Chapter Sixteen

Hi Darling,

I can’t believe you’re coming, you’re actually coming! My friends are even more excited than I am, if that’s possible. But seriously, I will come to the airport to pick you up because it’s kinda out of the way, so from there we’ll go straight back to my house. Don’t worry about anything - I’ve already made up the spare room for you and I think you’ll be very happy in there - you have your own TV, video and bathroom, and I’ve filled the whole house with flowers for you!

If you’re not too tired, it would be really nice to take you out for dinner, but let’s see how you feel. I’m just looking forward to actually meeting you, and I know I should be worried but I’m not, I really have a good feeling about this, although I probably shouldn’t be saying that yet!

Have a great flight, darling, and I’ll see you in two weeks’ time! (Oh my God - two weeks!)

Huge hugs and kisses, Brad, xxxxxx

‘Well that’s it now,’ I say, turning to Geraldine, who’s reading my e-mail over my shoulder. ‘Like it or not I’m going.’

‘What do you mean like it or not? You sound so unhappy about it. Tell you what, I’ll go.’

I smile, because I am excited, but, if you really must know, the only person I desperately want to see looking like this is Ben, but Ben, as you already know, seems to be long gone, and Brad, I suppose, is the next best thing.

‘I’m sort of serious,’ adds Geraldine. ‘Most women would give their right arm to be flying off to meet a hunk like Brad.’

‘No, I do want to.’ And it’s true, I do, and I know that I don’t have anything to worry about any more on the looks front, it’s just that I’m seriously nervous, I’ve never done anything this, well, this adventurous in my life. ‘But what if it’s awful?’

‘Look at you, Jemima,’ says Geraldine forcefully. ‘You’re still worried that he’s not going to like you aren’t you?’

I shrug, because, although I can see that I’ve changed, that I look like a completely different person, underneath I still feel the same, I still feel fat.

‘That’s not going to happen,’ Geraldine continues. ‘You are gorgeous, will you just get used to it and get on with your life?’

‘Okay, okay,’ I say, smiling. Anything to get her off this track, because ridiculous as it may sound I’m getting a bit sick of people telling me how beautiful I am, I just can’t take it all that seriously, and I don’t feel beautiful. Not yet. Well, maybe I do occasionally, but it only seems to last a few minutes at the most. If anything I feel a bit of a fraud. ‘I suppose I’d better go and see the editor and ask for the time off.’

‘You mean you booked your ticket without checking to see if it was okay?’ Geraldine is horrified.

‘Yes.’ It wasn’t exactly forefront in my mind, what with having to lose about a billion stone in three months. ‘I’ve booked the ticket so now I just have to make the time.’

‘Talk about flying by the seat of your pants,’ and Geraldine walks off muttering under her breath.

‘Come in, come in,’ says the editor, leaping out of his seat and coming to open the door for me, which is astounding because he has never, ever done this in the past. ‘I’m glad you came to see me,’ he says, except he’s not looking into my eyes as he says this, the old lech is eyeing my body up and down. ‘There are a few things I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.’ I just bet there are.

I sit down in the chair he’s proffering and try to cross my legs slowly in the way I’ve seen Sophie and Lisa do so many times before, my right ankle tucked sensually behind my left calf, both legs at an angle, and I suppress a laugh at how I, Jemima Jones, can finally use my looks to further my career. The editor certainly looks as if he approves. In fact, he’s so bloody busy approving my legs he seems to have forgotten what it was he wanted to talk to me about. I cough.

‘Yes, yes. What was I saying?’ He reluctantly drags his eyes up to my face. ‘Good Lord, Jemima,’ he says after yet another pause. ‘I’m sorry, love, I just can’t believe it’s you.’

I smile benignly, now used to getting compliments from men who have known me for years, who before never seemed to notice me in the slightest.

Only this morning the internal phone rang yet again. Yet another news reporter wondering if I could do a story for him, and would I mind meeting for a drink at lunchtime to discuss it further. At first I wondered what the hell was going on, but according to Geraldine I’m now the office ‘babe’, and I know I should be flattered, delighted, but actually I’m slightly pissed off that no one ever bothered with me before. But it’s not all bad. At least the work has improved.

