Jemima J. (27 page)

“But don’t these women feel sick at the thought?”

“You are naive aren’t you?” Brad looks amazed before smiling to himself. “That’s so refreshing. No, these women don’t feel sick because power is a tremendous aphrodisiac.”

“But surely anyone could go around picking up women and saying they were a film producer?”

“Sure. That’s exactly what happens.”

“You mean this guy could have been a floor sweeper.”

“In this case it’s unlikely because he gave you a card with a company name on it that’s well known, so you could easily check up on him. But I’ve heard a lot of stories where guys get business cards printed, and anyone could set themselves up as a freelance film producer or director.”

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“How extraordinary.”

Brad laughs. “So I take it you won’t be following this up?”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Not bloody likely.”

“I love hearing you talk,” he says. “I know I’ve heard your voice on the phone, but it’s a completely different experience being here with you, watching you, watching the way your hands move.”

“Thank you.” I’m suddenly embarrassed, and I keep thinking he’s made a mistake. He shouldn’t be with me, he should be with one of these beautiful models, or actresses. Not me, dull Jemima Jones from the
Kilburn Herald.

“So were they okay about letting you have time off work?” he says, moving the conversation back on to more neutral, comfortable ground.

“Fine, and they’re going to promote me when I get back.”

“Promote you? What can they promote you to?”

Shit! Nearly gave the game away. Remember, Jemima, you’re now JJ, a television presenter.

“They’re giving me a much bigger slot on the show.”

“I can really see you on television,” he says. “Maybe you should talk to some people over here, that British accent would drive them wild.”

“Maybe I should,” I say, feeling a warm glow spread inside, already enjoying the fact that Brad is thinking I might be staying, that already he likes me enough to think we may have a future.

I know you’re probably thinking I’m mad, but trust me, if you were here, if you were sitting opposite this earthly version of a god, you would have thought the same thing too.

Would we, Jemima? Would we really? Well, maybe Jemima Jones is right, because it is oh so very easy to be blinded by what people look like, and yes, she’s right, Brad is the ultimate specimen of the perfect man. But let’s be honest here, they hardly know each other, and although they like the look of each other, which is, as we all know, a good start, looks
‌
—and
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Jemima of all people should be remembering this
‌
—aren’t everything.

We finish our Starbucks coffee
‌
—and incidentally, it
is
delicious
‌
—and then we climb back in his car and drive home, and what a home! Brad lives in a gorgeous house overlooking the beach. A modern, box-like house; inside the rooms are enormous, bleached wood floors stretch as far as the eye can see, and french windows open out on to a large wooden deck.

“I bought it because the space reminds me of a loft,” says Brad, as I just stand in the center of this room that’s about ten times the size of my whole flat, completely blown away by the beauty of the light, the sound of the ocean, the sparkling, fresh
Californianness
of it all.

He shows me around, shows me the modern, stainless steel and beech kitchen, points out the huge modern canvases on the walls, makes me sit in an oversized white linen sofa that’s so deep it practically swallows me whole.

“I thought I’d cook dinner here tonight,” says Brad. “I figured you’d be too tired to go out.” I nod my assent, saying that would be lovely, and Brad takes my things up to the spare room, and shows me the bathroom. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready,” he says, as he closes the door and I breathe out a sigh of relief.

Everything is perfect. Not only is he perfect, but he didn’t assume we’d be sharing a room, and although I hope, oh God how I hope, this becomes more than just friends, I’m not ready for that yet.

So I stretch my arms behind my head as I lie on the white damask bedcover and watch the ceiling fan circle overhead. The last of the day’s light is filtering through the wooden slatted blinds, and I can’t help it, I’m smiling a huge, self-satisfied smile. And after a while I get up to go into the en suite bathroom, and as I do I pass an old gilt mirror on the wall. I know you probably think I have a thing about mirrors, and you’re probably throwing up with my vanity, but it’s not that. It’s just
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that if you looked the way I used to and then lost all the weight too, you’d need some sort of affirmation of who you are. You’d also need to keep checking that you’re still here, it’s still you.

So I walk up to the mirror and look at myself, watch my face as it breaks into a big smile.

“I’ve made it,” I say quietly, and yes, okay, slightly gleefully. “JJ, you’ve bloody well made it.”

_p. 202
There’s a brief knock on the bathroom door which I don’t hear for a few seconds, being, as I am, submerged under the water.

“JJ?”

I sit up with a start, and frantically look around the room for a towel before remembering that I have locked the door.

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to check that everything was okay. Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll go and start preparing dinner.”

“Brad?”

“Yes?” I hear his footsteps come back to the door.

“There is one thing?”

“Sure.”

“Would you mind if I made a phone call to England?”

“Of course not. That’s fine. There’s a phone in your room next to the bed. Do you know the dialing code?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got all these instructions on my AT&T
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card.” Once again Geraldine came to the rescue, insisting I apply for this card so my progress reports to her would be cheaper.

“Okay. Fine. See you in a little while.”

I walk out of the bathroom enveloped in a fluffy white robe which Brad had thoughtfully hung on the back of the door, another huge white fluffy towel wrapped around my wet hair, and I dig into my bag and pull out a little booklet of instructions from AT&T. I read the instructions then sit on the bed and pick up the receiver.

1 800 225 5288. “Hello and welcome to AT&T. To place a call, press 1.” I follow the instructions and wait with bated breath as a phone starts to ring.

“Hello?” The voice is half asleep.

“Geraldine?”

“Oh my God, it’s you! Hang on, let me wake up.”

“What time is it there?”

“Two o’clock in the morning.”

“Oh I’m really sorry, I didn’t realize. Look, why don’t I call you tomorrow . . .”

