“Same time?”
“Perfect.”
“Okay. I’ll bring the sunshine, you bring the smiles. Take care.”
“Bye.” I sit back and turn off the computer, and crazy as it may sound I’m excited about this and it takes the longest time to wipe the smile off my face.
Chapter 8
Ben had a hell of a week this week. Really, we wouldn’t wish Ben’s job on anyone. First of all he had to interview a woman who had the misfortune to have a thirteen-year-old crack addict tearaway as a son, trying to coax the story of his upbringing out of her.
Then he was out on other stories for the rest of the week, he hardly saw anyone at all, didn’t have time for chats, just kept his head down and kept working.
But Wednesday night was a bit of a bonus. Ben was home earlier than usual and both roommates were out, so he had the place to himself. He could kick off his shoes, read the Guardian he’d saved from Monday and watch the news. Just generally chill out.
He was settling back into the sofa, the television on to provide background noise, some early evening quiz show that Ben would never dream of watching, and he was flicking through the Guardian.
An ad on page 16 caught his eye but, perhaps more importantly, caught his imagination.
TELEVISION REPORTER
London Nights is a new daily show from London Daytime Television. Entertaining and informative, we need three reporters for on-screen work. A minimum of three years’ journalism experience is required, with no television experience necessary. An interest in show business and entertainment, news and politics, or health and beauty is essential.
Screen tests will be held.
Please send your CV, a covering letter, and a demo tape or photograph to . . .
This is it! thought Ben, sitting up with excitement. This is my big break. A reporter specializing in news and politics, this job has my name written all over it. He didn’t hesitate, because Ben, after all, is a doer rather than a thinker. He reached for his pen and scribbled down the first draft of a letter.
A photograph, he thought, where can I get a decent photograph? Ben only has decent photographs, but a picture of him in sunglasses and a baseball cap is hardly the right image to project, and, as Ben well knows, a television image is essential.
He pulled a box from under his bed and sifted through the hundreds of photographs. Eventually he found one that was perfect, a photograph he sneaked out from the picture library at work. A photograph of him in a suit standing next to a local celebrity.
Screw the celebrity, Ben, this is your career, and Ben duly whisked the scissors out of the kitchen drawer and snipped the photograph cleanly in half, the celebrity gently floating to the grubby gray carpet.
He finished his letter, attached his CV, and slipped the photograph into the envelope. Now all he can do is hope.
Funny how my appetite seems to have decreased recently. It’s lunchtime and I feel no desire to have a huge plate of food. This salad, a proper salad, is fine, and I’m quite happy sitting in the cafeteria with my nose buried in a magazine.
I bought this magazine this morning. Not my usual glossy fashion mag, I grant you, but one of the cover lines was about Internet dating, and I’m just really curious about this, so I bought it and I’m learning all about Internet cafés.
I didn’t even know these places existed. This café, Cyborg, is in the West End. The picture shows metallic surfaces, banks of computers around the walls, and beautiful people sitting at the tables in the center, sipping cappuccinos and eating ciabatta rolls stuffed with sun-dried tomatoes, mozzarella, and fresh basil.
Internet dating, apparently, is the hottest thing since, well, since the Internet. According to this article, and it has to be said I take it with a slight pinch of salt because I know you can’t believe everything you read, but according to this people are meeting and falling in love all over the world.
And not only that, Cyborg has become an “in” place, a place to see and be seen, a place where, should you not be lucky enough to find your soulmate on the Internet, you might just meet his eyes gazing at you over the top of your computer.
“That looks interesting,” says Ben Williams, towering above me as he puts his tray on the table opposite. “I’ve heard about that.”
My heart starts pounding and already I can feel the faint flush on my neck. Surely this is the perfect opportunity, how can I ask him whether he wants to go, how can I make my voice sound casual when I’m all choked up inside?
“We should go down there one night,” says Ben, lifting a forkful of stringy roast beef to his mouth. “The three of us should go. It would be a laugh.”
