From Notting Hill to New York . . . Actually (3 page)

‘The new
Wake Up Britain
fitness expert? To say there’s been a bit of a panic going
on down there,’ he gestures down the corridor, ‘is an understatement. We didn’t think you were going to make it when you said you’d been in a traffic accident. I’m Rich. We spoke on the phone.’

I stare at him blankly.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks, looking worried. ‘Are you in shock or something? You don’t have concussion, do you?’

‘Er, no …’

‘Good-good, then let’s get you down to make-up. You’re looking a bit pale.’

He grasps hold of my arm, and before I know what’s happening I’m being escorted down the corridor and into a small room decorated almost entirely in white. It has large mirrors running the length of the wall, and several high seats standing in front of the mirrors.

‘Hi,’ says a young girl with long auburn hair and wild jewellery, gesturing at one of the seats. ‘Sit right here. Won’t be a mo.’

I’m just about to explain that I’m not actually an expert in fitness, and that the only time I really get out of breath is when I have to run the length of Oxford Street on the first day of the sales, and that I can judge my current strength levels on just how many shopping bags my biceps can endure
in the process without becoming too overloaded … when she whips a white gown away from the person sitting in the chair next to me.

‘There, all done, Mr Firth,’ she says, coyly smiling at him in the mirror.

‘Thank you, Michelle,’ he says, a charming smile spreading across his newly made-up face. He lifts himself from the chair and glances in my direction. ‘Don’t worry – you’re in safe hands. Probably bump into you in the green room in a few minutes,’ is his parting comment, before he’s suddenly surrounded by people wearing headphones and carrying clipboards. Most that gather in the gang don’t actually seem to have a reason to be there, but just need to be passing by at the time because, hey, it
is
Colin Firth.

‘Now,’ Michelle says, securing a clean white gown around my neck so I can’t escape. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

I should protest. I should say, ‘No, I’m not supposed to be sitting here. I’m not a fitness expert,’ or whatever it is Rich thinks I am. But I can’t. Colin Firth has just spoken to me. Mr Darcy has just said, ‘See you in the green room in a few minutes.’ I’m not going to turn down an invitation like that, am I?

Michelle spends the next few minutes making me look fit to appear on TV. This involves spraying quite a lot of very dark base on me so I look
as if I’ve been under a sunbed a tad too long, with a sort of spraying wand that Michelle explains is specifically made for high-definition television make-up. Then she applies more eye make-up and blusher than I’ve ever worn on an evening out, let alone to give me the healthy glow of a fitness instructor first thing in the morning. But Michelle insists it’s all necessary under the bright TV lights, so I go along with it while I try to make it sound as if I know something about exercise and fitness. I throw in a few words I’ve heard Davina mention in her DVDs like ‘quads’ and ‘hamstrings’, except while I’m doing all this I’m also trying to plan what I might say to Colin in the green room, and my already overwrought mind mistakenly blabs ‘Cheestrings’. I hurriedly correct myself and I don’t think Michelle noticed, and if she did, she’s too well trained to point it out.

My plan is that once I’ve spent a few minutes chatting up – sorry –
conversing politely
with Colin, on subjects like where he keeps his Oscar, I’ll casually sneak out of the green room (I wonder what shade of green it’ll be? My skin will look awful if the room is painted the wrong tone) just before I’m called to go on air, and then I can go and find my own Oscar. I wonder if he’s missed me yet …

Make-up done, I’m hurried along another corridor to a pretty-looking room which, thank goodness, isn’t green at all, where there are delicious-looking refreshments waiting for me on a table, and a comfy sofa with
a couple of other people already sitting on it. No sign of Colin.

‘Just take a seat. Lucy, she’s the floor manager on this morning’s show, she’ll be in to have a chat about your segment in a moment,’ Rich says, looking at his clipboard.

I look hungrily at the croissant on the table in front of me. We hadn’t had breakfast this morning because we were on our way to the gym, and my stomach is beginning to complain.

‘Shame you can’t have any,’ Rich says, glancing over his clipboard at me. ‘They’re delicious, we get them from a little bakery down the road.’

‘I can’t?’ I enquire sadly. Maybe they were for the A-list guests only.

‘You can’t work out on a full stomach, can you?’ he says, looking at me with a puzzled expression.

‘No … no, of course not.’

