Jemima J. (30 page)

“God,” I whisper in bewilderment, because it’s worlds away from my gym, where most of the people are either there because they’re at the before stage and they look terrible, or because it’s a place to see and be seen, and they’d never let something as mucky as sweat mess up their makeup or hairdo.

“You like it?” asks Brad, obviously proud of this thriving business. “Meet Jimmy, one of the personal trainers here.”

Tall, bronzed, and buff, Jimmy shakes my hand. “It’s so great to finally meet you, JJ. Welcome to Los Angeles, and if you need any help here,
anything
at all”
‌
—looks at me meaningfully
‌
—“don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Hands off, Jimmy,” says Brad, pushing him playfully.

“Whoa, Brad,” says Jimmy, holding up his hands with a cheeky grin on his face, “you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Hello?” I say. “I’m here.”

“Sorry, JJ,” says Brad. “But boys will be boys. C’mon, we’ll go to my office and eat lunch.”

So we do, and ridiculous as this may be
‌
—seeing as it’s the middle of the day and we’re eating salad out of plastic containers
‌
—we start feeding one another, and soon food is everywhere but in our mouths and we’re kissing furiously when the door bursts open and we leap apart.

Brad, for the record, leaps farthest, but then it is understandable, after all, he is the boss, and we both look up to see a large girl standing in the doorway.

“Oh,” says the girl. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“I just got here,” says Brad, dusting the food off himself and trying to straighten himself out, while I take a good, long look
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at the girl, partly to try and work out who she is, and partly because, and it’s a hell of a shock to see it, partly because the girl standing in the doorway looks an awful lot like the girl I used to be. She’s small with dark, glossy hair, and I can see that she would be pretty, she could be pretty, all she has to do is lose weight. Because this girl is huge, she has two, no, three chins. She is wearing a smock-type shirt to hide the huge bulk of her breasts, she has her arms crossed to hide as much of her body as she can, and she has that slightly wounded look in her eye. She could be me, I think as I carry on staring at her. I could be her.

“This is JJ,” says Brad. “And this is Jenny. My personal assistant.”

“Hi, Jenny,” I’m determined to be friendly, to make an effort, to show Jenny that her size doesn’t bother me, it doesn’t make me think Jenny’s any less a person just because there’s more of her. I stand up from my sitting position on the desk and walk over to Jenny with arm outstretched to shake her hand, but as I get closer I feel instinctively that she won’t be shaking my hand, that, for some strange reason, there’s a strong air of hostility in the room. And I’m right. I come to a standstill because Jenny doesn’t move. Jenny just nods hello. Jenny doesn’t say anything, and Jesus Christ, how I remember what it was like to be Jenny.

I remember how I felt when someone skinny and beautiful was introduced to me, how inadequate I felt, how I couldn’t look them in the eye, and I try desperately to think of a way to make Jenny feel at ease.

“That’s a beautiful shirt,” I say finally. “Did you buy it here?”

“No,” says Jenny, forced to speak, and then she turns to Brad. “I have some files here for you. Shall I just leave them on your desk?” Her voice is as cold as ice, and I recoil, but then I think how much worse it would be, how magnified those feelings of inadequacy would be if you worked somewhere where you were surrounded by bodies beautiful all day, so I try again.

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“Have you worked here long?” I say, trying to offer her my friendship.

“Yes,” says Jenny, refusing, this time, to look at me, and with that she turns and walks out of the office.

“I’m sorry,” says Brad, running his fingers through his hair. “She can be difficult sometimes.”

“Don’t worry about it, I suspect I understand far better than you know,” I say without thinking.

“What on earth do you mean?” Brad’s voice sounds slightly harsh, and I wonder what he would think if he knew I used to be the same size as Jenny. I’m tempted, just for a second, to tell Brad how I used to be, but then I decide against it. Too soon.

“It’s just that I imagine it’s very hard for her, working somewhere like this, being surrounded by skinny people all the time. What I don’t understand is why she does work here. Surely it would be easier for her to work somewhere less . . .” I pause, wondering how to put it. “Less body-conscious.”

“I think you’re probably right,” says Brad, “but you see Jenny’s been with me for years, she’s like my right arm, and to be honest I think that’s the only reason she stays here, out of loyalty to me.”

“You’re sure she hasn’t got an eensy weensy crush on you?” I tease, too taken with Brad to remember that it’s no laughing matter being the fattest girl in the office and having a crush on the most beautiful man in the building.

“Jenny?” Brad snorts with derision. “No. She’s more like my sister.”

Hmm. Once upon a time that was what Ben would have said about me. “Well, I know someone who definitely does have a crush on you.” I reach out my hand and place it on Brad’s thigh.

“If I lock the door will you promise to tell all?” Brad’s moving over to the door and shutting it gently.

God forgive me for acting like a brazen hussy, but I can’t
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help it, he’s just too irresistible. I cross my hands over my chest and slide my shirt off my shoulders revealing nothing underneath except bare flesh. I push Brad into a chair and straddle his lap while slinking my arms around his neck. “Promise,” I purr, “swear, and cross my heart.”

_p. 226
I stretch luxuriously in bed and fall back against the mound of pillows, thinking about my life. I think about Brad making love to me this very morning before going to the office and arranging to meet me later. I think about the life I’ve left behind, the sheer drudgery of working at the
Kilburn Herald
, and I think about what my friends would say if they could see me now, because, even though it’s only been just under a week, I know already that I could get used to this.

How can I go back there? Back to dreary old London, when Los Angeles is so warm, so exciting, so inviting.

