Jemima J. (17 page)

“The gorgeous Californian hunk on the Internet.”

“No,” he says, “I don’t know anything about this. I don’t believe you, Jemima Jones, you’ve been picking up guys on the Internet?”

“Not exactly. I just went back to the LA Café, I was messing around and I’ve been chatting to this guy, Brad.”

“Brad!” Ben laughs. “God, how typically American.”

“But Brad is completely, drop-dead gorgeous. A hunk. No two ways about it,” says Geraldine.

“How do
you
know?” Ben’s curious.

“He e-mailed me his picture,” I say, wishing we’d never brought the subject up because however you look at it dating on the Internet sounds as naff as answering Lonely Hearts ads, and before you ask, no, I’ve never done that.

“And,” adds Geraldine, munching on a mouthful of crisp iceberg lettuce, no dressing, “she’s calling him this afternoon.”

_p. 122
“Good for you,” says Ben distractedly, looking at his watch and jumping up. I look at my watch and see that he’s got to make tracks if he’s going to be on time for his interview. “Sorry, guys,” he says, standing up. “I’ve gotta run.”

“Good luck,” I shout, as Ben runs off.

“Good luck?” Geraldine’s looking quizzically at me. “What for?”

“Oh, some interview he’s doing this afternoon.” Good girl, Jemima, that’s what I like to see, thinking on your feet.

“So when are you going to call the hunk?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh dramatically. “This could all end rather nastily, I’m not sure I want to.”

“Oh what the hell,” says Geraldine, “what have you got to lose?”

She’s right. I know she’s right.

We walk back upstairs together and Geraldine tells me about a man she met last week, Simon, who drives a top-of-the-line Mercedes, works in investment banking and is taking her out for dinner tonight.

“Right,” she says, perching her tiny bottom on the edge of my desk. “Pick up that phone and call Brad.”

“I can’t,” I say, smiling.

“Jemima! Just do it.”

“No.” I shake my head firmly.

“Honestly, I despair of you sometimes. Why not?”

“Because.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Because it’s six o’clock in the morning in California and I don’t think he’d be very happy.”

“Oh,” says Geraldine. “In that case I’m going to come back over here at five o’clock, and I expect you to be on that phone. Long distance. Agreed?”

I nod my head. “Agreed.”

Sure enough, at five o’clock on the dot Geraldine walks over to my desk. If I didn’t know better I’d think she’d set her alarm.

“Okay, okay,” I laugh, picking up the phone. “I’m phoning
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him.” I dial the number without really thinking of what I’m doing, just laughing at Geraldine, who’s pulling faces at me as she disappears down the office.

“B-Fit Gym,” says the American voice brightly on the other end of the phone. “Good morning, how may we help you?”

“Good morning,” I say, suddenly wondering what the hell I’m doing. “May I speak to Brad, please?”

“Certainly, ma’am. May I say who’s calling?”

“It’s Jemi-“ I stop. “It’s JJ.” Ma’am?

“Please hold the line.”

I sit and wait, and I come incredibly close to putting the phone down but just before I do someone else comes on the line.

“Good morning,” says another bright female voice. “How may I help you?”

“Oh hello. May I speak to Brad, please?”

“May I say who’s calling?”

“It’s JJ.”

“Please hold the line.”

“Hello?” A deep, sexy, male Californian voice. “JJ?”

“Brad? It’s me. JJ.”

“Oh my God, you called me! I can’t believe you called me. It’s so good to speak to you.”

“Thank you,” I say, not knowing what else to say.

“I just got in to the office, what a great surprise.”

“Well it’s five o’clock here, so I’m wrapping up.”

“God, your voice is as sexy as your picture, which, I have to tell you, is now pinned to the wall. In fact, I’m looking at you as we speak.”

“I’m really flattered.” If only you knew.

“So JJ, did you have a good day?”

“It was fine. I did a bit of filming this morning, which was fun.” Don’t ask me what it was, please don’t ask.

He doesn’t. “I can totally understand why you’re on television, you look so groomed, I think is the word.”

“What, even on my bicycle on a hot summer’s day?”

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“Absolutely. I had to show your picture to everyone here, and boy, let me tell you, you have a fan club already in California.”

“God, that’s so embarrassing.” I groan audibly.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I think it’s great that you work out and keep healthy, you’re exactly my type of woman.”

“Good,” I say, recovering my composure. “I aim to please.”

Brad laughs. “So listen, Jemima, what I don’t understand is how come you don’t have a boyfriend. I mean I know you said you just broke up with someone, but you must have men falling at your feet.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I do meet a lot of men through work but I suppose I’m picky.”

“Well I am honored that you liked my picture enough to call me. So, talk to me some more, I love your accent. Tell me everything about yourself.”

“God, where do I start?”

“Okay, tell me about your parents, do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No brothers or sisters. I’m an only child and my parents are divorced.”

“Oh that’s tough,” says Brad. “Mine are too. Did yours divorce when you were young too?”

“Yup,” I say, wondering why on earth I’m telling all this to someone who is practically a stranger, when not even those closest to me, well, Sophie, Lisa, and Geraldine, know anything about my past. “My mother is not a happy woman. She bitterly resents being on her own, and tries to have far more input to my life than is healthy, which is mostly why I moved to London.”

“You’re not from London then?”

“No, I was brought up in the country. In a small town on the outskirts of London, which I suppose is really suburbia.”

“And did you ever get lonely as a child? Did you want brothers and sisters?”

I wasn’t just lonely as a child, I was achingly, heartbreak
_p. 125
ingly lonely. I used to go to bed at night and clasp my hands together, praying to God to deliver a baby brother or sister, not fully understanding that without a father, there was little, if any, chance of that happening. But although I have already revealed more than I planned, this would be too much, so I take a deep breath and say breezily, “Sometimes, but not often. I was fine by myself.”

