Jemima J. (22 page)

“God,” says Sophie, smoothing down her dress and giving Diana Macpherson the once-over. “Talk about mutton dressed as lamb. Who is she?” Sophie doesn’t turn back to me, just keeps her eyes glued to Diana as Ben walks back and hands Diana a glass of wine.

“Dunno,” I shrug, trying desperately to hide an evil grin. “She’s not from the paper and I haven’t seen her before. Maybe she’s a friend of Ben.” I stop talking and the three of us watch in silence as Diana brushes a bit of lint off Ben’s jacket in a gesture that is way too intimate for simply a boss.

“Maybe she fancies him,” I say, wondering exactly what the outcome of this peculiar conversation will be.

“She should be so bloody lucky!” says Sophie indignantly, before she evidently remembers that I, her roommate, have a crush on Ben, and she shouldn’t be quite so obvious.

“Tell you what, Mimey,” she says in a confiding tone. “Why don’t I go over there and get rid of the old bag then you can come over and talk to him. I bet you haven’t said a word to him all night.”

I can’t hide the evil smile any longer, and as the grin spreads across my face I say, “Would you? That’s so amazing of you.”

“What are friends for?” says Sophie, who’s already started striding through the tightly packed people to reach her prey.

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“I’d better go with her,” says Lisa, tottering behind her.

“What
is
going on?” Geraldine comes to stand next to me. “What are your roommates
doing
here, and, more to the point, why the hell are they dressed like that?”

This is too much for me. I start laughing, and the more I laugh, the harder it is to stop, but I’m not that drunk, okay? Just slightly. Eventually I manage to gasp, “Just watch. I think this is going to be one of those Kodak moments.”

“Does your roommate know who Diana Macpherson is?” says Geraldine in confusion.

“No,” I splutter. “And nor does she know what she’s like, but she fancies Ben and she thinks that Diana is mutton dressed as lamb and Sophie’s going to drag him away from her, come what may.”

Geraldine looks shocked, but swiftly realizes she’s in on a classic moment. “Classic!” she whispers in awe, as she watches Sophie’s approach.

Sophie, being the rather silly girl that she is, seems to have decided, in the space of less than a minute, that Ben has obviously been cornered by this overblown, overaged blonde, and as she walks purposefully towards them she is already planning her strategy. Ben, she has decided, is looking as if he doesn’t want to be there, so Ben will probably be eternally grateful to anyone who has the presence of mind to take him away from this woman who is, Sophie assumes, ruining his party.

I am, she thinks, as she draws closer and closer, infinitely younger than this blowzy blonde, and far more attractive. Plus, she notes, as she finally walks over, I have better legs. Ben, she decides, now has a girlfriend who will send this woman scarpering. This girlfriend, she thinks, is me. Brilliant! she tells herself. He will never be able to thank me enough!

“Ben!” she shouts, as Ben looks up from his conversation with Diana and stares at her blankly, primarily because he finds
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it hard to focus on her, she appears to have two, if not three, heads, and secondly because he does not recognize her in the slightest.

His blank stare swiftly becomes mild alarm, because she certainly seems to know him, indeed to know him very well.

“Darling!” she exclaims, grabbing his face between her hands and planting a big wet kiss on his lips. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Have you missed me?” she adds, in a kittenish purr.

“I . . . er . . .” Ben is completely and utterly flummoxed. Who is this strange woman, is she perhaps some PR girl he might have spoken to on the phone?

“Hello,” says Sophie, turning coolly to Diana Macpherson, whose face has suddenly turned as hard as steel. “I’m Sophie.” She holds out a hand as Diana just looks at her. “Ben’s girlfriend.”

“My what?” slurs Ben, who has suddenly realized who she is.

“Don’t be coy, darling. It’s hardly a secret anymore, is it?” Sophie reaches up and affectionately ruffles his hair.

“But . . .” Ben splutters, “but we’ve only met once. You’re Jemima’s roommate, aren’t you?”

