Jemima J Page 7

  So it is a welcome relief when her phone distracts her with an internal ring.

  “It’s me,” says Geraldine, which is ridiculous really because she knows full well that her extension number is flashing on my telephone. “Do you want to meet me in the cafeteria for a cup of tea?”

  Anything to break the monotony of this work, the pain of Ben not wanting me. Of course I want a cup of tea, just to get away from this desk, from this miserable bloody office.

  “Have you lost weight?” is the first thing Geraldine says to me as I walk over to her by the hot water machine, pouring the water over the teabags in two plastic cups.

  For the first time today I perk up. I don’t know, I haven’t weighed myself for the last few weeks, I haven’t even thought about it.

  “Your face definitely looks slimmer,” says Geraldine, picking up the cups and carrying them to the table.

  Jemima could kiss Geraldine, because Geraldine is right, she has lost weight. She hasn’t thought about her weight for two weeks, because she actually started to have fun. She discovered the Internet and in Geraldine and Ben she found two people who seem to be real friends, and the minute she stopped thinking about it, stopped worrying about it, stopped feeling guilty about her binges, was the minute she started to lose it.

  Until last night, however, because lying on your bed feeling fat and miserable is inevitably the beginning of a binge, and last night, when Jemima had composed herself, she phoned the local pizza delivery company. They brought round a large pizza, although huge might be a more appropriate description, garlic bread, and coleslaw. Jemima opened the front door and pretended she was having a load of friends round. Just to make sure they believed her she also ordered four cans of Diet Coke.

  But today is another day, and, although she may have put on a couple of pounds after last night’s binge‌—and yes, it is quite possible for Jemima to put on two or three pounds overnight‌—in general she has lost weight.

  We sit down and Geraldine sighs, running her fingers through her hair.

  “Is everything okay?” I say, even though I can see quite clearly that everything is not.

  “It’s just Dimitri,” says Geraldine. “He’s getting on my nerves at the moment. I feel a bit funny about things.”

  Uh oh. I know exactly what this means. This is Geraldine’s pattern. This means that Dimitri has fallen head over heels in love with Geraldine, which in turn means that Geraldine is rapidly cooling off, and poor old Dimitri will soon be finding out that she is not the woman of his dreams after all.

  “Funny how?”

  “I don’t know,” she sighs. “He’s just always there.”

  “But isn’t that how boyfriends are supposed to be?” I mean, for God’s sake, Geraldine. “Isn’t that what every woman wants?”

  “I suppose so.” Geraldine shrugs. “But it’s all getting a bit on top of me.”

  Just in case you’re interested, here’s what will happen next. The more Geraldine backs off, the more keen Dimitri will become. It will probably end with a marriage proposal, which Geraldine will turn down, because by the time the proposal comes around she will be desperate to get away from him. She will, however, keep the ring. As she always does.

  “Maybe you should just wait and see what happens.”

  “Maybe I should start dating other men.”

  No! Oh God, no! That might mean Ben, she might go out with Ben, and I couldn’t stand that. It’s bad enough seeing him with a stunning stranger, horrible but just about bearable, but if Ben and Geraldine got together it would kill me. Find out now, find out what she thinks now.

  “Who?”

  “No one in particular,” says Geraldine. “But if I started going out again with the girls I’m sure I’d meet someone soon.” She has the confidence of those with unnatural beauty, for who else could be so certain? Other women stay in relationships, miserable, horrible, destructive relationships because the alternative is far too horrendous to even consider. Being on their own.

  But of course Geraldine could never begin to understand this. Geraldine has always moved onwards, and upwards. Occasionally sideways.

  “What about Ben?” I say in such a casual tone it sounds fake, even to me. “He likes you.”

  “Ben? Ben? You are joking aren’t you?”

  Of course I’m not joking, Geraldine, can’t you see how I am when he’s around? Can’t you see the effect he has on me? How could I be joking when I think he is the most perfect male specimen ever to have set foot on the planet?

  “No. Why?”

  “Well, Ben’s just Ben. He’s very handsome but what is he? He’s a deputy news editor on the Kilburn Herald. And Ben isn’t exactly the type of guy who’s going places is he? I mean, what will he achieve in his life? He’ll become the news editor, then the editor, and that’s it. He’ll stay on a crappy local paper for ever.

  “He’ll marry some pretty local girl who wants to be a wife and mother, and if they’re lucky they’ll live in West Hampstead and have 2.4 children and a Volkswagen.

  “Ben,” she repeats, shaking her head with a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  Thank you, God. Thank you for being on my side. I don’t give a damn what Geraldine thinks of Ben as a person, and anyway I think she’s wrong. I don’t think he’ll be here forever, I think he’s far too good for this, but that doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is that Geraldine and Ben will never be a “they” or an “us.” They will always be Geraldine and Ben, and I suddenly feel so relieved I could cry.

  “So,” says Geraldine with a sigh. “Enough about me. What’s going on in your life?”

