Asking for a Friend

by Andi Osho

  ‘Soooooo sorry, Jeeeeeeeehm!’ she’d probably mewl with her elongated, downward inflection that sounded like she was offering condolences. Jemima grinned, took a deep breath and answered the phone.

  ‘Jemima. It’s Eve.’

  Jemima sat up, Eve’s clipped tone surprising her.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asked.

  ‘I just finished the draft you wrote in LA. Is that what you were doing with your time?’ Eve said spitting out the words like an unexpected pubic hair from a night she’d rather forget.

  ‘Look, I know you’re cross…’ Jemima began.

  ‘Cross? Cross?’ Eve spluttered, ‘The draft you sent before was bad enough, like a nun’s bloody diary, but this one – it’s basically Debbie Does Dallas the novel!’

  ‘I just took your notes and ran with it,’ Jemima said as she heard Eve angrily leaf through the manuscript.

  ‘“Beverly pulled Nigel close, growling, ‘I want a damn good shafting!’ He rodded her with his big, fat rod,”’ Eve read before pausing.

  Clearly she was waiting for some form of explanation or worse, apology but Jemima held her ground. Eve pressed on, picking out excerpt after excerpt which Jemima imagined were circled in red ink that pressed four pages deep.

  ‘“Beverly bounced on his towering inferno screaming, ‘You’re on fire!’” hissed Eve. ‘And what the bloody hell is “doming”?’

  ‘I thought this was what you wanted?’ Jemima said with faux indignation, battling the giggles.

  ‘Jemima, this is obscene!’

  And just as she thought it couldn’t get any better, Jemima heard the unmistakable click, click of a lighter. Eve was smoking – a real cigarette!

  ‘What’s more, I have to say… in places, it’s just spiteful,’ Eve said, wounded.

  Jemima’s smile flickered. Hurting Eve had not been her intention.

  ‘“Shag me likeable”?’ quoted Eve, ‘I’m trying to help you, Jemima but this is… It’s like a literary “up yours”.’

  Jemima sat forward, in a panic. She’d been shot in the foot but only just noticed she was holding the gun.

  ‘It was silly of me, Eve. I’m sorry,’ Jemima back-pedalled feeling like an utter imbecile.

  She’d spent over a month producing something completely worthless and for what – to make a point?

  After a long, long pause Eve huffed, ‘Okaaaaaay.’

  Jemima exhaled at the return of those unmistakable, elongated vowels but the relief was slight. She still owed Eve one completed manuscript that would most certainly be her last with Hudson Hicks if she didn’t come up with something fast. She’d squandered so much time creating this filth fest that to get a new draft to Eve, Jemima only had – she silently gasped – a month.

  ‘Don’t worry, Eve. Bad joke. I’ve been working on the real draft for weeks. In fact, I think I’ve fixed the problem,’ she lied.

  ‘How?’

  Jemima began overheating as she scrabbled around in her brain for a response. She wasn’t a romance novelist. She was a hard-nosed-insurance-investigator novelist. Nothing more, nothing less. She hadn’t the first clue how to write flings and flirtations. What she had included in that first novel had been inspired by her relationship with Miles but the thought of drawing from that well, made her shudder. And even if she did go there, it would completely change Beverly’s characterisation. She was a lone wolf not a love bird.

  ‘Jemima?’ said Eve into the long silence of Jemima’s mind whirring into hyper-speed panic.

  ‘History!’ Jemima blurted, her thoughts literally forming microseconds before they tumbled from her mouth.

  Hadn’t Meagan said something to Simi about changing the backstory, rewriting history? Could that work for Beverly? Jemima frantically speculated.

  ‘History… is a backstory… it repeats,’ she dry-gulped.

  ‘What?’ said Eve.

  ‘Sorry. Dodgy connection… with my brain. Haha. No. What if… I mean, that is to say, what I’ve been doing is…’ she stammered, ‘I’m weaving Beverly’s love life in as… backstory.’

  ‘Go oooon,’ said Eve with the suspicion of a child who’d asked for candy but been given kale.

