Jordan walks in front of the television, Robert in tow. Instantly, I grab the remote and mute the sound.
‘Um, yes, boys? What do you want?’ I try to sound casual, but my voice is clippity-clop. ‘Your sausage rolls are cooking. I’ll bring them down when they’re ready. There’s no need to mill around.’
‘We’re sorry,’ Robert says, their faces sheepish. ‘We didn’t know.’
‘I forgot,’ Jordan admits. He seems sincere. Pity his timing is wrong.
‘It’s fine. Boring cooking stuff, really. I know how hard you’re both working.’ I glance at the television. ‘Go on, the pair of you. I’ll bring the food down in a bit.’
‘Let them watch,’ Faith says in my ear. She’s tipsy.
The boys have turned to face the television, where Faith is licking a spoon of cream. Robert’s jaw drops open.
‘Who’s that?’
‘My best friend.’
He looks at Jordan. ‘Cat lady?’
‘Sorry?’ I say.
‘Didn’t you say you’d ask Faith if we can borrow her cat?’ Jordan reminds me.
He’d asked if he could borrow Faith’s cat – something to do with the new account. I’d said I’d ask, but I forgot.
‘We told the client Robert has a cat.’ Jordan’s posture tenses.
‘I’d quite like a cat,’ Robert says.
‘We need to really get what it is to be a cat for this pitch,’ Jordan explains. ‘Would you ask Faith if we could borrow it tomorrow night?’
‘Him,’ I hiss, covering the phone. ‘Benny, in fact. Not “it”.’
I check the goings on on the television. Depending on how this has been edited, Faith is shortly to return from the refrigerator holding her stonking big aubergine. I probably have about one minute before I get going with my chipolata.
‘Faith, remember I asked you about us cat-sitting Benny, so Jordan can get some cat-familiarity for a new account? Is that still okay?’
‘Jordan hates cats. I didn’t agree to anything of the sort.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow?’ I nod at Jordan. I need to wrap this up and get rid of them. In my ear, Faith warns I’m starting to get on her nerves. ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I agree.
‘Boys, it’s all fine, cat-wise. Go on, scoot.’
They ignore me in favour of watching Faith comparing the length of the carrot to the chunkier courgette. Thank heavens I shut off the sound!
‘What are you cooking?’ Jordan asks.
‘Gnocchi.’ I think fast. ‘But Faith’s a terrible cook. The worst. She doesn’t know a carrot from a courgette. I’m teaching her all sorts.’
‘I wouldn’t mind that she can’t cook,’ Robert grins.
Faith is clearing all the vegetables off the bench top as a smell of almost-burning pastry wafts into the front room – perfect timing.
‘Boys. Faith and I are trying to watch this in peace and your sausage rolls smell like they’re done. Grab them from the oven, Jordan, will you? Now. Before they burn.’
On the promise of food, Jordan and Robert retreat to the kitchen. Emptying the oven, they disappear to the basement in the nick of time.
‘Faith, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t get Jordan out of the room. He was watching. With Robert.’
‘I want to meet this Robert one day. You always say he’s my sort. Why have you never introduced us?’
‘Because… I don’t know, Faith. It just… hasn’t happened.’
‘What’s this about my Benny Boo?’ Faith carries on. She sounds faintly cross.
How did I get roped into this?
‘Jordan needs a cat to impress his cat food client? I don’t know. He asked me to ask you if he could cat-sit Benny. I forgot.’
‘Is it for Royal Canin?’
I tell her the campaign is for Pussy Paws.
‘Benny only eats Royal Canin, so there’s no point.’
‘Benny eats ham sandwiches from tourists,’ I object.
‘But when it comes to cat food, he’s discerning. What can I say? He’s a cat.’
‘Can I please borrow him anyway? Or could Jordan and Robert perhaps visit at yours tomorrow? You just asked why you’ve never met charming Robert…’
‘Tempting as that is, I’m out tomorrow. So I suppose, seeing as I’m your best friend, and I’d do anything for you, Benny may have to have a sleepover. Though I’m really not sure about any of this. Who borrows a cat?’
