Look At Me Now

by Simone Goodman

  I cross the floor towards my assistant, Poppy. Nobody else is here yet.

  There are two things to notice immediately about Poppy. The first is that she looks like a fairy. Small, delicate frame. Disarmingly large hazel eyes. Wispy bleach-blonde locks – the only aberration being Poppy’s naturally dark roots. (Poppy’s mother is Thai, her father unknown but allegedly Korean; though Poppy insists her only parent is her mother’s second husband, Darcy, an Englishman of independent means, who kindly extended parental care after her mother upped and left them both when Poppy was a tender fourteen years old.) Anyway, Poppy, sweetly dispositioned, and seemingly unscarred by such events, also has a penchant for dressing in frilly layers of clothing – and her love of glitter would shame a toddler. The second thing to notice about my assistant is that her vernacular has a tendency towards the same, shall we say, ‘exuberance’.

  ‘Morning, Miss Gracie,’ Poppy chirrups, looking up from where she’s wiping the bench clean, preparing for the shoot. ‘Ooh. I see Brenda’s using the coral on your lips again. Like you’re a mermaid? I could call you Ariel!’

  ‘Morning, Poppy. Please, don’t call me Ariel.’ I wipe my lips on the back of my hand.

  Poppy’s eyes twinkle mischievously.

  I also inherited Poppy. She was working an internship when I joined. One hundred per cent reliable and thoroughly committed, fresh out of college, my assistant has a fine diploma in home economics to accompany her sparkly personality. That her stepfather would happily provide so that she’d never have to work at all makes her dedication all the more admirable. If ever Poppy’s childish vigour annoys me – her silly garble and excess enthusiasm can wear thin some days – I remind myself I’m lucky to have her.

  I dump my coat and bags onto a chair.

  To protect my clothes before filming begins – a personal uniform of black trousers and white shirt – I don my white chef’s apron. My outfit isn’t flashy, but given no one at SC6 has ever offered to provide my clothes or advise me on what to wear otherwise, it removes the stress of me having to think about what I ought to be wearing for the camera on a daily basis.

  I wash my hands thoroughly. Before I forget, I retrieve and apply the pink stain to my lips and that’s when I remember – my new shoes.

  From the bottom of my tote, I pull out a felt bag containing a brand-new pair of Jimmy Choo designer heels. Removing layers of tissue paper, I place the shoes lovingly on the floor in front of me. They are, without doubt, the finest things I’ve ever owned. Silver metallic nappa leather, one hundred millimetres high at the heel, closed back with elegant straps of silver-inlaid crystals that crisscross over the foot and across the toes: these shoes were a rare splurge of luxury, purchased by me at the end-of-year sale at Selfridges last weekend. I have them with me today because my plan is to have them gently worn in, stumble-free and blister-proof, before the big reveal on Valentine’s Day. I’m hoping to lose a Christmas pound or two before I shop for a dress.

  Removing my winter boots and black woolly socks, I slip my bare feet into ultimate designer luxury.

  ‘Va-va-voom,’ Poppy croons at my first, tentative steps.

  ‘Why, thank you, Poppy,’ I reply, practising my walk over the concrete floor. The heels are thinner and higher than I’ve ever worn. ‘That is the plan. A bit of va-va-voom.’

  ‘For the show today?’ Poppy appears confused, as well she might be.

  ‘No, for Valentine’s Day, for a do at Jordan’s work,’ I say. ‘I thought it best to wear them in first.’ My left ankle takes a small dive, but I recover neatly. ‘It seems only sensible…’

  On February 14, the advertising agency where Jordan works is hosting a Sweetheart’s Valentine’s Day Ball, sponsored by clients in the businesses of selling jewellery, chocolates, perfumes and the like: gifts that lovers like to exchange on the day. Although Jordan hasn’t mentioned it – it is absurd how little we communicate these days – an invitation appeared on our kitchen table last Friday, prompting my shopping spree while he was working at his office on some big commercial shoot. I have exactly five weeks to perfect my shimmy in these heels. Presently, I’m walking like a drunk on stilts.

  If Poppy finds it unromantic that I’ll be spending Valentine’s Day with my boyfriend’s colleagues, she doesn’t say.

  ‘I need to tell you something that happened on set last night,’ she says instead. ‘Something bad…’ Smiling awkwardly, Poppy reveals a diamanté stuck to her front tooth.

