I burst out laughing.
‘Gracie, shh.’
‘I’m back in London next week, let’s chill. I’ll be at The Met. Call me. Muah!’
‘Let’s chill? Ewwww. And Muah? I’ve never met the guy. Faith puts her phone into her bag. ‘Come on, Gracie. There’s a tequila with our name on it.’
We’re walking out of her flat when her phone rings again. I warn her it’s King Maxi, still trying it on – that this is what happens now she’s put it to the universe that she wants a man who wants to be with her for real.
‘Okay, Gracie the Magnificent,’ she laughs, grabbing her phone.
It’s not Max. It’s Toby.
Faith answers the call without delay.
From her side of the conversation, I gather Toby is returning to London sooner than expected and not just for work. Faith, laughing coyly, tells him of course he can take her spare room. She signals me to sit down and wait.
If Faith wants a man who sticks around, I know who it is she wants. I have no intention of this conversation ending on my account. Blowing her a quick kiss, I slip away.
I’m at her downstairs entrance when Faith, mobile pressed to her ear and giggling, shoves the Rabbit vibrator at me and pushes me out onto Floral street with it firmly in my hand.
Later that evening, I call Liz Martin to ensure I have the details correct and then I talk to Faith and then Robert about The Plan. I’ll get you the details later but suffice to say, Liz’s ingenious scheme will require a) nerves of steel from me and b) participation from both Jordan and Faith, not to mention Pussy Paws.
I’ve just stepped into the shower at home when my landline rings. I rush out of the bathroom to answer it.
‘Hello, Gracie.’
‘Harry? Hi, um, hello. Oh, golly, I’m dripping wet here.’
‘Is that right?’ Harry chuckles suggestively and I feel myself blush even though he can’t see me.
‘I’m wet from the shower.’
‘Shall I let you go?’
‘No, it’s okay.’
‘Would you like to get dressed first?’
‘I have a towel.’
‘Now I’m distracted...’
‘I presume you’ve called for something other than to talk dirty to me, Harry?’
We’re getting on well again, and this rolls off my tongue. Importantly, I know, it doesn’t mean anything – all this harmless flirting between us. We’ve become firm friends, Harry and me.
‘Gracie, I’ve just finished an interesting conversation with Liz Martin. I’m up to speed on The Plan.’
I’d sent a text asking Harry to speak with Liz directly. Liz, bless her, had offered to do so.
‘Will it work, Harry?’ Liz’s plan is brilliant. But it’s bold.
‘I’ve no doubt about it,’ Harry says, to my great relief. ‘Is Faith on board?’
‘Faith’s on board.’
‘Have you spoken with Jordan?’
Things may be getting on a great new track with me and Harry, but I still feel uncomfortable talking about Jordan with him. I haven’t spoken to Jordan since I crashed his cocktail party and discovered he’s seeing Rhiannon.
‘I’ve spoken with Robert, and he talked to Jordan, I understand they’re waiting on the go-ahead from Pussy Paws. Robert believes we’re on track.’
‘Let me know if I can help? I’m here for you, Gracie. Not just with the show, but also for you. It’s a package deal.’
‘I know, Harry,’ I say. ‘You’re wonderful. You know that?’
‘I try. You’re still wearing the towel?’
I look down. A nipple has strayed out over the top of my wrapped-around towel. ‘Yes.’ I cover my breasts properly.
‘In which case, I have to go. The thought of you in a towel is too distracting.’
My towel falls to the floor. ‘You’re a tease, Harry. But fine, you toddle off.’
Harry is silent for just that little bit too long.
‘I’ve never teased you. If I gave you that impression, it wasn’t my intention. I think you’re wonderful, too.’
What is Harry saying?
What does he mean?
Whatever hopes creep into my mind, I dash them promptly. Harry can lavish on me all the funny, smutty, complimentary lines as he likes, but I’m not letting myself get carried away on nothing but banter. Not again.
‘You remind me that conversations with you can easily stray, Harry.’
Harry laughs heartily. ‘A little birdie told me they saw you in the West End carrying a vibrator?’
‘Oh my God, Harry. Faith gave me that. She got it from Lucy. Who is your little birdie?’
