Look At Me Now
Page 6
Harry chuckles.
‘Timmy sent me your new contract. Gracie, we need to meet.’
I’m too unwell to deal with this right now. I tell Harry I already have an agent, hoping Faith will deal with him later.
Harry insists, ‘And that you do!’
‘No, Harry, not you. I mean—’
‘You mean Faith Williams?’
‘Um. Yes.’
‘We’ve spoken.’
‘You’ve spoken with Faith?’
‘I have contracts for you both. Apparently, you two made rather an impression at the station yesterday...’
After the mix-up during the meeting, it’s hardly surprising Faith is confirmed as part of whatever this new show might be.
Also, whatever Timothy told Harry about our ‘performance’ yesterday might go a long way to explaining Harry’s initial gambit on this call.
If Faith has already heard from Harry, why hasn’t she called me to say?
‘Is there a problem, Gracie? Timmy said you were expecting to hear from me. I hope it’s in order I’ve called?’
My brain is whirring. If Joanna wants Faith, she may not want me without her. Despite Faith’s throw-away line about joining me ‘for the hoot’, Faith probably won’t leave her lucrative job in venture capital to work on a sexed-up cookery show for SC6 – this isn’t the BBC on offer. Such thoughts begin to bother me profusely, regardless of whether I want to do the blasted thing or not.
Why the devil hasn’t Faith called me?
‘There’s no problem, Harry.’
‘Splendid. Can you meet sharpish? Faith is good for noon today, at my office on Piccadilly.’
‘Noon is fine,’ I say.
I’m meeting Liz Martin, journalist, later today in Mayfair. Liz writes for the weekend home and garden pull-out of the Daily that includes recipes from episodes of Gracie Porter’s Gourmet Get-Together. Gosh knows what I’ll say to her today, given the state of play with my work. A problem to solve later. Let’s get these painkillers kicking in first.
‘I’m at 24 Haymarket,’ Harry says.
‘I know the street.’
‘Marvellous! Looking forward to meeting you, Gracie.’
‘I’ll be there with bells on,’ I say, unplugging the landline.
7
After the Nurofen kicks in, I take a hot shower and get dressed into my favourite dark denim jeans and blue sweater. Discovering my Jimmy Choo heels scattered down the hallway – not in pristine condition, but not damaged – I brush them off, put them back in their felt bag and into my wardrobe. It takes me longer to find my mobile phone, slid right under the sofa. My drunken stupor last night.
I check my mobile. No messages.
I still can’t remember how I got into bed?
In the kitchen, Jordan has left his usual mess. Toast crumbs, strawberry jam and a block of butter on the bench. An abandoned bowl of cereal on the table. A load of his wet washing in the machine. I don’t take care of my boyfriend’s dirty clothes. But if I don’t hang his wet washing out or put it in the dryer for him, he’ll leave it for days, until it smells like a swamp. Popping softener into the drawer, I run a quick rinse cycle to refresh the load.
Not for the first time, I contemplate that picking up after my boyfriend like I’m his mother can’t be great for our romantic life – it certainly doesn’t do much for my libido.
Outside my kitchen window, the bare branches of the big oak trees sway with the gale that’s blowing again out there today. I’m over these Arctic cold winds. But it sure is picturesque, in a wintery stark way, out there. I love where I live. Located just off Warwick Avenue, in the affluent suburb of Maida Vale, northwest London, my flat is fashionably close to the cafes and canals of Little Venice and an easy run into the West End for work. The bedroom is quiet, cosy and overlooks the pretty back gardens of the mansion blocks that line the street. The front-facing reception is spacious and light-filled. The ceilings are high, and a fire escape runs off the old but well-appointed kitchen. Being on the raised ground floor, I have a basement that’s well-proportioned and, though unrenovated, dry. It leads onto a private, grassy patch outside. In summer, I enjoy pottering about planting geraniums, sweet peas and impatiens in pots and filling herb boxes with the gorgeous greenery and aromas of coriander, parsley, rosemary and the like. Sometimes, I fall asleep in the sun reading books. When it’s warm and Faith is visiting, we have been known to get tipsy drinking wine on blankets on the grass.