  Today, she’s wearing black overalls cut off into short shorts over white woollen tights, with a white top, a pink bolero jacket and Doc Marten boots imprinted with panda bear motifs. Her make-up is a hybrid of Dita von Teese and Tinker Bell: heavy eyeliner, rosy cheeks and sparkles galore. Her lips are cherubic with nothing but Vaseline smear.

  There is a funny odour on set. I smelled it the moment I entered.

  We begin filming in roughly an hour. The crew will arrive at any moment.

  The stench is dank and salty, with a hint of bleach.

  Poppy is still pulling her funny face.

  ‘Poppy, has something happened to the seafood?’

  For today’s show, I’d sourced a special order of scallops and monkfish from the same supplier to legendary seafood restaurant J Sheekey. As we were wrapping up yesterday, Poppy and I resolved that the ice-packed delivery box ought to make better overnight storage than our clunky old refrigerator. The label guaranteed ‘Ocean Fresh for 24 hours from Delivery’. Now that we’re discussing it, I don’t see the box.

  ‘The ice melted,’ Poppy informs me. ‘Apparently, the cleaners did some sort of steam-cleaning last night. I don’t really know what happened. But when I got in this morning, there was stinky, rotten fishy water everywhere.’

  ‘Oh heck.’

  ‘I’ve bleached the entire room.’

  ‘Poppy, thank you.’

  ‘I had to throw it all into the big bin out the back.’

  ‘Right.’ It’s too late to order more seafood, and I’d rather not have to nip out to the Tesco on Dean Street in this weather. ‘Time for Plan B.’

  ‘What’s plan B?’ Poppy asks, with more excitement than it deserves.

  ‘We cobble together whatever ingredients we have to hand, whatever that might be, and then we wing it.’

  The challenge – and by the look on Poppy’s face, she sees it too – is that our on-premise supplies are perilously low. We only came back to work from the holiday break last week. And recent cost-cutting has started to bite. Our purchase orders aren’t always approved. I don’t mind buying the odd bits here and there. But whoever heard of a cookery show without any ingredients?

  That’s how it’s been since Titan landed on us late last year, with their no expense spent policy. On top of which, our diary has been cleared of all off-site filming commitments. Last year, we grilled sole with lemon and capers down in Hastings, cooked a lamb roast on a big spit in the Welsh countryside, trekked all the way to Scotland and made properly done haggis, mixed entrails and all. We barbequed organic free-range pork sausages and quinoa vegan burgers across London, everywhere from the Leyton Mills B&Q car park to Richmond Park. None of it was haute cuisine. But it was lovely to connect with people who were right there in front of me as I cooked, rather than having to picture them following me in a future time and a different space via whatever device they happen to be watching on. More often than not, our ratings improved slightly in the weeks we ventured out of our studio. When we returned on set last week, the first instruction we received was that all future out-of-house activities were suspended until further notice. Our marketing cupboard, once filled with nifty kitchen gadgets to give away, is empty and my inaugural recipe book is on hold.

  However, when it comes to kitchen emergencies, I consider myself a pro. Catering a wedding banquet in Norfolk, I once stretched half of the smoked chicken appetisers into a main meal of poultry with julienne vegetables, after the rib of beef was snatched by the groom’s ridiculously short-legged d
achshund. In a food crisis, I can excel.

  ‘What have we got to hand, Poppy?’

  Poppy opens the freezer. ‘We have frozen prawns.’

  I peek into the brown paper bag that the boys from Science Lab judiciously left for us yesterday. Inside are genetically modified chillies that will no doubt blow our heads off if we dare to eat them. ‘We have chillies.’

  ‘They’ll be far too hot to eat!’ Poppy objects.

  I remind her that we cook for TV. Nobody has to eat them. ‘Poppy, tell me we have rice?’

  Poppy ducks her head into the food cupboard.

  ‘We have rice. And tomato sauce. Tapioca flour. A can of butter beans. Some crushed garlic, rice flour, preserved lemons, coconut milk.’ I hear Poppy scraping tins and jars around.

  I open the fridge. We still have the spinach, cream and sweet potatoes I had planned to serve with the medley of glazed scallops with chilli jam for starters and oven-baked monkfish for the main.

  ‘Pass me the rice, the butter beans and the garlic, please, Poppy. And the tomato sauce.’ That’s what I’ve been left to work with: staples.