‘No one who will cause you any trouble of it,’ he assures me. ‘By the way, speaking of vibrators, Oral B want to sponsor your show. Ben the dentist may be part of the deal.’
‘And so it begins?’ Saucy sponsorships. The gossip will spread like wildfire through my mother’s church group if I have anything to do with a toothbrush commercial that’s premised on anything to do with a sex-toy. ‘On that note, I’m off to the shower.’
‘To get wet again?’
‘Your smutty mind,’ I chastise him. ‘Goodnight, Harry.’
‘You can’t imagine my mind right now,’ he says. ‘Goodnight, kitten. See you tomorrow.’
29
Actions for ‘The Plan’ gather momentum. I’d pitched the idea to Robert, who’d sold it to Jordan, who’d convinced Pussy Paws, the world’s first cat food with flea-busting properties, to sign as an official advertising sponsor of Eat Me. Liz’s genius connected the dots. The unlikely affiliation arose from an April Fool’s Day tradition. Each year, British convention calls for newspapers to run amok with spoof: deliberately sham announcements and hoaxes, written tongue-in-cheek, of which advertisers sometimes get in on the act. Logitech once announced a wireless hamster, Burger King a Chocolate Whopper. One year, Guinness claimed the Royal Observatory had agreed to an official Guinness Mean Time. This year on April 1st, Pussy Paws will run a carefully curated campaign using images uncannily similar to Alex Sutcliffe’s photographs.
Saturday, we’re on set. Faith, Poppy, me. Harry. Robert, Jordan and the production company employed by Baker & Staines for the Pussy Paws campaign.
That the original pictures exist is on a need-to-know basis and there’s barely anyone on set today who needs to know – apart from everyone involved in planning, it’s only Poppy who’s been looped in. Jordan and I are coping remarkably well, having slipped into professional mode and talking only about the necessary. Which could also be described as having slipped into our old relationship mode. Either way, we’re avoiding conflict and each other as much as possible, pretending nothing is wrong, whilst knowing darn well it isn’t right. All very civilized, for the greater good of our respective careers.
Harry observes the proceedings from the back of the set. In case you were wondering, I haven’t dwelled that he’d called me the often highly sexualised and romantically affectionate ‘kitten’ after picturing me naked last night. The me of old might have read something into it. The new and improved me doesn’t imagine it.
For the Pussy Paws shoot today, Poppy took us shopping. It was belittling to have to refer to the terrible photographs, but with the girls’ good humour, I got through it. We bought wigs. A long, dark one for Faith and a long, blonde one for me. Right now, Faith is wearing the blue silk shirt I wore for the episode with Lucy earlier this week. Fitted and gorgeous on me, it’s like an unflattering art-smock on her. She’s behind the bench, her long legs hidden, stirring an empty saucepan. Camera at the ready, I’m perched on top of the bench, facing the front, in a short black leather skirt, and tan-coloured tights, a tiny red top that gives me a heaving great cleavage and slutty black boots that come up over my knees. I’m sporting two sets of false eyelashes.
Over and over for the camera, I seductively feed a suit-clad executive spoonfuls of Pussy Paws cat food from a can. Flash, click. The man is a bit-part actor on Harry’s book
s, pale-skinned and dark-haired, about Jordan’s age and build. Flash, click. A bag of flour – the word cocaine isn’t mentioned by anyone – is sprinkled around all over the set and all over each other, as if we’re baking up a storm. Flash, click. Flash, click. Flash, click.
All in, we’re on set almost all day, longer than it takes us to film an entire episode, for what will be only two photographs used in the final finishes. We all head off separately at the end of it.
Sunday, I make it to the gym and the garden centre and get in some baking for the freezer. For me – yes, just me – to enjoy at some later stage, I lovingly prepare cheesy-top lasagne cups, savoury muffins with freshly grated vegetables and chocolate protein balls jammed with healthy goodness. My beautiful flat sparkles and shines with cleanliness, and it’s so easy to maintain these days because I tidy as I go. My life, I realise, is becoming the best of the new me and the best of the old.
Nigella, eat your heart out.
