Chapter Twenty-one

Jemima may well wonder about the divine Ben Williams every now and then, but she would never dream he’s as famous as he now is. Sure, she’s heard about it, she even saw his first foray on television when she was back in London, but she can have no idea of how Ben fever seems to have gripped the nation.

It doesn’t happen all that often, but sometimes a new television presenter will appear, more often than not a woman, and soon every newspaper in the country is writing about them, every person in the country is wishing to be them, and their career takes off in leaps and bounds until you can barely leave your house without seeing huge billboards advertising their presence.

This is how it is for Ben Williams. Those first days on London Nights left him breathless with excitement, not only because of his immediate increase in salary but also because, even then, even after a handful of appearances on television, he was recognized.

The very first time he was asked for his autograph he was in a supermarket. He’d had a great day but he was tired, and all he could think of was getting home, putting his feet up and having a nice, cool beer.

But, walking down one of the aisles, lost in a world of his own, he gradually became aware that he was being followed. At first he thought he was going mad, that his senses were deceiving him, and he kept turning round to find no one there. But eventually he spotted two women standing staring at him, whispering to one another behind their hands.

‘It is!’ he heard one say, as the other gave her a shove and propelled her in Ben’s general direction. Ben didn’t know what was going on, so he ignored them and carried on shopping, until he had no choice.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, a brow-beaten housewife in her mid-forties. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but aren’t you that man on television?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Ben, not quite knowing what to say. ‘Which man?’

‘Oooh you are! I recognize your voice. You’re the new bloke on London Nights aren’t you?’

Ben, to his credit, blushed slightly, and although part of him wished she would keep her voice down because he didn’t want everyone to hear, part of him wished she’d shout a bit louder, so everyone would hear.

‘Um, yes,’ he mumbled, smiling the bashful Ben smile that would soon ensure his already burgeoning heart-throb status.

‘My friend and I think you’re fantastic!’ The words came out in a rush, and as she said it she started rummaging around in her bag, producing a pen and a torn-up scrap of paper.

‘Honestly,’ she continued. ‘You brighten up our house every night. Doesn’t he, Jean?’ she shouted over to her friend, who looked as if she were trying to work up the nerve to come over.

‘Would you mind?’ She offered him the pen and paper, which Ben looked at for a moment wondering what he was supposed to do with it. The woman sidled up next to him and said, ‘I’m Sheila. Could you just put “To Sheila, with lots of love”.’ She tailed off, trying to remember Ben’s name. ‘Is it Tom?’ she asked, as Ben felt a fit of nervous giggles coming on.

‘No,’ he managed to contain himself. ‘It’s Ben. Ben Williams.’

‘That’s it!’ she said. ‘Ben Williams.’

Ben balanced the piece of paper on the handle of his shopping trolley, aware that passing shoppers had stopped to see what was going on, were looking at him in a way, he realized, that meant they too had recognized him, but thankfully no one else was going to do what Sheila was now doing.

‘Oh thank you,’ she breathed heavily, tucking the paper very carefully into the front pocket of her bag. ‘We’ll be watching you tomorrow.’

‘No, no,’ said Ben, recovering his composure. ‘Thank you, and enjoy the show.’

As Sheila and Jean wandered off, heads together like a couple of lovesick teenagers, Ben understood, for perhaps the first time, how his life was about to change.

He went home and phoned Richard to tell him what had happened, and Richard nearly wet himself with laughter.

‘You know what this means don’t you, Ben?’ he said, when he finally stopped.

‘What?’

‘You can’t go anywhere without your full make-up on now,’ and with that he started laughing so hard he had to put down the phone.

Richard thought it was funny that night, but six weeks later, when they decided to go out for a few drinks, he thought it was fantastic.

‘Let’s just go to a local pub,’ suggested Ben.

‘Not on your life, mate,’ said Richard. ‘You’re famous, you don’t go to local pubs, you go to bars and restaurants where the women are gorgeous.’

And so it was that they ended up at Fifth Floor, on the top of Harvey Nichols, one Friday night, and Richard was right, the women were gorgeous. They bought champagne, and within minutes found themselves surrounded by stunning women, model figures encased in the latest fashions. Nobody actually asked for Ben’s autograph, nobody would be that uncool, but it was blindingly obvious from the stares, the whispers, the flirtatious looks, that everyone knew exactly who Ben was.

‘Fantastic!’ said Richard at one point. ‘I must remember to bring you out with me more often.’

‘Yeah,’ laughed Ben, who was enjoying himself, but still wasn’t completely comfortable with his new-found fame.

‘What about the redhead?’ Richard nudged Ben, and they both watched her perfect undulating backside as she went to the loo to apply more lipstick.

‘What about her?’ said Ben, admiring the way she carried off a skirt that short, that clingy.

‘She’s up for it, Ben. What about you?’