And then, I can’t help myself, I start thinking about Ben. Funny how he crops up at the strangest moments. I can go for ages without giving him a thought, and suddenly he’ll pop into my head. And when he does, of course I still miss him, but these days only when I remember him, which thankfully isn’t all that much of the time because I’m having far too good a time.

Another thought creeps in, one I don’t want to think about, one I’m hoping I’ll be able to forget about, but no, the harder I
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try not to think about it the more I can’t help it. Okay. I give in. Last night we were at the Mondrian Hotel, a huge, minimalist designer haven on Sunset Boulevard. A place that Brad insisted I see, even though I’m really not that bothered about “in” places, it’s not as if I frequent them at home.

But it was spectacular. I’ve never been anywhere like it. The vast, minimalist lobby, stark glass doors leading on to a wooden deck lit by candles. I loved it. I loved the oversized terra-cotta pots, the large Indian mattresses strewn with cushions scattered by the side of the pool. And I’m trying not to think about what happened after that, about what Brad said, because every time I think about it, all sorts of negative thoughts start flooding in, and I don’t want anything to go wrong, I don’t want to shatter this perfection. Not now.

But it was bizarre. Okay, here goes. I’ll tell you. There we were, sitting at a table in the bar of the Mondrian, the candlelight throwing flattering shadows on the faces of the beautiful people, but none more beautiful than Brad, in my opinion anyway. We sat, and we kissed, and we talked, and the more we talked the more we revealed about our lives, our loves, our hopes, our dreams, and the more we revealed the more I thought that this was it. Sorry. This is it.

“I’d like to live in a house on the beach,” I said, pictures fresh in my mind because earlier that evening I’d sat scanning the property section of the
Los Angeles Times,
escaping into a fantasy world of swimming pools, sand between my toes, crashing waves.

“I think I’d be happy anywhere,” said Brad, “as long as I was with you.”

Jemima, oh, Jemima. Didn’t you think it just a little strange that Brad was being quite so forward in just under a week? Were there no warning bells going off in your head? Would it not perhaps have been sensible to sit back and wonder whether he might just perhaps have an ulterior motive?

But no. It seems that Jemima Jones wasn’t ready to spoil her
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perfect world just at that moment. Instead she sighed with happiness, and the conversation moved on, twisting and turning, until finally they were left only with the practicalities of her stay.

“Are there any bookstores around here?” I asked, knowing that is the one thing that would really make me feel at home, to have the luxury of browsing among my beloved books.

“The best ones are probably the Barnes & Noble or the Borders on Third Street Promenade,” said Brad. “If you’d have told me earlier we could have gone in there before. You really do like reading don’t you?”

I nodded.

“So what kind of stuff do you read?”

“Everything.” I smiled mysteriously. “I have completely eclectic tastes and I’ll read pretty much anything. What about you?” I asked, realizing I had no idea of his literary tastes, and, although it might not be important to you, I think it says a hell of a lot about a person.

“I don’t really have the time,” he admitted, taking another sip of champagne. “I kind of like science fiction when I do read.” He paused for a while before adding, “I read more when I was at high school. I remember reading a book by that guy, oh, you know, what’s his name.” He looked at me for help while I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. “You
do
know, the one that shot himself in the head. He wrote that book about the old man on the ocean
‌
—on that boat.”

Did I hear that? Was he joking? My eyes widened in disbelief, but then I thought, he must be joking, he’s going to laugh any second now. “Hemingway?” I said slowly, expecting him to crack up.

“Yeah.” He nodded vigorously. “That’s the guy. Great book.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. What could I say? I wouldn’t mind if his taste ran only as far as trashy cops and robbers books, but to forget the name of one of the most famous writers ever
‌
—and an American writer nonetheless! I was
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completely, utterly speechless, and it suddenly became blindingly obvious what was wrong with Brad, and that it is absolutely true that nobody is perfect. Brad, gorgeous, beautiful, kind, sweet Brad, I thought, with more than a hint of dismay, is thick. Thick as pig shit. Oh my God, why did he have to say that.

But no, I tried to tell myself. Just because he doesn’t have the same interests as you doesn’t mean he’s necessarily stupid, just . . . different. And that doesn’t mean he’s a bad person, or he’s not going to treat you well.

I’ll try and forget it, I decided, put it out of my head. And I did try, really I did, but somehow it sounds a lot easier than it is.

And my dismay, concern, pissed-offness, whatever you want to call it, must have shown on my face, because Brad suddenly said, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “Fine,” and he leaned forward and gave me a long, sumptuous kiss on the lips, and I relaxed a bit, and then I decided that I really didn’t care about the other stuff because this kiss made it all worthwhile. That this was what I had been waiting for. This man was who I had been waiting for. And this stuff, this feeling of being cared for, being looked after, being protected, is surely what it’s all about.

But now, lying in bed this morning, I can’t help but wonder if that
is
enough. Don’t be ridiculous, of course it’s enough. It has to be enough, but, just to be completely reassured, I pick up the phone and dial.

“
Kilburn Herald
features.”

“Geraldine? It’s me.”

“Jemima? Hi! I miss you, and, you nasty old bitch, guess who’s got to do your bloody column while you’re away. Thanks a lot.” She doesn’t mean it, although she finally understands why I’ve been so unhappy writing the Top Tips.

“I miss you too.”

“You can’t be missing me. You’re probably having a fantastic time. I want to hear everything. How’s the gorgeous Brad? Are you in love? Have you done it yet?”

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“Fine, not sure, yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God! How was it, how was it? Tell me everything! I want all the gory details.”

“It was unbelievable, Geraldine. Seriously, truly, unbelievable. I have never had such amazing sex in my life. He is just so gorgeous. Every time I look at him I can’t believe I’ve got him.”