Geraldine interrupts. “Are you crazy? I’ve spent all day thinking about you and hell, it’s only sleep. I want to hear everything. What’s he like, how’s it going, is he gorgeous?”

I laugh and lower my voice to a whisper. “Geraldine, you would not believe what he’s like.”

“Uh oh. You mean he’s awful, he’s not like his picture, he’s short, fat, and balding.”

“No way. He is, and I mean this absolutely seriously, he is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re joking!”

“I swear. He is about a million times more perfect than his picture. I just can’t take my eyes off him.”

“And what did he think of you? Were you what he expected?”

“That’s the amazing thing. He said that the picture I sent him didn’t do me justice either. I mean, I don’t want to sound big-headed or anything but I think he likes me, I really do.”

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“Jemima, that’s not being big-headed, that’s being honest. That’s fantastic. So, have you decided what to name your children?”

I laugh. “Not yet, but wait until the end of the evening.”

“What are you doing tonight? Let me guess, he’s taking you somewhere really snazzy like Spago, or that other place, Eclipse, and your dinner guests are Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman.”

“Somehow I don’t think so. No, we’re staying in and he’s cooking me dinner.”

“He cooks too! Jemima, whatever you do don’t let this one get away.”

“I’m not going to, if I can possibly help it, but every time I look at him I wonder what he’s doing with someone like me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jemima. He’s lucky to have someone like you.”

“Hmm. Maybe,” I say, even though I don’t really believe it.

“So, do you think tonight’s going to be the big seduction?”

“Christ! I hadn’t even thought about that. It’s almost as if he’s too perfect to even imagine touching, let alone sleeping with.”

“Sounds too good to be true.”

“I think he probably is.”

Geraldine stifles a yawn. “Sorry, Jemima, I’m getting sleepy.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you go back to bed. Thanks for waking
up.”

“Don’t mention it, darling. I’m delighted to hear everything’s going well. Give me a call in a few days and let me know what’s happening.”

“Okay. Take care.”

“Yeah.” Geraldine yawns again. “You too.”

I put the phone down and pull my suitcase on to the bed and start to unpack, in a funny sort of way feeling much more secure now that I’ve spoken to Geraldine, now that I have her approval.

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Brad, very quietly, puts the phone down in the kitchen, careful not to bang the receiver, careful not to be heard. He stands back and slowly a perfect smile spreads over his face as he hits the air in an imaginary high five. Yes, he says to himself. Yes.

What should I wear? What should I wear? I’ve pulled all the clothes out and hung them up, and now I’m having a major clothes crisis. I don’t want to look too sexy, but nor do I want to look as if I’ve made no effort at all. I need Geraldine now, not on the end of the phone but here, in this room, smoking a low-tar cigarette and pulling out the perfect outfit with her perfectly manicured nails, although I don’t need her encouraging me to spend any more money than I already have.

I just don’t know. I try on a little black dress, and, although I stand for a while marveling at how it hugs my flat stomach and tiny waist, I know it’s far too dressy, and I pull it off and carefully hang it back up. I try on a pair of cream silk trousers and a white T-shirt, and it looks great, but then I think, what if he does try to seduce me, trousers aren’t exactly sexy.

In the end I settle on a white T-shirt and a short, A-line, tan suede skirt. Suede. I know, I know, I must be crazy bringing anything suede to Los Angeles, after all, it’s so hot here, but it’s my newest acquisition and I love it, I love the sensuality of the butter-soft suede. Yes. I look in the mirror. This is it. Perfect. I clip on some chunky silver earrings and slip my feet into flat white sneakers. Casual, sexy, perfect. Maybe, by osmosis, some of Geraldine’s style has rubbed off on me after all.

“Wow,” says Brad after I eventually emerge, having spent what felt like hours perfecting my makeup, blow-drying my hair into a glossy, gold mane. “Wow.”

“You like it?” I do a little twirl and Brad grins as he hands me a glass of champagne.

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“You look great. Really, I love that skirt.” He gently strokes the fabric and smiles his appreciation, while, I have to say, my stomach does a mini flip, but I calmly sip the champagne as if I’m the kind of girl who drinks champagne every night of the week, a girl, in fact, much like Geraldine.

“Come into the kitchen and talk to me while I finish up,” says Brad, and as I follow him through I can’t help but notice that the lights have suddenly become far, far dimmer than they were when I arrived, and in the huge stone fireplace there’s now a fire crackling away, which, even though it’s probably seventy degrees outside, does give a cozy glow to the room.

I pass the dining table, wrought iron and glass, and see that Brad has already set the table, fresh flowers in the middle and two tall candles on either side, waiting to be lit.

Naive as I am, even I can see that Brad has aimed for romance, and just to confirm this he flicks on the music by remote control, and soft, sexy, soulful sounds emerge from every corner of the room.

“Quadrophonic speakers,” he explains, seeing me look around, trying to work out exactly where the music is coming from. “It cost a heck of a lot, but it’s worth it for the effect.”

I bet, I think, but of course I don’t say that, and I can’t help but wonder, as we walk into the kitchen, how many times he’s done this before, but as soon as I think it I try and banish it, because at the end of the day it’s here and now that matters, that I’m here and he’s doing it for me now.

“How’s the champagne?” he asks.

“Delicious.” I take another sip, before realizing that my glass is empty. Damn. Must be my nerves, I obviously gulped it down without even tasting it.

“Here.” He laughs, proffering the bottle and filling up my glass. “I don’t usually drink, but this is a special occasion.” He laughs again, and I watch him over the rim of my champagne glass, still unable to get over how incredible-looking this man is.