From Notting Hill to New York . . . Actually

by Ali McNamara

  But it is too late, because suddenly there’s silence in the studio as the ad break ends and we go live again. Lucy disappears behind the row of cameramen and gestures at me to remain on the stage.

  I stare wildly around me, wondering how I can escape as I hear Loretta and Julian welcome the viewers back and talk about what’s coming next. As I hear them introduce the new Wake Up Britain fitness expert to the show, I realise there is no escape: I’m going to have to do this.

  The opening beats to The Black Eyed Peas’ ‘I Gotta Feeling’ begin to play, and I automatically start to sway from side to side like a dad on a dance floor at a wedding, then all of their own accord my hands join in too and begin to clap in time to the music. I now look more like a nursery-school teacher taking a ‘clap and sing’ class than a highly trained fitness instructor appearing on breakfast TV for the first time. Think, Scarlett, think! You’re on live TV …

  Then, like a vision from above, she comes to me in my hour of need: Davina.

  I quickly pull myself together and launch into a few of the moves I remember from the DVD. I ‘travel’ from left to right across the stage. Perform a couple of squats, and then some more daring lunges. I come a bit of a cropper on the second set of lunges, when my trainer slips on the laminate flooring and I almost end up doing the splits. But I deftly recover, turning it into a couple of press-ups in time to the music. Then at last my torment ends as the music fades and I’m left like an upturned beetle trying to demonstrate stomach crunches with my arms and legs waving madly in mid-air.

  There’s polite applause from around the studio as I hurriedly pull myself to my feet again and jog lightly back over to the orange sofa.

  ‘Well, that was … energetic,’ Julian states kindly, smiling at me as I try to catch my breath. ‘And can you tell us what inspired that particular routine?’

  ‘Er … I like to create a fusion of different types of exercise in my workouts,’ I improvise. ‘I take inspiration from a number of sources.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Loretta joins in. She smiles like Julian, but it’s a practised smile that shows just enough of her perfect white teeth to enable it to look genuine. ‘It was certainly varied. So what are you going to be showing us over the coming weeks, then, Jemma? What our viewers really want to know is how to tone up and lose all their excess weight ready for their summer holidays. I’m not sure there’s much call for fusion workouts here at Wake Up Britain – perhaps something a little more basic?’

  I bet you’re the biggest expert on dieting in this studio, I think, as I smile politely back at her. Her tiny bum barely makes a dent in the bright orange fabric of the sofa as she crosses her stick-thin legs. In fact, you probably never eat anything bigger than an hors d’œuvre just in case it bloats your pea-sized stomach. And suddenly, I feel a wave of sympathy for the Wake Up Britain viewers, who have to put up with her condescending attitude.

  ‘Actually, Loretta, I’m sure you’ll find your viewers are a bit more savvy than you think when it comes to their exercise routines. Not everyone who watches Wake Up Britain is a couch potato. I’m guessing your viewers would love to challenge themselves with something new, instead of the same old boring routines we see on TV all the time.’

  As Loretta glowers at me across the glass coffee table between the two sofas, Julian quickly steps in.

  ‘Quite,’ he comments, forcing a smile. ‘So, apart from your inventive exercise routines, Jemma, what about dietary advice? What can you help our viewers with there?’

  I really don’t know what comes over me. I find myself turning and looking straight down the nearest camera lens. And as I do, I notice a little red light pop on above it.

  ‘Don’t,’ I say clearly and plainly into the lens.

  ‘What?’ I hear Loretta exclaim next to me, as though I’ve just blasphemed over the nation’s cornflakes.

  ‘Don’t diet,’ I repeat, turning towards her. ‘I don’t believe in it.’

  ‘B-but,’ she stammers, ‘you’re a fitness instructor.’

  ‘Dieting is for fools,’ I state plainly. ‘Yes, by all means eat healthily and watch what you eat. But I’m a great believer in a little of what you fancy doing you good. If you eat well most of the time, then the odd bit of chocolate, bag of chips or glass of wine won’t do you much harm. In fact, it will probably do you good, stop you pigging out the rest of the time and turning into a food-obsessed stick insect that daren’t eat anything for fear of gaining an ounce or two.’

  Loretta and Julian stare at me in astonishment.