Sophie hesitates, but only for a split second. “Is this a little game, darling? Do you want me to play along? All right then, we’ve only met once.” She turns to Diana and rolls her eyes, while Ben stands there looking flabbergasted.

“Sorry,” she says to Diana, who, it has to be said, is far, far brighter than Sophie, and is slowly getting an inkling, thanks to the expression on Ben’s face, that this is not quite what it seems. “We just have these little games we play.” continues Sophie, blissfully unaware that her plan is not going to, well, to plan.

“Oh?” says Diana, switching on the charm and smiling a smile that her colleagues know means only one thing
‌
—she’s going in for the kill. “So you’re Ben’s girlfriend? I’ve heard so much about you.”

Sophie’s smile fades for a second before she recovers. “Nice things I hope,” she offers, because as far as she knows Ben
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doesn’t have a girlfriend, and, if he does, she might be here, and if she’s here then Sophie’s in big trouble.

“Oh wonderful things,” says Diana. “I was so sorry to hear about your sister,” she says, now knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sophie is some stupid tart who fancies Ben, who thought that she could drag him away from her.

“My sister, yes, it was a shame. I’m surprised Ben told you,” says Sophie, who’s beginning to think that the sooner she gets away from here the better.

Jemima and Geraldine have inched forward until they are feet away, and both are straining their ears to hear what’s going on.

“Mmm,” says Diana confidently. “Ben tells me a lot of things. I’m his psychiatrist.”

“What?” says Sophie, who’s completely unsure of what to do next.

“Well, you know,” says Diana, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “After the problem last year with
the voices
and the schizophrenic tendencies, Ben and I have been seeing one another three times a week. He didn’t tell you?”

“Yes, come to think of it he did mention it, but you know how private Ben is.”

“Absolutely,” agrees Diana. “Just as long as you keep your kitchen knives well hidden, if you know what I mean.” She nudges Sophie. “I shouldn’t really say this,” Diana says, “but do be careful, I mean we wouldn’t want you to end up like his last girlfriend would we.”

“Er, no.”

“No, exactly. Anyway, Ben tells me you’re an osteopath. Come with me to get a drink and tell me all about your work.” Before Sophie has a chance to protest, Diana has grabbed her by the arm and propelled her to the bar, while Geraldine and Jemima collapse in tears of laughter.

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“What the fuck?” says Ben, who has temporarily, perhaps due to shock, sobered up somewhat. He turns to me, slurring slightly. “Was that my girlfriend?”

“No, Ben,” I smile gently. “You haven’t got a girlfriend, remember?”

“That’s what I thought,” says Ben, looking into his wineglass in confusion. He looks back up at the girls. “Jemima,” he says, downing his glass in one. “Geraldine,” he says, swaying gently and looking at Geraldine. “What am I going to do without you both?” He flings his arms around both our shoulders while Geraldine, who has not touched a drop all night, rolls her eyes in disgust and disengages herself.

“You’ll be fine, Ben,” she says. “You’ll doubtless find thousands of gorgeous young women at
London Nights
who will fall in love with you. And speaking of love . . .” She looks up until she catches the eye of Nick Maxwell, who has just returned from getting Diana Macpherson’s coat. “I have got a date with one of the most eligible men in London.”

“Who?” says Ben, who, by the looks of things, is far too drunk to care.

“Never you mind.” Geraldine, being sober as a judge, has thankfully realized that Ben is the last person she should be telling, because you never knew how Diana Macpherson would take it.

“Excuse me,” she says, checking that Diana isn’t around so she can go and say goodbye to Nick. “Back in a sec.”

But Ben’s arm is still around my shoulders, and I’m so nervous that I seem to have suddenly sobered up, and I can see everything in minute detail, and feel every pressure of Ben’s arm on my body.

“You’re my only friend,” he says to me, turning and burying his face in my shoulder. “I love you, Jemima,” he mumbles into my shirt, and I freeze.

