Jemima J. (14 page)

They do look wonderful. They also look completely out of place in Kilburn, tottering down the street in their smart clothes, leaving bystanders open-mouthed at these two exotic beauties.

They’ve already been in to the Queen’s Arms, a bit of a mistake, they realized as soon as they walked in. They had to wave their arms to see through the smoke, and when they did they saw hundreds of men, all propped up against the bar, who went completely silent, presumably in admiration at the sight of Sophie and Lisa.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” groaned a builder, clutching his heart while his mates laughed.

“Looking for me, love?” said one to Sophie, as she looked around the pub, wishing fervently she was somewhere else.

“Will you marry me?” said another to Lisa, who kept her nose in the air and kept walking.

Both girls, to their credit, ignored the men, and walked out, heads held high, while the men jeered, and a couple ran to the door to try and jokingly persuade them to come back.

“God, what a nightmare,” says Sophie to Lisa as they walk up the road. “Are you sure this is worth it? Shouldn’t we just jump in a cab and go into town?”

“Are you mad?” Lisa turns to her in horror. “When we’ve just met the best-looking man we’ve seen in ages.”

“He is gorgeous,” agrees Sophie, “but he works at the
Kilburn Herald.
I mean, he’s hardly in our league is he?” Sophie, bless her, has forgotten that she is a receptionist, because in her dreams she is a rich man’s wife.

“With looks like that I couldn’t give a damn. I don’t want to marry him, but I’d kill to have a fling with him,” says Lisa, adding, “Phwooargh,” with a faraway look in her eyes.

“Okay,” says Sophie. “One more try.” They walk past the picture windows and into the bar, taking note of the beautiful
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and fashionable people, and feeling instantly superior. They, after all, are not only fashionable, they are also wearing designer labels, and both make sure the gold intertwined C’s on their Chanel bags are facing outward just so that everyone can be sure of this fact.

“They
must
be here,” says Lisa, looking slowly at each table.

“I can’t see them,” says Sophie, walking past the bar and into the room at the back. “Nope,” she says as she surveys the room. “Where the hell can they be?”

Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? Both our glasses are empty, so I stand up to get some more drinks, hoping to prolong this evening for as long as possible, praying that Ben won’t stand up and say it’s time to go. “I’ll get this round,” I say as nonchalantly as I can. “Same again?”

“Are you sure?” says Ben, who, being the perfect gentleman I think he is, would probably be more than happy to pay for the second round. And the third. But I insist and he agrees to the same again.

But as I stand up I suddenly have a horrifying thought. From the front, I am passable. I can just about hide my size, and hope that people look at my eyes or my hair, but from the back even I admit that I’m huge. Can I back out of the room? Would Ben think I was completely mad? Should I risk turning round and allowing Ben to see me from behind?

As I stand there in this dilemma, Ben starts rereading his application letter, so with a huge sigh of relief I walk, front first, out of the tiny room and into the main bar. BLOODY HELL! WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY DOING HERE?

I don’t bloody believe this. Sophie and Lisa never, ever, come to places like this. Drink in Kilburn? Are you mad? Those evil little cows, I know exactly what they’re doing. Look at them, tarted up to the nines and standing by the bar looking for something, and don’t think I don’t know exactly what they’re looking for. Me. Or to be more precise, Ben. Bitches.

What am I going to do? I can’t let them see me, I can’t let
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them join us, because look at them now, Ben wouldn’t recognize them as the two girls he met earlier this evening, and he might, just might, fancy them. Shit, shit, shit. I turn around and rush back to Ben.

“Ben,” I say, thinking, thinking, thinking.

Ben looks up. “Hmm?”

“I just wanted to ask you, before I forget, um. Well, it’s just that I wanted to ask you, do you have a demo tape because the ad said send a demo tape.” Jesus, I sound like a total idiot but it’s the best I could come up with, given the urgency of the situation.

“I’m going to send a photograph. Why, do you think I should send a tape?” Ben is, as I knew he would be, looking at me as if I’m a bit strange.

“Well,” I say, sitting down. “There are pros and cons, I suppose. I mean, a photograph doesn’t show them exactly what they want to see, i.e., what you’ll be like on television, but then a demo is probably bloody expensive to put together.”

“Right,” says Ben, now looking completely confused as to why I’m sitting down again minus the drinks.

I look over Ben’s shoulder and
‌
—thank you, God
‌
—see Sophie and Lisa walk out of the bar. Highly unusually, bearing in mind this is Kilburn, a black cab with an orange light shining happens to be driving down the road just as they leave, and both girls, on reflex, leap into the road with arms held high.

I can feel Ben watching me as I watch the cab drive off.

“Right,” I echo Ben, standing up purposefully. “Drinks,” and off I go to the bar.

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Jemima really doesn’t want to get out of bed, not when she can lie here daydreaming about last night with Ben Williams.

Unfortunately for Jemima, her daydream didn’t come true, but it was the next best thing, because, after Ben had insisted on walking her home, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

Jemima blushed bright red, and silently thanked God for being shrouded in darkness so Ben wouldn’t see. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he shouted as he walked up the road, and Jemima nodded mutely on the doorstep, too happy to speak.

She didn’t have time to think about him last night
‌
—the three beers had gone straight to her head, and as soon as she touched the pillow she was out like a light, but now, now that it’s morning, Jemima has time. Time to go over every word, every sentence, every nuance.

She has time to think about what happened, what could have happened, and what will, she hopes, happen in the future, and in all her fantasies Jemima is thin.

_p. 103
Jemima lies there for too long, and when she looks at the clock she knows that she’ll be late for work if she doesn’t get a move on. She hurries to the bathroom to run her bath, and completely forgets, yes really, completely forgets about her cereal.

