Jemima J. (13 page)

He didn’t ask for her number. Not because he didn’t want it, because Ben wanted nothing more, but because he thought she would be so used to being chatted up, she would never be interested in him. Admittedly, they did get on, but no, she couldn’t have been interested in him, Ben Williams, trainee news reporter.

But wonder of wonders, Laurie called him. She got his number from Richard, called and invited him to a party. A party where they didn’t so much fall in love as consummate their lust for one another, a lust which continued for three months, three months of whirlwind jet-setting and partying.

Ben accompanied Laurie everywhere. They went to film
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premieres, to restaurant openings, to exclusive nightclubs, and this in fact was the problem. Towards the end of three months, much as he liked being with Laurie, he was starting to feel that if there was the opening of an envelope, Laurie would insist on going.

With Laurie he mixed with the beautiful people. He even brushed shoulders, on the odd occasion, with Sophie and Lisa, who were never actually invited themselves, but who would be there with their latest glamorous men, not that Ben ever noticed, he was far too busy being Laurie’s boyfriend.

And that, you see, was the beginning of the end. “So
you’re
Laurie’s mystery man,” people used to say, instantly forgetting his name. “So
this
is Laurie’s boyfriend,” they’d say, greeting him distractedly before turning away to someone more famous, and consequently, at least in their eyes, more interesting.

He was bored, and it showed. On the few occasions he tried discussing this with Laurie, she’d smother him with kisses and tell him not to be ridiculous, that he was being silly, that none of these people mattered.

But you see it did matter. It mattered that Laurie had to be the center of attention, wherever she went, and in the end Ben went to her flat one night and told her it wasn’t working. He said he wasn’t happy, that he really liked her, but he didn’t like her lifestyle.

Laurie, being the actress that she is, cried for a while, and tried begging him to stay, promising things would be different, but Ben knew they wouldn’t be, and he put his arms around her and kissed her softly on the forehead as he wished her good luck and goodbye.

Ben walked out of Laurie’s flat, out of her life, and out of the whirlwind of parties, and truth to be told, although he missed Laurie, particularly at night, he was filled with a huge relief.

Because Ben isn’t much good at pretending and, try as he might, he never felt he fitted in with the jet-setters, nor did he want to. It didn’t take long for Ben to see beyond the glitz and
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glamour, to the heart of insecurities, pretensions and inadequacies that people tried to cover up.

He hated the fact that on the rare occasions people asked what he did for a living
‌
—and I say rare because most of these people were far too self-absorbed to be interested in anyone else
‌
—their faces would cloud over with boredom when he told them he was a reporter on the
Kilburn Herald.

Ben never tried to disguise his job because he didn’t have to. He was, is, secure and confident enough to not care what others think, and this is what he hated most of all, how he was judged by his job, not himself.

So yes, Ben is more than familiar with women like Sophie and Lisa, with the men they go out with, the parties they go to, and he wouldn’t touch their lifestyles with a ten-foot pole. But of course Jemima doesn’t know this. Nor do Sophie and Lisa, who, at this moment in time, are buzzing round the flat, pulling spiky, spongy things out of their hair, washing off face masks, expertly applying makeup.

They are going out later, but they have decided to do a pre-clubbing pub and bar crawl. They watched Jemima and Ben walk up the road, and they know they won’t have gone far, and they will soon be off on a search.

Ben and Jemima reach the bar, slightly incongruous for this part of Kilburn, for it looks like it ought to be in Soho or Notting Hill.

Large picture windows look out on to the street, and a huge bust of a woman, the sort of bust that used to be on the front of ships in pirate movies, stares fondly down from the top of the door frame.

Ben holds the door open for Jemima as they walk in, and Jemima instantly wishes they had gone somewhere else, somewhere less trendy, somewhere where she didn’t feel out of place.

For despite being in Kilburn the bar is filled with beautiful, fashionable people. A different sort of fashion to Soho or Notting Hill, more of a street fashion, less a designer label fashion,
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but nevertheless fashionable. The air is filled with smoke and soft laughter, and Jemima follows Ben to the bar, her shoes clip-clopping on the scrubbed wooden floors as she walks.

