. If you promise not to talk computers all night, why don’t we go for a drink?”
Who? Ben? Me? Both of us? She was looking up the road as she said it and I just stand there in silence because she can’t mean me, she wouldn’t want to have a drink, socialize after work, with me. Surely?
“Good idea,” says Ben, and they start walking off while I stand there feeling like an idiot, unsure of what to do.
“Jemima?” says Geraldine, turning round. “Come on,” and I almost want to kiss her as I race to catch up.
Chapter 4
Drug addiction; food addiction; alcohol addiction; cigarette addiction. The funny thing is no one ever talks about Internet addiction.
Internet addiction is the scourge of the new millennium. All over the world men and women are going to bed on their own, curling up miserably while their partners lock themselves away in their studies and tap, tap, tap away into the early hours of the morning.
The Internet is another world, where people can be anyone they want, and, even as you read these words, marriages are disintegrating through lack of communication, thanks to a little colored screen tucked away in a corner of the house.
But of course Jemima Jones knows nothing of this. Jemima Jones doesn’t have to worry about partners getting pissed off, or miserable marriages, or even yet another addiction to add to her list.
All Jemima knows, right now as she’s on her way home from work, is that the Internet seems like fun, and she can discover all she wants about cleaning silver, fraying curtains, removing cat spray smells, just by tapping a few keys.
And what’s even more exciting is that the information she receives could be coming from anywhere in the entire world. She walks along the pavement, lost in thoughts about the Internet, so deeply immersed that before she knows it she’s at her front door, and guess what? She completely forgot to buy some chocolate on the way home.
Good girl, Jemima. Well done. Today is the day of the first diet that’s actually going to work. I’m going to really try this time. No chocolate!
I walk upstairs and can already hear Sophie and Lisa giggling away in Sophie’s bedroom as I tentatively push open the door.
Lisa’s lying back on the bed, clutching her pillow. “I’m in love,” she sighs as I walk in. Oh shut up, I think, but I don’t say that. I say, “Let me guess. A new guy started at work and he’s devastatingly handsome and he wants to marry you?”
“No, don’t be daft. It’s the guy we met last week, the new client. He asked Lisa out.” Sophie’s trying to look pleased, but envy is written all over her face. I don’t believe that stuff about blondes being stupid, at least I didn’t before I met Sophie, but I know that she believes blondes ought to have more fun, and she can’t believe this guy went for Lisa.
“His name’s Nick Hanson, he’s thirty-three, single, and I love him,” sighs Lisa dreamily. “Lisa Hanson. What do you think? Mrs. Nick Hanson, Mrs. Lisa Hanson.”
“I think you might be jumping the gun a bit.” I’m not bitter, I promise you, it’s just that I’ve seen this so many times before and I know exactly what will happen. At the end of their first date Lisa will come home and will spend the evening sketching wedding dresses and drawing up guest lists.
“So when are you going out?”
“Tomorrow night. Oh God, I love him, he’s the most divine man I’ve met in ages.”
I sit down on the bed, something I’d never normally do, but I didn’t see Sophie and Lisa last night, and yesterday something actually happened. I have something to talk about. Or perhaps I should say someone.
“I did my class yesterday. The Internet one.”
“Great,” says Lisa.
“Really?” says Sophie. “That’s funny, I was just reading an article in one of my magazines about how loads of people are dating on the Internet.”
“What did it say?” I ask.
“Honestly, it sounds amazing. You go to these dating places and there are pictures of single people, and you can write to each other, e-mail over the computer. But people are meeting from all over the world. There have even been marriages because of it.”
Lisa sits up and looks at Sophie. “Yes, but you wouldn’t think of doing it would you?”
“I don’t know really,” says Sophie. “I mean, I don’t think I’d ever be able to work out how to use it, but it sounds quite exciting. You could pick up a gorgeous American hunk and live happily ever after in his mansion in Dallas.”
“Sounds a bit sad to me,” says Lisa.
“Well,” says Sophie, turning to me. “Did you learn how to meet people on the Internet then?”
“Not really, it wasn’t that sort of class, but it’s amazingly interesting, you can find out pretty much anything. And afterwards I went for a drink, that’s why I wasn’t home last night.”
I’m so desperate to tell someone, anyone, about Ben Williams, I’m practically bursting.
Are you sure you can’t hold it in anymore, Jemima? Go on then, tell them all about it.
“Who with?”
I can see I’ve got them, they want to know and I don’t blame them. I mean, it’s not often I talk about my social life, probably because I don’t exactly have what you’d call a social life, and they can see that something’s happened.
