Throwing Epsom salts and a few drops of lavender oil into the bath, I run the hot water – with just me in the flat, there’s enough to fill the tub. Stripping off my wet clothes, it’s cheering to see my stomach is tighter than it’s been in years. That’s one upside of tearing down the streets as if I’m Usain Bolt, Nikolai will be proud at my next check-in at the gym. I slip into the warm, scented water.
It doesn’t soak my cares away, but it helps. At one point, I step out to check my phone. No replies. After I’ve soaked myself until my fingers are wrinkly and the water is getting too cool to be comfortable, with nothing more I can do this evening, I take a herbal sleeping pill and a St John’s Wort tablet. I’ve been popping both daily since Poppy recommended them to me. The herbs help me sleep more soundly and the St John’s Wort, a natural remedy for anxiety, has lifted my mood. I see no harm in doing whatever is necessary to get me over this hump.
I read a little, and sip on some Horlicks, to ensure I venture soundly to the Land of Nod. On my way to untroubled sleep, my mobile switched off, I tuck myself into bed, warm under the covers. My hand slips under my pillow. The rose quartz is still there, warm as ever. When the storm passes, I hope it finds me again: love.
The following morning, Alex hasn’t returned my calls and isn’t answering his phone. In our dressing room, I relay everything to Faith and Poppy. and they help me sift through newspapers and check the internet on our phones. So far, there’s not a single shot of Jordan at his feline banquet.
‘Why was Jordan eating cat food?’ Poppy asks, not for the first time.
‘He’s career-obsessed? Benny wouldn’t choose the best flavour? Pussy Paws is supposed to be irresistible? I don’t know, Poppy. I don’t understand most of what Jordan does for his work. And he isn’t talking to me, so I can’t ask.’
I’d tried to call him this morning – to agree a mutual game plan for dealing with this, given the potential damage to both of our careers and to remind him, again, to shift the rest of his damn crap out of my basement. No answer.
I send Alex another text. Alex, this isn’t funny. I need to talk to you about the photos. Please call me. I’ve already sent him three like it, all of them ignored.
Faith tries calling and Alex doesn’t pick up for her either. ‘Do we think it’s time we brought in Harry? Or Joanna? Someone who can help?’ she suggests.
I don’t want to be back in Joanna’s bad books.
I really don’t want to bring Harry into this, but I agree I’ll talk to him after the recording. This isn’t just my career at risk, it’s the entire show.
Faith and Poppy busy themselves rifling through a rack of complimentary clothes from a boutique in Notting Hill.
‘Darling, look. This top matches your eyes perfectly.’ Trying to boost my mood, Faith passes me a pretty, blue handkerchief with straps.
It doesn’t work. ‘And would maybe cover one of my nipples?’ I pitch the top onto the expanding pile of not-big-enough-for-me garments.
Over her sufficiently ample chest, Faith tries on an even skimpier piece that fits her like a glove. Poppy discovers an enormous, orange kaftan with purple and blue tassels. It looks like some sort of beachwear garment and on top of being enormous, it’s hideous.
‘How about this then, Miss Gracie?’ She grins cheekily.
‘Poppy, I’m not in the mood,’ I grumble.
Faith retrieves the handkerchief-top and tosses it back to me. ‘Try it on. It may fit. And don’t be in a mood. Alex may have no intention of doing anything with these alleged pictures – you don’t know. Perhaps his phone is switched off because he’s sleeping. Or waiting for you to calm down.’
‘They’re not alleged, Faith. I saw him take them.’
‘You may have broken his camera while you were jabbing at him with your umbrella.’ Faith chuckles. ‘I can only imagine the scene!’
‘Alex called the shots gold and it wasn’t funny, Faith.’
Not at the time. And not now. Although one day, I’m sure I’ll look back and laugh. Maybe.
‘Gracie, Alex isn’t so stupid as to bite the hand that feeds him. He won’t risk crossing Joanna. And it’s not like it was Jamie Oliver sprung eating pet food. We kind of all make fun of ourselves on our show. Right?’
I hadn’t considered how I’ve become a joke chef for television – I don’t think I mentioned it earlier, but we made spaghetti bolognaise with sauce out of a can for that Love Island hottie.
