Great idea, Gracie,’ Robert says. ‘We’ll simply make it up. Won’t we champ.’ Robert rubs Benny’s cheek. ‘Tomorrow,’ he confirms with Jordan. ‘Must fly now. I have a date.’ Robert kisses my cheek. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll work this out. Take the night off. Have fun, you two. Toodle-oo.’
Nuzzling his face into Benny’s soft tummy before setting him down, without further ado, Robert leaves. Benny lolls on the rug in the hallway.
‘Shall I help you to try and entice him, Jordan. I am, after all, a chef. I’m pretty good at getting people to eat.’
‘I bet he’d go for your sausage rolls,’ Jordan says, cheering up a bit. ‘I’m sure it’s the Sumptuous Medley of Tuna and Whitebait in Jelly that’s the winner,’ he goes on, inspired. ‘Or the Turkey Chunks in Meat-Rich Gravy, hmm, Benny? Do us a favour, will you?’
Benny assumes flee position as Jordan approaches. However I’m surprised when, instead of scampering, he allows himself to be picked up. Stretched out over Jordan’s arms – not exactly snuggled to his chest – Benny makes no effort to escape.
‘Come on, puss, let’s try this again.’
‘I’ll bring you down some food in a bit,’ I say. ‘Good luck, you two,’ I add, as they disappear into the basement.
It’s not what I had in mind when I thought about setting things straight with Jordan. But at least we’re talking.
17
‘Oh, my bloody God. That bloody cat. Grace, come quick. Shit.’
Jordan’s hysterical screaming wakes me.
I fly out of bed in my pyjamas and into the front room. I’m met with carnage. Paper shopping bags are shredded all over the floor, my new clothes strewn everywhere. One curtain is hanging by a few hooks. How Jordan and I slept through the apocalypse, I’ll never know. Streaks of what looks – and smells – like diarrhoea cover the cream-coloured sofa from one end to the other.
I check the kitchen and Benny’s litter tray is tipped over the floorboards. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Where the hell is he?’ Jordan thumps about. ‘When I find him… Look at this place!’
‘You can’t find Benny?’
What if he’s got out of the flat? What if he’s been run over?
Faith will never forgive me.
‘Beeenny,’ I call, but there isn’t a peep – or a meow – from anywhere. I dash into the basement, calling him the whole time. I’d overlooked how messy Jordan has made it down here – it’s not far off the shambles upstairs. Piles of old newspapers everywhere. Not-quite-empty Coca-Cola cans dribbling beside his precious X-box. Harry’s office was equally messy, but shabbily so. Down here, it’s filthy.
Right now, all I can focus on is finding Benny.
In the midst of my panic, the old boiler sparks up. I can’t believe it, but I hear the water. Jordan must have got into the shower. Benny is still missing, and when I pop upstairs to check, I hear Jordan whistling in the bloody shower.
I swear, if anything has happened to this cat, Faith will not get to Jordan. I will kill him myself first.
I scoot back into the basement and, for the second time, check that all the windows and the back door to the garden are closed, to reassure myself Benny can’t have escaped. The whole flat stinks of poo. Down here, something else is… fishy.
A pile of empty sachets of Pussy Paws lie on Jordan’s desk, my decorative icing piping bag beside them. It’s smothered with something disgusting. On closer inspection, I discover my piping bag oozes with what appears to be a medley of tuna and whitebait in jelly.
A tiny murmur escapes from deep inside a filing cabinet. I slide the drawer out ever so slowly. Benny cowers inside. He meows at me. Help. He looks – and smells –awful. I burst into tears.
Wrapping him tenderly in a towel, I carry him upstairs for some much-needed water, a wipe-down and some love.
After I’ve done the dirty work, Benny chips in and begins to groom himself. He licks his front paw and wipes it across his sweet face – it appears he’s regained bowel control. Soon, he’s gobbling at his Royal Canin pellets.
I leave him to it and burst into the bathroom. Jordan is still under the shower, using up all the hot water.
‘What did you do to the cat?’
‘What did I do to the cat? Grace, did you fail to notice that cat has completely destroyed—’
‘I found Benny. He’s clearly been ill. He wasn’t when I went to bed last night. What did you do to him?’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Jordan says, indignant behind his curtain of steam.
