Jemima J. (15 page)

I’m on the beach at Santa Monica with my dog, Pepe. She’s a schnauzer and the one true love of my life, but I had to send her home to my parents recently because I just don’t have the time to look after her. I hope you like what you see, and I can’t wait to see a picture of you. Will you e-mail me one by return? You have to get it scanned in to the computer, but I’m sure you’ll find a way. If you can, meet me on Friday at the same time to let me know what you think!

I hope you had a good evening last night, and I hope you were good
‌
—you have to save yourself for me .

Big hug, Brad, xxx

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Now this should be interesting. I move my cursor onto
[“onto”]
VIEW
, and click once. Brad’s letter disappears and the outline of a picture comes on to the screen. Just the outline, because the picture takes a while to appear. First, a few lines of sky emerge at the top of the screen then I can just about see the ocean, and suddenly the top of a head of blond hair.

The lines continue, and I’m amazed that I’m actually holding my breath, and when the whole picture is on the screen I exhale loudly. Bloody hell. He’s one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

He’s crouching, squinting slightly at the lens because the sun is in his eyes. One hand is around his dog, and the other is on the sand. He is very tanned, with blond hair and smiling blue eyes, and his teeth make Ben’s look like those of an old hag, so gleaming, so perfect, so capped are they.

He is wearing a green polo shirt and faded Levi’s, just as he said, and his arms are muscular and strong, covered with fine blond hair. He looks like an advertisement for the perfect male product of California. In fact, he looks so perfect that for a minute I can’t help but wonder whether this is some cut-out from a magazine, but it looks like a photograph, and the dog is exactly as he described. Jemima Jones, your luck is changing.

“Phwooargh,” says Geraldine, coming up to stand behind Jemima. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Brad.” I don’t even bother looking round, I’m way too busy drinking in his unbelievable looks.

“Who’s Brad?”

“The guy I’ve been chatting to on the Internet.”

“I didn’t know you’d been chatting to anyone.”

“Yeah. I met him at the LA Café, remember the place you found?”

Geraldine nods. “He is absolutely gorgeous. Too gorgeous to be true. How do you know it’s him?”

“I don’t. I mean, he did describe himself, but I have to agree,
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he does look too perfect, but on the other hand this is a photograph, it’s not a cut-out from a magazine.”

“So what happens now?” asks Geraldine, who can’t quite believe that of all the people Jemima could have chatted to in the LA Café, she picked one who looks like a god.

“Oh God.” My voice is a horrified whisper. “It’s awful. He wants to see a picture of me.”

“Oh,” says Geraldine, who, nice as she is, is still probably thinking that he would never fancy me in a million years if he saw me. She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have to.

“Exactly,” I say with a sigh. “Oh.”

“Well, why don’t you cut a picture out of a magazine? What’s the difference, he’ll never know.”

I shake my head. “I can’t do that. I know I’ll probably never meet him but I can’t be that dishonest.”

“I’ve got it!” shouts Geraldine, clapping her hands together. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’ve got it.”

“What?”

“Right. There is a picture of you in the picture library isn’t there?”

“Forget it, Geraldine. That picture is disgusting, it makes me look like a great big blimp.”

“Not when I’ve finished with it,” says Geraldine with a smile. “Or rather, when Paul’s finished with it.”

Paul is the man who works in the graphics department. Young, shy, sweet, the whole office knows he’s got the most enormous crush on Geraldine. Paul is one of the few people I really like here. Not that I know him that well, but he’s always calm and always takes the time to ask how I am, when people are screaming at him to get pages drawn, titles put into place, pictures put on to his Mac. Paul is the man who always designs farewell cards should anyone at the
Kilburn Herald
be lucky enough to move on. Paul, in other words, as well as being a very nice guy is also a genius.

“Ring the library,” says Geraldine, “and tell them to send up your picture.”

_p. 109
Ten minutes later a messenger troops towards my desk with a file containing my disgusting picture. I pull it out and feel sick as I survey my double chins and huge fat cheeks.

“No looking yet,” says Geraldine, whisking away the picture. “I’ll come and show you later.”

Geraldine runs off, a woman with a mission, putting her arms around Paul and babytalking to him in a way that turns him to

jelly.