Antique mirrors and mismatched paintings cover the wall, and in a small room off the main bar are a couple of beaten-up leather sofas and armchairs. It is to this room that Ben carries their drinks
‌
—a pint of lager for him and a bottle of Beck’s for Jemima.

Jemima isn’t a drinker, has never particularly liked the taste of alcohol, nor has she ever quite known what to order in a bar when asked what she wants to drink. Vodka or gin and tonic sounds too grown up, too much like her parents; Malibu and pineapple, which is the only drink she loves, is too downmarket, and pints or even half pints of beer are too studenty.

Thank God for imported bottled beers, because these days Jemima never has to think. She’ll just order a bottle of Beck’s, knowing that at least she will fit in.

Ben sits down on a brown leather sofa covered in cracks just under the window, then slides up to allow room for Jemima, who is about to settle herself in the armchair adjacent to the sofa.

Jemima squeezes in next to Ben, feeling more than a touch faint-hearted at such close proximity, and she pours her beer into a glass, because although we all know it’s far more cool to drink imported beer straight from the bottle, Jemima can’t quite get to grips with it.

“What do you think?” says Ben, looking around the room. “It’s nice here isn’t it.”

“Lovely,” I practically choke as I gulp my imported beer through nerves and wonder why places like this always make me feel so awkward.

“So how’s work?” Ben opens with the standard question, the question you always ask when you don’t know someone very well, but quite frankly I don’t care. It’s enough that he’s here. With me. Tonight.

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“Boring as hell,” I say, my stock answer. “I keep thinking I should really start looking around but then I still have this ridiculous hope that they’re going to promote me.”

“They should,” said Ben. “I know you rewrite most of Geraldine’s stuff and you’re very good.”

“How did you know that?” I can’t believe he knows that!

“Oh come on,” says Ben with a smile. “Geraldine’s a good operator but she can’t write to save her life. I saw that piece you wrote for her today, the one on dating, and there’s no way Geraldine would have written an intro like that. I don’t think she could write an intro of any sort.”

“But she’s so nice.” I always feel vaguely guilty whenever anyone says anything negative about Geraldine. “We shouldn’t really be talking about her like this.”

“Like what? As I said, she is very talented, just not at writing. That’s your problem, Jemima, you’re a very good writer but you haven’t got the confidence to be a good journalist. There’s a huge difference. Journalism means digging, it means making hundreds of phone calls, standing on people’s doorsteps if necessary, to get your story. It means operating on hunches, chasing leads, not stopping until you’ve got what you want. You haven’t got that instinct, but Geraldine has. I know she’s not a news reporter, but she could be.” He looks at Jemima carefully. “You, Jemima, are a wonderful writer, far too good to be wasted on a newspaper, any newspaper, never mind the
Kilburn Herald
.”

“So what could you see me doing?”

“I think you should be going for a job on a woman’s magazine.”

I look down at the half-empty bottle of beer and idly start picking off the foil around the rim of the bottle. I know Ben is absolutely right, even though I’m not sure I like hearing it from him. I mean, it’s one thing recognizing your own weaknesses, but quite another hearing that someone else can see them that clearly, particularly when that someone happens to be Ben Williams. But, having said that, I’d kill to work on one of the
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glossy magazines I love so much, but I also know the type of women who work there, and I know quite categorically that I’d never fit in.

The type of women who work on glossy magazines are pencil-slim. They have highlighted hair, and hard faces covered in too much makeup. They always wear designer black, and always, like Geraldine, have sunglasses pushing their hair off their faces.

They go out for long liquid lunches, and network every evening in the trendiest bars in town. I could never look like that nor live like that, but of course I can’t tell Ben this, so I shrug. “I don’t know, maybe you’re right. What about you then, Ben? Are you a writer or a journalist?”

“Actually,” says Ben with a shy grin, “I think I’m kind of neither.” Confusion crosses my face as Ben reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper.

“Here,” he says, handing it to me. “What do you think of this?”

I skim-read it quickly then double back and read it again more slowly. “What do you mean, what do I think?” Horror suddenly courses through my veins. No! Don’t leave! My God, if you left the paper what would I have to look forward to? I would be completely desperate and I would not want to carry on.

