by Jemma Forte
‘I’m sure they will, Dulcie, I’m sure they will.’
‘Yeah, I think so. I mean, between me and Kev, there are going to be a lot of well-known people there and …’
There was only one thing for it. Jessica cut her off, before wearily placing her head on the table for a quick despair, which she was actually quite enjoying until her phone bleeped, signalling a text. She turned her head to the side and brought up one hand to press the view button.
THINKING OF HAVING
‘PRE-HEN’ DRINKS SOON.
WHAT DO YOU RECKON?
Jessica ‘reckoned’ there were twelve whole months to go until the wedding next May for crissakes and that there were only so many times a girl could say ‘Yay!’ A silent scream unfurled in her belly as she sat up to text back a reply.
YAY!
Now she was relying on Shawn to help her figure things out, something which didn’t fill her with a great deal of hope. Especially considering he wasn’t actually there yet which, come to think of it, was really annoying.
Feeling like her scrambled brain was in need of a break, Jessica reached over to the adjacent table to pinch a discarded copy of the Los Angeles Times. She flicked through it, eventually settling on a piece on page seven about British culture and traditions, and which aspects of it did and didn’t appeal to Americans. The history, the royal family, much of the pop, art and TV culture all got the thumbs-up and then it went on to dissect what the US weren’t so sold on. Bad dentistry, the cuisine, all the usual suspects were there, as were more left-field examples such as funny spelling that incorporated far too many vowels and Simon Cowell’s dress sense.
Jessica smiled. She’d been born in England, had lived there for the first seven years of her life, in fact, so felt a strong connection with the place. Having an English father and a French mother was something she was proud of and her peers had always been fascinated by her European heritage. However, the truth of the matter was that her memories of actually living in England were pretty hazy these days, though she’d never forget being a pupil at Parkhurst.
Parkhurst Abbey was one of England’s most prestigious and traditional girl’s schools, set in stunning rural surroundings. As a confused five-year-old it may have taken her a while to settle in, but when she had it had been like living in an Enid Blyton book. Until, of course, Edward’s time as James Bond came to an end, at which point Hollywood had beckoned and moving Stateside became inevitable.
Jessica scanned the restaurant briefly, looking to see if Shawn had appeared yet. As she did, she suddenly vividly recalled – for the first time in a long time – how much of a wrench it had felt to leave England behind all those years ago and how, back then, it had been the place she considered home. A strange thought, given that these days she felt like a Californian chick through and through and was so totally used to her sun-drenched way of life.
Of course, over the years there had been many trips back to England, but returning as a tourist had never felt quite the same somehow. Whenever Edward had a movie to promote, or simply fancied a dose of home, she’d usually gone with him and had often wondered what it would be like to return to Britain as a separate entity one day. To view the country through the eyes of an independent adult, as opposed to a child’s, had always been something she was keen to do at some point. Obviously she had dual nationality so whenever that time came it would be easy to organize and …
At that instant Jessica experienced a strange surge of excitement and found herself staring with renewed interest at the accompanying pictures of Buckingham Palace, fish and chips, Cat Deeley and red buses. A warm flood of welcome nostalgia washed over her as she recalled one particularly happy trip to London during which she’d spent lots of time with her auntie Pam, Edward’s sister. Maybe it was time for a long vacation of some description? To get away and rediscover her British roots would be fantastic and being away might just provide her with some much-needed answers and ideas. After all, what was keeping her in LA? Apart from her friends, her boyfriend and her own foolish reluctance to ever make a go of anything in case it didn’t work out.
Five minutes later Jessica finally spotted Shawn, looking irritatingly unflustered about the fact that he was late. Though he soon looked less smug when he casually tried to barrel straight through the gate and the doorman prevented his entry with a large, unimpressed arm. Feeling weirdly detached, Jessica watched him bluster and protest for a while, but then he must have mentioned her name because the doorman’s entire demeanour changed and Shawn was swiftly ushered in. She sighed, feeling thoroughly underwhelmed to see him.
