Allow me to let you into a little secret here to help you fully understand why Diana is allowing Ben to slip from her grasp. Diana Macpherson is scared of one thing. Ratings. Diana Macpherson has reached her position of power by being clever, by making good moves, and securing an exclusive interview with Alexia Aldridge, albeit a very expensive one, is a good move, and she’s not about to let her get away, even if it means letting Ben Williams get away. Temporarily.
So Diana calls Ben into her office to tell him the news, and ignores the fact that Ben walks in looking as if he’s been called into a torture chamber.
“We’ve got the interview with Alexia Aldridge,” she tells him.
“Great,” says Ben, looking at the door and wondering how quickly he can get out of there.
“But she’ll only do it on one condition.”
“Hmm?”
“That you do the interview.”
“Okay. Fine,” says Ben, standing up and getting ready to go. “Is that all?”
“No, Ben. Sit down. She can’t fly over here because she’s getting ready to start her next film, which means we have to fly you over there.”
“Over where?” Now Ben’s interested.
“Los Angeles.”
His face lights up. “I’ve never been to Los Angeles! God, how exciting.”
“It’s not going to be fun, Ben,” Diana says sternly. “I’m sending you out in two weeks’ time with Simon and a film crew. You’re there to work, and it will be hard work. And”—she pauses—“I want the best fucking interview I’ve ever seen. Got that?” Diana, hackles raised at Ben’s rejection, is being more professional than Ben has ever seen her.
“Yes, Diana,” he says meekly. “I’ll deliver the goods.”
“I bet that’s what you say to all the girls,” she says, smiling, unable to resist the temptation to flirt just a little.
Shit, thinks Ben, who just smiles sweetly, laughs at her little joke, and backs out of the office.
He runs over to Simon. “Have you heard?” he says, enthusiasm and excitement written all over his face.
“Yeah. Bloody brilliant isn’t it?”
“But we’re there to work, Simon, and it will be fucking hard work.” Ben does an impersonation of Diana that’s frighteningly accurate, and Simon falls about laughing.
“Fuck that, mate,” he says. “It’s gonna be interview in a day, then birds and booze the rest of the week.”
“Simon,” says Ben, in a serious tone. “You’re a man after my own heart.”
Ben spends the rest of the day trying to keep his excitement in check. “Lucky bastard,” says each researcher as they pass his desk, for Ben is not a celebrity to them, he is merely a work colleague, someone to have a laugh with. By mid-afternoon he’s calm enough to get some work done, and he spends the rest of the day plowing through press cuttings about Alexia Aldridge. If he weren’t such an avid video-watcher he’d have to start watching her films, but luckily for Ben he’s seen them all, and the only thing he has to do tonight is phone Richard to make him green with envy.
The two weeks have flown by for Ben. The night before he’s due to leave, while he’s throwing clothes into a suitcase, he suddenly remembers Jemima. Should he call her now? Will she still be in Los Angeles? Should he tell her he’s coming? No, he decides, he’ll take a chance and surprise her when he gets there.
Coincidence perhaps? This mini-excursion of Ben’s might seem little more than another coincidence, particularly given that, thanks to Geraldine, Ben has stomped back into Jemima’s consciousness with a bang, but maybe it is more than that. Maybe fate is finally working to give Ben and Jemima the happiness for which they’ve both longed, the happiness they each thought they’d found, Ben in his dream job, Jemima in her dream man.
Perhaps neither of them has been quite as fulfilled as they’d hoped, and perhaps fate will sort that out once and for all. On the other hand, that could be quite wrong. Ben and Jemima might miss each other completely. After all, Ben’s going to be doing all that hard work, and he’s only there for a few days. And Jemima may make it work with Brad, because on the face of it he certainly looks like her dream man, but at this precise moment in time Jemima Jones isn’t having a particularly good day. Admittedly, these things are relative, and perhaps it is just because yesterday, the day she spent with Brad, was so perfect that she was bound to be on a bit of a downer today.