Best of all, the rent is low. Even on my pittance of a chef’s salary when I first moved to London, I could afford such luxury. The property belonged to Miriam Whitbury, who died at the remarkable age of one hundred and one, leaving it to her daughter June Whitbury, a close friend of my parents. June lets the property to me cheaply while she brings herself around to the idea of selling. She’s eighty-two years old and I’ve lived here for almost a decade. Throughout the years, I’ve been a model tenant accordingly.
My phone on charge at the bench, I send Jordan a text.
Morning, sorry about last night. Hope I didn’t wake you? Stayed out to celebrate new show! Will tell you more later after meeting with new agent. Not working today. Can cook us a nice dinner later? Gx P.S. sorted your washing
Jordan texts me back immediately.
Are you at home now?
Before I have the chance to text back, he calls my mobile.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey, are you at home?’ he asks me.
‘Yeah. I don’t have to go into work today. Jordan, I think I’ve landed a whole new show.’ I don’t want Jordan to know I’m anything less than enthusiastic at this point. I want him to be proud of me. ‘I’m meeting Faith, and a professional agent, Harry Hipgrave, in a bit to find out more. Why? Where are you?’
‘I’m with a client. When will you be back?’
‘Um, not sure? Later this afternoon? Jordan, I didn’t lose my job. Did you get my messages?’
‘Sorry, yes. I was exhausted from work and fell asleep early. Congratulations. By the way, you did wake me when you came in. I tried to help you to bed. You were really drunk.’
Jordan’s tone is nonchalant. But I suspect I embarrassed myself more than being very inebriated last night.
‘I probably don’t want to know the details, Jordan. I’ll cook us a nice dinner tonight to make it up to you? And… can we maybe talk, later? Or will you have to work?’
Jordan sucks his breath in. ‘Not sure how my day will pan out. Dinner sounds good. What time are you leaving and what time will you be home today?’
‘Leaving shortly and I can be home by early afternoon. Do you need me to do anything, Jordan?’
‘No. No, just wondering.’
‘Okay.’
‘I have to run.’
‘Okay. Have a great day and see you tonight, babe.’
‘See ya.’ Jordan rings off.
My head isn’t quite working the way it should, but that was a bit of a funny conversation. Not unpleasant. Indeed, it was nice of Jordan to call me. But it seemed to me… short? Odd? Pointless? Perhaps because it’s been months since Jordan and I have called each other for short, pointless conversations about nothing? Surely, I shouldn’t worry. I mean, we didn’t fight. Jordan sounded happy about dinner and, subject to work, open to talking later.
I was worried sick about work, but I didn’t lose my job – I can’t say I’m thrilled with what I may be signing up to, but I didn’t get fired. Maybe, the tide is turning for Jordan and me, too?
I decide to carry on positively. Even if my body feels like it’s been to war.
To accelerate my recovery, I make myself a fresh fruit smoothie with banana, frozen raspberries, yoghurt and a handful of spinach. Not wanting to linger now that I’m up and at it, I ping an email to Liz Martin to see if she can meet earlier than our usual 3 p.m. She confirms she’s free from 11. To squeeze in our catch-up before I meet with Harry at noon, and have the afternoon to myself, I’ll have to get a move on.
I clear up the mess also over the kitchen floor. Running late, I throw on some clean clothes and get myself out of the flat.
The cafe where I regularly meet Liz Martin is near Green Park Tube station. I rush in dripping water everywhere. Outside, it’s raining again.
‘Hi, Liz. Golly, this umbrella is soaked. Ugh, let me put it under the table. Oh gosh, sorry, that’s your foot.’
‘Gracie, it’s fine. Sit down,’ Liz instructs. ‘I’ve ordered us tea.’