  I grin back at them, and out of the corner of my eye I notice a man waving his arms in the air.

  ‘I-it’s time for a quick break,’ Loretta says, jumping to attention as she hurriedly puts a finger to her ear. ‘Don’t forget – when we come back, Colin Firth will be joining us on the sofa.’

  They both visibly relax as we go off-air again.

  ‘You certainly have some different views, young lady,’ Julian says, eyeing me up and down. ‘It’s quite refreshing to hear someone telling people to eat what they want for a change.’

  Loretta doesn’t look so sure as she has her make-up retouched. Suddenly Lucy leaps up next to us, looking far from impressed. ‘What on earth was all that about?’ she demands. ‘That’s not the approach we discussed at all. I was quite clear in my email – didn’t you get it?’

  ‘Erm …’ I’m trying to think of a way of getting out of it, but in the corner of my eye I can see Colin arriving in the small studio and all sensible thought – if there had been any there in the first place – evaporates from my brain.

  ‘Lucy, Lucy!’ I hear someone call from across the studio. It’s Rich, and he’s clutching some sheets of paper in his hand. ‘The phone lines have gone mental!’ he cries as he runs over to us, waving the pieces of paper. ‘The viewers love Jemma!’ He reads from the top sheet.

  Love your new fitness instructor – finally someone that talks sense.

  Jemma is fab. Good to see someone that’s not all skin and bone on TV for a change!

  If a little of what you fancy does you good, then Jemma is doing me a whole lot of good right now!

  ‘Sorry for that last one,’ he apologises, looking at me. ‘You get that sort of thing on Twitter. But it’s still positive. Well done you!’

  Lucy looks sceptical. ‘Let me see those,’ she says, snatching the comments pages away from Rich. She quickly thumbs them through. ‘Hmm … Well, it looks like you’re doing something right. You’d better stay on that sofa, for the moment,’ she says, looking at me suspiciously. ‘But I’ve got my eye on you.’

  I have no intention of going anywhere if, in the next few minutes, Colin Firth is coming to sit down next to me. I try and arrange myself as elegantly as I can in my gym gear as we go live again.

  ‘Welcome back,’ Loretta says, smiling into the camera. ‘Now as we’ve been promising you all morning, in a moment we’ll be talking to Colin Firth. But first, let’s hear a bit more from our new fitness expert Jemma, who apparently has been causing quite a stir on the phone lines and online, too.’

  I sigh. Can’t they just bring Colin on?

  ‘So, Jemma, other than help us all out here at Wake Up Britain with your wacky routines and no-nonsense advice, what do you get up to normally – do you teach classes?’

  ‘Er, no Loretta, not any more. I like to keep my teaching on a much more personal, one-to-one basis these days.’

  ‘Any celeb clients you’d like to share with us?’ Julian asks, his eyes widening. ‘Mingle with the stars on occasion, do you?’

  ‘I can’t tell a lie,’ I answer, thinking of my run-ins with Johnny Depp and Kate Winslet. ‘I have spoken with a couple of well-known movie stars about their dietary and fitness requirements, yes.’

  Last year, when I’d been chasing all over London and then Paris looking for my long-lost mother, I’d bumped into Kate Winslet out jogging in Kensington Gardens, and Johnny Depp exiting a chocolate shop in Paris. A secret smile spread
s across my lips at the memory of Johnny …

  Loretta gazes at me with a mixture of awe and jealousy.

  ‘Then this seems like the perfect moment to intro duce our own Oscar-winning guest. Ladies and gentlemen,’ she says into the camera, ‘may I welcome Mr Colin Firth to the Wake Up Britain sofa.’

  Everyone applauds as Colin bounds over towards us. He kisses Loretta, shakes Julian’s hand and then he turns towards me. He’s about to kiss my cheek when I hear a shout from across the studio. ‘Stop! She’s not Jemma, I am!’

  Colin, and everyone else in the studio, turns in the direction of the high-pitched wail to see a woman dressed in fitness clothes scuffling with two security guards.

  ‘Cut to ads,’ someone hisses from the floor.

  ‘We’ll be right back in a couple of minutes with more from Colin,’ Julian says calmly and professionally to camera.

