Jemima J. (23 page)

“I know,” sighs Jemima. “But I’m almost up to the limit on mine now, and I don’t know how the hell I’m ever going to pay it off.”

“Darling,” says Geraldine. “Just think about it logically. We’re only here for a hundred years or so, which, in the grand scheme of things, is nothing, therefore nothing’s really very important, and certainly not money. So you’ll pay it off when you get back.”

“Geraldine, I don’t have rich parents who’ll bail me out whenever I get into trouble. How am I going to pay it off on my salary?”

“Jemima, for starters my parents
hardly ever
bail me out. And anyway, what do you spend your money on? Before now you’ve never really spent anything.”

“I know,” moans Jemima, thinking about all the restaurants she’s never been to, the clothes she’s never bought, the holidays she’s never had, “but that’s no reason to go and spend everything now.”

“We’re not spending
everything
,” says Geraldine. “We’re not going to Armani, but if we do happen to see some nice clothes
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I’m afraid we might have to have a look. Anyway, you can’t go to LA in your old clothes. For starters they’re not the sort of things Brad expects JJ to wear, and secondly even if they were they’re all swimming on you now. I mean this in a caring, sharing sort of way, Jemima, but quite frankly, darling, you look ridiculous.”

Jemima looks down at herself, at the black sweatshirt she is wearing that hangs in folds of fabric on her new body, at the tracksuit bottoms that look like balloon pants, so large are they on her new frame, and she looks up again uncertainly.

“Okay,” she concedes. “I suppose you’re right.” She raises her eyes to the ceiling. “May God and my bank manager forgive me,” and they walk out the door.

“First stop is Jeff,” says Geraldine, maneuvering her car through the back streets of Kilburn and up into West Hampstead.

“Jeff?”

“My hairdresser.”

“Why?” I start to feel ever so slightly nervous, because my long, glossy hair, after all, has always been one of my favorite features, and yes, I trust Geraldine, but do I really trust her this much?

Geraldine pulls a cigarette out and lights it from the car lighter, then offers me one, but I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’ve given up.”

“You’ve given up?” Geraldine looks as if she’s both amazed and impressed.

“Yeah. Brad hates smoking, so I figured I may as well give up before I actually get there.”

Geraldine nods.

“Anyway,” I continue, “why are we going to your hairdresser?”

“Jemima,” says Geraldine with a sigh. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Reluctant but true.

“And do you think I have good taste?”

“Unquestionably.”

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“And do you think I would do anything to you that you wouldn’t like?”

“No.”

“Exactly. So just sit back, relax, and let me take charge. I promise you this, by the end of the day you will not recognize yourself.”

So I sit in silence and look out the window, tapping my foot to the music Geraldine has put on, trying not to feel sick to my stomach at the prospect of some strange man called Jeff being given free rein with my lovely hair.

Eventually we pull up outside a hairdresser’s in Hampstead. Peering through the large plate-glass windows, I can see it’s a hive of activity, that the hairdressers and their clientele are equally beautiful, and that this is not your ordinary hairdresser. Even through the window I can see it’s expensive. The mirrors, in front of which preen the clients, line each wall, but in between are two beautiful round antique tables, on top of which are Chinese vases overflowing with enormous white lilies. There are huge plush sofas facing one another, on which sit nervous people awaiting their appointments, flicking through designer magazines to try and find the perfect haircut before they meet the scissors.

Geraldine marches straight up to a young, slim, dark-haired man, his glossy brown hair slicked back into a ponytail.

“Geraldinel” he says in a rich baritone, turning the hair dryer off and turning away from the client. “How are you?” He kisses her on both cheeks, and it is obvious that Geraldine is a favored client, that she has been coming here for years.

“This is Jemima,” she says, as I feel the need to beat a hasty retreat. “Remember our phone conversation?” Phone conversation? What phone conversation?

Jeff nods.

“What do you think? Can you do it for her? Will it look good?”

Jeff stands back and looks at me, then lifts up my hair, feeling it, weighing it, thinking about it. “It’s not going to look
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good.” He pauses. “It’s going to look unbelievable. You were absolutely right.”

Geraldine gives Jeff a warning look. “Just don’t tell her what you’re doing.”

