by Jerramy Fine
I once read in the newspaper that cocaine use in London was so high that large traces of the drug could actually be found in the River Thames78 and let me tell you, after a few months on the London party circuit, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. Before moving to the U.K., I never saw cocaine in my life—and now it seemed to be everywhere that I went.
Including my own breakfast table.
Just like everything else my endearing male flatmates loved to indulge in, cocaine was expensive, exclusive, and glamorous—and probably made them feel like they were high-flying bankers or minor aristocrats instead of two ordinary London guys with posh accents and astonishing good looks. Still, George’s habit worried me incessantly and I held onto the hope that eventually his vanity would take over and he’d stop snorting before his modelesque beauty was permanently damaged.
I was entirely naïve to it at first, but it wasn’t long before I could tell immediately if he had recently “sniffed up.” Normally quite relaxed, George suddenly became ultrahyper; his quiet confidence turned to unbelievable arrogance and his polite conversation became a nonstop stream of increasingly implausible and fantastical stories. (I thought his description of jetting to a private island for Elton John’s birthday party was particularly creative. But what do I know—maybe he was telling the truth.)
Was I tempted to partake in the powdery fun? Not in the slightest. Despite my mother’s amusing suggestion that I might want to experiment, I remained resolute that nothing mind-altering would enter my body other than good old-fashioned alcohol.
Anyway, the point is that I hadn’t bargained for all this strange urban hedonism. If anything, I thought Duncan would have introduced me to Prince Charles by now—who in turn would have introduced me to his dearest nephew Peter—and my London life would finally be back on track.
Why did nothing ever go according to plan?
To top it off, there had been some devastating news. So devastating, I couldn’t bring myself to read it more than once. Apparently Peter had moved in with the American girlfriend! They were living together! In some swanky three-bedroom flat in north London—home of the dreaded intelligentsia! (Believe me, I planned on having some stern words with Hugo next time we met.)
I had to meet Peter soon. Time was running out.
I have no idea what made me think that a British TV appearance (on a dating game show no less!) would be the answer to my woes. Still, I went to the open casting and when the letter arrived from the TV studio informing me that I had been put through to the final audition of Love Is Blind, I have to admit I was flattered and ever so slightly excited. Perhaps Peter would see me on TV and fall in love!
Sound crazy? It was.
But I did live rather close to the Thames. I blame all that cocaine evaporating out of the river.
The first round of auditions wasn’t so bad. It was held in a giant London ballroom and it was buzzing with hundreds of fame-thirsty singles from across the country. I saw right away that while I was dying for a romantic English date (preferably with a royal), this crowd was dying to be on English TV. I didn’t want it nearly as much as they did, which is perhaps why initially I did so well.
We sat in groups of twenty while several charming and media-savvy interviewers asked us lots of questions. And it soon became clear that they were loving my oddball name and candid Anglophilia. (Apparently I am a walking bundle of TV talking points—or so I was told.)
Toward the end they asked us if we had any party tricks to share. I declined, but the girl next to me proudly demonstrated how she could run like E.T. Looking back, I probably should have seen that as a warning sign. But I didn’t.
I had seen Peter in a magazine and it was love at first sight. I was certain he would see me on TV and feel the same.
The day of the final audition, I wore a sparkly vintage blouse, a black circle skirt, pearls, and the most gorgeous patent-leather peep-toe heels you have ever seen. I was the spitting image of a 1950s Hollywood starlet. (Think Grace Kelly in Rear Window.) There was no way they could fail to put me on their show.
Unfortunately, somehow I got lost on the way to the studio and ended up trotting frantically through the backstreets of London for nearly half an hour, terrified I was going to be late. I hadn’t taken the time to break in my glamorous new footwear, and by the time I arrived, blood was practically pouring out of my shoes.
But it was 2 P.M. on the dot as I walked into the building. Just in time.
“Can I help you?” asked the woman at the reception desk.
“Yes,” I replied proudly, ignoring the pain searing through the raw skin of my heels. “I’m here for my two o’clock Love Is Blind audition.”
