Love… it’s in the air and all around.
I smile at Faith and she beams at me.
Harry hasn’t made the recording today. I haven’t seen him all week. He’s had other clients to attend to and our contracts to negotiate. He called yesterday to tell me SC6 agreed to a new series, with a substantial pay increase, and that Joanna had floated the idea of shooting the next season in LA. Faith is happy to do another season and convert her sabbatical from venture capitalism into a resignation, but she isn’t keen on LA – for starters, she doesn’t want to uproot Benny. Fat chance she’d leave him for even a few months. So it isn’t something I need to consider. We’re a team, on this show. We’re a squad.
Harry hasn’t mentioned the TIARAs again.
The one thing that has been playing on my mind is that I need to find a date for the blasted thing. I have but ten days’ time to sort it.
After we wrap, Poppy and I venture to La Petite Place Française for wine and nibbles. Faith rushed off with Toby, something about his UK visa. She promised to join us next time. Unaccompanied by Faith, Gaspard seats us in a cosy corner downstairs, behind the cast-iron staircase. Poppy and I order an exquisite assortment of aged cheeses and fresh, crusty bread to accompany the delicious white wine. The Chardonnay has blissful notes of pineapple. The Brie de Meaux is to die for, as is the triple-cream Billat-Savarin, though I’m trying not to be gluttonous – I don’t want to undo my recent dedication to an exercise regime with a cheese-belly. Pouring our second glass of thirty-eight pounds a bottle vino – the fruity aftertaste makes it worth every penny – I ask Poppy her opinion of the shoot today.
‘It was very romantic, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Oh, yes. Toby and Faith are perfect for each other. Do you think they’re in love?’
‘I think they’re well on their way. And, yes, perfect for each other. I’ve never seen Faith so happy with any man and I’ve known her almost all of her life.’ I break off another piece of bread, top it with a sliver of cheese and pop it in my mouth. ‘How old are you, Poppy?’ I can’t believe I don’t know. ‘Twenty-one? Twenty-two.’
‘I’m thirty-three next month.’
I almost choke on my pineapple tinged wine. ‘You’re not!’
‘I know, I look young. It’s because I’m small.’
‘Thirty-three? Okay. And you don’t have a boyfriend?’
‘Not really.’
I probe Poppy as to what she means by this.
‘Well, I’d love to be with someone in a committed relationship – I think, at some point, everyone does – but no one’s fit the bill for me so far. So…’
‘So?’
‘So, while I pass the time, and hope it happens, one day, I have friends. Special friends.’
‘What do you mean “special friends”?’ I suspect I know what Poppy means.
‘Miss Gracie, I have special friends that I have sex with,’ Poppy confirms. ‘I call them my shag buddies.’
Pineapple wine sprays out of my mouth. Poppy passes me a napkin and I dab my face clean.
‘These friends are purely for booty-calls?’
‘Pretty much. They’re not friends I call to hang out with. I wouldn’t invite them to a nice French restaurant to drink wine and eat cheese.’ Poppy grins. ‘They’re just for sex, you see?’
Gaspard comes over to ask if we want another bottle. I decline, mostly to get rid of him without him returning, so we can continue our conversation in the utmost privacy. It’s early, only 6 p.m., so we’re alone in the downstairs section. Upstairs, I hear the restaurant filling up.
‘Poppy, I get the whole Netflix and chill thing,’ I go on. ‘But you said shag buddies, as in plural. How many do you have?’
She lowers her voice to barely a whisper. ‘A few. We all have lives. It’s good to spread the load.’
‘Ha!’
‘Yes, so to speak.’ Poppy giggles at her accidental joke. ‘That’s the beauty of it. No strings. And no inhibitions. Miss Gracie, the sex is the best I’ve ever had.’
‘Goodness. I say, Poppy…’
‘It stops me getting too lonely, while I wait for Mr Right, whoever he might be.’ Poppy shrugs her slender shoulders with forced nonchalance. I want to hug her, but it’s not really my style. I’m not one to make a fuss if it isn’t warranted. But it’s a comfort to know I’m not the only one who battles to stay positive. ‘There’s no attachment, but it’s friendly, and there’s mutual respect. Nobody gets hurt. Everyone needs sex, right?’
