Look At Me Now

by Simone Goodman

  ‘Are we so surprised that Alex is an arse?’ I suggest.

  ‘A total arse. He hasn’t stopped bombarding me with texts to meet for a drink,’ Faith says. ‘Not sure what that whole meet-my-model-girlfriend was about.’ Unfussed, she shows us a picture Toby had messaged to her from New York Central Park. He’s in a horse-drawn carriage with a bunch of banker-looking blokes. His message says he’d rather Faith was with him. ‘He’ll be here in a month. He’s working on a big deal that will put him in London for weeks and weeks.’ Faith’s face lights up.

  ‘Staying in your spare room?’

  ‘Not permanently. I don’t want to rush things. But I sincerely hope he’ll be popping by often.’ She smiles. ‘And not, despite your best efforts, Gracie, for my cooking.’

  ‘What are you going to do about your job?’ Faith’s sabbatical was only for three months. She’s halfway.

  ‘Maybe I won’t go back. The show’s going well. I’m having fun. I love working with you two.’

  ‘I love it too,’ Poppy chirrups.

  ‘Me three,’ I say.

  The adventures so far on our funny little dating-cooking show have pushed me way beyond my old limits. There have been highs and lows to come of it. It’s also been the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

  ‘Let’s make Eat Me such a hit that Joanna won’t let us leave,’ Faith declares.

  We clink glasses. Water for me. Champagne, but not by the bottle, for the others.

  Though it’s early days, the show is going smashingly. I hope Joanna keeps us on. Unlike Faith, I don’t have other options.

  To Poppy’s disappointment, she hasn’t spotted Drake anywhere at his party this evening. Apparently, there’s another area for the Very Very Important People, where the barman said he’s hanging quietly with people he knows. Acknowledging it’s a fair enough thing to do, how being so incredibly famous Drake must be exhausted by the stream of strangers seeking his company, Poppy suggests we leave him to it, no argument from me.

  When I get home, Jordan isn’t asleep on the rug on the floor. He isn’t in the flat – though his sports bag of clothes is beside the wet sofa.

  He returns late the following evening, Sunday, after I’ve gone to bed, having texted to say he was stuck in the office all day but would try not to disturb me later.

  Now we’re not together, Jordan hasn’t once played his noisy shooting zombies’ game on the X-box and he leaves the kitchen spick and span, every time. It doesn’t make me want him back. It makes me wish we broke up months ago.

  Back in the studio, we’re in Joanna’s good books. Though we’d only stayed at the Chiltern Firehouse a short while, and hadn’t enjoyed the party particularly, we’d left holding hands and beaming beautifully for the press. I could get used to the attention, I’d thought for the first time, as the cameras flashed and Faith and Poppy giggled. Joanna shows us a gorgeous shot of us on The Celebrity Buzz site. ‘I love your little black dress, Gracie,’ she says. ‘Who would have thought? My little star.’

  Speaking of Joanna, rumours abound at SC6 of a blossoming romance between her and our CEO. Certainly, Timothy has refrained from fawning over Faith and I the way he used to. Instead, I clock him gazing into Joanna’s eyes during what appears to be deeply meaningful conversations. On more than one occasion, they’ve rushed off together into his waiting, chauffeur-driven car. It’s good to see him with someone closer to his age and who, presumably, doesn’t need his money. And it’s a relief that something, if not Timothy, has thawed Joanna’s iciness. Whether we’re in the press or not, she’s much happier these days. Long may it last!

  I watch episode two of Eat Me, with Ben the dentist, on the television with Faith at her place. Jordan planned to finish boxing up the basement but when I arrive home, he’s not there and nothing’s moved.

  The week flies by.