More importantly, I’d riled Alex with my crack about kowtowing to Joanna. If I get her involved, he might publish the pictures just to prove me wrong.
I scan another newspaper. Nothing. I check my mobile for any new texts, any threats from Alex. None. I google for anything online. Nada.
Wearing a beautiful new floral-print dress, Faith appraises herself in the mirror. Her mobile bleeps.
‘Bugger,’ she says. ‘Christophe’s pulled out. I don’t have a date!’
It’s three hours before we record our sixth episode. With no prior warning, Monsieur Christophe Laurent, a prominent Swiss architect, has fled the studio. Faith had met him through her circle and flirted with, but not dated him. A handsome man in his early forties, with a keen intellect and an acerbic wit, he seemed suitable. But the Swiss like to play it safe. From the safety of City airport, where he’s about to board a plane back to Zurich, Christophe calls to say he isn’t coming back. On seeing the set of Eat Me and getting a feel for what’s involved, he’s gravely concerned that an appearance on our show will leave his professional reputation in tatters. After what’s happened to Jordan, a sensible consideration.
‘What shall we do?’ Faith cries, her usual composure noticeably absent. ‘I’ve no one left in my little black book who’s up for this. Who can we invite with such short notice?’
‘What about this guy?’ Poppy holds up a newspaper. ‘Maximilian Modacious, Poseidon in the new blockbuster. American. Staying around the corner at The Met.’
In the picture, Maximilian has long, blonde, flowing hair – almost as long, blonde and flowing as Faith’s – and his body is insanely ripped with muscles. A cloth girding his loins and a golden trident in hand, he’s the temptation of the semi-naked mermaids at his feet. Clam shells cover their bosoms.
‘Says here he’s just split with one of the mermaids, so he’s single,’ Poppy adds.
In front of the mirror, Faith smooths her floral-print dress and sucks in her flat stomach. She looks like a glamorous throwback to the swinging sixties.
‘It’s a long shot. I’ll see if the bookers can put me in touch. Fingers crossed.’
Maximilian isn’t available. His agent confirmed he’s busy with interviews all day. In desperation, Faith persuades young Adrian from our advertising sales department to step in. Harry, stuck in traffic somewhere, and Joanna, on a business trip to the States, are missing on set. But Robin and the crew are here and, given the circumstances, it’s all nicely done. A brilliant save.
Faith jokes about her date ditching her at the last-minute. I comment mystery boyfriends aren’t much more reliable – a cryptic reference to my non-existent relationship. And Adrian plays along nicely, enjoying his stint in front of the camera. It’s clear he’s going to be dining out on this tale for a long time to come. For food, we prepare a stir-fry beef with black-bean sauce and serve it with steamed rice and freshly made prawn crackers. I’d almost forgotten how much fun it is to cook prawn crackers from scratch, the way they puff up within seconds of hitting the hot oil.
But once the cameras stop rolling, and my worry over the pictures bubbles back to the top of my mind, I’m not inclined to celebrate surviving the close call. When the set clears and everyone else races to the pub, I tell Poppy and Faith I’ll be along in a minute. Instead, I stay put in the dressing room, ruminating for some time what to do next. Building up the courage to rope Harry into my drama. First, I try to reach Jordan one more time.
‘Good afternoon, Baker and Staines, Trudy speaking, how may I help?’
Trudy, bless her, is the only woman at Jordan’s office who’s ever been pleasant to me. ‘Trudy, hi, it’s Grace.’
‘Grace, love, just a mo, I’ll put you through, I’m sure he’s in,’ she says in her bubbly Northern accent.
I’m mulling over what I’ll say when a familiar voice answers. ‘Hello, Jordan Pipers phone.’
Husky voiced Rhiannon, who has worse manners than I imagine a Russian mobster employs.
I don’t even bother – I put the phone down first.
I’m pottering around the set, organising the kitchen cupboards, trimming the fresh herbs growing in pots on the benchtop and then, in the dressing area, folding and hanging all of our clothes when Harry appears at the door.
‘Am I interrupting?’
