Chapter Nine

‘You don’t mind walking do you?’ says Ben Williams, as the front door closes behind them. ‘I thought we’d go to that bar on the main road.’

‘No, that’s fine,’ I say quickly, because I’m already struggling to keep up with Ben’s large strides, and consequently already trying not to lose my breath.

‘Strange flatmates you’ve got there,’ Ben volunteers after a silence. ‘I take it they don’t always behave like that.

‘Or look like that,’ he adds, as an afterthought.

‘No. They’re on their way out. That’s them looking their best.’

Ben laughs. ‘What are they like?’ Not that he’s interested, he’s just trying to make conversation.

‘They’re okay,’ I say, praying he’s not interested, praying he couldn’t see beyond the face masks and spiky spongy things in their hair. ‘They’re nice girls, really, but I wouldn’t say we’re friends.’

‘What do they do?’

‘They’re receptionists at Curve Advertising Agency.’

‘What, together?’

I nod.

‘Do they ever get any work done?’

‘I don’t think their job is that stressful.’ I silently muse on the conversations Sophie and Lisa constantly have about men.

‘In fact,’ I add out loud, ‘I don’t think they ever talk about “work” at all.’

‘I bet they’re the sort of girls who go out with very rich men, with very fast cars, who have very short relationships.’

I laugh in disbelief as I look at Ben. ‘Very good. How could you tell?’

Ben smiles. ‘I just can.’

Ben can tell because Ben has done that scene. Not as a rich man with a fast car, but as himself, because Ben can intrude on any social scene by virtue of his looks.

Ben had just left Durham University, where he had been hugely in demand, both as a boyfriend and as a friend. He was the golden boy of the campus, and his best friend, Richard, who had been down in London already for two years, had infiltrated the Chelsea set of bright young things, and welcomed Ben home with open arms and lavish parties.

Ben met heiresses, minor aristocracy, Eurotrash, minor celebrities. He went to dinner parties with people he had only ever read about on the rare occasions he had picked up a girlfriend’s magazine, and he sat next to them and talked to them as an equal.

Most people wouldn’t want to enter these circles. And even if they did, most people wouldn’t have a clue how to get in. There was one occasion where Ben found himself spending all evening talking to the star of one of the most popular soap series in the country, a girl who, with her olive skin, long dark hair and petulant lips, was, at the time, the most adored girl in the country.

When Ben walked into the room – a party held in one of London’s smartest restaurants – he spotted her and his heart turned over. Only that morning he had been reading about her in a newspaper, how she had just split from her equally famous boyfriend, a star of a rival soap, and how she was enjoying some time, probably about five minutes, on her own.

Ben was dying to meet her, but how can you approach someone so beautiful and so famous? Not even Ben had the balls to do that.

‘Have you met Laurie?’ said Richard casually to Ben, after Richard had himself kissed her on both cheeks and been enveloped in a warm hug by the delicious Laurie.

‘We haven’t met,’ said Laurie, fixing her gaze on Ben and beaming a smile as she held out a hand to shake his, a smile that spread up through her face and gave her eyes, or so Ben thought at the time, the most amazing warmth.

‘I’m Laurie,’ she said, shaking his hand.

Ben nearly said, ‘I know,’ but luckily he didn’t, because it’s not the done thing in those circles to show you recognize someone, not unless you are equally famous. ‘I’m Ben,’ he said, smiling a perfect smile and struggling not to lose himself in her big brown eyes.

They spent the rest of the evening laughing softly together, and after a while Ben forgot she was Laurie, the most lusted-after woman in Britain, and she became Laurie, a gorgeous girl he was talking to at a party.

He didn’t ask for her number. Not because he didn’t want it, because Ben wanted nothing more, but because he thought she would be so used to being chatted up, she would never be interested in him. Admittedly, they did get on, but no, she couldn’t have been interested in him, Ben Williams, trainee news reporter.

But wonder of wonders, Laurie called him. She got his number from Richard, called and invited him to a party. A party where they didn’t so much fall in love as consummate their lust for one another, a lust which continued for three months, three months of whirlwind jet-setting and partying.

