Jemima J Read online

  “God,” whispers Geraldine. “This is hysterical, it’s so, well, so unsexy.” I start to laugh because she’s absolutely right. There is nothing, but nothing, sexy about looking at a pornographic picture on a computer screen. Then Ben starts to laugh, and soon the three of us are clutching our sides and wiping the tears from our eyes. This stuff is far too clinical to turn anyone on.

  “Oh dear,” gasps Geraldine, wiping the tears carefully away so as not to smudge her MAC mascara. “What else can we look at?”

  “What, more sex?” Even Ben’s surprised.

  “No, idiot. I mean aren’t there any other interesting places?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what else to look at.”

  “Oh Ben, for God’s sake. Here, let me.” Geraldine gets rid of the sex and clicks a few times, finally coming across HOT SITES ON THIS NETWORK.

  “That’s probably more sex,” I moan, clutching my heart, which I don’t think can take the strain of another full-color graphic porn picture on the computer screen at work.

  “No, it’s not,” says Geraldine, “it’s just sites that are popular.”

  And sure enough a new list of sites appears onscreen.

  “There, that looks good,” says Geraldine, gesturing at a site called LA Café. Geraldine reads out loud. “ ‘LA Café. The coolest virtual café on the Internet. Grab a cappuccino, the latest articles from the American magazines, and meet other single people, all looking for that one special person.’ ”

  “LA Café, here we come,” says Ben, as Geraldine clicks on the site, and the logo comes on the screen.

  LA Café

  The coolest site for the seriously single

  and the cappuccinos you’ve been surfing for all your life

  “We have to join but it doesn’t cost anything,” says Geraldine, clicking the JOIN logo. A small box appears saying NAME: KILBURN HERALD.

  “Oh forget that,” she says, “we won’t be picking up anything as the Kilburn Herald. What shall we call ourselves?”

  “How about the Three Musketeers?” offers Ben, who’s now genuinely excited.

  “No. Too obvious.”

  “We’re only messing around, let’s come up with a name that sounds suitably sexy,” I offer, really quite curious to see what’s going to happen. I think for a minute. “What about Honey?”

  “Brilliant,” says Geraldine, deleting KILBURN HERALD and typing in HONEY.

  “Hey, that’s not fair,” says Ben. “If we join as Honey they won’t know there’s a guy involved. How am I going to pick up women?”

  “Be quiet,” says Geraldine, “too late now,” and so it is. We’ve joined the LA Café, or rather Honey has joined the LA Café.

  “What do we do now?” I ask, after we’ve sat there for a couple of minutes staring mutely at the logo. “Why don’t we click on one of those boxes on the side?”

  “Okay,” shrugs Geraldine, as she clicks on a picture of three heads together.

  Who is Here, it says, as a box flashes up onscreen with a load of names.

  Suzie 24

  =^..^=Cat

  Scott Shearer

  Honey

  Ben the invincible

  Todd

  Luscious Lisa:-)

  Ricky

  Tim@London

  Brad (Santa Monica)

  Geraldine reads the names. “Well, what the hell’s Tim doing at the LA Café if he’s in London?” she says.

  “Same thing as us, presumably,” laughs Ben.

  “Let’s find out.” She clicks on his name and immediately another box appears on screen. The box is divided into two. The top half has Tim@London over the top, and the bottom, smaller half says Honey.

  “Hello, fellow Londoner,” types Geraldine, the words appearing in the small box at the bottom. “What are you doing at the La Café?” She presses RETURN and the words disappear from the bottom box and reappear at the top, ready for Tim@London to read.

  “Picking up luscious Californian babes, of course. Why are you here?”

  “Just checking it out. Looking for some Californian hunks. Any recommendations?”

  “Lol. I’ll have a think.”

  Geraldine turns to Ben. “What does Lol mean?”

  “Dunno,” he says. “Ask him.”

  “What does Lol mean?”

  “Laugh out loud. You’re new to this then?”

  “First time. Any other tips?”

  “Sure. :-) means happy. :-( means unhappy. ;-) means a wink, but also means wink. means grin, means smile, and ROFL means rolling on the floor laughing.”

