by Jane Green
And thus began a series of fantasies: Vicky and Jamie (even the pairing of their names sounding perfect), their children Lola and Milo, their deerhounds Fitzroy and McHairy, their friends, their profiles in Hello! with photographs of the happy couple in their cosy country home.
Meanwhile, Vicky hadn’t ever met him, hadn’t even come close to meeting him, and her fantasies of a perfect happy ever after with Jamie Donnelly had slowly faded to fantasies of a perfect happy ever after with a tall, faceless stranger.
And now here he was, a guest on the radio show that she wasn’t even supposed to have been on. Could this, she thinks, as she tries to swallow her nerves, finally be fate working in her favour at long last?
Vicky is ushered into the studio during a song. Lisa smiles and waves from her position on the other side of the console, and Jamie Donnelly – Jamie Donnelly! – leans over and shakes her hand.
And Vicky thinks she is going to be sick.
Thankfully she gathers herself enough to be ready when the song finishes and Lisa gaily announces, ‘My next guest’s dream night of passionate sex lasts roughly eight minutes, and she says that most married women agree with her. Vicky Townsley, welcome to the Lisa Diamond Show.’
Vicky’s mouth drops open as a deep flush covers her cheeks. It has just been announced on national radio that she enjoys sex for eight minutes, which is a complete lie, there has been no mention of the fact that this was work, that she’s from Poise!, and meanwhile Jamie Donnelly is sitting next to her watching her mortification and is cracking up laughing.
‘So, Vicky, tell us why speed sex is such a fantastic thing, and what the rest of us who are spending a good hour on foreplay are missing out on.’
Jesus. Could this get worse? Vicky takes a deep breath and manages to compose herself. ‘Lisa, thanks for having me on the show, and can I start by saying I’m Features Director of Poise!, and this was a feature that we ran after we noticed the number of married women, particularly those with children, talking about sex and how quickies were all they had the energy for.’
‘I think what she’s trying to say is that her shags last longer,’ Jamie laughs.
‘I’m not actually married,’ Vicky smiles, ‘so my shags are not up for discussion.’
‘Oh go on.’ Jamie raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re here, we’re talking about sex. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.’
Vicky just stares at him. Is he flirting with her? Is she imagining this? And more to the point, what kind of a conversation is this to be having on national radio, even if it is a hip, late-night show that gets away with practically everything. Her mother could be listening to this, for God’s sake.
‘My mother could be listening to this, for God’s sake,’ she says, shaking a finger at him. ‘And I’m not here to talk about my sex life. Although if you want to reveal a few details about Angelina Jolie,’ at this point she raises an eyebrow back at him, ‘please, be my guest.’
‘Er, excuse me?’ Lisa interrupts. ‘But you’re both my guests, and I want to hear a bit more about speed sex. Vicky, ignore Jamie, and tell us about what Poise! magazine found during research for the article.’
To Vicky’s immense surprise she manages to be articulate, quick-thinking, and even quite funny. The chemistry between the three of them works better than the producer has expected, and quips and puns fly back and forth throughout the show.
At nine thirty Vicky and Jamie are led out of the studio by the delighted producer, leaving Lisa to finish her show.
‘Guys, that was fantastic,’ he says. ‘Honestly, that was one of the best shows we’ve had in weeks. I could tell Lisa was having a great time too. Jamie, you were hilarious. Just hilarious. I love the show, man,’ and Vicky winces as she feels it coming. Please don’t say it, she thinks, please don’t say it, but sure enough the producer closes one eye and with a grin says, ‘Not in my back yard, missus,’ then shoves Jamie playfully on the arm as Jamie nods and says, ‘Great. Glad you like it. Thanks again,’ before turning to Vicky and surreptitiously rolling his eyes.
They walk over to the lift and as the doors shut Vicky’s heart starts pounding. What is she going to say? She’s in the lift with her number one crush who has definitely been flirting with her this evening, although that doesn’t necessarily mean anything because he does seem to flirt with everyone, and all of a sudden she feels like a teenage girl and doesn’t know what to say.
