Jemima J. (31 page)

“So is he completely voracious?”

“Completely. We even ended up having sex on his desk in his office.”

“Oh,” sighs Geraldine. “I’m so jealous.”

“Why? Don’t tell me it’s all gone horribly wrong with that guy you met at Ben’s farewell party, Nick Maxwell?”

“No, it hasn’t gone wrong at all. In fact, it’s probably more right than ever before. But we haven’t slept together yet.”

“You’re joking?” This is most unlike Geraldine, who regularly uses her body to control her relationships.

“I wish I was. It’s not that I don’t want to, or that he hasn’t tried to get me into bed, but this is different, Jemima. I really like him. I mean
really
like him, and I don’t want to blow it by jumping into bed with him too soon.”

“Oh.” Shit. Does that mean I’ve blown it with Brad? “Does that always blow it?”

“According to
The Rules
it does.”

“What’s
The Rules
?”

“It’s all about how to play hard to get to hook the man of your dreams.”

“And you believe it?”

Geraldine sighs. “I never did, but I decided to give it a whirl just to see, and I think it really works. And,” she continues, “the cardinal sin is to sleep with them. At least, you’re not supposed to until they’re madly in love with you and you know they’re definitely not going to disappear the next morning.”

“But it’s been ages, Geraldine.”

“I know.” She sighs again. “I’m practically climbing the
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walls. I even passed a sex shop yesterday and seriously thought about going in and buying a vibrator.”

“Geraldine!” I don’t want to hear about vibrators, for God’s sake, I’ve only just had an orgasm, and it’s hard enough to talk about that, let alone vibrators. I love Geraldine for this, though. I love the fact that she’s never embarrassed, but the only thing I’d change is her self-centeredness. Although I know she’s probably the only true friend I’ve ever had, she always, always, brings the conversation back round to herself as soon as she can. Still, that’s not such a bad thing, and at least I know I can rely on her. Even if I don’t want to talk about vibrators with her.

“Don’t worry,” Geraldine says. “I didn’t, but only because I didn’t have the nerve to go in there by myself. I wish you were here, Jemima.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you know what I mean. It just kills me hearing you’re having sex all over the place and I’m being Miss Born-Again Celibate.”

“It’s not all perfect, you know,” I admit. Finally.

“How can it not be perfect?”

“Well, I don’t know how to put this . . .”

“Just say it.”

And I do. I tell Geraldine about the conversation last night, about the Hemingway situation, and Geraldine hoots with laughter.

“So what?” she says, when she’s recovered her composure. “So he’s not Mr. Intelligent. Darling, he’s rich, he’s gorgeous, and he’s crazy about you. Who gives a stuff about anything else.”

“Maybe you’re right.” I’m starting to feel better about it.

“When,” says Geraldine dramatically, “have I ever been wrong?”

“So I should just ignore the fact that
‌
—”

“That he’s stupid? Yes. And anyway, just because he doesn’t read Hemingway hardly means he’s stupid does it? He does, after all, appear to have a thriving business.”

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“Yes, that’s certainly true.” I’m feeling much better now.

“So. No problems. Right?”

“Right. Thanks, Geraldine. What would I do without you? Have you spoken to Ben recently?” Where did that question come from, Jemima?

“No. Why? Have you?”

“No, I just wondered how he’s doing.”

“I’ve seen him on TV if that’s any consolation and he seems to be doing fine. If the truth be known, he’s turning into a bit of a heartthrob as far as the public are concerned.”

“Hmm.” Why does this piece of knowledge make me feel uncomfortable?

“Anyway, my darling, this must be costing you a fortune, and I’ve got to file the copy on those bloody Top Tips. I’ll call you in a couple of days, how does that sound?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Okay, I’m out with Nick tonight. God knows if I can hold off much longer. I’ll let you know next time we speak.”

We say goodbye and I put down the phone. Geraldine’s absolutely right, I’m being ridiculous. I go into the kitchen and open the fridge. A few fat-free yogurts, some fruit and several bottles of mineral water, and I examine the aforementioned while shaking my head in amazement. Open any bloke’s fridge at home and you’re likely to find a six-pack of beer, some leftover Indian take-away and, if they’re extremely lazy, a pile of pre-packaged meals for one from a gourmet food store.