“Paaaauuul,” she says, arms wrapped around his neck. “I need a favor.”

“Sure,” says Paul, who at that minute would have given Geraldine the earth.

“Jemima needs to look thin.”

Paul looks confused.

“Look. See this picture?” Paul looks and nods. “You’re so clever you could make her look thin couldn’t you? You could airbrush out her chins and shade her cheeks and make her look thin.”

Paul smiles. “As a favor to you, Geraldine, I’ll do it. When do you want it?”

“Wellllllllll,” she says, looking up at him with huge blue eyes. “You couldn’t do it now could you?”

Paul sighs happily, anything to keep Geraldine near, and he sits down and scans the picture of Jemima into the computer. The photograph comes up on screen, and Paul, with a few clicks of his mouse, shades out Jemima’s chins.

“That’s amazing,” gasps Geraldine. “Can you do anything with her cheeks?”

Paul narrows her face, and then chooses the exact same shade of Jemima’s skin. With incredible precision, he shades her cheeks in carefully until she has cheekbones. Perfect, beautiful, protruding cheekbones.

“God,” he says, staring at the screen.

“God,” says Geraldine staring at the screen.

“She would be beautiful if she lost weight. Look at that face, she’s absolutely stunning, who would have thought.”

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Of course we know that Jemima would be beautiful, but Paul and Geraldine have never even dreamed of what Jemima would look like if she were thin.

“Her hair looks a bit dull. I know it’s mousy brown but can you put a few blond highlights in, lighten it up a bit?”

“Who do you think I am? God?” laughs Paul, but just a few clicks and Jemima has golden honey blond highlights.

“What about her lipstick? Can you change the shade, that red’s too harsh.”

“What color do you want?” Paul brings up a color chart on screen and Geraldine points to a natural pinky brown. “There!” she says pointing at the tiny little square. “That’s the color.”

Jemima, gazing out from the computer screen, looks absolutely stunning, but Geraldine knows it’s not enough.

“Just wait there,” she says to Paul. “We haven’t quite finished. I’ll be back in two secs.”

Geraldine runs back to her desk and quickly spreads out the pile of glossy magazines threatening to topple over on one side.
Vogue?
No, too posed.
Elle?
No, too fashion victim.
Cosmopolitan?
Perfect.

She grabs
Cosmopolitan
and runs back to Paul, flicking through the pages as she runs.

“That’s the one!” she says, stopping at a picture of a girl on a bicycle. Her skin is fresh and glowing, her body is encased in the briefest of lycra cycling shorts and tank top. Her hair is the same color as Jemima’s on the computer screen. She is standing astride the bicycle, looking into the camera, with one foot on the pedal. She is leaning forward and laughing. It doesn’t look like a model, it looks like an exceptionally pretty girl on a summer’s day who’s been caught by her boyfriend’s camera.

“You know what I’m going to say don’t you,” says Geraldine smiling.

“I know what you’re going to say,” says Paul, taking the picture of the girl on the bicycle and scanning it in.

He cuts and pastes. Clicks and shades. And there she is. Slim, stunning Jemima Jones, standing astride a bicycle, with
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one foot on the pedal, on a hot summer’s day. Paul puts it on a floppy disk, and prints out the photograph, handing it to Geraldine. He has to admit he’s done an incredible job.

“You are a genius,” says Geraldine, giving Paul an impromptu kiss on the cheek.

“And
you
are a persuasive woman,” he smiles. “Now go away, I’ve got work to do.”

Geraldine runs over to Jemima, who’s on the phone, and without saying a word lays the printed-out photograph in front of her.

“Sorry,” I say to the caller on the other end of the phone, because Geraldine’s leaping up and down next to my desk and making faces at me. “Can I call you back?” I put the phone down and pick up the piece of paper Geraldine’s been flashing in front of my face.

“So?” I say. “I don’t want to use a model’s picture from a magazine. I told you that.”

“It’s not a model, you idiot,” grins Geraldine. “It’s you.”

“What do you mean, it’s
‌
—” And as I look at the photograph I can feel my eyes widen in disbelief as my mouth drops open. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “Oh my God.”

“I know,” says Geraldine. “Aren’t you beautiful?”