  With my hand, I guide Poppy to get out of the cupboard without banging her head

  I do another memory check of dishes I’ve tried, tested and mastered over the years.

  ‘Okay. How about we form some vegan-scallopy-things out of these butter beans, and for the main, we’ll coat the prawns in these chillies, tomato sauce and garlic for a dish I call Cheating Hot Sticky Prawns?’

  Poppy looks aghast. ‘Cheating, Miss Gracie?’

  ‘Because it’s easy, Poppy. Only we’ll be wiser.’

  ‘Well then, it sounds perfect.’

  It’s hardly perfect. The frozen prawns are i) frozen and ii) not of the size or plumpness I’d prefer. The dishes are especially not what I’d have chosen for what may yet be my swansong on the small screen, depending how the day pans out. But it will pass as a seafood-ish extravaganza, as I’d promised viewers on the closing of our last recorded episode – and anything vegan is more popular by the day. Given the time we have, it will do.

  From down the corridor, I hear the crew making their way towards our studio.

  ‘Let’s go for it, Poppy.’

  ‘The show must go on!’

  Poppy flashes her diamanté smile.

  I beam my pearly whites.

  ‘Fake it ’til you make it,’ I concede, I hope charmingly.

  3

  The moment we wrap the shoot, I throw up in front of everyone and over poor Poppy’s feet. I blame the stress of the last-minute change in menu and the big meeting looming. In about an hour’s time, there’s every chance I could lose my job. The crew blame the lingering smell of rancid seafood. I’ve never seen the set clear so fast. Only Poppy, her panda-festooned boots splattered with my sick, stays put to help.

  ‘Miss Gracie, you go on to the bathroom and sort yourself out,’ she insists. Usually, we clear up together and spend the afternoon ordering ingredients, sketching out future shows or completing paperwork with Robin. Today there’s nothing to prepare for. If I don’t survive the meeting, our show is toast. I insist I really must clean up my own vomit.

  ‘Go on, you need to sort yourself out before you meet with those execs,’ Poppy counters, escorting me out of the studio door. ‘You’d do it for me.’ I would do the same for Poppy – even if I’d perhaps start retching myself. ‘I’ll come find you when I’m done.’

  I make my way to the Ladies’.

  In front of the mirror, I see why my assistant was so keen to send me on: I look like death warmed up. My skin is sickly green. My lips, the pink stain wiped off with some kitchen towel, are not far off the same shade. My mascara is so smudged, around my eyes looks like hollow pits of black – I’d wiped my brow after chopping up the mega hot chillies and barely held back burning tears during the recording. Inspecting my reflection closely, I discover my very first grey hair. Oh, when it rains, it pours! I pull it out sharply.

  No one is in here to see me in such a decrepit state. But this could change at any moment. The door to the cleaner’s cupboard ajar, it seems a better place for me to recover in private.

  I poke my head through the opening. Inside, the shelves are lined with cleaning products. A broom and a mop inside a steel bucket are propped against one wall, a small stepladder in the centre. On every surface, the paint is peeling. I tug a cord and the light overhead flickers on. I do a quick check for spiders. All clear. Stepping in, I sit gingerly on the top rung of the little ladder. I pull the heavy fire-proof door shut.

  It’s very cramped in here.

  The smell of disinfectant is overwhelming.

  What on earth am I doing hiding inside a cupboard?

  Taking my mobile from my handbag, I call Jordan.

  His mobile rings out, unanswered.

  ‘Jordan Piper,’ he answers, after the first ring to his work line.

  ‘Jordan, hi, it’s me. Can you talk?’

  I wait for my boyfriend to make the usual excuse of running late for a meeting or being just in the middle of something. Instead, I’m greeted with a cheery, ‘Grace, hey, I’m here.’

  Jordan calls me Grace, as do my parents. I find it endearing that he calls me by my proper name. To everyone else, I’m Gracie.

  It’s a welcome surprise that he seems happy to hear from me.

  ‘Jordan, thank heavens,’ I say, relieved.

  It’s all Jordan needs to take me completely the wrong way.

  ‘What’s up now?’ Jordan’s swift impatience is palpable, as if I only ever call him with problems, which isn’t true. These days, I hardly dare call my boyfriend at all.

