Jemima J. (25 page)

But I don’t say that. I can’t say that. Not just yet.

“I’d love the job,” I say finally, forcing a smile. “But on one condition.”

“Condition?” The editor wasn’t expecting any conditions.

“I need a holiday. I’d like to go away for a couple of weeks.”

The editor sighs with relief, and I know exactly what he was thinking during the silence. For a minute there he thought I was going to be telling him I’d only take the job at a massive increase in salary.

“No problem, love,” he says. “Geraldine can do your page while you’re gone, and while you’re away we’ll take on someone new to take over the Top Tips. How does that sound?”

“Fine,” but shit, Geraldine will go mad. “Oh,” I add, getting up to leave. “One more thing. I’m assuming that there will be an increase in my salary commensurate with my new job?”

The editor is almost speechless, probably amazed at the confidence losing weight can bring, for the Jemima Jones of old would never have dared to say anything like that, and, I have to admit, he has a point.

“Naturally,” he blusters. “I’ll talk to the financial people and we’ll work something out. Don’t worry, love, leave it to me. Where are you off to anyway?”

“Los Angeles.” I smile, closing the door behind me and relishing the look on his face, for the editor’s idea of a holiday is
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Brighton, or, at the absolute most, a week in Majorca. And as I walk down the corridor I start to feel, for the first time, a small buzz of excitement in the pit of my stomach. “Oh my God. I’m going to Los Angeles!”

“You can’t wear that!” Geraldine lies back on my bed and flings her hands dramatically over her eyes. “Jemima! for God’s sake, haven’t you heard of airplane chic?”

“Airplane what?” I’m being practical, I’m waiting in my tracksuit, a pair of comfortable sneakers, and a T-shirt for my long-haul flight. But I want to look good for Brad, so in my hand luggage I’ve put a miniskirt, a linen shirt, and knee-high boots which I’m planning to change into just before we land. Just in case you’re wondering, the last two weeks have positively flown by, and today’s the day, I’m actually going. Geraldine
‌
—and what would I now do without Geraldine
‌
—is driving me to the airport, as caught up in my adventure as I am myself.

“Airplane chic,” she repeats. “You know, the glamorous look that all the celebs and models employ when they fly anywhere.”

“But, Geraldine,” I say, smiling, “I think you’re forgetting that, er, I’m not a celeb or a model. I’m a journalist on the
Kilburn
bloody
Herald.
And anyway”
‌
—I open my bag and show her the contents
‌
—“I’ve packed clothes to change into, I don’t want to be uncomfortable on the flight.”

“First, Brad doesn’t know you work on the
Kilburn
bloody
Herald
,” she reminds me. “He thinks you’re Miss Snazzy Television Presenter, and while I’m not suggesting you wear a suit or knee-high boots on the flight, at the very least employ a bit of glamour.” She clicks her teeth. “Those clothes,” she gestures to my overnight bag, “are completely wrong for a flight. Even if they are only to change into at the end.”

I shrug as she opens my suitcase and starts rifling around. “This,” she mutters, pulling out a crisp white T-shirt. “This,” she says, holding up a pair of black stretchy trousers and nodding
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approvingly. “And this,” she says, digging out an oversized black sweater, “to loop casually over your shoulders. Now all you need are the accessories to complete your look.”

“Accessories?”

“I knew it!” she says. “After all my lessons you still haven’t learned about the importance of accessories. Jemima, my darling, accessories are everything. But Auntie Geraldine came prepared so you don’t have to worry. Be back in a sec.”

I get changed into the clothes Geraldine chose as she runs to the car. A minute later she runs back holding a Louis Vuitton vanity case, which even I, Jemima Jones, know costs an absolute fortune.

“Now Jemima,” she says, looking at me very seriously. “This vanity case was a present from Dimitri, and although Dimitri and I are no longer, this is my pride and joy. I am lending it to you now, but guard it with your life.”