  My kiss, my kiss! is all I can think as I’m escorted from the building by two security guards, to find Oscar waiting for me outside. Damn, I almost got a kiss from Colin Firth … The one and only Mr Darcy!

  ‘Where in heaven’s name have you been, Scarlett?’ he asks, hurrying over to me. He casts an admiring glance at the two uniformed officers as they depart back into the building. ‘I was quite worried about you. One minute you were there, and the next – poof! I turned around and you were gone! Did you get lost? No one noticed you wandering around alone, did they?’

  I quickly explain to Oscar what’s happened as we begin to walk away from the studio gates.

  ‘You did what!’ he exclaims when I get to the part about the fitness demo. ‘On live TV?’

  I nod in embarrassment. ‘It all happened so fast, Oscar, I didn’t really know what I was doing. Do you think anyone saw?’

  Oscar’s eyes open wide. ‘Did anyone see, Scarlett? Only the few million people that watch Wake Up Britain every morning! But how did the real fitness woman get in, if they thought you were her?’

  ‘Apparently she had a pass. Once she was finished with the police, she headed straight over to the studio. She got through easily enough, but when she saw me pretending to be her, she just lost it.’ I lower my head. ‘Oscar, I’m so embarrassed. What was I thinking?’

  Oscar laughs. ‘That reminds me of the old Scarlett, getting carried away with a movie star like that. You don’t do enough of that kind of thing these days.’

  ‘What, falsely impersonate someone on live television? Then it’s just as well.’

  ‘No, live for the moment! You’ve got stuck in your ways since you moved in with Mr Boring.’

  I shake my head at him. ‘Stop it, Sean’s not boring and you know it. Remember David?’

  David was my fiancé before I met Sean. He was … well, quite set in his ways, and he had a particular obsession with DIY.

  ‘True, compared to your ex he’s a prize catch, even I have to admit that. But you’ve settled into this coupledom thing far too well, in my opinion.’

  ‘What’s wrong with being part of a couple? I happen to like it.’

  ‘Ah, but does it like you?’ Oscar says knowingly, as finally a taxi comes into view and he expertly hails it down.

  And as we climb into the taxi and whizz across town towards the gym, I sit and ponder just what his comment could mean.

  Four

  ‘Where are you going?’ I call down the stairs.

  ‘Things to do,’ Sean calls back, as he gathers up some papers from the living room.

  ‘This early?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I sigh. Sean has been acting very mysteriously lately. He isn’t the most open of people at the best of times, especially where his business is concerned. But recently there have been phone calls that ‘need to be taken outside’ and times, like today, when he has had to ‘dash out’ for reasons he won’t explain.

  ‘When will you be back?’ I ask, pulling my dressing gown protectively around me.

  ‘Usual time, I hope. Depends on what comes up at the office.’ Sean looks up the stairs at me. ‘Haven’t you got the day off today?’ he asks. ‘I thought you were going somewhere with Oscar again?’

  ‘Yes, we’re going to a recording of the Antiques Roadshow,’ I roll my eyes. How Oscar ever talked me into this I don’t know.

  Sean’s eyes open wide. ‘After your last dalliance with the world of television, is that wise, Scarlett? Aren’t you banned from all TV studios now?’

  ‘Ha ha, very funny,’ I say as I wander halfway down the stairs so I can see Sean properly. ‘One, the Antiques Roadshow isn’t filmed in a TV studio, it’s on location. We’re going to Wimbledon today. And two, this is the BBC. Last time was a different channel altogether.’

  Sean grins. ‘And pray tell me why Oscar is dragging you out to Wimbledon today? Has he an antique tennis racket in his possession now?’

  ‘No, he wants to get one of his jackets valued, and I think he quite fancies being on TV himself, if the truth be known.’

  Sean nods. ‘I can quite imagine that. What are you taking along?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah, you can’t go and not take something to be valued, can you?’

  I think about this. ‘But I don’t own any antiques.’

  ‘I bet you do. There must be something in the O’Brien closet you could take with you. You might as well if you’re going, anyway.’ He leaps back up the stairs and wraps his arms around me. ‘Now, as much as I’d like to stay and help you search for something, I’ve got to dash.’ Sean looks at my downcast face. ‘Cheer up, it’s not that bad – even if it is the Antiques Roadshow.’