‘So?’ Jamie turns to her as he leans back against the wall. ‘You were pretty funny.’
‘You weren’t so bad yourself.’ Vicky smiles.
‘It’s a tough job but somebody’s gotta do it,’ he says, looking at his watch. ‘It’s still early. Do you want to come and have a drink?’
Oh thank you, God, Vicky silently prays, trying not to beam like a lovestruck teenager. ‘Sure,’ she says coolly, as the fantasies, those fantasies which had disappeared for the last few months, come back with a bang.
‘Do you mind if we go to Soho House?’ he says. ‘If we go anywhere else I just get hassled all the time, and without wanting to sound ungrateful, every bloke thinks he’s the first one to quote, and they all think it’s hysterical, and they all want me to think it’s hysterical, and sometimes I just want to shoot them.’
‘Nothing like a bit of honesty,’ Vicky says. ‘Soho House is fine. I haven’t been there for ages,’ she lies, having been there just the other night for a screening.
Vicky feels like a queen walking into the club with Jamie Donnelly. Everyone turns to stare at him, all of them pretending not to be impressed with his celebrity, but all of them impressed nonetheless. Those people already in the celebrity club, which includes a pop star, a couple of major actors, one comedian and one girl famous for being famous, all immediately come over to say hello, and with a sinking heart Vicky realizes that this isn’t going to be the cosy, romantic drink of her dreams, but that they are going to be surrounded by people all night, and even if they manage to get a table somewhere, just the two of them, people will be coming over all night to congratulate Jamie on his win at the British Comedy Awards.
‘Come on,’ Jamie says, after he gets the drinks, ‘let’s go upstairs where it’s quieter. I asked them to get me a table out of the way so we can talk properly.’ And he takes her hand to lead her out of the room and up the stairs.
I’m thirty-five, Vicky tells herself. I’m not some kid impressed by celebrity, even though Jamie Donnelly is holding my hand which is growing horribly sweatier by the second. I will make this work, she thinks, as they pass a girl who looks her up and down, checking out who Jamie Donnelly is picking up this time. I will make him fall in love with me.
‘I have a question for you,’ Vicky asks as they sit down.
‘As long as it isn’t what was Angelina Jolie like in bed, I’ll answer anything.’
‘It wasn’t actually,’ smiles Vicky, although that’s exactly what she was going to ask. ‘Do you like the way your life has changed since the success of Dodgy?’
‘Blimey,’ Jamie sits back in his chair and grins at her over the top of his glass, ‘I forgot you are a journalist. Are you going to be interviewing me all night?’
‘I hadn’t thought what I was going to do with you all night, actually.’ It comes out in a far more flirtatious voice than Vicky had planned, and Jamie raises an eyebrow.
‘Promises, promises,’ he winks, and Vicky quickly takes a sip of her drink and changes the subject, determined not to be just another easy lay, another notch on his bedpost, a pretty journalist to be forgotten about by tomorrow evening when he’ll doubtless be here with yet another girl, unless of course she manages to play her cards right.
‘I’ve got a question for you.’ He leans forward. ‘How come a successful, clever, attractive woman like you hasn’t been snapped up yet?’
Vicky groans. ‘Now you sound like my grandma.’
‘That doesn’t sound like your grandma,’ Jamie grins, ‘that’s my grandma.’
‘Her name isn�
��t Sylvia by any chance, is it? Blue rinse? Airedale terrier called Charlie? Addicted to Tunnocks caramel bars?’
Jamie laughs. ‘Close. Mine’s Phyllis. Purple hair. Black and white cat called, rather bizarrely, Sylvia. Addicted to butterscotch.’
‘Phew. Just checking we’re not one another’s long-lost secret brother and sister.’
‘Nice idea,’ Jamie says thoughtfully, taking out a piece of paper and scribbling something on it. ‘I could get a good sketch out of that.’
