Jemima J. (33 page)

They walked along, side by side, and when Diana took Ben’s
_p. 246
arm he resisted the urge to flinch. Oh fuck, he just kept thinking. Oh fuck.

And when they reached the door, Diana turned to him, a playful smile on her lips. “Now how about that nightcap?” she said.

Ben silently prayed. If you help me now, God, I promise I’ll go to church, and he heard the sound of an engine, and as he turned round he glimpsed the orange light of a black cab that was free. “Taxi,” he yelled, sticking out his arm, while Diana looked crestfallen.

But the taxi driver had been working all day, and he was off home to his wife and kids. He shook his head at Ben as Diana smirked. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll call you a cab?” she said.

But she didn’t pick up the phone, and Ben was so impressed with the minimalist grandeur of her flat and, by this stage, so drunk that he forgot to ask why not. She placed a large whiskey in his hand, and a firm hand on his thigh.

Oh fuck, Ben thought again, but before he had a chance to think up a strategy Diana was kissing him, and, although he knew he shouldn’t, in a funny sort of way he was quite enjoying it. This was Diana Macpherson! Oh what the hell, thought Ben in his drunken state, why not?

And so Ben and Diana finally consummated their professional relationship. Ben, drunk though he was, ensured he gave the performance of his life, which probably wasn’t such a good thing, because Diana, having experienced the most overwhelming orgasm of
her
life thanks to Ben’s proficiency at oral sex, thinks she has fallen in love.

The oral sex was Ben’s way of proving to Diana that he was a good lover, for the sex, at least in Ben’s eyes, was pretty damn average. Sure, he made all the right moves and did all the right things, but, as far as he was concerned, he could have been fucking a shopwindow dummy, and yes, he managed to do it, but no, it wasn’t good for him. And, perhaps most importantly,
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Ben has remembered why he doesn’t have meaningless sex with faceless women. Because it’s not worth it.

There’s only one problem. The sex may have been meaningless but the woman has a face. And a name. Diana Macpherson. His boss. Oh shit.

And after this night of passion, when Diana took the lead and Ben just thanked God he didn’t suffer from Whiskey Dick, Diana has decided that Ben is the best thing that’s ever happened to her. Her constant gazes at Ben have not, unsurprisingly, gone unnoticed in the office, and rumors of a suspected affair have already started flying around.

But Diana would never confirm them. No one would ever dare ask her to her face. And anyway, one night of passion hardly constitutes an affair, except Diana doesn’t plan on leaving it at one night. No siree.

“I just knew he had that star quality the minute he walked in the door,” she tells Jo Hartley, a freelance journalist who’s writing a huge piece about the rise and rise of Ben Williams for an upmarket tabloid. “Presenters like Ben are few and far between, and it’s my job to spot them then develop them and realize their full potential.”

“Was it a conscious move, to employ someone who was single, because so many of the other presenters are married? And presumably with Ben and his obvious sex appeal you’re attracting a much younger audience.”

“Mmm,” nodded Diana, thinking about Ben’s obvious sex appeal. “I’d say you’d just about hit the nail on the head.”

The piece runs over a double-page spread, with several pictures of Ben as a child, as a teenager, and finally in all his current glory.

“Un. Be. Lievable,” says Geraldine as she sips the cappuccino she picked up on the way to work and reads the paper. One of the news reporters walks past her desk.

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“I see you’re finding out all about our old deputy news editor,” he says as he passes.

“Who would have thought?” she says, eyes hardly able to leave the page, and then she shrieks with laughter as she reads the next quote.

“Even Diana Macpherson, the feisty head of programming at London Daytime Television, seems won over by this man’s charm. At the very mention of his name her eyes glaze over like the rest of the female population.

“ ‘I love his obvious sex appeal,’ she says. ‘I chose him, initially as a reporter, and even then I knew that I could develop that.’ ”

When Geraldine finishes the piece, she sits back and lights a cigarette, trying to postpone that bloody Top Tips column. But then her eyes sparkle as she grabs the paper again, pulls out the two pages covered in Ben Williams and carefully folds them up and slips them into a manila envelope.

“Darling Jemima,” she writes on a compliments slip. “If I had time I’d write a letter, but I wanted you to see this. Can you believe it?!! Ben Williams splashed all over two pages!!. Wish I’d known then what I know now . . . maybe I would have taken him up on his offer after all!! Hope you’re having a spectacularly marvelous time, and give Brad’s pecs a lick from me. Speak to you very, very soon, all my love, Geraldine.”

Smacking her lips, she seals the envelope and addresses it to Jemima, and on her way to the post office she smiles with delight at the thought of Jemima’s surprised face when she gets it.

Ben’s sitting at the breakfast table about to dig into a bowl of cereal when he hears the thud of the paper on the mat. Shit, he thinks. Today’s the day the interview goes in. He hates doing publicity, but Diana, in her professional mode, has told him he has to do everything, because everything depends on the ratings and good PR means better ratings.

For the last few weeks Ben has had daily conversations with
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the head of publicity at the TV station, who’s constantly arranging for Ben to see journalists, or to take part in one of those rent-a-celeb pieces in which Ben’s opinion on complete crap sits alongside other celebrities’ opinions on the selfsame complete crap. But never has he had a profile this big. He agreed to the interview, under duress, and it was only afterwards that he discovered they were doing more than just talking to him, they were ringing up all his friends as well.

So with heavy heart he opened the paper, immediately cringing with embarrassment as he saw the pictures. Now where in the hell did they get
those
from?

I can’t believe I said that, he thinks, starting to read the piece, before realizing that he didn’t say it, that Jo Hartley had taken what he
had
said and paraphrased it into more tabloid-friendly language.