‘Hey, baby,’ he said in an overly loud voice as he swaggered over to their table. ‘Look at you with your LA Times. You hiding a copy of In Style underneath?’
What exactly was he trying to say? ‘Actually, I’ve just been reading an article about England, which has kind of given me an idea,’ she replied, trying to perk up but hating how Shawn’s eyes were flitting around the restaurant, busily scanning for famous faces. He didn’t have to look too far.
‘And what might that be?’ asked Shawn, not looking remotely interested but at least doing her the honour of swivelling his eyeballs back in her direction. There was no denying he was a good-looking guy but today Jessica hated how contrived everything about him looked. His T-shirt was so … ironed. His dark, longish hair had been slicked back into a rather creepy ponytail and his nails looked suspiciously like they might have been manicured. She was sure he hadn’t been anywhere near this groomed when she’d first met him, but then again, she had met him at the beach. She opened her mouth to reply but closed it again when she noticed the approaching waiter.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Granger,’ he said, greeting her like an old friend. ‘If I may say, you are looking very lovely today, very much like your father.’
Jessica blushed. She was an attractive girl but nowhere near as extraordinary-looking as either of her parents, and she lived in permanent dread of the inevitable comparisons.
‘Speaking of which, how is he? I’ve not seen him for a while.’
‘Oh … he’s fine. Busy as always, but great … thanks,’ mumbled Jessica, omitting the part about him being desperately annoying.
‘Please send my regards,’ the waiter replied, whipping Jessica’s napkin off the table and placing it across her lap with a flourish. ‘Now, what can I get you?’
‘We need a couple of minutes,’ said Shawn brusquely, making it clear that his fragile ego didn’t appreciate being ignored.
Jessica waited a beat. For weeks now Shawn had been getting on her nerves. Any of the original charm he may have possessed when she’d first met him seemed to have evaporated completely. ‘Actually, I’ve been waiting ages,’ she said eventually. ‘And I’m starving. So, the chicken Caesar salad with extra anchovies and some iced water would be great, thank you.’
‘Jeez, what’s wrong with you today? Since when was waiting twenty minutes such a big deal?’ Shawn said petulantly. ‘OK, I guess I’ll have the same, but make my dressing low cal and hold the anchovies. Can’t stand the fishy fuckers,’ he said, delighted by his hilarious alliteration. ‘Fish breath is so not a turn-on.’
Jessica made a quick mental note to eat every scrap of anchovy on her plate and then breathe all over him first chance she got. The waiter finished scribbling and walked away.
‘Anyway, what’s up, sweetie?’ said Shawn, misinterpreting her frown. ‘How come it was so urgent we meet for lunch?’
Briefly Jessica toyed with the idea of keeping what had happened to herself, but the need to confide was too great. ‘Oh, Shawn,’ she began. ‘I’ve had an awful morning and, to cut a long story short, I’ve resigned.’
‘Why? Were you bored?’
‘No,’ said Jessica impatiently. ‘I left because I found out that …’ She swallowed, as the extent of how hurt she was caught up with her. She blinked and looked at the ceiling for a moment. She needed to start at the beginning. ‘You remember how I told you that C
hristopher was always pretty grumpy? Well, today he was in a great mood because the show had sold out, and he started being really nice to me –’ Shawn rocked back on his chair and cocked one eyebrow skywards, which Jessica tried not to let bug her as she carried on – ‘which only goes to show how naive I must be, because Rob let it slip that the person who bought the whole exhibition – you know the one I’m talking about? The paintings you said looked like alien puke. The ones with shit on them. Anyway, the mystery buyer who bought the entire lot was … my dad.’ Jessica looked down at her hands. ‘Everybody at the gallery knows, so they all think I had something to do with it, which is hideous on so many levels. Though I think what I’m most upset about is the fact that he’s gone behind my back again, even though I expressly asked him not to interfere.’ Having finished, she waited for some sympathy.