  Poppy and I help Faith select the winner of the competition: her date for episode number five. To avoid repetition, she rejects men who are bankers, dentists or covered in piercings. On personal preference, she also vetoes any man with visibly long fingernails, men who look like women, and women. After careful consideration, we agree on Kenny S, short for Kenneth Stoppard, a rental car manager from Luton. In his online submission, Kenny listed his passions as horseback riding and listening to country music. Faith was attracted by the whole cowboy vibe and, for the recording the next day, Kenny S doesn’t disappoint. Affecting a slight Texan lilt whenever he talks about his favourite hillbilly ballads – Kenny grew up in Luton, it’s claim to fame an airport and the site of the first Domino’s Pizza branch – lookswise, Kenny is like a scrawnily-muscled, younger Brad Pitt. It’s all very Thelma and Louise – and Faith is on fire for the cameras. Performing an impromptu pirouette across set, Poppy crashes onto Kenny’s lap. I expected Kenny to go for a rack of ribs – and I made as much of that as I could get away with – but instead he goes for a more delicate minute steak with a Diane sauce and home-made French fries. By all accounts, the shoot is a success. No touch-ups from animation required, thank you very much.

  Harry was on set to see it all. He’d rushed off afterwards, but though things were a bit awkward between us at first, he isn’t avoiding me.

  Inspired by my promise in Faith’s bedroom to fix my life, I book an appointment and, after my free taster session with Nikolai the personal trainer, I join the gym on the spot. Nikolai has muscles on top of his muscles. ‘Life begins at the end of your comfort zone,’ he says, as he forces me to bench-press weights I fear will crush me to death. ‘I’m not telling you it will be easy, but it will be worth it.’ I pre-pay ten more sessions.

  I meet with Liz Martin at our usual cafe. Dressed to kill in black denim jeans, low-heeled black boots and a leopard-print shirt, courtesy of Poppy’s latest shopping expedition, I’m keen to impart all manner of juicy details of our upcoming performances on the show and some, but not all, insights from the parties we’ve attended.

  When I get home early in the afternoon, and not a single item of Jordan’s has moved, except the duvet which is now on the sofa and appears slept in, I decide enough is enough.

  I call his mobile. It’s switched off. I try his work line.

  ‘Hello, Jordan Piper’s phone, Rhiannon speaking.’ Rhiannon, who’s all of twenty and half my size, has a voice as husky as a burly Russian mobster.

  ‘Hi, Rhiannon, it’s Grace. Is Jordan there, please?’

  ‘I’m sorry, who’s this?’

  ‘Grace.’ There’s a long pause. We’ve been introduced on at least three separate occasions. I don’t know how to categorise myself. ‘Jordan’s ex-girlfriend’ sounds stupid.

  ‘Just a minute.’ She covers the phone. Seconds later, she returns. ‘I’m sorry, Jordan’s in a meeting.’ Sure he is. ‘Can I take a message?’

  ‘Just tell him I called, please.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it, thank you, Rhiannon.’

  She hangs up.

  Joanna books us on the midday chat show hosted by Kiki and Patricia, who I’ve previously never spoken with, even though we’ve worked in the same building for well over a year. I attend another session at the gym. And then, when the weekend rolls in, I read in the Daily weekend pull-out Liz describing me as ‘tantalising and tasty’. Relaxing at home – Jordan still hasn’t moved out and we still haven’t spoken, which isn’t ideal – I read the article over and over and pin it to the refrigerator with a magnet. Inspired, I go for a run in the afternoon, which doesn’t last as long as planned, and on Sunday, I book online and a masseuse called Nina comes to my flat with her own table and oils and rubs away my aches and pains.

  On Monday night, I watch episode three, featuring DJ Bassdog, at home alone. Still no sight or word from Jordan – I may have to invite my mother down to do a charity sweep of all his things. Tuesday evening, I’m barely home myself when he rushes in. Apparently, to have a go at me.

  ‘Grace, what the hell is this I’m hearing about some giant with piercings
and a Mohican on your show accusing me of one having an affair with Robert and two that I have a teeny-weeny?’ he snarls. ‘And, what’s more, did you agree with him about it?’

  It’s not, exactly, what happened. During the episode, Bassdog had said not many men could compete with the aubergine machine that was, allegedly, Toby’s manhood. Then he’d jokingly reassured himself that I didn’t seem to have a problem with teeny-weenies – a reference to the chipolata sausage. Fobbing him off, I’d joked my boyfriend was so often busy working downstairs with his colleague, I couldn’t be sure I remembered.

  ‘Jordan, it isn’t true. That’s not what happened. You need to watch the show. I—’

  ‘Everyone at work is laughing at me. Every time I go in to the Gents, I hear laughter. Every time Robert and I are talking – and we sit opposite each other and you’re bloody lucky he thinks it’s all quite funny and isn’t here with me to ball you out... Jesus Christ, Grace, what were you thinking?’

