by Jo Kessel
This wasn’t her world, this was Georgia’s. Claire was a Nutritionist, not a TV Personality. But Georgia, who was a bigwig TV Producer, had seen an opportunity. She’d heard that Morning Cuppa was looking for a new, on-screen Nutritionist for a regular ‘healthy eating’ slot and Georgia had thought Claire would be perfect, especially because she had so many celebrities for clients. “I only got those clients because of your connections. And I’ve absolutely no relevant experience whatsoever, it’s a ridiculous idea,” Claire insisted. But somehow Georgia convinced her that she had pedigree and credentials and that there was nothing to lose by going for a screen test. “You’re pretty, you’re articulate, and I can’t imagine anyone else in the world knowing more about food than you do. Who else would be anal enough to know the calorie count, salt content and nutritional benefit of every single thing you put into your mouth? That’s exactly what they want. And better still, you can cook.”
Claire didn’t consider herself to be much of a cook. It was just that Georgia was such an undomesticated goddess that she presumed anyone who regularly used a chopping board must be on a par with Jamie Oliver. And it was true. Claire did like to experiment with ingredients. If she was going to recommend egg-free or gluten-free recipes to clients, she felt duty-bound to check that the end product actually tasted nice.
So that’s how Claire had found herself rummaging through the anti-moth-munching boxes, finally settling on a body-hugging short-sleeve black Lycra dress. Even though her friend hadn’t mentioned it, she knew television tended to add a few pounds to the way you looked, and this particular dress was like a giant spandex, holding all her wobbly bits well and truly in. She’d left her thick, shoulder- length ringlets loose and had heeded her friend’s advice about wearing a statement piece of jewellery. The green velvet choker with its large copper coin pendant complemented the colour of her hair, which Georgia always laughingly referred to as ‘Bordeaux’, after the French red wine.
Dave dropped her off in a dressing room where a make-up artist came to apply eye shadow and foundation so expertly that Claire was incredulous at her reflection. Her complexion was so perfect it almost looked like porcelain. As she sat back, relaxing with her eyes closed whilst mascara was coated on her lashes, it was as if she were playing at being a Princess for the day. This experience was far removed from her day-to-day reality of moths, motherhood and meal plans!
Makeover completed, Claire was taken into the green room adjacent to the studio where Natasha Bridges, the voluptuous blonde bombshell Presenter of Morning Cuppa, introduced herself and explained the format of the show. She was very touchy-feely, tapping Claire’s forearm on just about every third syllable she uttered. “I’ll ask questions, so just take my cue and chat like we’re the best of friends. And remember to look at me when you’re speaking and not at the cameras. Try to relax and enjoy it. You’re going to be just fine.”
Natasha kept her hand on Claire’s forearm for a good five seconds after she had said the word ‘fine’. Luckily, Dave interrupted at this moment, popping his head around the green room door to announce that the crew were ready and that she and Natasha should make their way towards the set. Once they were in the studio, it all started feeling a little surreal. The three-piece red sofa suite which Natasha used for all the show’s topical guest interviews suddenly felt so much smaller than when she was watching Morning Cuppa from the safety of her living room at home.
The Series Producer had telephoned during the week to decide what nutritional aspect she’d like to talk about for the test. She’d suggested they discuss how to eat on a budget and forage seasonally. As part of her slot, she also planned to do a quick cooking demo of a simple, seasonal dish: gooseberry yoghurt fool. It was June and this fruit was currently abundant in back gardens as well as in the wild. About a meter to the right of the sofas a separate faux kitchen set had been created. Bowls overflowing with fruit and vegetables had been placed on a table attached to a wheelie cooking unit, complete with a work surface, hob and sink. Behind it was a fake wall decorated with a backlit mock window. Dave demonstrated how everything worked and when she was happy that all the right ingredients and pans were ready, he positioned her on her spot, a cross on the floor marked in yellow tape.
As Dave held up his hand, commanding silence, the knots in her throat became harder to swallow and she was inwardly cursing Georgia. She could feel herself pulling the same fake smile she’d given Anthony that morning, showing her teeth between her taut open lips. By contrast, Natasha, who had plonked herself and her huge double Ds on one of the red sofas, couldn’t have looked more relaxed if she’d been lazing in a bath of bubbles. Cameramen were ready behind the three studio cameras. Two of them swivelled to point their lenses at Natasha. The third one was trained on Claire.
“Stand by,” said Dave as the studio hushed. Stretching his palm towards the rows of ceiling lights above them, he counted down, both verbally and with his fingers. “Three, two, one, cue……..
------------------------
Despite a Researcher asking if they could wine and dine her afterwards, Claire couldn’t get away quickly enough. The screen test had gone disastrously and she’d been desperate for fresh air and solitude. It was a gloriously bright summer’s day and the studio for Morning Cuppa had an enviable riverside location along the Embankment south of the Thames. And so now she found herself in a rare moment of calm, with no particular time constraints. She’d cancelled her clients for today and Miriam was with Anthony for the next twenty-four hours. She was free.