Right, I decide, closing the fridge door with a bang. Gym first then supermarket, because tonight I will be cooking dinner for Brad. I put on my gear and get ready to leave when the phone rings.

“Hi, sweetie.” Brad has taken to calling me sweetie. “I miss you. Are you coming in?”

“Yes, I’m just about to leave. Listen, how would you feel if I cooked you dinner tonight?”

“I’d love that. Do you want to go shopping this afternoon?”

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“No, don’t worry, I’ll go by myself. I want to surprise you.”

“I can’t believe how much work there is to do, and while you’re here. I feel so bad, I really wanted to show you Los Angeles, all the fun stuff like Universal Studios and Disneyland.”

“Brad, I’m not interested in all that touristy stuff.” Which isn’t quite true, but, as much as I would like to see it, I’m also quite happy in my role as Los Angeles wife. “I’m just really happy to do what you do, it gives me a better sense of who you are, what your life is like.”

“Are you sure?” The relief in his voice is obvious.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay. Leave now, I can’t wait to see you.”

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving!” I laugh, blowing him a kiss before skipping out the door.

“Jenny!” What a coincidence, to bump into Jenny in this juice bar, but then again, it is just down the road. I will make her like me, I will make this girl my friend, even if it kills me, and it looks like it might, because Jenny just eyes me up and down in a seriously unfriendly fashion before giving a grudging “Hello.”

“How funny seeing you here!” No one could say I wasn’t trying. “I just finished my workout. Let me get you something to drink.”

“No, that’s okay. I have to get back to the gym.”

“So why did you come in here then?” I gesture round the little coffee shop down the road from the B-Fit Gym.

“Okay,” sighs Jenny. “I’ll have a mineral water.”

Poor thing, I know exactly what she’s up to. She’ll probably have a mineral water here then go home later and eat a box of cookies. “Why don’t you sit down?” I pull out a chair for her. “I’ll bring the drinks over.”

I pay for both mineral waters, and carry them over to the corner table where Jenny’s sitting glumly, chin resting on her hand.

“Thanks,” says Jenny.

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“It’s my pleasure,” I say warmly, honestly, trying so hard. “Brad says you’ve worked for him a long time?”

“Yes.” Her answers are still monosyllabic and I can tell this is really going to be hard work.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“I guess.” Jenny shrugs her shoulders.

“You must know Brad very well by now.” I’m trying to keep it light, but the strangest thing happens. Jenny blushes, and it’s so like how I used to be with Ben that I suddenly see that she obviously has the most enormous crush on Brad and I’ve just put my foot in it big time. “I didn’t mean . . .” I say lamely.

“That’s okay,” says Jenny, as the blush starts to die down. “It’s fine.”

“Look.” Let’s try and start all over again, Jemima. “There’s obviously some kind of tension between us which I don’t understand, because I’d really like us to be friends.”

Jenny looks at me in horror. “I can’t be friends with you.”

“Why ever not?”

Jenny shrugs. “It just wouldn’t work.”

“I think you’d be surprised, Jenny,” I say gently. “I think you’d find we have a lot more in common than you think.”

“I don’t think I’d be surprised at all,” says Jenny bitterly.

“No, I’m serious,” and it dawns on me that the only way I’m ever going to make this girl like me, or trust me, is to be completely honest with her and tell her the truth. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Jenny looks up without interest and shrugs her shoulders.

“Okay. You see me now and I’m slim, I’m fit. A few months ago I was seriously overweight. Far, far bigger than you.”

“Yeah, really,” says Jenny, getting up to leave. “Don’t bother. Number one, I don’t appreciate being patronized. Number two, I don’t believe you. And number three, even if I did, it wouldn’t make any difference to me. As far as I’m concerned you’re my boss’s new girlfriend and that doesn’t mean
we
have to be friends. Thanks for the drink. I’ll be seeing ya.”

“But Jenny
‌
—” It’s too late, Jenny has picked up her bag and
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walked out. What did I say? What did I do? I probably shouldn’t let this bother me, but it does, I can’t help it. I know people used to feel sorry for me, but no one ever disliked me. I’m the girl who gets on with everyone, and I hate the fact that Jenny doesn’t like me. Maybe if I knew why, I could deal with it, but she just seems to have taken an instant dislike to me, and I so want us to be, if not friends, at least on pleasant terms.

