“Nine hundred fifty-four dollars plus tax.”
“But I can’t afford that!” In my head I’m mentally calculating how much that is in pounds, that’s about £700! No way, I haven’t got that sort of money.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, that’s the best we can do.”
“So you mean I have to wait here until I’m booked to go home? I can’t change my flight again for $100?” I can’t believe this is happening to me, I really can’t.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Forget it,” I sigh. “I’ll just have to stay in this godforsaken place then, won’t I? Thanks.” And I put down the phone, feeling as if I’m going to cry.
Lauren, I’ll have to call Lauren, and surprise, surprise, she’s not there. Probably out with her bartender, I think, and that’s when it hits me. I’m on my own. Again. I came out here to be with Brad and now he’s left me and that’s it, I’m in a strange town, with one friend who isn’t home, and I’m all by myself.
I can’t help it, I can’t stop the tears that start rolling down my cheeks and within seconds I’m gulping huge pockets of air, sobbing like a baby. I pull my knees up to my chest and cradle them with my arms, crying as if my heart is going to break. Stop it, I try and tell myself. He’s not worth it, but even as I think that I know that this isn’t about Brad. This is about me. This is about finally thinking you’ve found someone to share the rest of your life with, and not being good enough for them. It’s about thinking that being blond and slim and perfect will automatically bring you happiness, and then discovering that life is full of as many disappointments as there were before.
It takes about an hour to cry myself dry, and when I’ve finished I leave a message on Lauren’s machine. “It’s JJ,” I say, hiccuping a little. “Something terrible’s happened, I need a place to stay. Whatever you do, don’t call me at Brad’s. I’m going out and I’ll keep ringing you until I get you. Speak to you soon.” And I put the phone down.
Chapter 28
I lug my suitcase down the hall, thanking God that Brad didn’t change his mind and decide to see me off. It’s so heavy I’ll probably do my back in, but I’d rather be laid up than accept any help from him now.
I take the case to the front door, and the taxi driver runs out and picks it up for me.
“Where to?” he asks, when I’m settled in the backseat.
“I haven’t got a clue.”
He turns round and looks at me quizzically. “You don’t know where you’re going?”
I shake my head, and as I do the first tears come, but not in a torrent, just a single tear rolling down my cheek.
“Are you okay?” he says gently.
“Yes.” I try to smile. “I’ll be fine.” And we sit there for a bit as he waits for me to compose myself, and as I wipe my eyes I remember the Santa Monica mall, the food hall, and my nostrils are filled with the mingling smells and I know as an absolute certainty that the only thing that will make me feel better right now is food. Lots of it. As much as I can eat.
Cravings. I’d forgotten about cravings, but now I’m getting the strongest craving of my life, and for your information I’m not sitting here thinking about lettuce, or rice cakes, or even, gasp, a loaf of bread. I’m sitting here thinking about spare ribs. About Singapore noodles. About pasta. About cookies. About cakes dripping with sugar and cream.
And the more I think about it, the more vivid the pictures become until I can almost smell the food, taste the food, hear it beckoning me from afar.
“Santa Monica mall,” I instruct the driver, not caring about my fat-free, cholesterol-free, obsessive diet. I don’t give a damn, I just need to stuff my face.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he says, as I start to lug the suitcase up the steps of the mall. “I’m sure,” I tell him, and push open the doors.
Where do you start when you’re about to have the biggest binge of your life and you have a choice of practically every type of food from around the world? It doesn’t matter really, because I plan to sample everything, and I start with a sandwich from the deli.
I don’t bother sitting at one of the tables, I stand just next to the deli counter cramming a pastrami on rye sandwich into my mouth, barely tasting it.
Next I hit the hamburger stall, where I bypass the burgers and go for the fries instead.
I stop at the Chinese and order Singapore noodles and spare ribs, at which point I do sit down because it’s far easier to tear the flesh off the bone with your teeth when you’re sitting down.