  ‘Jordan, I’ll fix it. Next shoot, I’ll say—’

  ‘According to you, we’ve broken up! Surely you won’t say anything about me on that damn show?’

  ‘We have broken up, Jordan, so surely you’ll be moving yourself, and your stuff, out of my flat sharpish?’ I snap back.

  Jordan flinches.

  ‘I have a photo shoot. But we need to talk, properly, about what we want this break-up to look like and where you’re going to live. I don’t want us to hate each other, Jordan. But this isn’t working. I’ll be back in a few hours.’

  Jordan says nothing. Quelle surprise!

  I slam the door behind me.

  Down by the Little Venice canals near home, I pose for the shots for Alex Sutcliffe’s upcoming article. The shoot has been arranged via SC6. I’m going along with it because I have to. Alex is going along with it because he’s a brown-nose to Joanna. Alex is doing his own photography and is under the impression he’s interviewing Jordan to gather some salacious snippets next – no pictures. I haven’t yet told him this won’t be possible.

  ‘Look the other way,’ he instructs.

  On account of my mystery boyfriend, I’m supposed to look cloak and daggerish. The atmosphere is perfect. Pitch-black. Foggy. Overhead, dark clouds gather steam for what promises to be an almighty downpour. I’m kitted out in a long, beige trench coat, thick black-rimmed glasses and a trilby hat. I turn the other way and force another spy-like smirk. Flash, click. I’m more Inspector Gadget than glamorous spy – I’m certain these photographs will look terrible, and I’m equally convinced Alex arranged it by design. We’ve never hit it off. The feelings I have about him are clearly mutual.

  ‘And now straight at me.’ Flash, click. ‘That’s it.’ Flash, click. Flash, click. ‘Again, the other way.’ Again?

  ‘Are we done yet?’ I ask, not looking the other way. ‘Alex, I’m freezing. I want to go home.’

  He drops his camera to hang safely by the strap around his neck. He checks his watch. ‘Yes, okay. Time to interview the man of the hour.’

  ‘I am sorry, Alex, and I know I ought to have mentioned earlier, but I’m afraid you can’t interview Jordan. It’s no longer possible.’

  ‘What do you mean “no longer possible”?’ Alex snipes. ‘The interview with him was your idea.’

  Before everything imploded, Jordan had agreed to do it, as a return favour for me facilitating the cat-sitting of Benny. After our argument at the flat just now, all bets are off. Alex doesn’t need to know about this, or even that we’re no longer a couple. I haven’t told Joanna yet – last week on the show, talking country music with Kenny S, I’d joked about my brooding Keith Urban at home. Faith said it was fine. Dramatisation. Harry raised his eyebrows at the time but hadn’t commented.

  ‘I know, Alex. But Jordan is adamant I don’t mention him any more, not even for the show. I am sorry, but there’s nothing to be done of it.’

  Alex huffs and puffs and stomps about.

  ‘We can chat about anything else you like,’ I offer, trying to make amends, and not wishing to face the wrath of Joanna if this article goes wrong. ‘I can tell you about the time I won a singing contest at Butlin’s.’

  Alex ceases pacing. ‘I’m sorry, did you just say a singing contest at Butlin’s? Stop the press!’

  ‘Fine, forget it. You can forget the entire interview with me, if you prefer.’

  He packs away his lighting equipment.

  ‘If anyone at your magazine asks, tell them Joanna changed her mind. That should cover you.’

  I’m set to march home in my horribly oversized trench coat when Alex grabs at my arm with his grubby, philandering fingers.

  ‘What do you mean, blame Joanna? I’m an independent journalist. I don’t appreciate your implication.’

  It begins to rain. I’m tempted to leave him to get soaked to his core – a good old downpour to wash Alex clean of his dirty-dog habits would do no harm to me or Matilda – but, no. That’s best left for karma to deal with.

  ‘You’d best come along with me, Alex. You can call a cab from mine.’ I glance at the sky. ‘Come on. It’s about to bucket down.’

  We leg it the short distance to my flat, before the rain hits. At my front door, I’m fumbling with the keys as Alex stands too closely behind me, reeking of cigarettes.

