Jemima J. (9 page)

And he was absolutely right not to have gone home with her, for Sam is exactly the kind of girl to get obsessive. She’s the kind of girl who regularly sleeps with men on the night she meets them and then wonders why they don’t call afterwards. But she doesn’t stop there. She phones them, and phones them, and phones them. She offers them tickets to concerts, dinner invitations, parties.

At first they are flattered, what man, after all, wouldn’t be, with a stunning girl like Sam chasing them. But then they be
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come bored. Where is the challenge? Where is the thrill of the chase? And inevitably they start making excuses, and Sam does what she always does. She shouts and screams at them on the phone, calls them bastards, like all the bastards she’s ever met. Ends with telling them she thought
they
were different, as if guilt, somehow, will make them come back, and then finally she slams the phone down.

Then she goes out and repeats the whole scenario with someone new.

Ben is perceptive enough to realize the sort of woman Sam is. A “bunny boiler” is how he would describe her to his friends, and they would all groan in recognition.

But because Ben’s a nice guy masquerading as a bastard, Ben let her down gently by asking for her number after they kissed and promising he would call. This was perhaps not exactly the right thing to do because Sam wrote down her home number, her work number, and her mobile number. At this very moment Sam is doing what thousands of women in her position have done. She is watching the phone at work and willing him to call. Every now and then she picks it up to check it’s still working, and she has been hovering by the phone all day, leaping on it should it dare to ring.

But Ben won’t call, not least because girlfriends are not exactly a priority at the moment. The type of women Ben goes for are high-maintenance. They require picking up, being paid for, presents. Ben, at this very moment in time, has neither the funds nor the inclination to think about high-maintenance women in anything other than an abstract way.

So while he fancies Geraldine, he knows that right now she’d never give him a chance, and quite frankly that’s okay with Ben. It’s enough that she brightens up his days at work. He’s happy not to take it further.

Ben is far too busy thinking about his career to think about women. Sure, if someone uncomplicated came along who would be willing to fit in with Ben’s life, and just see him occasionally, i.e., on the occasions when he’s not working, working
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out, or seeing his friends, then great. But Ben hasn’t met this woman yet.

So Jemima’s having a bad day, and Ben’s interviewing a local woman whose thirteen-year-old son has just stabbed a schoolteacher. Normally he wouldn’t, as the deputy news editor, be writing the stories himself, but this is the
Kilburn Herald
after all, and everyone has to muck in.

Jemima has spent all day hoping for a glimpse of Ben, and each time footsteps come her way she turns, but it would appear that Ben is out of the office. She has spent the day making phone calls. She has discovered the best way of drying your nail polish quickly (dip the nails into a bowl of icy cold water), the best way of keeping lettuce fresh (put the lettuce into a bowl of iced water, add a slice of lemon and put it in the fridge) and the best way of storing tinned foods in the cupboard (buying plastic shelves, £5.99). Jemima is bored. Bored, fat, and unhappy. Not a good combination, I think we all agree.

So it is a welcome relief when her phone distracts her with an internal ring.

“It’s me,” says Geraldine, which is ridiculous really because she knows full well that her extension number is flashing on my telephone. “Do you want to meet me in the cafeteria for a cup of tea?”

Anything to break the monotony of this work, the pain of Ben not wanting me. Of course I want a cup of tea, just to get away from this desk, from this miserable bloody office.

“Have you lost weight?” is the first thing Geraldine says to me as I walk over to her by the hot water machine, pouring the water over the teabags in two plastic cups.

For the first time today I perk up. I don’t know, I haven’t weighed myself for the last few weeks, I haven’t even thought about it.

“Your face definitely looks slimmer,” says Geraldine, picking up the cups and carrying them to the table.

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Jemima could kiss Geraldine, because Geraldine is right, she has lost weight. She hasn’t thought about her weight for two weeks, because she actually started to have fun. She discovered the Internet and in Geraldine and Ben she found two people who seem to be real friends, and the minute she stopped thinking about it, stopped worrying about it, stopped feeling guilty about her binges, was the minute she started to lose it.

