When I go to bed, alone, because Jordan is still in the basement, I sleep with it under my pillow.
The following Wednesday, it’s our third recording. Special guest for today: DJ Bassdog, real name Doug Walters. A DJ of Poppy’s acquaintance, Bassdog isn’t what I’d say is most women’s type – his blue mohican hair-do, his studded neck collar and the piercings he has through his nose, eyebrows, tongue and, supposedly, his penis are quite a look. And yet… when he struts through the door to the beat of his own drum and bass music, there’s no denying the man has the X-factor in spades. Requesting what could have been a rather mundane asparagus and parmesan risotto, much is made by us all about the tips of the vegetables, how the ridges on the end may work in the same manner as the piercings over B-dogs, a-hem, bits. It’s all a lot of fun, and I don’t force myself into it.
After the crew clears out, it’s just Faith, Poppy, me, Harry and Joanna on set. Huddled around the kitchen bench, Joanna opens a copy of gossip rag Chit Chat. Several pages in from the cover is the official, studio supplied Eat Me promotional picture.
‘How fabulous,’ Faith purrs. ‘Look at us!’
In the picture, taken on set, we’re all dressed in black. Faith rocks a pantsuit, with a V-neck cut to her flat-as-a-tack tummy, no bra. Poppy is in a floaty little dress with silver sparkles and combat boots. I’m in Spanx – I’d never tried them before, but they are a miracle – under a slinky silk number, patent leather heels on my feet. There’s no room for modesty. Each of us is at our most flattering, dazzling angle in this shot.
‘Sensational,’ Harry says.
He’s standing closest to me, as he tends to do.
‘You’re all perfectly steamy,’ Joanna says, delighted.
From the dressing room, I hear a succession of clicking sounds. The doors slide open and out steps a stranger, a well-built man wearing black jeans, a grey shirt and a scruffy grey leather jacket. A camera is looped around his neck and a satchel is slung across his shoulder. He’s handsome, in that steely, chiselled-chin sort of way. Around forty, roughly Harry’s age, at a guess.
Who is he and what’s he been doing amongst our clothes and stuff?
And how did he get in there without me noticing?
‘Alex, come and meet the team,’ Joanna says.
Alex swaggers over, all hazel eyes, thick brown hair, cheekbones to rival Faith’s. He’s a good looking chap, no doubt about it. But when Alex grins hello, there’s something sinister about it. Thin lips. His perfectly normally sized lips shrink when he smiles. You know the sort.
‘Everyone, this is Alex Sutcliffe, the journalist behind this glowing article, and someone we’ll be collaborating with for publicity,’ Joanna says.
‘Hello there, Harry,’ he says. ‘Ladies.’ His eyes stop at Faith. Alex reeks of cigarettes. ‘Harry Hipgrave, my old pal.’
Harry is first to precipitate a handshake. ‘Alex Sutcliffe, it’s been a while.’
‘Still got your wall?’
‘Indeed. I put the girls up there yesterday.’
Alex shows his teeth again and eyeballs Faith. ‘I’ll bet you did, old pal. I’ll bet you did!’
I see fit to blurt out, ‘You know Harry well then, Alex?’
‘We were at university together.’ Alex sizes me up. Grins again. ‘For a bit.’
‘I studied journalism for a while,’ Harry says.
‘He dropped out after the first year,’ Alex adds, unnecessarily. Harry gives me a conspiring look. ‘Word is you’ve built yourself an enviable agency. I must come and check out that wall of yours again some time.’
‘Pop by anytime,’ Harry says, but I sense a less than friendly vibe.
Joanna, also sensitive to the vibe, moves things along nicely. ‘I’m pleased you two get along,’ she says, and then turns to us. ‘Alex will be pulling together some personal pieces to raise your profiles.’
‘Usually, I take all my own pictures.’ Alex pats his camera.
‘What sort of personal pieces?’ I ask, glancing at the copy of Chit Chat. Closed on the bench, the front cover is a collage of candid photographs of female movie stars – I won’t mention who, as I find the whole thing distasteful – with pockets of visible cellulite on their behinds. The headline reads ‘Celebrity Bum Notes’.