“Geraldine, I’m speechless. But what do I need it for?”

“To look the part. Everyone carries a Louis Vuitton vanity case when they’re traveling. And now,” she says, “for the pièce, or pièces, de résistance.” She opens the vanity case and pulls out a pair of large tortoiseshell Cutler & Gross sunglasses. “These were used in a fashion shoot a couple of weeks ago and I lost them. I feel terrible, I phoned the PR and she’s just about forgiven me. I can’t think where they’ve got to.” She grins wickedly as she hands them to me. “You don’t actually need to wear them on the flight. Wear them at the airport, and when you’re not wearing them on your eyes, wear them on top of your head.” She shows me how to loop my hair back perfectly with the glasses, which, it has to be said, do seem to add a touch of instant glamour.

“Hmm,” she says, rifling around in the vanity case. “What else have I got here?” She pulls out two bottles of Evian water and a can of what looks like hair spray, followed by a selection of exotic-looking jars. “The water is obviously for you to drink on the plane. Whatever you do, avoid any alcohol, it will only make you retain even more water than you already will. The can is a spray of Evian water, which you have to use as follows.” She flicks
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back her hair and, with a flourish of her hand, sprays the mist finely over her face, breathing a sigh of relief when she’s done. “There,” she says. “It’s what all the models do, as it stops your skin drying out. These,” she adds, gesturing to the pots, “are also freebies. I phoned the company and told them I was writing a piece about their products so they sent me the whole range. They’re super-duper moisturizing products, and I would suggest you use them every couple of hours. Darling, you have no idea how flying dries out your skin. And finally,” she says, pulling out a tiny little white plastic bottle, “eye drops to give you those bright, white, sparkling eyes, even after an eleven-hour flight. God,” she adds, almost to herself, “someone should pay me for this.”

“Geraldine,” I say, shaking my head but unable to stop smiling, “you, are a godsend. What would I do without you?”

“What you’d do, Jemima, is look like every other wannabe flying to Los Angeles with stars in her eyes. Now you look like a there.”

“A what?”

“A there. A made-it, whatever you want to call it.” She looks at her watch. “Jesus, we’d better leave if we’re going to make it. Are you all set?”

“Nearly. I’ve just got to write a note for Sophie and Lisa.” Geraldine rolls her eyes. “I have to, Geraldine. Just in case there’s an emergency.”

“I bet you’re glad to see the back of them.”

“I don’t mind. They don’t bother me much, they’re quite amusing in a sad sort of way.”

“Yup, an ugly sisters sort of way.”

“Exactly,” I laugh.

“So how do you feel?” Geraldine asks, as we lug my cases to the front door.

“Nervous as hell?”

“Don’t be. I wish it was me. You’re going to have a blast.”

Jemima Jones is getting a lot of attention at the airport, although she hasn’t really noticed, too caught up in the excite
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ment of her trip to take in the admiring glances. Perhaps it’s the fact that she does indeed look like a made-it, particularly when she puts the sunglasses on to hide her exhilaration, perhaps it is simply that, with the help of her fairy godmother Geraldine, she seems to have perfected the art of looking impossibly cool, not to mention beautiful. Whatever the reason, the package-tour people are nudging one another and whispering, “Who do you think it is?” “I’m sure she’s famous.” “Isn’t she the girl from that film?”

“I’m going to miss you,” says Geraldine, putting her arms around me and giving me a huge hug. “Who’s going to make my days bearable for the next two weeks?”

“Who’s going to rewrite your copy, you mean.” I grin, hugging her back and completely forgetting to mention that Geraldine has the joy of writing the Top Tips column in store for her.

“That too,” says Geraldine, “but seriously, I really am going to miss you. Have the most fantastic time. Will you call me?”

“Of course I will.”

“As soon as you get there? I’m dying to know what he’s like. God, he might be short, fat, and balding.”