The woman looked confused. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but are you sure you have the right place? The girls’ audition isn’t until four thirty. And it’s being held in the studio next door.”
Well, guess which audition my letter told me to go to?
That’s right. The boys’ audition.
Isn’t life hard enough without nonstop gender-related mix ups? (To all future parents reading this book, think about this before you name your baby, okay?)
The receptionist directed me to the neighboring waiting room and I proceeded to sit there for over two hours. I got up once to limp to the coffee machine, but my blisters were too painful to move any more than absolutely necessary.
Finally, I was called into the girls’ audition with about ten other girls. That’s when I realized I was probably the only one over eighteen, and aside from one girl dressed as a gothic vampire, I was the only one not wearing some kind of skin-tight, low cut, midrift-baring Jennifer Lopez outfit.
The audition began, and I was surprised to see that it consisted of nothing vaguely relevant to what would take place on the actual television show. Instead of interacting with prospective male contestants or reading out practice questions, the whole thing turned into one tortuous hour of improv drama. I was asked to “Pretend you’re a chicken laying an egg,” “Pretend you’re Michael Jackson reading the news,” and (you’ll see why this one particularly bothered me) “Pretend you’re Prince Charles buying condoms.”
Now, I am a lot of things, but I am no actress. I’m even quite awful at charades. Needless to say, my attempt to squawk like a chicken, do the moonwalk, or emulate the plummy pronunciation of HRH did not amuse me. Nor, I’m afraid, did it amuse the casting directors.
Next, I received a small screen test during which a giant camera lens was positioned inches away from my face.
“Okay, Miss Fine,” said one of the trendy media executives, “I need you to make love to the camera for about thirty seconds.”
“Excuse me?” I couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly.
“Make love to the camera. You know—just try to be as sexy and as provocative as possible.”
I stared at her blankly.
The woman sighed with exasperation and looked at her clipboard. “Okay,” she said, “let me put it this way. It says on your questionnaire that your ideal man is Hugh Grant.79 I need you to pretend that the camera is Hugh Grant and you want him to shag80 you immediately.”
This was ridiculous. And definitely not what I’d planned for my television debut. What if this audition video ever got leaked to Buckingham Palace?
“Um, I’m going to pass on this if that’s okay,” I said.
“Fine,” she said curtly. “Who’s next? How about you, Tracy? Can you manage to make love to the camera?
“Sure!” squealed young Tracy, who was wearing a rather snug spandex jumpsuit. “I’ll show you what I do at uni81 when I’m down the pub and want to get laid!”
“Excellent,” smiled the woman, making notes on her clipboard.
After Tracy’s antics came Caroline, who began her screen test by reminding everyone (in a piercing cockney accent) that she was a professional lap dancer. I kind of stopped paying attention after that. I mean honestly, what was I thinking? This was hardly the way to Peter’s heart.
When the screen tests were finished, the “interview” began. A casting director turned to me and asked the following: “When was the last time you pulled?82 And what technique did you use?”
That’s it. I’d had enough. These people were clearly looking for a girl that could act like a chicken and talk endlessly about sex and that girl wasn’t me.
“I’m going to pass on that too,” I said politely.
“Miss Fine, you do realize that by passing on this segment as well as the screen test, you will be forgoing the whole audition?”
“Yes,” I nodded happily. And with that, I tottered out of the studio as fast as those excruciating peep-toe heels would carry me.
Live-in girlfriend or no live-in girlfriend, surely Peter would agree that television is for watching. Not for appearing on.
Like any girl in my situation would do, I ban daged my heels and hit the bars. Adam and I stayed out late, downing caipirinhas, celebrating my lucky escape from TV, and commiserating over the loveless Valentine’s Day we’d doubtlessly be having later that week. By the time I got home that Thursday evening, it was nearly midnight. Oliver was out, but George was in.
I was in the tiny kitchen getting myself a glass of water when George pulled me aside. I could see right away that he was in one of his extra-hyper, extra-giddy, chemically induced moods.