He looks gorgeous. Messy hair, a little longer than usual. Flushed cheeks, like he’s rushed to get here. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since the night I fainted on him at the club.
‘In fact, I was about to call you, Harry.’
‘How was the show?’
‘Fine. Bit of drama to begin with. But, um, that’s not it. Harry, I’ve got myself into a bit of a pickle. I could do with your help.’
Harry smiles. ‘Faith told me what happened. It’s why I’m here.’
Faith never mentioned calling Harry before she left with the others – probably for the best.
‘You were right, Harry. Alex Sutcliffe is a snake.’
‘We’ll sort it. Don’t worry.’
‘I don’t know what Jordan was thinking…’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Shall we hit a bowl of Whiskas?’
‘Ha! No, I was thinking I could take you somewhere nice for lunch,’ Harry says.
‘I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite, Harry.’ I respond. I’ve had a mouthful of rice with beef and black beans and one crispy prawn cracker. Too late, I realise, it would have been nice to go to lunch with Harry anyway. Then again, I’m trying to be professional, and not get my hopes up about anything personal with him.
It’s been two weeks since events at The Tricycle Club. It’s odd how, even as my agent, Harry hasn’t enquired about my relationship ending with Jordan – maybe he thinks it hasn’t ended, given I’ve been vague for the purposes of the show?
I certainly haven’t the courage to bring it up with him explicitly. Not again!
‘Nice shirt,’ he says, about the sapphire-blue silk blouse I have in my hand.
‘Probably, it won’t fit me.’ I laugh.
‘If not, order another size.’ Harry smiles his lopsided grin.
I smile, properly, for the first time all day.
‘Sit tight, Gracie. Leave Alex with me. I’ll be in touch.’
Harry departs, closing the door behind him.
I try on the shirt. It fits beautifully.
24
I’m in bed when Jordan calls. Not contrite. Not to apologise. He asks if I’ve heard from Alex. I tell him things are in hand. For the sake of our respective careers, we remain civil. I tell him what I know:
‘Harry has apprised Joanna of the situation. She’s contacted the chief editor at Chit Chat and is refusing to work with Alex henceforth. She’s also threatened to blacklist the entire publishing group, and sue on whatever grounds her lawyers devise. She’s contemplating Alex didn’t have permission to be inside the flat. I believe her formidable reputation hit the spot.’
I then explain to Jordan the risk of Alex touting the pictures elsewhere. Harry thinks it’d be a hard sell, as I’m not a huge Hollywood star and it’s not that big of a deal. When Jordan wails the label itself is an issue, I tell him Alex would have no idea that’s anything to barter with.
‘I don’t care what he does with them after early April. At that point, it’ll be free advertising.’ Jordan is mollified. ‘Bring it.’
I’d prefer the pictures never see the light of day.
‘That’s all I can tell you, Jordan.’
‘Keep me posted?’
‘Of course. When can you clear out the basement? And I’ll need my keys back, please.’
Jordan does his usual sucking-his-breath-in, like he’s inhaling the phone. ‘I’m staying with Robert. There’s no room for boxes.’
I admire the nails on my left hand during the prolonged silence. The peachy polish of my manicure is perfect.
Jordan clears his throat. ‘I’ll have to arrange a storage unit. Will you be in on Saturday?’
‘I can be. What time?’
‘Around lunchtime?’
‘See you at noon.’
I hit the gym. I eat well, incorporating lots of healthy vegetable juices and protein shakes into my new regime. Thankfully, I don’t have any promotional parties or engagements I have to attend this weekend. Friday after work, I shop at John Lewis. Not for clothes, because I have enough of that for the show. I go on a spending spree for my soon to be very own home – Faith will be over in the morning to help me with the final papers. I buy pretty mugs of fine bone china. Cut crystal ware glasses. Sparkly scatter cushions for the sofa. Girly linen for my bed.
When I arrive home and unpack, it occurs to me I do have a hobby – nesting. I find genuine joy keeping my home beautiful and full of comforts, so that every time I walk in, the mood is welcoming. I cook, bake and freeze delicious snacks and treats to share with the people I love, including myself. I am a domestic goddess – and I’m not ashamed to say, I revel in my pottering.
