Authors: Stella Newman
We get into a taxi and she tells the cabbie to go to Marylebone, avoiding
the Euston Road.
‘That’s the straightest way there, love.’
‘Also the most densely trafficked road in Europe,’ she says, in a tone neither aggressive nor exactly conciliatory. ‘Cut through via UCL, take Mortimer Street, drop us at the top of Devonshire.’
‘If you say so,’ he says, shaking his head in disagreement. ‘It’ll cost you more . . .’
She rolls her eyes, then flashes me a mischievous
smile. ‘So! What’s the latest?’
Jess could mean work, love, or general – no doubt we’ll cover all three – she’s not one to dwell on a topic once she’s told me exactly what I should think about it.
‘Work’s great, I’ve brought you copies of the new issue. My Pop-Up article’s been retweeted over a thousand times since Tuesday.’
‘Presumably you’re keeping a record of these stats?’
‘And Roger’s
been contacted by the
New York Times
, they’re doing a feature on food critics around the world and they’ve chosen me as one . . .’
Her face lights up. ‘Why didn’t you mention this before? No!’ she calls out to the driver, ‘I meant the second right at UCL . . .’
‘I’m not sure whether to do it.’
‘It would be phenomenal exposure.’
‘Exactly – it’s asking for trouble. They’ll shoot me in darkened
silhouette, but you can still work out a person’s body type, hairstyle. And I’d say something innocuous, like “I used to work in coffee” and next thing I know I’ll be on the cover of
Heat,
papped with Bitchy Resting Face. I’m not doing it, Jess, it’s a slippery slope.’
‘Did I miss something or have you been shagging David Beckham?’
‘Look: I eat the food, I write about the food. I trust what’s
going in to my mouth – not what might come out of it. If I’m exposed this gig is over.’
‘Dad will agree – you’re insane to turn it down.’ She folds her arms tightly across her chest. ‘And what exactly are your medium to longer term plans?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your plans for returning to a career.’
‘Last time I looked I had a career – and a half.’
‘I’ve been running the numbers: the London
coffee scene is in triple-digit growth.’
‘One minute you’re saying splay myself across the
New York Times
, next you’re saying go back to my old job?’
‘Do both, you’d be in a stronger position financially.’
I shake my head violently. ‘I love my job, and my boss. How many people can say that?’
‘Or set something up in Paris!’
‘One indentured slave in the family not enough for you?’
‘Excuse
me, driver! Here’s fine,’ she says. He pulls over sharply at the entrance to a private mews.
I practise my counting skills, then drag Jess’s case over the cobbles as she charges ahead.
‘I’ve booked us fifteen minutes Power-Relax, then Speed Threading.’
‘Jess, do you think one day I might see you without it being turned into a multi-tasking extravaganza?’ Last time, she dragged me to Smythson
to order personalised envelopes, then for her haircut, then tea with three colleagues, where all talk was of Distressed Bonds.
‘You’re so over-sensitive,’ she says, reaching a perfect petal-pink manicured fingertip out to the discreet buzzer of a five-storey Georgian townhouse.
Pied à Tech is so exclusive you can only book treatments if you work at Vogue House or can afford not to work at all.
Behind the darkened windows are a series of faux-medical white chambers where women in dark glasses sit, chewing the insides of their cheeks (low-carb) – waiting for beauty to be bestowed in cash-rich/time-poor sessions.
My sister is the type to clean her apartment before her cleaner arrives – and the same principles apply to her body: she’s utterly moisturised and plucked before she even crosses
the jasmine-infused threshold. Me? Less so.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t warn me,’ I say, tangling with a pair of paper pants in the changing room. ‘I’ve got a bikini line like a Greek sailor.’
‘They wax half of Europe’s minor royals in this place, they’ve seen it all, now hurry up! We’re late for Serenity.’
We’ve been lying face down for five minutes, our heads poking through holes in massage
tables, listening to a medley of traditional Thai lute music. From the vague pummelling noises I can hear, Jess’s masseur seems competent but I’ve ended up with a damp squib of a newbie. Her fingers slide greasily over my back like slugs. Tension is bunching up in my neck; I’m desperate to ask her to give it some welly but the minute I do I fear the silence will be broken, Jess will remember I’m
here – and start telling me how to live my life again.
