Page 117 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
I grimace. ‘Wouldn’t that be a bit . . . third wheel.’
‘No, no. I just need a buffer. Youhaveto come. I reckon I’ll mess everything up on my own.’ She starts flapping her hands at her face as if to cool herself down – she’s having a full-on panic. ‘Say you’ll come with me, Jess. I might never get this chance again! Please? Please!’
Oh God, she’s totally losing her nerve. She can’t back out now.
‘Look.’ I quickly pat her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you, I don’t know, why don’t you come to the ball? I’ll see if Leo can get a couple of extra tickets. That way, you have me there as a buffer, but it’ll be a less awkward group situation.’
She swallows hard, her breathing starting to slow down. ‘OK . . . That would work. Are . . . are you sure?’
No. I’m not. But I don’t know how long I’ll be hanging around here for, and if she chickens out on Gavin now, she might never get to have sex, ever. I can’t be responsible for that. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.
‘Yeah, it’s no worry,’ I assure her brightly. ‘It’ll be nice and busy and much easier than a one-on-one dinner-date with the guy.’
Peach takes a deep breath and gives me a small, shaky smile. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jess.’ She grabs my hand and sandwiches it between both of hers. ‘I’m so, so glad we met. Because of you, things are finally starting to get better.’
On the outside I cross my eyes at her in a ‘don’t be so soft’ kind of way, but on the inside, for the third time in three days, I get a happy tingling feeling. I think this is what they call the warm fuzzies.
Jessica Beam, you need to get a grip.
* * *
Something terrible is happening. Since kissing Leo Frost, it’s like the floodgates have been yanked open and all the mushy feelings have been coming thick and fast, like projectile spew, but even more gross. On Monday I let Grandma hug me again, and on TuesdayIhugher.I have many long conversations with Peach about her upcoming date with Gavin at the ball (Leo was totally cool about them joining us), and I actually listen to her anxieties about what they’ll talk about and give her advice about sex, like, you know, a real friend would. If I wasn’t already worried that my hard shell is softening too much, Grandma and Peach point out my slightly gooey mood at dinner on Wednesday night.
‘Gosh, if I didn’t know how much you despised Mr Frost, I’d almost believe you were a little giddy about him!’ Grandma jokes breezily, to which I choke on a pea and splutter, ‘No,youare,’ before angrily stabbing my fork into the chicken breast.
All these untypical behaviours only reinforce the fact that I’m obviously in an increasingly dangerous situation here. Which makes it all the more vital that I keep my head down, getHow to Catch a Man Like It’s 1955over and done with as quickly as I can, and leave this place before thefeelingsget any worse. Because if I let things fester I’ll have no armour left at all, and before I know it I’ll become one of those people who cry over John Lewis ads or develop an interest in unicorn-related paraphernalia, or fall for a man who knocks you up, then shatters your heart, leaving you depressed for the rest of your life until you simply can’t deal with it any more . . .
So in the days running up to Saturday and the London Advertising Association Awards ball, I try my absolute best to focus and be the very model of a perfect vintage woman. I revise the Good Woman tips, use Pond’s cold cream on my face every single night, avoid Jamie downstairs like a criminal avoiding capture – though I’m on my bedroom balcony at Thursday lunchtime when I spot him outside the clinic with a pretty girl who I assume to be Kiko, and that makes me feel a bit weirded out − I barely go running at all, practisewaltzingwith Grandma, and I even manage to write ten thousand words of the book. When I send them to Valentina she responds with an email that simply says:
I smell a bestseller.
Which I show to Grandma, who, as expected, bursts into noisy, happy tears.
So everything is going exactly according to plan. And soon I’ll be done with all of this, loaded, and safely on a plane to somewhere lovely and warm and exotic and far away.
On my own.
Which is definitely for the best.
Definitely.
* * *
All week long, Grandma busies herself tailoring one of her old ball dresses for me to wear on Saturday. She does this super privately, in the manner of Dexter preparing a kill room. Apparently she ‘wants it to be a lovely surprise for me’. As if I could ever get giddy over something as sappy as a freaking ball dress.
Except that, to my dismay, I do.
On the afternoon of the LAAA ball, I’m chilling on the bed, intermittently playing bejewelled blitz, writing words for the book and Googling ‘help − how to stop sudden and unwanted mushy feelings seeping in?’ when Grandma knocks on my bedroom door.
‘You may enter!’ I call out, speedily deleting my search history and closing the lid of my laptop.
Grandma bustles in, holding a cream padded clothes hanger that displays the most gorgeous piece of clothing I have ever seen. Even more beautiful than my sequinned ‘Juicy’ knickers. I think I actually gasp out loud at the sheer beauty of it.
The ball dress is palest ice blue, with a silk, strapless, boned bodice that flares out onto a layered tulle skirt, stopping at mid-calf. At the gathered waist there’s an intricate band of silver lace, so subtly embroidered that you can’t see it unless you’re up close. It’s fucking amazing.
I dart over and touch the silk bodice − it feels cold and smooth beneath my hands, like the jumpsuit I was going to wear toThe Beekeeperlaunch. People like me don’t get to wear dresses like this. People like me don’t care about wearing dresses like this! But it’s an incredible dress. The kind of dress Summer would fist-fight someone to get her hands on.
‘It will look wonderful with the strawberry blonde of your hair,’ Grandma beams. Then she glances at her watch. ‘Which we should perhaps make a start on now. We haven’t a great deal of time, and itmustbe perfect. Chop-chop.’
