Jemima J. (41 page)

I reach into the cupboard then cover my head with my arms because a pile of stuff comes out, just missing me, to land on the floor.

“Ouch,” I shout, because it didn’t quite miss me, a magazine caught me on my forehead and it bloody well hurts. Right, sheets. I can see them at the bottom and I carefully pull one out before climbing off the chair to gather up the stuff that’s now on the floor.

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What is all this shit anyway? I start picking up the papers, and then something catches my eye and I kick some papers aside with my foot to see what it is. And I freeze.

No. This cannot be happening. For a few moments the whole world seems to stand still, and I have to close my eyes because maybe, maybe, this is a bad dream and when I open them again this
stuff
will have disappeared and I won’t have to deal with it because I’m not sure whether I can, I’m not sure whether I’m experienced enough, or strong enough, and even if I were I don’t know whether I could, and oh fuck. Why me. Why is this happening to me?

And I open my eyes and it’s not a dream, it’s real, and I think I’m going to throw up, but somehow curiosity kicks in and instead of running to the bathroom I put my hand on my heart, which is beating about a million beats to every second, and I sink down on to the floor without even thinking about it and I start looking through the pile.

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”Now this,” says Ben, turning to Simon and raising a glass of champagne, “is the life.”

“Better buckle up,” says Simon with a grin. “We’re about to land.”

“I don’t want to land,” groans Ben. “I want to stay on this plane for ever and ever.” The stewardess walks past and smiles at Ben, who gives her his most charming smile and turns back to Simon. “See what I mean? Beautiful women, free champagne, delicious food.”

“You can afford to fly first class,” grunts Simon. “On my measly pay I’d end up in cattle class with crappy seats and crappy food.”

“I didn’t pay for this,” says Ben.

“Yeah, but you got upgraded because you’re famous. I don’t somehow think that they’d automatically upgrade overworked producer Simon Molloy just because I have a nice smile.”

“But they did,” grins Ben.

“Only ’cuz I’m with you.”

They do up their seat belts and prepare to land.

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“Where are we staying again?” asks Ben.

“Ah,” says Simon, reaching into his briefcase. “Now here, I really have done us proud. London Daytime Television wanted to put us up in some grotty hotel, but I managed to wangle this place called Shutters on the Beach.” He pulls a brochure out of the case and hands it to Ben. “Nice isn’t it?”

“Nice?” says Ben, as the plane starts to descend through the sky. “It’s bloody gorgeous.”

“Bloody gorgeous,” he says again, as they walk through the reception area, the very same reception area Jemima has only recently walked through herself. Ben, being a man, doesn’t notice the details in the way Jemima did, but nevertheless he can appreciate the quiet beauty of the place.

“I’ve got to make some calls, and then I’ve got to meet the publicist,” says Simon, as they follow the bellboy up in the elevator. “How about we meet a bit later on?”

“Let’s speak,” says Ben, looking at his watch. “I’m not sure I’m up for a night out tonight, I can feel a serious bout of jet lag coming on.”

“Okay,” agrees Simon, who’s not feeling so hot himself. “If you bail out on me tonight then tomorrow, after we’ve done the interview, we have to do some heavy drinking.”

“You’re on,” says Ben with a grin.

“Good.”

Ben is tired, but he’s also excited, and he hasn’t got any calls to make, any people to meet, and after half an hour of flicking through hundreds of television stations, he decides to go for a walk.

He has no idea where he’s going, but he doesn’t care. Just the fact that he’s able to walk around in nothing more than a pair of jeans and a T-shirt is enough, the fact that within minutes of leaving the hotel he passes three of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen is enough, the fact that he’s actually here, in Los Angeles, is enough.

Ben doesn’t know about jaywalking. He doesn’t know that
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in California, should you be stupid enough to cross at the lights before the sign changes to a green pedestrian, you can be fined. So here he is, standing at the street corner with a crowd of people, wondering why no one’s crossing the empty road. He strides across as a black convertible Porsche screeches past him, missing him by centimeters, and as the car roars off the driver, an impossibly handsome blond man, screams, “Asshole!” Ben stands for a few seconds, shaking, as a young man with long hair and baggy clothes walks up to him.

“Don’t cross until it says so, man,” he drawls, walking off.

“Oh,” says Ben, recovering his composure. “Thanks.”

I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know whether to be horrified or whether to be fascinated, whether to laugh with relief because it wasn’t my imagination that something was very wrong, I wasn’t mad, or whether to throw up.

Everything seems to be standing still. The only thing I’m aware of at this very moment in time is the pile of photographs and magazines in front of me. I feel as if I’m in a daze, but somehow I can’t stop myself from looking, it’s as if I need to see this because if I don’t look at everything it may not be real.

I reach across and pull over one of the many magazines from the pile. “Big and Bouncy!” it proclaims on the cover, a lurid headline over a picture of a woman who’s not so much a woman, more a mountain of flesh. She’s completely naked, grinning into the camera and spreading her legs, presumably to help the viewer see what they would otherwise miss due to the rolls of skin, the acres of fat that would otherwise completely obliterate her genitalia.

Jesus Christ. Who buys these things? What are they doing
here?
In Brad’s apartment.

I turn the first page and read the note from the editor, addressed to those men who like larger ladies. I turn every page, and you know what I can’t believe? I can’t believe that someone like Brad could get turned on by these enormous women, so what the hell are they doing in his apartment?

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The horrified part of me doesn’t want to look, wants to run crying into her mother’s skirt and hope the big, bad, nasty world will go away, but that other part of me, the fascinated part, can’t stop turning the pages because these women are me. They’re what I used to be, except I never knew what I looked like then because I never dared look in the mirror properly. I used to pretend that if I couldn’t see the fat then no one else could either.