Ben accompanied Laurie everywhere. They went to film premières, to restaurant openings, to exclusive nightclubs, and this in fact was the problem. Towards the end of three months, much as he liked being with Laurie, he was starting to feel that if there was the opening of an envelope, Laurie would insist on going.

With Laurie he mixed with the beautiful people. He even brushed shoulders, on the odd occasion, with Sophie and Lisa, who were never actually invited themselves, but who would be there with their latest glamorous men, not that Ben ever noticed, he was far too busy being Laurie’s boyfriend.

And that, you see, was the beginning of the end. ‘So you’re Laurie’s mystery man,’ people used to say, instantly forgetting his name. ‘So this is Laurie’s boyfriend,’ they’d say, greeting him distractedly before turning away to someone more famous, and consequently, at least in their eyes, more interesting.

He was bored, and it showed. On the few occasions he tried discussing this with Laurie, she’d smother him with kisses and tell him not to be ridiculous, that he was being silly, that none of these people mattered.

But you see it did matter. It mattered that Laurie had to be. the centre of attention, wherever she went, and in the end Ben went to her flat one night and told her it wasn’t working. He said he wasn’t happy, that he really liked her, but he didn’t like her lifestyle.

Laurie, being the actress that she is, cried for a while, and tried begging him to stay, promising things would be different, but Ben knew they wouldn’t be, and he put his arms around her and kissed her softly on the forehead as he wished her good luck and goodbye.

Ben walked out of Laurie’s flat, out of her life, and out of the whirlwind of parties, and truth to be told, although he missed Laurie, particularly at night, he was filled with a huge relief.

Because Ben isn’t much good at pretending and, try as he might, he never felt he fitted in with the jet-setters, nor did he want to. It didn’t take long for Ben to see beyond the glitz and glamour, to the heart of insecurities, pretensions and inadequacies that people tried to cover up.

He hated the fact that on the rare occasions people asked what he did for a living – and I say rare because most of these people were far too self-absorbed to be interested in anyone else – their faces would cloud over with boredom when he told them he was a reporter on the Kilburn Herald.

Ben never tried to disguise his job because he didn’t have to. He was, is, secure and confident enough to not care what others think, and this is what he hated most of all, how he was judged by his job, not himself.

So yes, Ben is more than familiar with women like Sophie and Lisa, with the men they go out with, the parties they go to, and he wouldn’t touch their lifestyles with a barge-pole. But of course Jemima doesn’t know this. Nor do Sophie and Lisa, who, at this moment in time, are buzzing round the flat, pulling spiky, spongy things out their hair, washing off face masks, expertly applying make-up.

They are going out later, but they have decided to do a pre-clubbing pub and bar crawl. They watched Jemima and Ben walk up the road, and they know they won’t have gone far, and they will soon be off on a search.

Ben and Jemima reach the bar, slightly incongruous for this part of Kilburn, for it looks like it ought to be in Soho or Notting Hill.

Large picture windows look out on to the street, and a huge bust of a woman, the sort of bust that used to be on the front of ships in pirate movies, stares fondly down from the top of the door-frame.

Ben holds the door open for Jemima as they walk in, and Jemima instantly wishes they had gone somewhere else, somewhere less trendy, somewhere where she didn’t feel out of place.

For despite being in Kilburn the bar is filled with beautiful, fashionable people. A different sort of fashion to Soho or Notting Hill, more of a street fashion, less a designer label fashion, but nevertheless fashionable. The air is filled with smoke and soft laughter, and Jemima follows Ben to the bar, her shoes clip-clopping on the scrubbed wooden floors as she walks.

Antique mirrors and mismatched paintings cover the wall, and in a small room off the main bar are a couple of beaten-up leather sofas and armchairs. It is to this room that Ben carries their drinks – a pint of lager for him and a bottle of Sol for Jemima.

Jemima isn’t a drinker, has never particularly liked the taste of alcohol, nor has she ever quite known what to order in a bar when asked what she wants to drink. Vodka or gin and tonic sounds too grown up, too much like her parents, Malibu and pineapple, which is the only drink she loves, is too downmarket, and pints or even half pints of beer are too studenty.

Thank God for designer bottled beers, because these days Jemima never has to think. She’ll just order a bottle of Sol, or Becks, or Budweiser, knowing that at least she will fit in.