“Jerramy!” he whispered loudly. “Thank God you’re here! You’re never going to believe who’s sitting on our sofa this very second!”
He was so pleased with himself he looked ready to burst.
“Prince Charles?” I guessed.
“No, you silly Yank! A stripper! A real-live stripper!” He was practically giggling in delight. “I met her to night at Spearmint Rhinos. And when I asked if I could take her home with me, she agreed! Isn’t it fantastic? Anyway, why don’t you be a lamb and make her a cup of tea? I have to tidy my room so Mandy—or is it Candy?—and I can get down to business.” And then he disappeared.
Why did I always do everything George asked? Wasn’t I over his hypnotic good looks by now?
I switched on the kettle and walked gingerly toward the sitting room. I’d never had a stripper in my house before, so I can’t say I knew what to expect. But judging from the caliber of girls at today’s audition, perhaps I’d already met her.
I hid in the hallway and peered into the sitting room. Sure enough, a pretty blonde was curled up on the sofa, quietly flicking through a celebrity magazine. Thankfully, I didn’t recognize her.
The stripper had a great figure (obviously), a fake tan (only slightly more orange than George’s), and really glittery eye shadow that extended beyond her brows. Other than that, she seemed perfectly normal. Poor girl. Little did she know that George was hardly the gentleman he pretended to be. I took a deep breath and entered the room.
“Hi,” I said warmly, extending my hand, “I’m Jerramy. George’s flatmate.”
“I’m Amanda,” she smiled gratefully. In her line of work, I’m sure most women didn’t treat her especially kindly and she seemed visibly relieved that I wasn’t snubbing her immediately.
I brought out two mugs of tea and settled into the surreal task of keeping the stripper company until George decided he was ready to join us.
“Oh, isn’t Prince William lovely!” Amanda cooed, holding up a glossy magazine picture. It was my absolute favorite photo of William, taken during his first year at St. Andrew’s University. His blue jeans and navy sweater hung perfectly off his stunning swimmer’s physique and he looked breathtakingly handsome. Oh, if I were but five years younger!
“Yes,” I nodded eagerly. “George thinks William looks like Bugs Bunny, but I think he’s gorgeous.”
“Well, I’d take William over George any day!” Amanda laughed.
“I think most girls would,” I agreed, “but George doesn’t believe me when I tell him so!”
“Well, George is adorable,” continued Amanda, getting rather dreamy, “and so polite. He really knows how to treat a girl.”
I stayed silent.
“And besides,” Amanda went on, tossing William’s photo aside with her lengthy false nails, “at the end of the day, Prince William is out of my league. Girls like us don’t have a chance with royalty!”
Speak for yourself, I thought.
At 8 A.M., my mobile rang.
“Jerramy. Good morning.” It was George, brisk and businesslike as ever. “Quick favor to ask you.”
I was still getting ready for work and looking frantically for my pearl earrings. “Let me guess,” I said. “Don’t tell Duncan that you officially let a pleb into the flat.”
“Well, yes. That goes without saying. But I’m not ringing you about that.”
“Make it quick, George. I’m going to be late.”
“Yes, yes of course. You see, well, quite regrettably I was called into the office rather early this morning.”
“And?”
“And, well, I was hoping you’d be so kind as to peek into my bedroom and see if the stripper is still there. I just don’t feel right leaving her there alone in the flat. She is terribly common and I’m afraid she might nick83 something.”
It seemed his hypnotic charm also worked over the phone and like a lunatic, I did as I was told.
As suspected, Amanda was hardly stealing George’s designer cufflink collection. Nor was she pocketing one of the many 8" × 10" framed photos of himself he had displayed around the room. Instead, she was carefully making his bed with perfect hospital corners.
Who’s out of whose league now?
Twenty-one
“To arrive at Claridges is to have arrived.”
—UNKNOWN
“Those who are to meet, will meet.”