‘See!’ Vicky says delightedly, thrilled that she might have inspired a sketch in Dodgy. ‘I knew there was a reason we met. Maybe I’m supposed to be your muse! I’ve always fancied being someone’s muse. I could lie on a chaise longue eating chocolates all day while I give you great ideas for your next hit comedy show.’
‘Only if you promise to lie naked,’ Jamie says slowly. And Vicky blushes.
I will not sleep with him, Vicky tells herself, as they continue drinking, leaning closer and closer towards one another, the flirting growing more intense, the rest of the room, the club, the world having disappeared.
I am old enough and have been around enough to know that sleeping with someone you might very well want to marry is not the way to generate their interest on a long-term basis, she thinks, as she looks down at Jamie’s hand resting on the table, and suppresses an almost overwhelming urge to pick it up and place a soft kiss on his palm.
And oh God, he is so perfect. So perfect for her. He is just as funny as she had thought when she watched him with Jonathan Ross, although in a quieter and calmer way, not having to switch himself ‘on’ when not on television, not appearing in a public place.
I will be cool and hard to get, she thinks, watching the streams of young women walk past their table, trying desperately to get his attention, although thankfully he is, as Deborah has said, entirely focused on her, and doesn’t even look around.
But it is very hard to play hard to get when you are taken unawares by a soft kiss behind your ear. When you are sitting quietly, minding your own business, lost in a world of fantasies, waiting for your companion to come back from the gents, when said companion silently glides up behind you and places his lips just behind your ear, in a place that sends shivers down to your toes.
When you turn, shaken and surprised, and before you even have a chance to say anything his lips are on yours, but so softly and so fleetingly that when he sits down again, when you have a chance to catch your breath, you think you may have just imagined it.
‘Sorry,’ he grins like a naughty little boy. ‘It’s just I’ve been wanting to do that all night.’
And there isn’t anything that you can think of to say.
Later that night, when you are lying in your bed, the phone rings and you quickly reach over and answer it. Who would be calling you at two in the morning? But of course you know exactly who would be calling, the only person who ever calls you at two in the morning.
‘I can’t talk now, Daniel,’ you whisper. ‘It’s too late.’ And you put the phone down and turn to see if it woke Jamie Donnelly up. And it did, and Jamie Donnelly – Jamie Donnelly! – reaches out his arms and pulls you down to him, and you snuggle up tight, and just as you fall asleep you think how you never realized how wonderful it felt to have your dreams come true.
You wake up in the morning thinking it was a dream. There is, after all, no one beside you in the bed, but then you turn as Jamie walks out of the bathroom, and you think, shit. Why did I do that? Why didn’t I play hard to get?
Chapter Seven
Amber, chameleon-like today in her own school uniform of jeans and T-shirt (oh if only the women in the League could see her now…), sits on the bench in the playground in school watching Grace hold hands with Molly as they both squeeze together on the slide.
‘How sweet are they,’ says Deborah, plonking herself down on the bench next to Amber, cardboard cup of coffee in hand. ‘And how nice to see you today. Where’s Lavinia?’
‘She’s at home waiting for Jared’s bus. I thought it would be nice to pick Gracie up myself, plus we have…’ she pauses, unsure of whether or not Deborah has been invited to Hunter’s birthday party, ‘um…’
‘Hunter’s birthday party?’ Deborah laughs. ‘Don’t worry, the whole basketball class is going.’
Amber had learnt the rules of suburban socializing quickly, and one of them was never mention where you are going in case the person to whom you are talking has not been invited.
Admittedly not everyone followed these rules. The more gauche or desperately upwardly mobile, including of course the competitive women in the League, tended to tell everyone where they were going, or post it on their noticeboards, just so everyone knew they had been included too, irrespective of who else might have been excluded, but Amber tried to be careful, tried not to hurt anyone’s feelings.
And even though Deborah was her closest friend, there were times when she turned up to dinner parties and there was Deborah, to whom she had spoken less than an hour before, when neither had mentioned they were off to the house of a mutual friend.