‘Cool,’ said Shawn, nodding and grinning enthusiastically. Then, as her face dropped, ‘Aw, come on, Jess, don’t look like that. Who cares if your dad wants to help you? You should be proud of your connections – though personally, if I were you, I’d forget about working altogether and take some time out.’
‘Time out from what?’ asked Jessica quietly, feeling baffled, dismayed and not a little frustrated. How could he not get it? She gave up, cross with herself for having expected anything different from Shawn. There was no point explaining anything to him. He was simply too moronic to understand. At that moment Jessica realized this probably wasn’t a great thing to be thinking about her own boyfriend. She cleared her throat. ‘Look, let’s just forget about it, all right. I’ll sort it out with my dad later,’ she said, suddenly keen to move on.
‘Hey, you’re not exactly being fair, Jess … oh, hang on a minute, I need a beer,’ said Shawn, and then he actually clicked his fingers at a passing waiter.
In that instance, the many niggles that Jessica had been experiencing about her ‘boyfriend’ seemed to solidify. It occurred to her that she didn’t just find Shawn annoying, but that she loathed him, which said less about the flakiness of Jessica’s personality and more about how tenuous their relationship had been in the first place. After all, what was an amazing torso without a personality to go with it?
The waiter turned slowly, bestowing a smile upon Jessica before eyeballing Shawn as threateningly as possible, given the customer/waiter dynamic.
‘Can I help you?’ he enquired frostily.
‘Don’t know. Can you?’ chuckled Shawn. ‘Get me a beer and make sure it’s ice cold.’
It’s over, thought Jessica resignedly, not feeling much apart from mild relief.
Shawn was off again. ‘Listen, you get all cagey when we talk about your dad, but how can you expect me to say the right thing when I haven’t even met him? We’ve been dating, what, three months, and we still haven’t set up a time for me to meet your folks.’ As Shawn swung back on his chair his face clouded over with an expression that looked suspiciously sulky. ‘It’s like you’re ashamed of me or something.’
He probably had a point.
‘Why are you so obsessed about meeting my parents anyway?’ she asked wearily, even though she knew the answer. ‘Most guys would be grateful not to have to meet their girlfriend’s family. I’ve told you how busy Dad is and you know I hardly ever see my mom myself.’
Shawn struggled to come up with a rational argument, but it was too big a task so he gave up and reached for a breadstick, which he gnawed on like a huffy chipmunk. Jessica gazed into the middle distance. Not only was she furious with herself for letting the relationship get this far, she was also sick and tired of feeling like her entire life was defined by one thing, and one thing only. That she was the daughter of Edward Granger and Angelica Dupree, otherwise known as James Bond and Heavenly Melons, the sexiest Bond girl of all time.
Suddenly she remembered what she’d been considering earlier. ‘I was telling you before that I’d had an idea. Do you want to know what it was?’ she asked her sullen-looking, soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, her tone almost daring him to say no. All she wanted was for someone, anyone, to be remotely interested in what she had to say, just for once.
‘Go ahead,’ said Shawn magnanimously.
‘Right,’ said Jessica quietly, fighting to hold back the tears that were suddenly threatening to slide down her face. ‘Well, I was thinking that, what with everything being such a disaster here, maybe it was time for a trip. I was thinking about England, actually, London.’
Shawn stared hard at her and for a fraction of a second Jessica thought he might be about to show some proper interest. ‘Cool, count me in. Didn’t you say your mom was in Europe? We could go see her at the same time.’
And there it was. That famous last straw.
‘Shawn,’ Jessica said calmly, folding away her paper and standing up, ‘that wasn’t an invitation. It’s over. I’m sorry, but I can’t go out with someone who only likes me for my parents any more.’
And with that she left, although not as abruptly as she’d intended.