“What do you
think
?” Ben repeats, a different emphasis on the words. “Could you see me on television?”

“Yes, of course!” I say, because Ben needs to be reassured, and the truth is I could see him on television. Absolutely. “You’d be brilliant on television, you’d be perfect!”

Ben sighs with relief. “Do you think I’d get it?”

“Well, they’ll be nuts if you don’t. You’ll definitely get an interview, and I’m sure you’ll be in with a chance. You’ve got a background in journalism
and
perfect white teeth, what more would you need?” Listen to me. I’m actually teasing Ben! I, Jemima Jones, am teasing the gorgeous Ben Williams! Ben
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laughs, showing off those teeth, and I suspect he’s surprised at this side of me he’s never seen.

Ben bares those beauties in a great big false cheesy smile, and says, “This is Ben Williams on
London Today
.” I start laughing, he looks ridiculous, and he raises one eyebrow and says, “There, what do you think of that?”

“Too much white teeth,” I laugh. “Even for you.”

“Can I read you my application letter?” he says. “I’m sending it tomorrow, but would you tell me what you think?”

“Sure.”

“But you mustn’t tell anyone. I know I can trust you but I wouldn’t want anyone else at work to know about this.”

I watch as Ben pulls a copy of the letter out of his briefcase and as he hands it to me I feel totally honored that he’s trusting me.

“Dear Diana Macpherson,” I read silently. “Re: Vacancy for television reporter as advertised in last Monday’s
Guardian.
I am currently working as the deputy news editor on the
Kilburn Herald
but would love to move into television . . .” My eyes glaze over as I finish reading what can only be described as a completely standard letter, and definitely not a letter that would even get him an interview, let alone a job.

I put the letter down and, trying to be as honest as I know how, I say, “It’s a great letter. It says everything you need to say, but if you want my honest opinion I don’t think it’s going to cut it. I think you need something more dynamic, more creative.”

“Oh God, do you think so?” Ben’s face falls. “I was trying to write something interesting but I was in such a hurry I just wrote down the first thing I could think of. You wouldn’t . . .” His eyes light up as he looks at me.

“Of course I would!” I laugh, because I’ve been dying to since I read the first sentence, and grabbing a pen out of my bag I turn the letter over and start scribbling on the back.

“Health and beauty may not be my strong points,” I write,
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speaking the words out loud so Ben can hear, “although I do have a bathroom cabinet fully stocked with men’s cologne (freebies passed to me by the women feature writers at the
Kilburn Herald),
and my interest in show business and entertainment may be limited
‌
—I have a healthy interest because of my work as the deputy news editor, but offer me the chance of a film premiere ticket and I’ll run a mile. However, my knowledge of news and politics is exemplary.

“I am, as I briefly mentioned, currently working as the deputy news editor on the
Kilburn Herald.
Not, I’m sure you’ll agree, the most prestigious of papers, but nevertheless the perfect place for a solid background in journalism. I started as a trainee reporter and have now been with the paper for five years. Needless to say, it is now time for a change, and I firmly believe that the future for all good journalists lies in television.

“I am, naturally, addicted to news and politics, and am an avid viewer of programs not dissimilar to yours. I’m afraid I do not possess a demo tape, however, I enclose a photograph together with my CV, and look forward to hearing from you.”

“There,” I say, slapping the pen down as Ben shakes his head in amazement.

“God, Jemima,” he says, rereading the words. “You’re amazing.”

“I know,” I sigh. “I just wish someone else would notice.”

“That is just so inspired,” he says, a wide grin spreading across his face.

“At the end of the day, Ben, they’re either going to love it or hate it, but either way they’ll definitely notice it.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I really think so.”

While Ben and Jemima sit there chatting, mostly about work, it has to be said, Sophie and Lisa have got dressed
‌
—the pair of them in almost identical black lycra dresses, knee-high boots (Sophie’s are suede, Lisa’s are leather), with little black Chanel bags over one shoulder. Sophie is wearing a soft black leather
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jacket with a fur collar, and Lisa is in a cape. These are their pickup outfits
‌
—the clothes they wear when they venture to an unknown club to attract potential millionaire husbands.