For the first time last week I was sent on an interview, and not just a crappy, boring interview, I was sent to interview the new star of a London soap, who conveniently lives around the corner from the Kilburn Herald, not having, as yet, earnt enough money to move to a better area.

The interview went fantastically. A little too fantastically perhaps, as I ended up trying to manoeuvre myself out of the way of this admittedly cute man who seemed to have sprouted a thousand hands, all of which were trying to paw me.

Life, I now realize, is certainly different when you’re thin. Even the gym has now become a place of excitement, for wonder of wonders, I seem to have been welcomed into the crowd of beautiful people, and even in my leotard – yes, I replaced my huge tracksuits a long time ago with tight black leotards and cycling shorts (even slim I don’t quite have the confidence to wear the brightly coloured lycra crop tops and thongs I once dreamt of) – with no make-up on at all and my hair scraped back into a ponytail, there’s always some bloke who decides he’s going to chat me up. Amazing.

‘Working hard?’ they usually start, as I smile, nod and try to continue my workout, but they still stand there, trying to make conversation, and if Paul, my trainer, happens to be around, he usually steps in and steers them on to another machine. Thank God for Paul.

Thank God indeed, for Paul is the one person who is worried about Jemima. He can’t help but smile when he sees these muscular hopefuls chat her up. If only they had seen her before, he thinks, but of course these men had, only they hadn’t ever noticed her. Paul has been trying to monitor Jemima’s routine, for although she does look amazing, he is worried about how quickly the weight has come off, and he is convinced that under the golden skin – she has been using Clarins fake tan regularly on Geraldine’s recommendation – Jemima Jones may not be as healthy as she looks.

He has tried to broach the subject with Jemima, but she is instantly dismissive. ‘Of course I’m eating enough, Paul!’ she keeps saying. ‘Anorexic? Me? Don’t make me laugh.’ For the record Jemima isn’t anorexic, merely obsessed, which is definitely equally unhealthy, and possibly nearly as dangerous. We shall see.

And now, sitting in the editor’s office after my lunchtime workout, I watch as he picks up the phone and rings his secretary. ‘Laura,’ he barks in his gruff Northern accent, ‘we’ll have two coffees and a plate of biscuits.’ He puts the phone down and says to me, or should that be, leers, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be eating the biscuits. Must be hard to maintain that figure.’

And more fool me, I blush. ‘I manage,’ I say firmly.

‘Now then, Jemima. The reason I wanted to talk to you was because I think you are destined for greater things. I always told you your time would come, and now that you’ve proven yourself with that interview, I think we’re ready to move you on to features.’

Funny that. Funny how, now that I’m slim and blonde, he suddenly wants to promote me. I know I should be grateful, he probably expects me to gush my thanks, but all I can think of as I sit here looking at his expectant face, his chubby cheeks and his little piggy eyes that keep straying down to my legs is, you bastard. You big bloody bastard. You would never have given me this chance if I didn’t look like this. If I hadn’t lost weight I would have carried on doing the Top Tips page for the rest of my bloody life.

‘Well?’ says the editor, doubtless expecting me to be overjoyed.

‘Well,’ I say, completely torn, because, bastard though he may be, this is the chance I’ve been waiting for for years, but then it’s also sexist, and really, I’m speechless, and half of me wants to tell him to stuff his offer, while the other half wants to pounce on it. ‘Why now?’ I say eventually, after the editor has started to sweat somewhat.

‘It’s just a question of timing,’ he says. ‘We always knew you were an asset to the paper, and now, with Ben gone, we need another bright young thing to do all the big interviews, and let’s face it, Jemima, the fact that you’ve turned into a stunning young woman doesn’t do you any harm.’

There. He said it. He actually admitted that he was a sexist bastard. And I sit and look around his office. I look first at the threadbare grey carpet, stained with coffee, the odd cigarette burn. I look at the framed front pages on the wall, big stories that have got into the nationals, and I look at the editor sitting behind his cheap formica desk in his cheap nylon shirt with his fat fingers and nicotine-stained smile, and my overwhelming feeling is that I want nothing more than to turn on my heel and run. I want to run far, far away from the Kilburn Herald. And the mention of my beloved Ben’s name is like a knife through my heart because he still hasn’t called, and the best thing I can do is get away from here, from him, from all the memories.

