Page 18 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
Ordinarily I’d tell a woman this messed-up over some idiot to get a grip. She’s crazy for putting herself into a situation that, essentially, puts an open target on your heart. But this particular woman has the potential to, you know, make our dreams come true and she’s clearly very damaged by this shithead, so I keep my mouth shut and try to empathize.
Valentina clings onto her champagne flute, clearly getting into her ranting stride. ‘Just last week he was in theObserver, spouting about how he’ll never get married, how he sees himself as an “intrepid explorer of women”.’ She makes air quotes. ‘What does that even mean? I simply cannot believe I wasted six weeks on him. I could have been doing something far more fulfilling with my time. Six weeks! I might have learned a new language in six weeks! German. Ya! Instead I let him do this − ’ she points at herself − ‘to me. He’s a bloody horror show.’
‘That is shitty,’ I say.
‘How awful,’ Summer agrees.
‘Gosh. I’m seriously sorry, guys.’ Valentina takes out a compact mirror and checks her perfect make-up. ‘I had no clue he was going to be here. His Twitter feed said he’d be in New York, so it’s really thrown me to see him out of the blue.’ She grabs another drink from a passing waiter and guzzles it back.
‘Well, if it makes you feel any better, I really don’t see what the fuss is about. I don’t think he’s hot at all,’ I declare, finishing up my drink.
Valentina and Summer goggle at me.
I examine Leo Frost once more to see if I’m missing this supposed ‘magnetism’. But I’m not. He’s lanky and pale, and his coppery-coloured hair is arranged into a quiff halfway between Danny Zuko and Don Draper. His eyes are pure green and crafty-looking, and his nose is too long. Why haven’t his friends explained to him about Fake Bake? Seems to me that they’re not really his friends at all.
‘I think he’s super hot. Looks just like Tom Hiddleston,’ Summer says reluctantly. ‘Sorry, Valentina.’
Hmmm. I suppose he does have a Captain America jawline, and what I suspect underneath the navy suit is a pretty nice bod. But he doesn’t look like Tom Hiddleston. Notthatmuch, anyway.
Valentina hands me another flute of champagne. ‘No thanks,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m, er, not much of a drinker.’
Summer raises her thick fashiony eyebrows.
‘You may as well celebrate, sweet Jess,’ Valentina says to me with a tipsy wink. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon have an official reason to.’ She gives a little hiccup.
Whaaaaaat? Is she saying what I think she’s saying? That theSummer in the Citybook is pretty much a done deal? I do an excited face at Summer, but she doesn’t see it − she’s busy waving at some blonde guy in sunglasses she seems to recognize.
‘Oh, go on, then,’ I chuckle, taking the glass from Valentina. ‘Justonemore couldn’t hurt.’
* * *
It’s a matter of pride for me that I can find a way to have fun in most situations: tram queues, blogger meet-ups, smear tests can all be turned into entertaining social occasions with enough booze and the right banter. But I’m sorry to say that there is zero fun to be had at this book launch. Nil. I feel like I’ve been here for many days and it’s never going to end. There have been approximately fifteen speeches by literary people totally sucking up to Davis Arthur Montblanc, and to be quite frank his new book doesn’t sound very entertaining at all. It’s calledThe Beekeeper, but it isn’t even about bees, just bees as a motif for capitalism. Pah. This is not my crowd. To make matters worse, Valentina is one hundred per cent the only person in this room to appreciate the leopard-print onesie. Everyone else is looking at me like I’m planning to either mug them or offer them class B drugs.
I’ve thought about slipping out and going back to the hotel: order some room-service pear cider, chat up the cute, twinkly-eyed concierge, see if he can get me late-night access to the Jacuzzi, but Summer’s having such a great time telling everyone about her Barbie-head necklace and the time Anderson took her to the MTV movie awards and James Franco said she had ‘presence’.
And in any case, if I left early it would reflect badly on us, especially since we haven’t officially signed any book contracts yet, despite Valentina’s exciting hints.
Also … I’m a bit drunk. I know, I know. I didn’t mean to be. I truly didn’t. But people kept showing up with champagne, and the champagne, although shit-tasting, is free, and there was nothing else to drink and I was thirsty and this party really is a snooze-fest – there isn’t even any music playing! And somehow, two glasses of champagne turned into seven glasses of champagne, and all the excitement of the day means I’ve forgotten to eat anything more substantial than this morning’s delicious beef pasty. Anyway, I’m all in now, no point in stopping.
I look around for the smarmy ginger guy who had the whisky. Leo Frost. I wonder if he’ll getmesome whisky.
Oh, there he is, standing by a table piled high with copies ofThe Beekeeper. He’s deep in a conversation with three women. I say conversation: the women are all talking over one another while he basks in their adoration. And he’s now drinkinga beer! How on earth did he get a beer? I would so love a beer right now. Ooh, I wonder if he knows where they’re keeping the pear cider too? He’s obviously part of the inner circle.
I get up from my seat and wobble tipsily on my new purple high heels. Shuffling across the Berkeley Rooms, I reach Leo Frost’s little crowd and nudge my way in.
‘Hello, everyone! How’s it going?’ I say with a friendly smile and a wave.
The group give me a cursory glance before their eyes slide away, uninterested. They go right back to their conversation.
Oh.
‘Yah, I just loved that Mercedes campaign,’ one of the women gushes to Leo Frost. ‘Drive. Alive. It really called to me, you know? I saw it inVogueand bought that car the very next day. I had to!’
‘Genius,’ a slim, smart-looking Indian woman agrees. ‘Just genius work. How on earth did you—’
‘Drive Alive?’ I scoff with a slight hiccup. ‘You mean that advert that’s up on every bloody billboard I see in my life? You are kidding? That advert sucks. It sucks so hard. Come on, guys. We can be honest. I won’t tell anyone.’ I push my glasses up my nose with my forefinger. ‘Am I right or am I right?’
The group abruptly cease talking and glare at me as if I’ve just announced I’m going to nick allThe Beekeepercopies and use them for toilet paper.