Of course Ben was up for it, what red-blooded young man wouldn’t have been? But Ben, remember, is not just a dizzy television presenter. Ben’s a journalist, and Ben has met many women like this, and he knows perfectly well how they operate.

‘Rich, do you really think I want to wake up next Sunday and read all about my bedroom exploits in the News of the World?’

‘She wouldn’t!’ said Richard.

‘She bloody well would.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Trust me.’ He almost added, ‘I’m a journalist,’ but he restrained himself at the last minute. ‘I just know.’

So Richard went home with a blonde, and Ben went home alone, and the next day Richard phoned him with tales of the blonde, all related in a very bad Monty Python pastiche. ‘Did she go, eh? Did she go?’

And that was merely the beginning of Ben’s journey into celebritydom, a small stepping stone. For now, just a few months down the line, Ben is well and truly established. No longer is he a mere reporter, he’s now a presenter. The presenter. The public know he’s single, they know he lives with two flatmates (although with his new large income he’s started looking for a flat of his own), they know his likes and dislikes. But to be fair, none of them really knows him. They don’t know what his sense of humour’s like, they don’t know what makes him tick, what he thinks about when he lies in bed at night, because Ben, being the journalist that he is, has perfected the art of putting on a face for the press, and, charming as he is to the other journalists who now clamour to interview him, he never shows them who he really is.

Only his close friends know that. Only people like Geraldine. Richard. And Jemima Jones. But Ben hasn’t had too much time on his hands to think about his former work colleagues. He tried to keep in touch, really he did, but he was swept up in such a whirlwind it was difficult for him to find the time, and the longer he prevaricated, the harder it was to pick up the phone. And now his life is work, parties, launches, interviews. Never has he been so busy.

And never has London Daytime Television had such a bright star. Everywhere she goes Diana Macpherson is patted on the back, congratulated on her brilliant discovery.

Diana, as far as she’s concerned, made Ben, and that means one thing in Diana’s book. He owes her. Big time. And she’s simply waiting for that day when she can call in her debt, because Diana Macpherson, like so many other strong, successful, scary women, always wants what she can’t have. And she wants Ben Williams, not only because he’s gorgeous, but because he’s shown no interest in her whatsoever.

Diana Macpherson is well used to bedding rising stars, wannabe celebrities who hang on her every word, feed the aura of power that surrounds her. What she’s not used to are men like Ben, men who are polite, charming, friendly, but make no response whatsoever to her overt flirtations.

Just last week she called him in and told him they ought to have a drink, just to discuss how the programme was going, to see whether they could come up with any other ideas.

Ben thought it was a bit strange, but, television being television, he’d already heard all the gossip about Diana and her toy boys, that her nickname was the Piranha, and he could tell from the way she looked at him that the last thing on her mind was the programme.

‘Rich,’ he whispered into the phone, checking there was no one around to overhear.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘It’s Diana. I don’t think I can hold her off much longer.’

‘How many times, Ben? How often have I told you not to shit on your own doorstep?’

‘I don’t want to,’ Ben said emphatically, ‘but we’re going out tonight for a drink and I’m running out of excuses.’

‘Whoa,’ Richard laughed. ‘Better put your chastity belt on.’

‘For God’s sake, Rich. I need advice.’

‘Tell her you’ve got a girlfriend.’ Richard was already sounding bored.

‘She knows I haven’t.’

‘Well, I don’t know. Just say you’ve got a headache.’ He laughed at his joke.

‘Forget it,’ said Ben. ‘I suppose I’ll cope.’

Diana turned a business drink into dinner at a small French bistro in Chelsea, a dark, cosy, candlelit restaurant, perfect for romantic trysts.

‘It’s my local,’ she told Ben, who tried to ignore the fact that she had transformed herself into a complete dog’s dinner between the last time he saw her in the office and the time she reappeared to tell him she was ready to go. She was wearing a plunging, see-through, fitted shirt, a black Wonderbra more than visible underneath, with a very tight skirt and very high heels.

‘You look nice,’ Ben said, aware that she was his boss, that he had to flatter her, but trying to keep things as professional as he could.

‘Oh thanks,’ she said, preening like a schoolgirl and trying to sound surprised. ‘This old thing?’ she said, brushing her shirt, the shirt she’d bought at lunchtime with the express purpose of finally seducing Ben.

They sat down and Ben did his damnedest to talk about work. The wine was flowing, and he tried to drink as slowly as possible, to stretch out every drop, while Diana kept topping up their glasses – his always half full, hers always completely empty.

So they made small talk about work through the hors-d’oeuvres, while Ben tried, unsuccessfully, not to get too drunk, and to give him his credit he did manage to stretch work talk until halfway through the main course, when Diana put down her knife and fork, and leaned forward.

‘Ben,’ she said in what she hoped was a husky voice. ‘I don’t often meet men as charismatic as you.’