But I don’t say that. I can’t say that. Not just yet.

‘I’d love the job,’ I say finally, forcing a smile. ‘But on one condition.’

‘Condition?’ The editor wasn’t expecting any conditions.

‘I need a holiday. I’d like to go away in two weeks’ time for a fortnight.’

The editor sighs with relief, and I know exactly what he was thinking during the silence. For a minute there he thought I was going to be telling him I’d only take the job at a massive increase in salary.

‘No problem, love,’ he says. ‘Geraldine can do your page while you’re gone, and while you’re away we’ll take on someone new to take over the Top Tips. How does that sound?’

‘Fine,’ but shit, Geraldine will go mad. ‘Oh,’ I add, getting up to leave. ‘One more thing. I’m assuming that there will be an increase in my salary commensurate with my new job?’

The editor is almost speechless, probably amazed at the confidence losing weight can bring, for the Jemima Jones of old would never have dared to say anything like that, and, I have to admit, he has a point.

‘Naturally,’ he blusters. ‘I’ll talk to the financial people and we’ll work something out. Don’t worry, love, leave it to me. Where are you off to anyway?’

‘Los Angeles,’ I smile, closing the door behind me and relishing the look on his face, for the editor’s idea of a holiday is Brighton, or, at an absolute push, a week in Majorca. And as I walk down the corridor I start to feel, for the first time, a small buzz of excitement in the pit of my stomach. ‘Oh my God. I’m going to Los Angeles!’

‘You can’t wear that!’ Geraldine lies back on my bed and flings her hands dramatically over her eyes. ‘Jemima! for God’s sake, haven’t you heard of airoplane chic?’

‘Airoplane what?’ I’m being practical, I’m waiting in my tracksuit, a pair of comfortable trainers and a T-shirt for my long-haul flight. But I want to look good for Brad, so in my hand luggage I’ve put a mini skirt, a linen shirt and knee-high boots which I’m planning to change into just before we land. Just in case you’re wondering, the last two weeks have positively flown by, and today’s the day, I’m actually going. Geraldine – and what would I now do without Geraldine – is driving me to the airport, as caught up in my adventure as I am myself.

‘Airoplane chic,’ she repeats. ‘You know, the glamorous look that all the celebs and models employ when they fly anywhere.’

‘But Geraldine,’ I say smiling, ‘I think you’re forgetting that, er, I’m not a celeb or a model. I’m a journalist on the Kilburn bloody Herald. And anyway’ – I open my bag and show her the contents – ‘I’ve packed clothes to change into, I don’t want to be uncomfortable on the flight.’

‘First, Brad doesn’t know you work on the Kilburn bloody Herald,’ she reminds me. ‘He thinks you’re Miss Snazzy Television Presenter, and while I’m not suggesting you wear a suit or knee-high boots on the flight, at the very least employ a bit of glamour.’ She clicks her teeth. ‘Those clothes,’ she gestures to my overnight bag, ‘are completely wrong for a flight. Even if they are only to change into at the end.’

I shrug as she opens my suitcase and starts rifling around. ‘This,’ she mutters, pulling out a crisp white T-shirt. ‘This,’ she says, holding up a pair of black stretchy trousers and nodding approvingly. ‘And this,’ she says, digging out an oversized black sweater, ‘to loop casually over your shoulders. You can still wear the trainers but this is LA, now all you need are the accessories to complete your look of airoplane chic.’

‘Accessories?’

‘I knew it!’ she says. ‘After all my lessons you still haven’t learnt about the importance of accessories. Jemima, my darling, accessories are everything. But Auntie Geraldine came prepared so you don’t have to worry. Be back in a sec.’

I get changed into the clothes Geraldine chose as she runs to the car. A minute later she runs back holding a Louis Vuitton vanity case, which even I, Jemima Jones, know costs an absolute fortune.

