Jemima J. (5 page)

_p. 32
“That’s not really fair,” I say, although it happens to be true, and I feel guilty at talking about Geraldine, the one person whom I could perhaps call a friend, so I add, “Geraldine’s a lovely person when you get to know her.”

“Hmm,” says Sophie. “Anyway, you never know. Maybe he’s sitting in his roommate’s bedroom at this very moment telling his roommate all about you.”

As it happens, at this very moment Ben Williams is watching the news. He’s sitting on his black leather and chrome sofa, feet up on the glass coffee table which is covered with magazines, newspapers, an overflowing ashtray, a few empty cans of Heineken and bits of torn-up rolling paper packages. He’s drinking a beer, but not Heineken, those belong to his roommates. He’s drinking Beck’s, and he’s studying the news.

When the reports start he pulls his feet off the coffee table and leans forward, elbows on his knees, dangling the bottle of beer idly between his legs, but his eyes are fixed on the television screen, and as the reporter speaks, so Ben mimics him, over and over again, until Ben’s voice is almost indistinguishable from the reporter’s.

“Until late last year, this derelict building in one of London’s more fashionable districts was ignored by the council, and the surrounding residents in this leafy street,” said the reporter. Said Ben.

“This is Jeremy Millston for the
Six O’Clock News
,” ends the reporter, as the cameras switch back to the news studio.

“This is Benjamin Williams for the
Six O’Clock News
,” echoes Ben, standing up to turn off the television. Perfect. All the inflections in exactly the right places. He checks his watch, and wanders into the kitchen to get another beer, he won’t be meeting his roommates at the pub for another half hour.

Ben takes his beer into the bedroom and fishes under the bed, pulling out a large box stuffed with papers. Oh I’m sorry, you want to know what Ben’s bedroom is like? Well, not what you expect, for starters. Geraldine and Jemima may have been
_p. 33
right about the rest of the flat, the socks draped over radiators and the porn mags piled up in the living room, but Ben’s bedroom is his haven, his sanctuary, and a quick look around may tell us exactly what we need to know about Ben Williams.

It may be a rented flat, but Ben and his roommates were given permission to redecorate. Needless to say they haven’t done a thing, except for Ben. Ben has painted his bedroom walls a dark bottle-green. His window shade is navy, green and burgundy check, and his duvet cover and pillowcases match.

Dotted around the wall are original cartoons, which Ben collects. A number of the cartoons on his wall have appeared in national newspapers, and all are of a satirical nature. Before you ask, Ben doesn’t have the money to afford this, not yet, but he is careful with the small amount he does earn, and half the cartoons were bought from his savings, the rest gifts from his parents.

An old armchair, picked up by Ben for £20 in the junk shop down the road, sits in one corner of the room, facing an old French cherrywood table, also from the junk shop, a bargain at £50. Piled on top of the table are books. Autobiographies, biographies, cookbooks
‌
—for Ben loves to cook
‌
—fiction, nonfiction. The latest titles, together with some old favorites, are in this corner of the room.

Next to the books is a silver photo frame containing a picture of Ben smiling happily with his parents on graduation day. He is proudly wearing his cap and gown, and a quick glance at his parents shows us where Ben got his looks.

His mother is tall, slim and soignée. She is wearing a slim cream skirt, a navy jacket, and high-heeled cream shoes with a navy toe. On her head is a hat, a designer hat, a hat that most women dream of owning. Ben’s father is significantly older than his wife. Tall, handsome, with thick gray hair. All three are beaming into the camera with shining smiles and open faces. They look like a nice family. They are in fact a delightful family.

Ben’s father is a wealthy businessman and his mother is a
_p. 34
housewife. Being an only child, Ben has been doted upon, but he has always insisted on making his own way in the world. After university Ben turned down his father’s offer to work in the family business, and joined the local paper as a junior reporter on a pittance.

He rented a hovel of a flat, far far worse than this one, and lived with five other boys in similar situations. He allowed his parents to provide the odd treat, such as a beautiful watch on his birthday, or a pair of cuff links, or a suit, but on the whole he paid his own way.

Ben Williams loves his parents and his parents love him. They are a normal, healthy family. The only thing that is slightly abnormal is perhaps how well they all get on. Because Ben’s parents have always treated him as an equal. Even when he was a child his parents would stop to listen to what Ben had to say. He was never patronized or ignored, but listened to and related to as an adult. His father now makes the odd offer to come and work in the family business, because his father does not understand the media world at all, but Ben has nearly got where he wanted, and he knows this is the right thing for him to be doing.

Oh Geraldine, if only you knew about Ben’s background. You would discover he is, or at least his family is, wealthy enough even for your nouveau riche tastes. But you can’t help but judge the superficial, and you will only see as far as Ben’s beaten-up Fiat.

So back to Ben’s bedroom. In the recesses next to his bed he has put up pine shelves, and stained them to remove that orangey patina that looks so cheap. He sanded down the shelves himself, then bashed them a bit with a hammer to make them look old before rubbing in the stain with wads of cotton wool.

And on the shelves are more books, more photographs. Books piled high, almost overflowing, and photographs of Ben’s friends, former girlfriends, lovers.

Look, there’s Ben at university with Suzie, the girl he went
_p. 35
out with for the best part of his three years there. She’s not classically beautiful, not model material, but see how pretty she is, how her skin glows, how white are her teeth, how glossy her long auburn hair.

And there’s Ben with Richard, his best friend. The pair of them on holiday, Greece perhaps, suntanned faces, shorts and T-shirts, sunglasses, and arms flung over one another’s shoulders, grinning widely into the lens.