It’s more than I was getting in my relationship – regular sex.
I finish my wine.
Sitting opposite, wearing a lilac smock dress with pink leggings and navy Mary Jane sandals, sweet, wide-eyed Poppy has told me sex is a basic need. A need she has no qualms in satisfying outside of a proper relationship. And no one gets hurt in the process.
‘Poppy?’
‘Yes, my angel?’
‘If one was of a mind to find a shag buddy, how would they go about it?’ I say. ‘Asking for a friend, obviously. But I don’t think I could do the whole internet thing.’
Her mouth forms a small grin.
I return her smile broadly.
‘I know a place,’ Poppy says, beaming. ‘If you like, we could go now?’
31
We have a few drinks in the upstairs bar while things warm up inside and hit the downstairs dancefloor of the salsa club around 9 p.m. The place is hot, dark and heaving with people. From the moment Poppy and I enter, the odds are stacked in my favour: men outnumber women two to one. The men predominantly young, attractive Latinos, clad in white T-shirts and skin-tight black trousers. The women mostly English, older and dressed up to the nines. I’m still made-up from the shoot, slightly sloshed on wine and gin and tonic and feeling fruity.
We order sangria. As we’re waiting at the bar, a strapping young man introduces himself as Carlos. Without further conversation, he asks me to dance.
We hit the floor. Carlos, wrapping his muscular, olive-skinned arms around my waist, guides me into an erotic, three-steps-to-a-four-beat rumba across the polished wood. Thankfully, this womanly, curvy body of mine can move: my parents being of an older generation, I’ve been dancing to waltzes, swing, rock and roll and all sorts at weddings, parties and celebrations with them since I could walk. I’m a natural with the salsa beat. I’m fit from all my gym workouts. I’m an instant fire-cracker on the dance floor in the arms of sexy Carlos – I’ve got this.
I glance back at Poppy and she gives me a congratulatory thumbs-up. I sway and turn with sizzling dexterity. My hips swivel. Carlos pulls and pushes me with his masterful manliness. My body moves in perfect time. My eyes are fierce. My endorphins flood.
After our second, madly passionate routine, Carlos tells me he has to dance with other people. Turns out, he works here. He promises he’ll be back to move some more with me as soon as he can and, true to his word, he is. With assurances that I’m happy for her to do so, Poppy leaves me to it.
Carlos and I dance and dance and dance. We barely talk, but I discover some nuggets of info. Recently arrived from Venezuela, Carlos speaks only rudimentary English, so our attempts to communicate are sweet and funny, but not really what I’m here for anyway.
At midnight, as the evening ends, and Carlos helps me into my coat, we both know where we’re heading.
Back at my place, in my bedroom, our last dance of the evening doesn’t disappoint.
Over and over, my body aches with pleasure.
Again and again, Carlos is keen to oblige.
The following night, as arranged, after I exercise and shower and do my hair at the gym, I swing by the salsa club. Carlos greets me with a firm, sweaty embrace. His lean muscles bulge beneath his tight T-shirt.
‘Crazie, you come again for Carlos.’ He kisses me, lingeringly, on the lips.
‘Carlos, not here,’ I admonish, but I don’t push him off. It feels so good to be so desired.
‘Come, I finish work. We dan
ce,’ he answers boldly.
From what I gather, Carlos works at the club as a cleaner in the mornings – and as bartender/dance instructor in the evenings, attending English lessons in between. I suspect the job is illegal and the lessons are for his visa, but none of it concerns me. I’m not looking to invest. I’m looking to have fun.
Again, we heat up the dance floor and, after closing, I feel a swell of pride when Carlos scoops me into his arms, leaving the other women he’d danced with throughout the evening milling around at a loss, but also smiling at me conspiringly. ‘Congratulations, sweetheart,’ one well-put-together lady, early fifties, says as Carlos helps me into my jacket. He kisses me on my lips. My neck. My lips once more.
We head directly home to mine.
The week plays out in suit. Four nights in a row, I’ve spent hot and heavy between the sheets – and I don’t have to go dancing first any more. Carlos and I quickly fell into an arrangement whereby I go to the gym and home to potter and, around midnight, he arrives at my door.