Sweet things, sweet things, sweet things. I go to the bakery and buy a bag of six hot, fresh cinnamon rolls, and I stuff them into my mouth within minutes.
Now what? I look around, stomach full, but I know I haven’t even started if I’m hoping to fill the huge, gaping hole in my heart. The candy store. I fill a huge paper bag with sweets, every kind imaginable, and even before I’ve left the shop I’m cramming handfuls into my mouth without even tasting them.
I leave the mall and lug the suitcase to a phone booth outside, undoing the top two buttons on my tiny denim shorts, which are now painfully pressing into my flesh, and as I dial I rub my stomach to try and dispel the ache from so much food, and I curse myself for wearing a short white crop top instead of a voluminous shirt to hide my sins.
“Lauren?”
“I’ve been so worried!” shouts Lauren down the phone. “Don’t tell me now, just get your ass over here.”
“Oh thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Don’t be stupid,” says Lauren. “What are friends for?”
Ben has been walking around Santa Monica for what seems like hours. He’s discovered that the busiest street seems to be the Third Street Promenade, and he’s still trying to get over the fact that there’s a Virtual Supermarket, a computer shop where you go in, log on, and order whatever you need from the computer.
He stops for coffee at the Barnes & Noble café, and sits for a while, enjoying the cappuccino and the people. He was going to buy a book, but he couldn’t find anything other than film books, so he picks up the local paper that someone left on the table next to him, and idly flicks through.
After a while he decides to get back to the hotel. He turns the corner and passes a phone booth, and, being the boy that he is, he keeps his eyes glued to the perfect rear view of the woman on the phone. Why don’t they make women like that in England, he thinks, taking in the curve of her well-toned buttocks and tanned, muscular thighs, the golden skin set off by faded denim shorts and a white crop top. Ben walks past and turns back, hoping to see the face behind the mane of streaky blond hair, but the girl has turned away, and Ben smiles to himself and walks back to the hotel.
“Christ, you look awful,” says Lauren, opening the door.
I feel awful, and, as I push past Lauren, clutching my hand to my mouth, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my golden skin is no longer golden, it’s a rather peculiar shade of green.
“Through there,” says Lauren, pointing down the hallway. “Quick.”
I stumble past her and collapse on my knees in front of the toilet. Up comes the pastrami on rye. Up come the Singapore noodles and spare ribs. Up come the fries. Up come the cinnamon rolls. And finally, up come the sweets.
And when it’s all finished, when there’s nothing left, I rest my head on the toilet seat while my eyes and nose continue streaming, and I’m aware that Lauren’s standing behind me, gently rubbing my back.
“Here,” says Lauren, handing me some tissues. “I’ll just get you a glass of water.”
She comes back and helps me to my feet. “Oh you poor thing,” she says. “You’re shivering.” She leads me to the sofa, then runs back to her bedroom and comes back with a blanket, which she tucks around me.
Lauren doesn’t say anything, she just sits beside me and puts her arm around me, and I lean my head into her shoulder as the pain and the shock finally hit, and this is what I need, to be looked after, to be treated like a child, to feel s
afe and secure for the first time in ages.
“How about a cup of hot, sweet tea?” she says eventually, and I nod.
“You’re so English,” I manage with a small smile when Lauren comes back with two steaming mugs.
“I’m not that English. You won’t find any milk or sugar in there. It’s fat-free dairy substitute and sweetener. So,” she says sitting down, “what happened?”
I tell her. Everything. Lauren sits there open-mouthed, and when I’ve finished I look for her reaction, but she can’t speak.
“Say something,” I plead.
“I can’t,” says Lauren. “Fucking hell.”
“I know.”
“Fucking hell,” she says again.
“Yeah.”
“Fucking hell.”
“Lauren!”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to say. I can’t believe it. This doesn’t happen in real life, surely?”
“That’s what I thought, but I’m afraid it does.”
“What a bastard,” sighs Lauren.