The door opens and my settee-mates are ushered through it, presumably for their five minutes of TV fame. Rich still hovers by the door.

‘Will Colin be joining us?’ I enquire as casually as I can. If he isn’t coming back in here then I really need to think about making my escape. And soon.

Rich looks at his watch. ‘Yes, he’ll be along in a minute. I think he’s got caught up signing autographs and stuff down the corridor.’

I glance nervously
around me. There’s a little monitor across the room showing exactly what’s going on in the
Wake Up Britain
studio right at this very moment as they broadcast live to the nation, and suddenly I realise that this might not have been such a good idea after all – Oscar-winning actor or not.

I clamber to my feet, about to try and make some excuse about needing fresh air, when the door bursts open and in breezes a young woman wearing jeans, a tight red sweater and a polka-dot scarf tied into a cheery bow at the side of her neck. Her black hair is in a loose ponytail.

‘Hi, you must be Jemma,’ she says, thrusting her hand into mine. ‘So sorry – got tied up back there with Colin. But who wouldn’t want to, eh, given half a chance?’ She winks at me.

‘Hahayeahmm,’ I nervously half mumble, half laugh at her joke.

‘Ye-ss … Now then,’ she says, sitting down next to me. ‘I just want to run through what’s going to happen over the next hour. You had the email I sent last week, so that’s fine … now—’

‘Email?’

‘Yes,’ Lucy looks at me oddly. ‘Are you OK? I know you were involved in a bit of an accident on your way here, but Rich,’ she looks over her shoulder at Rich, ‘said you were fine now.’

Why do they keep mentioning
an accident? Then it all falls into place. The pile-up we drove past with the jogger … She must have been the fitness expert they were expecting in here this morning! And now, seeing me dressed like this, wandering about in the corridor earlier …

‘So, are you?’ she prompts, looking worried. ‘Only you’re on in …’ she glances at her watch. ‘Bugger, Rich, why didn’t you say? Quick, Jemma, this way!’ She grabs my arm and yanks me off the sofa. Before I’ve got time to protest, I’m dragged along a corridor and through a door with a red ON AIR sign lit up above it.

I stand there, panic-stricken, with
Lucy gripping my arm like a vice. I look past a bank of cameramen and see two orange sofas. Sitting on them are the two regular
Wake Up Britain
presenters, reading off an autocue and talking into one of the cameras. Lucy holds her finger to her lips. ‘You need to be quiet,’ she whispers. ‘They’re live right now.’

I look around me and try to bolt for the exit. But Lucy is surprisingly strong and blocks my way. ‘Where are you going?’ she hisses. ‘You’re on in a minute!’

‘Toilet,’ I squeak. ‘Desperate.’

‘Sorry, no time. Ad break in three … two … one … now. Go!’ she calls, herding me towards one of the orange sofas.

‘This is Jemma, our
new fitness expert,’ she says by way of introduction. ‘Jemma, meet Julian and Loretta.’

‘Hi, Jemma.’ Loretta holds out her hand and I manage to shake it. Julian just nods as he shakes my hand. I begin to lower my bottom onto the orange sofa.

‘No!’ Lucy cries. ‘It’s your routine first, then question-and-answer after the next break. You did read the running order?’ she asks accusingly, grabbing my arm again and leading me towards a small area with wood laminate flooring and a large screen behind it.

‘Y-yes. Of course I did.’

‘Great, well, just do your thing, the music will cue up automatically, then when you’ve finished, make your way over to the sofa again and Loretta and Julian will interview you. Capeesh?’

I feel my head nodding as my brain bangs on the inside of it going,
No! No! Tell her, you fool. Tell her you’re not the fitness expert now before it’s too—

But it is too late, because suddenly there’s silence in the studio as the ad break ends and we go live again. Lucy disappears behind the row of cameramen and gestures at me to remain on the stage.

I stare wildly around me, wondering how I can escape as I hear Loretta and Julian welcome the viewers back and talk about what’s coming next. As I hear them introduce the new
Wake Up Britain
fitness expert to the
show, I realise there
is
no escape: I’m going to have to do this.

