‘Jordan, I’m in a cupboard,’ I say. Against my ear, my mobile is getting hot.
‘What?’
‘I’m in a cupboard, Jordan, so we can talk.’
I raise my feet to the bottom rung of the ladder, suddenly fearful of what six- or eight-legged creatures might be lurking in the corners on the floor.
Right now, I need my boyfriend to assure me that no matter what happens with the future of my show today, he’ll be there for me.
‘Grace, I’m at work, I can’t talk. I’m sorry you were sick. Are you feeling better?’ Jordan is intent on wrapping things up.
‘I’m worried sick about this meeting.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine.’ The line is temporarily muffled before Jordan screams into my ear, ‘SEX SELLS!’ Presumably, not at me. Nonetheless…
‘Jordan, I host a cookery show, I hardly think that adage applies.’ And he can talk!
Jordan calls to someone in his office, ‘Of course the hot one!’
‘Jordan!’
In the background, a giggling female also calls out to my boyfriend.
I hang up.
Jordan and I met the same day I landed the job with SC6. For years, I’d been working long hours, in hot kitchens, for pitiful pay. My best friend, Faith, spotted the advertisement: ‘Chef Wanted for Daily Television Cookery Programme. Media Skills Preferred.’ I protested I’d not so much as stepped foot in front of a television camera. Faith reminded me I’d been ‘The Face’ of the British Good Food and Wine Festival a decade previously. She went on about me being a natural-born entertainer. I reminded her that during such entertainment, the consumption of alcohol often plays a pivotal role. Faith encouraged me to go for it anyway. So I did. I almost couldn’t believe I landed the job – I’m sure it helped that the only qualified competition was a lard-obsessed LBC food critic and a Marco Pierre White apprentice with oily dreadlocks. Apparently, all other applicants that wanted to be on television had no culinary experience whatsoever. When the station signed me up, I was elated.
Faith and I celebrated madly. She arrived from her city job to the Notting Hill bistro where I worked around 9 p.m. We were closing last orders. Effortlessly glamorous – tall, thin, blonde and very pretty, with an electric personality – Faith whooshed in wearing a typically expensively tailored black trouser suit, her décolletage highlighted by the plunging neckline of her jacket. Greeting my colleagues with hugs and kisses, she insisted we celebrate my new success together with champagne, I’d only just handed in my notice. Such was Faith’s energy that everyone, including my boss, downed tools for a short toast to my future success on television before she and I continued on into town.
By the time we hit the West End clubs, I was sufficiently inebriated to hit the dance floor like I was Kylie Minogue in those signature gold hot pants – wearing, I must point out, my dark denim jeans. Grinding myself against the delightfully toned and debaucherously topless hunks in the club on Old Compton street, it mattered not that my gorgeous fans were all fabulously not-my-way-inclined. To my booty-swinging Shakira moves, they were my Ricky Martin partners in crime. From the side, where she was watching our drinks and resting her feet, Faith laughed and cheered.
I first met Jordan during a small break from such frivolities. Spotting a surly – but incredibly sexy-looking – lad by the exit, I boorishly asked if he was too straight to move his booty. I was pleasantly taken aback when he answered most tersely, ‘Actually, yes.’
Over several gin and tonics, Jordan told me he was in the advertising game, and in the club to entertain the editors of a men’s fashion magazine, all of them out and proud homosexuals. I found it endearing when he waved awkwardly at his bare-chested clients as they gave it their all under the whirling glitter balls – if only I’d known Jordan’s work obsession would become the bane of our future relationship. Wearing black jeans and a blue Paul Smith shirt, in the dim of the club especially, he was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome – and my, oh my, was he brooding.
Full of alcohol and bravado about my new career in television, I did the unthinkable. I made the first move.
I asked Jordan if he’d like to come and dance with me. Throwing me his sexy scowl, Jordan declined. ‘Not here.’ I boldly suggested, ‘Perhaps at my place?’
Jordan smiled. It was that easy.