“I’d love to,” I gush. “I mean, it sounds really interesting, I’d love to learn more about it.” A cooler tone to my voice now, I keep my excitement in check.
“We’ll have to find out when Geraldine’s free, although it’s a bit of a quiet week for me, I could go any time.”
“And why is my name being taken in vain?” Geraldine sits down, a plateful of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, and no dressing for lunch.
“Ben was just saying we should go to this place.” I gesture to the article. “It sounds like fun.” But I’m thinking, why Geraldine too for heaven’s sake? Why not just you and me, Ben? Not that I wouldn’t want Geraldine there, it’s just that I’d die to spend an evening alone with Ben. Die.
“Yup,” echoes Ben. “In fact I’m not doing anything tonight. You?” He looks at me and I shake my head. Of course I’m not doing anything tonight. “You?” He looks at Geraldine, who shakes her head, then makes a face. “Sorry, guys, but count me out.”
“But why?” asks Ben.
“A computer café? I don’t think so. It’ll be full of computer nerds and strange men in anoraks.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them because the last thing I’m trying to do is persuade her to come, but my mouth seems to have a life of its own and I push the magazine towards her. “Look at the people in that picture. They’re all gorgeous.”
“Hmm,” says Geraldine, who has to concede that the people are, indeed, better than average-looking. “They’re probably models brought in to disguise the computer nerds and anoraks.”
“Oh Geraldine,” I say, again pretending I want nothing more than for her to join us. “Just come.”
“Nope,” says Geraldine, picking up a slice of cucumber with her fingers and munching away. “I’m busy washing my hair.”
“God, you’re pathetic,” says Ben, but he doesn’t say it nastily, he can’t help it, it is so obvious that he wants her to come. “Even if they are computer nerds it won’t matter because we’ll be there.”
“Nope.” She’s refusing to budge and an involuntary sigh of relief escapes my mouth. Luckily, neither of them notices.
“Well, we’re going anyway aren’t we, Jemima?” And I beam away as I nod my head.
They sit and eat, and chatter about work, and in Ben’s pocket is the job ad burning a hole, making him itch to tell someone. He’s planning on sending off the application today, but he doesn’t trust himself, he wants a second opinion before he actually posts it through the mailbox next to the bus stop.
He wants to tell Jemima and Geraldine, he wants to know what they think, whether he stands a chance, whether they could see him on television, but he’s not entirely sure Geraldine can be trusted.
Jemima, he knows, wouldn’t breathe a word, and Geraldine, he suspects, wouldn’t intentionally repeat anything, but it may just come out by mistake, and he doesn’t want to risk word getting round the Kilburn Herald that he is looking for another job.
Also, Ben, not that it’s any of our business but isn’t it slightly bad karma to talk about a job before you get it?
So Ben keeps quiet, Jemima keeps quiet, too busy dreaming about tonight, and Geraldine rattles on about Dimitri, the boyfriend that was, although she hasn’t quite managed to tell him that yet.
They fin
ish their lunch and walk to the elevator. Please, don’t forget, prays Jemima, don’t forget that we have a date tonight.
“So, shall we go straight from work?” Ben’s looking at me.
Damn. I promised that guy Brad that I’d meet him tonight and I suppose I could go “online” at Cyborg and talk to him from there, but Ben would be with me and I don’t want him looking over my shoulder. I have a choice here. Ben or Brad. As if there’s any question.
“Fine,” I say. “Definitely.”
“Great,” says Ben, smiling warmly at me, because, I suspect, even though he would prefer to be with Geraldine, he would never be mean enough to cancel me, not when we’ve made this arrangement.
Later that afternoon Geraldine sends a message to my screen.
“Careful,” she says, “word might get out about you and Ben . . .”
“What do you mean?” I send back, knowing exactly what she means, and praying that it does somehow get out, because perhaps if people thought something was going on, something might, in fact, go on.