I can’t bear it any longer and clear my throat in preparation, but sure enough:
‘Laura – how many people read your column?’
‘Jess – this is meant to be relaxing,’ I say, as my masseur gestures for me to flip on to my back. Oh please, not the full-frontal rub-down! I don’t care what Jess says – I’m sure no Spanish contessa turns up here
with shin stubble.
Jess props herself up on one elbow. ‘How many readers?’ she hisses.
I open my eyes and stare up at the reflective white tiles, then close them again.
‘Quarter of a million in print, a million online in the UK, another two million globally.’
‘That’s phenomenal!’ She reaches over to squeeze my little finger. My hands are now so oily her fingers slide off mine. ‘You have an
established platform, a clear voice, now monetise it! Leverage yourself, become a brand!’ she whispers. When Jess starts talking like I’m a fabric conditioner it makes me want to Velcro my ears shut, or better yet – her mouth.
‘Jess, can we talk about this in ten minutes?’
Her tut bounces loudly off the walls.
Bad idea to delay part two of The Jess Lecture! We’re now lying in reclining chairs
with two Indian ladies behind our heads, armed with what looks like dental floss, about to attack our eyebrows. I am officially trapped.
‘Charles and I think you’ve paid your dues, you should be pushing Roger for new opps in editorial.’
‘If I had a pound for every time you use the word should—’
‘You should be earning a salary commensurate with your abilities.’
‘Have you had threading before?
It’s no more painful than a wax,’ says the beautician, rolling a thread of cotton over my eyebrow, then flicking it and ripping out half my excess eyebrow hairs from the root.
‘Urgh, holy shit! Please don’t do that again,’ I say, struggling to sit up in the chair.
She brings her face close to mine. ‘I have to do the other side or you’ll be unbalanced.’
‘If you rip the other eyebrow out of my
face I’ll be unbalanced.’
‘Bloody hell,’ says Jess. ‘Over-sensitive eyebrows, who knew?’
‘Will you shut up!’ I say, sitting up in the chair.
‘You shut up yourself. You know Mum and Dad didn’t put you through university so you could become an expert photocopier. You can’t seriously tell me you’re going to be a secretary for the next thirty years?’
‘Haven’t quite finalised the thirty-year plan,
but I’m certainly doing these two jobs for as long as I’m happy,’ I say, gently prodding what’s left of my brow.
‘I
said
– keep the writing job if you go back into coffee!’ she says, lying back down again.
I don’t even get as far as counting to one: ‘Jess! You are not my boss and you’re not my mum.’
‘Find something more substantial for the ninety per cent of your time you’re not writing. It’s
been over four years, it’s enough now. You’ve proved your point.’
‘Four years ago I was not
proving a point
: I was trying to survive.’
Jess sits back up again and fixes me with a look I expect she uses a lot at work. ‘Either you’re in denial, or you won’t admit it to me, but you hide in that PA job just as much as you do in the critic job; it’s a comfort zone – you’re too scared to leave.’
‘Can I have a mirror please?’ I say to the woman who’s hovering nervously behind me. ‘Jess – look at my eyelid! I’ve had enough,’ I swing my legs down from the chair. ‘
Please
can we get a coffee?’
‘I’m only giving you a hard time because I know you’re capable of more,’ says Jess, her voice softening temporarily as we take a seat in the top-floor café. ‘And I know you get bored or you wouldn’t
be emailing us all those
Funny Things Cats Do
on the Internet . . .’
‘
Cats In Tights
is what the Internet was invented for. And porn. Hopefully never the twain . . .’
‘Stop being facetious, you know I’m right.’
Unfortunately my sister has a point. ‘Honestly? There are times when I feel a little unchallenged. But I have a huge brain stretch with the writing, it’s a dream job. It balances out.
And being Roger’s secretary is better than most PA jobs . . .’
‘I know you’re loyal to Roger but he’s not in a position to repay the favour. How many years before he even retires? Your loyalty should be to you!’
‘Two Americanos, please!’ I say, catching the waitress’s eye.
‘We don’t serve caffeine,’ she says, as if I’ve just asked her to score me some crack.
Jess waits until the waitress has
moved off, then reaches under the table and brings out a pistachio-coloured cake box.