He carries on reading, shocked at what they’d found out about him. Nothing spectacularly juicy, just stuff that he’d forgotten about. They’d dug up people he’d vaguely known at university, and there are several paragraphs devoted to his life as a rugby fanatic, but luckily no real kiss and tells, just mentions of previous girlfriends.

“Jemima was right,” he murmurs, scanning the rest of the page. “Being famous isn’t quite what it’s cracked up to be.” Bloody hell, he thinks. Jemima Jones! Now why the hell didn’t I think of Jemima. She’ll give me advice about Diana, he thinks. She’ll tell me what to do. And then he thinks of how long it’s been since he last called her, and how she had always known just what to do.

Jesus, Ben, he thinks to himself, you’ve been a real bastard not calling Jemima. Geraldine, he thinks, he could live without. Yes, he fancied her, but there was never the connection that he had with Jemima. You should never have left it this long, he thinks, and with that he picks up the phone and dials her home number.

“Hello. Is Jemima there, please?”

“No, she’s on holiday in Los Angeles for a couple of weeks.”

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“She’s what? What’s she doing there?”

“Who
is
this?” Lisa vaguely recognizes the voice.

“This is Ben Williams. Is that Sophie?”

“No,” says Lisa, mentally rubbing her hands together with glee because Sophie’s popped out to get some cigarettes and she’ll go ballistic when she finds out Ben Williams phoned. “This is Lisa,” she laughs. “The brunette.”

“Oh hi. How are you?”

“Just fine,” she says. “And I don’t need to ask how you are, all I have to do is switch on my television.”

“Yes,” Ben laughs, because what is he supposed to say? There’s a silence while Lisa tries to think of something clever to say next, but she can’t think of anything at all, and the silence stretches on.

“Sorry,” says Ben, finally. “I thought you were going to say something.”

“Oh. No.”

“What’s Jemima doing in LA?”

“She’s staying with her new boyfriend.”

“You’re joking!” Ben’s flabbergasted. “Not that Internet guy?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“You haven’t got her number by any chance have you?”

“Hang on,” says Lisa, reaching for the pad by the phone. She reads the number out to Ben, and then says, “Um, you should pop in some time. Have a drink with us.” Which of course means have a drink with me.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll do that,” says Ben, which of course means he’ll forget about her the instant he puts down the phone. Which he does. He also neglects to phone Jemima in LA, because Diana Macpherson is next on the line, presumably hoping to soothe his furrowed brow. But he will phone Jemima, he honestly will. As soon as he remembers again.

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A week can pass incredibly quickly when you’re having fun. A week can also pass incredibly slowly when you find that you’re actually quite lonely, you’re not surrounded by the safety network of your friends, your home, familiar surroundings.

Not that Jemima Jones isn’t having a good time, how could she not? Her evenings are a riot of new sounds, tastes, smells, and naturally the whirlwind of passion that she’s having with Brad.

But her days aren’t quite what they could be, and even after a week Jemima Jones is discovering that being on your own, in a strange city, albeit a city where the strangers treat you like old friends, is not quite the same as being on your own at home. Particularly when you’re as strapped for cash as poor Jemima is now. The
Kilburn Herald,
as we already know, pays her a pittance, and all the money she saved by not having a life has almost trickled away. For now she’s just about okay with Brad paying for everything, so let’s just hope he
continues
to treat her as well as he has been . . .

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Her daily routine here has changed enormously. She and Brad wake up at 8
A.M.
, and thus far they have had wild, wanton sex before both getting up and going for a run along the beach, which is sheer bliss for Jemima, so unused to living near the water, to the warm, early morning sun, to the friendly smiles of passing people.

They stop for breakfast on the way back, a glass of vegetable juice, a fat-free, sugar-free blueberry muffin or cranberry scone, and then Brad climbs in the shower at home. He kisses her goodbye, and Jemima showers, makes herself some coffee and climbs back into bed, poring over the magazines that are scattered all over Brad’s coffee table, but no longer does she tear out the pictures of models. She doesn’t need to, she’s fulfilled that dream, and, while she’s still interested, that degree of desperation has disappeared.

At around 11
A.M.
she puts on her tiny Lycra leotard, her leggings, her sneakers, and she goes to do her workout at the gym. If Brad’s not too busy, he’ll take her out for lunch, or she may go wandering by herself, although it’s hard for her to get around, because Brad needs his car, and Los Angeles, even Santa Monica, is not a place to be without a car.

But Jemima is slowly running out of places to wander. She has been up and down Third Street Promenade more times than she cares to mention. She has been into the bookstores, and has emerged with nothing, because all of the titles seem to be geared to those working in the film world, and Jemima, frankly, has no interest in books telling you how to write a film script, which director did which work, and why the film industry is so wonderful.

She has been into all of the shops lining Third Street Promenade. Repeatedly. She has been into the Santa Monica mall, into the eating section, and stood for a while, completely flabbergasted at all the stalls offering every type of food you could imagine. Chinese, Japanese, Italian, gourmet coffee, croissants, Ethiopian, Thai, and at
[“in”]
the hundreds of tables planted in the middle of the mall were hundreds of people, all tucking into
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oversized portions in Styrofoam containers. She stood there, and she thought how six months ago, had she walked in here, she would have worked her way round all the stalls, but now, despite enjoying all the exotic smells mingling together, the thought of actually eating anything slightly repels her.

She has been up and down Montana, into all the smart, expensive boutiques and coffee shops. She was even extremely tempted to buy a cream designer suit that looked like a dream on her newly skinny body
‌
—which, incidentally, much to her delight is getting skinnier by the day thanks to a completely fat-free diet and an exercise regime that would make Cher jealous
‌
—but she didn’t buy the suit, because where, after all, would she wear it? How, after all, could she afford it?