Jemima J. (21 page)

Cause for celebration, I think we all agree, but on a Friday lunchtime on the Kilburn High Road there is, unfortunately, very little that Jemima can buy to celebrate. She would like a dress, the dress that Brad described last night, but even though she is down to 166 pounds she doesn’t want to spend the money just yet.

“When I’m 140 pounds,” she tells herself as she walks back to the office after her workout. “When I’m 140 pounds I shall treat myself properly.” And as she walks along she stops outside the drugstore and peers through the doorway at the makeup counters. Oh what the hell, she thinks. I may as well give myself a small treat now, and I do want to look the very best I possibly can for tonight, so in she goes.

At 5:15
P.M.
I clutch my new makeup and walk into the bathroom, not really surprised that Geraldine’s already there, pouting in the mirror as she dusts some bronzer on her already golden cheeks.

“Hello stranger!” says Geraldine. “Getting ready for the party?” She stands back from the mirror and admires her red dress, which makes me think of Brad immediately, because it’s just like the black dress he wanted me to wear
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—a short, flippy soft dress that hugs her curves and shows off her legs, snugly encased in shimmery, sheer natural stockings, with flat red suede pumps on her feet. Bitch. No, sorry, only joking, but to be a bit more serious I look at Geraldine and feel as dowdy as hell.

“I just thought,” I start, feeling self-conscious and ridiculous. “I just thought maybe I’d put some . . .” I tail off as Geraldine grabs my makeup bag.

“What have you got here?” She pulls out the makeup, silently, and lays it next to the sink. “Well,” she says, looking at me. “Some of this will suit you but some of it won’t, but if you borrow some of mine then it will all be fine.”

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“Don’t worry,” I mumble, trying to keep the dejected tone out of my voice because I’m suddenly rethinking the whole idea. “I’m not sure I can be bothered.”

“Jemima!” says Geraldine in exasperation. “You are hopeless sometimes. I’ve been dying to get my hands on you for days. What you need, now that you’re losing all this weight, is a serious makeover, and tah dah!” She holds her arms up in the air. “Guess who’s the perfect person to do it.”

I can’t help it, I start laughing, and I lean back against the counter, careful not to sit on the wet patches around the sinks. “Okay,” I say with a smile. “You can start by making me up.”

“Jemima Jones!” says the big, booming voice of the editor as I walk into the dark smoky vaults of the Wine Cellar a little after six o’clock. Geraldine is standing next to the editor, and Geraldine smiles with delight when she sees me, not to mention the look of amazement on the editor’s face.

“What have you done to yourself, young lady?”

I shrink in horror as a hand comes up to my face. Have I smeared my lipstick? Do I have mascara running down my cheeks? Is there spinach in my teeth?

The editor carries on. “Jemima Jones, you are a shadow of your former self.”

Thank God! I suppress the rising giggle and smile with delight, trying to be nonchalant, trying to look as if I’m not thrilled that someone has finally noticed, even if it is just the editor. “I’ve just lost a bit of weight, that’s all.”

“Lost a bit of weight?” booms the editor. “Young lady, you are half the size you were. And not only that,” he leans forward conspiratorially. “You’re also a bit of a looker, aren’t you?”

Oh my God, I can feel the blush coming, but luckily I catch Geraldine’s eye and I can see that she’s also holding back the giggles, and the blush fades away.

Geraldine is trying to suppress the giggles, but she’s also smiling broadly at her handiwork, for Jemima Jones does, truly,
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look like a different person. Admittedly, thinks Geraldine, her clothes aren’t great, but she doesn’t know that Jemima is waiting to be even slimmer before she buys some new ones.

What she is looking at is Jemima’s face. She is looking at the creamy skin, given a hint of gold with the help of Geraldine’s supremely expensive foundation. She is looking at Jemima’s green eyes, large and sparkling with the help of Geraldine’s expert knowledge of eye shadows, eyeliners, and eye drops to turn the whites of her eyes brighter than snow. She is looking at her full pouting lips, made to look even more full with the help of Geraldine’s lip liner, lipstick, and lip gloss. And finally she is looking at Jemima’s hair, which Geraldine has gathered up in a french twist, soft tendrils falling about her face.

“You look gorgeous,” Geraldine mouths to me, as she reaches up and wipes off a tiny smudge of lipstick from my cheek, which, quite frankly, no one other than Geraldine would have noticed.