Liz used to be a sharp-nosed political reporter before her semi-retirement to write lifestyle articles for the glossies – there’s no way she hasn’t noticed I’m not firing on all cylinders. These days, alongside my recipes, she writes up my advice about the seasonality of produce or the importance of high-quality kitchen tools. The way Liz writes, she makes me read as infinitely more interesting than the verbal ramblings I offer her over cups of tea. I wouldn’t describe myself as media-savvy. In this instance, as indeed all instances, Liz has been good to me.
‘I’ve ordered you Earl Grey.’
My usual – but I’d sooner a Berocca. ‘Thank you, Liz.’
The waitress promptly brings our tea.
‘Apologies about the late change to the recipes yesterday,’ I begin. Before we headed to the pub, but after we’d had champagne toasts on set with the crew following the big meeting, Poppy had helped me to quickly write up the last-minute changes for the vegan scallops and Cheating Hot Sticky Prawns and email them to Liz.
Liz adjusts her thick black reading glasses and tucks her short, greying red hair behind her ears. ‘It’s no problem. I understand there’s a lot going on at SC6. Can we talk about that?’
Lukewarm tea dribbles onto my cream shirt.
Personally, I’d love to talk through the changes going on at the station with Liz Martin. Over this past year that we’ve been meeting, I like to think we’ve developed some sort of professional friendship. Liz has shared with me tales about her time as an investigative journalist – she’s interviewed everyone from Oscar-winning celebrities to despotic heads of African countries. I could do worse than be guided by her opinion on matters going on at work.
Professionally, I know it’s not for me to confirm to anyone from the press that people at SC6 have been losing their jobs.
At the very least, our press department might have instructed me on what to say regarding the cancellation of my old show. And whatever can I say about the proposed new format?
‘Indeed, there have been a few… changes at SC6 recently.’
‘What sort of changes?’ Liz presses me.
‘Well, we’re taking a small break to work through the details, but I think it’s probably okay for me to mention, off the record, that Gracie Porter’s Gourmet Get-Together might be rebranded,’ I reveal.
‘That’s better news than some things I’ve heard. Rebranded to what?’
‘Still off the record?’
Liz puts her pen respectfully aside, indicating this part of our discussion won’t make it anywhere near her column.
‘Would you believe to Eat Me?’
Liz barely contains her expression to a small smile.
We get on very well, Liz and me.
‘Sounds interesting.’
‘Quite.’
‘Will it be the same format?’
Not quite, I imagine. But who knows?
‘It’s probably best I don’t discuss the details yet,’ I comment delicately. ‘New contracts and all, you know how it is.’
‘I look forward to hearing more once you’re free to talk,’ Liz says. ‘It sounds intriguing.’
We order cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches. I agree to contact Liz when production resumes. With nothing signed yet, I should have agreed if.
8
Leaving Liz to traipse through the incessant rain, tourists and touts around Piccadilly Circus, I arrive at Harry Hipgrave’s doorway visibly frazzled. Faith is tucked neatly inside the entrance, dry as toast and immaculate.
‘Well, you look awful.’ Faith huddles me inside with a brief peck on my cheek. ‘Did you get any sleep?’
I admire Faith’s pea-green coat. The colour plays perfectly with the flicker of olive in her eyes.
‘Faith, why didn’t you call me when you heard from Harry?’
She takes my umbrella and gives it a good shake.
‘Darling, I tried calling you all morning. Your mobile was dead. Your landline was busy, then it rang out, over and over. Although, I’d given Harry your number, and he said he’d spoken with you. So… here I am.’
After the conversations with my mother and Harry, I’d unplugged the landline at the wall to get some peace. I don’t understand why my mobile reception is so erratic in my flat. Jordan reached me just fine this morning.
‘I’m sorry, darling. I’m so hung-over. My head hurts horribly. You look amazing, by the way. As always. Did you get back to sleep last night? I was ridiculously drunk…’
‘You were, it was funny, I’m not surprised your head hurts!’
‘Funny or annoying?’ I ask, concerned I know the answer.
‘A bit of both. But, yes, I got back to sleep. I’m only sorry I couldn’t join you. Sounds like you had a fun night?’