‘Jordan, don’t lie to me!’
‘What the hell is wrong with you? Maybe the damn thing finally ate the Pussy Paws and it didn’t agree with him? How should I know? He disappeared last night. Bloody thing hates me.’
I’m shaking. ‘How, exactly, did Benny eat the Pussy Paws food? Did you inject it into his… into his tiny mouth, Jordan, with my bloody great piping bag?’ I’m crying, quite uncontrollably. My boyfriend is a monster who would hurt a tiny animal. There is no talking that can get us out of this one. The best make-up sex in the world wouldn’t cut it. Finally, there is no hope.
‘Good God, of course not. I told you, he wouldn’t eat it,’ Jordan insists.
My lovely Maida Vale flat has dodgy plumbing, such that turning on the cold tap at the washbasin instantly renders the shower water scalding hot. I run the cold tap full force. Jordan leaps out from behind the glass screen.
‘Seriously! What is wrong with you?’ he screeches, his usually pasty skin scarlet all the way down his front.
‘I hate you,’ I hiss. ‘You hear me, Jordan Piper? I hate you! Unless it’s to help me clean up this bloody mess you’ve caused, I want you out of my flat. I’m done. I’m done with everything. I never want to see you again.’
Benny pokes his head into the bathroom to check on me. I follow him into the kitchen and drop into a chair. He jumps on my lap and kneads softly into my pyjamas with his claws. I’m still sitting there when Jordan flees, his rucksack and his sports bag slung over his shoulders, slamming the door behind him.
A few hours later, I drop Benny off at Faith’s flat. I admit to her Benny suffered ‘a touch of the runs’ in case he still smells of poo. I don’t mention anything else, because I don’t know what else there is. Before he packed his bags and fled, Jordan had said he’d used the piping bag to serve up Pussy Paws in pellet-sized morsels for Benny, but he didn’t force-feed anything. His parting shot accused me of being bat-shit crazy for thinking he could have done. For all I know, it’s true. I hope it is – not the part about me being bat-shit crazy... Although, I’ve had my moments lately. It’s possible Benny ate the food after Jordan went to bed and it didn’t agree with him. It’s pointless upsetting Faith based on my unsubstantiated suspicions.
Faith is a little cold – concerned about her beloved, is a fairer description. When she calls Dr Doolittle’s Home Veterinary Service, and Benny is given the all-clear, she cheers up. That Dr Doolittle is in fact Dr Michael, hunky and kind to both animals and humans alike, doesn’t hurt to lighten both of our moods. I insist on paying the bill. When Faith is satisfied Benny is settled in for the day, we head to the station together.
There isn’t the appropriate time for me to tell Faith I’d kicked Jordan out of my flat and out of my life before we arrive at reception and Mitzi informs us Joanna is waiting for us in the animation department. By all accounts, pretty peeved.
On the second floor, where our animators work at their sitting-and-standing desk, with super-sized monitors and computers so powerful their fans sound like mini jet engines, Joanna is waiting at the far end.
‘Ladies, nice of you to join us.’ She checks her watch.
‘Sorry, we had… I had cat trouble,’ I say.
I get an eye-roll and a pinched look for my troubles.
‘Well, thanks to these wonderful magicians, we’ve managed to save the episode with Love Island boy,’ she says. ‘Ivor, Pearle, I knew I could count on you both after the terrific job you did wi
th the opening credits. This could be my favourite episode yet.’ From where I’m standing, I can’t see what’s been done to save the episode, and I’m too nervous to enquire. ‘As for you two, I’ve heard from Alex. I think the competition is an excellent idea. Faith, you’re required for a photo shoot in the studio. Now. I recommend you change into something short – you have great legs.’
‘Sure thing, boss,’ Faith says, eliciting a small smile from our formidable global vice president of content.
‘I hope that’s not what Poppy has spent your wardrobe allowance on,’ Joanna says to me.