Saturday morning, Carlos heads off to his English school and I’m out shopping with Poppy and Faith, a regular event these days, except that this expedition is extra special. Today, we’re shopping for our outfits for the TIARAs. Joyfully, I’m recounting the sexy encounters that mark the end of my many months of reluctant celibacy.
‘He has moves that would make you blush, Faith – and I’m not talking fancy dance steps.’
‘You’re having fun, Miss Gracie,’ Poppy giggles.
‘Darling, he sounds divine,’ Faith purrs. ‘Why don’t you invite him on the show next week?’
I’m half-naked in a changing room. Having discarded five dresses as unsuitable, I’m getting back into the tailored silvery-grey trouser suit Poppy first suggested. ‘As my date, you mean?’
‘Yes, as your date. You need to find someone. Perhaps I’ll show off all I’ve learned and cook for you?’
Clapping her hands, Poppy squeals in excitement. ‘Yes’
‘He is incredibly good-looking,’ I say, weighing things up. I’m not opposed to the ego boost I’d get from flaunting Carlos on television – a bit bitterly, I imagine Rhiannon and all her friends watching when it airs and realising that, in Jordan, she scooped the consolation prize. It would, among other things, provide indisputable proof that I’ve moved on from the romantic slips of my past – that someone so hot, physically way hotter than me and any man I’ve ever been with, can’t keep his hands off me. ‘I suppose I could. Do you think Joanna will go for it? His English isn’t great.’
‘My cooking isn’t great,’ Faith says.
‘He is gorgeous, Miss Gracie.’
‘Our women viewers will love him. In which case, so will Joanna.’
‘Oh my, Gracie. That’s the outfit! It’s perfect on you.’ Faith gasps as I button the jacket up. I step outside the changing room to inspect myself in natural light. I can’t believe I’m contemplating wearing a trouser suit to the TIARAs – Faith will look old school glamorous in an off-the-shoulder Grecian dress and Poppy has chosen a girly, floaty little number. But of all the outfits I’ve tried on, in all the boutiques we’ve visited, I feel most comfortable in this suit. The silver flecks play beautifully with my eyes. It will go perfectly with my crystal Jimmy Choo high heels. And although a pantsuit, it’s incredibly feminine. And sexy – the jacket clinches at the waist but it’s otherwise slit open and worn with a matching bra that’s meant to be seen. The trousers are slim over my legs, taper at the ankles and hug my bum in all the right places. This is not me attempting to go all Annie Hall, the suit is gorgeous.
However, the TIARAs are one of Britain’s most prestigious television ceremonies. It’s not the BAFTAs – it’s more populist – but the press will be out in force. Men may wear kilts – but a woman in a suit?
I check my figure once more in the big mirror, from the front, the back and the side. I’m not convinced my thighs are thin enough for silver trousers. My tummy isn’t half as flat as it could be for such a nipped-in-at-the-waist jacket.
‘Poppy, I’m not a hundred per cent convinced. Are you sure?’
‘I’m two hundred per cent sure.’
I do another whirl. The colour is divine on me. The matching silver-threaded, crystal-adorned bra underneath is stunning – and not too revealing. These past few weeks, I’ve done push-ups until my arms collapsed. My chest supports itself these days.
I step one foot forward in the manner of a red-carpet pose. It’s not bad. I check the rear view – it really isn’t bad.
A handsome and debonair man hovers outside the changing room, intermittently consulting with the attractive woman prancing about beside me – his wife, presumably. He’s ogling my behind.
‘You look scorching,’ says Faith, dipping her head furtively at my admirer.
The man blushes, the woman scowls and my decision is made. The suit it is.
Sunday is Mother’s Day. I catch the train to Redhill and, instead of my mother cooking, I take my parents to the local pub for a roast dinner. I insist Beryl joins us, given as she doesn’t have any children of her own, and after what my mother confided in me, it’s an honour and a privilege to treat her in a different light.
It’s a lovely day out. Beryl doesn’t grumble and moan half as much as she usually does and my father is happy because when we get to the pub, he knows a few people he can sit with at the bar, leaving us ducks to it. When my mother asks after Harry – thankfully, when Beryl nips to the toilet – I tell her he’s fine, which he is, although he’s been so busy with his other clients that we haven’t spent much time together lately. I don’t mention my pre-occupation with Carlos. I don’t expect he’ll be around long enough for my parents to have to know anything about him.