‘Robert genuinely adores cats, and I promise I’ll look after him. One night.’ I lower my voice. ‘Faith, I am sorry to have put you on the spot. You know I’m not in a great place with Jordan. I’m considering… other options. But, right now, I don’t need a blow-up with him. I can collect Benny from you tomorrow after work and return him safe and sound the next day?’
‘One night,’ Faith concedes. ‘And, Gracie, I’m holding you responsible.’
‘Thank you so much, you truly are my best friend, and I’d do anything for you, too. You know this.’
The closing credits roll on the screen.
The first episode is done. Aired. We made it.
Faith chugs what must be the last of her wine.
‘Gracie?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I think Jordan’s been a terrible boyfriend lately. He takes you for granted and doesn’t know a good thing when he sees it. Ending things may be for the best, I don’t know. Only, I don’t want you hanging your hopes on “other options”. You see, darling?’
‘Faith, what are you talking about?’
I know she’s talking about Harry. I’ve not dared mention to her I may be developing a crush on our agent. But I know this is her point. When I’d asked the other day if Faith had noticed how nice Harry smells, she’d stared at me suspiciously and asked if it was perhaps his pheromones getting to my senses.
‘Oh, I’m quite drunk…’ Faith stalls.
We are cut off when Jordan returns to messing about with the internet.
15
I’m putting the kettle on to make my morning cup of tea when my mother calls. After I collect the receiver from my bedroom side table, she launches immediately into a bubbly review of the show. Full of a cold, my father had fallen asleep and couldn’t be roused properly last night. But not to worry, she’d taped it on their VHS – I’d bought them a smart TV at Christmas, which my father has mastered and my mother, God love her, has not. They’d watched episode 1 together first thing today.
‘It was quite a performance, Grace,’ she finishes. ‘It’s not really a cookery show any more, is it, dear?’
‘No, Mummy. I don’t suppose it is.’ I finish making my cuppa and sit at the table. Bracing myself, I take a small, steaming hot sip. ‘What did Daddy think? Was he completely horrified?’
‘Whatever do you mean, dear? Your father and I found it a hoot! Although, we didn’t know you had it in you, Grace – this acting business.’ If my parents choose to believe I’m an actress, I won’t set them straight. They don’t need to know our new show is more theatrical exposé. ‘And isn’t Faith daring. I say! What about her job at the bank?’
‘Mummy, Faith hasn’t worked at the bank for years. She’s on sabbatical from her office job.’ I don’t want to get into a discussion about venture capitalism. I can’t explain it properly, and I require caffeine before trying. ‘However, I’m pleased to report the station is paying us quite well. More than I earned previously.’
‘Oooh, that is good news. Derek, Grace has had a pay rise.’ I hear my father mumble approval. ‘A big one, dear?’
I tell her my wages have tripled. My parents would be aghast to learn how much I earn and how little I save. My mother cooks everything at home from scratch, shops second-hand for books and clothes and, aside from newspapers, they have few wants. The price of train tickets to London these days astounds my mother. She’d faint if she discovered how much I spend on lunch from Pret.
‘Congratulations. And to Faith. Such a lovely girl.’ In the background, my mother is scraping breakfast toge
ther as we talk. Most likely, bacon and eggs – my parents will walk it all off later. ‘Before I forget, we’re running a charity cake sale at the shop this Saturday morning. I’m baking a Victoria sponge. June is on for her famous apple turnover. Sally is bringing vegan beetroot cupcakes – not sure how well they’ll sell. It’s short notice, dear, but would you care to join us? Bit of an early start at 10 a.m. but there’ll be champagne nonetheless, and I believe Angela’s daughter, Janet, will pop by, so it won’t be just us old ducks.’
After the relative success of Beryl’s dinner party, my mother seems keen to loop me into her social calendar. She’s not getting any younger. I want to enjoy my time with her.
‘I don’t mind you old ducks. What can I bring?’
‘Just yourself. Will you stop the night?’ She doesn’t bother asking about Jordan. Twice in eighteen months. I guess she’s given up.
‘I have to be back in London for a work party on Saturday evening,’ I say. ‘But I’ll stay for lunch.’