I nod silently, too shocked to speak as I trace my cheekbones, my heart-shaped chin with my index finger. “How? I mean, when? How . . .”

“Paul did it,” says Geraldine, “so it’s not really my doing, I just told him to add the blond highlights, change the lipstick, and I found your body. What do you think?”

“I never realized.” I didn’t, I swear to God, I never realized I could ever look like this. I can’t take my eyes off the picture. I want to enlarge the picture and stick it on my face, show people I am beautiful, show them what’s underneath the fat.

“Send it, send it,” says Geraldine. “This picture is more than a match for Brad’s. Send it and see what he thinks.”

Geraldine stands behind me as I log on to the computer again and send an e-mail.

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“Dear Brad, I got your picture and you look perfect, better than perfect, too good to be true. Are you sure you didn’t cut your picture out of a magazine?

“Anyway, I got the boys in graphics to scan in a picture of me taken . . .”

I look at Geraldine. “When shall I say it was taken?”

“Say it was in the summer. Say you were cycling through Hyde Park with friends.”

“Okay.”
I continue,
“. . . in Hyde Park when I was with some friends in the summer. I hope you like it, I’m not looking my best.”

I grin at Geraldine. Geraldine grins back.

“I’m out again tonight but I’ll meet you tomorrow (Friday) same time, same place. Take care, JJ. xx.”

“JJ?” asks Geraldine.

“That’s what he calls me. Jemima Jones.”

“JJ. I like that. I think I might start calling you JJ.”

I put the disk in the computer, the disk that’s got the picture of me on it, and press the
ATTACH
button at the bottom of the e-mail. I attach the picture to the letter, and press
SEND
. When the message comes up saying it’s been sent, I breathe a sigh of relief and look guiltily at Geraldine.

“Wouldn’t it be a nightmare if he wanted to meet me?”

“Don’t be daft. He’s thousands of miles away, you’re safe as houses. Come on, let’s go and get a cup of tea.”

”Your mum phoned,” shouts Sophie from the confines of her double bedroom when I get home. “She said can you call her when you get in.”

“Thanks,” I yell up the stairs, grateful that I don’t have to make small talk as I head for the living room.

“Hi, Mum,” I say, as she picks up the phone in Hertfordshire and says hello in her posh telephone voice. “How are you?”

“Not bad,” says my mother. “How are you?”

“Fine. Work’s going well. Everything’s fine.”

“And what about the diet? Lost any more weight?”

Here we go again. “Yes, Mum, I’ve lost ten pounds in the
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last two weeks.” For once I’m not lying, and hopefully this will keep her happy for the moment.

I knew this was too much to ask. “Careful,” she says. “You don’t want to lose it too quickly or it won’t stay off. Why don’t you join a weight loss club, like me?”

My mother was slim and beautiful when she was young. She was the belle of the ball, or so she always says, and I know from the old black-and-white photographs that she was something special. Before she was married, she looked like Audrey Hepburn, with a beauty and elegance that betrayed her background.

She started putting on weight when my dad left sixteen years ago, and now, since hitting middle age and the boredom that comes with it, she’s ballooned, but of course Mum being Mum she doesn’t quietly accept it, she turns it into a bloody event. She’s joined a weight loss club, made a brand-new circle of friends, all of them larger ladies with shared dreams of taut tummies and firm thighs, and it’s now the only thing she has to look forward to in life.

“Honestly, Jemima, it really works. I lost another two pounds this week, and I’ve made so many new friends. I think it would do you good.”

“Okay, Mum,” I say wearily. “I’ll try and find one in my area.” Which of course I won’t, because as far as I’m concerned a weight loss club would be a living hell.

Conversations with her mother always seem to go the same way. Her mother never seems to ask about Jemima’s work, her friends, her social life. She always asks about her weight, and Jemima immediately jumps to the defensive, suppressing it carefully with a weary sigh.

Her mother, you see, thinks she wants what’s best for Jemima. In fact, her mother wants what’s best for her mother. Her mother wants a slim, beautiful daughter who will be the envy of all her neighbors.

Her mother wants to take Jemima shopping, and show her off proudly as she squeezes into size 6 leggings. Her mother wants to
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turn to shop assistants and say smugly, “The things young people wear today. Honestly, I don’t know how they do it.”