As I’m heading out the door and home to London on Sunday evening, my mother is caught in the kitchen cleaning up shattered ceramic where my father dropped his cup of tea. I’m rushing for the train.
‘Mummy, I almost forgot, we’ve been invited to a special do next weekend’
The invitation is for a Sunday afternoon tea hosted at Fortnum and Mason. The press office passed it along to me after my mother won them over on the set last week.
‘I have to rush for the train, I’ll leave the invite on the table. I hope you can make it. Call me! Love you!’
I reach into my bag and throw the envelope onto the bowl of potpourri that’s on the hallway table.
She calls back, ‘Sounds lovely, dear. I’ll call you! Don’t miss your train. Stay safe! Love you.’
The following morning is April 1st. Yup. Here we go.
Faith and I meet in Harry’s office. Though we’ve spoken on the phone and texted, it’s the first time I’ve seen him since the shoot with Maximillian, almost two weeks ago. The Pussy Paws April Fool’s promotion in today’s Daily is open on his desk. In the advertisement, Faith is behind the bench stirring a pot in the dark wig and my too-big-for-her silk blue shirt, one eyebrow raised. I’m resplendent sitting up on the bench in the long blonde artificial tresses and wearing the short black skirt, tan control-tights and racy red top ensemble. White flour is splattered all over us. I’m feeding the executive-looking actor from a can of cat food. The picture is captioned: Eat Me… Unscripted. Unsupervised. Who knows what these cheeky cats will get up to next? Catch the action Mondays, 9 pm. Only on SC6.
It’s all there – everything Alex threatened me with.
From the other side of Harry’s desk, Faith smiles at me reassuringly.
Harry wraps his arm around me. ‘Alex’s big scoop – outtakes of a cat food commercial.’
I scan the advertisement. I’ve toned up – not a roll of fat in sight. But an awful lot of my bare flesh is on show. I don’t exactly scream thin enough to dress like a hooker. ‘Or we carried his threat out for him?’
‘No.’ Harry squeezes my shoulder. ‘This is you, Gracie. Fun, funny, wonderful you.’
‘It’s a little too much of me...’
‘It’s why your m
any fans adore you.’
‘Because I’m not size zero?’
‘Because you’re real. I assure you, it’s irresistibly attractive.’
I glance at the picture. I look down at my tummy. I’m not perfect, and I never will be, but the most miraculous thing happens: I like me, too.
‘Joanna is thrilled. Also, she warned us not to pull anything like it again.’ Harry grins.
‘All’s well that ends well,’ Faith says.
Harry puts the clipping in a file labelled with my name. I’m relieved it ended with my friendship, my career and (most of) my dignity intact.
‘I’ve sent thank-you flowers to Liz,’ he says. ‘Pink lilies, with a silk butterfly in the centre.’
‘Harry, that’s very thoughtful.’ For her ear and her idea, I made a sizable donation to a charity of Liz’s choice. ‘They sound lovely.’
‘Would you like me to send you some?’ he asks.
‘No, I didn’t mean—’
‘I don’t mind,’ Harry says, beaming cheesily. ‘It could be thanks for the dirty talk the other night.’
When my towel was slipping and I was on the phone with Harry. It seems so long ago and yet…
I smack him playfully. He removes his arm from my shoulder.
Faith shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘How are the girls?’ I enquire.
I’m changing the topic, but there it is – that lopsided grin.
‘The twins?’
‘Your sisters.’ I smile.
‘They’re good. Behaving themselves. They’ve asked after you.’ Harry had started sorting his papers, but he stops to look at me. ‘We should all catch up soon.’
‘That’d be nice,’ I say.
And I mean it.
But neither of us follow up as to when.
The day after, I’m up early to check out the second instalment of the Pussy Paws campaign. This time, in another full-page ad, the Jordan-lookalike actor is alone on the Eat Me set, wearing a Venetian-ball plaster-of-Paris cat-mask, feeding a professionally trained Russian Blue cat – Benny having put his advertising days firmly behind him – from a can of Pussy Paws. The tagline reads:
Look At Me Now Page 24