Except looking closely I can see that these women aren’t really me. They have pouting, glossy smiles, they lick their lips seductively as they look into the camera, they seem proud of their size, their bulk, their excess weight, but they shouldn’t be proud. Or should they?

Am I going mad? Is it possible that men would have found me attractive then, despite being hugely overweight? I love the attention I get now that I’m slim and blond, but has my life changed all that much? Yes, I feel better, more confident, but I’m still the same person inside, and if I’m being really honest with myself I wouldn’t say I’m that much happier now, and all the insecurities I had when I was fat are still there, they haven’t gone away, even though that sounds ridiculous.

The weird thing is that people judge me by my looks as much as they did before, only now they just come up with a completely different conclusion, and yes, I have a boyfriend, but my life certainly isn’t the fairy tale I thought it would be. Most of the time, even though I’m in Los Angeles, with Brad, most of the time, I suddenly realize, I’m desperately lonely. Far, far lonelier than I ever was back home in Kilburn.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize that I really haven’t felt myself since arriving in Los Angeles. I feel almost as if I’m playing a role, that I’ve become so immersed in being Brad’s girlfriend I’ve forgotten who I really am. In fact, it’s not even since I arrived in LA. If I’m totally honest about it, I haven’t felt myself since I lost weight and I never understood before how much I used the excess weight to protect myself.

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I finish reading the magazines and then I pick up the stack of photographs, and slowly, methodically, I go through them. Each of them features a huge woman, and, just as I think I’ve had enough shocks to last a lifetime, I see the one thing that suddenly explains everything, and I can’t help it. Clichéd as it sounds, I cover my mouth with my hand and gasp.

Because there, in all her naked glory, is Jenny. Jenny, lying on Brad’s bed, smiling seductively into the camera. On the bed where Brad and I make love so often. Lying there as if it’s hers. No wonder. No wonder she hates me. And everything becomes horribly clear.

And as everything starts falling into place, I’m left with one overwhelming thought. What the hell is Brad doing with me? Why did he tell me he loved me? Why does he want me to stay? Why me?

I sort of feel as if the connections are there, in my mind, they’re just not quite fitting together. But I don’t have to think about this for very long, because suddenly the bedroom door opens, and Brad’s standing in the doorway.

I know it’s him, I don’t even bother looking up, I don’t need to, and I wait for him to say something but he doesn’t, all I can hear is the sound of his heavy breathing. He’s out of breath, he’s been running, he’s rushed to get here, and eventually, after this long silence, I do turn to look at him except I don’t look him in the eyes, I just look at the trickles of sweat which are just beginning to slide down his forehead.

“They’re not mine,” is the first thing he says. I don’t say anything, I just start shaking. It’s almost like a freeze-frame in a film, nobody moves, and finally I find my voice.

“I suppose you’re looking after them for a friend.”

“It’s a long story,” he says. “But they’re not mine.”

“Brad,” I say quietly. “I’m not stupid.”

Brad runs his fingers through his hair and sits down on the bed, head in his hands, and all I can think is that he looks guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

“Perhaps you ought to tell me what this is all about,” I say,
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only my voice doesn’t sound like mine, it’s far too collected, far too calm, and this situation doesn’t feel like my own, it feels like an out-of-body experience, like something I’m watching in a cinema.

Brad’s silent for a long time, and I don’t bother pushing him. I just sit and wait, still flicking through the magazines, as if I’m in a dream.

“I don’t know what to say,” he says.

“Okay.” My voice is as cold as ice. “I’ll help you. Am I right in assuming these pictures are yours?”

Brad nods.

“So presumably you have them because you find these women attractive.”

Brad shrugs.

“Do you?”

He shrugs again.

“Do you?”

“I guess.”

“So now would you like to explain this?” I pull out the picture of Jenny and put it in front of Brad, who groans and drops his head in his hands, like I did before, like that child, like everything will disappear if he closes his eyes, that if he can’t see me or the incriminating evidence, perhaps I won’t be able to see him either. I know how he feels.

“At least I understand why she hates me,” I continue. “No wonder she bloody well felt threatened, she couldn’t pose for your sick porn collection while I was here, could she.”

“It’s not like that,” says a voice from the doorway. Jesus Christ. It’s not my day. There, in the doorway, is Jenny. Brad groans again and covers his eyes.

“Oh really,” I say. “Seeing as Brad seems to have lost the power of speech, perhaps you’d better tell me what it
is
like.”

“I’m sorry, Brad,” says Jenny, walking over to stand next to him and putting her hand on his shoulder. “I came over because I knew something was wrong when you ran out of the office. Are you okay?”

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“Is he okay?” This is unbelievable. “Excuse me? Hello? Never mind about him, for Christ’s sake. I want you to tell me what these are.”

Jenny gives a cursory glance at the pictures. “Okay,” she says to me, not even having the decency to show the slightest hint of embarrassment. “You really want to know what’s going on?”

“Yes.” Although suddenly I’m not so sure.

Jenny looks at Brad. “I’m going to tell her,” she says, but Brad doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even bother looking up, he just carries on sitting there with his head in his hands.

“Brad and I were at high school together
‌
—”

“You what?” I say. “I don’t believe this.”

“Well believe it,” says Jenny. “We weren’t together,” she pauses. “Then.” She shrugs. “I looked pretty much the same as I do now. I was the overweight kid that everyone laughed at. Sure, I had my friends, the social misfits, the geeks, the nerds that no one else wanted to know.” Her voice softens as she looks at Brad.

“Brad was the high school hero. He was the golden boy, the star of the football team. He went out with the head cheerleader, and I fell in love with him the moment I saw him.