At least she’s found some stories. She’s just putting the finishing touches to her column, for which she’s managed to cobble together stuff from the local papers, together with a review of the Pepper, and as she finishes reading it she decides that actually it’s quite good after all. If you didn’t know, you’d never dream that Jemima was spending most of the time on her own, because Jemima has painted Los Angeles as the epitome of glamour and excitement. Which I suppose it can be. It’s just that it isn’t like that for her.
When she finishes she puts her head in her hands and sighs, thinking about what happened earlier today, when she went to the gym, wondering why on earth Jenny seems to blow so hot and cold.
“Hi, Jenny,” I said, when I passed her in the hallway. Jenny ignored me.
“Jenny?” That’s it. I’m not taking this shit anymore, and I stopped feeling sorry for her a long time ago. Well, this morning, anyway. Jenny turned round with a sigh.
“What?” Jenny said, sounding bored.
“What exactly is your problem?” I’d had enough and I was determined not to let her get away with this.
“I’m really likely to share my problems with you,” Jenny said sarcastically.
“Look, I’m really trying to be friendly, and you’re just—”—I was practically spluttering with rage—“bloody rude.”
“Bloody rude am I? Well I don’t remember anyone saying I had to be nice to you.”
“I’m your boss’s girlfriend, for God’s sake, it’s not that you have to, it’s just that I’ve never done anything to hurt you and it would be nice if you were nice.”
“Being Brad’s girlfriend,” Jenny said, putting a nasty emphasis on the word, “means shit, as far as I’m concerned. You think you can fly over here, with your blond hair and your skinny legs, and just take over. Well you can’t.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m not trying to take over, I’m only in here once a day.”
“Forget it,” said Jenny, shaking her head. “I don’t like you, and I’m never gonna like you. Let’s just leave it at that.” And she started walking away.
“No.” I couldn’t help myself, I grabbed her arm. “I won’t just leave it at that.”
Jenny looked with disdain at my hand on her arm before shaking it off, marching back up to me and saying very slowly, “Why don’t you just go screw yourself.” She stood for a few seconds, evidently enjoying the shock on my face, and then she walked off, leaving me standing there shaking like a leaf.
If I’d been able to find Brad I would have told him what had happened, told him to sort it out, fire her, something, but Brad wasn’t around, and Lauren wasn’t at home, and I’ve just had to live with this all day, and yes, I’m upset. I’m hurt and upset that someone should hate me for no reason at all, and even though I’ve chucked all those plans for befriending Jenny out the window, I hate confrontation. However, I can only be pushed so far, and this, as far as I’m now concerned, means war.
I go to the kitchen, where I pour myself a Diet Coke, and then I walk back into the bedroom, climb on the bed and reach for the remote control, but, as I reach across, the glass tips over and spills Diet Coke all over the white linen sheets.
Shit! I run to the kitchen for the cloth, but no amount of wiping seems to get rid of the stain and I know Brad will go mad because he likes everything to be perfect, but do I know where the sheets are? Do I hell. In a total panic I desperately search the hall cupboards, the bathroom cupboards, the bedroom armoire for spare sheets, but I can’t find anything, so eventually, feeling faintly ridiculous, I pick
up the phone and dial the gym.
“Charlene? It’s JJ. I’m fine. You? Is Brad there? Oh? He’s in a meeting? Can you do me a favor, can you just ask him where the clean sheets are, it’s an emergency.” I wait for a few minutes, watching the stain, mentally urging Charlene to hurry up.
“In the cupboard at the top of the wardrobe?” I look around the bedroom and see where she means. “That’s great, Charlene. Thanks. Yes, you have a good day too,” and I put the phone down, and just as I’m about to get up the bloody phone rings again and it’s Lauren.
“I’ve just spilled Diet Coke everywhere, can I call you back? I’ve got to change the sheets.”