Our sex that night was a solid 10. The best I’d ever had. Jordan may not have wanted to dance, but between the sheets, the man had moves. For what felt like hours, he directed all of his passion onto me. Then, confidently, he guided me as to exactly what he wanted for himself. I saw fireworks.
It had been so long since I’d been with anyone. I rarely fancied anyone; I almost never took the risk of checking if they fancied me back. Not once had I picked up someone I’d just met in a club and taken them home with me.
Afterwards, Jordan held me in his arms. I rested my head onto his chest. Conversation flowed. Our passion came in waves.
I was instantly smitten. If you’ll pardon the pun, Jordan was very much into me, too. We spent the following day together. The next evening, after work, same again. Night after night, we repeated. Jordan never really left.
Within the month, he’d officially moved out of his Willesden house-share and into my Maida Vale flat, just the two of us. Filming commenced on my cookery show the following week.
I believed I’d made it. The job, the man, the life.
What a difference it all is today.
In the cupboard, the light overhead has stopped flickering. It’s better for my nausea. But the crystals on my new shoes have lost their sparkly lustre.
I can’t keep pretending nothing is wrong in my relationship. Pretending isn’t making anything better. Somewhere in my silence, I’m losing more than just my voice.
I call Jordan back, on his mobile.
‘Grace, did you hang up on me?’
‘Sorry, I, er, you seemed busy, Jordan,’ I say.
‘I’m at work.’
Jordan sounds busy, but not cross. Or maybe I can’t tell the difference any more?
‘Of course, Jordan. I’ll be quick.’
‘Please. It’s not a good time.’
It never is. Jordan gets in late from his office and, usually, he heads straight down into our basement, more often than not with Robert in tow. My offers of sausage rolls and other home-baked snacks are well received. But it’s clear I’m not welcome to loiter. Most of the time they’re not even working; they’re playing an awful zombie apocalypse game that hurts my ears from wherever I am inside the flat. I’m curious to know when, exactly, is a good time for me to interrupt my boyfriend?
‘Jordan, did you feel compelled to wear your underpants to bed last night?’ I ask. ‘Or did you just, you know, forget to undress properly?’
I swear to you, it slips out.
For some time, there’s a silence that neither of us fills.
‘Grace, I really haven’t got time for this.’
‘Jordan, I know…’
When Jordan hangs up, my tears are streaming. There isn’t a mega-hot chilli in sight.
4
I stay put on the ladder for some time after the phone call with Jordan ends. I can’t believe I phoned my boyfriend at his work to talk about his underwear. I hope Jordan has the decency not to mention the specifics to anyone – with some of the office gossip he’s repeated to me, I can’t be sure he won’t.
However, now is not the time to be skulking in a cleaner’s cupboard with remorse. I have a meeting to attend on which my job depends. The clock is ticking.
I’m back in front of the basins when Poppy floats in.
‘There you are! You disappeared? I looked for you in here. I looked for you everywhere,’ she says. ‘Miss Gracie, are you okay?’
Barelegged in her cut-off overalls, Poppy must have disposed of her vomit-soiled tights, her boots wiped clean. I honestly don’t know how she manages to be so nice to me.
‘I’m okay, Poppy.’
&nbs
p; Albeit, I look worse than before. In the mirror, I see my complexion has reddened from deathly-pale to scarlet. Mascara streaks now run down my cheeks. My hair is plastered in sweaty patches against my scalp as if I’m suffering from an exotic tropical disease. I’d go home if I didn’t have this bloody meeting.
‘Obviously, I look a sight…’
‘Are you well enough to make this meeting?’ Poppy asks, concerned.
Poppy doesn’t need to know I’m more emotionally upset than physically ill at this point. She’s a sweet kid. But I don’t share intimate details of my personal life with her. I don’t need her to know about my problems with Jordan.
‘I’ll make the meeting, and I’ll do my absolute best. I know this all very much affects you and the crew, too, Poppy.’ A burden I’m carrying seriously.
‘That’s very sweet, Miss Gracie. But we’ll be all right,’ Poppy insists. ‘We’re worker bees. Lots of people are leaving voluntarily. Titan will move us to another show, if it comes to that, which it won’t. Let’s get this face sorted for you.’ Poppy jiggles what appears to be a cosmetic bag she has in hand. ‘My magic bag of tricks,’ she says.