“You know what people are like round here. If they see you leaving together they might just jump to conclusions!” As if! Geraldine knows this would never happen with me. Yes, the Kilburn Herald is a hive of gossip, and anyone seen, ever, with a staff member of the opposite sex is immediately presumed to be having an affair. But nobody in their right mind would ever think I might be having an affair with Ben Williams. In my dreams, perhaps, but that’s about it.
“Oh please!” I write, playing along with Geraldine’s game. “He’s not my type!”
“What, with all those dimples, not to mention the gorgeous hair that always flops in exactly the right place? Are you serious?”
It’s not always in exactly the right place, and so what if it’s floppy? It’s gorgeous. Bitch.
“Absolutely.” I type back. “We’re just friends.”
“Well, have a nice friendly time then, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do . . .”
At six o’clock I am so excited I’m practically bursting. I’ve been to the bathroom, I’ve put on some makeup, although truth to be told I can’t really see any difference, and I’m sitting at my desk trying to stop the urge to jump around the room.
I’m sorry, Brad who?
And then Ben walks over and as soon as I see him at the other end of the room I know he’s going to cancel me. How? He hasn’t put his jacket on, his sleeves are rolled up, and he looks tense and worried. Shit.
“Are you ready?” I say nervously, knowing full well he’s about to say he’s not coming.
“I’m really sorry, Jemima,” says Ben, and to give him some credit he looks as if he means it. “I’ve just been given a story to do on edition. I’m going to be here all night.”
“Don’t worry.” False gaiety brightens up my voice. “We can go another time. I’ve got loads to do at home tonight anyway.” Like watch television. Read. Listen to music.
“I’m sorry.” I start to feel sorry for him because he really does look as if he doesn’t want to be here. “It’s fine,” I say again. “We’ll do it another time.”
“Look,” he says, and I’m convinced he can see the disappointment in my eyes. “You don’t live far from me. If I finish early enough maybe we could meet up later for a quick drink?”
“Great!” I say, too quickly to hide the enthusiasm in my voice, and mentally kicking myself under the desk for not being a bit more cool.
“Okay. What’s your phone number?”
I write it down and, idiot that I am, while I’m writing I try to keep the smile from my face. Unsuccessfully.
“I’ll give you a ring when I’m finished,” says Ben, who is looking more and more pissed off at the prospect of having to work late. “Are you leaving now?”
“In a little while. I’ve got a few things to clear up first.”
He’s phoning me! He wants to take me out for a drink! I have a date with Ben Williams! I’m seeing Ben Williams by myself after work! He didn’t have to ask me but he wants to see me! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!
But before I go home, before I allow myself completely to give in to the excitement that’s taken over my body, I have to meet Brad, and before I meet Brad I have to play my game, remember? If I connect to the Internet within 45 seconds, then Ben Williams will fall in love with me. Please, please, please connect within 45 seconds.
I watch the little clock on the bottom right of the screen. 33. 34. 35. 36. Still not connected. I can’t bear to look. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that when I open them again I’ll be connected. I open my eyes. 42. 43. Connected.
Phew. Thank you, God.
“I thought you weren’t going to make it :-(“ flashes up on my screen, as soon as I enter the LA Café.
“I’m sorry. I was working on a big story.”
“Can you send me a videotape? I’d love to see you in action.”
“I’ll try,” and miracles will happen, “but everything’s a bit busy at the moment.”
“So how was your day, JJ?”
“Superb.” Now at least I’m telling the truth.
“:-) That’s so English of you! I just came back from a workout which I didn’t feel up to at all. I had a late night last night.”
“Did you have a hangover?”
“No. Nobody in California gets drunk. Ever. Do you drink?”
“No.”
“Smoke?”
“No.” Forgive me for I am sinning, but a little white lie never hurt anyone.
“Good! Me neither. I can’t stand smoking, it’s the one thing I really hate.”