I’m wearing the tea-stained ivory brocaded shirt. Yes, the same shirt I vowed I’d chuck after Faith whisked me out of it for our first meeting with Harry. It was in a bag in the kitchen, ready for the charity bin. After I showered and dressed, I tended to Benny one last time and my top got wet with water. Benny was in his cage ready to go. The shirt was the closest thing handy. It isn’t even ironed.
‘Which reminds me, I read a review in the Daily. I know it’s a foodie section, but nonetheless, you came off as awfully dull,’ she goes on. ‘Do try and be more interesting. That will be all.’
Faith flounced her way through the photo shoot while Poppy and I assisted her in and out of various clothes. At 6 p.m., we’re back in our dressing room, trying to sort me an outfit for tonight’s opening of The Tricycle Club, my new clothes being strewn over the floor at home, potentially torn to pieces and almost certainly stinking of cat poop. (I scarcely had time to attend to Benny and then myself this morning, let alone the state of the flat.) Because the plan is for us to get photographed by the paparazzi, Joanna doesn’t want us in anything we’ve already worn in any recordings – and she expects us to dazzle. Faith and Poppy have given up suggesting we take a cab to my flat and collect my new outfits, or even grab one of my trusty old dresses, even though I haven’t provided a single good reason why we shouldn’t do exactly that.
We’ve been trawling through the freebies sent by various designers. I don’t fit into any of it. They’re mostly too big for Poppy. It’s all sized to fit Faith. On top of everything, it’s putting me in a furiously bad mood.
Poppy tries to convince me her super stretchy, pink ruffled skirt paired with the slinky black top in Faith’s stash looks remotely fine on me. The skirt fits well enough, but it’s frilly pink. Faith’s top is too tight – I have the nipples-almost-popping-out-bosom thing going on again, which I’m in no mood to monitor, or cover with a scarf in a club. They’ve also put me into Faith’s high-heeled ankle boots – I barely have ankles.
From across our dressing room, Poppy says, ‘Honestly, my angel, you look glorious.’
My cleavage pops up at the front.
‘Glorious?!’ I wail, attempting – and failing – to push my boobs back inside. I take off the top and pick up the paper by my side while Poppy and Faith comb through the clothes rails.
For the umpteenth time today, I skim bits and pieces in Liz Martin’s article. In the entertainment – and not the foodie – section of the Daily, in her first review of the new show, Liz describes Poppy as being ‘as effervescent as pop’ and Faith as ‘smoking hot, and just the right amount of humble, and not only about her terrible cooking skills, so that men love her and women want to be like her’. Whenever Liz mentions me, it’s all about the food – ‘Gracie confidently takes the lead on the slicing and dicing’, etc. I didn’t need Joanna to point out that I sound awfully dull – it jumps out from the page.
Liz, most likely because we get on well, respectfully steered clear of any raunchy association of me with the new format. Perhaps, when we’d met to discuss the new series, I’d overplayed my sensitivities? But with all the glittering praise heaped about elsewhere, I’ve been rather cast aside.
‘Do you think I’m dull, Faith?’ I throw her the slinky black top across the room. I’m sitting in the frilly pink skirt and my knickers and bra.
‘Ha! Chance would be a fine thing.’
I look at her suspiciously.
‘I mean, “dull” doesn’t spring to mind.’
‘You think I’m awful then? Because Joanna accused me of being awfully dull this morning. I’m wondering if it’s true?’
Faith squeezes herself out of a micro dress and into a pair of skinny jeans. There isn’t an ounce of fat on her. ‘Gracie, she never said you were dull or awful.’
‘Liz described you as “a saucy treat, hooking viewers with your never-ending legs and come-hither smile”,’ I read directly from the article. I cast the paper aside, too. Poppy makes to come over, probably to hug me. ‘And you were magnetic and simply magical in your bloody tutu, Poppy. I’m strictly about the food.’
‘Miss Gracie, what’s wrong with you today?’ Poppy flings herself at me.
‘I’m sorry, Poppy. I didn’t mean to be rude. But please get off me. Oh God, I am awful…’
Is my period due?
‘I think you’re beautiful,’ Poppy says.
‘She’s stunning,’ Faith agrees. ‘But if she wants to be written about as a saucy treat, she needs to get back into that teensy top and start smiling come-hitherly. Even better, put this on.’ Faith lobs me a lilac satin top from the not-yet-discarded pile.