  “Thanks,” types Geraldine. “;-)”

  “God, this is amazing.” I am truly flabbergasted. “It’s a whole other language. Can I have a go?”

  Geraldine moves the mouse over to me and I move my hands quickly over the keyboard. ”So, have you found your Californian dream babe yet?”

  “Yup, talking to her at the moment. Suzie, she’s blond, she’s twenty-four, she’s a hardbody and a total babe.”

  “How do you know she’s not lying to you?”

  “She said she’ll e-mail me her photo.”

  “I hope she’s not lying.”

  “We’ll soon find out . So where in London are you?”

  I turn to the other two and make a face. “We can’t say Kilburn, it’s too naff.”

  “Say West Hampstead,” says Geraldine, “it’s the next best thing.”

  So I do as she says and type in West Hampstead.

  “Wowowow.” Tim@London types back. “I’m in Kilburn!!!”

  The three of us start laughing.

  “Hi, Honey! So how old are you?” suddenly flashes up on the screen from Todd, and I abandon my conversation with Tim@London.

  I type twenty-seven, but Geraldine stops me just as I’m about to press RETURN, to send the words to him.

  “Don’t say twenty-seven,” she urges. “You don’t have to tell the truth on this. Tell him you’re nineteen.” So I do, realizing she’s absolutely right. I don’t have to tell the truth on the Internet. About anything.

  “Just the right age for me!!!”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  ‘That’s a bit old for me isn’t it?”

  “You know what they say about older men . . .”

  “Yes. That they should know better than to chat up nineteen-year-olds.” I press RETURN then add a “:-)” to show that I’m joking. Don’t want to annoy him. Not yet, anyway.

  “Ouch. Not fair.”

  “Sorry. But do fill me in, what do they say about older men?”

  “Older, wiser, more experienced. In every department.”

  Geraldine shrieks with laughter. “Go on,” says Ben, “see if you can get him talking dirty.”

  “Oh yes?” I type. “Why not tell me EXACTLY what you’re better at.”

  “I don’t believe this,” says Ben. “This is sick.” But he’s grinning.

  “Okay, Honey. You want to know what would happen if you went out on a date with me?”

  “Darling, I can’t wait to hear.”

  “Well first of all we wouldn’t bother going to a restaurant, I’d want you all to myself at home, so I’d cook a gourmet meal, and we’d eat by candlelight on my terrace overlooking the swimming pool to the sounds of soft jazz playing on the stereo.”

  Geraldine makes gagging noises.

  “Go on.”

  “After dinner I’d lead you into my bedroom and I would give you a massage. I’d unbutton your shirt, and dribble some baby oil on to my palm. I’d warm the oil between my hands and then I’d make you lie on the bed while I slowly rub the baby oil into the smooth, tanned skin of your back.”

  “How do you know it’s tanned?”

  “Sssh. You’re spoiling the atmosphere. After you’re completely relaxed, I’d move my hands lower, pulling down your skirt until I’m rubbing my palms over your bare buttocks. I’d move lower and lower, pulling your panties down as I go, sli
pping my hand in between your legs, where it’s warm, dark, and moist with longing.”

  “Oh my God! I don’t believe this!”

  “What a perv!” shrieks Geraldine.

  “Let the guy finish!” says Ben.

  “Then I’d turn you over, and slowly stroke the oil on to your bare breasts. Your nipples would be erect by now, aching for me to take them between my fingers and rub them gently.”

  Geraldine and I shriek with laughter, and for the first time in my life I stop feeling intimidated by her, and start to think that actually she’s really very nice. Ben doesn’t say anything. He’s smiling, but one look at his face and we can tell he wants to hear more. Unfortunately, he won’t.

  I sit there and cover my face in mock horror. “I can’t do this anymore,” I say, “this is too horrible,” and I quickly type in, “Okay, thanks for the massage. Must do it again some time. Bye.”

  “Sorry. Did I put you off?” Poor Todd, he’s blown it and he’s hardly started yet.

  “Just ignore him,” says Geraldine. “Let’s try someone else.”