“Jemima!” My heart skips a beat as Ben comes rushing over and puts an arm around me. “For a minute there I thought you weren’t going to come.” He thought about me! He actually worried about me, he spent time worrying whether I was going to come. Now this, surely, is a result.

I recover my composure and look Ben in the eye, willing him to notice how I look, to see the new Jemima Jones, to like what he sees and fall in love with me. But Ben just says, “Here, have a glass of champagne,” and as he hands it to me he looks over my shoulder and says, “Diana! You made it.”

“Couldn’t let my new star reporter down could I?” says Diana Macpherson, striding through the room as people part to let her through, because, after all, Diana Macpherson is famous in the media world.

And I can’t help it, I watch with a mounting sense of horror as Diana almost gives Ben a kiss on the cheek, but then evidently thinks better of it and straightens up, extending her hand, which Ben shakes warmly. Phew.

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“Let me introduce you,” he says, turning first to the editor, who is so impressed with Diana Macpherson that his mouth, once open, is captured in a fish pose, the editor having forgotten to close it. Diana shakes hands with him, then with me, but just as Ben’s about to introduce her to Geraldine she turns to Ben and says, “Come with me to get a drink,” and Ben shrugs at us and allows himself to be propelled by her towards the bar.

“What a bitch!” says Geraldine, who, quite understandably, feels snubbed by the great Diana Macpherson, and only Geraldine would say what everyone else is thinking but would never dare voice out loud.

“Don’t worry,” I soothe, “I’m sure it wasn’t personal,” but of course it was personal, I’m not stupid, I saw the way Diana Macpherson’s eyes swept over Geraldine with a cold, flinty stare, and from what I’ve heard Diana Macpherson is not a woman’s woman, even more so when the woman happens to be as attractive as Geraldine.

“God, I’m really sorry about that,” says a voice next to us. “Diana is a law unto herself, and sometimes she can seem rude.” We both turn to look at a young, good-looking guy, dressed in an old pair of Levi’s and a brushed cotton shirt. “Sorry,” he says again. “I’m Nick. I’m here with Diana.” Nick holds out his hand to Geraldine as he says this, and holds her gaze for longer than is altogether necessary, before shaking my hand and making me feel more of a spare part than I do already.

“Here with Diana?” asks Geraldine with a raised eyebrow. “Does that then mean that you are her”
‌
—she pauses coolly
‌
—“other half?”

“Hardly,” laughs Nick. “I’m more like her occasional date.”

“And this is where she brings you?” Geraldine’s teasing him, but neither Nick nor I misses the flirtatious tone in her voice.

“Yes, but I’ve promised to take her out for dinner later on.”

“Do you, er, work in television?” I venture, trying to be polite but feeling more and more unwanted.

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Do you know Cut Glass?”

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Everyone knows Cut Glass. Initially a small, funky optician’s shop that specialized in hard-to-find trendy glasses that couldn’t be bought elsewhere, Cut Glass is now one of the largest, if not in fact
the
largest, optician chains in the country.

“You’re an optician.” It’s a statement, not a question, and Geraldine’s eyes instantly dull as she starts thinking of ways to get away from him. I know her so well, I smile to myself. Cute, she thinks, but boring, boring, boring.

“No,” laughs Nick. “Not exactly.”

Oh God, I can see Geraldine think, this gets worse. He’s not even an optician, he’s a bloody sales assistant.

“It’s my company,” he says reluctantly, after a pregnant pause.

“What do you mean it’s your company?”

“It’s my company,” he repeats.

“Oh my God!” Geraldine suddenly pales. “You’re Nick!”

Nick’s looking at her in confusion. “I told you I was Nick.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “But you’re Nick Maxwell, I know all about you.”

“What do you mean, you know all about me?”

“I’m a friend of Suzie.”

“What?” he says, his smile growing larger. “Suzie Johnson?”

“Yes,” says Geraldine, who cannot believe her luck because Nick Maxwell, all six foot one of him, is not only gorgeous but hugely wealthy, very nice, and enormously eligible, and Geraldine knows all about him already. “Suzie’s one of my oldest friends, I’ve been hearing about you for years.”

“Oh my God!” Now it’s Nick’s turn. “You’re Geraldine Turner!”