Faith and I were inseparable before I took up with Jordan. Out together all the time, having fun. We still speak daily on the phone. Some days, more than once. But we don’t see each other face-to-face as often any more. Not that Faith isn’t fully socially occupied without me. And then some. But any absence between us rests squarely on me.
‘Darling, I miss you,’ I blurt out, clasping my best friend in a big bear hug.
‘Don’t get soppy because you’re feeling sorry for yourself.’ Faith pushes me off her with affection. ‘Now, Gracie Louise Porter, what’s with this coat you’ve got on today?’
‘It’s from the charity shop, where Mummy volunteers,’ I say of the woolly-grey coat that’s two sizes too large for me, brassy-buttoned and pilling all over. My mother bought it for me eons ago, second-hand, when I passed through a chunky – but not that chunky – phase. I’ve never had the heart to throw it away or the desire to wear it. I chucked it on in my rush to leave the flat this morning. I couldn’t find my regular black coat, which I have a horrible feeling I left inside the cab last night.
‘Take it off,’ Faith says. I take off the coat. ‘Is your shirt also from the charity shop?’
I check the cream brocade shirt – tea-stained since my meeting with Liz – worn over a stretchy black skirt, both of which also shouldn’t be seen outside of the house. ‘Faith, no. It’s just old. I spilled my smoothie. I’m unwell. Go easy.’
‘Understood. And underneath all of that?’
‘Underneath all of this is my underwear,’ I reply, buttoning myself back into my coat like a grey, woolly mammoth, relieved to know I am, unequivocally, wearing knickers.
‘Good to know,’ Faith says. ‘Come on, let’s sort out the rest of it.’
Faith leads me up the stairwell and into a small washroom, wherein she locks the door and forces me out of my shirt and into a little black top she’s just purchased for herself from Massimo Dutti. The material is stretchy, like my skirt, but the top is too tight on me: my breasts are squeezed in and pushed up, my nipples perilously close to a popping-out incident. I have what is best referred to as ‘a bosom’. The sort of chest ladies past a certain age attempt to tuck into their reinforced, one-piece swimming costumes before performing breaststroke in such places as Hampstead Heath ponds. I squeal in protest and Faith removes the silver scarf she’s wearing around her neck and manoeuvres it to hang in loose folds over my cleavage.
‘That’s better,’ she says.
I check myself in the mirror. ‘I look rid
iculous!’ I look like The Mummy Returns. Mind you, I could do with a nap in a lovely old sarcophagus. ‘Faith, please don’t make me wear this.’
I’m painfully aware how the top would hang loosely on her long, lithe torso.
‘It works,’ Faith replies, ripping off the tags. ‘In fact, it’s quite sexy on you. You can keep them both to wear with your new shoes. Now, come on. We’re already late – you hate that. Let’s go.’
Harrison Hipgrave opens his own door. It appears he has no staff. Certainly, no filing clerk. His office is messy. Papers piled high on every conceivable surface. Empty cans of soft drink. The furniture is tatty, albeit Harry is not. In real life, as opposed to in my vivid imagination, he isn’t so ridiculous as to be wearing a burgundy cravat and smoking jacket. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a khaki shirt. Tall, about six foot, his hair is lovely: thick, blonde and floppy. He’s a bit Harrison Ford, Indian Jones-ish – give him the accoutrements of fedora hat and cracking bullwhip, I can imagine him easily swinging over a pit of snakes, narrowly escaping a thundering boulder, in a booby-trapped temple of doom.
I give it two weeks before he and Faith are screwing each other senseless.
‘Come in,’ Harry says. In person, his voice is nowhere near as shrill as he sounded on the phone this morning. ‘Welcome to my world.’
He motions us through with an odd, circling arm swing. His hands are huge.
Inside, the walls are plastered with pictures of mostly attractive women, many in various stages of undress. It’s disappointing to note none are familiar to warrant the claim ‘Agent to the Stars’.
‘Not everyone gets up there,’ Harry says, noticing me staring – grimacing, I’m sure – at a particularly buxom blonde.
Some of them could be theatre stars. A few more are soapy-looking. Could be there are a few reality stars up there – I don’t watch enough television to know.