Liz is the sole journalist I’ve spoken with previously. Though we chat about many things, she only ever writes about my opinions on seasonal produce, ovenware and the like.
Joanna observes my nervousness. ‘Alex will play nicely or have me to answer to.’
‘I’d very much like to continue my association with you, and with Titan in the US,’ Alex responds, slickly.
‘Good,’ Joanna says. ‘Ladies, I also have some invitations. Few big events coming up where the media will be snapping their lenses. It would good if you can pop in, get papped, and leave when you want. Or stay to mingle. Your call. But get yourself seen. We need to hype up your public personas pronto. Harry, I’ll leave you in charge?’
‘With pleasure.’
Joanna passes Harry a handful of envelopes. ‘The Tricycle Club is opening this Thursday; you’re all be VIP for that one. And I’ve pulled some strings to get you on the guest list with Drake this Saturday.’ Joanna checks her watch.
‘OMG, Drake! The Drake?’ Poppy screams, over the moon to hear it’s indeed an invitation to the famous Canadian rap star’s London party. ‘His lyrics are poetry, Miss Gracie.’ She clutches the invitation Harry has passed over, a black envelope embossed with a flaming gold skull. ‘Not, like, boring poetry,’ she giggles.
‘The press will be out in force for that one,’ Joanna says. ‘Don’t miss it.’
She may have wangled us invites, but I don’t think of myself as a VIP. Or, for that matter, a celebrity. And even if they are interested, the thought of the paparazzi snapping in my face with their cameras doesn’t appeal. What if they want a full-body shot, and I’m not wearing Spanx? Worse, what if a gust of wind creates the perfect opportunity to capture my flashing underwear and I find myself on next week’s Celebrity Bum Notes – then readers will discover what real cellulite is! I cover my stomach, my jelly belly, I’m sure is how the gossip mags would describe it, with my hand. With a hint of a smirk, Alex clocks me.
‘Must fly,’ Joanna says. ‘Alex, let’s keep in contact.’ Out she goes.
‘Pub?’ Alex suggests, to all, but with his pretty, steely eyes landing on Faith.
‘I can’t tonight, I’m off to see a gig,’ Poppy is first to answer. With a flurry of kisses, she dashes.
‘I also have plans, Alex. Next time,’ Faith promises.
Tonight, Faith’s meeting Bassdog at his recording studio in Brixton, with plans to make some jungle beats of their own – she’s promised me she’ll report back on those piercings.
With Faith unavailable, Alex recalls a prior commitment and rescinds his invitation. ‘Next time,’ he says, slapping Harry on the back. ‘Right, I’ll touch base with you about the interview, Gracie. And see you again soon, Harry. We must catch up properly!’
When, with kisses for us all, Faith leaves, Alex is quick to rush and walk out with her.
It’s just me and Harry left on set.
‘I don’t have any plans,’ he says.
‘Me neither.’ Jordan is working late tonight.
‘Groucho?’
‘Oh, wow, Harry. Yes please.’
We go to dinner at the Groucho, where you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting an A-list mover and shaker – Sienna Miller, Grayson Perry and, though I don’t recognise him by sight, when Harry mentions the name Damien Hirst, I know he’s an artist. In a quiet voice, me leaning in close to listen, Harry regales me with funny stories collected over years in showbiz circles and, more personally, about growing up in Canterbury, until his mother died of cancer when he was twelve. How his father has remarried no less than three times since, and the collection of half- and step-siblings he’s accumulated along the way as a result. He tells me his current stepmother i
s younger than him by a decade – Harry is bang on forty. About his ‘second home’, a flat down in Hastings, where he escapes London. How he jogs five miles along the Thames every morning and is also into clay pigeon shooting, when he finds the time. We talk about his brief foray into journalism. ‘Watch out for Alex,’ he says. ‘He’s got good connections, Joanna isn’t silly. But he’s a tabloid journalist. Be careful.’
I talk about my father – Harry jokes he’s in love with my mother – about how Faith and I have known each other forever. I confess I’m still slightly scared of Joanna and how lucky I feel that everything is coming together with our show. I thank Harry for his contribution to this. It hits me that I don’t have any hobbies or interests to share with him – no favourite bands, like Poppy, no succession of flings, or a cat, or Pilates and the occasional Thai-boxing, like Faith. What is it that fills me with joy, I suddenly find myself wondering, that’s just for me? I make a mental note to at least enquire about joining the gym.