I’ve been feeling more and more surplus to requirements, and finally I can see that it really is time to leave these two to get on with it. “Drink?” I say, but they both shake their heads, already lost in the geography of discovering who else they have in common, so I wander off to the bar.

Everyone is having too good a time to remember that they are at this party to bid farewell to their much loved deputy news
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editor. The lights have got dimmer, the music’s been turned up, and Jemima is leaning against the bar sipping her cheap white wine
‌
—the champagne finished a long time ago
‌
—and surveying the room.

She sees Ben standing with Diana Macpherson and the editor, Diana in mid-flow, pressing her hand on Ben’s arm every now and then to emphasize a point. Funny, thinks Jemima, how she isn’t touching the editor in the same way. In fact, she doesn’t seem to be touching the editor at all.

She’s far too old and far too rough for Jemima to feel truly threatened
‌
—surely she is not Ben’s type in the slightest
‌
—but nevertheless every time she places a long manicured finger on Ben’s sleeve, Jemima feels her heartstrings tug a little bit more. Leave him alone, she thinks. He’s not yours.

Nor, Jemima, is he yours, but Jemima, having rarely, if ever, had a crush on someone before, does not see this. Most women, it must be admitted, spend their teenage years falling in and out of love. They are more than familiar with the pain of going to a party and watching the object of their young desires end up with another girl. They are well versed in talking to their girlfriends about “the bitch” that stole him, and they are equally well aware that, although it might feel it at the time, it is not the end of the world.

But Jemima didn’t have an adolescence like most teenage girls. While her classmates were at parties, experimenting with makeup, clothes, and fumbling in darkened bedrooms on beds piled high with coats, Jemima was at home with her mother, eating, watching television, and daydreaming.

Jemima didn’t go to any parties until she went to university, and even there she rarely ventured to large social occasions once Freshman Week was over. Jemima Jones found a group of friends who were, she thought, as inadequate as herself. The social misfits they called themselves, pretending to delight in their difference, but each of them wishing they belonged elsewhere.

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And up until recently Jemima had shown very little interest in the opposite sex. Yes, she had lost her virginity, but she had never felt what it was like to pine for someone, to lie awake all night praying they will notice you, to wince with pain when you realize they will never reciprocate your feelings.

“Mimey!” My reverie is interrupted by a voice I know well, and I turn slowly, trying to figure out why I am hearing this voice at a work do, and as I turn I know that the cheap, white wine I have been gulping all evening to relieve my nerves has gone straight to my head, and I am, how shall I put it, slightly woozy with alcohol. Oh all right then, I’m slightly drunk.

And when I see them, Sophie and Lisa, standing together, I smile broadly, grin, actually. I’m pretty damn sure I’m doing about as perfect an impression of a Cheshire cat as I know how. “You both look . . .” I pause as I look them up and down, head to toe. “Wonderful!” I exclaim magnanimously, despite the silence that appears to have descended upon the room at their arrival.

For Sophie and Lisa have really gone to town, except they’ve done it in Kilburn, and somehow what would look magnificent in Tramp looks completely ridiculous in the Wine Cellar just off the Kilburn High Road. They look extraordinary, extraordinarily out of place.

Lisa has obviously been to the hairdresser, who has sent her away with hair so big she almost has to watch her head walking through doorways. She is wearing a tiny piece of black fabric masquerading as a dress, and high, high, strappy sandals.

Sophie has caught her hair in a french twist, much like mine, and has squeezed herself into a sparkly black cocktail dress, which shimmers and shines every time she moves.

They look like a bloody parody of themselves, and I can’t, I just can’t wipe the grin off my face, and as I say hello to them I see that over their shoulders both Geraldine and Nick Maxwell
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are also grinning, and just for a second I feel a wicked, wicked glee that they should be so awkward.

Except, of course, Sophie and Lisa don’t feel awkward, they feel beautiful, and they have obviously done it for Ben. Bad move. Big, bad move. Ha! Serves them right.

“So where is the clever boy then?” asks Sophie, looking around the room to try and find Ben.

“See that tall blond woman over there?” I point out Diana Macpherson, knowing that Diana, should Sophie or Lisa break in on her territory, will make mincemeat out of them. “He was talking to her a minute ago, he’s probably just gone to get her a drink.”