And then, while she’s waiting for the bath to run, she decides to do something she hasn’t done for months. She stands on the scales. Holding her breath, she balances her weight carefully, not daring to look down until she is perfectly still. And when she does, she starts smiling, because Jemima Jones has lost ten pounds. There’s still a long way to go, but Geraldine was right, Jemima has finally managed to lose some weight.

Jemima stands there for a while and then she puts her hand out and holds on to the towel rail. She presses down hard and watches her weight plummet. The harder she presses, the more the weight goes down on the scales. I wish, she thinks. I will, she thinks.

And then, as she is about to get in the bath, she hears voices downstairs and realizes that Sophie and Lisa haven’t left for work. She looks at her watch. Nine-ten
A.M.
, and they are never usually here at this time, they will be late.

“Jemima,” says Sophie from outside the bathroom door.

I lift my head out of the water. “What are you doing here? You’re going to be late for work.” Subtext: you’re an evil cow and I haven’t got anything to say to you.

“I know, we’re just leaving but we both overslept.”

“Did you have a good time last night? How was the club?” I try my best to be nice, and I don’t mention I saw them, that I know what they were up to.

“It was brilliant,” says Sophie. “But how was your evening?”

“Lovely.” I’m smiling.

“So that was Ben?”

“Yup.”

There’s a pause.

“He is gorgeous.”

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My smile widens.

“Why don’t you invite him over for dinner one night?” says Sophie, a hint of pleading in her voice.

As if! “Maybe I will.” In your bloody dreams. I will keep Ben as far away from Sophie and Lisa as I possibly can.

“Okay, I gotta go. Have a good day.” I lie back in the bath and listen to both their high heels clatter down to the front door, the clicking punctuated by whispers and giggles.

Poor Sophie and Lisa. They really think I’m stupid enough to propel Ben into their arms? How wrong they are.

“So how was last night?” Geraldine sashays over, sipping from a cappuccino in a Styrofoam cup she bought on the way to work.

“Fine.” I fight to keep the grin off my face, the grin that would give my feelings away.

“Did you go to that computer café?” Geraldine’s tongue snakes out to her top lip and licks away the smudge of foamy chocolate that sits there.

“No, Ben had to work late so we just went for a drink.”

“Ooh, very cozy.” Geraldine looks at me closely. “Jemima? You’re not blushing are you?”

“No,” I say quickly. Possibly a little too quickly, and I feel a hot flush cover my neck and cheeks.

“Jemima! You are!” She lowers her voice and smiles. “Do you fancy Ben?”

“No!” I say, wishing to Christ I didn’t blush half as easily as I do.

“You do!” says Geraldine. “I don’t believe it.”

The flush starts to fade away. “Geraldine,” I say firmly, with a conviction that comes from God knows where. “There would be absolutely no point in me fancying Ben Williams, which, incidentally, I don’t, because he would never, ever, be interested in someone like me. I don’t particularly enjoy wasting my time, on anything, and certainly not on fancying someone who is so obviously unattainable.” I think, in my embarrassment at
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Geraldine guessing, I think I have come up with an argument so convincing that Geraldine immediately backs down.

“Okay,” she says, “I believe you, but he is good-looking, everyone else seems to fancy him. Except me,” she adds with a sigh. “I’ve got enough bloody problems of my own.”

“So how is Dimitri?”

“A nightmare. He’s been coming round to the flat every night, begging me to go back to him. I’ve tried ignoring him but he just stands on the doorstep shouting up at my window, or bangs on the door for hours. The neighbors are going crazy and I don’t really know what to do.”

“You could move,” I say, smiling.

“I think I might have to.” Geraldine smiles back, before looking across the room. “Well, well,” she says. “Speak of the devil.”

“Oh yes?” says Ben Williams. “And what were you saying?”

“Jemima was just telling me you were a lousy shag.”

“I thought I was pretty good, actually, Jemima. You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

I laugh, fighting the urge to blush at the very thought. If only. If only.

“I just came over to say thanks for having a drink with me last night. I had a really nice time.”

“I’ve got to get some work done,” says Geraldine. “See you guys later,” and she walks back to her desk.

“I also wanted to say thank you for looking at the job stuff. I really needed to talk to someone about it, and I know I can trust you.”

“Absolutely,” I say. “My lips are sealed.” With a loving kiss perhaps? In my dreams.

“We must do it again some time,” says Ben distractedly, looking over at the newsdesk.

“Great!” Calm down, Jemima, calm down. “What about next week?”

“Sure,” he says looking back at me with a smile. “Maybe next week we’ll manage to get to that computer café.”

_p. 106
How is a girl supposed to work when she’s fallen in love? She’s not, that’s how. I do practically nothing for the rest of the day, unless you count floating on a large fluffy cloud called number nine, as work. I do manage to get my boring phone calls done, though
‌
—soak graying underwear in Biotex before washing to make it sparkling white again; never open the oven door while cooking a souffle; rinse hair in chamomile tea to bring out blond highlights
‌
—and every time I catch a glimpse of Ben I lose myself in a massive fantasy.

At 4:35
P.M.
I remember Brad. He said he’d send me an e-mail, and even though there are more important men to think about, it’s so boring I log on to the Internet to see what he sent.

Yup, bang on time. As I connect a voice comes out of the speakers. “You have mail,” it says in an American accent, and a little box with a picture of an envelope in it says “1.” I click on the box, and after a few seconds Brad’s e-mail comes up.

Hi. JJ!

I decided to send this just after we spoke
‌
—I couldn’t wait until tomorrow, so here’s a little surprise. If you press view, you’ll see a picture of me, it was taken a couple of months ago so it’s pretty accurate
‌
—I haven’t changed all that much, just had a haircut.