Jemima J. (3 page)

And what happens next, Jemima?

Feeling virtuous, positive, excited at the prospect of your new life, you leave your flat at 9:25
A.M.
and catch the bus to work. You stand at the bus stop with the same people you see every day and you don’t say a word to them, nor they to you.

_p. 16
You find a seat on its own, and sit there, your thighs spreading on to the seat next to you, and you pray that no one will sit beside you, forcing you to hold your breath, squeeze in your thighs, suppress your resentment at their audacity.

And then you alight at the corner of Kilburn High Road, a short walk from your office, and every morning as you walk up the road, just as you pass the shoe shop with its window display of rather nasty shoes, your nostrils start quivering.

There is nothing in the world quite like the smell of bacon frying, I’m sure you will agree. Together with dill, fresh lavender, and Chanel No. 5, it is one of Jemima’s favorite smells. If it simply remained a favorite smell then all would be fine, but Jemima’s nostrils are stronger than her willpower.

Your steps become slower as you approach the diner, and with each step the picture of a bacon sandwich, rashers of greasy bacon, awash with fat, oozing out of thick white sliced, becomes so vivid you can almost taste it.

Every morning you battle with yourself, Jemima. You tell yourself that today you started your diet, but the smell becomes too much to bear, and every morning you find yourself at the counter requesting two bacon sandwiches.

“He likes his bacon sandwich doesn’t he, love?” says the woman behind the counter, a woman called Marge whom Jemima Jones has got to know. Once upon a long time ago Jemima told Marge the bacon sandwiches were for her boss.

Poor lass, thought Marge,
I know
they’re for her. But Marge, being a kindhearted soul, pretends to believe her.

“Have a good day,” says Marge, handing the sandwiches to Jemima, who tucks them in her bag, continuing the charade, before walking up the street. A few yards away the bacon sandwiches start calling you.

“Jemima,” they whisper from the depths of your bag. “We’re lovely and greasy, Jemima. Feel us. Taste us. Now.” And you plunge your hand in, the craving fast overtaking any anxiety about eating in public, and in one, two, three, four bites the sandwiches have gone.

_p. 17
And then to the office, wiping your mouth with your sleeve and stopping at the newsstand to buy some sugar-free mints to hide the smell of bacon.

Your mornings are spent sorting out letters, and watching the clock until 11:30
A.M.
, when it is time for tea. “I’m starving,” you say to Alison, the secretary who sits opposite you. “I haven’t had breakfast,” and it is your way of apologizing for the egg and bacon sandwich you bring up from the cafeteria together with a cup of tea and three sweeteners.

And then at 1
P.M.
, every day, you head back down to the cafeteria for lunch. A salad is what you have, every day, except the salads you choose from the salad bar are as fattening as an eclair.

Coleslaw, rice salad, pasta salad, slabs of cheese, and potato salad swimming in mayonnaise, you pile them on your plate and tell yourself you are being healthy. A whole wheat roll, covered in two slabs of butter, completes your meal, except you are not really full. You are never really full.

The afternoon is spent writing up your Top Tips, before nipping down again at teatime. Sometimes you have a cake, sometimes french fries, sometimes cookies, and occasionally, well, around twice a week, you have another sandwich.

And finally at 6
P.M.
your day is over. Waiting for the bus home, you pop into the newsstand and buy a couple of bars of chocolate to sustain you on the journey, and then that familiar feeling of dread pours over you as you approach your house, and your two perfect roommates.

And your evenings blend together into one. Alone again, a blessed relief as Sophie and Lisa are out partying, you eat your evenings into oblivion. You watch television, game shows, sitcoms, documentaries. There are few with such eclectic tastes as you, Jemima, and few with your knowledge.

Or you might read, for you have hundreds of books to quench that thirst for knowledge. And a lot of the time you spend lying on your bed, daydreaming about romance, which is something you have little experience of.

_p. 18
Don’t misunderstand me, Jemima isn’t a virgin, but her virginity was lost during a quick tumble in the dark with a boy who was so inconsequential he may as well stay anonymous.

And since then she has had the odd fling with men who have a penchant for the larger lady. But she has never really enjoyed sex, has never tasted the pleasures of making love, but that doesn’t stop a girl from dreaming does it?