“So tell me about your friends.” I ask to get him off this line of conversation, and is it just me or does he sound ever so slightly boring? Nah, must be just me, I mean he’s a genuine Hollywood hunk, for God’s sake, what’s boring about that? “What do you do socially?”
“Just kinda hang out, I guess. I have friends from all walks, and a lot in entertainment.”
“I’m surprised. I would have thought all your friends would be body-builders.”
“LOL. No, I meet all types through the gyms. We have a load of celebrities who work out here, and some of them have become friends.”
“Names, names, give me names.”
“Okay , but don’t hold it against me. I know Jennifer & Brad quite well, and a lot of the cast from ER. But a lot of my friends just work in the business, they’re the guys behind the scenes. What about you?”
Think Geraldine, think Sophie and Lisa. Think anything but your own life.
“I go out for dinner an awful lot, usually quite smart places, and occasionally to clubs, but not that often, I did that when I was younger.”
“I’m trying to get a feel for who you are. What are you wearing right now? (I don’t mean underwear , I mean what is your style.)”
Shit. I look down at what I’m wearing. Massive stretchy black leggings and a huge voluminous orange shirt.
“An Armani shirt,” I type. “Fitted jacket, short skirt, and cream shoes. I have to look smart for when I’m on screen.”
“Mmm. You sound just my type. I’m wearing my oldest pair of Levi’s, a faded blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt (it matches my eyes!!) and sneakers. I keep a suit in the office for when I have meetings, but most of the time I’m real casual.”
“So what’s Los Angeles like?”
“I love it. I love the climate, the buildings, the people. It’s unlike anywhere else in America. Have you ever been here?”
No. I’ve never been anywhere, really. When I was younger, when my parents were still together, we went to a campsite in France a couple of times. I remember the soft sand, the palm trees in Nice, the warm water, but as I grew older, as my mother tried to cope with being a single parent, the foreign holidays stopped, and the French campsite became small hotels in Dorset, Wales, Brighton. What I wouldn’t give to go to somewhere like Los Angeles.
“I haven’t but I’d love to.”
“You should come out here. I bet you??
?d love it.”
“Is that an invitation? .”
“Sure! You could come and stay with me.”
Blimey, that’s a bit quick, thinks Jemima, but then being as naive as she is, Jemima doesn’t know that Angelenos have a habit of extending the arm of friendship, before whipping it back again as soon as you try and take hold.
“But we hardly know each other,” I type, wondering whether Brad is ever so slightly insane. I mean, who in their right mind would extend this sort of an invitation to someone they don’t know?
“We’d get to know each other pretty quick .”
“LOL.” I’m getting the hang of this.
“So when are you planning your next vacation?”
“I hadn’t really thought. Some time soon, though.”
“Just don’t go anywhere without speaking to me first! What are you up to tonight?”
At least now I can tell the truth. “I’m going out for a drink with a friend.”
“A male friend?”
“Yes.”
“:-(“
“Why :-( ?”
“I’m jealous.”
I know this is ridiculous but reading those words suddenly makes me feel good. Stupid, really, because he’s never seen me, but nobody has ever had cause to be jealous before. Of me! Jemima Jones! Going out with another man! This is amazing. New, but nevertheless amazing.
“Don’t worry, he really is just a friend.”
“Tell me he’s fat and forty.”
“Okay. He’s fat and forty.”
“. Good. Just remember little old Brad sitting in California thinking about you. Can we meet again tomorrow?”
“I don’t know if I can. I think I’m going out.”
“Okay. I’ll e-mail you instead. How’s that?”
“Perfect. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Will you e-mail me back?”
“Promise.”
“Okay, JJ. Take care, and a big hug from me.”
“Same here. Bye.”
I gather up my stuff and while I’m getting ready to leave I’m trying to picture Brad in California, which is tough bearing in mind I haven’t been there, but I have seen it in the movies. I wonder whether he really is a golden-haired, blue-eyed Californian god, or whether he is merely doing what I’ve been doing, and reinventing himself over the Internet.