And the world stands still.

“What did you say?” I ask haltingly, convinced I misheard.

Ben focuses on me for a few seconds then, much in the
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manner that Sophie, who has now left the party, kissed him, kisses me. It is a big, wet, sloppy kiss on my lips, and thank you, God, thank you, thank you, thank you. It lasts a good four seconds, and when it’s over Ben stumbles off, leaving me rooted to the floor, shaking like a leaf.

“I love you too,” I whisper, watching as he’s pulled to one side by the editor, who’s just about to make a speech. “I love you too.”

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Before we take a look at JJ
‌
—for Jemima Jones exists now in name alone
‌
—we need to know that she has rarely been home since we last saw her. A whole three months has passed and we need to be warned, just so that we recognize her, just so that we don’t get carried away and think that Jemima Jones is nowhere to be found.

She has been to work, which has been thoroughly miserable without Ben Williams, and she has been to the gym. She has done her best to avoid her two roommates after the fiasco of Ben’s farewell party, and she has buried the pain of Ben not calling her during this time.

She has become increasingly friendly with Geraldine, who, incidentally, is now firmly ensconced with Nick Maxwell, and she is running up enormous phone bills to Brad in California, who, despite being many, many miles away from her, is proving to be the one light in her life.

Jemima feels she knows Brad pretty well by now. She has given him her time, her thoughts and her energy, because she no longer has to save any of the aforementioned for Ben, who
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has disappeared from her life and reappeared on her television screen.

Brad is investing the same in Jemima, soon to be known full time as JJ, but perhaps it is fair to ask the question, how well can you really know someone whom you’ve never met? How close can you be to someone whom you talk to via the Internet, fax, and telephone? How do you know they are who they say they are?

It probably doesn’t matter. After all, those conversations are the one thing Jemima has to look forward to because food no longer offers the consolation it once did, and Ben phoned three times during the first month he left to say what a great time he was having, and she hasn’t heard from him since.

Food. Jemima is eating just about enough to give her the energy to exercise, to watch her skin regain its taut elasticity, to rediscover bones and muscles she didn’t think she had. In the first couple of weeks after Ben left Jemima still had cravings, which took all her energy to fight, but fight them she did, and binges are now a thing of the past.

Jemima, when we last saw her at the party, was 166 pounds, but now Jemima Jones weighs 121 pounds. Jemima Jones has lost almost a whole person’s worth of weight. Jemima Jones looks exactly like the girl in the picture.

“I can’t believe it,” says Geraldine, standing in the living room, watching Jemima as she whizzes around looking for her coat. “I just can’t bloody believe it.” Can any of us, in fact, believe that Jemima, our beloved Jemima Jones, can whizz
anywhere
?

“Believe what?” says Jemima distractedly, spying her huge old black coat lying behind the sofa. She pulls it on and wraps it around herself to keep warm, for Jemima Jones is frequently cold these days, not having the padding to warm her bones.

“I mean look at you,” says Geraldine. “You’re skinny.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Jemima, “I’m hardly skinny, and I still have this weight here.” She grabs what’s left of the fat on her thighs, and let me tell you, there isn’t a lot.

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“What weight there, for God’s sake?” says Geraldine. “Trust me, you’re skinny. You’re the same size as me.”

“I wish,” says Jemima, who actually is the same size as Geraldine, more or less, only she can’t quite get her head round that yet. She knows she
looks
different, she knows she
feels
different, she’s just not entirely sure how she should be feeling about it.

“Anyway,” she continues. “Where are we off to?”

“An expedition,” says Geraldine mysteriously. “You are in my hands today, and all you need to bring with you is a checkbook.”

“Oh God,” says Jemima nervously. “If you’re thinking of taking me shopping you can forget about your designer stores. This trip to LA is wiping me out, I haven’t got a penny.”

“Don’t worry,” says Geraldine. “What do you think credit cards are for?”