  She says this regularly, and I do what I always do‌—I move the conversation straight back to Geraldine because what would I tell her? Would I tell her about my trip to the bookshop perhaps, and turn it into an exaggerated adventure where I tripped over handsome men every step of the way? Would I tell Geraldine about seeing Ben with that girl last night? Would I laugh to cover up the pain and ask Geraldine if she knew anything about her? Or would I perhaps tell Geraldine about ordering a huge pizza and crying all night? No. I think not.

  So I stir my tea for a few seconds, then look up, “But what are you going to do about Dimitri?”

  By the time we venture back upstairs the Kilburn Herald has significantly emptied. The news desk is still buzzing, just in case, but features, the area at the back where Geraldine and I sit, is quiet.

  “Jemima,” whines Geraldine just before walking back to her desk. Here we go. I know exactly what this whine means.

  “I need some help.”

  “Go on,” I say with an exasperated smile, although I’m not exasperated, I’m actually delighted at any chance I get to do some proper writing.

  “I’m writing this piece about dating again after you get divorced for the woman’s page. I’m a bit stuck, could you have a quick look at it?” Which means, if you are as expert at reading between the lines as I am, “Could you rewrite it?”

  Geraldine runs back to her desk and picks up a proof then dashes back. “God, you’re an angel,” she says. “I owe you big time,” and she leaves, not turning round but waving just as she walks out the door.

  Sometimes I can’t believe Geraldine’s writing, I can’t believe how someone can find it so difficult because it never seems to take me long to rework her copy. I start by rewriting the intro, adding some color, crafting it into something the readers will want to continue reading.

  “STANDING at the aisle, reading your wedding vows, you hoped and prayed your marriage would last forever,” I tap. “But years later your vows of loving and honoring your husband are as distant a memory as the happiness you once shared.

  “Divorce in the nineties is sending thousands of women back to a game they thought they would never see again‌—the Dating Game.

  “And women all over the country are discovering that no matter how wise, how experienced, how old they may be, no matter how much the rules may have changed, when it comes
to excitement, disappointment, pain, nothing has really changed at all.”

  Eyes glued to my computer screen, I type. I lose myself in the writing, and then tidy up Geraldine’s “Case Studies”‌—three women who have agreed to tell their story in the Kilburn Herald. When I’ve finished I send the copy back to Geraldine’s basket, so no one will know I had anything to do with it. So that’s what friends are for.

  It’s going home time, but just as I’m about to leave I suddenly remember something. I remember that I haven’t taken the books I bought out of my bag, and now would be a perfect time to try out the Internet.

  I reach down and pull out The Idiot’s Guide to the Internet. Right. Time to explore, and turning back to the screen I double-click on the sign on the left that will take me to the Internet. As the machine is connecting, I flick through the little guide.

  Now this really is incredible. I learn about Web sites, about art galleries on the Internet where you can post your own pictures or download those of others. I learn of alternative medicine sites, where you can learn how others have fared by trying cures not recognized by traditional medicine. I read about real estate sites, where agents in suits have posted pictures of properties they’re trying to sell. I read about museum sites, music sites, dating sites.

  I read about newsgroups, bulletin boards for every hobby, interest, and obsession you can think of. Places where people can post a message, a question, a thought, and scores of like-minded people can reply.

  And then I read about Tarot, a site where you can have your fortune told, and that’s when I stop reading and start clicking. I want my fortune told. I want to know whether I’ll find true love. I want to know if Ben is the man for me. Don’t worry, though, I promise I’ll take it all with a healthy pinch of salt. At least, I’ll try to.

  The page appears on the screen, with a choice of Tarot card decks, and me being me I click on the Tarot of the Cat People, simply because I’ve always wanted a cat, and suddenly three small boxes appear asking for my name, gender, and age.

  I type them in, and then another box comes up, this time asking for my question. A quick check round the office shows that I’m safe, there’s no one around to see what I’m doing, so here goes . . .

  “Will Ben Williams fall in love with me?” I type, before clicking the button saying RESULT.

  Three cards appear at the top of the screen, with the translations beneath. Card number one represents the past. It is the King of Wands (reversed). “Severity. Austerity. Somewhat excessive and exaggerated ideas. Dogmatic, deliberate person.”

  Card number two represents the present. It is The Empress (reversed). “Vacillation. Inaction. Lack of interest. Lack of concentration. Indecision. Delay in accomplishment or progress. Anxiety. Frittering away of resources. Loss of material possessions. Infertility. Infidelity. Vanity.”

  What a load of bollocks! Infidelity? I should be so lucky. Vanity? Please!

  But I carry on reading anyway, the final card, the Knight of Wands, representing my future. “Departure. A journey. Advancement into the unknown. Alteration. Flight. Absence. Change of residence.”

  Well, this is a load of rubbish, but I don’t want to go home just yet. Maybe I’ll go back to the LA Café, at least I know how to find the bloody thing. Ah, who’s here today?

  Suzie 24

  =^..^=Cat

  Honey

  Candy

  Explorer

  here4u

  Luscious Lisa

  Ricky

  Tim@London

  Brad (Santa Monica)

  Who first? Should I talk to Tim@London, given that I sort of already know him, or should I be adventurous and start chatting to someone I don’t know? Luckily the decision is taken out of my hands, because the computer suddenly bleeps three times and a box flashes up, with Brad (Santa Monica) written at the top.