Jeff sighs. “You do realize that is completely unethical, Geraldine. I can only not tell her if she agrees.” Eventually he seems to notice me, and he sighs dramatically as he looks at me and says, “Jemima, would you mind if I cut and colored your hair to Geraldine’s instructions without telling you what I’m going to do first? God.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never done
this
before.”

Oh what the hell. I nod. “It’s fine, Jeff. Believe it or not I trust her.” But I can’t help pleading for a tiny clue.

“Okay,” sighs Geraldine. “Not a clue but a question. Do you or do you not want to look like your picture?” I nod. “Do you or do you not like the color of your hair in the picture?” I nod. “Leave it to Jeff then. He’s a miracle worker.”

“I’m not going to take too much off,” says Jeff, lifting my hair again. “Just an inch or so to give you a blunt cut which will take off all these split ends, and I think
‌
—” He pulls some hair down over my forehead. “How would you feel about bangs?”

Can you have feelings about bangs? I look at Geraldine, who nods. “Bangs are fine,” I say with a grin.

An hour later I’m having severe second thoughts. Surveying my space age-ish head in the mirror
‌
—hundreds of tiny bits of silver foil sticking up all over
‌
—I turn to Geraldine with a severe tone and say, “You’d better be sure about this.”

“Just relax, for God’s sake.” She turns to Jeff and asks him how much longer it will take.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll come back in an hour.”

When Geraldine comes back into the salon she actually walks past Jemima, and, when she sees her mistake, she stands rooted to the spot, with a hand clamped over her mouth in amazement.

Remember Jemima’s hair, long, glossy, mousy brown?
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Now look at it, see what Geraldine is staring at, this streaky golden mane which catches the light as Jeff flicks her hair around.

See how cleverly different shades of honey, of ash, of pale, pale copper have been woven together to create a sheath of liquid gold. And see how it spreads behind Jemima’s shoulders, bobbing gently as she talks.

Take a closer look. See how the bangs stop just above her green eyes, how the green is accentuated by the gold above it, how the bangs show off her heart-shaped face perfectly.

“Jesus,” says Jeff, standing back and surveying his handiwork. “You look absolutely beautiful, if I say so myself.”

“Jesus,” echoes Geraldine softly, when she finally finds her voice. “Jesus,” because she can’t seem to think of anything else to say.

“I look disgusting don’t I?” I haven’t dared look in the mirror, I just buried my head in a magazine, and now I don’t want to look. But I can see from their faces that I don’t look disgusting, and so reluctantly I raise my eyes to my reflection and I gasp. And I can’t help reaching out a hand, corny as it may sound, and touching my face, my hair, in the mirror, and almost without thinking I find myself whispering in agreement. “Oh my God!” I say quietly, turning to Geraldine in amazement. “I’m the woman in the picture.”

“No, you’re not,” says Geraldine in awe. “You’re far more beautiful.”

Geraldine insists on paying. “It’s my treat,” she says, and as we leave Geraldine keeps looking at me, and she keeps going on about how beautiful I am.

“Shut up, Geraldine!” I say eventually, after the fourth person we’ve passed has turned round and given us an odd look. “Everyone will think you’re my lesbian lover, for God’s sake!”

“Sorry.” Geraldine snaps out of it, and we both start laughing as she pulls me into a boutique down a little side alley, but just before we go in I turn to Geraldine.

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“Seriously,” I say. “I can’t believe everything you’ve done for me. Everything you’re doing for me. I honestly don’t know how to thank you.”

“Jemima!” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “This is the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. This is like the world’s biggest makeover, and trust me, I’m getting as much out of it as you. You,” she says in a German scientist-type voice, “are my creation!” And with that we both giggle and step inside.

“Right,” she says, sizing up the room. “Step number two is clothes. These,” she says, rubbing the fabric of my sweatshirt between her fingers, “have got to go.”

What’s wrong with my comfortable baggy clothes I wonder, as I start idly flicking through the racks of perfectly coordinated clothes. Although I thought I’d be ready for this, the moment I’ve always dreamt of, what if I don’t look the way I’d envisioned? Because as much as I want to try this new look, I’m terrified that somehow I’ll still look like a blob.

But something strange starts to happen to me as I continue breathing in these strange textures and colors, and suddenly I’m dying to try them on and go for it. Suddenly I understand what all the fuss is about. Now I understand why Geraldine dresses so beautifully. You want to know why? Because she can. And for the first time in my life, so can I.