  I don’t smile at his joke.

  ‘Hmm … What about dinner tonight, then, at that restaurant you like on Portobello Road? Would that cheer you up?’

  I nod.

  ‘Great, I’ll book us a table.’ He kisses me on the forehead. ‘Have fun with Oscar today, ‘he calls as he bounds down the stairs again. ‘It’s a good job he’s gay, or I might get jealous. He gets to see more of you than I do these days.’

  That isn’t so far from the truth that Sean should be making a joke about it.

  I listen to the door close behind him and sigh. Right, well, if you can’t spend time with me at this hour of the morning, then I know who can. I turn around and head back up the stairs to our bedroom. I pick up my laptop from the dressing table, jump onto the bed and open the lid. My Wi-Fi connects to the internet and I’m away!

  I smile to myself. When I first came to London last year I’d have loved what I’d just done because it reminds me of a movie scene. Back then I’d been desperately trying to prove you could live your life like it was a movie. Creeping about, logging on to the internet as soon as my partner had left the house was a bit like Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail, except that I wasn’t about to find a lovely, flowery email from Tom Hanks on my screen today. No, if I was lucky I might get a 140-character tweet back from the latest celebrity I was following on Twitter.

  It’s a new challenge I’ve set myself lately, seeing who I can get to reply. It isn’t easy; they’re a hard bunch to crack, especially celebrities with a lot of followers. And if you pick one who’s male and good-looking, you have to fight your way through all the ‘Aren’t you wonderful!/ How about a date?/Look at how huge my breasts are in this photo’ tweets they inevitably get sent every time they update their status. Actually if you spend any time nosing through people’s profiles on Twitter (which of course I only do out of necessity if they follow me first and I want to know if I should follow them back …) it tells you a lot about the kind of people they are in real life. For example, the people that only follow and tweet celebrities, not any normal ‘folk’. I was accused many a time of living in a fantasy world when I was trying to ‘live my life in a movie’, but at least I was actually operating in the real world while I was doing it. I often wonder if some people on Twitter live in their own little celebrity obsessed bubble, only existing to retweet the latest reply they get from some minor Z-list celebrity, like the hairdress
er of the mum of one of the X Factor contestants.

  But in among the hundred or so followers I have on Twitter, and the few hundred people I follow, I’m doing quite well with celebrity replies. I have an impressive list – I only go for the big names! – including Dermot O’Leary, Phillip Schofield, Davina McCall and Gok Wan. But what I really want are some Hollywood A-listers to add to my ever-growing list. I’ve tried Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore (before the split). My tweets aren’t really off-the-wall enough for Russell Brand to respond to, and I’m a little bit intimidated by his namesake, Russell Crowe, but I keep trying my old romcom buddy Tom Hanks. I feel like I know Tom; we’ve spent many a happy hour together in the company of Meg Ryan, Woody and Buzz Lightyear. But Tom has so many followers, I know the chances of a reply are pretty remote.

  I click on my @Mentions first. Several spam tweets, trying to tempt me into the usual ‘Win a New Phone’ or ‘Holiday’ or even ‘Plastic Surgery’, depending on what I’ve mentioned previously in my own tweets. Twitter is funny like that: you only have to mention a key word and you’ll suddenly find yourself being followed by all sorts of random people. I once mentioned that I had a problem with one of my teeth, and had three inventors of alternative remedies for toothache follow me. Another time I mentioned something to do with our garden – and was followed by a swarm of online garden suppliers. The worst was when, in the space of a day, four male escort agencies began following me. I never quite figured out what I’d said to encourage that!

  But bypassing the spam, and a few mentions from some of my genuine fellow Twitter users, I suddenly stumble upon it, shining out like a beacon at me from the screen … only a reply from Hugh Jackman! Oh my God oh my God, I think as my fingers quiver over the keyboard. What has he said in reply to my, what I considered quite hilarious, tweet about Sean shaving and leaving his razor and foam mess all over the bathroom? I’d asked Hugh if his wife had double the problems with him – meaning during the time he was Wolverine, and Hugh has replied saying his wife virtually had to bring in pest control, the hair issues were so bad!