  ‘That way we both get what we want. Yes! We both get what we want. I’ll make her past as romantic as you like while I get to keep the Beverly I love in the present… I’ll use it to… explain why she is the way she is!’

  ‘No sleaze,’ Eve said sharply.

  ‘Definitely. No mentholing, no tea-bagging and absolutely no doming,’ promised Jemima.

  Eve went quiet as Jemima waited, praying she’d go with it.

  ‘Aaaaaalright,’ said Eve.

  Jemima silently punched the air. ‘And as this was just, you know, a bad joke, we probably don’t need to tell Shaheena about it…’

  As a habit Jemima didn’t like to keep things from her woefully indiscreet agent but she knew, if Shaheena got wind of this particular draft, news of it would spread across the industry like gonorrhoea around an assisted-living complex. It was never intentional but in literary London’s rumour mill, Shaheena was the miller, her apron dusty with its tittle-tattle – even if it was about her own clients.

  ‘Fine but I want that draft, Jem-J. I want that draft,’ said Eve hanging up.

  Jemima listened to the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears. That was close. However, now she’d got herself a reprieve, how was she, a relationship cripple, going to fix this full-fat fail and create a believable, romantic backstory for her beloved Beverly? This could turn out to be the most high-stakes shag in the history of literature.

  Eve’s default advice was always to use one’s own experiences but, having spent the past two years trying to obliterate her relationship with Miles from her memory the last thing she wanted was to commit it to print forever. And anyway, Miles and the random few that preceded him were hardly befitting of Jemima’s beloved heroine. Furthermore, how could she forget, Miles also worked in the industry and was very, very well connected. It would be painfully easy for him to acquire a copy of the manuscript. If he recognised himself he could halt publication all together. Jemima grizzled. She loved being a writer. She wasn’t bothered about awards or recognition. All she wanted was to be on a beach and see someone engrossed in Beverly Blake Investigates or perhaps catch the eye of a business woman on her morning commute blasting through the 254 pages of Beverly Blake Mysteries. Even when she’d seen her first book in a bargain bin at the airport, she’d wanted to tell anyone who would listen, I wrote that! Those half-price words are mine! And now it was all slipping away. This career-defining, make-or-break nightmare was exhausting. She flopped back into her plump pillows and reached for her cold coffee. She had a month to deliver this book or that would be it for her and Hudson Hicks. She knew it. She opened up the browser on her laptop and did what any writer under pressure would do – started planning an escape route. Without thinking, soon Jemima was googling ‘LA apartments’. Her time at Rebecca’s place really had planted a seed within her and it was starting to germinate. Perhaps Santa Monica was the ideal escape not just from Miles but also Eve and her looming deadline.

  ‘Jem!’ Simi called from the living room. ‘Where’s your printer paper?’

  ‘In the cupboard by the TV,’ replied Jemima, one hand poised to close her laptop.

  She listened to Simi clutter around before cautiously returning to her search for a new life.

  ‘And where’s your printer?’ called Simi.

  Jemima sighed. She shut her laptop and headed next door. Perhaps helping Simi prepare for her audition was the distraction they both needed. Given that the casting was in the morning and Simi was only now printing the script, this was probably an all-hands-on-deck situation.

  Chapter 10

  Simi

  Simi sat in the narrow, white corridor outside the audition room. As she muttered through her lines a bead of sweat trickled down her back. Even though Jemima had rehearsed with her for hours, she was still terrified
. Simi loved acting but hated every aspect of auditioning. The pressure, the camera that silently judged you and the oh so ‘casual’ chat at the beginning. Every actor knew it wasn’t a real conversation. It was the casting director’s way of finding out if you were a handsy weirdo who might grope their principal cast. Were it any other audition, Simi would have passed but once the possibility of working with BAFTA-winning producers was dangled, she had been helpless to resist – heartbroken or not. So, here she was, waiting to perform four pages of dialogue as a ‘kind doxy’ in the hallowed offices of Antonia De Silva. Simi didn’t even know what a doxy was. In her last-minute haste she hadn’t bothered to check. All she knew was the show was medieval, involved unicorns and was called something like Crashing Clowns – which didn’t sound very BAFTA-winning to her.