  “Hi, Honey.”

  “Hi,” I type back. Now this is more exciting.

  “Do you have time to chat?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “So where are you, Honey?”

  “London,” and then I think, hang on, he’s American, he might be a bit thick, so I add “England,” just in case.

  “Really? I was just there!”

  “Oh? Whereabouts?”

  “In London. I stayed in the Park Lane Hotel. It was business.”

  Now this is more like it.

  “What kind of business?”

  “I’m your typical Californian beach bum who’s made a living out of what he loves best. I own a gym.”

  “So you’re revoltingly fit then?” Oh God, I’m feeling inadequate again, but this is the Internet, I mean, this guy could never know what I really look like.

  “LOL. Revoltingly. I like that. What about you?”

  Oh God. This question was bound to come up sooner or later.

  “I’m pretty fit but I work too hard to exercise as much as I’d like.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m‌—” I stop. Why be a boring journalist when I could be anything in the world? “I’m a television presenter.”

  There. Glamorous, exciting, and conveying that I’m probably pretty stunning if I’m on television.

  “You must be stunning. You sound like an O:-).”

  “What’s an O:-)?”

  “An angel! Unlike myself. I consider myself more of a }:->. That means a devil.”

  “LOL. I’m no angel, but I don’t do too badly.”

  “Are you new to this?”

  “Yes, I’m new, is it that obvious? Are you here a lot then, if you know I’m not here all the time? You can’t be that fit if you’re sitting on the Internet all the time .”

  “Ah ha! Actually, the computer’s in my office and I just sit here and mess around if I’m stuck at my desk. It keeps my mind off work!”

  “What time is it there?”

  “10 A.M. I’ve been in the office two hours. Before that I went running, and this afternoon I’m going Rollerblading.”

  “I love Rollerblading.” Careful, Jemima, don’t get too carried away.

  “Yeah. It’s a great sport. Good exercise and sociable at the same time.”

  “You must be meeting hundreds of gorgeous California babes if you’re out Rollerblading all the time. What are you doing trying to pick up single women here?”

  “Who says I’m trying to pick up single women?”

  “Oops. Sorry. Aren’t you?”

  “Maybe just this single woman. You are, aren’t you? Single?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come? You sound way too gorgeous to be on your own.”

  If only you knew, I think, suddenly deciding to borrow Geraldine’s life for a little while.

  “I just ended a long relationship,” I type. “He wanted to marry me but he wasn’t the one.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t the one?”

  “Good question. I suppose, naive as it might be, I just think that when I meet the right one I’ll know.”

  “I don’t think that’s naive. I think that’s probably right. I feel the same way and I’m still waiting for that bolt of lightning to strike. But poor guy. He must be devastated. But lucky me .”

  “Indeed.”

  “So what kind of show do you work on?”

  Think, Jemima. Think.

  “It’s like a British version of Entertainment Tonight.”

  “No kidding! Are you like the Leeza Gibbons of British television?”

  “No.” Even in this world of make-believe I know this would be pushing it. “I’m a senior reporter.”

  “That’s still fantastic.”

  “So what about you? How did you get into the gym business?”

  “Left college, studied business, didn’t know what to do, and moved to LA to hang out. Hardly anyone in LA is a native Angeleno, we’re all from someplace else.”

  “Did you want to be in the movie business?” I remember what Geraldine said about people who live in Los Angeles.
r />   “LOL. No way. Too much pressure. I just wanted to find something I loved doing that would make me a lot of money. I started going to a run-down gym every day, and the owner told me it was up for sale. I managed to raise the money, bought it, and haven’t looked back.”

  “So do you make a lot of money then?”

  “Put it like this. I’m *very* comfortable.”

  “What kind of house do you live in?” Now, before we go any further, I think I just have to make it clear that I’m not being a gold-digger here. I just find it incredible that I’m talking to this man in Los Angeles of all places, somewhere I’ve never been, somewhere I’ve always dreamed of going, and I want to know everything about his life. I want to know if he really does live in a world of golden sands, palm trees, and open-topped cars blaring rock and roll.

  “A nice house! What kind of house do you live in?”

  “A not so nice house. I was going to buy last year,” Lord, forgive me for stepping into Geraldine’s shoes once again, “but then it all fell through, so now I’m renting until I find somewhere nice again. I live with two girls.”

  “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven! Any space for a guy?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “So how old are you, Honey?”

  “I’m twenty-seven and I have to tell you, Honey’s not my real name. My real name is JJ.”

  “I like JJ. I like twenty-seven even better. I’m thirty-three.”

  “So how come you’re still single, Brad? Or do you have another name too ?”

  “No. Brad’s my real name. I date quite a lot, but, as I said, just haven’t met the right woman yet.”

  “What kind of woman would be the right woman?”

  “I wish I knew. I keep hoping I’ll know when I meet her.”

  “I know what you mean!” Except, naturally, I don’t.

  “Oh damn. The phone’s ringing. Listen, I have to go now, but I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, JJ. Can we meet here again?”

  Call me cheesy but my heart skips a beat. “I’d love to. How about tomorrow?”