The top is far too small for me – I’m not even going to try and get it on. And it’s purple. Poppy has just finished going through the various ‘vibrations’ of colours and, apparently, purple is both for royalty, which is nice, and sexual frustration, which isn’t.
‘I’m not sexually frustrated.’ I toss it aside.
Faith lobs it back at me. ‘Are you sure about that?’ I glare, but Faith is having none of it. She smiles. ‘Come on, put it on. Let’s see if your boobs fit.’
We arrive at the club on Wardour Street around 8 p.m. I’m not wearing the purple satin top. I couldn’t get it over my shoulders. I’m dressed in the silly ankle boots/slinky black top/pink ruffled skirt get-up.
I don’t want to be here.
I left the flat a tip this morning, the whole place smelling of poo. If anywhere, I want to be home with a bottle of bleach in my hand, sorting things out.
We have to be here.
I especially don’t want to be here dressed like an oversized sugar plum fairy. Worse, I’m here, looking like this, in my newly single status: after the scene this morning, Jordan and I are over. In my mind, definitely. And I’d checked after he’d left with his big bag and Jordan had taken all of his best regular clothes with him. I guess he’ll crash with Robert – he can’t crash with his parents all the way down in Cornwall. Though I haven’t phoned him and he hasn’t phoned me, so I’m unsure where the heck he’s staying. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Poppy, but when she nipped to the bathroom before we headed to the club, I quickly told Faith I’d asked Jordan to move out. It wasn’t optimal timing, but it was the last chance I’d had all day to mention something. Faith has gasped and looked worried. I told her I was doing okay and, before Poppy returned, we agreed we’d speak more about it later.
My God, I look ridiculous. The club will probably be packed full of sultry young stick insects dressed in black.
‘We’re VIPs,’ Faith says. ‘Should we go to the front?’
‘I’ll go and ask.’ Poppy weaves her way to the front of the long line.
‘You’ve pierced your belly button,’ I say to Faith.
Between the many deliberate rips in her top, a distressed singlet with the word FRAGILE splashed across the front, I see a small, silver belly ring. I didn’t know they were still fashionable. Mind you, anything looks good on Faith – if she started wearing leg warmers, I’m pretty sure it would be a hit. She’s wearing skinny black jeans and a biker leather jacket – a fitting tribute for the opening of The Tricycle Club this evening.
‘Oh? I got this a while ago.’ Faith fiddles with the jewellery. Her stomach is so toned – Pilates every morning, now she’s not working the long hours at her old job. I suck my tummy in then, realising the frills are handily concealing
it, I let it all back out. ‘A bit naff, hey? Did you really not know?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s sweet, Faith.’
‘I got it last summer.’
After a long winter snuggling with Jordan, last summer, I was up to the part of playing housemaid to my increasingly uninterested boyfriend. I was baking and cleaning and hovering around, waiting for Jordan to notice me. Faith was putting herself out there and getting on with piercings and who knows what.
‘Are you okay? Gracie, we can talk about what happened with you and Jordan whenever you’re ready. And we can leave here whenever you need to. All right?’
‘Thanks, Faith. I’ll be fine.’
Apart from my damn outfit, I am okay. I’m with my best friend, who’s looking out for me. I’m a VIP at a swanky new club opening, because our new show is catching fire. And last, but not least, Harry will be here later – he texted me earlier to say he’d be late, but he’ll be here. I’d warned him about my silly get-up and he’d texted straight back: Who cares? You have those baby blues. You always look smashing. See you in a bit. H.
Poppy waves for us to join her at the front doors. Her strappy dress looks like it’s made of grass, fronds of green cotton twisted all over. We bump ourselves to the front of the queue, where a friendly bouncer ticks our names off a special list. Inside, we make our way down the stairs and into my first VIP-access-only area.
On the upside, the place isn’t crammed with sultry stick insects. The downside is that it’s completely empty. We’re the only people in the selectively roped-off area.
We select the table with the best view over the rest of the club. Not a lot happening out there either.
Faith orders us a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
18
Look At Me Now Page 14