‘Now Jemima,’ she says, looking at me very seriously. ‘This vanity case was a present from Dimitri, and although Dimitri and I are no longer, this is my pride and joy. I am lending it to you now, but guard it with your life.’

‘Geraldine, I’m speechless. But what do I need it for?’

‘To look the part. Everyone carries a Louis Vuitton vanity case when they’re travelling. And now,’ she says, ‘for the pièce, or pièces, de résistance.’ She opens the vanity case and pulls out a pair of large, tortoiseshell Cutler & Gross sunglasses. ‘These were used in a fashion shoot a couple of weeks ago and I lost them. I feel terrible, I phoned the PR and she’s just about forgiven me. I can’t think where they’ve got to.’ She grins wickedly as she hands them to me. ‘You don’t actually need to wear them on the flight. Wear them at the airport, and when you’re not wearing them on your eyes, wear them on top of your head.’ She shows me how to loop my hair back perfectly with the glasses, which, it has to be said, do seem to add a touch of instant glamour.

‘Hmm,’ she says, rifling around in the vanity case. ‘What else have I got here?’ She pulls out two bottles of Evian water and a can of what looks like hairspray, followed by a selection of exotic-looking jars. ‘The water is obviously for you to drink on the plane. Whatever you do, avoid any alcohol, it will only make you retain even more water than you already will. The can is a spray of Evian water, which you have to use as follows.’ She flicks back her hair and, with a flourish of her hand, sprays the mist finely over her face, breathing a sigh of relief when she’s done. ‘There,’ she says. ‘It’s what all the models do, as it stops your skin drying out. These,’ she adds, gesturing to the pots, ‘are also freebies. I phoned the company and told them I was writing a piece about their products so they sent me the whole range. They’re super-duper moisturizing products, and I would suggest you use them every couple of hours. Darling, you have no idea how flying dries out your skin. And finally,’ she says, pulling out a tiny little white plastic bottle, ‘eye drops to give you those bright, white, sparkling eyes, even after an eleven-hour flight. God,’ she adds, almost to herself, ‘someone should pay me for this.’

‘Geraldine,’ I say, shaking my head but unable to stop smiling, ‘you, are a godsend. What would I do without you?’

‘What you’d do, Jemima, is look like every other wannabe flying to Los Angeles with stars in her eyes. Now you look like a there.’

‘A what?’

‘A there. A made-it, whatever you want to call it.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Jesus, we’d better leave if we’re going to make it. Are you all set?’

‘Nearly. I’ve just got to write a note for Sophie and Lisa.’ Geraldine rolls her eyes. ‘I have to, Geraldine. Just in case there’s an emergency.’

‘I bet you’re glad to see the back of them.’

‘I don’t mind. They don’t bother me much, they’re quite amusing in a sad sort of way.’

‘Yup, an ugly sisters sort of way.’

‘Exactly,’ I laugh.

‘So how do you feel?’ Geraldine asks, as we lug my cases to the front door.

‘Nervous as hell?’

‘Don’t be. I wish it was me. You’re going to have a blast.’

Jemima Jones is getting a lot of attention at the airport, although she hasn’t really noticed, too caught up in the excitement of her trip to take in the admiring glances. Perhaps it’s the fact that she does indeed look like a made-it, particularly when she puts the sunglasses on to hide her exhilaration, perhaps it is simply that, with the help of her fairy godmother Geraldine, she seems to have perfected the art of looking impossibly cool, not to mention beautiful. Whatever the reason, the package-tour people are nudging one another and whispering, ‘Who do you think it is?’ ‘I’m sure she’s famous.’ ‘Isn’t she the girl from that film?’

‘I’m going to miss you,’ says Geraldine, putting her arms around me and giving me a huge hug. ‘Who’s going to make my days bearable for the next two weeks?’

‘Who’s going to rewrite your copy, you mean.’ I grin, hugging her back and completely forgetting to mention that Geraldine has the joy of writing the Top Tips column in store for her.

‘That too,’ says Geraldine, ‘but seriously, I really am going to miss you. Have the most fantastic time. Will you call me?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘As soon as you get there? I’m dying to know what he’s like. God, he might be short, fat and balding.’

