I like Robert. I’m more than okay that he’s often with Jordan in our basement on weeknights – I reason it’s preferable to me wondering where Jordan might otherwise be of an evening. But if he’s in my home first thing on a Sunday morning, I’ll be annoyed – with Jordan.
Jordan studies me wearily. Or is that warily? ‘Don’t you think Robert has better things to do on a Sunday morning?’
I set a plate of food in front of him. Bacon, eggs, tomato, mushrooms, beans and toast.
‘Thank you.’ He stuffs another rasher into his mouth. ‘Oh my God, that’s good.’ Won over by my salty bacon, chops full, he carries on, ‘I mean, knowing Robert – as we do – he’s probably muddling over the name of whichever dolly he’s waking up to. Bumbling his way out of trouble....’
Usually, we share a laugh when it comes to Robert’s romantic misadventures. Tales of mixed-up names, misplaced panties and women coming and going, not always in an orderly fashion, run rife. Robert is so popular with the ladies, he needn’t bother behaving with any one girl in particular. He’s so affable, he gets away with his behaviour. (Robert maintains some women chase the thrill. With Faith as my best friend, I’ve never thought to judge him.) This morning, though, I’m taking Jordan’s comment personally.
‘And you don’t, Jordan?’
Looking across the room at me, Jordan stops chewing. ‘I don’t what?’
I wanted us to talk properly. It wasn’t the best start, but surely a civilised conversation isn’t too much for us to carry on with? By the look on his face, I believe Jordan worries I’m hinting for something more. As for anything amorous, believe me, I’ve given up.
The last time we had sex was over two months ago. Not that I’m counting, but it was my birthday. The sex was so horrible, it may not even count as copulation. I’d booked us dinner at our local Spanish restaurant, Del Marche, Jordan’s favourite, where our meal was delicious and we shared a lovely bottle of Rioja. But a casual observer might have remarked, aptly, the intimacy was sorely lacking. Jordan checked his phone obsessively throughout our meal; I filled the empty space chatting with the waiter and, later, with the older couple sitting nearby. I’m not sure Jordan would have noticed if I’d upped and moved to their table, and at least the conversation would have been better. Although, the look on both of their faces when I mentioned Jordan had bought me a blender for my special day... Home earlier than expected, we nonetheless got ourselves naked and into bed, whereon Jordan proceeded to make love to me in a most perfunctory manner. To borrow Harry’s remark, as if it were a chore. You want the gory details? There was no foreplay. Precious little kissing. Jordan basically dipped a finger and then proceeded to thrust inside me with his erection for several excruciatingly long, awkward minutes. About five, to be precise. That was it. Jordan didn’t come. Of course, neither did I, but that isn’t the point. Unless a man is so plied with alcohol as to be practically comatose or is hitting the age where erectile dysfunction is a medical diagnosis, men always come. On my thirty-third birthday, I had sex with my mostly sober, thirty-two-year-old boyfriend and he didn’t even ejaculate. I sobbed silently in the dark. Jordan pretended to fall asleep. We never discussed it. Not then and not since. It’s what Jordan and I do with our problems. We leave them to fester.
It had been many weeks prior since Jordan and I had last been intimate. We haven’t been anywhere close since.
My toast pops.
‘It’s nothing, Jordan. I just meant that you’re working and it’s Sunday. Maybe you could take a break later? We could walk along the canal if the rain clears?’
As things are, it’s not as if I’m not gagging for Jordan to wipe the table clear with my naked buttocks and take me unto him.
I think of Faith’s comment….
What is the point of a relationship if there’s no sex?
At our age?
When there’s little else?
Because living with Jordan is more like having a flatmate than a partner – a crappy flatmate at that, given he’s a lazy oik around the house and doesn’t pay rent. (As agreed, he reimburses me the bills.)
And still I’m not ready to rip off the Band-Aid.
Right now, I need my energy for other things.
‘Jordan, can I tell you about my new show?’
‘Did you mention Faith’s involved?’
Tuesday, I’d left several messages on Jordan’s voicemail, including when I was out drunk with Howard and the others. In this instance, I’m relieved he doesn’t get into the details.
‘Yes, she’ll be on camera with me. She instigated the whole set-up, I might add.’
