Look At Me Now

by Simone Goodman

  I smile sweetly.

  Harry smiles warmly back at me. His skin is tanned. Sunbeds, judging from the crinkles around his eyes. Lovely eyes, though. Dark brown, bounded by bushy eyebrows and heavenly lashes.

  He brushes past and his smell is intoxicating. As a chef, my olfactory senses are finely tuned. But I can’t, exactly, place Harry’s scent. Is it cedarwood? Smoky vanilla? Leather? Harry is wearing chunky leather boots. Whatever it is, it’s divine.

  Nervous I might smell of sweaty old wine seeping through my pores, I shuffle slightly away, just in case.

  ‘Ladies, please, take a seat.’

  Faith and I plop ourselves into a pair of squeaky green vinyl armchairs. In front of us is a big, old mahogany desk, on which sits a laptop and the messy piles of papers.

  ‘First, a confession.’ Harry stands across from us on the opposite side of the desk. ‘I’m a fan of your old show, Gracie.’ Harry is smiling broadly, and I’m not buying it. My typical viewer is female, over thirty and, generally, a retiree or a stay-at-home mum who’s parked their brood at school for the day. Harry may be smooth, but he’ll have to do better than this. ‘Absolutely loved what you did with those little pork medallions at the beginning of the series.’

  ‘The pork with thyme and rosemary marinade?’

  ‘Served with hasselback potatoes.’ I can’t help a small smile. I conclude he prepared for this meeting by viewing an old recording of my cancelled show. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t cook myself. I rarely have any food in my flat.’

  I’m keen to steer the conversation along and be in and out of here. I need to pick up a few things and I’d like to get home in time to have a nap before I prepare dinner for Jordan and me. ‘So, these contracts, Harry?’

  ‘Indeed!’

  Taking his seat in the swivel chair on his side of the desk with abandon, the whole ensemble – Harry included, arms flailing – topples backwards. At the last second, Harry hooks his boots under the desk and narrowly saves himself from ploughing head-first into the wall of boobs and blondes behind him.

  ‘Whoa, easy does it, tiger!’ he roars.

  Faith bursts out giggling.

  Harry chuckles.

  My head aches.

  ‘Must be that fetching outfit of yours getting the better of me, Gracie,’ Harry then has the gumption to suggest.

  I sit up straighter, with what I hope is a suitable look of umbrage – though to be fair, Harry was looking straight into my eyes, and nowhere else, as he said this. Nonetheless, I adjust the silver scarf more protectively across my packed-in bosom. In the process, the scarf slips completely off one shoulder. To not make things worse, I leave the whole thing as it is.

  Harry’s shirt is unbuttoned to halfway down his chest.

  It appears he waxes.

  Noticing me noticing, he raises an eyebrow.

  It occurs to me that if Faith was a man, she’d be Harry Hipgrave, my potential new agent.

  I avert my eyes

  ‘Let’s say, I’m not surprised the station is keen to have you back in this saucy new format.’ Harry flashes another smile, a gorgeously lopsided grin.

  I remind myself I’m here for business purposes – and so is Harry. I mustn’t feel so flattered by his, frankly, outrageous flirting that I forget his carry-on is likely a well-honed play to earn himself a fat commission. By Faith’s admission, I look awful today. From the shabby state of Harry’s office, he can do with the work.

  ‘So, the new show…’ He picks up a wad of papers with the SC6 letterhead on top.

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ says Faith.

  And off he goes.

  A little while later, Harry breaks away to buy coffees, leaving Faith and me alone in his office.

  ‘Faith, tell me you’re not considering being the single chick with the date?’

  To say I’m appalled by Harry’s explanation of the new format is a gross understatement. In short, Harry explained the premise of this new show as Faith inviting a man onto the set and me guiding her to cook him a three-course meal. Which sounds innocuous enough. Except, after selecting some ingredients, Faith’s date then goes off camera to ‘have a looksy through an FHM mag, or whatever floats his boat’ – is exactly how Harry put it to us moments ago – and while we’re cooking, Faith and I are supposed to discuss on camera the ‘dramas’ of being single (her) and in a relationship (me). To again quote Harry directly, such dramas as ‘receiving a very respectable dick pic’ via Tinder (Faith) and ‘perhaps circumnavigating the sometimes chore-like romance that creeps into a “proper relationship”’ (presumably, me). Faith will have a different date each week, making her look like the town bike on national television. Whether she’s bothered by this or not – and no matter how she lives her life in private – I think it’s outrageous.