I constantly go over this conversation and wonder what exactly I have said to upset her. I act like a paranoid idiot, peering round corners before walking anywhere so I don’t bump into her again, and when I get back to the gym Jenny, luckily, is nowhere to be seen, and Brad’s in his office.

“The weirdest thing just happened,” I tell him, after he’s kissed me hello, and not just a peck on the cheek, a long, passionate kiss, and I physically have to push him away, because although it seems I can never resist him, at this very moment in time I have to get this Jenny business off my mind. So I tell him, only missing out the bit about the size I used to be, and it does cool Brad down. Completely.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting back down behind his desk. “You mustn’t let it upset you, she’s just very protective about me.”

“But it’s crazy.” I’m beginning to get slightly annoyed about this now. “I’m really trying to befriend the girl, and if I didn’t know better I’d say she absolutely hated me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” sighs Brad.

“How do you know?”

“I just know. She’s threatened by you.”

“But surely you’ve had other girlfriends before. Is she like this with all of them?”

Brad shrugs. “I haven’t really had serious girlfriends before. Look,” he says, standing up and coming round to massage my shoulders, “it really doesn’t matter. It’s not important, but I’ll talk to her, okay?”

He won’t discuss it anymore, so I reluctantly agree and, as I do, I feel that Brad’s massaging hands are going AWOL, and
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they’ve left my shoulders and they’re moving down, past my collarbone, down to my bra.

“Brad,” I plead, because I’m really not in the mood, but somehow I haven’t got the strength to resist him, or the way he makes me feel, and it’s a good job his phone rings a few seconds later, or there would have been a repeat performance of a week ago, which is all well and good, but I’m still trying to prove to myself that there’s more to this budding relationship than simply a great sex life.

“Can I borrow your car?” I mouth to Brad as he talks on the phone, and he nods and throws his car keys on the desk, not thinking about insurance, or whether I can even drive. I can, luckily, drive, despite not owning a car in London, but never, in my wildest dreams, did I think I’d be driving a convertible Porsche.

Now I really have died and gone to heaven, this car isn’t a car, it’s sex on four wheels.

“Hey, babe,” yell two young guys pulling up alongside me. “Where are you going?”

“Shopping,” I yell back with a huge grin.

“Can we come?” one shouts, hand over his heart to show he’s fallen in love.

“Sorry,” I yell. “Only room for me and my bags.”

I press my foot down to the floor and zoom off, and, presumably to demonstrate this love at first sight, they try and follow me, but the car is way too fast for them and within seconds they’ve disappeared.

“Hel-lo,” says a good-looking man crossing the road at the traffic light. “Now this is what I like to see in Los Angeles. A beautiful single blonde driving a Porsche.”

“How do you know I’m single?”

“A man can dream can’t he?”

I smile and shoot off. I pull in to the first place that looks like a supermarket, park in the lot and grab a shopping cart. In a tight T-shirt, leggings, and Reeboks, with my sunglasses on top of my head and my hair in a sleek ponytail, I’m delighted
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to note that I look like every other hip, young Santa Monica housewife doing the weekly shopping, except of course that I’m walking down every aisle shaking my head with disbelief.

Never in my life have I seen such a choice of low-fat, nonfat, fat-free, cholesterol-free food. There are fat-free healthy scones, caramel popcorn rice cakes, low-cholesterol lemon snaps, reduced-fat gingersnaps, fat-free cholesterol-free chocolate fudge brownies, the list goes on and on and on, and despite saying goodbye to my binges a long time ago, I have to seriously resist the urge to sweep everything off the shelves and into my shopping cart.

“Excuse me?” says a masculine voice, and I turn with a raised eyebrow.

“I hope you don’t mind me bothering you but I was wondering whether you knew the best way of cooking zucchini.”

Now this, I don’t believe. I mean, I’d heard about people being picked up in supermarkets, I’d even helped Geraldine write about people being picked up in supermarkets, but I never
really
thought it happened, and certainly not to me, but perhaps I’m wrong, perhaps this is a genuine query.

“You could try steaming it, I suppose. Or go Italian and coat it in egg and flour and fry it.”

“You’re English!” he says, his pose relaxing. “Where are you from?”