by Andi Osho
‘But you killed him,’ said Chance.
Yeah, alright, Mr Super Fan, thought Jemima. What he didn’t know was that when she’d sat down to write her second book it was just weeks after breaking up with Miles. There was no way Jemima could write about romance when hers had come crashing down around her, and so she’d turned Beverly’s complex and rich world into a strict procedural. Jemima focused all Beverly’s dogged determination on tirelessly unearthing insurance fraud and busting open criminal underworlds. Romance was a distraction. And though Eve did everything she could to steer Jemima back towards the passion and intimacy of book one, Jemima was adamant. Besides, who could argue with the five star reviews for her debut and broadsheet write-ups that noted the ‘Nordic sparsity of Abeson’s storytelling’ and ‘the stripped back single-mindedness of the lead character’?
‘They were practically telling me to remove the romance,’ Jemima argued, ‘but then Mysteries came out and those same critics said my “sophomoric offering was a let-down”. “Dry” was the word that hurt the most.’
Jemima looked away from Chance, remembering how crestfallen she’d been after her agent, Shaheena had forwarded the reviews. Mediocre write-ups were almost worse than getting panned. Having your book described by a Guardian critic as, ‘the worst use of paper since their nephew tried to print out the Internet’, at least made for entertaining dinner party conversation. ‘Dry’ was just awkward.
And so, after Jemima had killed off Beverly’s boss in Mysteries, Eve had ramped up her campaign to resuscitate Beverly’s love life to save the latest instalment, Beverly Blake Discoveries.
Prior to her LA trip Jemima had delivered a draft to Eve hoping the minuscule crumbs of amour she’d sprinkled on the story would be enough to satiate her. They weren’t, and Jemima bristled all over again just remembering Eve’s feedback.
‘Jeeeeeehm. It’s Eeeeeve.’ Eve had said as she’d inhaled on that bloody e-cigarette, ‘Darling, this latest draft is veh, veh good.’
Eve was so posh it was her assistant’s job to pronounce the ‘r’ in very.
‘Ummm… Latest?’ Jemima had asked. ‘It’s the final draft.’
‘Riiiiiight. Of course. Just got a couple of suggesteroos for a more final, final draft.’
Suggesteroos, Jemima snorted. They were demands masquerading as suggestions about as convincingly as a wolf in a sheepskin jacket.
‘Thing is, Boo, we love how you’ve upped the stakes. Powerful stuff. And her getting a cat, veh moving but, when I said Beverly needs more emotional intimacy, I meant, you know, man intimacy not cat intimacy. Without the boss, Beverly’s world feels small. All she does is work and you know, all work and no plaaaaaay…’
Every word Eve uttered had made Jemima’s blood boil.
‘We just want people to like haaah again,’ Eve had offered.
‘So, being brilliant isn’t likeable?’ Jemima had snapped.
Surely Eve wasn’t suggesting readers can only like Beverly if she’s fawning over some bloke? She’s Beverly Blake not Bridget-bloody-Jones! Jemima made a mental note to slip that in at the earliest opportunity. Witty ripostes usually took her a day to formulate so it was great to have one in the back pocket.
‘She’s become brittle, Jem and… highly strung,’ said Eve.
‘So a good seeing-to’ll sort her out, is that it?’
‘Plus,’ Eve had pressed on, ignoring Jemima, ‘this’ll mean there’s been two books with not a snog or a fumble between them! It’s becoming… repetitaaaave.’
And there you had it. What had remained unsaid had finally been uttered, leaving Jemima in stunned silence. She knew she was no Xandria Bishop, the hot new author and recent winner of the Booker Prize. Her debut novel, The Cave, which was set entirely in a vagina had sent shockwaves through the publishing world. But despite none of Jemima’s books being set in anyone’s reproductive organs she trusted her creative instincts. Beverly did NOT need a man.
‘MAYBE I SHOULD SET THE WHOLE THING IN MY VAGINA?!!’ she’d barked at Eve.
In hindsight, Jemima wished she hadn’t been sitting in the window of Nostromo when she’d yelled that down the phone. The sensation of her voice bouncing off the glass and echoing around the quiet café still felt very recent.
‘Look, Jemima, all we want is a good shafting.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘That’s all I ask. We love you Jem-J and would hate to lose yoooooou.’