Ben sits down on a brown leather sofa covered in cracks just under the window, then slides up to allow room for Jemima, who is about to settle herself in the armchair adjacent to the sofa.

Jemima squeezes in next to Ben, feeling more than a touch faint-hearted at such close proximity, and she pours her beer into a glass, because although we all know it’s far more cool to drink designer beer straight from the bottle, Jemima can’t quite get to grips with it.

‘What do you think?’ says Ben, looking around the room. ‘It’s nice here isn’t it.’

‘Lovely,’ I practically choke as I gulp my designer beer through nerves and wonder why places like this always make me feel so awkward.

‘So how’s work?’ Ben opens with the standard question, the question you always ask when you don’t know someone very well, but quite frankly I don’t care. It’s enough that he’s here. With me. Tonight.

‘Boring as hell,’ I say, my stock answer. ‘I keep thinking I should really start looking around but then I still have this ridiculous hope that they’re going to promote me.’

‘They should,’ said Ben. ‘I know you rewrite most of Geraldine’s stuff and you’re very good.’

‘How did you know that?’ I can’t believe he knows that!

‘Oh come on,’ says Ben with a smile. ‘Geraldine’s a good operator but she can’t write to save her life. I saw that piece you wrote for her today, the one on dating, and there’s no way Geraldine would have written an intro like that. I don’t think she could write an intro of any sort.’

‘But she’s so nice.’ I always feel vaguely guilty whenever anyone says anything negative about Geraldine. ‘We shouldn’t really be talking about her like this.’

‘Like what? As I said, she is very talented, just not at writing. That’s your problem, Jemima, you’re a very good writer but you haven’t got the confidence to be a good journalist. There’s a huge difference. Journalism means digging, it means making hundreds of phonecalls, doorstepping if necessary, to get your story. It means operating on hunches, chasing leads, not stopping until you’ve got what you want. You haven’t got that instinct, but Geraldine has. I know she’s not a news reporter, but she could be.’ He looks at Jemima carefully. ‘You, Jemima, are a wonderful writer, far too good to be wasted on a newspaper, any newspaper, never mind the Kilburn Herald.’

‘So what could you see me doing?’

‘I think you should be going for a job on a woman’s magazine.’

I look down at the half-empty bottle of designer beer and idly start picking off the foil around the rim of the bottle. I know Ben is absolutely right, even though I’m not sure I like hearing it from him. I mean, it’s one thing recognizing your own weaknesses, but quite another hearing that someone else can see them that clearly, particularly when that someone happens to be Ben Williams. But, having said that, I’d kill to work on one of the glossy magazines I love so much, but I also know the type of women who work there, and I know quite categorically that I’d never fit in.

The type of women who work on glossy magazines are pencil-slim. They have highlighted hair, and hard faces covered in too much make-up. They always wear designer black, and always, like Geraldine, have sunglasses pushing their hair off their faces.

They go out for long liquid lunches, and network every evening in the trendiest bars in town. I could never look like that nor live like that, but of course I can’t tell Ben this, so I shrug. ‘I don’t know, maybe you’re right. What about you then, Ben? Are you a writer or a journalist?’

‘Actually,’ says Ben with a shy grin, ‘I think I’m kind of neither.’ Confusion crosses my face as Ben reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper.

‘Here,’ he says, handing it to me. ‘What do you think of this?’

I skim-read it quickly then double back and read it again more slowly. ‘What do you mean, what do I think?’ Horror suddenly courses through my veins. No! Don’t leave! My God, if you left the paper what would I have to look forward to? I would be completely desperate and I would not want to carry on.

‘What do you think?’ Ben repeats, a different emphasis on the words. ‘Could you see me on television?’

‘Yes, of course!’ I say, because Ben needs to be reassured, and the truth is I could see him on television. Absolutely. ‘You’d be brilliant on television, you’d be perfect!’

Ben sighs with relief. ‘Do you think I’d get it?’

‘Well they’ll be nuts if you don’t. You’ll definitely get an interview, and I’m sure you’ll be in with a chance. You’ve got a background in journalism and perfect white teeth, what more would you need?’ Listen to me. I’m actually teasing Ben! I, Jemima Jones, am teasing the gorgeous Ben Williams! Ben laughs, showing off those teeth, and I suspect he’s surprised at this side of me he’s never seen.