Stripping the bed back, I discover the pink quartz crystal has fallen between the mattress and the headboard. I tuck it inside my new mirrored jewellery box.
Zelda and her warning.
I haven’t fixed everything in my life yet. But I’m on my way.
In the morning, Faith is at my place when Jordan calls to say he can’t make it for the clear-out. Of course, he has more important things to do at his work. ‘And there’s a Baker & Staines cocktail evening tonight, at Sway,’ he says. ‘I’ll be in no fit shape tomorrow. Could I perhaps come around one evening next week?’
No Jordan can’t perhaps come round one evening next week – his perhaps will inevitably turn into another no-show – and I don’t have to put up with his work nonsense any more. Surely, that’s part of the deal of us breaking up. Furious, I tell him he has until noon tomorrow, or everything is going on the street outside.
When I put the phone down, Faith remarks he’ll find another excuse tomorrow because she noticed when she was cleaning up the other day there’s nothing worth keeping down there. Jordan took his X-box when he left the last time, after the scene with Alex. When I call him back to insist that he come today, as arranged, and he doesn’t bother to answer, Faith offers to stay and help me chuck it all without delay.
We deconstruct every cheap piece of home office furniture that Jordan accumulated throughout our eighteen months of living together. It’s cathartic, even if I do splinter my finger and nick my calf on some sticking-out screws. We cart everything to the back of my building, where our maintenance man, David, will dispose of it next week. We bin the old newspapers and empty soda cans. It takes a good few hours but, once the basement is clear, I feel free.
Excited by the prospect – I thought I’d be so terrified – I outline my plans to convert the space downstairs into a proper potting shed, ready for summer. Faith’s excited to come round and sit outside on the grassy mound and drink white wine with me, like old times.
My flat exorcised of Jordan and my mortgage papers in order, Faith is preparing to leave when she asks me, ‘Are you mad that I called Harry the other day?’
‘No. You did the right thing, Faith. You always do’
‘That’s not true, but okay. I just wanted to make sure we’re good. You haven’t been yourself lately. I know you’ve had a lot going on.’
‘I’m over Jordan. That’s one thing off the list.’
‘He doesn’t know what he’s lost.’
Faith collects her purse and puts on her cardigan. It’s early spring. Int
ermittently wet, but warming up outside. Winter is over.
‘I’m sure he’s missing my sausage rolls.’
I’d served us a plate for lunch. So yummy. And after the labour in disposing the tacky pieces of plywood, well earned.
‘And the mini frittatas are another favourite he’s probably hankering for,’ I add.
‘Your delicious prawn dumplings.’
‘And snack-sized beef wellingtons.’
‘The cheeky cherry cheesecakes.’
‘And lemon sherbet slices.’
‘Ooh, those lemon sherbet slices. Will you please make those for me for summer?’ Faith says. I agree I will. ‘We can feast away while your ex-boyfriend literally starves to death without you. That will teach him!’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Call me if you change your mind about tonight.’
We all received another invite to the Tricycle Club, but it’s not compulsory and, it’s been a big day and I want to go to the gym again in the morning. That’s another thing that’s surprised me – how much I’m enjoying exercise. Nikolai has a lot to be proud of! ‘We’ll be there from about eight. Bye, darling.’
Faith leaves.
Without putting it off, I call Jordan to say his stuff has been disposed of, but I still need my keys back, he diverts the call to voicemail – I can tell by the number of rings. Bastard.
To soak my aches and pains from the DIY disposal and my gym sessions throughout the week, I take a long, hot soaking bath. Not bothering to get dressed or into pyjamas after, I crawl immediately in to bed, warm and cosy between my new rose-gold duvet cover and dusky-pink silk sheets. Ostensibly, to read. But before I open a page, my eyes are closed for a nap. Visualising a wonderful tomorrow – I may get up early and head to Clifton Gardens nursery for bulbs and seedlings, and I could paint the abandoned plant pots with a Farrow & Ball colour scheme, or I could pop to a market and spend the day baking, or all of the above – I doze off. When I stir, it’s dark. Just on 9 p.m.
Look At Me Now Page 19