‘Dare I ask what this involves?’
As Jordan does about Robert, I often relay some, but not all, details of Faith’s dalliances. Jordan may be unsurprised to learn that Faith has managed to spin off a sexed-up cookery show from the ashes of my old routine.
‘We begin filming in just over a week and it’s called Eat Me,’ I begin.
‘That sounds… racy.’ Jordan looks up from his papers.
‘The innuendo is deliberate.’ I take a breath. ‘As you said yourself, sex sells.’
Jordan nods with a puzzled expression, that could be condescension.
‘So, what exactly is this show about?’ he asks.
‘It’s a titillating cookery show, if you can imagine?’ I’ve practiced this spiel inside my head a few times. ‘It’s basically Faith inviting a different date on to set each week and me teaching her to cook. We’ll be our usual chatty selves and, to your point, it will be a bit racy… Obviously, I’m in a relationship, so I won’t be talking about sex or anything,’ I quickly add.
I’m only warning Jordan that this new show – the show we’ll begin filming imminently and that will televise publicly shortly after – may include some spicy discussions that might reflect on him personally. Of course, the main banter will be about Faith and her man of the week. I’m there primarily to cook. And Jordan isn’t expected to make an appearance – we’re keeping his identity a mystery. (Faith suggested we could refer to him as ‘Master J’, which I protested was too Fifty Shades of Grey for my comfort – albeit that couldn’t be further from what things are like between us currently; I understand Joanna is waiting for me to come around.) I’ve no intention of letting anything too personal about us become public fodder. I’ll just be more comfortable if Jordan is fully informed.
From the look on his face, Jordan thinks I’m having a go at him about our non-existent love life.
In the right light, Jordan can look like a seductive cross between a dark and stormy Tom Hardy and the sexily brooding Justin Theroux. This morning, the light must not be right. Frigid across the table, his tawny eyes seem soulless. Wishy-washy. His lips, pursed, reptilian. It’s the dead of winter, but Jordan’s complexion is otherworldly pale, like a ghost. Like someone who isn’t really here – though I have been spending much time with the unnaturally tanned Harrison Hipgrave.
Meanwhile, I’m in my dressing gown and I haven’t brushed my teeth.
‘What I mean, Jordan, is that we’ll leave the raunchy discourse to Faith, because she’s the one with the date. And because she’s Faith.’
Jordan pushes aside his half-eaten plate of food. ‘I’m sure Faith will have a lot to talk about.’
Is he angry that we don’t have sex or that I have broached it, however tenuously, as a subject?
Looking at me – and not his breakfast – Jordan adds, ‘Sorry, I’m not that hungry.’ He tucks the newspapers under his arm. ‘I’m going downstairs to work.’
And off he trots.
10
Preparation for the new show rolls at record speed. Joanna is a force of nature, exacting in her requirements. Builders transform the set. Walls to an adjacent storage room are knocked through to create a dedicated dressing area in the expanded space, with plenty of room for our new SC6 sponsored outfits. The old laminate and pine kitchen is ripped out, replaced with elegant stone tops, white cupboards and a paste
l-grey station tiles splashback. The clunky appliances are updated with Miele’s best in class and all the pots, pans, crockery and utensils are brand new from John Lewis. Poppy, contractually appointed as on-screen kitchen assistant and unofficially as our personal stylist, takes Faith and I shopping along Regent Street for our inaugural outfits: classic for me, sultry for Faith, bordering on the ridiculous for herself. On set, it’s all going on, even if I do have a few wobbly fits about the concept of this new format. Every time, Harry is on hand to smooth my nerves and keep me on track. On Friday, I invite my mother to London to visit the studio. Harry happens to be popping through at the same time. Easy-going and attentive to us all– it’s honestly wonderful having someone dedicated to ensuring we are taken care of and primed for success – he flirts up a storm with my eighty-year-old mother, who laps it up.
At work, all things considered, it’s going swimmingly. At home, I’ve hardly seen Jordan and there’s been no change to our situation, emotional or physical.
Two weeks after our accidental pitch, we’re on set preparing to record the first episode.