‘Did I tell you Angela thinks Janet may be pregnant?’
‘So, no champagne for Janet at 10 a.m.?’
‘Ha! Well, that will be the tell... I won’t go on.’
‘I need to get to the studio, Mummy.’
‘How is that lovely young man, Harry? Will he be on set today? He’s still not married, presumably?’
‘Mummy...’
‘I’m just saying…’
‘I know exactly what you’re saying and I need you to stop please. And I have to go. Love you. And to Daddy.’
‘Love you, dear. Congratulations on the new show. See you Saturday.’
When I hang up, I’m a bit annoyed at my mother for sparking the thought I might fancy Harry.
There is his general all-round-nice-guy behaviour. There is his, apparently, extra-special-attentiveness to me, in particular – my mother noticed it when she was on set weeks ago and, since then, I can’t help but notice the way Harry stands close by me, telling me stories that make me laugh. There’s also the lingering eye contact between us that’s swept in, that I’m almost certain Faith has started to catch onto. Dinner at the Groucho.
After Faith’s passing comment on the phone last night, I’m worried I’ve been errantly carried away by flights of fancy. That Harry is just being my agent, a fixer, and I think it’s fair to say, a friend.
I don’t need my mother encouraging me – and I don’t like that Faith is being discouraging. Though, with all the wine Faith consumed last night, it’s crossed my mind she won’t remember saying anything on the matter whatsoever.
I have some fruit and porridge, shower, dress and catch the Tube into town.
At the studio, it’s only Faith and I in our dressing room, taking stock of our wardrobe before Poppy takes us out shopping to buy more clothes. Faith is first to revive our conversation.
‘Darling, what’s all this flirting with Harry?’ she asks me directly. So much for her forgetting.
Today, she’s wearing wide-legged russet trousers and a grey, woollen roll-neck sweater. Her hair is in a loose French braid, her face bare.
‘I don’t flirt with Harry.’
Faith raises an eyebrow. ‘Okay. But you are encouraging him to flirt with you. Gracie, what’s going on?’
‘Does he?’ I hadn’t noticed,’ I say, playing it cool.
‘Gracie, he flirts incessantly, of course you’ve noticed.’
I rest awhile with the confirmation Harry flirts with me incessantly.
‘It would make my mother happy if we ended up together.’
‘Happy or jealous?’
We both giggle.
‘Well, she’s married. And, Faith, I have a boyfriend. Things may not be great between us, but I’m in a relationship. I’m not planning an affair. It’s a bit of harmless flirting, that’s all.’
Faith ponders this. ‘I suppose so.’
I intended my demurral to alleviate her concerns, not launch a series of new ones in my head. Does Harry shower me with attention incessantly, because it’s harmless – does he flirt with me the same way he flirts with my mother?
‘You were far from enamoured when we first met him,’ Faith carries on. ‘You called him creepy. And said his Wall of Fame was more like the Wall of Shame!’ She cackles at the recollection.
‘Yes, well, we’re up there too now,’ I remind her.
‘That we are.’
‘Faith. I don’t want to talk about this any more.’
‘Okay. But don’t forget Harry is our agent. Don’t complicate things.’
But Faith can sleep with anyone she likes who happens to be on our show?
She changes the subject. ‘Speaking of which, what on earth were you on about with Benny last night?’
Oh golly, the cat.
I attempt to explain about Jordan and Robert wanting to cat-sit. I don’t really understand what they hope to achieve. Something about needing to understand the nuances of cats so they can sell cat food. Eventually, Faith agrees I can collect Benny from her place after we wrap and return him to her tomorrow evening. She insists he must stay inside the flat at all times – and if anything happens to him, she will kill me.
We shop. We shop until my feet ache and my arms are weighed down by bags of new clothes. When we are done, we take a cab to Faith’s flat, where I hold the car until Faith bundles Benny into his carry cage and onto on my lap in the backseat. Beside me, she piles in all of his necessities: a litter tray, a bag of food, toys and, for good measure, his cat-nip-banana that gets him stoned.