Ben bares those beauties in a rictus, a great big false cheesy smile, and says, ‘This is Ben Williams on London Today.’ I start laughing, he looks ridiculous, and he raises one eyebrow and says, ‘There, what do you think of that?’

‘Too much white teeth,’ I laugh. ‘Even for you.’

‘Can I read you my application letter?’ he says. ‘I’m sending it tomorrow, but would you tell me what you think?’

‘Sure.’

‘But you mustn’t tell anyone. I know I can trust you but I wouldn’t want anyone else at work to know about this.’

I watch as Ben pulls a copy of the letter out of his briefcase and as he hands it to me I feel totally honoured that he’s trusting me.

‘Dear Diana Macpherson,’ I read silently. ‘Re: Vacancy for television reporter as advertised in last Monday’s Guardian. I am currently working as the deputy news editor on the Kilburn Herald but would love to move into television …’ My eyes glaze over as I finish reading what can only be described as a completely bog-standard letter, and definitely not a letter that would even get him an interview, let alone a job.

I put the letter down and, trying to be as honest as I know how, I say, ‘It’s a great letter. It says everything you need to say, but if you want my honest opinion I don’t think it’s going to cut it. I think you need something more dynamic, more creative.’

‘Oh God, do you think so?’ Ben’s face falls. ‘I was trying to write something interesting but I was in such a hurry I just wrote down the first thing I could think of. You wouldn’t …’ His eyes light up as he looks at me.

‘Of course I would!’ I laugh, because I’ve been dying to since I read the first sentence, and grabbing a pen out of my bag I turn the letter over and start scribbling on the back.

‘Health and beauty may not be my strong points,’ I write, speaking the words out loud so Ben can hear, ‘although I do have a bathroom cabinet fully stocked with men’s cologne (freebies passed to me by the women feature writers at the Kilburn Herald), and my interest in showbusiness and entertainment may be limited – I have a healthy interest because of my work as the deputy news editor, but offer me the chance of a film première ticket and I’ll run a mile. However, my knowledge of news and politics is exemplary.

‘I am, as I briefly mentioned, currently working as the deputy news editor on the Kilburn Herald. Not, I’m sure you’ll agree, the most prestigious of papers, but nevertheless the perfect place for a solid background in journalism. I started as a trainee reporter and have now been with the paper for five years. Needless to say, it is now time for a change, and I firmly believe that the future for all good journalists lies in television.

‘I am, naturally, addicted to news and politics, and am an avid viewer of programmes not dissimilar to yours. I’m afraid I do not possess a showreel, however, I enclose a photograph together with my CV, and look forward to hearing from you.’

‘There,’ I say, slapping the pen down as Ben shakes his head in amazement.

‘God, Jemima,’ he says, rereading the words. ‘You’re amazing.’

‘I know,’ I sigh. ‘I just wish someone else would notice.’

‘That is just so inspired,’ he says, a wide grin spreading across his face.

‘At the end of the day, Ben, they’re either going to love it or hate it, but either way they’ll definitely notice it.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘I really think so.’

While Ben and Jemima sit there chatting, mostly about work, it has to be said, Sophie and Lisa have got dressed – the pair of them in almost identical black lycra dresses, knee-high boots (Sophie’s are suede, Lisa’s are leather), with little black Chanel bags over one shoulder. Sophie is wearing a soft black leather jacket with a fur collar, and Lisa is in a cape. These are their pulling outfits – the clothes they wear when they venture to an unknown club to attract potential millionaire husbands.

They do look wonderful. They also look completely out of place in Kilburn, tottering down the street in their smart clothes, leaving bystanders open-mouthed at these two exotic beauties.

They’ve already been in to the Queen’s Arms, a bit of a mistake, they realized as soon as they walked in. They had to wave their arms to see through the smoke, and when they did they saw hundreds of men, all propped up against the bar, who went completely silent, presumably in admiration at the sight of Sophie and Lisa.

‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,’ groaned a builder, clutching his heart while his mates laughed.

‘Looking for me, love?’ said one to Sophie, as she looked around the pub, wishing fervently she was somewhere else.

