Jemima J. (32 page)

“London.”

“Welcome to Los Angeles. Say, you wouldn’t want to
show
me how to cook this would you?” Now it’s his turn to raise an eyebrow.

“I’d love to.” It is a pass! “But my boyfriend would hate it.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” he says. “I knew someone that pretty would have to have a boyfriend.”

I shrug and carry on down the aisle, taking the most ridiculous amount of time to get my shopping done, first because the layout is somewhat different from my local Sainsbury’s, and second because I have never seen such choice.

And when I’ve finished and I’ve loaded up the car, I sit for a
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minute, unable to believe quite how forward everyone here is, and how easy it seems to be to meet men if you’re in Los Angeles and on your own. Sophie and Lisa would have a field day. Maybe I should phone them and tell them to come out. Then again, maybe not.

_p. 239
Jemima may well wonder about the divine Ben Williams every now and then, but she would never dream he’s as famous as he now is. Sure, she’s heard about it, she even saw his first foray on television when she was back in London, but she can have no idea of how Ben fever seems to have gripped the nation.

It doesn’t happen all that often, but sometimes a new television presenter will appear, more often than not a woman, and soon every newspaper in the country is writing about them, every person in the country is wishing to be them, and their career takes off in leaps and bounds until you can barely leave your house without seeing huge billboards advertising their presence.

This is how it is for Ben Williams. Those first days on
London Nights
left him breathless with excitement, not only because of his immediate increase in salary but also because, even then, even after a handful of appearances on television, he was recognized.

The very first time he was asked for his autograph he was in
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a supermarket. He’d had a great day but he was tired, and all he could think of was getting home, putting his feet up and having a nice, cool beer.

But, walking down one of the aisles, lost in a world of his own, he gradually became aware that he was being followed. At first he thought he was going mad, that his senses were deceiving him, and he kept turning round to find no one there. But eventually he spotted two women standing staring at him, whispering to one another behind their hands.

“It
is
!” he heard one say, as the other gave her a shove and propelled her in Ben’s general direction. Ben didn’t know what was going on, so he ignored them and carried on shopping, until he had no choice.

“Excuse me,” she said, a browbeaten housewife in her mid-forties. “I hope you don’t mind, but aren’t you that man on television?”

“I’m not sure,” said Ben, not quite knowing what to say. “Which man?”

“Oooh you are! I recognize your voice. You’re the new bloke on
London Nights
aren’t you?”

Ben, to his credit, blushed slightly, and although part of him wished she would keep her voice down because he didn’t want everyone to hear, part of him wished she’d shout a bit louder, so everyone
would
hear.

“Um, yes,” he mumbled, smiling the bashful Ben smile that would soon ensure his already burgeoning heartthrob status.

“My friend and I think you’re fantastic!” The words came out in a rush, and as she said it she started rummaging around in her bag, producing a pen and a torn-up scrap of paper.

“Honestly,” she continued. “You brighten up our house every night. Doesn’t he, Jean?” she shouted over to her friend, who looked as if she were trying to work up the nerve to come over.

“Would you mind?” She offered him the pen and paper, which Ben looked at for a moment wondering what he was supposed to do with it. The woman sidled up next to him and said, “I’m Sheila. Could you just put ‘To Sheila, with lots of
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love.’ ” She tailed off, trying to remember Ben’s name. “Is it Tom?” she asked, as Ben felt a fit of nervous giggles coming on.

“No,” he managed to contain himself. “It’s Ben. Ben Williams.”

“That’s it!” she said. “Ben Williams.”

Ben balanced the piece of paper on the handle of his shopping cart, aware that passing shoppers had stopped to see what was going on, were looking at him in a way, he realized, that meant they too had recognized him, but thankfully no one else was going to do what Sheila was now doing.

“Oh thank you,” she breathed heavily, tucking the paper very carefully into the front pocket of her bag. “We’ll be watching you tomorrow.”

“No, no,” said Ben, recovering his composure. “Thank
you,
and enjoy the show.”

As Sheila and Jean wandered off, heads together like a couple of lovesick teenagers, Ben understood, for perhaps the first time, how his life was about to change.

He went home and phoned Richard to tell him what had happened, and Richard nearly wet himself with laughter.

“You know what this means don’t you, Ben?” he said, when he finally stopped.

“What?”

“You can’t go anywhere without your full makeup on now,” and with that he started laughing so hard he had to put down the phone.

Richard thought it was funny that night, but six weeks later, when they decided to go out for a few drinks, he thought it was fantastic.

“Let’s just go to a local pub,” suggested Ben.

“Not on your life, mate,” said Richard. “You’re famous, you don’t go to local pubs, you go to bars and restaurants where the women are gorgeous.”

And so it was that they ended up at Fifth Floor, on the top of Harvey Nichols, one Friday night, and Richard was right, the women were gorgeous. They bought champagne, and within
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minutes found themselves surrounded by stunning women, model figures encased in the latest fashions. Nobody actually asked for Ben’s autograph, nobody would be that uncool, but it was blindingly obvious from the stares, the whispers, the flirtatious looks, that everyone knew exactly who Ben was.

“Fantastic!” said Richard at one point. “I must remember to bring you out with me more often.”

“Yeah,” laughed Ben, who was enjoying himself, but still wasn’t completely comfortable with his newfound fame.

“What about the redhead?” Richard nudged Ben, and they both watched her perfect undulating backside as she went to the ladies’ room to apply more lipstick.

“What about her?” said Ben, admiring the way she carried off a skirt that short, that clingy.

“She’s up for it, Ben. What about you?”