For our next episode, Maximillian is back in London and on set to play Faith’s date number eight – which may not go down entirely well when he gets back to his hotel, given the papers this morning suggested he’d reconciled with his mermaid girlfriend, Esmerelda. Max is a fine specimen of masculinity and, surprisingly, given his cringy voicemail message, quite the charmer. Running with the ‘King of the Sea’ theme, we cook up an extraordinary platter of monkfish and scallops with creamed spinach and piped potatoes, an extravaganza for this series – a discrete nod to myself about how far I’ve come since the same feast flopped on the last episode of my old show. For kicks, Faith chatted about all the naughty things she and Maxi might get up to with his trident!
My mother, on set to watch, has enjoyed the fawning attention of both Maz and Harry. At the end of the recording, she makes it perfectly clear there’s no competition when it comes to who she’d prefer as her future son-in-law.
‘You must come out to Redhill, Harry. With Grace, one Sunday. I cook the best roast pork.’
‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘And her potatoes are to die for.’
‘You can meet Derek, he’s Grace’s father. We can all go for a walk across Annie’s fields. It’s lovely this time of year. Be sure to arrange something, won’t you, dear,’ she says to me, with a wink she doesn’t try to hide.
Harry takes it in his stride. I don’t push on him firm plans for such a visit.
After I put my mother into a cab to go to Victoria station and home to Surrey on the train, I nip back on set to collect my gym kit. Harry waylays me in the corridor.
‘Got a minute?’
‘For you, Harry, always.’
‘In here.’ I follow him through to the deserted studio of children’s programme Squiggly Winks. Decorated like a playground, with swings, slides and a sandpit, the green carpet simulates grass and the walls are painted with blue skies and white clouds, a yellow Mr Sun in a corner.
‘I have to be at the gym for a PT session. I’m getting right into my fitness these days, Harry.’
‘I can see.’ Harry smiles.
‘Can we make it quick?’
‘A quickie?’ he says, affecting a Dean Martin accent and giving me a wink. He twirls himself around a swing pole, like he’s Gene Kelly on the lamp post in Singing in the Rain. What on earth has got into him? It’s adorable, nonetheless.
‘The plan worked.’ Harry ceases him circumnavigation and grins. ‘Alex has conceded his big scoop looks like a sneak peek at a pet food commercial. He won’t be lurking around any more.’
It’s a big relief. I hug Harry spontaneously. ‘Thank you Harry. For sticking by me. No matter what.’ I step back and regain my composure.
‘I promised I’d look after you.’ He leans against the pole, looking all … oh golly, Harry is looking all sexy. In a slight departure from his usual style, he’s wearing a black cashmere jumper over dark jeans and boots. He’s wearing it well.
It’s a hearts and flowers moment. I can’t say I’m in control of my emotions as my mind wanders to picture a future where it could even be Harry and me in a playground with him pushing a swing with a little bundle of joy squealing, ‘Daddy, higher,’ me smiling at them proudly. I almost don’t want to put the brakes on – I’ve never before envisioned what it would be like having a family. No wonder my mother has been gunning for me to be with this man, in particular, since the get-go.
Harry smiles his lopsided grin.
My stomach somersaults inside the pretty Ted Baker dress I’m still wearing from the shoot.
‘You always smell so good Harry,’ I say. ‘Why is that?’
‘Have you made plans for the TIARAs?’ he says. An odd reply. I play along.
‘The Television Innovation and Recording Awards?’
‘Yes.’
‘Usually, I watch with popcorn and wine from my sofa. Unless you’re inviting me to the actual TIARAs, dear agent?’
‘You’re invited.’
I was playing obtuse. Now, I’m shocked.
‘Goodness,’ I gasp. ‘You really must think a lot of me, Harry.’
‘I’ve told you I do.’
‘Oh, well, um.’
‘We’re all invited,’ he goes on. ‘Joanna said she’d distributed the official invitations?’
I take a gold embossed envelope from my handbag. It arrived at home by post yesterday. I’d presumed it was an invitation to another wedding of the son or daughter of some friend of my parents – an invitation I’d come up with an excuse to decline.
‘The after-parties tend to be the most fun,’ Harry says. ‘It’s plus one for the awards. I’m thinking I may ask your mother.’