“Bugger the sheets,” says Lauren. “I’ve got to tell you about my day from heaven. I’m in love.” She starts to tell me all about “Bill the horny bartender” and screw the sheets, this is much more important, this is my friend for God’s sake and the sheets will have to wait.
“You know those times when you meet someone and everything is absolutely perfect?” Lauren asks me.
“You mean, like it was with Charlie?”
“No,” laughs Lauren. “I mean like when you’re a teenager and you have these incredibly romantic experiences which feel like something out of a film, and sex is never really an issue because neither of you is doing it yet.”
“Yes.” And I sort of understand what she’s trying to say, even though I never experienced anything of the sort when I was a teenager. My teenage experiences were confined to comfort eating and not being invited to the parties that all the cool people were invited to.
“I swear, that’s what it was like with Bill. We just had the most perfect day,” sighs Lauren. “We met up for a coffee first at that place on, I think it’s Second Street, the Interactive Café?”
“Yes,” I nod. “I know the one.”
“And then we went for a walk along the beach, and I felt like a teenager again, we were splashing around in the sea like a couple of kids.”
I smile, because Brad and I were doing exactly the same thing, probably at exactly the same time.
“And then we went for lunch.”
“Don’t tell me you went to Shutters on the Beach.”
“No,” says Lauren, bemused. “Why would we go there?”
“Don’t worry about it. So where did you go?”
Lauren continues telling me, and, trying hard not to worry about the stain, I encourage her with snorts of laughter and approval, and then after a few seconds I vaguely become aware that those bleeps that have been bleeping for the last few seconds don’t mean the phone is faulty, they mean call waiting.
“Hang on,” I interrupt Lauren. “I’ve got another call coming through. How do I work this bloody thing?”
Lauren explains, and I do as she says and press the buttons she tells me to.
“Hello?”
“Still me,” says Lauren.
“Shit. Hang on, let me try again.”
“Hello?”
“Nope, still me.”
“Oh, I give up. It’s probably someone really boring for Brad anyway. I’ll just ignore it, carry on telling me what happened.” And Lauren does.
What Jemima could never know is that the person trying to get through is Brad. Brad who has lost all his cool, calm, Californian composure. Brad who at this moment is in a blind panic, and is frantically redialing his number, only to be told the person is on the other line and his call will be answered shortly. Which it isn’t. “For fuck’s sake, pick up the goddamned phone!” he screams, drawing worried glances from the staff who are milling around outside his office.
“Oh shit!” he shouts, grabbing his car keys and running for the door.
“Brad?” says Jenny, who’s been having a meeting with him about new marketing plans. “Brad? What’s the matter?” She stands up, obviously worried, and puts a hand on his arm, but Brad ignores her and just keeps running.
He tears out of the building, jumps in his car and puts his foot down. Ignoring the pedestrians, ignoring his fellow drivers, ignoring the speed limits, Brad shoots off, looking suspiciously like he’s about to have a heart attack.
“All right, darling,” says Lauren. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Do you know where he’s taking you tonight?”
“No, and I don’t care. Can you believe he’s changed his shift for me? Thank you, Lord, for finally introducing me to a decent man.”
“I don’t want to put a damper on things,” I say, putting a damper on things, “but doesn’t this sound vaguely familiar? I mean, what if he’s crap in bed?”
“He won’t be,” says Lauren. “You can always tell what a man’s going to be like by the way he kisses, and he’s the best kisser in the world.”
“I thought Charlie was a good kisser.”
“Yeuch, eurgh, yeuch.” Lauren makes choking, vomiting noises down the phone as I start laughing. “I was lying. Charlie was a crap kisser.”
“Brad’s a great kisser.”
“Yeah, well. He would be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone that good-looking must have had loads of practice.”
“He’s not the promiscuous type,” I say indignantly.
“I didn’t mean that. I just meant he probably spent all his time at school making out behind the bike sheds. Do you think they have bike sheds here?”
