Page 9 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
Chapter Four
When meeting new female friends, be friendly and interested, but not too interested as this will cause suspicion.
Matilda Beam’sGood Woman Guide, 1959
The Southbank Press lobby is so fancy: a mixture of majestic London architecture, with its high ceilings and intricate cornicing, blended with modern minimalist decor. The walls are vast and white and lined with framed images of book covers, each one lit by soft, glowy uplighting like in an art gallery. It’s busier than I thought it would be, with people bustling about in and out of lifts and lounging on huge sofas reading sheaves of paper and biting biros insightfully. On one wall, a huge cinema-sized TV screen blasts out glossy promotional videos of famous authors talking about their books.
‘Shit on a stick,’ I whisper as I spot the recent Booker Prize-winning Davis Arthur Montblanc hurrying into the lifts. He was on BBC’sQuestion Timejust a few nights ago. And now he’s here! ‘Look, Summer! It’s Davis Arthur Montblanc. I didn’t know the Southbank Press published him!’
Summer rolls her eyes and pushes me along the expanse of lobby. ‘Of course they publish him. They publish practically everySunday Timesbestseller in the country.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Will you stop swearing?’
As I watch the electronic doors whoosh closed behind Davis Arthur Montblanc, the magnitude of where we are hits me. Blimey. This is a Real Thing. Potentially the big time. A swarm of excitable butterflies make themselves known in the pit of my belly and the sudden blast of nerves somehow reminds my body to start sweating again. Stupid massive coat.
Oh no. I’ve just had the most shitty thought. What if I sweat onto the desk in the meeting? Onto an important manuscript? Oh. My. God. What if I sweat onto Davis Arthur Montblanc’s award-winning manuscript? Jesus-God, no.
‘Are you absolutely sure I shouldn’t take the coat off?’ I ask Summer as a droplet of perspiration slides off my forehead and trickles its way down my nose.
‘Yes, I’m sure. Not in that ridiculous dress. You’ll make a horrible impression.’
I protest a little but keep the coat on − because Summer is the fashion genius and I wouldn’t know a Louboutin if it were flung at my head − and frantically fan my crimson face as we reach the reception desk.
‘Good afternoon,’ says a friendly-looking young woman in a crisp, cream cotton shirt. ‘Welcome to Southbank Press. How may I help you?’
‘Hello there,’ Summer says with her usual supreme confidence. ‘Summer Spencer here for Valentina Smith.’
‘And Jessica Beam too. I’m also here to see Valentina Smith.’
Summer throws me her withering look which, I’m peeved to admit, is a great deal more withering than my withering look.
The receptionist nods curtly, hands us plastic ‘Guest’ lanyards and instructs us to take a seat while she calls down Valentina Smith.
‘Right,’ Summer says once we’re perched on the plush purple sofas. ‘We’re going to storm this, OK? We have to. Anderson will rue the day he decided to dump a bestselling author!’
I imagine Anderson is probably poolside in LA right now, cheerily snorting cocaine off a model’s teeny arse cheek, thinking about how mega loaded and successful he is. If the topless selfies Summer texts to him when she’s had a few haven’t got his attention already, then I’m not sure a book will. Poor Summer.
‘They won’t be able to say no,’ I agree in my most confident voice. ‘We’ve got a mega pitch. And a great, unique lifestyle website. We’re basically a fucking dream team, Sum. Practically the … Cannon and Ball of fashion-slash-lifestyle blogging. No, wait, Cannon and Ball haven’t worked as a dream team comparison for years. Torvill and Dean? No. Er … Kenan and Kel? No … um … ’
‘Shush.’ Summer opens up her yellow Mulberry purse and pulls out the well-worn picture of the time she met her idol, Alexa Chung, at a fashion show in New York. She inhales and breathes out extra slowly through her mouth before closing her eyes.
‘I call upon the power of Chung to see me through this important life moment. To inspire me to be my freshest, most stylish self. To help me to rock it in a super-hot way. To allow my star power to rise to the surface and shine brightly like a super, super star.’
She opens her eyes, strokes Alexa Chung’s luminous cheek and carefully tucks the photograph back into her bag.
‘Fuck. I’m a bit nervous,’ I huff, picking up an abandoned copy of theGuardianto fan myself with.
‘No swearing, Jess!’
‘Shit, did I swear again? Shitballs, sorry. I don’t even know I’m doing it anybloodymore. Maybe we should get a swear jar in the flat. But not a jar, something nicer. A swear mug? A swear vase? Some cool kind of vessel, anyway − what do you th—’
‘It’s fine. Shush. Just be extra careful in the meeting.’
An intern appears and indicates that we should follow her into the lifts.
Summer smiles, a steely look in her big brown eyes. She leans in close.