“Yes.”
“And what a bitch.”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “You’ll probably think I’m completely out of my head, but you know what? I actually feel sorry for them. I mean, I feel completely sick that I got caught up in it . . .”
“I noticed,” says Lauren, with a smile.
“Yeah, well. But think how awful it must be for her.”
“You are out of your head,” says Lauren in disbelief.
“Maybe, but I know what it’s like to be her. The only thing I can’t believe is that he treats her like that.”
“Hello? JJ? What about the way he treated you?”
“That too.”
“Well. Good riddance to bad rubbish is all I can say.”
“You’re right. You’re right. I know you’re right.”
“Shall I come out with some more clichés?”
I nod.
“Plenty more fish in the sea.”
“Men are like buses.”
“You can lead a horse to water.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Lauren shrugs. “Dunno, but just bear in mind that too many cooks . . .”
“Oh Lauren.” I shove her and she grins, because she knows I’m feeling a little bit better already.
“See,” says Lauren. “There is some light at the end of the tunnel,” and we both start laughing.
“That’s better,” says Lauren. “You can stay here for as long as you like.”
“That’s the other thing,” I say disconsolately. “I tried to change my flight today but I can’t get back any earlier without paying full fare.”
“So how long are you staying?”
“About two months.” Now this really does scare me. “I can find somewhere to stay, an apartment maybe, or a cheap hotel.” Which of course I can’t, because I don’t have the money.
“What? When I’ve got a perfectly comfortable sofa bed? You’re staying here, for free, because I’ve got more than enough room for both of us. End of story.”
Thank God. That’s exactly what I hoped she’d say. “Lauren, what would I do without you?”
“More to the point, what would I do without you?” Lauren says with a smile.
“But what am I going to do for money? I mean, I’ve got the column on the Kilburn Herald and my paltry salary from them but that’s hardly enough.”
“You’re a journalist, JJ. Money is the least of your worries. First of all, I can get the features editor at the magazine to commission you.”
“What?”
“Yup. You can write a piece for the magazine on good-looking bastards.”
“You mean, tell my story?”
“Not exactly. You can mention the basics, but we’ll save the full story for an in-depth feature, which, unfortunately, wouldn’t be right for us. For this piece you can write a bit of first-person stuff, but expand on the theme, how we’re taken in by looks, how we’re blinded by lust, how easy it is to fall for what someone looks like, not who they are.”
“For your magazine?”
Lauren nods.
“Are you sure they’ll want it?” She nods again and already I’m thinking about opening the magazine and seeing my byline, my name in big letters, and the thought has the desired effect because I’m starting to feel that there is something to look forward to after all.
“No worries. I know you can do it. Next,” she says, picking up her phone book, “I’m going to ring Cosmopolitan in London and you’re going to offer them a story on Internet romances, and that’s when you tell your full story. Warts and all.”
“Can’t they sue me?”
“Like bastard-features and bitch-face are likely to read English Cosmopolitan? Anyway, all you have to do is change the names and you’re sorted. JJ, you don’t have to worry about money. There are thousands of pieces you could be writing out here and filing back to magazines and newspapers in London. Think about it, you’re in Los Angeles. You’re in the place where all the stars live, so just get on the phone and set up some interviews. It’s as easy as that.”
I really am starting to feel better. A whole lot better.
“And meanwhile, when we’re not working, which will be most of the time, you and I are going to have a blast. Screw them. We’re two gorgeous single English girls, and the world is our oyster.”
“Yes.” I raise my mug. “The world is our oyster. I’ll drink to that.”
“So,” Lauren says, “how about starting tonight?”
“Starting what?”
“Starting to have a good time.”
“You mean you’re not seeing Bill the horny bartender?”
“I’m going to cancel him. You and I are going out.”
“Lauren.” I shake my head, still unable to believe that anyone can be so kind. “I don’t want you to cancel him. To tell you the truth this has really taken it out of me. All I want to do tonight is curl up and watch TV.”