Her nude heels clicked noisily along the pavement as she walked towards the London Eye, with the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben looming far in the distance along the capital’s skyline. Buskers and street artists lined the boardwalk. A golden statue of Winston Churchill caught her eye. As she stopped to admire it, she realised Winston wasn’t a statue at all, but a man spray-painted all over and standing impossibly still on an empty plastic beer crate. A hat with a few coins in it lay on the pavement in front of him. Miriam would have loved this human piece of art and would no doubt have done her best to make him laugh by pulling an array of funny faces. Claire fished in her bag for her purse and took out a couple of fifty pence pieces which she tossed into the hat. As she replaced the purse she could feel her mobile phone buzzing. She pulled it out. Georgia was calling.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Hey superstar,” Georgia squealed in her ear. “How did it go?”
Hearing Georgia’s voice made Claire smile, but it also made her remember. About Jonah’s e-mail and about how she’d decided to shove all that information into a box which wouldn’t be opened until after the screen test. She was still far from convinced it should ever be opened.
“Awful,” laughed Claire. “I was awful, it was awful, and Lord knows what they made of me. Everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong. I’ve probably tarnished your reputation for ever, seeing as you put me forward for it in the first place.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think.”
“Trust me. It was probably even worse than I’m saying.”
They both giggled.
“Sorry,” Georgia apologized. “I shouldn’t have pushed you into it.”
“No, no,” Claire was quick to rebuff. “I had a great time. Just because I was awful doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself. It was actually quite fun and nice to do something different for a change.”
Claire meant it. There was a humdrum repetitiveness to her life which was beginning to feel tedious. Her world revolved around getting Miriam to and from school and squeezing as many clients as she could in-between the hours of 9am – 3pm. And then, after Miriam went to bed, she’d be on the computer devising client meal plans and deciphering lab test results. She’d go to bed, wake up, make breakfast and then it would all start over again, like Groundhog Day. It was sad to admit, but the moths had been about the only recent buck to her routine. So yes, Claire meant it when she said she’d enjoyed the scre
en test. People had been fussing over her and treating her as if she mattered, which made a pleasant change. Because most of the time these days she felt as if her own needs, desires and hopes had all been shoved under the front doormat and kicked into shreds. The real Claire was starting to get lost.
She walked towards the riverbank and peered over the railings, watching pleasure-boats gliding past.
“So,” Claire whispered, finally allowing herself to think and talk about it, “Jonah wrote to me.”
Admitting it out loud brought a well of suppressed emotions rushing to the surface. A lone tear snaked a path down her cheek, making a beeline for the river below and then from nowhere, quite unexpectedly, a monstrous sob heaved out of her tiny frame.
“Oh, Claire,” soothed Georgia. “I wish I was there with you.”
“I’m fine,” Claire reassured, pausing to take some measured, calm breaths. She waited a couple of seconds before trying to start again. “Right, really, I’m fine now. Tell me everything.”
And so Georgia explained how she’d been filming at some TV studios on the outskirts of London when she’d passed him in the corridor. She’d recognised him instantly and had wondered whether it might just be best to let him pass unnoticed, but Jonah had done a double take, and had recognised her and stopped. He couldn’t remember her name though. He just remembered her as Claire’s friend and then they’d exchanged awkward small talk for a few minutes. He said he’d just started working as a Commentator on a satellite TV sports show and was going to be in London for the next few weeks. And then he’d asked about Claire.
“And…………. what did you tell him?” Claire interrupted.
“I told him the truth. That you’d recently separated from your husband and had a beautiful daughter and then I asked how he was doing, because I knew you’d kill me if I didn’t. It sounds like he’s in a similar position to you. So our crossing paths was fate, serendipity, call it what you will.”
“How did he look?”
Claire’s voice was a thin rasp. She could hardly bring herself to speak. Just hearing about Jonah stirred too many memories.
“He hasn’t changed.”
“Really?”
“No, actually, I’m lying. He has changed. Age has made him even better looking.”
“You’re joking.”
“Actually, I’m not. There was some salt and pepper going on in his hair and a few more creases round his eyes that were pretty endearing. They made him look wiser and sexier somehow than however many years it’s been since we’ve seen him.”