“Look,” says Brad after I’ve filled him in on the finer details of my childhood, the pain-free details. “This might sound crazy, because this is the first time we’ve actually talked and we hardly know each other, but I have a feeling that we could have something special here.” He pauses while I try to digest what he has just said, because truth to be told the only reason I’ve been doing this is through boredom, not because I thought there could be something special here.

And for God’s sake, this man is practically a stranger. Admittedly, a particularly good-looking one, but this seems bizarre. We’ve never met, this is our first phone conversation and he could be some psychotic killer. And how does he know I’m who I say I am? Oh. Perhaps I’d better get off this train of thought.

“JJ? Are you still there?”

“Yes, sorry.”

“Well, it’s just that I know it sounds kinda crazy to meet on the Internet, but then people are meeting like this all over the world, and sometimes it does work out. Look. I think you are great. I think you’re funny, and honest, and beautiful and I love your accent and I don’t want to scare you off but I’d really like to meet you.”

Thank God Brad cannot see me, see how my face has paled, how I am thinking seriously about killing Geraldine because I knew, I just bloody knew that this would happen.

“I’m not suggesting you come over here, I mean I know that would be a big step for you and you’re probably really busy in your career, but how would you feel if I were to fly over to meet you?”

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“Um,” I say imaginatively, stalling for time, praying for divine intervention, which of course doesn’t come. “Um,” I repeat.

“Okay,” says Brad. “I can hear that I’ve thrown you a bit, but would you just think about it?”

“Okay,” I lie. “I’ll think about it.”

Then, as if that isn’t enough, I do the unthinkable. I give Brad my telephone numbers, both home and my direct line at work (because I wouldn’t want to blow my cover as a top TV presenter), and when we say goodbye I put the phone down and go into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror.

I look at my chins, my cheeks, my bulk, and as I stand there I make a decision. A huge decision. A decision so momentous that even in this split second I know that it will change my life. I run back to my desk, well, run/lumber, grab my bag, and run down the stairs.

I’m not going far. I’m walking, almost sprinting, up the Kilburn High Road to the brand-new fancy gym that just opened. I pass it every day, barely registering its existence because what, after all, would a gym mean to me.

But today is the day I’m going to change my life. And pushing through the double doors I approach the pert blond receptionist with as much determination as I can muster.

“Hello,” I say. “I’d like to join.”

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“I’ll just get you a form,” says the blonde behind the reception desk, looking at Jemima Jones with more than a touch of curiosity, because she can’t quite understand why someone the size of Jemima would want to join a gym.

Of course she should have realized that she wants to lose weight, but the fact of the matter is that this brand-spanking-new gym isn’t just any old gym. The joining fee is £150, and the monthly fee after that is £45. A lot of money, precisely to keep out people like Jemima Jones.

It’s a good thing Jemima doesn’t wander around before joining, because had she seen the type of people who do frequent this gym, she would have been off faster than you can say Stairmaster.

She would have seen the beautiful people glowing prettily on the treadmills, a hint of sweat showing their suntans off to maximum potential. She would have seen the women in the changing room carefully applying their makeup before they ventured out, just in case the man of their dreams should happen to be cycling beside them.

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She would have seen the middle-aged housewives, wives of high-flying businessmen, who drip with gold as they step up and down and up and down and up and down to keep their figures perfect for the round of dinner parties they attend.

She would have seen the muscle-bound men, all young, all fit, all good-looking beyond belief, who go to the gym partly to keep in shape and partly to eye the women.

And Jemima Jones would have been far too intimidated to set foot through the door, but luckily the manager isn’t around, and there’s no one who can show Jemima all the facilities the gym has to offer, so Jemima just takes the form and sits down in reception to fill it out. She blanches slightly at the price, but then it’s a small price to pay for being thin, and this gym is so close she won’t have any excuse not to go, so with pen in hand she starts ticking the boxes.

As anyone who is currently spending each night in front of the television eating take-aways will know, the hardest part of an exercise regime is taking the first step. Once you find the motivation to start, exercise can be strangely addictive, much like, in fact, the Internet.

When the form has been filled in and she has written down her bank details for the direct debit, she goes back to the desk.

“Um, I’ve never actually been to a gym before,” I say, feeling faintly ridiculous as the blonde hands me a stack of papers, timetables for classes, information about the gym.

“Don’t worry,” says the blonde with a bright smile. “Many of the people here haven’t been before. We need to get you in for a fitness assessment and they’ll work out a regimen for you.” My body tenses as I wait for her to look me up and down with a withering glance but she doesn’t, she just smiles and opens a large diary on the desk and flicks through the pages. “You normally have to wait around three weeks for a fitness assessment, but we’ve had a cancellation tomorrow morning. Could you make it at eight
A.M.
?
”

_p. 129
Eight
A.M.
tomorrow? Is she mad? Eight
A.M.
is the middle of the night.

“Eight o’clock’s fine,” I hear myself say, the words hanging in the air before I’ve had a chance to think about what I’ve just said.

“Lovely,” says the blonde, penciling in my name. “You won’t need a leotard, just a T-shirt and shorts . . .” She takes a look at me and sees my face fall at the prospect of wearing a leotard. “Or sweatpants would be fine. And sneakers, you need to wear sneakers.”

“That’s fine,” I say, wondering where the hell I’ll get all this equipment, but in for a penny, in for a pound, and looking at my watch I see it’s 6:15
P.M.
, and I know there’s a sports shop in a shopping mall in Bayswater that will still be open.