‘Excuse me,’ said a man in a suit, springing up from his table and blocking her escape from the restaurant. ‘You’re Edward Granger’s daughter, aren’t you? I hope you don’t mind me introducing myself but your father and I go way back. I’m Billy, Billy Jackson, and I’ve got a script here that I’d love him to take a look at. The part of Steven has been written specifically with him in mind and I was going to send it to his agent, but if you could give it to him directly it would be so fantastic and –’ He broke off, misinterpreting Jessica’s horror at the situation entirely.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, honey, I’m being rude. Are you an actress too? Because I’m sure we could come up with a part to accommodate you. In fact, if you get this to Edward for me then we could even write one in especially for –’
Jessica shook her head vigorously. ‘I’m not an actress.’
‘You’re not?’ replied Billy Jackson. ‘Well, what are you then? What do you do?’
Squirming inside, Jessica shrugged. Everyone was staring. ‘I’m not sure,’ she muttered, before grabbing the script and fleeing the restaurant as quickly as she could, leaving Billy Jackson scratching his bald pate, the other diners with something to talk about and Shawn with the bill.
As she waited on the sidewalk for the valet to bring her car round, Jessica Granger made a decision. It was time to leave LA, go somewhere she could be herself and find out what on earth that might be like. That way, the next time someone asked her what it was she ‘did’, she might know what to say.
3
Across the pond in London, Mike Conner, executive producer of The Bradley Mackintosh Show for the BBC, was sitting in one office, well aware of the fact that his entire team were waiting for him in another. He insisted on punctuality for the weekly meeting but then liked to keep everyone waiting, just a bit, to remind them that he was an incredibly busy man.
He sipped his latte. Compared to being at home, the office was a luxurious haven of calm and he suspected it might continue to feel that way for some time to come. Thank God he wasn’t Scandinavian, he mused, for he seemed to remember reading somewhere that Swedish men were allowed to take a full year of paternity leave, which the journalist had written as if it were a good thing. As far as Mike was concerned, two weeks of keeping his toddler daughter Grace entertained while Diane, his teary, lactating wife, got to grips with feeding the latest addition to their family, had been plenty. Not that he didn’t love them. He did. Adored them, in fact. It was just that recently, according to Diane, everything he did was wrong, so it seemed easier to stay away. Hence why this morning, despite not really needing to start work until ten, he’d invented a completely imaginary nine o’clock meeting. Something he’d be doing more of in the future. During that first quiet hour before the office had filled up he’d watched Sky News and read the paper cover to cover. Bliss.
Still, he’d have to be careful. His wife would take serious umbrage if she were to find out that he was purposefully absconding from the morning chaos otherwise k
nown as family life.
While he had a minute, Mike decided to email everyone on the team to say that next week, due to something terribly urgent having cropped up, the production meeting would have to be cancelled for one week only. An agent had invited him out for lunch and he intended on getting stuck in. He certainly wouldn’t want to have to rush back.
Mike pressed ‘send’, then scrolled through the rest of his emails, squinting as he did so. His eyeballs felt gritty, due to lack of sleep. Last night he’d been able to hear baby Ava screaming even from the sanctuary of the spare room. Maybe later he’d hold his calls, lock the door and put his head on the desk for a twenty-minute power nap. Not that he’d tell Diane. He wouldn’t dare, for fear of being stabbed. His wife was so wild-eyed with exhaustion at the moment that the mere mention of anybody getting any sleep at all was enough to set her off on a jealous rant, and while he understood and appreciated it wasn’t easy for her, Diane didn’t have a stressful job like he did.
Still, his recent ‘time off’ had served as quite a vivid reminder that by choosing to stay at home Diane wasn’t exactly having the life of Riley, drinking coffee and watching daytime telly as he sometimes liked to imagine. In fact, if he were completely honest, he didn’t know how she did it day in and day out.
He turned his attention back to his in-box just as an internal message arrived. It was from David Bridlington, the controller of light entertainment, who also happened to be his father-in-law. (A double-edged sword in many ways and something Mike was incredibly paranoid about.) As he read it, a vein of worry flowed through him. The contentment he’d been feeling was abruptly replaced by an unwelcome shot of stress. Bloody ratings were the bane of his life and this week they’d been lower than expected. He clicked on the next email just as a rap on the door made him jump.