Page 107 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
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Leo snuggles up to me in one of the Electric Cinema’s back-row sofas. At first I feel awkward sitting so close to him, the lengths of our bodies squished up against one another, but with one of my favourite films playing and Leo’s arm slung round my shoulder, I eventually relax into it. During ‘Cool Rider’, Leo runs his hand over my thigh, sparking off some very particular feelings in my lady business.
I do not like Leo Frost. I do not.
I grab hold of his hand tightly so that at least I know where it is, but then he moves his thumb across my palm in a very suggestive way and that feels awesome too.
I do not fucking like Leo Frost.
I spend the rest of the film twitchy and on edge about the fact that I’m squashed up next to Leo in the dark, and nervous about the moment when I have to kiss him and the worrying suspicion that I might actually like it.
* * *
When the end credits roll, I jump up from the cinema sofa in relief. Leo suggests we take a pleasant stroll through nearby Holland Park, and I agree wholeheartedly. A nice boring walk in the daylight. Much safer than a cosy, low-lit cinema.
On the way to the park, Leo dives into a nearby off-licence, where he picks up a bottle of Chianti and a tube of plastic cups. The sun is still quite high in the sky, and so I flip open my parasol and twirl it around as we wander into the park’s entrance. I spot a family of squirrels darting about near a huge oak tree, and a baby one scrambling up the tree with a nut so big that it keeps dropping it. We laugh, take the mick out of the squirrel and mosey past the young families and couples enjoying the last dregs of the day’s sunshine.
‘So,’ Leo says brightly as we walk side by side down a tree-lined path. ‘Tell me more things about you, Lucille.’
Fuck! With everything that happened with Jamie last night, and Grandma being upset today, I totally forgot to ask about what my fake job should be. Shit. I can’t fudge this again!
Think, Jess. What the chuff would a well-to-do girl from Kensington with impeccable manners and enough time to wear a hairstyle that takes over two and a half hours to prepare do for a job?
‘I’m . . . a socialite!’ I blurt out.
Why? Why didn’t I just think on it a little longer. Fuckingsocialite?
‘Gosh, really?’ Leo raises his eyebrows sharply in astonishment. ‘I haven’t heard of the Darling family.’
Shit. Heknowsall the socialites in London. They’re probably all his mates. He knows I’m not one of them.
‘Oh, the Darlings are based in Lancashire,’ I say as confidently as I can. ‘Farmers, you know. I—’
‘Farmers? My best friend Alistair is in farming! What kind of farming?’
‘. . . Cows?’
‘Alistair breeds cows! Sadly, he’s just had to put his favourite one out to pasture. She was getting a bit old.’
Hmm. Something about that rings a bell. The thing Leo said about ‘getting rid of a fat old cow’ at the funfair.
‘Was the cow fat too?’ I ask.
‘Yes, actually! How did you know?’
‘Oh, um, it’s common.’
Oh my God. Leo was not being sexist at the funfair. He was talking to his friend about anactualold fat cow. I peer at him, eyes narrowed.
‘So what do you enjoy doing with your time, Lucille?’ he asks.
‘Oh, well, I like to read,’ I reply. Which is true. ‘And . . .
Dancing, pear cider, copping off, rock concerts, Pot Noodles, stand-up comedy, sexy times, Netflix, partying like a champ . . .
I run through my list of favourite things, but none of my real hobbies are very socialitey at all. What the hell do socialites like to do? I squint and search my brain for ideas. And then I get a vision of the end pages in one of Summer’s celebrity tat magazines. Socialites are always hanging out at fancy events for charity.
‘I’m . . . a philanthropist.’