  I cannot fathom how Joanna, or anyone in that meeting, got from a note on a carton of eggs to this.

  Harry put it all to us just so, without flinching.

  ‘I don’t know, it might be fun,’ Faith says.

  Harry had the gall to remark, ‘Gracie, I’m not suggesting your relationship is at the point where sex has become a chore.’ He couldn’t have known, but Harry hit a nerve with that one. I almost choked. I definitely blushed.

  ‘Harry is too familiar for my liking.’

  ‘I think he’s funny.’

  ‘His wall of fame is more wall of shame – look at all those boobs! Who are these women?’

  ‘No idea. He’s very handsome.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt.’ Faith smiles. ‘Gracie, he was joking.’

  ‘About which bit?’

  If Harry was never a fan of my old cookery show, I can live with it. As for the rest of it, joking or not, I’m more than rather mortified.

  ‘I don’t ever want to hear the words “dick pic”, Faith.’

  Faith bursts out laughing. I can tell, at me. ‘Oh, sweetie…’

  At this point, I’d rather be back in the bistro – back to the long hours and crappy pay, where no one cares what I look like or wants me to talk dirty to them.

  ‘It’s vulgar. And creepy. In any event, I’m not interested in hosting a dating show.’

  At that moment, Harry returns. At least, I hope he wasn’t in the room when I called him creepy.

  ‘It’s not a dating show,’ he insists, abandoning the theatrics of earlier. Taking the SC6 contract in one hand, Harry perches on the thick arm of my squeaky chair. Leaning in, he reads aloud. ‘The show will be crafted as a revolutionary fusion of our appetite for food… and our hunger for passion.’

  Why is he is sitting so close to me?

  Thankfully, I checked with Faith when he was out of the room and she confirmed I smell only of Elizabeth Arden Green Tea Scent. ‘Refreshing’, it said on the label, so I’d sprayed it liberally before I left the flat.

  ‘Harry, that’s great. Only, I’m not up for a revolution, thanks all the same.’ Annoyingly, I like that this makes him laugh. ‘I’m a chef,’ I go on, softer. ‘I’m not whatever this… Eat Me requires me to be.’

  ‘I don’t know, I heard your performance the other day was thoroughly entertaining,’ Harry encourages. ‘Witty. Irreverent. Seductive. Shall I go on?’

  Hmm.

  ‘There wasn’t a performance, Harry. There was a conversation between Faith and me that got taken out of context. And now here we are.’

  ‘Here we are,’ Harry says.

  ‘We always talk to each other like that,’ Faith confirms.

  Harry gazes into my baby blues with his dark-as-chocolate eyes.

  ‘So, the show is banter between two besties.’ Harry’s dropped the overly saucy bravado of earlier, which, now he’s talking like a normal person, was sort of funny. ‘Throw in a bit of cooking. Some man candy for good measure. What could possibly go wrong?’ He flicks through the contract on his lap. ‘Also, your pay has been tripled, and I’ve insisted on better residuals.’

  ‘My managing partner
agreed I can take a three-month sabbatical, if I want it,’ Faith announces.

  ‘It’s a ten-episode season and filming begins in two weeks,’ Harry says.

  ‘It’s meant to be,’ Faith says.

  ‘But… your career in venture capital?’ I ask.

  ‘Will wait three months,’ Faith insists. ‘Gracie, we’ll be paid to hang out together. What will you do otherwise? Go back to chefing in a pub? Come on. You can teach me to cook.’

  Everything is happening so fast. I don’t know what I think any more.

  ‘You really want to do this, Faith?’

  ‘Yes!’

  If Faith is willing to do this, perhaps for the hoot, but probably also to help me not lose my job, how can I say no? As she says, it’ll be the two of us getting paid to hang out together. Two besties.

  ‘Can Poppy be on the show with us?’ I ask. I owe her. And if I get roped into this, I’ll need her around to do her magic with my make-up. Plus, with her bonkers look and bubbly manner in front of the camera, she’ll be a great distraction. Between her and Faith, viewers will barely notice me slaving away at the hot stove – for this performance, that’ll suit me just fine. ‘Would you be her agent too, Harry?’