  ‘I’m not sure this piece would have made it to print anyway,’ he says, the first of us to speak since we left the canal.

  ‘Hmm, yes,’ I agree, not really listening.

  ‘The editor might have tanked it.’

  ‘Yes,’ I repeat, still fumbling.

  ‘I mean, Faith, with her looks, I’d get her on the cover any week.’

  Why won’t this bloody key turn?

  ‘We get a tonne of interest for Poppy, too – she’s developing a cult following. Have you checked out their Twitter and Instagram accounts? They have thousands of followers already.’

  In the days of Gracie Porter’s Gourmet Get-Together, I’d received the odd email and handwritten letter. I wasn’t aware Faith and Poppy were doing these things. How do I go about posting tweets and finding followers? I’m a social media virgin. I’m not even on Facebook.

  That Alex says such things to be hurtful doesn’t make them hurt less. Faith is extraordinarily attractive and Poppy is as sweet as a button. I have my good points –although right now I’m struggling to think what they are. It’s never been a popularity contest between us. Alex is being a savagely verbal brute.

  ‘Alex, we may not get on, but let’s agree to be grown-up. Let’s drop the put-downs and snide remarks, both of us,’ I counter, hoping this calls a quid pro quo to our little tiff.

  As he says nothing further, I assume it has.

  I finally turn the key and invite him into my flat. I show him through to the kitchen, where Jordan is sitting at the table, eating cat food. To be perfectly precise, Jordan is at our table eating Pussy Paws cat food out of the can, with a teaspoon.

  Before I can ask Jordan exactly what he’s doing and explain to Alex that this isn’t what it looks like, a distinctive noise erupts behind me.

  ‘Alex, don’t!’ I cry out. But it’s too late.

  Flash, click.

  Flash, click.

  Flash, click.

  23

  I chase Alex out of my flat and along Warwick Avenue, threatening to pierce him with the pointed end of my umbrella. For the pursuit, I’m still in my spy-like outfit, trilby hat and all. The rain is blinding and he escapes me – just. Darting into a side street, he hurls himself down a set of slippery stairs and disappears into the garden behind a mansion block.

  When I return home, soaking wet and out of breath, Jordan has gathered all of his clothes in bin bags at the front door in preparation to flee. He tells me he’s had enough and proceeds to list my misdemeanours.

  After agreeing to keep him out of the spotlight, I invited a gossip magazine journalist into our home. My home, I counter. There is also the embarrassment of being caught eating pet food – I
try to question how exactly I’m to blame for this and ask Jordan exactly why he was doing so, but Jordan is on a roll. What pushes him over the edge is that the sum of everything may have compromised his entire career. He shouts at me that Pussy Paws cat food contains a ground-breaking, flea-control ingredient and he signed a non-disclosure agreement not to divulge this top-secret innovation until the marketing launch next month. ‘It’s on the bloody label.’ Jordan brandishes the can of Pussy Paws, then hurls it into his rucksack. ‘If that picture goes anywhere near the papers, I’m done. No one will ever work with me again.’

  ‘It’s no bloody picnic for me,’ I scream back, finally getting a word in. ‘I’m a celebrity chef and you’re sat in my kitchen eating cat food.’

  Bin bags in hand, Jordan’s parting shot is that nobody is supposed to know who he is anyway.

  ‘Get out of my flat. And don’t come back. I’m changing the locks,’ I scream before the door slams shut.

  Which is a decent plan. Except, when I check downstairs, boxes are still in the basement and I very much want them gone, too.

  I call Faith straight after Jordan leaves. Her phone goes to voicemail. I remember she’s at the theatre with her venture capital colleagues.

  I could call my mother, but it would only be to vent. She won’t know how to help me and it will only worry her, which I don’t want to do. She’d taken the news of my relationship demise in her stride. I suspect my parents saw things going nowhere with Jordan long before I accepted the inevitability.

  Harry will know what to do. And, as my agent, he has a vested interest. He’d warned me to watch my back with Alex. Only, the prospect of Harry cleaning up a mess I’ve created with Jordan is mortifying.

  Instead, I call Alex directly. Once I know what the rotter plans to do with the pictures, maybe I’ll know what to do. He doesn’t answer either.