“With Geraldine,” I pause. “And Ben.”
“Who’s Ben?” Naturally they don’t know, because up until now my crush has been secret, but I have to tell someone, and far better to tell Sophie and Lisa, who would never meet him, than to confide in, say, Geraldine.
“The deputy news editor at work.”
“And???”
“And . . .” Should I tell them? Should I keep it secret? Oh, what the hell. “And I think he’s completely wonderful.” There. A deep breath. It’s out there. No going back.
Sophie and Lisa sit in shocked silence. I’ve never talked about men before, and as I watch them I can see their eyes glaze over as they imagine what this Ben looks like, and I can see they’ve got it completely wrong.
Jemima Jones is absolutely right, they have got it completely wrong.
Lisa thinks he is probably 5’7”, has messy brown hair, thick glasses, and dresses in ill-fitting suits in shades of brown. She thinks he is the type of man who would still live at home, and his idea of an exciting night out is probably going to the movies to see subtitled films.
Sophie thinks he is probably 5’7” tall, and 4’6” wide. She thinks he has to be overweight, incredibly dull, and a complete computer nerd. She suspects that his idea of an exciting night is spent down at the pub drinking pints of lager with his nerdy friends.
If only they knew.
For Ben Williams is the sort of man that both Sophie and Lisa would fall head over heels in love with.
“So come on then, what’s he like?”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “He’s very funny, he makes me laugh. And he’s bright, and charming, and he knows how to treat women.”
“But what does he look like?”
“I don’t know how to describe him, really. He’s about 6’2”.” Sophie and Lisa catch one another’s eyes and each suppresses a smile, and I know they think I’m lying. So what? I carry on. “He’s got brown hair, and beautiful eyes, but I’m not sure what color they are. Green maybe?” Yup, thinks Lisa, looking again at Sophie, she’s describing some model she’s seen in one of her magazines.
“And he’s got these amazing dimples when he smiles,” I conclude, smiling happily at the very thought of Ben Williams.
“And does he like you?” asks Sophie, gently, patronizingly, because she doesn’t want to hurt me by telling me she knows I’m lying.
“No,” I say wearily. “I mean, he likes me, but he doesn’t like me. He likes Geraldine, but she doesn’t like him.”
“Well maybe that can grow, him liking you, I mean,” says Sophie. “When he gets to know you he’ll realize what a lovely person you are.” She stops suddenly, aware of what she’s just said. “Not that he wouldn’t be attracted to you anyway,” she stammers. “You’ve got the most beautiful face.”
I can’t believe Sophie doesn’t see how transparent she is. I know exactly what she thinks of me. She thinks I am huge, vast, the fattest girl she’s ever met, and I don’t blame her. When I look in the mirror, if
I look beyond my face, I see exactly the same thing.
“I haven’t,” I say, for what else could I say? “He’d never fancy me, but I can dream.”
“So what about Geraldine?” asks Lisa. “If he’s so gorgeous, how come she doesn’t fancy him?”
“He’s probably not rich enough for her,” says Sophie, who has come out with this uncharacteristically bitchy comment because she is jealous of Geraldine. She has never actually met Geraldine, but she has seen her on the rare occasions that Geraldine has come to pick me up or drop me off. She’s never said anything directly to me but I know she has seen Geraldine’s air of confidence, her BMW, and she is as jealous as hell.
“That’s not really fair,” I say, although it happens to be true, and I feel guilty at talking about Geraldine, the one person whom I could perhaps call a friend, so I add, “Geraldine’s a lovely person when you get to know her.”
“Hmm,” says Sophie. “Anyway, you never know. Maybe he’s sitting in his roommate’s bedroom at this very moment telling his roommate all about you.”
As it happens, at this very moment Ben Williams is watching the news. He’s sitting on his black leather and chrome sofa, feet up on the glass coffee table which is covered with magazines, newspapers, an overflowing ashtray, a few empty cans of Heineken and bits of torn-up rolling paper packages. He’s drinking a beer, but not Heineken, those belong to his roommates. He’s drinking Beck’s, and he’s studying the news.
When the reports start he pulls his feet off the coffee table and leans forward, elbows on his knees, dangling the bottle of beer idly between his legs, but his eyes are fixed on the television screen, and as the reporter speaks, so Ben mimics him, over and over again, until Ben’s voice is almost indistinguishable from the reporter’s.
“Until late last year, this derelict building in one of London’s more fashionable districts was ignored by the council, and the surrounding residents in this leafy street,” said the reporter. Said Ben.