  ‘Poppy?’

  ‘My previous assistant. She’d be great on screen for this thing. She’s absolutely mad. In a very sweet way.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to propose it,’ Harry says. ‘I’ll get in touch with Timothy and co right away. Subject to Poppy agreeing for me to represent her, of course. Speaking of which, my terms are a standard twenty per cent cut. If you’re both happy with that, I’ll take care of everything for all of you from here.’

  Standing up, Harry plops the papers onto the desk.

  My scarf slips all the way off into my lap. Faith raises an eyebrow and I shoot her a look I hope Harry doesn’t notice.

  For reasons that may or may not be related to my outfit, we all burst out laughing.

  ‘This will be fun,’ Harry promises.

  Fun…

  It sparks a thought, and the thought is running away with itself inside my head. I could do with some fun in my life, instead of rattling around my kitchen at home by myself, baking snacks and cleaning furiously. Being unwelcome in other areas of my home, and in other respects.

  Harry winks at us both and Faith beams back at him.

  Fun…

  Not as much as I imagine these two will have at some point.

  But I’m up for fun.

  9

  By the time we finish with Harry, Jordan has texted to say he can’t make dinner at home tonight. He’ll be staying late at his office. I’m unsurprised, but nonetheless dejected. However, moping over my relationship with Jordan isn’t my idea of fun. Instead of rushing back to an empty flat, I accept Faith’s invitation and we pop to our favourite restaurant, La Petite Place Française (‘The Little French Place’), to celebrate our new contracts.

  Located just around the corner from Faith’s flat, in Covent Garden, the restaurant straddles three narrow floors. Decorated with Moulin Rouge posters, the tables are tiny – very Parisian – and the wooden chairs a little rickety. The food is rich. The wine is fine. The service is typically French, ergo a bit rude, and charmingly so. The maître d’, Gaspard is wrinkly-old and inscrutable and quite in love with Faith. We are seated at the best available table, in a private corner, by the window.

  ‘To new adventures,’ Faith toasts, after our wine arrives dutifully. We clink glasses. ‘Now, darling, tell me everything.’

  ‘About the show?’ I say. This wine is going down a treat. Hair of the dog or otherwise, my hangover has passed. ‘Didn’t Harry say we’re discussing the details tomorrow, with Joanna?’

  ‘I’m asking about you and Jordan,’ Faith says.

  ‘Oh. Yes, that.’

  Though I’ve hardly taken two sips, Faith tops up my glass of the wonderfully crisp Sauvignon Blanc. Two servings of soupe à l’oignon, the best onion soup I’ve tasted, with garlicky croutons and melted cheese on top, and a cassoulet of white beans stewed with duck meat are on their way. I drain about a third of my drink. Then, to my best friend in the whole world, I pour my heart out about the relationship woes that have plagued me for months.

  Wrapped up in a nutshell, it doesn’t take me long.

  Talking to Faith, I’m not as emotional as I thought I’d be. It’s a relief to let it all out.

  When I’m done talking, Faith sighs. ‘Oh my, darling. You can’t sweep this under the carpet. You’ll wither on the vine. Better to rip off the Band-Aid, if it comes to that.’

  ‘Do you think it will come to that?’

  When Gaspard shuffles over with our starters, we pause our conversation.

  ‘Personally, I don’t see much point in having a partner you’re not having sex with…’ Faith carries on.

  The soup looks delicious. And too hot to dive into just yet.

  Jordan and I aren’t married. There’s no children to think of. The way things are between us, we barely qualify as friends. If we’re not having sex, what is the point of us?

  ‘However, the only people who know what’s what in a relationship are the people in it. You and Jordan need to talk.’

  ‘We do…’

  ‘No matter what, I’m here for you, Gracie. Always.’

  My phone rings. It’s Poppy. She’s heard from Harry – I’d given her the heads-up. True to his word, he bagged her a contract on the new show and she’s signed him as her agent. Down the line, Poppy is over the moon she will continue working not just with me but also Faith. We invite her to join us at our favourite little French place and after Poppy arrives, late lunch turns into cheese and crusty bread for early supper. By the time we settle the bill, I’ve sat here for over four hours and, between three of us, we’ve polished off four bottles of wine.