  Just then, the main door swung open and Sandra Scott strode in, her luscious, black locks bouncing around her shoulders. Everyone knew Sandra Scott. She was that one actor who instantly sucked hope out of the room because she was that actor who always got the job. Simi had even seen some girls leave audition waiting rooms the moment she walked in.

  Sandra commandeered a group of seats and dabbed powder on her perfectly made-up face before throwing a warm, toothy smile Simi’s way. Up yours, you perfect goddess, Simi bristled before reaching into her bag for her love-emitting rose quartz crystal. Meagan and Jemima always dismissed her new-age trappings but for Simi they were as vital as water. She carried her rose quartz everywhere, running her fingers over its smooth surface anytime she wanted to drive out negative thought and usher in something more… kind. She smiled back at Sandra sweetly.

  As Simi’s loving zen returned, the audition-room door sprung open and the previous girl was shown out by Gabe, Antonia’s wiry assistant. He glanced up and down the row of waiting actresses, his thin face revealing nothing until his gaze reached the last seat.

  ‘Sandy, come through!’ He beamed before hugging Sandra and gesturing for her to go right on in and follow her dreams.

  Sandra feigned surprise at her egregious queue jump. She then pulled a box of Krispy Kreme donuts from her bag and presented them to Gabe as she glided into the room. A bribe??? fumed Simi as two actresses upped and left. Surely Antonia wouldn’t fall for such a shallow ruse?

  ‘Krispy Kremes? Love that!’ gushed Antonia as the door slammed shut.

  An hour later, after Simi had listened to the murmured voices of Sandra and Antonia chatting about everything from climate change to the latest series of Doctor Who, the door opened and Sandra breezed out. She blew Antonia a kiss then gave Simi a supportive thumbs-up and left. Simi threw a thumbs-up back. Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeetch, she seethed as the door bumped closed behind her. She quickly rubbed her crystal.

  How was she going to follow that? She didn’t have any sugary treats with which to bribe Antonia. Maybe she could go with the classic Sandy opener – a hug. Disarm with charm. Gabe beckoned Simi in and she launched herself at Antonia who was holding a piece of donut in each hand. Simi quickly adjusted, grabbing Antonia’s shoulders.

  ‘So great to meet you!’ Simi squealed. ‘Strong arms!’

  Antonia looked at Simi who was practically nose to nose with her.

  ‘Pop yourself in front of the camera, dear,’ she said working herself free and neatening her salt-and-pepper up-do which Simi had shaken loose.

  ‘Gabe will read with you,’ said Antonia as Gabe positioned himself between Antonia and Simi like a human shield.

  Simi sat down, her back now damp with sweat.

  ‘Off you go,’ said Antonia.

  Wait, no banter? Simi panicked. She didn’t expect the Graham Norton-style interview Sandra had been privy to but didn’t Antonia want her thoughts on climate change? How would she know Simi wasn’t a grabby weirdo without ‘The Chat’?

  Simi leaned in. ‘By the way, new Doctor Who – best choice. A guy at my agency got seen but he couldn’t do a Welsh accent.’

  Antonia stared back at her. ‘When you’re ready, dear.’

  Simi glanced at Gabe who looked ready to march her out in a headlock if Antonia said the word. She gulped as she reordered her script pages.

  ‘Ready when you are!’

  Simi paced down the street in a vain attempt to shake the embarrassing funk the audition had put her in. She had intended to simply go as far as the nearest burger bar but somehow her feet had carried her out of Soho, through Holborn and towards The City. Another shame shudder rippled through her as she replayed her absurd Doctor Who banter and even stranger response when Antonia had asked if she was, ‘comfortable with scenes of a sexual nature…’

  ‘The more sexual the better!’ Simi had flailed.