‘Don’t!’ I admonish, because I’m nervous enough as it is. ‘That would be awful,’ and then I remember that although I’ve never been short and balding, I was once fat, and in a split second I remember how people judged me, how they misjudged me, more like. ‘But it would be okay if he was a nice person,’ I add, although I’m crossing my fingers and praying he has a full head of hair. ‘Anyway, we’ve seen his picture, I’m sure it really is him.’

‘If you’re sure, I’m sure,’ says Geraldine, ‘but whatever he’s like you’ve got a ticket to Los Angeles. Are you absolutely certain you can’t fit me in your suitcase?’

We both look down at my suitcase, so full all the sides are positively bulging. ‘Quite certain,’ I laugh, ‘although what I wouldn’t give to have you come with.’

‘Take care,’ says Geraldine, giving her another hug, and as Geraldine leaves Jemima she realizes that she really will miss her, that Jemima has become very important in her life, that Jemima has helped her to rediscover the joys of female friendship, for, up until recently, Geraldine always considered herself a man’s woman, a woman with no time for female friends. Isn’t it strange how things change …

And that’s it. I’m on my own. I walk up to the Virgin check-in, a bottle of mineral water in one hand, the Louis Vuitton vanity case in the other, and a pile of glossy magazines, ‘to keep you from getting bored’, from Geraldine under my arm. I hand my economy ticket over the counter, and someone, somewhere, must be smiling upon me today, or perhaps Geraldine’s ploy is working, but whatever it is the check-in girl seems to think I might be a made-it as well, and although she tells me it’s not airline policy to upgrade those who simply look the part, the economy class is full, and Virgin would like to upgrade me to upper class.

What a result!

‘Gosh! Really? That’s fantastic!’ I say, forgetting to act like a famous film star, like someone who would naturally be upgraded. ‘Actually, I’ve never even flown before! And now I’m flying upper class! Thank you, thank you so much.’

Needless to say the check-in girl looks shocked, she realizes her mistake, but lucky me, it’s too late, and I don’t even care that I’ve been desperately uncool because I’m the one with the upgrade! I’m the one flying upper class!

And then I have two hours to kill in the airport, and I buy books at the airport bookstore, splash myself with perfume in Duty Free, and look longingly at the jewellery shops, picking out what I would buy if I had the money.

I also spend far too much time looking longingly at the Silk Cut, but no, I do not smoke any more. Not even when I’m so nervous I could be sick. No. I’m fit and healthy. I do not need to smoke. So, when a voice comes over the tannoy telling me my flight is boarding, I bounce down to the departure gate, trying to control the urge to shout with excitement and joy.

Eleven hours is a hell of a long time to spend on a flight, but eleven hours can pass incredibly quickly when you’re Jemima Jones and you’ve never flown before. Eleven hours can pass incredibly quickly when you are sunk in the height of luxury, when you are fed and watered at the drop of a hat, when you have your own personal video screen and can choose any film that takes your fancy. Jemima Jones is far too excited to sleep, and when the stewardesses pull down the shutters on the aeroplane windows and the rest of the people in upper class pull on their eye patches and gently snooze, Jemima Jones watches videos, reads her magazines, and spends a disproportionately long time with her head leant back, thinking about her life.

She thinks about the way her life has changed. She thinks about Brad, about what he’s going to look like, what he’s going to think of her, what she will do in Los Angeles. And she thinks about Ben, but she tries not to think about him too much, for every time she does she cannot help but feel a physical pull, a pang perhaps. Try as she might to get on with her life, the fact remains that she misses him, that she suspects she’ll never feel quite the same way about anyone ever again, and this is something that she doesn’t think she’ll get over for a very long time.

So she sits in upper class and sprays her can of Evian on her face, drinks her mineral water, and religiously rubs moisturizer in to stop her skin dehydrating. An hour before they arrive she goes to the loo to put on her make-up, and as she stands there, as she brushes her mascara on, the butterflies suddenly start flying around her stomach and she looks at herself in the mirror and says disbelievingly, ‘Jemima Jones, what the hell are you doing?’