  Not half as inebriated as last night, I’m still more than tipsy by the time I get into a cab and head home, wearing my big, old and hideous charity-shop grey coat, that I don’t lose on the way – I must hunt down my best black coat. I will have to check at work, the pub, the bar and then, if no luck, figure out how to track down a random Black cab tomorrow. Home safe, before I get into bed, I shower and put on flannel pyjamas. Jordan isn’t home. He texted to say it’ll be a late one at his office. Another big campaign.

  Setting my alarm for 6.45 a.m., I resolve to get up early and talk to him in the morning.

  I turn off the lights.

  By morning, I’ll have had nine hours’ sleep. That’ll clear the wine.

  By morning, I tell myself, as I drift off to sleep, all will be well.

  The next morning, I snooze through my alarm and I don’t get up early. The afternoon and all of Friday, I’m at the station working next steps with Faith, Poppy, Harry and Joanna. Jordan is at his work, then out entertaining a client, then at a rugby day with Robert that ends well into Saturday evening. What with one thing and another, it’s Sunday morning before we’re together in the flat, awake and available to talk.

  ‘Jordan, are you ready?’ I call in the direction of the basement, where he’s already working. It’s 10 a.m.

  ‘One minute,’ Jordan shouts, his third time in as many minutes.

  I pull the pan off the gas.

  When he heard me out of bed and making myself a cup of tea, Jordan asked if I could make him one of my mouth-watering big breakfasts. Now, my boyfriend is behaving like I’m pestering him to eat.

  If he carries on, breakfast will be ruined.

  The eggs will poach to rubber.

  The tomatoes will stew in their own juices.

  I watch the sizzle cool out of the bacon.

  On the kitchen table, in a cut-glass vase, is a glorious bouquet of soft-pink roses with sprigs of berries and dusty miller. The arrangement arrived yesterday, sent by Harry. Faith received the same bunch, as did Poppy.

  I must say, it’s nice having a proper agent.

  Jordan makes his way up into the kitchen.

  �
�Mmm, smells good.’ He picks a piece of bacon from the pan. I shoo him off. ‘Sorry, I’m starving.’

  At the table, Jordan assembles a pile of weekend newspapers. He picks up the card by the vase. ‘Who’s Harry?’

  ‘My new agent.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He flicks open the Mail on Sunday. I don’t know why, because there isn’t anything to it, but it bothers me Jordan isn’t more interested at another man sending me a beautiful big bunch of flowers. He’s sizing up a full-page advertisement of a grey cat leaping at a feather toy. Where my father reads the news, my boyfriend reads the ads.

  ‘Here’s the account I’m trying to close.’ I scoop the poached eggs out of the boiling water. ‘“Pussy Paws, when only the best will do”,’ Jordan parrots from the sheet. ‘Lame. But good for us the incumbent agency is rubbish!’

  His toast pops.

  ‘Can you believe the pet market is worth over eight billion dollars in the UK?’ he goes on. ‘Eight billion. For pets!’

  Unless it’s to eat them, Jordan isn’t partial to animals. We had a cocker spaniel, Tilly, until I was twelve. I love dogs.

  ‘Faith spends thousands on her cat Benny,’ I say.

  Benny is Faith’s enormously sized and gorgeously fluffy tabby-brown Maine Coon, who lives with her on her second-floor flat in the middle of the West End. Something of a man about town, Benny wanders down Floral Street and as far as into the Covent Garden Piazza, by himself. Heading out when Faith leaves for work each morning, he later meows at the communal door until a neighbour opens it, then he’s through the cat flap of the flat, home safe. Attended on by the local traders and tourists with pats and titbits of food, he’s quite the attraction, if not what you’d call trim. An extraordinary personality, Benny’s primordial pouch – his big belly of loose skin – swings side to side as he struts the cobbled streets of his turf. Six years and counting, he is, without doubt, the love of Faith’s life.

  ‘This Pussy Paws account is worth hundreds of thousands. When we win it, which we will, I’ll have to make director. Robert and I are killing ourselves on this pitch.’

  ‘Is Robert here now?’ I ask, surprised, and not best pleased if he is.