And in pride of place is a photograph of a celebrity, a genuine star of one of Britain’s most popular soap operas. Cheesy as it may well be, this is the photo Ben is most proud of, for she is Laurie, one of his conquests, but we’ll save the story of Laurie until later.

Ben lies back on his bed, crumpling the jacket of his suit, which he flung on the duvet when he got home from work, but this is a good sign, for while we know from his bedroom that Ben isn’t a slob we can now assume that neither is he anally retentive.

He lies back holding the piece of paper he dug out of the box he pulled from under his bed. It is a script from the news, a script that Ben painstakingly transcribed in his shorthand, scribbling down everything the newsreader said, and now he lies back and reads the first words in his television voice.

“Good evening.”

Practice, practice, practice, Ben. All over the world there are thousands of young men and women, people just like Ben, who dream of being a television presenter. They ache for their fifteen minutes of fame, long to be famous for the sake of being famous.

If they’re lucky, if they have the requisite long blond hair, flirtatious nature, and penchant for being wild, the girls may just make it on to the screen as presenters of some wacky new show. The men may, if they have the right contacts, also land on our screens as children’s presenters. But few have the dedication to do what Ben’s doing.

Ever since Ben was a child Ben has dreamed of reading the
_p. 36
news. At university, studying for his English degree, Ben sat down with Richard and worked out how he was going to do it. He decided his greatest advantage (other than the dimples and white teeth, because Ben, although he is aware of them, doesn’t really think about them all that often) would be a background in journalism. He knew he could have got on one of the graduate trainee schemes that all the national newspapers seem so keen on running these days, but he also knew, from speaking to people who had already gone down that route, that most of their time was spent doing gofer work.

And so he decided to look for a local paper. A local paper that wouldn’t pay very well, but would give him the required news training. A local paper where the news editor might have the time to take Ben under his wing and show him how to sniff out a news story, how to interview members of the public and celebrities, and win an exclusive interview through charm alone.

A local paper where Ben might have a chance to rise quickly in the ranks, before moving to regional television. And from regional television he would move to network television. He would be an anchorman. He would present the news.

Admittedly, at twenty-nine, Ben’s career hasn’t progressed quite as quickly as he had planned, but nevertheless he’s on course, and changes, he rightly suspects, are afoot.

Naturally he didn’t tell the editor of the
Kilburn Herald
any of his plans when he turned up for an interview. He sat there and told the editor he was a newspaper man, he loved newspapers, loved the
Kilburn Herald
(for Ben had moved to Kilburn for the express purpose of working for the
Kilburn Herald,
a paper, he decided, at which he could make changes), had in fact spent years dreaming of working for the
Kilburn Herald.

He told the editor he was happy to start as a junior reporter, but that at some time, not too far away, he would be news editor. And the editor, being a rather vain and stupid man, was flattered by Ben Williams, and won over by the smile and the dimples.

_p. 37
But he wasn’t as stupid as all that. He realized the effect Ben’s good looks would have on the people he had to interview. And sure enough, from the very first day Ben and Ben alone was the reporter to land the stories that everyone wanted. His future had started. Ben was on his way.

And now, in this large rented flat in a wide, tree-lined street in Kilburn, Ben puts aside the piece of paper and gets up off the bed. A cursory glance in the mirror tells him he looks fine, not that it matters tonight, it’s only the boys at the local pub, but you never know. You just never know.

_p. 38
It may be lunchtime, but Jemima Jones is sitting at her desk wondering how she can find out what to do with terra-cotta pots filled with candles once the candles have burned down. She could, quite easily, telephone a candle shop and ask them, and it would, of course, be easier, not to mention quicker, than logging on to the Internet, but she wants to test the Internet, to find out whether she can do it on her own.

She double-clicks on the sign on her computer and then clicks on
CONNECT,
listening to the computer dial up the modem and put her through. And here she is, the World Wide Web at her fingertips.

Where should she go first? What should she do?

“Hey, quick work.” I turn round and of course it’s Ben, jacket

off, shirtsleeves rolled up, dimples at the ready.

“Just thought I’d see if I could work it by myself.”

“I keep meaning to try it too, but I haven’t had the time. Do you mind if I join you?”

Mind? Mind? Is he mad? I would move heaven and earth
_p. 39
for you to join me, Ben. I would cut off my right arm if it meant you would join me.

“Sure, why don’t you pull up a chair.”

Ben pulls up a swivel chair and sits close to me, and I never thought I’d say this but it’s almost too close for comfort, certainly too close to breathe comfortably. I can feel my breath coming out in short, sharp bursts, but Ben doesn’t notice a thing. He doesn’t even notice how I involuntarily catch my breath as he puts his hand on top of mine on the mouse, and clicks on the Internet.

“What are you looking for?” he says to me, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen.

“Nothing special,” I lie. “Just exploring, really.”

“Is everyone at lunch?”

I look around at the empty desks, listen to the phones ringing out with no one to answer them, and turn back to Ben. “I think so, it seems pretty dead in here.”

“Good.” He turns to me with a wink. “Let’s explore the sex sites.”

I smile broadly to hide my embarrassment. It’s not that I don’t want to see them, although I’d never dare admit it, I just don’t want to see them sitting with Ben, but it will keep him here for a while, so what the hell.

“I just did a story about kids downloading porn from the Internet on to disk, then selling it at St. Ursula’s. Let’s see what all the fuss is about,” Ben says nonchalantly, but I’m sure that’s just an excuse to see what it’s all about. St. Ursula’s is the local public high school with a reputation so bad that on the rare occasions I have to walk past at the time when the children are coming out, I cross the road or, better yet, find an alternative route. It’s not quite as bad as the construction sites but nearly. Nearly.