“Nah. I think they probably did it under those things you watch baseball on.”
“What? Oh, you mean those bench things.”
“Mmm. I think they’re called bleachers or something.”
“You’re probably right. So what are you up to tonight?”
“Don’t know. But whatever it is it won’t be nearly as exciting as your night.”
“I hope you’re right,” says Lauren, laughing. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got legs to wax, facials to prepare, mustaches to bleach.”
“You haven’t got a mustache!”
“Ah ha! It works then?”
“You’re going to do it aren’t you?”
“You bet your damn life I am. I’m fed up with playing hard to get and then discovering they can’t satisfy you when it’s too late. This time round I’m going to make sure he’s good at sex right from the beginning.”
“Just make sure you use a condom.”
“Condom? This is California, babe. I’m cutting the fingers off Marigold gloves and using those instead!”
I snort with laughter at the thought. “Have a good time.”
“I will! I’ll call you first thing.” And we both say goodbye, and I look at the stain again, which, much to my horror, looks as if it may well have seeped through to the mattress. I go over to the cupboard in a panic and reach up to try and open the door, but I can’t quite reach it, so I drag the chair by the dressing table over, and, balancing precariously on the chair, I just about manage to get the door open.
I reach into the cupboard then cover my head with my arms because a pile of stuff comes out, just missing me, to land on the floor.
“Ouch,” I shout, because it didn’t quite miss me, a magazine caught me on my forehead and it bloody well hurts. Right, sheets. I can see them at the bottom and I carefully pull one out before climbing off the chair to gather up the stuff that’s now on the floor.
What is all this shit anyway? I start picking up the papers, and then something catches my eye and I kick some papers aside with my foot to see what it is. And I freeze.
No. This cannot be happening. For a few moments the whole world seems to stand still, and I have to close my eyes because maybe, maybe, this is a bad dream and when I open them again this stuff will have disappeared and I won’t have to deal with it because I’m not sure whether I can, I’m not sure whether I’m experienced enough, or strong enough, and even if I were I don’t know whether I could, and oh fuck. Why me. Why is this happening to me?
And I open my eyes and it’s not a dream, it’s real, and I think I’m going to throw up, but somehow curiosity kicks in and
instead of running to the bathroom I put my hand on my heart, which is beating about a million beats to every second, and I sink down on to the floor without even thinking about it and I start looking through the pile.
Chapter 27
”Now this,” says Ben, turning to Simon and raising a glass of champagne, “is the life.”
“Better buckle up,” says Simon with a grin. “We’re about to land.”
“I don’t want to land,” groans Ben. “I want to stay on this plane for ever and ever.” The stewardess walks past and smiles at Ben, who gives her his most charming smile and turns back to Simon. “See what I mean? Beautiful women, free champagne, delicious food.”
“You can afford to fly first class,” grunts Simon. “On my measly pay I’d end up in cattle class with crappy seats and crappy food.”
“I didn’t pay for this,” says Ben.
“Yeah, but you got upgraded because you’re famous. I don’t somehow think that they’d automatically upgrade overworked producer Simon Molloy just because I have a nice smile.”
“But they did,” grins Ben.
“Only ’cuz I’m with you.”
They do up their seat belts and prepare to land.
“Where are we staying again?” asks Ben.
“Ah,” says Simon, reaching into his briefcase. “Now here, I really have done us proud. London Daytime Television wanted to put us up in some grotty hotel, but I managed to wangle this place called Shutters on the Beach.” He pulls a brochure out of the case and hands it to Ben. “Nice isn’t it?”
“Nice?” says Ben, as the plane starts to descend through the sky. “It’s bloody gorgeous.”
“Bloody gorgeous,” he says again, as they walk through the reception area, the very same reception area Jemima has only recently walked through herself. Ben, being a man, doesn’t notice the details in the way Jemima did, but nevertheless he can appreciate the quiet beauty of the place.