‘Ha! She’d love that!’
‘If you can’t think of anyone as yours, I’m happy to help.’ Harry smiles.
No thank you, Harry,’ I say. And I’m quick to do so. I don’t need his help to find a date – although, maybe I do. But I don’t want my romantic life part of his package deal to look after the show and me personally. Hearts and flowers! What a ninny I’ve been to imagine it. Thank heavens I didn’t throw myself at Harry this time – the spontaneous hug was purely platonic. It was the feelings that followed that could have been troubling. But anyway, they’ve been nipped in the bud.
I realise I sounded rude, and Harry appears taken aback.
‘I’m sure I can sort myself out, thank you for asking,’ I add.
I’ve no immediate idea who I’ll bring, but I refuse to have my personal life become a charity case. I tuck the envelope away in my purse.
Harry doesn’t say anything further. He tilts his head to one side and oh, those darker than chocolate eyes. I can so easily get lost in those eyes.
‘I’ll admit I don’t have the best track record when it comes to men...’ I carry on lightly. ‘But I’m reliably informed you’ve been inundated with callers asking after me recently. So…’
Harry chuckles. ‘Are you referring to the perverts who want you in skimpier clothing on the show or are you thinking of dating another ad exec?’
‘Harrison Hipgrave!’ I say, in mock outrage.
Harry chuckles again and gives my cheek a quick peck. ‘Quite. You know where I am if you change your mind.’
30
I stick to my gym routine. I potter around my home. With the mortgage sorted, Philip Maxwell finalises the settlement in record time. The flat in Maida Vale I’ve resided in so happily for over a decade is legally mine. I throw a dinner party to celebrate, inviting Poppy, Faith, and Toby, who’s back for his UK work secondment – and back in Faith’s bed, her still keen to give things with him a proper shot.
Today, we’re shooting our penultimate show of the series. So far, we’ve been charmed by handsome banker Toby, amused by Ben the dentist and his electric Oral B, and ogled over Bassdog in all his studded glory. We’ve taken pity on Love Island boy Jerry and proudly paraded competition-winner Kenny S, Lutonian country music crooner and rental car manager. We’ve plonked sweet, young Adrian from accounts in front of the camera after Christoph
e the Swiss architect got cold feet. Faith had her fun with Lucy and, in a scoop, Joanna is sure will top the ratings when it airs in two weeks, we landed sea king Maximillian Modacious. We’ve cooked pumpkin gnocchi with a creamy chipolata sauce, blow your head off mega-hot tortillas, a delicious risotto and spaghetti bolognaise out of a can. My seafood banquet finally saw the light of day. We’ve gorged on steak Diane and beef with black-bean stir fry and I, for one, will always remember the finger-licking good vegetarian curry.
For eight weeks, over eight episodes, we’ve had a giggly, girly good time dishing up serving after serving of fun food and man-candy.
Publicly, I became properly single. Liz announced it in her weekend column – leaving audiences to ponder whether my mystery boyfriend ever existed at all, further distancing Jordan from our hijinks and my calamities. I have Joanna’s permission to exorcise the ghost of Master J for the recording today and, for the season finale next week, I’ll be the one with the date. At present, the only problem I have with this is that there’s no one yet lined up. Since the big meeting and the first shoot, my trepidations have abated – I love being a part of Eat Me.
For this penultimate episode, by popular demand, Toby is back on set. Him and Faith will be smooching and making googly eyes at each other for the cameras, just as they’re doing in real life.
Toby walks into the studio, looking even more handsome than I remember.
‘Hi Toby, welcome back to where it all began,’ I say.
Today, he isn’t wearing his green contacts. His real eyes are warm brown with golden flecks. He’s like a manly, sexy panther to Faith’s hot, sultry minx.
‘Hey Gracie, good to see you.’ We kiss cheeks.
Faith saunters out of the dressing area in a fiercely fitted little cream dress, her hair twisted in a loose chignon, her eye make-up smoky.
Toby brushes her lips with a kiss and slides his hand around her waist.
Faith asks if I can teach her how to cook a proper breakfast on the show today – perfectly poached eggs and all.
Look At Me Now Page 23