Deborah tended to be pragmatic about it. ‘You can’t invite everyone to everything,’ she always said, but Amber knew that the few times she had been excluded, she had taken it personally and had wondered why not her, what was wrong with her that she hadn’t been invited, was it perhaps that they thought her not good enough?
Poor Amber. Still so self-conscious, despite being married to a Winslow, still worried that if the girls whom she seeks to impress were aware of her humble beginnings, they might sneer at her, might ostracize her from the in crowd.
Of course Amber never stops to think of their own backgrounds. Never questions their own overwhelming need to impress with labels, ostentation, name-dropping.
Although Deborah has noticed. ‘God, they’re all so nouveau,’ she said, just last night, to her husband, Spencer, putting on a Brahmin Boston accent. ‘Half these girls were brought up with nothing, but to look at them today you’d think they were born in Buckingham bloody Palace.’
Spencer shrugged. ‘What about your friend Amber? If you don’t like it how come you see so much of her?’
‘Amber’s different,’ Deborah said. ‘Deep down she’s a good person.’
‘But still, you always say she’s just as desperate to keep up with the Joneses.’
Deborah nodded sadly. ‘I know, you’re right, but here’s the difference: she doesn’t judge me because we don’t have what she has, whereas the others, that Suzy for example, probably wouldn’t even set foot in our house.’
‘What’s the matter with our house?’ Spencer was genuinely bemused, and Deborah laughed and sat on his lap, putting her arms around him.
‘That’s why I love you,’ she grinned. ‘You haven’t even noticed that our entire house could fit into Amber’s kitchen.’
Spencer frowned. ‘But you like it, don’t you? Not that we could afford more, but would you want to live in something bigger?’
‘Would I want to? Sure. In a dream world I’d love to have a big, beautiful house, but in the real world the only thing I want, other than my darling husband, is a finished basement so the kids have somewhere to play.’
‘I know, I know. Hopefully I’ll get a bonus at the end of the year and I promise that will be a priority, that’s what we’ll spend the money on.’
Deborah snuggled up to him. ‘I don’t care that we’re poor,’ she said. ‘We have each other. And the kids.’
‘We’re not poor,’ Spencer insisted. ‘We’re just not rich.’
‘Same difference when you live in this area.’ Deborah laughed. ‘But still, I don’t care. At least we have our priorities in the right place, which is more than can be said for some people.’
‘Including your friend Amber?’
‘Oh give the girl a break. She’s a good friend to me and I love her.’
Today, after school, is Suzy’s son, Hunter’s birthday party. It’s being held at Gymini St
ars, the local Jungle Gym which opened only six months ago and has rapidly become the in place for birthday parties.
Initially the parties were all the same. You would open the same invitation from Gymini Stars, have the same allotted time on the gym equipment, play the same games during circle time, eat the same pizza and birthday cake, and receive the same balloons tied to your loot bags on the way out.
Lately, though, Amber has noticed a change. Now some of the invitations are not the generic invitations from Gymini Stars, but have been specially ordered from Sarah Belmont who has opened a stationery business from her home. And the parties are changing. In the last sixweeks Amber has been to children’s birthday parties that had face painters, clowns, and an inflatable bouncy castle in the car park.
‘What can we do?’ shrugs David, the amenable, consistently cheerful owner of Gymini Stars. ‘Everyone wants to outdo everyone else.’
Just last week Amber picked up Jared from Henry’s birthday party where they had flown in a karate teacher from Los Angeles to give the kids customized karate lessons. It was over the top, but got worse when Jared got in the car after the party and ripped open the wrapping paper on his party favour to find it was a Transformer – a fire truck that turns into a robot, which made Amber feel sick with shame because it was exactly what they had given Henry as his actual birthday present, and she drove home in a cloud of humiliation that she had spent the same amount of money on the birthday gift as the parents had for party favours – thirty-two of them.
This time she isn’t going to make the same mistake for Hunter. Even though he is only three years old, Amber has bought him a building block castle that, when assembled, is the size of a playhouse. It has cost a fortune, but is worth it to know that she won’t have to suffer the same humiliation.