The bag is emblazoned with hologram images of Astro Boy rocketing through space. I assess the array of make-up on Poppy’s face. It’s a look she can get away with – sort of. I, most certainly, cannot. However, neither can I meet with those impeccably groomed Americans in my current dishevelled state.
Poppy’s favourite DJ plays the late set at a Brixton club on Sunday evenings, beginning at the ridiculous time of around midnight. She’s well regarded for appearing as fresh as a daisy every Monday regardless. Perhaps, in this instance, she is best placed? It’s that or I take my chances back with Brenda, who certainly does my face no favours.
‘A bit less of the “magic”, Poppy, and I might be persuaded. The meeting starts at 3. You don’t have long.’
Perhaps, I should have requested David Blaine levels of magic?
Poppy plonks me atop the rubbish bin as a makeshift seat, out of eyeline of any of the mirrors. ‘You relax here.’
First, Poppy dabs my eyes dry with a piece of tissue. Then with a wet wipe that smells of cucumber she removes all remnants of Brenda’s professionally applied make-up. With her face right up close to mine, I notice the eyeliner that Poppy’s wearing extends dramatically almost to her temples.
‘Possibly, no eyeliner, if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘I’ll keep it all very subtle.’ Poppy smiles wryly. ‘I do know you!’
I agree to let her get on with her ministrations.
Dipping in and out of her little bag to retrieve tubes and palettes of shimmery creams and powders, Poppy blends, dabs, brushes and sets my face. She finishes applying a second coat of black mascara. ‘Your eyes are especially lovely today,’ she tells me.
‘Are they, by any chance, violet?’ I enquire, perking up a bit.
‘Um…’ Poppy inspects closely. ‘No. Blue. Super-duper shiny blue.’
The upside of tears, presumably.
I sit quietly on the bin lid.
With her fingers, Poppy loosens my hair from the stronghold of Brendan’s spray. When I ask her to check, I’m relieved she can’t see any more grey strands.
Stepping back, Poppy gives me a good once-over before she proclaims boldly of her handiwork, ‘You look stunning.’ With remarkable vigour for a girl so slight, she heaves me up from the top of the bin and plonks me in front of the mirror. ‘Look.’
By the glitter over Poppy’s face, I’m afraid to look.
When I brave my reflection, it’s a pleasant surprise.
My eyes are clear, bright and super shiny indeed. My skin is radiant, with just a hint of rosy gorgeousness – you’d never guess I’d spent the best part of ten minutes sobbing to myself inside a cupboard. I check again, scrupulously. Highlighted by silvery-blue shadows and mascara piled as thick as you like, my pupils are what I’d confidently describe as iridescently lilac. My lips are so glossily delicious, I almost want to snog myself. Most miraculously, Poppy has given me the appearance of jutting cheekbones
‘Poppy, how did you do this?’ I ogle my reflection, unabashed as Poppy watches me, grinning. ‘Actually, don’t tell me. It might spoil “the magic”. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
I’m assailing Poppy with my linguistic zeal when she interrupts to remind me this isn’t the time to be indulging her.
‘Don’t forget your meeting starts shortly,’ she says, tapping a steady finger against her fuchsia-banded, glow-in-the-dark (I’m sure she explained to me once) wristwatch.
Despite my seriously hot new look, I shiver.
Moments later, I find Faith in the corridor, searching for me.
‘Weren’t we meeting at your studio?’ She kisses me on both cheeks. ‘Darling, you look amazing!’
It is amazing what a makeover can do for a woman.
‘All thanks to Poppy.’ When Faith appears surprised, I acknowledge, ‘I know. But… voilà.’ I flash a million-dollar smile.
‘Stunning,’ Faith confirms.