I keep flicking through, loving every texture, every color. Black fades to chocolate brown, fades to camel, fades finally to cream, with a touch of navy thrown in for good measure. I see some beautiful trousers and, ignoring Geraldine, who is piling armfuls of clothes for me into the shop assistant’s eager arms, I go to the changing room to try them on.

“What do you think?” I ask Geraldine, wondering why the trousers feel a bit big, and holding them up at the waist so they fall better.

“Too
big
for you, darling. What size are they? I’ll get you a smaller size.”

“Size 12,” I say. Oh my God, I can’t be smaller than a size 12. Can I?

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“Try these,” says the shop assistant, handing me the same trousers in a smaller size. “I think you’re more like a size 8.”

The trousers fit. The beautifully tailored jacket fits. The short, flippy skirts fit. The little silk T-shirts fit, more importantly, the little black dress fits. The camel suede shoes fit. The soft leather boots fit. And more to the point,
I
fit. And I cannot believe that the smart, sophisticated woman, grinning like a Cheshire cat in the mirror, is me. Me! Jemima Jones! Once again, I am completely speechless.

“
Now
you’re ready to go to LA,” says Geraldine triumphantly, as I dig in my bag for my purse, trying not to feel sick at the extraordinary amount of money I’m about to hand over. Oh fuck it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. These clothes will last me forever, and at the end of the day they are what Brad expects me to wear.

“Let’s have a coffee. All this shopping and hairdressing is just exhausting!” Geraldine loops an arm through mine and we troop off down the high street, two slim (slim!) blondes, laden down with fabulous goodies.

“Look,” whispers Geraldine, as a zippy red sports car joins the end of the traffic jam, just parallel to where we’re standing.

“What?” I whisper.

“Look in the sports car.” So I do, and sitting in the driver’s seat is a dark-haired, blue-eyed, handsome man. He stares coolly at me, holding my gaze then dropping it to take in my new clothes
‌
—because, sorry, I couldn’t resist, I had to wear those gorgeous trousers right now
‌
—then back up to my eyes. And I know what this look means, I’ve seen this look in countless Hollywood films. This look means he fancies me!. He fancies
me,
Jemima Jones!

As the traffic moves off he smiles at her, a small smile of regret that he was not able to talk to her, for she is what he could only describe as a looker and a half. He drives through the lights and stares at her in his rearview mirror. Now she, Richard tells himself as he turns the music up, was gorgeous. He
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reaches over, picks up his mobile phone and dials his best friend.

“Ben? Rich! I think I’ve just fallen in love.”

“Did you see that? Did you see that?” If she wasn’t going out with Nick Maxwell, Geraldine would be green with jealousy, but as it is she’s just over the moon. “He fancied you, he fancied you!” she choruses. “And he was gorgeous!”

Jemima’s in a daze. Jemima has never had a look like that before from a man who looks like that, from anyone in fact, if the truth be known. Jemima will not forget that look, not for a long time, because that look finally confirmed what she has just discovered this afternoon. Jemima Jones is beautiful. She is slim, she is blond, she is beautiful, and, because of Geraldine’s help, she is also chic, stylish, and sophisticated, although admittedly she hasn’t quite yet realized it.

“Mimey,” calls Lisa, as she opens the front door and dumps the bags in the hallway. “Your mother called.”

“Thanks, I’ll call her,” says Jemima, walking upstairs and pushing open the living room door.

“Fucking hell!” says Lisa.

“Oh my God!” says Sophie. And they both sit on their respective sofas with their mouths hanging open.

“Well?” says Jemima, giving her head a little shake. “What do you think?”

“It’s . . .” Lisa stops.

“Just . . .” Sophie stops.

The pair of them are speechless with envy, dysfunctional with disbelief. They had, up until now, vaguely registered that Jemima was losing weight, but so what? Being slim doesn’t automatically make you beautiful, and Jemima was never a threat to them, but standing in the doorway of the living room, in her new tailored trousers and understated chocolate brown shoes, Jemima Jones looks exactly like the sort of woman Sophie and Lisa have always tried to be. Except they’ve never quite made it. They’ve always got the jewelry wrong, or the shoes wrong,
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or the makeup wrong. They have always looked glamorous, but neither has ever had an ounce of class. Standing in the doorway in a haze of gold, camel, and cream, Jemima is a vision of loveliness.