  “My turn, my turn,” says Ben, reaching for the mouse.

  “Hi Suzie,” he types. “I’m Ben. I’m with two female friends. Now it’s my turn.”

  “Oh. Okay. How are you, Ben?”

  “Good, thank you. But the burning question is, what are you doing with Tim@London, who evidently has no money because he lives in a really grotty area, when you could be with me.”

  “Ben!” I start laughing. “Like you live in a palace?”

  “Sssh,” he says. “What difference?”

  “Are you rich then, Ben?”

  “Richer than Tim@London, and better looking.”

  “LOL.”

  “;-)”

  “How do you know what he looks like?”

  “Trust me. I know these things.”

  “So what do you look like?”

  Geraldine groans at me. “God, he’s off. Shall we go and get a coffee?”

  And they do. They go downstairs to the cafeteria and leave Ben sitting at the computer, chatting animatedly to Suzie, the babe of his dreams. The babe that’s as different from Jemima as, well, as a typewriter and a computer linked up to the Internet.

  Chapter 6

  I can’t get the bloody Internet out of my head. Truth to be told, I think it’s brilliant, everything. The World Wide Web, the chat forums, the possibilities.

  Not that I’m looking for anyone, I mean, it’s me, for God’s sake, the woman who never has any boyfriends, and, although I know what a nice person I am, I’m not the most sociable of creatures. I wish I were, I wish I could be more like my roommates at times, but unfortunately my size dictates my social life, and my size is the one thing I can’t control. I know what you’re thinking, go on a diet, but it’s not as easy as that, I just can’t stop the cravings when they come, and somehow living on the Internet seems a far easier option than giving up chocolate.

  I mean, this could open up a whole new life for me, a new life that doesn’t care about looks, about weight, about expanses of flesh.

  Or perhaps I should say, doesn’t know, because I’m not stupid, if I had described myself accurately to Todd, he would have been off faster than you can say megabyte.

  But I really can be anyone I want on the Internet. After all, who could ever find out? What harm could there be? And, let’s face it, up until now the only fun thing in my life has been fantasizing first about being thin, and then about Ben Williams, but even those fantasies have been so tame that they’re hardly worth repeating.

  Are we interested? Okay, let’s take a peek into Jemima’s daydreams. When Jemima Jones goes to bed and closes her eyes, this is what she sees: she sees herself struck down with gastroenteritis, a bad bout, not so bad as to be seriously threatening, but bad enough for her to lose huge amounts of weight.

  She sees herself decked out in little suits, tight fitted jackets, short skirts just skimming her thighs. She sees herself bumping into Ben Williams, who has by now left the Kilburn Herald, as in fact has she.

  She sees herself going up to Ben at a crowded party, and saying hi, with a cool look in her eyes and a casual flick of her now blond hair. She sees Ben’s eyes widen in shock, replaced seconds later by admiration, respect, lust. She sees Ben driving her home, and coming in for coffee. She sees her roommates fall over themselves trying to flirt with him, but she sees that Ben only has eyes for her.

  She sees Ben moving closer towards where she sits on the sofa, unable, even for a moment, to take his eyes off her face. She sees his mouth in close-up detail, as he bends forward to kiss her. When they have kissed, and, incidentally, it is a kiss that instantly propels her up to a cloud, Ben looks in her eyes and says, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I love you and I want to be with you for the rest of my life.”

  Ridiculous, isn’t it, but Jemima Jones never gets beyond that first kiss and the declaration of love. Occasionally the kiss takes place elsewhere, sometimes at the party, sometimes in the car, sometimes on the street, but his words are always the same, and, as far as Jemima’s concerned, those words are the beginning of her happy ever after.

  So I think we all agree that right now, at this stage in her life, Jemima Jones deserves a bit of fun.

  The first step in my new life is to stop at the bookshop on the way home from work. Actually it’s not really on my way home, it involves a massive detour to Hampstead, but, despite this being a break from my daily routine, I’m beginning to realize that my life is changing, and by the looks of things so far it would appear to be getting infinitely better.