And with that, Eve had taken a sharp inhale on her e-cigarette and hung up, ‘Laters!’
The casual ‘Laters!’ had left Jemima so fuming she hadn’t picked up on Eve’s parting, ‘hate to lose you’.
‘That sucks,’ said Chance.
‘My editor just won’t let it go. She’s desperate for Beverly to fall in love but it’s crazy, isn’t it?’ Jemima said, knowing that as a connoisseur of the books, Chance would understand.
But instead of empathetic nods he was smiling.
‘I really liked her boss, Kane. Beverly was good with him. And just when things were gonna get hot and heavy, boom, he died. Don’t get me wrong, great twist that he was behind the Swindon fraud and I love that you focus on how brilliant and driven she is but wouldn’t it be great if she had, I don’t know, some kind of encounter? Nothing serious but, you know.’
Jemima’s face turned to thunder. ‘Want Beverly to shag some random, eh? Maybe a guy she meets in a bar or on a plane—’
Chance looked at Jemima confused, ‘That’s not what I meant. It’s just, apart from her cat, now she’s got no one—’
‘Mr Tinkles is not no one! And anyway, the book is about her work not her bedroom.’
Chance put his hand on Jemima’s wrist. ‘What I meant was, it was great to see another side to her. The fans miss that.’
Jemima turned squarely to him, ‘Real fans love her for who she is not who she’s with.’
Nice. She’d remember that one too. She whipped her hand from under his, unclipping her seatbelt, ‘and IT’S BEVERLY JONES NOT BRIDGET BLAKE! I mean Blake. It’s Beverly Blake. Oh whatever!’
Bollocks, she exhaled as she flounced off to stew beside the exit.
Chapter 5
Simi
‘Jeeeeeem, you came back – for me,’ whimpered Simi.
Jemima was one of the only things, aside from Meagan, keeping her afloat and now all three of them were back together, everything was as it should be – apart from her heart which Oscar had exploded into a million pieces.
‘Of course I came back, angel,’ Jemima said as she held Simi.
And just as Simi’s tears were about to subside, she saw Jemima’s suitcase nestled in the corner of the room and started crying all over again. ‘You came all this way – with a suitcase!’
Jemima kissed Simi’s forehead and wiped away her tears. ‘I did. Now, look, Meagan said Oscar will be back soon. Shall we finish packing?’
‘You mean start,’ murmured Meagan looking back at her stack of collapsed boxes.
‘I caaaan’t,’ Simi keened as she let herself slip out of Jemima’s grip and onto the floor.
Jemima scrambled to keep hold of her as Meagan buried her head in her hands. ‘Babe, we’ve got to—’
‘I really, really thought he was the one, guys. He was kind, faithful and clever. Well he wore glasses…’ said Simi from her puddle of despair as she remembered their initial spark.
His dreamy cappuccino complexion – which Meagan unkindly referred to as decaf – his precious overbite and lean body, had all made her swoon. The girls always badgered her about sleeping with guys too soon but when Oscar, this black, bespectacled dreamboat, had invited her back to his place, who was she to say no? Simi loved how in sync they’d been… at first. When she was down after an audition, he’d miraculously appear with a red velvet cupcake – her favourite. When they were picking a TV show to binge-watch, they’d always choose the same one. With Oscar, it felt different, like they were going somewhere. So why had everything fallen apa
rt?
‘What have I done to deserve this? I’m kind to animals and I buy a poppy every year!’ Simi sobbed.
‘Darling, you’re a dime and the minute you’re packed and out of his place, you’ll realise that,’ said Meagan thrusting a thumb in the direction of the door. ‘So shall we?’
‘She’s right,’ said Jemima trying to scoop Simi up from Oscar’s hardwood floor. ‘We should probably head down to the basement and—’
‘Pack? Ha!’ said Simi letting her head loll back until it came to a rest on Jemima’s shoulder.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ said Meagan as Simi’s entire body collapsed into their grasp.
‘Just leave me be, girls. I’ve had a good life,’ Simi said looking back at the sofa like a dying dog searching for a quiet place to howl its last goodbye.