As we finish espressos, having shared a lovely bottle of Malbec over our dinner of chateaubriand with albufera sauce and truffle mashed potato, for two, Harry asks what I’m doing for Valentine’s Day tomorrow.
Except to say he’s busy working tonight, I haven’t mentioned Jordan.
‘Oh, well, my boyfriend has a work do, so not a lot, I expect. But it’s fine,’ I carry on, not wishing to elicit charity after such a wonderful evening, ‘I’m not really into Valentine’s Day.’
A lie I told myself every year that I was single. Last year, I loved Valentine’s Day. This year, I’m trying to forget about it.
‘Women deserve flowers every day?’ Harry asks, cheeky grin.
It’s a lovely thought. I laugh. And don’t offer a response. Albeit, I want to ask Harry who he sends flowers to. I know from my mother he isn’t married. He spends significant time with us on set, and he’s been out with me of an evening now twice in as many weeks, so, probably, he doesn’t have a significant other in his life right now.
‘I best call an Uber,’ I say, noticing the time is close to midnight.
‘I’ll book you a car,’ Harry offers.
He settles the bill and we walk together out onto Dean Street. There’ll be no mooching the streets looking for a ride home this evening. Minutes later, the gloved driver of a flashy Mercedes Benz sedan whisks me safely to my flat in Maida Vale, me marvelling at how my life became so glamorous so fast.
14
Monday evening, Jordan and Robert cloister themselves in the basement, working. They won the Pussy Paws account and are busy with a new campaign for cat food. I’m in the front room, about to view the first episode of Eat Me broadcast across the whole of the United Kingdom. Faith is on the landline with me.
‘I’m so excited, Gracie.’
I pull a blanket over me. ‘I’m worried.’
‘Don’t be silly, we’ll be a hit.’
‘A hit our parents, and all their friends, will see, Faith.’
This morning, my mother was on the phone confirming how she’s told everyone from the charity shop and at church to tune in for the new show. I warned her, too, late, that the show is quite risqué. She just laughed and asked me how I thought I’d come to be here. With the thought of my parents having sex, I almost put down the phone on her!
‘Your mother watched Sex in the City,’ Faith says. ‘Stop stressing. Pour yourself some wine.’
I hear Faith clunk down a bottle. Stupidly, I never thought to get any in.
‘We’re not like Sarah Jessica Parker, Faith. You do realise we’re not acting.’
‘We’re dramatising,’ she points out.
A fair point. I stow it carefully in mind.
‘Is Jordan watching with you?’
‘No.’
‘Working?’
‘Downstairs.’
‘Shame…’
‘Not necessarily…’
The first episode, airing any minute now, will include the incident with the chipolata – I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve wished I’d picked up the damn courgette.
‘Too late now. It’s starting.’
On the television, the opening credits in cartoon format, with catchy piano riff, roll. We had several sittings with the animators, but this is the first time we’re seeing the finished product. Faith is drawn as toothpick-thin with masses of blonde hair, wearing a barely-there red skirt. She sits atop the bench, her long legs dangling. Poppy, delightfully pixie-sized by comparison, is in a prima ballerina outfit and has drawn-on rainbow wings, with which it appears she can fly around the set. The head on my caricature is sort of bulbous, but my blue eyes are spectacular. I’m at the bench, stirring a steaming pot with a big wooden spoon. My body is mostly obscured, however, my boobs appear much perter than in person. I can’t complain.
‘We’re like the Simpsons, only cuter,’ Faith gushes down the line.
On screen, Poppy flutters about on her pixie wings as our names roll over the top of this sensational scene. At the sound of a doorbell, a handsomely drawn black man, with jade-green gemstone eyes, steps through the door.
‘Toby,’ Faith sighs, ‘I miss him.’
Faith and he have texted since he visited for the first show – with Faith being on a sabbatical, not about venture capital stuff.
‘Never mind, here’s Ben the dentist and his electric hands,’ I say.