Georgia and Claire had been nineteen-year old students and had got a last minute bargain for a week’s multi-activity holiday on the Greek island of Kos. Water sports and land sports were all included in the price and so Claire, who enjoyed playing tennis, had on a whim booked up a lesson. This tall bronzed Adonis with floppy sandy hair had been waiting for her on court. He was scarcely older than she was, and when he’d sauntered over to casually introduce himself, she initially thought that maybe she was having a joint lesson with him. But it turned out he was the hotel’s resident tennis coach. “A working vacation,” he’d pulled a winning smile. His sexy, lazy, Californian drawl had rendered Claire coy, and she couldn’t take her eyes off the cute dimple which appeared on his right cheek whenever he curled his lips upwards. “I haven’t played tennis for ages,” she said, worried she was about to make a fool of herself in front of this impossibly beauteous male specimen. But he’d just cocked his head and grinned. “No excuses, English lady. Just give me the green light and we’ll see what you’re made of.” Georgia had walked past the court half-way through the lesson, and when she spotted the coach she’d tried to give Claire a subtle thumbs-up from behind her back. Claire, who’d been a huffing, panting mess from being run ragged round the court, had flicked the back of her hand at her friend and told her to ‘buzz off’. At the end of the lesson Jonah had admitted to being captivated by her accent and had tried replicating the phrase ‘buzz off’ in all its anglicised glory, over and over, until Claire had done another hand-flick, this time onto Jonah’s forearm, telling him politely and yes, with a hint of flirtation, to shut up. He asked if she wanted to hook up for a drink later just so he could hear her speak. And that’s how the story of Jonah and Claire had begun, a journey which had crossed continents several times over and lasted nearly five years.
She was over it, she’d moved on. Their time together had been both wondrous and painful in equal measure, and sometimes it was hard to separate the two in her mind. Yes, her life was now a tad dull, but at least she had control. With Jonah she’d always felt a little out of control. Could any good possibly come out of meeting up with him?
“What should I do, George?”
“What did he say?”
“He said he’d like to meet up.”
“And would you like to?”
Yes, no, she didn’t know. It wasn’t black and white. Nothing about them had ever been straightforward.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“I know, honey, but are you having such a fabulous time at the moment that you’d be happy to turn down this chance? Who knows where it could take you to?”
“What if it makes me even unhappier?”
“You can’t go through your life running scared, Claire. Life is about taking chances. And you’ve been given a fucking exciting chance here. How many other women would relish the opportunity of a night with Jonah Kennedy?” Georgia paused and then chuckled. “And if you play your cards right you might even get more then one night. Honey, the ball is in your court.”
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The ball is in your court. Claire laughed at the irony of that phrase, considering how Jonah’s life, when they’d been together, had been all about tennis. She said goodbye to Georgia and made her way home, stopping briefly at the dry cleaners round the corner from her modest West Hampstead terrace house to buy some moth balls.
No sooner than she’d closed her front door, she kicked off her heels and ran upstairs to her study to turn on her computer. Whilst she was waiting for it to fire up, she decided to keep herself busy to mask the jitters. It felt as if the plague of fluttering moths which had chewed through her carpet had decamped to her stomach. She took the two plastic moth balls and turned each a little anticlockwise, just how the dry cleaner had demonstrated. The scent inside wasn’t the nasty naphthalene which she remembered her mother using when she was growing up, but cedar wood, which was actually quite pleasant. She hung one up in her own cupboard before shutting its door firmly and planted the other in Miriam’s.
Back in her study, her inbox finally filled the screen. She ignored the two hundred unread emails and scrolled down to the only one that now seemed to matter: Jonah Kennedy. She clicked on his name, re-read the mail and pressed to reply. She kept starting, writing a sentence or two and then deleting. Nothing she wrote seemed to sound right. Had Jonah spent hours trying to perfect his tone? Not too needy or too cocky or too indifferent. After thirteen years and all they’d shared, getting the tone right seemed to matter.
Dearest Jonah
I am so genuinely pleased you contacted me. It’s been too
long. Consider this your green light. I would love to see
you again.
Claire
X
She quickly pressed ‘send’ before she could regret it and then started reanalyzing what she’d written. Perhaps dearest was too much. Maybe saying she would love to see him again was a little over the top. Stop. She reminded herself that she was thirty-seven years old, a grown-up, and this wasn’t about playing hard to get or being cool. It was about putting a simple goddamn date in the diary.
She began checking through her other mails and within five minutes a reply pinged into her inbox.
Jonah: What about tonight? X
What about tonight? She was free, she didn’t need a babysitter and her screen test make-up still looked fabulous. But wasn’t tonight too soon? It wouldn’t give he
r a chance to mentally prepare, or to back out.
Claire: Tonight works for me.
X
Jonah: I’m staying at the Dorchester. Can you get here for
7pm?
X
Claire: I’ll do my best. Hope you still recognise me. I’m not
sure if I still look like Kate Winslet.
X
Jonah: You’ll always be my Kate. See you in the lobby at 7.
X
CHAPTER THREE
Claire spent a long time staring at her reflection in the gilt-framed rectangular mirror that filled her entrance hall. What Georgia had said about Jonah made her nervous. She’d struggled to resist the Jonah of old but, if age really had made him better looking, there was no hope. And the last thing she wanted was him looking at her and being disappointed that time had ravaged her beauty.