‘Jemima,’ she said earnestly holding Jemima’s face, ‘to you I leave my collection of self-help books. Read them, especially The Girl Who Tried to Outrun her Shadow. It’s a novel but you know how sometimes they can be metaphors…’
‘Simi,’ barked Meagan. ‘Allow it, man! You have to pack or do you want Oscar to see you looking like this and smelling like French onion soup?!’
‘No… but…’ said Simi.
‘You said he’s coming back at seven, right?’ Meagan said tapping her watch.
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, it’s already gone six!’
Simi’s eyes turned to saucers. ‘What?! Frig!’ she bawled, barging past Meagan and practically traversing the stairs on the balls of her feet. ‘What are you waiting for? We have to pack!’
Chapter 6
Meagan
Moments later Meagan’s slingbacks were clacking down Oscar’s wooden basement steps. At just over five foot one, flats were out of the question no matter the task at hand. Even when she broke her foot skiing, her compromise had been cork wedges. To Meagan, flat shoes were a reverse heel and looked brain-numbingly uncomfortable. She glanced over at Jemima’s Converse pumps. Of course she wore flats. Her primary concern was always a fast getaway.
All three of them looked around Oscar’s dark basement at the neatly piled boxes, old bike parts, unloved forgotten furniture and other crap people keep in the hope of one day needing again. Meagan folded up her sleeves and began lugging boxes upstairs. This was the third time they’d moved Simi out of a boyfriend’s flat and whilst she was well versed at handling the practicalities of Simi’s crises, inside she was beginning to fume. Why did women put themselves in this situation, moving into a guy’s place only to render themselves homeless when, inevitably, the shit hit the fan? It wasn’t that she was opposed to cohabiting – after all that was phase four of her life plan. It was the power imbalance that infuriated her. Even when Parker had teased a shared future, on this point Meagan had been clear – no one was moving in with anyone else. They would buy a new place together. In the end it had turned out to be academic. But at least she’d given it some thought. She was certain most of Simi’s issues lay in the fact that she didn’t have even a hint of a game plan. She was always either getting into something or coming out of it and in between, kissing an awful lot of frogs. Meagan glanced at the pathetic silhouette of her bereft friend, her chunky afro still sculpted into the shape of Meagan’s lap from the day before. She tensed. This was what her mother had been like when she’d separated from her dad. Meagan was determined, she would never let anyone have that kind of power over her.
‘Guys, come on,’ said Jemima clapping her hands. ‘We haven’t got long.’
She was right. They had to crack on. Meagan hoisted up another box of books. The quicker they sorted this the sooner everything could get back to normal. She wanted Jemima to get back to complaining about the injustices of the world, Todd to stop ruining good sex with his yammering and cuddles, and Simi to go back to being her normal, scatty, law-of-attraction loving self. She wanted her to be able to say Oscar’s name without hyperventilating but most importantly, she wanted her to go back to work – and soon – because the interesting thing that had popped up on Meagan’s phone yesterday very much involved Simi. Call it luck or fate but somehow Meagan had secured Simi an audition for IPC, a company who made some of the biggest shows on television. And if it weren’t for this bloody break-up, Meagan would be discussing that with Simi rather than heaving boxes of Deepak Chopra books up Oscar’s rickety basement stairs.
‘Nice of him to box everything up for you, I s’pose,’ Jemima said as she gathered an armful of yoga mats and headed up.
‘Yeah,’ Simi said, ‘except… he never made room for me – in the flat.’
Meagan looked at all Simi’s neatly packed belongings.
‘Unbelievable,’ she sneered and just as she was about to launch into a colourfully worded rant, Jemima came thundering down the stairs.
‘He’s back!’
Simi sniffed her armpits and ran a panicked hand over her pyramid of uncombed afro hair.
‘He’s early, isn’t he?’ she hissed, darting around the room like a trapped ant.
‘It’s gone eight. He’s not early. We’re late!’ said Jemima, hovering halfway down the stairs.
‘Hide me!’ cried Simi, turfing Oscar’s camping gear out of a trunk.
She pulled a dusty groundsheet over her head and collapsed into a ball.
‘Simi?’ Oscar called from upstairs.
Jemima and Meagan stared at the pathetic, quivering plastic sheet.
‘Tell him I’m not here!’ Simi hissed.