  The evidence? Well, as far as I can see, seven important, life-changing things have happened. First, I went on a course to learn the basics about the Internet. Second, after the course I went for a drink, I actually went out for a drink, and, not only that, the drink lasted all evening. This, as far as I’m concerned, is the definite beginning of a social life. Third, it wasn’t just any old drink, it was a drink with Geraldine and Ben Williams. Geraldine, with whom I had never, until that drink, socialized after work, and Ben, about whom I fantasize every night. Fourth, I was actually able to relax in Ben’s company! I wasn’t the tongue-tied teenager he occasionally joins for lunch in the canteen, I was almost, almost, myself. Fifth, I had a good time. No, forget that, I had a great time! Sixth, Ben joined me on the Internet today, and yes I was embarrassed by the sex, but more importantly I showed Ben I have a sense of humor, at least I hope I did. Seventh, I haven’t had any chocolate for two whole weeks.

  Is it any wonder that Jemima Jones feels that life is taking a definite turn for the better? Never mind that the drink she shared with Ben Williams and Geraldine was two weeks ago. Never mind that she hasn’t seen Ben Williams properly since their brief sojourn on the Internet. Never mind that neither Geraldine nor Ben has suggested a repeat drink. That one evening was enough to set a chain of events in progress. Cause and effect, except Jemima doesn’t quite know the full effect just yet. Nor do we.

  But nevertheless, two weeks have passed and still Jemima’s feeling so happy, so high, so full of excitement at her new life, she treats herself to a taxi to Hampstead. She stands on the corner outside the Kilburn Herald, eyes full of hope, hands full of bags, and she hails a black cab.

  “Hampstead, please,” I tell the driver, climbing awkwardly into the back.

  “Whereabouts, love?” he says, a middle-aged man with a kind face.

  “Do you know Waterstone’s?”

  He nods, and off we go. Up through West Hampstead, passing the hordes of young people on their way home from work, zippy suits, designer briefcases, aspirations in their eyes. Up across the Finchley Road, up Arkwright Road, cut through Church Row as I stare with envy at the houses that once contained bohemian artists and writers, and now contain wealthy businessmen, and right at the tube, down Hampstead High Street, he pulls up, double-parking, for of course there are no spaces in which to park, and clicks his meter.

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sp; “Keep the change,” I say, handing him £6, for today is the beginning of my new life, and I can afford to be a bit extravagant. I might even do a little shopping, because it’s only 5:45 P.M., and the shops will be open for a while yet, tempting me with their glamorous window displays.

  But first into Waterstone’s, dark, cool, calm, I breathe in the air of reverence and feel a sense of calm wash over me. Books are my special treat, and today I’m going to treat myself. I’ve decided that I’m going to buy at least three books, and I’m going to browse for hours and soak up the atmosphere, enjoy the anonymity, revel in the fact that no one in here is looking at me or passing judgment on my thighs rubbing together as I walk because they too will be immersed in books.

  I start with a table near the front, and gently brush the piles of hardbacks. No, I tell myself, that really would be extravagant, and today is a paperback day, so I walk over to another table. Covers, so many covers, so many different, delectable pictures, and although, metaphorically speaking, it is the thing I hate most, when it comes to literature I always judge books by their covers. First the cover will catch my eye, then I read the back of the book, and then finally the first page. I pick up one, a new novel I’ve read about in a magazine. “A modern romance that puts all other romances to shame,” says the back cover. I open it up to the first page and start reading. Yes. This is the first book I’ll buy.

  Then I pick up another book. No picture, just a bright yellow cover with large purple letters, the author’s name and the title. Hmm, interesting. I read the first page, where I meet Anna, an eighteen-year-old girl about to embark on a university degree. She is going to meet her future lecturer, who will, she suspects, quiz her about her reasons for taking an English degree. It is beautifully written, the sentences so clear, so concise, so vivid, I almost forget about adding it to my pile. I forget I’m in Waterstone’s, to be honest I seem to forget about everything, and, as I read on to the fourth page, the fifth, I become Anna’s invisible acquaintance, a secret shadowy figure who lurks silently in the background, looking in on Anna’s life, holding her hand as she meets the gruff professor.