“Okay,” says Lauren. “So we’ll curl up and watch TV.”
“No.” My voice is firm. “I know how you feel about Bill and there’s no way you’re canceling him. In the nicest possible way, Lauren, I want to be on my own tonight.” A total lie, but I know I’ll cope and there’s no reason why I should spoil Lauren’s evening as well.
“Are you sure?” Lauren’s doubtful, but pleased.
“I’m so sure,” I say.
“Okay. I’ve got plenty of food in the fridge so just make yourself at home. I’m going to jump in the shower, and then how about I run you a nice hot bath?”
“That sounds lovely,” and it does, except I have to really force myself not to think about the last time I had a bath, with Brad, and what we ended up doing.
Before she leaves Lauren lines up an assortment of pots, jars, and tubes.
“These,” she says in a serious tone, “are my babies. Use them well,” and she blows me a kiss and disappears.
I unscrew each pot, each jar, each tube, and sniff deeply. I examine the packaging, read how each one will give you younger skin, thicker hair, firmer flesh. I pour half a bottle of almond-scented bubble bath in the water and lie back, cucumber slices on my eyes, a hot damp towel wrapped around my deeply conditioning hair.
And when I’ve toweled myself dry with one of Lauren’s huge fluffy towels, I walk into the kitchen and open the door of the fridge. Hooray. For someone as skinny as Lauren, there’s an extraordinary amount of food. Without thinking, I pull out a tray of sushi, a carton of yogurt, a cellophane package of precooked chicken.
But I don’t stop there, even though I know I should. I pull out packets of ready-made salads, cheese, fat-free cookies. I spy the bread box and dig down to where half a loaf of whole grain bread is temporarily residing.
And then I sit at the kitchen table and I eat. And eat. And eat. And eat.
“Oh hello,” says Ben, hoping he’s got the right number because there’s a male voice on the answering ma
chine, and he doesn’t exactly trust those roommates of Jemima, even though Lisa, the one he spoke to, sounded more normal than that blond nutcase. “I hope I’ve got the right number. I’m trying to get in touch with Jemima Jones. This is Ben Williams, an old friend of hers from London. I’m in Los Angeles for a couple of days, and I’d love to meet up with you, er, with her, so if this is the right number and Jemima’s there, could she please call me at Shutters on the Beach. Thanks,” and he puts down the phone.
I lie in bed and I know I should feel guilty at the amount I’ve eaten today, but I don’t. The food at the Santa Monica mall doesn’t count because as far as I’m concerned I threw it up before it had a chance to convert into fat, and tonight, well, tonight. Yes, I’ll admit I was tempted to throw it up again, to stick my fingers down my throat and get rid of all the food, but that’s not the answer. And eating isn’t the answer either.
And anyway, the throwing up earlier wasn’t just about the food, I think it was about the shock today, the combination of both, and I do feel better. I still feel alone, but I’ve got Lauren, thank God, and I believe her, I believe that everything will be fine.
I rub my hands over my stomach, feeling how it’s bulging slightly, and thanking God that I’ve exercised as much as I have, that I don’t have folds of flabby skin anywhere on my body, and then I remember a time at home, back in London, when my stomach was huge. When it used to take about ten minutes to rub from one side to the other. Well, not exactly, but you know what I mean. I remember how I used my size and my flesh to hide away from the world, to hide my sexuality, to hide who I was, and I know that, despite in a strange way feeling comforted by my size, I won’t get that way again, I don’t need to be that size again.
My stomach is nothing like it used to be, but as I stroke I can feel that neither is it concave, the way it’s been since I arrived in Los Angeles, and actually, if I’m being completely honest here, I quite like the fact that it curves slightly. Okay, I know that with a triple workout for the next couple of days it will soon be back to its flat self, and that this bulge is just the temporary result of tonight’s binge, but the more I stroke it the more I like it. It feels rounded, feminine, womanly.