Page 76 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
Chapter Twenty-One
A Good Woman must always be enthusiastic. Even when faced with an unsavoury situation, it is always best to put on a happy face.
Matilda Beam’s Good Woman Guide, 1959
The next morning, Grandma is in an offensively brisk, go-getting sort of mood and fully expects Peach (pale of cheek and maybe still a bit pissed) and me (a complete shadow of a woman) to follow suit. Now that she’s agreed to clear out some junk, she wants us to tackle the hallway of doomimmediatelyand find all the things we might be able to sell on eBay.
On the one hand it’s great, because it means that I got through to her yesterday and we might be able to put off the bailiffs for a little longer, but on the other hand it’s completely shit, because Peach and I are experiencing a level of hangover that you can only cure by lying absolutely still for a long time while someone nice feeds you Fanta through a straw while making sympathetic mewing noises.
Ireallywanted to go for a run before starting any work – it’s the next best medicine after lying still all day – but Grandma insisted that all the running is probably making my calves bulky and mannish and that I should only exercise by doing gentle stretches instead. Which is bollocks. Gentle stretches are for losers. I love running and don’t plan on giving it up for anything or anyone, regardless of how muscular my bloody calves get. However, whereHow to Catch a Man Like it’s 1955is concerned, I promised I would stick to Grandma’s rules, so − added to sexing it up with Jamie – pounding the pavements is just another thing I will have to do in secret.
By mid-afternoon, Peach has vommed twice, I have dozed off once and we have, against all odds, managed to sort, label and photograph almost everything in the hallway. We’ve come across some absolutely cracking stuff, including three gorgeous copper pans, an antique Tunbridge chess set and loads of retro vinyl records. Apart from a silver pocket watch that belonged to Jack (which she cried over for twenty-five whole minutes and declared she would take with her to the grave), Grandma’s been fairly stoic about what we get rid of. I’m pretty impressed with how staunch she’s being about it. I do find it a tad odd that we haven’t discovered anything of Mum’s within the hallway junk – after all, she lived here for years. I don’t ask why, though, in case Grandma bursts into uncontrollable tears again, something I can barely handle even without the cracking headache and dicky tummy.
When it’s time to start getting ready for tonight’s date with Leo, I’m dusty, super pukey and beyond shattered. I’ve never done this much work on a hangover before. It would be so much easier if I could just cancel this evening’s ‘date’, have beans on toast for tea and go chill with Peach and Mr Belding on the sofa instead. In this pitiful state, I haven’t a clue how I’ll manage to stay awake, never mind remember the endless Good Woman tips Grandma has been trying to drum into my brain. Thankfully, Leo, being the hollow-hearted scoundrel that he is, probably won’t care if I’m a little quiet; he seems the type to like his women pretty and passive. I’m banking on the theory that as long as I look hot and act super impressed and interested in everything he has to say, he won’t notice that I am rougher than a badger’s arse, and I’ll get through the evening with no major issues.
* * *
The Strand is bursting with busy people leaving work, ties loosened, hair askew and crumpled suit jackets slung over their shoulders as they hurry down the busy London street. I could not look more out of place, for tonight Grandma has dressed me in an extra-scratchy charcoal pencil skirt and a dusky pink blouse which has been super tightly tucked into the skirt to show off my squidged-in waist. My hair has been curled into a soft femme fatale wave which keeps falling over my left eye and getting in the way. Choking me is a knotted dark pink and violet Liberty print neck scarf, and the worst thing of all is that Grandma has made me wear a fucking hat. It’s some little mauve cap affair with a tuft of white lace at the front. The whole get-up is tight and uncomfortable and really hot (in the temperature way, not in the sexual way).
I arrive at Woolf Frost early and, with a tired and wholly self-pitying grumble, push open the massive doors to the building. The agency offices are huge and ‘old money’ − all oak panelling, low-lit lamps and ugly burgundy chesterfield sofas. I wander over to the reception area, where the young receptionist is gathering her belongings, ready to leave work. I betshe’soff out with her mates to do brilliant fun activities like a normal twenty-something girl on a Friday night.
‘I’m here to meet Leo Frost,’ I explain, stifling another yawn. ‘I’m a bit early.’
The receptionist rolls her eyes. ‘Third floor, second door on the left,’ she reels off in a monotone as if she’s given these instructions to many a woman here to meet Leo Frost after work. I wish I could tell her that I’m notreallyone of his conquests, that I know so much better than the trail of women whose hearts he has already stamped upon − I hate the pitying look she’s throwing me.
‘Cheers,’ I say instead.
Outside his office, I take a big breath, try to ignore the increasingly queasy feeling in my stomach and fix a fascinated smile on my face. It’s Lucille time. Yay.
I knock gently on the door.
There is no answer.
I knock again, a bit harder.
Still no answer.
I push open the door and step into a large, bright office. The walls are plastered with framed print adverts, all of which I recognize from magazines and billboards. There’s a definite theme to Leo’s work – it’s all hyper macho, with lots of shadowy, mechanical tones and bold, aggressive typography. That ridiculous Drive Alive ad takes centre stage above an expansive walnut desk, the diamond bikini woman pouting vapidly down at me as if she’s wondering why the sweet hell she forgot to get dressed this morning. Frost isn’t at the desk but sitting at a tilted graphics tablet facing the sunny open window. His broad back is to the door, a pair of silver Bang & Olufsen headphones squashing down his dark ginger quiff. He’s furiously moving pencil over paper and tapping his feet against the floor in time to whatever music he’s listening to. He has absolutely no clue I’m here.
‘Hiiii,’ I say as loudly as I can while trying to keep my voice soft and soothing.
Of course he doesn’t hear me. I wander over towards him and my eyes widen in surprise as I spot what he’s drawing. It’s a delicate line sketch of an old man in a rickety fishing boat, head resting wearily in one hand.
Wow.
I’m reluctant to admit it, but it’s actually really great; completely different from all the framed crap on the walls.
Hmm. Maybe I should let Leo know I’m here before he turns round and catches me mere inches away, silently watching over him in my hat.
‘Hello, Leo?’ I tap him lightly on the shoulder.
He jumps at my touch, pulled from his reverie, and drops his pencil on the wooden floor where it lands with a clatter.
‘Fuck me! Oh … yes, Lucille. Hi.’ He recovers himself, pulling off his headphones and quickly arranging his face from fearfully surprised to devilishly confident. He takes in my outfit with a mildly amused but definitely lusty glance. Gross.
‘Sorry to interrupt your work,’ I coo. ‘I got here early and the receptionist told me to come right up. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ he responds smoothly, waving my apology away. ‘Would you like a swift drink before we head to dinner?’