My doubts about the format have been tempered by all the fuss and care that everyone has been throwing at us – but not extinguished by the pressure. This time, there won’t be blithe indifference for what we achieve. This show will need to be a recipe for success from the get-go.
Nervously pottering about the set, wearing a flattering, turquoise shirt with turned-back cuffs teamed with ultra-slimming Nicole Farhi black trousers, I remind myself: I’ve got this. And I’ve got Faith here if I flounder. Between us, we’ve definitely got this, is my current mantra. With her bag of tricks, Poppy has again worked her magic on my face. My blue eyes shimmer, enhanced by powdery creams and silvers over the lids. The blusher over my cheeks smells heavenly of raspberry. My lips smack of matte cherry stain. As he fiddles with his technical equipment, our cameraman, Jacques, looks up and comments, ‘Tu es tres jolie.’ ‘You are very pretty,’ he repeats in English, in front of everyone.
The glass shelving on the back wall of the kitchen has bottles of wine and boxes of cereal on display. While I appreciate this isn’t a formal cookery show any more, I hope I’m not expected to be up here slurping on warm Chardonnay and serving bowls of Rice Krispies? I’m still unsure, exactly, what is going to happen. We’re organised, but this show is unscripted. Of course, so was Gracie Porter’s Gourmet Get-Together, but that was different. I know how to talk about food. But relationships? And sexy stuff? On television, no less? I’m distinctly less sure. The old shelves once held scales and some potted parsley. Although, I could do with a sip of something strong to calm the nerves, we’re otherwise stocked full of ingredients. Whatever the penny-pinching Brian Bunce thinks of it, there’s no skimping on budget for this programme.
I open the doors to our noiseless and glacial American-style refrigerator. Inside, front and centre, is a carton of eggs with a note ‘You got this’. It’s signed ‘H’, for Harry.
‘Was it the eggs that got us into this?’ asks a smooth voice from behind me, another American accent.
I whirl around and come face to chest with a handsome black man. He looks at me out of the greenest of green eyes. Seriously, they’re the colour of jade.
‘Toby Ellison.’ He smiles warmly. ‘Faith’s – um – colleague. Friend? Date?’
I close the refrigerator doors. Of course, Faith talked Toby into flying in from New York to see her for a few hours on set, to be her first date on our fledgling production.
‘Gracie Porter,’ I hold out my hand. ‘Faith’s best friend.’ Toby shakes my hand firmly and warmly. A good handshake. ‘I believe you’re known officially around here as her man-candy, Toby,’ I inform him, trying not to giggle.
‘What’s she roped me into?’ he laughs openly.
‘A good question. Welcome to the set.’
Toby surveys the studio. An overstuffed red velvet sofa sits against the side wall, six professional-looking deckchairs face the kitchen set, and there is at least twice the amount of technical equipment – cameras, microphones, lighting and the like – than previously. ‘This is pretty cool,’ he says.
His gemstone eyes are unreal.
‘Faith is just getting her make-up finished. She won’t be long.’
Toby flashes me a smile. Also, the whitest teeth.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Toby, but your eyes are incredibly striking.’
‘Gorgeously green,’ he replies, right off pat. Of course, it’s me, the self-deprecating Brit, who seems bashful. ‘They’re called “Gorgeously Green”,’ he goes on. ‘They’re contacts, see?’
On closer inspection, Toby’s pupils seem unnaturally sharp around the rims. Does everything look green to him? ‘So they are. Are they strange to look out of?’
‘Not at all.’
When Faith was telling me about the humungous size of Toby’s manhood one afternoon, she hadn’t thought to mention his fake green eyes.
‘Do you wear them regularly?’
‘Hell no.’ Toby laughs heartily. ‘They’re just for the show today, so no one recognises me.’ I smile weakly. It’s a poor disguise. ‘I know, but, hey, they do look good!’
Faith promised I’d be fond of him and I am.
‘Are yours “Brilliantly Blue”?’ he goes on, falling easily into the friendly banter of new lover buttering up oldest best friend. I let loose a small snort of appreciation. ‘No, I’m au naturel.’
Harry materialises. ‘Her eyes are stunning,’ he says. ‘Harrison Hipgrave, Agent to the Stars.’ He extends a hand to Toby.