‘You remembered!’ Sophie introduced me to Jean Clement’s millefeuilles a few years ago – she claims they can cure migraines. Medicinal properties aside, they do have eighteen layers of almost-burnt super-buttery flaky pastry, a heavy praline cream and a delicate vanilla sugar glaze. The first time I ate one
I tried to eat the little JC disc on top even after I realised it was card, not sugar.
‘And I have your stuff.’ I reach into my bag to retrieve the Parmesan biscuits. ‘And some posh gingerbread for the girls.’ The biscuits have scarves and hats of blue and white stripy icing, and cute wonky smiles that look as though the gingerbread men have just done something naughty.
‘You might notice your
millefeuille’s smaller than usual . . .’ says Jess, a smile on her face not unlike those of the gingerbread men.
‘You ate some of my cake?’ I grab the box from her hand. ‘Outrageous!’
‘You’re always telling me to eat more cake.’
‘Clearly I didn’t mean mine!’
‘How’s your landlady?’
Landlady
makes me think of an old woman in rollers and a floral housecoat – not a size zero blonde, who would
wear a housecoat, but only if Carine Roitfield ordained it. ‘Amber’s started piloxing! Half Pilates, half boxing . . .’
Jess sighs again. ‘When are you going to find somewhere else to live?’
‘Same day Sheryl Sandberg offers me a job as her second in command.’
‘So, you intend to keep squatting in a spare room indefinitely?’
‘Jess, do you think a random person’s old shoe cupboard is my dream
home?’
‘And
that’s
why you need a better-paying job!’ she says, poking a victorious finger in my direction.
‘And
tha
t’s the compromise I live with so I can do a job I enjoy. Change the subject.’
‘What are you doing about finding a decent man?’
‘Not that subject.’
‘Come on, Laura. You’re looking good – apart from your right eyebrow. But trust me, the collagen in your face will degenerate rapidly
over the next five years. Find another partner now or before you know it you’ll be forty and single.’
‘Which is obviously the worst fate that could strike a twenty-first-century woman.’
‘Oh,
I’m sorry
. Don’t you want a healthy relationship? A family? Is that all so terribly bourgeois and distasteful to you? Your problem is you’re too picky.’
Jess met Charles during Freshers’ week. She has never
experienced self-doubt about her attractiveness and has no idea what it’s like being single in London right now: the illusion of limitless choices, everyone thinking they can do better than the person sitting opposite them in a pub, auditioning like they’re on dating
X Factor
, no one giving anyone more than seven seconds to impress. I’m tempted to flick her through my Tinder Greatest Hits to show
her the landscape I live in: would I show her the photo of the guy who’s made a love heart out of hand guns? The pole dancing married man who says he misses the thrill of new conquests?
‘Treat dating like a job. If you have a disappointment get straight back up again.’
‘Actually, I did meet someone, ten minutes after I binned the last one,’ I say, immediately regretting my inability to keep
my mouth shut.
‘So you are seeing someone!’
‘We had breakfast on Thursday.’
‘As in
Nice Girls Don’t Stay for Breakfast
?’
‘No, I don’t mean a sleepover.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He’s lovely,’ I say, unable to keep from smiling. ‘Bright. Funny, easy to talk to.’
‘What does he do?’
‘That’s the slight problem . . .’
‘You can’t date a man who’s unemployed.’
‘He probably earns twice what I do. He’s
a chef.’
‘Desperately anti-social hours.’
‘That’s not it either. He works at that place with the toilets.’
She allows herself a small gulp of laughter. ‘So what? You haven’t told him about your review?’
‘No . . .’
‘Well don’t. You’re always banging on about your anonymity like you’re Deep Throat – why confide in a man you’ve just met? It’s none of his business.’
‘It’s entirely his business.’
‘What good could it possibly do you?’
‘It’s not about what good it could do
me
. I feel bad hiding something from someone I care about.’
‘Oh,
this
conversation again!’ she says, shaking her head in frustration. ‘Laura, I don’t know why you can’t accept after all this time – we did what we thought was best in the circumstances.’
‘Oh for God’s sake Jess – this is not about Mum.’
She fixes me
with a stare.
‘It was not,’ I say softly.
‘Because it sounded like you were having a dig . . .’
‘Well I wasn’t. But actually now you mention it – the point is, you and Dad should have told me, you should have given me a choice.’