But today, the day of the course, the day of learning how to surf the World Wide Web, is a break from that routine, and Jemima Jones hates breaking her routine. No bacon sandwiches for Jemima this morning, because the class is in the West End, many miles away from her familiar diner.

But at least she will not have to go on her own, because Geraldine, Geraldine of the perfect figure and rich boyfriend, will be picking her up.

“I’m not taking the bloody train,” said Geraldine yesterday afternoon, when I asked how she was getting to the class.

“I’ve got a perfectly good car,” she added, fully aware that the entire office was envious of her shining new black BMW, the car paid for partly by her boyfriend and partly by her parents, although she doesn’t tell people about the parents’ contribution. She only told me because I wouldn’t let the subject drop and eventually she had to admit it.

“What about you?” she asked. “Why don’t we go together?” I couldn’t believe it, going to the class with Geraldine! Walking in with someone else, for once not being on my own. “Are you sure?” I asked. “You wouldn’t mind?” Because why would Geraldine want to befriend someone like me? It’s not that I dislike her
‌
—she, after all, is one of the few to have always treated me like a human being
‌
—it’s just that I can’t help but be intimidated by her perfection.

“ ’Course not,” said Geraldine. “The damn thing doesn’t start until ten-thirty, so I’ll pick you up at ten. How does that sound?”

_p. 19
It sounded fantastic, and here I am now, sitting in the living room flicking through the pages of a book on container gardening but not really looking at the pictures, just waiting for the hum of Geraldine’s car.

There is no hum, there are two short beeps of the horn, and pulling the curtain aside I can just about see Geraldine’s elbow resting on the door frame as she taps her fingers to the music I assume she must be playing.

Geraldine and her car go together like apples and honey. They’re both sleek, chic, with glossy exteriors and purring engines. Geraldine, as usual, has done herself proud. She’s wearing a beautifully cut navy suit, the jacket just skimming her thighs, the lapels showing off a white silk T-shirt. On her head is a pair of large black sunglasses, keeping her highlights off her face, and she’s holding a cigarette languorously, sexily, out of the window.

I feel like an ungainly oaf next to Geraldine, so I lumber into her car and just as I put the seat belt on
‌
—Geraldine, incidentally, isn’t wearing one
‌
—she offers me a cigarette, which I take. You didn’t know I smoked? Of course I smoke because way back when, in the murky teenage years, all the cool people smoked, and even then I wanted so badly to be cool.

Now admittedly, more often than not it’s a pain in the ass because everywhere I go I’m surrounded by virulent anti-smokers, but it still makes me feel, well, not quite cool, but certainly less awkward.

Sitting here in Geraldine’s car, when I compare Geraldine’s seductive long drags to my short ones, I feel all wrong smoking. I look awkward, awkward fingers grasping the cigarette, exhaling all too quickly. I still, unfortunately, look like a fourteen-year-old trying out her first cigarette.

“So how’s everything at work?” says Geraldine, flicking the butt out the window and checking in the rearview mirror that her lipstick is still perfectly applied.

_p. 20
“Same really,” I say with a shrug. “I went to see the editor again and surprise surprise, there aren’t any vacancies at the moment.”

“Oh poor you,” says Geraldine, but I think she’s probably relieved. Geraldine knows I can write, Geraldine wouldn’t be anywhere if it weren’t for me because whenever she has a deadline I’m the one she comes running to asking for help. At least once a week I sit in front of my computer reading Geraldine’s haphazard copy, before ripping it apart and putting it back together again so it makes sense. If I were promoted, who would help Geraldine?

And I don’t mind, really, I don’t, and perhaps in a strange way this is why, sitting in her car, I’m feeling less bad, less intimidated by her, and I’m starting genuinely to like her. And perhaps it’s also because I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that when it comes to words I am infinitely more talented than Geraldine, however slim and beautiful she may be.

“Oh well,” she continues, “never mind. Your time will come.” She lifts her hand and puts her sunglasses on, groaning. “God, what a hangover.”

I look at her in amazement, for Geraldine obviously does not know the meaning of the word. A hangover means bloodshot eyes, pale skin with a hint of gray, lank hair, deep shadows under the eyes. Geraldine, as she always does, looks perfect.