Until last night, however, because lying on your bed feeling fat and miserable is inevitably the beginning of a binge, and last night, when Jemima had composed herself, she phoned the local pizza delivery company. They brought round a large pizza, although huge might be a more appropriate description, garlic bread, and coleslaw. Jemima opened the front door and pretended she was having a load of friends round. Just to make sure they believed her she also ordered four cans of Diet Coke.

But today is another day, and, although she may have put on a couple of pounds after last night’s binge
‌
—and yes, it is quite possible for Jemima to put on two or three pounds overnight
‌
—in general she has lost weight.

We sit down and Geraldine sighs, running her fingers through her hair.

“Is everything okay?” I say, even though I can see quite clearly that everything is not.

“It’s just Dimitri,” says Geraldine. “He’s getting on my nerves at the moment. I feel a bit funny about things.”

Uh oh. I know exactly what this means. This is Geraldine’s pattern. This means that Dimitri has fallen head over heels in love with Geraldine, which in turn means that Geraldine is rapidly cooling off, and poor old Dimitri will soon be finding out that she is not the woman of his dreams after all.

“Funny how?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “He’s just always
there
.”

“But isn’t that how boyfriends are supposed to be?” I mean, for God’s sake, Geraldine. “Isn’t that what every woman wants?”

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“I suppose so.” Geraldine shrugs. “But it’s all getting a bit on top of me.”

Just in case you’re interested, here’s what will happen next. The more Geraldine backs off, the more keen Dimitri will become. It will probably end with a marriage proposal, which Geraldine will turn down, because by the time the proposal comes around she will be desperate to get away from him. She will, however, keep the ring. As she always does.

“Maybe you should just wait and see what happens.”

“Maybe I should start dating other men.”

No! Oh God, no! That might mean Ben, she might go out with Ben, and I couldn’t stand that. It’s bad enough seeing him with a stunning stranger, horrible but just about bearable, but if Ben and Geraldine got together it would kill me. Find out now, find out what she thinks now.

“Who?”

“No one in particular,” says Geraldine. “But if I started going out again with the girls I’m sure I’d meet someone soon.” She has the confidence of those with unnatural beauty, for who else could be so certain? Other women stay in relationships, miserable, horrible, destructive relationships because the alternative is far too horrendous to even consider. Being on their own.

But of course Geraldine could never begin to understand this. Geraldine has always moved onwards, and upwards. Occasionally sideways.

“What about Ben?” I say in such a casual tone it sounds fake, even to me. “He likes you.”

“Ben? Ben? You are joking aren’t you?”

Of course I’m not joking, Geraldine, can’t you see how I am when he’s around? Can’t you see the effect he has on me? How could I be joking when I think he is the most perfect male specimen ever to have set foot on the planet?

“No. Why?”

“Well, Ben’s just Ben. He’s very handsome but what is he? He’s a deputy news editor on the
Kilburn Herald.
And Ben isn’t exactly the type of guy who’s going places is he? I mean, what
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will he achieve in his life? He’ll become the news editor, then the editor, and that’s it. He’ll stay on a crappy local paper for ever.

“He’ll marry some pretty local girl who wants to be a wife and mother, and if they’re lucky they’ll live in West Hampstead and have 2.4 children and a Volkswagen.

“Ben,” she repeats, shaking her head with a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

Thank you, God. Thank you for being on my side. I don’t give a damn what Geraldine thinks of Ben as a person, and anyway I think she’s wrong. I don’t think he’ll be here forever, I think he’s far too good for this, but that doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is that Geraldine and Ben will never be a “they” or an “us.” They will always be Geraldine and Ben, and I suddenly feel so relieved I could cry.

“So,” says Geraldine with a sigh. “Enough about me. What’s going on in your life?”