‘Thanks, Diana. Shall we get some more mineral water?’

‘Ben,’ she said again. ‘What I’m trying to say is —’

‘Waiter?’ Ben looked around frantically for the waiter while Diana sighed and sat back in her chair, for Ben had spoilt the moment. Her moment.

Ben declined pudding, at which Diana was delighted, for she had already decided that Ben would be coming back to hers for a nightcap. Then the timing would be right. The timing would be perfect.

‘My house is just round the corner,’ she said as they walked out, her having paid, for Diana Macpherson probably has the largest expense account in the country.

‘Okay, fine. Thanks for a lovely evening,’ said Ben, backing off.

‘You don’t mean you’d let me walk home by myself?’ said Diana, mock indignantly. ‘A girl on her own at night?’

Girl? thought Ben. In your dreams. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he apologized, now not knowing what the hell to do, because, much as he didn’t want to sleep with her, he didn’t want her to sack him either, and, despite being famous and sought after, Ben knows exactly how transient the television world is, and he knows perfectly well that today’s Ben Williams is tomorrow’s David Icke.

They walked along, side by side, and when Diana took Ben’s arm he resisted the urge to flinch. Oh fuck, he just kept thinking. Oh fuck.

And when they reached the door, Diana turned to him, a playful smile on her lips. ‘Now how about that nightcap?’ she said.

Ben silently prayed. If you help me now, God, I promise I’ll go to church, and he heard the sound of an engine, and as he turned round he glimpsed the orange light of a black cab that was free. ‘Taxi,’ he yelled, sticking out his arm, while Diana looked crestfallen.

But the taxi driver had been working all day, and he was off home to his wife and kids. He shook his head at Ben as Diana smirked. ‘Why don’t you come in and I’ll call you a minicab?’ she said.

But she didn’t pick up the phone, and Ben was so impressed with the minimalist grandeur of her flat and, by this stage, so drunk that he forgot to ask why not. She placed a large whisky in his hand, and a firm hand on his thigh.

Oh fuck, Ben thought again, but before he had a chance to think up a strategy Diana was kissing him, and, although he knew he shouldn’t, in a funny sort of way he was quite enjoying it. This was Diana Macpherson! Oh what the hell, thought Ben in his drunken state, why not?

And so Ben and Diana finally consummated their professional relationship. Ben, drunk though he was, ensured he gave the performance of his life, which probably wasn’t such a good thing, because Diana, having experienced the most overwhelming orgasm of her life thanks to Ben’s proficiency at oral sex, thinks she has fallen in love.

The oral sex was Ben’s way of proving to Diana that he was a good lover, for the sex, at least in Ben’s eyes, was pretty damn average. Sure, he made all the right moves and did all the right things, but, as far as he was concerned, he could have been fucking a shop-window dummy, and yes, he managed to do it, but no, it wasn’t good for him. And, perhaps most importantly, Ben has remembered why he doesn’t have meaningless sex with faceless women. Because it’s not worth it.

There’s only one problem. The sex may have been meaningless but the woman has a face. And a name. Diana Macpherson. His boss. Oh shit.

And after this night of passion, when Diana took the lead and Ben just thanked God he didn’t suffer from Brewer’s Droop, Diana has decided that Ben is the best thing that’s ever happened to her. Her constant gazes at Ben have not, unsurprisingly, gone unnoticed in the office, and rumours of a suspected affair have already started flying around.

But Diana would never confirm them. No one would ever dare ask her to her face. And anyway, one night of passion hardly constitutes an affair, except Diana doesn’t plan on leaving it at one night. No siree.

‘I just knew he had that star quality the minute he walked in the door,’ she tells Jo Hartley, a freelance journalist who’s writing a huge piece about the rise and rise of Ben Williams for an upmarket tabloid. ‘Presenters like Ben are few and far between, and it’s my job to spot them then develop them and realize their full potential.’

‘Was it a conscious move, to employ someone who was single, because so many of the other presenters are married? And presumably with Ben and his obvious sex appeal you’re attracting a much younger audience.’

‘Mmm,’ nodded Diana, thinking about Ben’s obvious sex appeal. ‘I’d say you’d just about hit the nail on the head.’

The piece runs over a double-page spread, with several pictures of Ben as a child, as a teenager, and finally in all his current glory.

‘Un. Be. Lievable,’ says Geraldine as she sips the cappuccino she picked up on the way to work and reads the paper. One of the news reporters walks past her desk.

‘I see you’re finding out all about our old deputy news editor,’ he says as he passes.

‘Who would have thought?’ she says, eyes hardly able to leave the page, and then she shrieks with laughter as she reads the next quote.

‘Even Diana Macpherson, the feisty head of programming at London Daytime Television, seems won over by this man’s charm. At the very mention of his name her eyes glaze over like the rest of the female population.