In a nod to future episodes, in the promo, cartoon Ben is a pinhead with a ballooned white lab coat and spinning electrical toothbrushes as his hands. As he bounds at Faith – for reasons unknown, his feet are giant springs – my character pops an entire chilli in his mouth. Ben’s cartoon head explodes.
Faith and I erupt into hysterics.
Poppy exits the animation with a flying, mid-air somersault and returns leading a… creature. Oh my gosh. A cartoon beast, with the head of a man, a Mohican hair-do and – oh my – a dog-like body. A tail, and EIGHT pierced nipples.
‘DJ Bassdog, in da house,’ I boom, sounding very much like a 300-pound MC from Detroit.
‘Goodness me,’ Faith mumbles.
‘You had sex with that,’ I remind her childishly. Faith had rung me on Valentine’s Day after her visit to Bassdog’s studio to confirm that yes he was indeed pierced everywhere. On screen, Bassdog sniffs at the hemline of Faith’s short red skirt. ‘Was it the big drooly tongue that won you over, darling?’
‘The piercing on the big drooly tongue, if you must know,’ Faith replies evenly. Faith had also confided that those piercings were very much for her pleasure. ‘Not jealous, are we?’
I was asleep when Jordan got in after his ball, but he had brought me home chocolates, perfume and flowers from the evening, and we’d laughed about him not actually buying them in the morning. No sex, obviously – though that wasn’t a disappointment.
To be perfectly frank, I’m worried I may be losing my libido.
I hear Faith take another gulp.
‘Faith, I don’t have any wine.’
I’d had a quiet weekend in, while Jordan worked at the office almost round the clock, again. I started and finished a second-hand book my mother bought me, The Rosie Project. Saturday evening, thinking a glass of Malbec would go down well, I’d discovered the few bottles of red I’d stashed were gone. The white wine I was sure was in the refrigerator door was also absent.
‘I’ll have some for you,’ Faith says. ‘I’m getting quite trolleyed.’
I pop into the kitchen. With one ear strained on downstairs, I hear Jordan and Robert communicating about consumer surveys and market penetration. They show no signs or interest in coming up – and I deliberately haven’t reminded Jordan tonight is the launch. If I can get away with him giving me his stock-standard level of interest, at least for this first episode, with the little sausage, I’ll be happy with that. I check the kitchen cupboard for booze. Cream sherry and tawny port aren’t appealing. I return to the front room, sans alcohol, and take my seat on the sofa. On the television, Faith appears in the
flesh.
‘You look like Giselle Bundchen,’ I say. On screen, she’s even more mesmerising than in real life. ‘Faith, you look like a supermodel.’
The camera pans in and Faith smiles seductively into the camera.
‘Oh no, my nose!’ she howls into my ear. I hear a quick succession of swallows.
‘What about it?’
‘It’s ginormous!’
It’s not. It’s the television angle – I had the same shock the first time I saw my backside on the small screen. Faith has a Princess Diana type of nose. She’s beautiful, and so is her nose. Even magnified by the television.
‘It’s just the angle, Faith. Your nose is perfect.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Darling, you are perfect.’
Faith says, very quietly, ‘Gracie, thank you.’
We natter throughout the first block of advertisements. A promo for a furniture clearance sale, a jingle for a steam-cleaning vacuum, then an ad for another new dating app. When the show returns, I’m almost beginning to enjoy myself, sitting here watching our antics on the telly, as I giggle with Faith down the line. An awful grinding sound interrupts our call. Grrnnnnnnn.
I shall explain. When Jordan moved in, he insisted on setting up my landline to make free calls via the Wi-Fi. I’ve never once had cause to use it, but, guaranteed, whenever Jordan is downstairs on his computer working or playing a shoot-em-up multi-player game that sucks the bandwidth, it’ll be my phone call with my mother or Faith that’s scrambled.
‘Jordan, are you on the internet?’ I shout in the general direction of downstairs, without getting up.
With some indignation, Jordan shouts back, ‘We’re working.’
I heard the sound of machine guns killing zombies start up moments ago.
‘I’m on the phone with Faith,’ I call back. ‘We’re watching the first episode of our new show. Whatever you’re doing, will you please clear the line!’
The line clears.
‘Sorry about that,’ I say to Faith.
‘It’s okay.’
I settle back against the comfy cushions on the sofa.
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