‘Will you marry me?’ said another to Lisa, who kept her nose in the air and kept walking.

Both girls, to their credit, ignored the men, and walked out, heads held high, while the men jeered, and a couple ran to the door to try and jokingly persuade them to come back.

‘God, what a nightmare,’ says Sophie to Lisa as they walk up the road. ‘Are you sure this is worth it? Shouldn’t we just jump in a cab and go into town?’

‘Are you mad?’ Lisa turns to her in horror. ‘When we’ve just met the best-looking man we’ve seen in ages.’

‘He is gorgeous,’ agrees Sophie, ‘but he works at the Kilburn Herald. I mean, he’s hardly in our league is he?’ Sophie, bless her, has forgotten that she is a receptionist, because in her dreams she is a rich man’s wife.

‘With looks like that I couldn’t give a damn. I don’t want to marry him, but I’d kill to have a fling with him,’ says Lisa, adding, ‘Phwooargh,’ with a faraway look in her eyes.

‘Okay,’ says Sophie. ‘One more try.’ They walk past the picture windows and into the bar, taking note of the beautiful and fashionable people, and feeling instantly superior. They, after all, are not only fashionable, they are also wearing designer labels, and both make sure the gold intertwined C’s on their Chanel bags are facing outward just so that everyone can be sure of this fact.

‘They must be here,’ says Lisa, looking slowly at each table.

‘I can’t see them,’ says Sophie, walking past the bar and into the room at the back. ‘Nope,’ she says as she surveys the room. ‘Where the hell can they be?’

Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? Both our glasses are empty, so I stand up to get some more drinks, hoping to prolong this evening for as long as possible, praying that Ben won’t stand up and say it’s time to go. ‘I’ll get this round,’ I say as nonchalantly as I can. ‘Same again?’

‘Are you sure?’ says Ben, who, being the perfect gentleman I think he is, would probably be more than happy to pay for the second round. And the third. But I insist and he agrees to the same again.

But as I stand up I suddenly have a horrifying thought. From the front, I am passable. I can just about hide my size, and hope that people look at my eyes or my hair, but from the back even I admit that I’m huge. Can I back out of the room? Would Ben think I was completely mad? Should I risk turning round and allowing Ben to see me from behind?

As I stand there in this dilemma, Ben starts rereading his application letter, so with a huge sigh of relief I walk, front first, out of the tiny room and into the main bar. BLOODY HELL! WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY DOING HERE?

I don’t bloody believe this. Sophie and Lisa never, ever, come to places like this. Drink in Kilburn? Are you mad? Those evil little cows, I know exactly what they’re doing. Look at them, tarted up to the nines and standing by the bar looking for something, and don’t think I know exactly what they’re looking for. Me. Or to be more precise, Ben. Bitches.

What am I going to do? I can’t let them see me, I can’t let them join us, because look at them now, Ben wouldn’t recognize them as the two girls he met earlier this evening, and he might, just might, fancy them. Shit, shit, shit. I turn around and rush back to Ben.

‘Ben,’ I say, thinking, thinking, thinking.

Ben looks up. ‘Hmm?’

‘I just wanted to ask you, before I forget, um. Well, it’s just that I wanted to ask you, do you have a showreel, because the ad said send a showreel.’ Jesus, I sound like a total idiot but it’s the best I could come up with, given the urgency of the situation.

‘I’m going to send a photograph. Why, do you think I should send a showreel?’ Ben is, as I knew he would be, looking at me as if I’m a bit strange.

‘Well,’ I say, sitting down. ‘There are pros and cons, I suppose. I mean, a photograph doesn’t show them exactly what they want to see, i.e. what you’ll be like on television, but then a showreel is probably bloody expensive to put together.’

‘Right,’ says Ben, now looking completely confused as to why I’m sitting down again minus the drinks.

I look over Ben’s shoulder and – thank you, God – see Sophie and Lisa walk out of the bar. Highly unusually, bearing in mind this is Kilburn, a black cab with an orange light shining happens to be driving down the road just as they leave, and both girls, on reflex, leap into the road with arms held high.

I can feel Ben watching me as I watch the cab drive off.

‘Right,’ I echo Ben, standing up purposefully. ‘Drinks,’ and off I go to the bar.