—A COURSE IN MIRACLES
Date: 23 Feb 2002 15:38:25 +0000 (GMT) From: Jerramy Fine
To: Mom
Subject: “Survival Guide”
Dear Mom,
I’ve been trying to read the “Survival Guide” for 201284 that you sent me and I was doing okay with it until I got to the part where it says (and I quote), “It’s not August, but the Magnetic Bat Moon of Purpose.”
Sorry, but I couldn’t take it very seriously after that.
Love,
Jerramy
Date: 24 Feb 2002 16:11:58 +0000 (GMT)
From: Mom
To: Jerramy
Subject: RE: “Survival Guide”
Dear Jerramy,
As the human race enters this global and spiritual transition, the survival guide will become more and more important. Please try to keep reading. I’m actually trying to wean myself off the Gregorian calendar and onto the thirteen-month Mayan moon calendar as the guide suggests. (Lots of our friends have done this already.) Try it!
I miss you.
Love,
Mom
Unlike Ezra, my charmingly pacifist brother, who cleverly agreed with everything our mom ever said (mainly so he could avoid arguments and go snowboarding), I simply wasn’t blessed with that kind of patience. Whenever she mentioned something insane to me (be it about Mayan calendars, shape-shifting lizards, or whether or not water had feelings), I usually made the mistake of asking her what on earth she was talking about and why. Admittedly, this was guaranteed to trigger a high-volume session of mother-daughter combat, but I just couldn’t help myself.
But now that there was a three-thousand-mile ocean between the mother and me, I was beginning to see the advantage of Ezra’s appeasement techniques. I mean, was it really worth telling her that Microsoft would have to add “The Mayan Moon Calendar” to their drop-down menu options in order for her new time-keeping system to be compatible with Outlook? Probably not.
In any case, I had yet to “wean” myself off the Gregorian calendar and I have to admit I was still using passé, non-Mayan words such as “March” and “April” to organize my busy London life. That said, I couldn’t tell you if it was the “Cosmic Turtle Moon of Presence” or the “Planetary Dog Moon of Manifestati
on” when I found myself attending a swanky book launch at the famously grand Claridges Hotel.
When Claridges first opened back in 1812, it quickly gained a worldwide reputation among aristocracy as the only place to stay when one was visiting the British capital. During the aftermath of World War I, many aristocrats were forced to sell their splendid London houses and move into Claridges on a permanent basis. (Believe it or not, without the expense of maintaining a large household staff, to many, this arrangement was actually cheaper.) And during World War II, when many of Europe’s royal families ere dramatically exiled from their countries and palaces—once again, dozens of noble families sought permanent refuge at this luxurious five-star hotel.85
So basically, if you’re of royal blood and have nowhere to go—Claridges is the place for you. Quite frankly, considering the hotel’s history of adopting royal orphans, Claridges also sounded like just the place for me. And in retrospect, instead of enduring the trauma of that bomb-shelter dorm for a single minute, I should have headed straight to Claridges and announced that I was a victim of royal exile. Granted, I hadn’t been thrown out of any particular kingdom, but I had been separated from my aristocratic parents when I was only an infant, and made to suffer a life very different than that of my birthright. So, if you ask me, exile was not that far from the truth.
But as I entered Claridges’ opulent art-deco lobby on that chilly spring evening, I displayed superb self-control and neglected to share any of this with the hotel’s concierge.
The book everyone was launching that day was a celebration of the founders of Savile Row, and boy, was I looking forward to meeting a roomful of well-dressed, traditional English gentlemen! If anything could make royal abandonment bearable, it was them.
My heels clicked across the black-and-white-checkered marble of the hotel floor until I arrived at the designated room. Upon producing my cream-colored invite, I was handed a glass of champagne, introduced to the host, and before I knew it I was surrounded by a bevy of distinguished old men—all of whom had dedicated their professional lives to maintaining the standards of State Liveries86 and Shrieval Court Dress.87 Luckily, I held a lifelong interest in all things made of velvet or satin, a genuine fascination with dress swords and gold-buckled shoes, and an endless rapture for anything involving royals, their ceremonies, their staff, and their uniforms. And whereas many girls might have felt out of their depth, I was quite able to hold my own throughout most of the conversation.