“Don’t!” I admonish, because I’m nervous enough as it is. “That would be awful,” and then I remember that although I’ve never been short and balding, I was once fat, and in a split second I remember how people judged me, how they misjudged me, more like. “But it would be okay if he was a nice person,” I add, although I’m crossing my fingers and praying he has a full head of hair. “Anyway, we’ve seen his picture, I’m sure it really is him.”

“If you’re sure, I’m sure,” says Geraldine, “but whatever he’s like you’ve got a ticket to Los Angeles. Are you absolutely certain you can’t fit me in your suitcase?”

We both look down at my suitcase, so full all the sides are positively bulging. “Quite certain,” I laugh, “although what I wouldn’t give to have you come with.”

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“Take care,” says Geraldine, giving her another hug, and as Geraldine leaves Jemima she realizes that she really will miss her, that Jemima has become very important in her life, that Jemima has helped her to rediscover the joys of female friendship, for, up until recently, Geraldine always considered herself a man’s woman, a woman with no time for female friends. Isn’t it strange how things change . . .

And that’s it. I’m on my own. I walk up to the Virgin check-in, a bottle of mineral water in one hand, the Louis Vuitton vanity case in the other, and a pile of glossy magazines, “to keep you from getting bored,” from Geraldine under my arm. I hand my economy ticket over the counter, and someone, somewhere, must be smiling upon me today, or perhaps Geraldine’s ploy is working, but whatever it is the check-in girl seems to think I might be a made-it as well, and although she tells me it’s not airline policy to upgrade those who simply look the part, the economy class is full, and Virgin would like to upgrade me to first class.

What a result!

“Gosh! Really? That’s fantastic!” I say, forgetting to act like a famous film star, like someone who would naturally be upgraded. “Actually, I’ve never even flown before! And now I’m flying first class! Thank you, thank you so much.”

Needless to say the check-in girl looks shocked, she realizes her mistake, but lucky me, it’s too late, and I don’t even care that I’ve been desperately uncool because I’m the one with the upgrade! I’m the one flying first class!

And then I have two hours to kill in the airport, and I buy books at the airport bookstore, splash myself with perfume in Duty Free, and look longingly at the jewelry shops, picking out what I would buy if I had the money.

I also spend far too much time looking longingly at the Silk Cut cigarettes, but no, I do not smoke any more. Not even when I’m so nervous I could be sick. No. I’m fit and healthy. I do not need to smoke. So, when a voice comes over the loud
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speaker telling me my flight is boarding, I bounce down to the departure gate, trying to control the urge to shout with excitement and joy.

Eleven hours is a hell of a long time to spend on a flight, but eleven hours can pass incredibly quickly when you’re Jemima Jones and you’ve never flown before. Eleven hours can pass incredibly quickly when you are sunk in the height of luxury, when you are fed and watered at the drop of a hat, when you have your own personal video screen and can choose any film that catches your fancy. Jemima Jones is far too excited to sleep, and when the stewardesses pull down the shutters on the airplane windows and the rest of the people in first class pull on their sleeping masks and gently snooze, Jemima Jones watches videos, reads her magazines, and spends a disproportionately long time with her head leaned back, thinking about her life.

She thinks about the way her life has changed. She thinks about Brad, about what he’s going to look like, what he’s going to think of her, what she will do in Los Angeles. And she thinks about Ben, but she tries not to think about him too much, for every time she does she cannot help but feel a physical pull, a pang perhaps. Try as she might to get on with her life, the fact remains that she misses him, that she suspects she’ll never feel quite the same way about anyone ever again, and this is something that she doesn’t think she’ll get over for a very long time.

So she sits in first class and sprays her can of Evian on her face, drinks her mineral water, and religiously rubs moisturizer in to stop her skin dehydrating. An hour before they arrive she goes to the lavatory to put on her makeup, and as she stands there, as she brushes her mascara on, the butterflies suddenly start flying around her stomach and she looks at herself in the mirror and says disbelievingly, “Jemima Jones, what the hell are you doing?”