Page 46 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
After giving me a house key, the landline telephone number, and – due to my firmly enforced no-hugs rule – many joyfully teary arm pats, Grandma reluctantly grants me leave (on account of good behaviour) for my run, with instructions to meet her and Peach at Cafe Lucius on Kensington High Street for lunch at one p.m. prompt.
My run is a pleasant, sunshiny affair on the fancy-ass streets of Kensington and Chelsea, and I’m chuffed to discover that around here I don’t have to keep my head down in order to avoid errant dog turds like I usually have to in Manchester. Silver linings.
I try not to think too much about what I’m going to be doing for the next month, the fact that I’m going to have to see the knob-prince Leo Frost again, how I now have to write twenty-thousand words in four weeks, or that when Grandma smiles she looks exactly like my mum. Instead I shove in my earbuds, turn up the Arctic Monkeys to full blast on my iPhone, and think about the money this project will earn and the freedom that could bring.
When I can run no more, I check the clock on my phone. Ten past one. Oops. I shuffle as quickly as I can manage, sweaty and breathless, to this Cafe Lucius. I spot Grandma and Peach sitting at one of the outside tables on the pavement. It must be about thirty degrees today but, as I approach, I notice that Peach is holding an umbrella over Grandma’s head. With her free hand she gives me a small, shy wave.
‘Oh, you’re here!’ Grandma says as I slump down onto a cast-iron chair beside them and catch my breath. ‘And perspiring rather heavily. Never mind, at least you’re here. Although, Jessica, you’ll do well to remember that being late is never, ever fashionable.’ She gives me a pointed smile.
‘What’s with the brolly?’ I say, unwrapping my earbuds from around my neck and plonking them onto the table.
‘The parasol protects Mrs Beam from the harmful rays of the sun,’ Peach tells me, as if it’s a normal occurrence for her to be holding a freaking parasol over someone’s head. I wonder how long she’s been holding it for. Her arm must be killing her.
‘Yes, a Good Woman’s skin must always be dewy, fresh and even,’ Grandma echoes. ‘The perfect chap will recoil from an ill-kept complexion.’
I snort. ‘A guy who palms you off because you’ve got a spot or two? Sounds like a twat to me. I love the sun, I do.’ I close my eyes, spreading my arms out and sighing happily as I bask in its soothing golden warmth. ‘And anyway, we have amazing science-y light-reflecting foundation nowadays, you know. Hides everything.’
‘A naturally clear complexion is the finest foundation,’ Grandma insists. ‘Such a lot to learn,’ she mutters to herself.
‘It’s only skin.’ I roll my eyes and take off my steamy glasses, cleaning them with a stiff linen napkin from the table. ‘I don’t know why you’re getting soput the lotion in the basketabout it.’
‘Ah yes, lotion is a very good idea.’ Grandma nods approvingly, missing my reference. ‘We shall moisturize you as soon as we return home.’
We?Is this moisturizing of me intended to be some kind of group activity? I don’t think I’m up for that.
Before I can verify her plans, a waitress comes out of the vine-framed cafe door and hands us thick cream menu cards.
‘Oh yes, the wine list,’ Grandma beams. ‘A bottle of my favourite vintage champagne is in order, I think. One must always celebrate the good moments.’ And then, as her eyes scan down the list, her nostrils flare.
I look at my wine list. Fucking hell, it’s expensive! From what Peach said, there’s no way Grandma can afford this: the cheque from Valentina won’t clear for another few days, and even then she’ll have to use that for this month’s mortgage. Her cheeks pinken slightly.
‘Gad, I really hate champagne,’ I say, casually handing my menu back to the waitress. ‘Do you guys mind if we don’t get any of that?’
‘Me too,’ Peach agrees fervently, catching on. ‘But I’d love some of the home-made lemonade, please.’
Grandma’s lips wobble. She looks down at the table for a moment before closing the menu with a sigh. ‘Oh, but of course I shan’t have a whole bottle to myself. Lemonade for me too, I suppose.’
‘Anything to eat?’ the waitress asks, pencil poised.
Each of us orders the cheapest possible dish – a garden salad for Grandma and Peach and a side order of hand-cut chips for me. The waitress gives us a thoroughly irritated look before clomping back off into the cafe.
Grandma inhales sharply and immediately dives into her handbag – a real Chanel by the look of the gold clasps – and pulls out a little leather notebook and silver pen.
‘Chop-chop then, we must get started,’ she says briskly. ‘Peach, you should telephone Mr Frost’s secretary right away to find out his schedule. We need to know his whereabouts in order to orchestrate achancemeeting between he and Jessica.’
‘Oh, don’t bother with that.’ I tap on my iPhone. ‘He’ll be here on Twitter – I can find out right now.’
‘Twitter?’ Grandma frowns. ‘Is that a telephone directory?’
‘No,’ I chuckle, showing her my phone. ‘Twitter is a social media site. Look! People update every few hours with their thoughts on the world, what their plans are, what they’re having for breakfast, pictures of animals they like the look of.’
She shakes her head in wonder. ‘How terribly self-indulgent.’
‘It’s right popular, Mrs Beam,’ Peach says as the waitress brings out our lemonade. ‘Martha Stewart is on Twitter, you know.’
‘Dearest Martha is a Twitter?’ Grandma looks confused. ‘Whatever for?’
I shrug. ‘It’s hard to explain why it’s so good. But it’s brill, trust me. Aha! Here he is. Leo Frost, see?’