It’s only after we drive off, me gripping Benny’s cage for dear life, that I realise I should have passed the bags of my new clothes to Poppy, who’d taken hers and Faith’s back to the studio in another taxi. After all the traipsing about in the shops and trying things on, we were all worn-out to think. Poppy whizzed us through what felt like every boutique and chain store between Carnaby Street and Selfridges. I’d purchased slimming Seven denim jeans and an assortment of pretty dresses, skirts and tops from Ted Baker, with accessories to match. All of it on the company tab.
Home to Maida Vale, Benny and everything else transported in several missions back and forth from the kerb, I flop myself onto the sofa.
Jordan isn’t in yet.
From the floor, there’s a soft meow. I look down and Benny stares up at me through the slits in his carry cage with his gorgeous green eyes. I unhinge the latch and he steps tentatively out onto the rug. He lets loose a blood-curdling howl. I don’t speak cat, but his message is clear. This is not my home and you are not my mummy. In a flurry, I offer him special lactose-free cat milk and some of his favoured Royal Canin pellets, all of which he refuses in favour of exploring.
He pokes about behind the curtains before crossing the front room to sniff my shoes and claw on my doormat. Scampering off into the bedroom, he inspects under the bed and inside the wardrobe. He prowls into the hallway. Relaxing into his surroundings, Benny performs a big cat-yoga stretch.
I race to the basement and check that the windows are closed. When I return upstairs, Benny is in the kitchen crunching his kibble. He curls around my legs and purrs. I set up his litter tray. When he goes straight in and does a wee, I relax.
Physically exhausted from the day of shopping, I flump myself flat on the sofa. Benny’s footsteps tap on the stairs to the basement. I assume he’s also finding a quiet spot to nap. Isn’t that what cats do – sleep?
I doze off. I awaken when Jordan bursts through the front door. I’m managing a clumsy, half-asleep, ‘Hey,’ when Jordan shouts at me.
‘I can’t believe you’ve done this to me.’ He’s beside the sofa, shaking with rage.
I sit up. ‘Jordan, what’s happened?’
‘What’s happened?’ he roars.
‘Go on then,’ I growl back. I’m awful when I’m woken. I’m like a bear.
‘Let’s start with what you said about me on the television last night, shall we?’
The show. I’ve been dreading this.
During our shopping expedition, Faith suggested I ought to warn Jordan about what I’d stopped him seeing last night if I was worried about how he may react. If Jordan is to take offence, best he hears things from me. It’s obviously a little late for that. One of those horrible eavesdroppers at Jordan’s office must have got in first.
‘Exactly,’ Jordan says, at my look of horror. ‘I’ve been the laughing-stock of the office all day!’
Of course, there is the teeny-weeny sausage play that could, understandably, be interpreted to reflect poorly on the perceived size of Jordan’s manhood. And in the promo for the next episode, the editors had cut to me teasing Ben the dentist about how electrical products could add some excitement between the sheets, which also sounded more personal than I’d meant it to.
‘Jordan, it’s just a show, it’s all dramatisation. And whatever we say, my boyfriend is a mystery.’
‘I’m Master J.’
Coming from his mouth, it sounds worse than ever.
‘Faith says that. I mean, on the show. I—’
‘That bloody show.’
I tried to warn him. When we started, I’d tried.
‘Jordan, please calm down. I told you this new format would be a bit racy. You were the one who said sex sells.’
‘And now everyone believes we’re not having any!’
I have to think about this a moment. Of all things, it’s my off-hand, on-camera comment that my boyfriend is too busy at work to give me much attention that has him riled? And from this, everyone now believes we’re not having sex? I can’t think of anything else it could be. Huh. Of all the things I was worried about… I suppose the sausage was no bigger than a fat pinkie – too small to be taken seriously. Or maybe nobody at Jordan’s work was brave enough to mention that bit? I’m at a loss what to say. What Jordan is most upset about is true. We aren’t getting boogie-with -it any more.
‘Jordan, it’s true. We’re not having sex,’ I say.
Jordan storms off into the kitchen. I expect him to disappear into his work den swiftly. Instead, he returns to the living room.
Look At Me Now Page 12