‘“I love his obvious sex appeal,” she says. “I chose him, initially as a reporter, and even then I knew that I could develop that.”’

When Geraldine finishes the piece, she sits back and lights a cigarette, trying to postpone that bloody Top Tips column. But then her eyes sparkle as she grabs the paper again, pulls out the two pages covered in Ben Williams, carefully folds them up and slips them into an A4 brown envelope.

‘Darling Jemima,’ she writes on a compliments slip. ‘If I had time I’d write a letter, but I wanted you to see this. Can you believe it?!! Ben Williams splashed all over two pages!! Wish I’d known then what I know now … maybe I would have taken him up on his offer after all!! Hope you’re having a spectacularly marvellous time, and give Brad’s pecs a lick from me. Speak to you very, very soon, all my love, Geraldine.’

Smacking her lips, she seals the envelope and addresses it to Jemima, and on her way to the post-tray she smiles with delight at the thought of Jemima’s surprised face when she gets it.

Ben’s sitting at the breakfast table about to tuck into a bowl of cereal when he hears the thud of the paper on the mat. Shit, he thinks. Today’s the day the interview goes in. He hates doing publicity, but Diana, in her professional mode, has told him he has to do everything, because everything depends on the ratings and good PR means better ratings.

For the last few weeks Ben has had daily conversations with the head of publicity at the TV station, who’s constantly arranging for Ben to see journalists, or to take part in one of those rent-a-celeb pieces in which Ben’s opinion on complete crap sits alongside other celebrities’ opinions on the selfsame complete crap. But never has he had a profile this big. He agreed to the interview, under duress, and it was only afterwards that he discovered they were doing more than just talking to him, they were ringing up all his friends as well. ‘A colour piece,’ Jo Hartley had said. She didn’t say stitch-up, but then Ben supposed she wouldn’t, would she.

So with heavy heart he opened the paper, immediately cringing with embarrassment as he saw the pictures. Now where in the hell did they get those from?

I can’t believe I said that, he thinks, starting to read the piece, before realizing that he didn’t say it, that Jo Hartley had taken what he had said and paraphrased it into more tabloid-friendly language.

He carries on reading, shocked at what they’d found out about him. Nothing spectacularly juicy, just stuff that he’d forgotten about. They’d dug up people he’d vaguely known at university, and there are several paragraphs devoted to his life as a rugger bugger, but luckily no real kiss and tells, just mentions of previous girlfriends.

‘Jemima was right,’ he murmurs, scanning the rest of the page. ‘Being famous isn’t quite what it’s cracked up to be.’ Bloody hell, he thinks. Jemima Jones! Now why the hell didn’t I think of Jemima. She’ll give me advice about Diana, he thinks. She’ll tell me what to do. And then he thinks of how long it’s been since he last called her, and how she had always known just what to do.

Jesus, Ben, he thinks to himself, you’ve been a real bastard not calling Jemima. Geraldine, he thinks, he could live without. Yes, he fancied her, but there was never the connection that he had with Jemima. You should never have left it this long, he thinks, and with that he picks up the phone and dials her home number.

‘Hello. Is Jemima there, please?’

‘No, she’s on holiday in Los Angeles for a couple of weeks.’

‘She’s what? What’s she doing there?’

‘Who is this?’ Lisa vaguely recognizes the voice.

‘This is Ben Williams. Is that Sophie?’

‘No,’ says Lisa, mentally rubbing her hands together with glee because Sophie’s popped out to get some cigarettes and she’ll go ballistic when she finds out Ben Williams phoned. ‘This is Lisa,’ she laughs. ‘The brunette.’

‘Oh hi. How are you?’

‘Just fine,’ she says. ‘And I don’t need to ask how you are, all I have to do is switch on my television.’

‘Yes,’ Ben laughs, because what is he supposed to say? There’s a silence while Lisa tries to think of something clever to say next, but she can’t think of anything at all, and the silence stretches on.

‘Sorry,’ says Ben, finally. ‘I thought you were going to say something.’

‘Oh. No.’

‘What’s Jemima doing in LA?’

‘She’s staying with her new boyfriend.’

‘You’re joking!’ Ben’s flabbergasted. ‘Not that Internet guy?’

‘Yes, that’s the one.’

‘You haven’t got her number by any chance have you?’

‘Hang on,’ says Lisa, reaching for the pad by the phone. She reads the number out to Ben, and then says, ‘Um, you should pop in some time. Have a drink with us.’ Which of course means have a drink with me.

‘Yeah, sure. I’ll do that,’ says Ben, which of course means he’ll forget about her the instant he puts down the phone. Which he does. He also neglects to phone Jemima in LA, because Diana Macpherson is next on the line, presumably hoping to soothe his furrowed brow. But he will phone Jemima, he honestly will. As soon as he remembers again.