Jemima J. (24 page)

“It’s fine,” says Lisa eventually.

“It suits you,” says Sophie eventually, and both bury their heads back in their magazines, while Jemima feels herself slowly coming down off the high. Couldn’t they be nice, she thinks, just this once? Couldn’t they have told her she looked great, just to make her feel good?

Jemima hovers, then goes back into the kitchen to call her mother, and as she walks out of the room she can already hear the girls whispering. She stops for a second, straining to hear them, and hears the tail end of one of Sophie’s whispers. “. . . bound to put the weight back on.” And then hears Lisa, “. . . being blond doesn’t make up for being a loser.”

Back in the old days Jemima would have gone to her room and eaten her way through a box of cookies for consolation, but things have changed, and Jemima can see through the bitchy comments to the jealousy that lurks behind. Bitches, she quickly tells herself, before she can get upset. They don’t matter. And she goes into the kitchen to call her mother.

“Mum? Hi, it’s me.”

“Hello! How are you, darling?”

“I’m fine. I’ve just got back from the hairdresser’s.”

“Nothing too drastic I hope?”

“It wasn’t really cut, but I’ve had some highlights.” No point in telling her I’ve gone blond, she’d only disapprove and call me brassy.

“Not blond, Jemima?”

“Not really, Mum. Streaky.”

“I hope it’s not brassy. I’ve always thought blond lights can look really cheap.”

“No, Mum,” I raise my eyes to the ceiling. “It doesn’t look cheap.”

_p. 177
“Hmm. Anyway, how’s the weight?”

I smile, because at least I know she’ll be happy with me now, she has to be, I’ve become the daughter she always wanted. “You won’t believe this, Mum. I’m 120 pounds!” There’s a silence on the other end of the line.

“Mum?” Surely she can’t find something negative to say about this? Surely she’ll be happy for me? But that silence is one I’ve come to know well. She still disapproves.

“That’s too thin for you, Jemima,” she says finally and belligerently. “You must look like a scarecrow.”

“I look fine,” I sigh, instantly wishing I’d never bothered to pick up the phone.

“I hope you’re eating enough,” she says, as I roll my eyes at the ceiling. God knows I’ve tried. I mean, I’ve achieved the one thing that I always thought she wanted, but no, it’s still not enough, and I suddenly realize that, for whatever reason, I will somehow never be good enough for her. I will never make her happy. I am either too fat or too thin. There is no middle ground. Nothing I ever do is destined to please her.

“Yes, Mum. But what about you? Been out with the girls from the weight loss club again?”

“Oh yes!” she giggles, delighted at the opportunity to talk about herself. “Jacqui, remember I told you about Jacqui? Well, Jacqui’s getting married and it was her hen night on Saturday. We went to a nightclub! Can you imagine me in a nightclub? Actually, I did myself proud . . .” I switch off as my mother giggles along to her little story and eventually I say goodbye and go upstairs to my room.

I sit in front of the dressing table and put on my makeup, copying the way Geraldine made me up for Ben’s party, and, even though I should be used to it by now, I still can’t believe that this is me, that the woman staring back at me in the mirror is Jemima Jones.

And then I brush my long blond hair, watching as the spotlights in the ceiling pick up the golden lights, and eventually I stand up, go to the bathroom and grin widely in the full-length
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mirror, with one hand seductively pressed on my hip, although it feels completely ridiculous for me to pose in this way.

“Goodbye, Jemima Jones,” I say firmly, not giving a damn if either of my roommates should hear. “Hello, JJ,” and with that I laugh, flick back my new hair, and go to phone Brad.

_p. 179
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, VCR, 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

_p. 180
“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 anymore 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 pounds in three months. “I’ve booked the ticket so now I just have to make the time.”

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“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, earned enough money to move to a better area.

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The interview went fantastically. A little too fantastically perhaps, as I ended up trying to maneuver 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 any 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 colored lycra crop tops and thongs I once dreamed of)
‌
—with no makeup 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.

_p. 183
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 cookies.” He puts the phone down and says to me, or should that be, leers, “I don’t suppose you’ll be eating the cookies. 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 blond, 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.”

_p. 184
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 gray 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.