  ‘Nothing’s up, Jordan,’ I reply, just as curt. Hurt, to be precise. ‘But since you ask, my shoot today was a disaster. The seafood was off. I got chilli in my eyes, which stung like hell. Then, to top things off, I vomited all over Poppy, right in front of everyone, the moment we finished the recording.’

  I don’t know why I’m fine telling Jordan I vomited over someone, but I do not, under any circumstance, desire him to know my hair is turning grey.

  ‘You mean, you ate off seafood?’ Jordan says.

  ‘No, Jordan, I did not,’ I swipe back at him, swallowing an acrid taste of sickness in my mouth.

  In the background, at his office, I hear banter. Our conversations are never helped by Jordan’s office being rife with mostly young, attractive females, all of them partial to eavesdropping. Many of who – as bulimics – also often happen to smell like spew.

  ‘Jordan, I have the meeting at work today with the new owners,’ I remind him. ‘I’m so nervous, I think I’ve made myself ill.’

  For some time, there’s no response.

  Then laughing heartily, Jordan screams into my ear, ‘BOOM!’

  ‘Jordan?’

  Jordan isn’t listening to me. The background noise fades. The phone is covered over his end of the line.

  I sit alone, on the little ladder inside the cupboard in the toilets at work. In the flickering light, the crystals on my new designer heels sparkle prettily. This Valentine’s Day, I’d hoped a perfect outfit might make all the difference. In my heart, I’d imagined we might put the sparkle back into our relationship. Now, I’m less sure. Even when things were good between us, socialising with Jordan’s colleagues was a challenge for me. I get on famously with his creative partner, Robert (a good thing, given the amount of time Robert spends in my basement at home, messing about with Jordan – and no, absolutely not in that way). And the other girlfriends who sometimes join the Baker & Staines gatherings are friendly enough. But the girls who work in Jordan’s office – they’re quite another experience. No matter how hard I’ve tried to fit in, they’ve made no effort to include me. Jordan insists he doesn’t know what I mean by this, to which I’m unable to state exactly what I’d like them to do. Ask for my number and invite me to dinner? Of course not. But it’s tricky, sometimes, with girls who spend more time with my boyfriend than I do. What I
’d like is for them to make me feel welcome, rather than as if I’m stomping uninvited onto their territory.

  At the last event, a cocktail evening in Shoreditch two months ago, I gave up trying. While Jordan was busy networking with people he sees every day at his office, I propped up the bar with Robert. I sipped deliciously minty mojitos; Robert drained a good too many dirty martinis. (It probably bears mentioning that Robert looks a lot like the boyishly handsome comedian Jack Whitehall, with all of the charisma. Also, that Robert is impeccably attentive – in a purely gentlemanly way – to me at such events. We get on fabulously.) Together, we got rollicking drunk. I maintained some level of decorum; Robert got so sloshed, he toppled right off the back of his stool, causing quite the commotion. As a swarm of scantily dressed media assistants swooned to his aid, he slurred in my ear he doesn’t think much of the emaciated little twits himself. Stung by their rejection, I laughed too heartily. Under other circumstances, I would have loved to be whooping it up with the girls.

  ‘Jordan, can you hear me?’

  No reply.

  When Jordan and I first got together, we were always talking. And when we weren’t talking, things were even sweeter, if you know what I mean. Now, apart from us not getting on well, the spontaneous can’t-get-enough-of-each-other shagging that defined the beginning of our relationship has disintegrated into carnal abstinence. My boyfriend and I no longer have sex.

  We’ve been this way for months.

  Jordan blew out the flame. He just… stopped making the moves on me.

  Afraid of rejection, I followed his lead.

  Neither of us has mentioned a word about it.

  Which is why I’m really rather miffed that, last night, Jordan went to the trouble of wearing his underpants to bed, where usually he sleeps butt naked. Things are so uncomfortable between us, I had to sneak a surreptitious glance to check, but they were ugly green underpants at that – the tacky five-pairs-to-a-packet, elasticised style of undies I wasn’t aware my boyfriend even owned. I was mortified to think Jordan might have worn them as a defensive shroud for his privates. As if by depriving me of sex and sleeping next to me without them, I might otherwise jump on top of his flaccid penis without a moment’s notice. Last night, I lay next to him feeling insecure and, though I’d done nothing other than hope that he might desire me once more, foolish. Now, more than worrying why my boyfriend no longer fancies the pants off me, Jordan is starting to make me perpetually cross.