A gurgle of laughter emerges from my mouth. “Do you ever look anything less than perfect, Geraldine?”

Geraldine flicks her hair back and says, “Believe me, I look a mess,” but she’s pleased because, like all girls who are perfectly groomed, below the perfection is a writhing mass of insecurity, and she likes to hear that she’s beautiful. It helps her to believe it.

“So what happened last night?”

“Oh God,” Geraldine groans. “Dimitri took me out for dinner and I drank so much champagne I was positively comatose.”

_p. 21
“Where did you go?”

“The Collection.”

“I haven’t been there yet,” I say, knowing full bloody well that I’ll probably never go there, being, as it is, a restaurant for the rich and the beautiful, but I know all about it. I know about the bright young things from the magazines who go there, and I know about it from Sophie and Lisa, who naturally have been wined, dined, and seduced in both the bar downstairs and the restaurant above.

“I suppose it was filled with the famous and beautiful?”

“Actually,” says Geraldine, “actually, it was filled with lots of people who looked as if they ought to be famous, except neither of us knew who anyone was.”

“Bloody wannabes,” I say with a deep sigh. “They’re just everywhere these days,” and we both laugh.

Geraldine suddenly turns right and pulls up outside a large mansion block. “Sorry,” she says, turning to me. “Ben Williams was bugging me for a lift so I said we’d come and get him. You don’t mind do you?”

“No,” I say, heart suddenly pounding. “I didn’t know he lived here.”

“Me neither until he gave me his address yesterday, but even a rat must have a home.”

“Who does he live with?”

“Two other guys, apparently. God, can you imagine what their flat is like?”

“Ugh,” I say, even though I haven’t got a bloody clue. Me? How the hell would I know what a bachelor pad is like, but then again I’ve watched
Men Behaving Badly
and even I can pretend. “Stinking socks draped over all the radiators.”

“Porn mags piled up in the corridor,” Geraldine says, grimacing.

“Sheets that haven’t seen a washing machine in six months.”

“Piles of filthy washing-up overflowing the sink.” We both clutch our stomachs and Geraldine makes gagging noises. I
_p. 22
laugh, but suddenly I see Ben running out the front door and the laughter stops as my stomach does its usual lurch on sight of this gorgeous man.

“Make him sit in the back,” whispers Geraldine. “I don’t want to sit next to him.”

So Ben walks over to the car and I climb out, trying to be dainty, delicate, feminine. “Morning girls,” he says, “both looking particularly lovely today.” He doesn’t mean me, he’s just being polite, so I stand awkwardly on the pavement and Ben looks at me patiently, waiting for me to climb in the back.

“Ben,” shouts Geraldine from the driver’s seat. “You don’t mind getting in the back do you?”

“Oh,” says Ben. After a pause, in which I wish more than anything in the world that the ground would open and swallow me up, he says, “Sure.” And in a swift and graceful movement he climbs in.

I buckle up my seat belt while Ben leans forward, resting his arms on either seat in front. “So girls,” he says, as Geraldine pulls out. “Good night last night?”

“Yes, thanks,” says Geraldine, while I stay quiet.

“What did you do?”

Geraldine tells him, and I start playing this little game I play a lot of the time. I do it when I’m in a car and we pull up to traffic lights. If the light stays green until we pass, then I will find true love. Sometimes I add within the next six months. I don’t know why I carry on playing it, as it never comes true, but I do it again now. I think, if you ask me what I did last night, then it means that we will end up together. Please ask me, Ben. Please. But then if he does ask me, what will I say? That I stayed at home and ate chocolate cookies? Oh God, how can I make myself sound interesting.

“What about you, Jemima?” Oh Christ. The question’s out there before I’ve formulated an answer.

“Oh, I went to a party.”

“Did you?” Ben and Geraldine ask the question simultaneously.

_p. 23
“You didn’t mention that,” says Geraldine. “Whose party?”

Quick, quick. Think, Jemima.

“Just an old friend.”

“Wild night, eh Jemima?” says Ben with a wink.

“Yup,” I say finally, deciding to throw caution to the wind. “I got very drunk, slightly stoned, and ended up shagging some guy in the toilet.”