Faith and I have known each other since primary school, before her breasts – and my hips – swelled. Faith was quieter back then; I was the gregarious class clown. These days, it’s more likely to be Faith kicking up her designer heels. (Faith has an expensive wardrobe and she doesn’t keep it for special occasions.) Naturally slender, she grew into her perfect C-cups by the time we finished at Our Lady’s School for Girls of Perpetual Mercy, in Surrey, where both our parents still live. My best friend has always worn her naturally blonde-streaked hair long and, these days, when it looks sexily tousled, it’s with good reason: Faith hops from one passionate dalliance to another, from whichever barrister or barista has taken her fancy for the week. Her eyes, set widely apart, are a kaleidoscope of greens and golds. With the faintest spattering of freckles, Faith is exquisitely beautiful. She’s practically feline.
Faith also has an MBA and works for a venture capital firm funding post-seed fintech start-ups. (I can’t tell you how long it took for me to remember this verbatim, though I still don’t know exactly what it means, aside from it’s a clever job, that sucks up many of Faith’s hours, finances her aforementioned designer wardrobe, plus some other lovely lifestyle perks to boot.) She’s here today, with all her business smarts, moonlighting as my agent. The arrangement began as a ruse for us to slip Faith into television industry events. That it turned out such events are scarcely as frequent, or as interesting, as one might imagine for the industry, I’m nonetheless grateful for her help. I’ve no idea how to enlist a proper agent to represent me otherwise. Faith is sufficiently financially astute to handle my contractual interests. As she says, who better? What I love most about our friendship is Faith’s ferocious loyalty. She tells me often that I still make her laugh. Sometimes, whether I mean to or not.
‘Are they Jimmy Choo’s?’ Faith stares at my pretty heels that, in the commotion of the last-minute change in menu and me being sick, and then the fight with Jordan, I’ve forgotten to change out of. ‘Gracie, they’re gorgeous! New look for the show?’
Not an outfit of design, the shoes don’t look too silly with my white shirt and black trousers. I’m walking better in these heels already, too
Faith is magnificent in a black pencil skirt that skims her flat tummy and finishes just below her knees, a red silk shirt with tapered chiffon sleeves, flawless sheer tights and sharp-heeled, black suede ankle boots. Her boots are remarkably unweathered, as if, in getting here, Faith floated miraculously over the wet and muck outside. Her winter coat, with a luxurious faux fur collar, is draped neatly over her arm, her treasured black Birkin handbag in hand.
‘Faith, I’m going grey. Today, I found a grey hair.
‘These aren’t all blondes on my head,’ Faith scoffs, unperturbed.
When my laugh is less convivial than it might have been, she asks me, ‘Gracie, what’s up?’
The way my best friend asks isn’t at all how my boy
friend put it to me earlier.
‘Nothing. Everything?’
‘Tell me everything.’
‘I’ll tell you everything after this meeting, Faith. For now, what is our game plan? As my trusted agent, do you have anything up your sleeve? I have crappy ratings and a cancelled sponsorship.’
Faith has been working a deal at her proper, paying job around the clock this week. We haven’t had much time to chat.
‘I have a sort of plan,’ Faith sort of assures me. We carry on walking up the stairs towards the top floor. ‘I popped in to see Adrian. He told me your sponsor went bust, nothing to do with ratings, so let’s not worry too much about that.’ Adrian, a strapping twenty-five-year-old, sells advertising here at SC6. Faith and he had a hot fling that ended mutually amicably a few months ago. ‘Gracie, what we need is an angle.’
‘An angle?’
‘What’s your USP?’
‘My US–what?’
‘Your unique selling point.’ Faith smiles at me sweetly. She can’t cook and I don’t understand most of the business stuff she does. We get to the top of the stairs. ‘What’s the hook that’s uniquely you, darling?’
I figure it’s like Heston Blumenthal and his molecular gastronomy, his odd combinations of bacon-and-egg ice cream and snail porridge dishes that taste scrumptious on account of the ingredients being ‘molecularly compatible’. Gordon Ramsay has his expletives, Jamie Oliver his fifteen-minute meals. Nigella has butter-rich recipes and her hourglass figure – she reminds me I don’t need to be size 0 to be popular. Mary Berry had a big tent.
Look At Me Now Page 3