‘You’re not,’ Meagan murmured as she clacked up to the ground floor.
‘Hey, Oscar!’ trilled Jemima trotting behind Meagan, straining to sound casual.
In the hallway, Oscar propped up his bike. He unclipped his helmet and wiped his face, still glistening with sweat. Meagan arched an eyebrow at his skin-tight, bright red and yellow cycling outfit. Dork, she sneered to herself. Stringy, decaf dork.
‘Where’s Simi?’ Oscar asked peering down the basement steps as Meagan blocked his path.
‘Not here, babes. Prepping… for a role… new IPC show with Bradley Tyson and Cameron Christiansen,’ she said nonchalantly, ignoring Jemima’s glare.
So it was a big, fat fib. So Simi hadn’t even auditioned for, let alone got the job. There was no harm in making Oscar jealous in the meantime.
‘Cameron Christiansen? Is she the actress from that mermaids and zombies thing?’ Oscar asked.
Meagan crossed her ankles to stop herself kicking him. For his taste in film alone, Simi should have canned this guy ages ago.
‘No,’ Meagan said through gritted teeth, ‘she’s the actress from that winning-an-Emmy-last-year thing.’
Meagan felt a sharp jab in her back and conceded she may have lost track of her objective.
‘Anyway, we just came to get Simi’s things,’ said Jemima stepping in.
‘Fair enough.’ Oscar nodded, moving towards the basement.
‘We’re good,’ said Meagan, casually resting her hand on the doorframe in front of him.
Oscar’s eyes narrowed, ‘Not that I don’t trust you. I just want to make sure our things aren’t mixed up.’
‘But it’s so dark down there. Don’t you get umm… scared?’ said Jemima.
Meagan glowered at her as Oscar moved past them.
‘Pathetic!’ she scowled, clipping Jemima around the back of the head, fluffing her bob.
Stick to correcting people’s grammar, she wheezed as she flapped down the stairs after him. In the basement, Oscar took a deep breath. After a quick scan of the room he started handing bags and boxes to Meagan and Jemima who were battling hard to keep their cool as they ferried everything up to the landing. Oscar smiled sadly at the space where some of Simi’s belongings had been before noticing his unpacked outdoor gear.
‘You know that’s my camping kit?’ he said, pointing.
‘As if. Black people and the outdoors,’ Jemima smirked, play-punching Oscar.
He stared back at her rubbing his arm, ‘I’m bla
ck.’
‘I mean, of course. Jokes.’ Jemima nodded vigorously as she and Meagan watched Oscar collect up what Simi had strewn everywhere in her desperate bid to hide, their alarm rising.
He placed everything in the trunk then reached for the ground sheet. Without thinking, Meagan leapt forward, wrapping her arms around him. She buried her head in his chest, her face contorted with sadness, ‘I’m going to miss you!’ she wailed.
Oscar froze looking down at Meagan before nervously patting her head.
‘Don’t touch the weave,’ Meagan corrected before returning to her wailing.
Oscar tried to wriggle free but like a Chinese finger puzzle, the more he did, the tighter Meagan’s grip became. Just as he got an arm free, Jemima clamped herself to him from behind.
‘I’ll miss you too!’
‘I…’ began Oscar, confused, ‘I didn’t think you liked me.’
‘We don’t like you, Oscar. We love you,’ Meagan said looking up at him adoringly, ‘and it would really help if we could have a moment alone – for closure.’
‘With her things… in the basement?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Meagan suggested as she led Oscar to the stairs, Jemima still clamped to his back.
‘Okay. I’ll… I’ll be in the flat,’ he said, climbing the steps.
Meagan watched Oscar’s feet disappear and once he was out of sight, she whipped the groundsheet away where Simi cowered, brow crinkled and eyes damp.
Meagan raised a silencing finger, ‘No, babes. No time!’
Simi’s tears promptly retreated as Meagan, with Navy SEAL efficiency, including her own tactical hand gestures, hustled them and Simi’s remaining possessions up the stairs and out.
‘Go, go, go!’ she barked as they bustled Simi into the back of her Mercedes like a diplomat in hostile territory.
And once Jemima had made sure everyone had their seatbelts on, Meagan floored the accelerator, ‘Where to, Simster?’