She says this regularly, and I do what I always do
‌
—I move the conversation straight back to Geraldine because what would I tell her? Would I tell her about my trip to the bookshop perhaps, and turn it into an exaggerated adventure where I tripped over handsome men every step of the way? Would I tell Geraldine about seeing Ben with that girl last night? Would I laugh to cover up the pain and ask Geraldine if she knew anything about her? Or would I perhaps tell Geraldine about ordering a huge pizza and crying all night? No. I think not.

So I stir my tea for a few seconds, then look up, “But what
are
you going to do about Dimitri?”

By the time we venture back upstairs the
Kilburn Herald
has significantly emptied. The news desk is still buzzing, just in case, but features, the area at the back where Geraldine and I sit, is quiet.

“Jemima,” whines Geraldine just before walking back to her desk. Here we go. I know exactly what this whine means.

“I need some help.”

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“Go on,” I say with an exasperated smile, although I’m not exasperated, I’m actually delighted at any chance I get to do some proper writing.

“I’m writing this piece about dating again after you get divorced for the woman’s page. I’m a bit stuck, could you have a quick look at it?” Which means, if you are as expert at reading between the lines as I am, “Could you rewrite it?”

Geraldine runs back to her desk and picks up a proof then dashes back. “God, you’re an angel,” she says. “I owe you big time,” and she leaves, not turning round but waving just as she walks out the door.

Sometimes I can’t believe Geraldine’s writing, I can’t believe how someone can find it so difficult because it never seems to take me long to rework her copy. I start by rewriting the intro, adding some color, crafting it into something the readers will want to continue reading.

“STANDING at the aisle, reading your wedding vows, you hoped and prayed your marriage would last forever,” I tap. “But years later your vows of loving and honoring your husband are as distant a memory as the happiness you once shared.

“Divorce in the nineties is sending thousands of women back to a game they thought they would never see again
‌
—the Dating Game.

“And women all over the country are discovering that no matter how wise, how experienced, how old they may be, no matter how much the rules may have changed, when it comes to excitement, disappointment, pain, nothing has really changed at all.”

Eyes glued to my computer screen, I type. I lose myself in the writing, and then tidy up Geraldine’s “Case Studies”
‌
—three women who have agreed to tell their story in the
Kilburn Herald.
When I’ve finished I send the copy back to Geraldine’s basket, so no one will know I had anything to do with it. So that’s what friends are for.

It’s going home time, but just as I’m about to leave I sud
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denly remember something. I remember that I haven’t taken the books I bought out of my bag, and now would be a perfect time to try out the Internet.

I reach down and pull out
The Idiot’s Guide to the Internet.
Right. Time to explore, and turning back to the screen I double-click on the sign on the left that will take me to the Internet. As the machine is connecting, I flick through the little guide.

Now this really is incredible. I learn about Web sites, about art galleries on the Internet where you can post your own pictures or download those of others. I learn of alternative medicine sites, where you can learn how others have fared by trying cures not recognized by traditional medicine. I read about real estate sites, where agents in suits have posted pictures of properties they’re trying to sell. I read about museum sites, music sites, dating sites.

I read about newsgroups, bulletin boards for every hobby, interest, and obsession you can think of. Places where people can post a message, a question, a thought, and scores of like-minded people can reply.

And then I read about Tarot, a site where you can have your fortune told, and that’s when I stop reading and start clicking. I want my fortune told. I want to know whether I’ll find true love. I want to know if Ben is the man for me. Don’t worry, though, I promise I’ll take it all with a healthy pinch of salt. At least, I’ll try to.

The page appears on the screen, with a choice of Tarot card decks, and me being me I click on the Tarot of the Cat People, simply because I’ve always wanted a cat, and suddenly three small boxes appear asking for my name, gender, and age.

I type them in, and then another box comes up, this time asking for my question. A quick check round the office shows that I’m safe, there’s no one around to see what I’m doing, so here goes . . .

“Will Ben Williams fall in love with me?”
I type, before clicking the button saying
RESULT
.

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Three cards appear at the top of the screen, with the translations beneath. Card number one represents the past. It is the King of Wands (reversed).
“Severity. Austerity. Somewhat excessive and exaggerated ideas. Dogmatic, deliberate person.”