Page 8 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
Once we’ve gone over our pitch − refining key sentences, making sure the slide show of our website pages are all there and triple-checking the order we’re going to speak in − Summer plugs a pair of headphones into her laptop to watch a movie. It’sTrue Bromance, the smash hit ‘buddy comedy’ Anderson Warner was filming when they met in New York, the premier for which she accompanied him to. This film in particular holds special memories for her. Not only is it a reminder of how she and Anderson met (one of her fashiony friends was a wardrobe assistant for the movie and invited Summer to visit the set), but it was also at that time that she started getting a bit famous. There was actually a period of about six months when she couldn’t go out without getting papped whether Anderson was with her or not. You always read about celebs hating the paparazzi, but Summer thrived on it, on occasion tipping them off about her whereabouts. She’s even got Manila folders of all her press cuttings. Of course she doesn’t know I know that − I saw them one night when Mr Belding got trapped under her bed in a cowboy outfit and I was performing a rescue mission.
When Anderson dumped her, the interest in America all but disappeared, but a few of the UK fashion blogs still fawn over her. She’s cool, you know − wears white ankle socks with lavender-coloured brogues and has a huge fringe, both vertically and horizontally.
I yawn and give her a smile, but she doesn’t notice. She’s got that weird dreamy expression she always gets when she’s thinking about Anderson.
Jeez.
My mum used to say that love made people crazy, and she was right. Not that I’ve personally ever been in love. But for someone who’s usually so focused and razor-sharp, Summer turns into a wibbly wreck of a woman when it comes to that guy. It doesn’t seem to matter that he got his PA to dump her by email, or that he’s now officially dating Emma Watson. She still thinks of him as the one that got away, and if he were ever to come back I reckon she’d drop Holden in a nanosecond, which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, since Holden is a proper turd.
Sinking back against the train seat, I get started on my Lilt and vodka, watch the gorgeous greens and golds of the English countryside whizz past through the window, and wonder what life will be like when I’m the rich and famous co-author of a bestselling book. I’ll finally be able to go travelling again without having to worry about money. I could open a bar somewhere exotic and far away. Maybe Bali. Or St Lucia, even. Somewhere full of happy, relaxed people who just want to chill out and have fun and dance in the glow of the moon and that sort of shit. Somewhere I could live in my bikini, throw amazing, life-changing parties every night and just enjoy myself without any pressure or questions or obligations to anyone. Complete and utter freedom without a worry in the world.
I can’t wait.