Of course Ben was up for it, what red-blooded young man wouldn’t have been? But Ben, remember, is not just a dizzy television presenter. Ben’s a journalist, and Ben has met many women like this, and he knows perfectly well how they operate.

“Rich, do you really think I want to wake up next Sunday and read all about my bedroom exploits in the
News of the World
?”

“She wouldn’t!” said Richard.

“She bloody well would.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me.” He almost added, “I’m a journalist,” but he restrained himself at the last minute. “I just know.”

So Richard went home with a blonde, and Ben went home alone, and the next day Richard phoned him with tales of the blonde, all related in a very bad Monty Python pastiche. “Did she go, eh? Did she go?”

And that was merely the beginning of Ben’s journey into celebritydom, a small stepping stone. For now, just a few months down the line, Ben is well and truly established. No longer is he a mere reporter, he’s now a presenter.
The
presen
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ter. The public knows he’s single, they know he lives with two roommates (although with his new large income he’s started looking for a flat of his own), they know his likes and dislikes. But to be fair, none of them
really
knows him. They don’t know what his sense of humor’s like, they don’t know what makes him tick, what he thinks about when he lies in bed at night, because Ben, being the journalist that he is, has perfected that art of putting on a face for the press, and, charming as he is to the other journalists who now clamor to interview him, he never shows them who he really is.

Only his close friends know that. Only people like Geraldine. Richard. And Jemima Jones. But Ben hasn’t had too much time on his hands to think about his former work colleagues. He tried to keep in touch, really he did, but he was swept up in such a whirlwind it was difficult for him to find the time, and the longer he prevaricated, the harder it was to pick up the phone. And now his life is work, parties, launches, interviews. Never has he been so busy.

And never has London Daytime Television had such a bright star. Everywhere she goes Diana Macpherson is patted on the back, congratulated on her brilliant discovery.

Diana, as far as she’s concerned, made Ben, and that means one thing in Diana’s book. He owes her. Big time. And she’s simply waiting for that day when she can call in her debt, because Diana Macpherson always wants what she can’t have. And she wants Ben Williams, not only because he’s gorgeous, but because he’s shown no interest in her whatsoever.

Diana Macpherson is well used to bedding rising stars, wannabe celebrities who hang on her every word, feed the aura of power that surrounds her. What she’s not used to are men like Ben, men who are polite, charming, friendly, but make no response whatsoever to her overt flirtations.

Just last week she called him in and told him they ought to have a drink, just to discuss how the program was going, to see whether they could come up with any other ideas.

Ben thought it was a bit strange, but, television being televi
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sion, he’d already heard all the gossip about Diana and her boy toys, that her nickname was the Piranha, and he could tell from the way she looked at him that the last thing on her mind was the program.

“Rich,” he whispered into the phone, checking there was no one around to overhear.

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s Diana. I don’t think I can hold her off much longer.”

“How many times, Ben? How often have I told you not to shit on your own doorstep?”

“
I
don’t want to,” Ben said emphatically, “but we’re going out tonight for a drink and I’m running out of excuses.”

“Whoa,” Richard laughed. “Better put your chastity belt on.”

“For God’s sake, Rich. I need advice.”

“Tell her you’ve got a girlfriend.” Richard was already sounding bored.

“She knows I haven’t.”

“Well, I don’t know. Just say you’ve got a headache.” He laughed at his joke.

“Forget it,” said Ben. “I suppose I’ll cope.”

Diana turned a business drink into dinner at a small French bistro in Chelsea, a dark, cozy, candlelit restaurant, perfect for romantic trysts.

“It’s my local,” she told Ben, who tried to ignore the fact that she had completely transformed herself between the last time he saw her in the office and the time she reappeared to tell him she was ready to go. She was wearing a plunging, see-through, fitted shirt, a black Wonderbra more than visible underneath, with a very tight skirt and very high heels.

“You look nice,” Ben said, aware that she was his boss, that he had to flatter her, but trying to keep things as professional as he could.

“Oh thanks,” she said, preening like a schoolgirl and trying to sound surprised. “This old thing?” she said, brushing her shirt, the shirt she’d bought at lunchtime with the express purpose of finally seducing Ben.

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They sat down and Ben did his damnedest to talk about work. The wine was flowing, and he tried to drink as slowly as possible, to stretch out every drop, while Diana kept topping up their glasses
‌
—his always half full, hers always completely empty.

So they made small talk about work through the appetizers, while Ben tried, unsuccessfully, not to get too drunk, and to give him his credit he did manage to stretch work talk until halfway through the main course, when Diana put down her knife and fork, and leaned forward.

“Ben,” she said in what she hoped was a husky voice. “I don’t often meet men as charismatic as you.”

“Thanks, Diana. Shall we get some more mineral water?”

“Ben,” she said again. “What I’m trying to say is
‌
—”

“Waiter?” Ben looked around frantically for the waiter while Diana sighed and sat back in her chair, for Ben had spoiled the moment. Her moment.

Ben declined dessert, at which Diana was delighted, for she had already decided that Ben would be coming back to her place for a nightcap. Then the timing would be right. The timing would be perfect.

“My house is just round the corner,” she said as they walked out, her having paid, for Diana Macpherson probably has the largest expense account in the country.

“Okay, fine. Thanks for a lovely evening,” said Ben, backing off.

“You don’t mean you’d let me walk home by myself?” said Diana, mock indignantly. “A girl on her own at night?”

Girl? thought Ben. In your dreams. “Sorry, sorry,” he apologized, now not knowing what the hell to do, because, much as he didn’t want to sleep with her, he didn’t want her to fire him either, and, despite being famous and sought after, Ben knows exactly how transient the television world is, and he knows perfectly well that today’s fame could be tomorrow’s unemployment.