The opening beats to The Black Eyed Peas’ ‘I Gotta Feeling’ begin to play, and I automatically start to sway from side to side like a dad on a dance floor at a wedding, then all of their own accord my hands join in too and begin to clap in time to the music. I now look more like a nursery-school teacher taking a ‘clap and sing’ class than a highly trained fitness instructor appearing on breakfast TV for the first time.
Think, Scarlett
, think
! You’re on live TV …

Then, like a vision from above, she comes to me in my hour of need: Davina.

I quickly pull myself together and launch into a few of the moves I remember from the DVD. I ‘travel’ from left to right across the stage. Perform a couple of squats, and then some more daring lunges. I come a bit of a cropper on the second set of lunges, when my trainer slips on the laminate flooring and I almost end up doing the splits. But I deftly recover, turning it into a couple of press-ups in time to the music. Then at last my torment ends as the music fades and I’m left like an upturned beetle trying to demonstrate stomach crunches with my arms and legs waving madly in mid-air.

There’s polite applause from around the studio as I hurriedly pull myself to my feet again and jog lightly back over to the orange sofa.

‘Well, that was … energetic,’ Julian states kindly, smiling
at me as I try to catch my breath. ‘And can you tell us what inspired that particular routine?’

‘Er … I like to create a fusion of different types of exercise in my workouts,’ I improvise. ‘I take inspiration from a number of sources.’

‘I can see that,’ Loretta joins in. She smiles like Julian, but it’s a practised smile that shows just enough of her perfect white teeth to enable it to look genuine. ‘It was certainly
varied
. So what are you going to be showing us over the coming weeks, then, Jemma? What our viewers really want to know is how to tone up and lose all their excess weight ready for their summer holidays. I’m not sure there’s much call for
fusion
workouts here at
Wake Up Britain
– perhaps something a little more basic?’

I bet you’re the biggest expert on dieting in this studio
, I think, as I smile politely back at her. Her tiny bum barely makes a dent in the bright orange fabric of the sofa as she crosses her stick-thin legs.
In fact, you probably never eat anything bigger than an hors d’œuvre just in case it bloats your pea-sized stomach.
And suddenly, I feel a wave of sympathy for the
Wake Up Britain
viewers, who have to put up with her condescending attitude.

‘Actually, Loretta, I’m sure you’ll find your viewers are a bit more savvy than you think when it comes to their exercise routines. Not everyone who watches
Wake Up Britain
is a couch potato. I’m guessing your viewers would love to challenge
themselves with something new, instead of the same old boring routines we see on TV all the time.’

As Loretta glowers at me across the glass coffee table between the two sofas, Julian quickly steps in.

‘Quite,’ he comments, forcing a smile. ‘So, apart from your
inventive
exercise routines, Jemma, what about dietary advice? What can you help our viewers with there?’

I really don’t know what comes over me. I find myself turning and looking straight down the nearest camera lens. And as I do, I notice a little red light pop on above it.

‘Don’t,’ I say clearly and plainly into the lens.

‘What?’ I hear Loretta exclaim next to me, as though I’ve just blasphemed over the nation’s cornflakes.

‘Don’t diet,’ I repeat, turning towards her. ‘I don’t believe in it.’

‘B-but,’ she stammers, ‘you’re a fitness instructor.’

‘Dieting is for fools,’ I state plainly. ‘Yes, by all means eat healthily and watch what you eat. But I’m a great believer in a little of what you fancy doing you good. If you eat well most of the time, then the odd bit of chocolate, bag of chips or glass of wine won’t do you much harm. In fact, it will probably do you good, stop you pigging out the rest of the time
and turning into a food-obsessed stick insect that daren’t eat anything for fear of gaining an ounce or two.’

Loretta and Julian stare at me in astonishment.

I grin back at them, and out of the corner of my eye I notice a man waving his arms in the air.

‘I-it’s time for a quick break,’ Loretta says, jumping to attention as she hurriedly puts a finger to her ear. ‘Don’t forget – when we come back, Colin Firth will be joining us on the sofa.’

They both visibly relax as we go off-air again.

‘You certainly have some different views, young lady,’ Julian says, eyeing me up and down. ‘It’s quite refreshing to hear someone telling people to eat what they want for a change.’

Loretta doesn’t look so sure as she has her make-up retouched. Suddenly Lucy leaps up next to us, looking far from impressed. ‘What on earth was all that about?’ she demands. ‘That’s not the approach we discussed at all. I was quite clear in my email – didn’t you get it?’