‘Toby Ellison. Ordinarily, Mergers and Acquisitions. Today, I believe the term is, man-candy.’
Harry laughs loudly. ‘Good to see you have a sense of humour. You’re going to need it with these girls,’ he warns jovially.
Toby laughs raucously.
To me, Harry whispers, ‘Having fun yet?’
I’m having more fun than I thought I would.
No offence to Faith, but if I’d known it would make me this much more relaxed, I’d have got myself a proper agent sooner. Albeit I’m coming over in a bit of a hot flush now. Nerves. God, we’re about to do this.
Harry brushes past me to go and chat with Joanna. His essence lingers. I’ve been trying, but I still can’t place his scent. Definitely more woody than spicy. And not at all citrusy.
Before I have a chance to narrow it down, Faith emerges from the dressing room in a slinky black dress that skims her bottom and reveals her dimple-free thighs. High black boots hug her slender calves. It’s apparent Poppy has also attended to her grooming. Faith’s long blonde mane, often frizzy at the ends, is shiny-sleek. Her body is moisturised with bronzer, the small spots on her chin skilfully concealed. Her eyes, outlined with kohl, look exactly like a cat’s – though the overall effect is full-blown minx.
Faith is first to bestow a compliment. ‘Gracie, you look incredible.’
‘And you, my darling, are an absolute vision. I’d kill for those legs.’
‘You’ve warned me before.’
Toby kisses her hello, smack on the lips.
Faith brushes his cheek.
‘Are we ready to do this, bestie?’ She reverts quickly to me. ‘I’m ready!’
All the old crew are on board. There’s Jacques on camera, Lola on sound, Tom on lighting, James and Joyce on go-for. Other technical and prop people come and go. The new cameraman, Pugsy, looks exactly as you may imagine. Robin is back at the helm, though we all know it’s Joanna, as executive producer, who’s running the show.
Poppy crosses the studio. Her angelic face is overdone with colour and sparkles, her wispy blonde-dyed hair in pigtails. She’s mismatched a rainbow woollen poncho with a lacy pink tutu, sparkly silver tights and ballerina pumps.
We’re all here, ready to go…
Except I’m not. I may look fabulous. And yes, I signed up to this (almost) entirely of my own free will. We’ve brainstormed and prepared for over a week. But I
’m not ready.
Seated next to Harry, in one of the professional-looking deckchairs, Joanna calls out, ‘This is it, team. Eat Me.’
Someone yells, ‘Ready on ten.’
Harry winks at me.
‘I’m so excited, Gracie,’ Faith says. ‘Thank you!’
Robin begins the countdown. ‘Ten. Nine. Eight.’ Do I have the skills to pull off unscripted, on-action steamy? Time to give it my best shot. ‘Three. Two,’ so help me, here we go, ‘Action!’
I’m standing behind the stone bench. Faith sits atop it, her long legs crossed. I’m nervous as hell. Faith epitomises calm, yet is brightly animated as we introduce ourselves to our future audience. A natural, she’s already mastered the art of pretending the cameras don’t exist and simultaneously playing up to them. As we’d practised – loosely, because the show is unscripted – we recount Faith’s previous kitchen catastrophes. We let them know I’m on board as her culinary mentor. ‘I’ll be sharing some hot tips of my own,’ Faith promises.
Poppy pirouettes into shot in her rainbow poncho and tutu, carrying a clapper board, her cheeks flushed soft pink. Faith slides off the bench and helps her steady it to camera. The board informs the following facts about our first guest.
Name: Toby Ellison
Profession: Banker (a nice one)
Age: 39
Height: 6’3”
Likes: Orderly English queues and sassy British blondes…
On a ding-dong noise of a doorbell, Poppy opens the false door at the side of the kitchen set. Toby enters.
‘This is nicer than the Puss in Boots.’ He launches a lively rehash of his near miss with the Golden Square brothel with Faith. They’re taking to recording for television like ducks to water. I send them to the refrigerator to select ingredients.
After toying on-camera with the double entendres of ‘tossed salad’ and ‘bangers and mash’, we opt for a less salacious-sounding dish of pumpkin gnocchi (from a packet) and a fresh garlic and rocket cream sauce.
Look At Me Now Page 8