  Why hadn’t she read the character description? If she had, she’d have known about the scenes of a sexual nature and that a doxy was a prostitute! As Simi read and reread the Google definition on her phone, the blood drained from her cheeks. She had based her entire audition on the idea that a doxy was some kind of medieval clown. No wonder Antonia had looked at her like she was crazy when she started juggling mid-scene. Simi stopped and look around her. Across the street was a building she knew only too well. Oscar’s office. This is where her feet had carried her. As workers scurried in and out, making their lunchtime dash, she knew she shouldn’t be here. She knew it but she also knew that one brief glance of him, even if it was from a distance, would make her feel better. That’s what they did. She’d feel crummy after an audition and he’d say something sweet to take the crumminess away. Tears brimmed as she realised that was gone forever. Just as Simi felt the first sob about to rock her, a flash of yellow and red across the street caught her eye. She scuttled out of view, peering from behind a wall. It was Oscar. Nausea bubbled in her stomach. Instinctively she raised a hand to wave but then stopped. It had only been three days since she’d seem him but he looked… different. She watched him chain up his bike as another cyclist pulled up beside him, lassoing their ride to the same rail. Simi knew Oscar liked a lunchtime ride but he’d never mentioned a riding buddy. The other cyclist was even skinnier than Oscar and as he whipped off his helmet, auburn hair cascaded down his back and Simi realised he was a she. Simi raised her hand again. But as she did, Oscar put his arm around his companion’s waist. Simi’s mind raced and just as she had convinced herself they were simply overly tactile colleagues, they leaned in and kissed. Simi stumbled back as, across the street, Oscar pulled a paper bag from his pannier and he and his… lover shared a red velvet cupcake.

  Simi sagged against the wall, its cool, hard surface barely keeping her upright. There was nothing to gain from looking again but she just had to. She turned back but they were gone. She scoured the street left and right. Immediately, her mind tried to explain it all away. With so much passing traffic could she be sure it was Oscar? Plus she was exhausted and was due an eye test. But she knew what she had seen. First she was numb then embarrassed. This had been happening right under her nose but she had so wanted her relationship to be something it wasn’t, she hadn’t seen what it was. Simi became aware of the stickiness of tears on her cheeks. How many more times was she going to feel this way? Heartbroken over him. Not Oscar but all the hims. The Jasons, The Ades and the Azads. All of them had led her to the same place – tear-stained and devastated. This needed to change; she needed to do something and whatever that was, it would start today. She had major league man problems and she needed to bring in the big guns. She pounded out a WhatsApp message to Meagan and Jemima.

  We need to meet up. 2NITE!

  Chapter 11

  Jemima

  Since sending Simi off for her audition that morning with a good luck hug and pack of tissues, Jemima had been trapped in a Facebook/Twitter/Instagram loop. All the while, behind her open browser pages lurked the unchanged Beverly Blake filth fest draft. As she liked her fifteenth kitten photo the klaxon ringtone she reserved for her agent sounded and she groaned.

  ‘Hi Shaheena.’

  ‘So,’ Shaheena said with gl
eeful reproach, ‘something you want to tell me?’

  ‘Nope. Just plugging away at the script,’ Jemima said, tensing.

  ‘A script in which you’ve made Beverly a scatologist?’ Shaheena said in a scandalised whisper.

  Jemima face-palmed at her naivety. Of course Shaheena had found out about her misstep with Eve. She had an information network that could rival MI5’s.

  ‘We have a problem, Jemmy. I heard through the vine of the grape that Hudson Hicks are thinking of giving you the old Spanish archer, you know, El Bow,’ said Shaheena.

  ‘I know,’ said Jemima weakly.

  ‘So, what are you doing about it?’ Shaheena yelped.

  Like Meagan, Shaheena was an agent who had little time for the hand-wringing of creatives. She was about solutions. If Hudson Hicks wanted romance, Jemima needed to serve it up with a side order of lurve. Even Jemima’s dilemma over how to source material was simple to Shaheena.

  ‘Nick it!’ came her tinny bark down the phone.

  According to Shaheena, bookshelves were brimming with authors who’d ransacked other works for inspiration. Even the much-lauded The Cave was just Star Wars meets Pride and Prejudice set in a cervix, or so Shaheena claimed.

  ‘Look, Jemmy, whatever Hudson Hicks wants, Hudson Hicks gets because as far as other publishers go, it is slim pickings out there so crack on!’ she said signing off.