Page 85 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
Chapter Twenty-Three
There are few things that a good night of sleep cannot remedy. Life always looks better in the morning!
Matilda Beam’s Good Mother Guide, 1959
Grandma is so wrong about things being better in the morning. I didn’t believe it was possible to feel any worse than I did last night, but I absolutely do. I’ve been up with bellyache for most of the night and now I’m groaning in bed while Grandma fusses about, taking my temperature and bringing me sachets of dehydration powdery stuff every hour.
Peach is worse too. We’ve been texting each other from our respective sick beds, wishing all sorts of evil things onto the owner of that dodgy kebab house. Namely, that he eats one of his own bastard kebabs.
I really hate being unwell. Being unwell means you have to stay still. And when you stay still there are no distractions, no fun, and all the things you don’t want to think about start to seep into your brain and take over. I was never ill, growing up. There’s simply no time to be poorly when you have a poorly mum to look after.
I try to distract myself by going online. I open my Facebook app to see if anyone, anyone at all, is wondering where I am, how I am or what I’m doing. But there are no messages or posts at all for me, just a friend request from Peach Carmichael, which I accept. I look at my newsfeed. There’s a status from Betty in Didsbury − she’s planning Henry’s birthday party. And, oh, there are a few photos from Amy Keyplass – all her newly painted skirting boards. I scroll down further and see that Summer has posted a number of particularly passive-aggressive status updates.
Summer Spencer
The cheek of particular people is unreal. #fuming
Summer Spencer
You give and you give and some people just take. Have learned my lesson. #movingonup #blessed
Summer Spencer
thinks that certain people will get what’s coming to them. Karma’s a bitch, folks. #noregrets #karmachameleon #thekittenismine
With an exasperated eye-roll, I log out of Facebook and swipe onto Google, where I idly type in ‘Leo Frost’. To be honest, I’m a tiny bit freaked out by what happened last night. Leo wasn’t at all what I thought he’d be like. The entire night was pretty unexpected. Yes, he’s a twonk in general – he was snobbish and horrible atThe Beekeeperparty, and I overheard him being completely sexist at the retro fair – but the whole poetry thing, the fact that he wasn’t a dick when I puked up, his git of a dad and that gorgeous drawing . . . I didn’t, you know,hatehim.
Google displays a few articles about Leo Frost the advertising wunderkind and his rise to the top, under the helm of the powerful and ruthless Rufus Frost, how he’s just been nominated for a London Advertising Association award − one of the youngest people to ever be nominated. I already read those fluff pieces when I first researched him a few days ago, so bypass them and check out the numerous gossip sites, where Leo is regularly spotted at cool bars and events and hanging out with celebrities. I flick onto Google images. There are a few pics of his print adverts – stark, steely artwork for cars, golf clubs, beers, man stuff!, but mostly it’s paparazzi shots of Leo with various modelesque-looking women on his arm. Oh look, there’s one of him with Valentina. They’re leaving a club and she’s kissing him on the cheek while he grins arrogantly into the camera.
The way his lips are curled in this photograph, his cupid’s bow sneering upwards … He didn’t seem at all like that last night.
Maybe he’s got an evil twin.
Maybe not − this isn’tSunset Beach.
Confused, I press my phone icon and dial Valentina’s number.
After three rings, she answers.
‘Jess? Is that you?’
‘It’s me.’ I sit up in bed, prop a pillow behind my back and take a sip of water.
‘Jess, my sunshine pudding, howareyou? How goes my pet project? I’m so excited about it.’
‘Um, all right, I think … I was actually calling because I went on the first proper date with Leo Frost last night.’
‘Hold on, I’m at lunch, it’s noisy, let me just head outside.’
I hear her apologizing to whomever she’s with, and then the sound of her heels clip-clopping across a wooden floor.
‘I’m back. Go on. Tell me. How did it go? He’s a fucking terror, isn’t he? So charming. Such a prick.’
‘Well, that’s kind of why I’m ringing, Valentina. Leo Frost is a goon, obviously, no diggity, no doubt, but he wasn’t, well, he wasn’t a total dick. He wasn’t what I was expecting at all … ’
‘He schmoozed you with fancy dinner and expensive wines, I expect? Did he bring you extravagant gifts? Exotic flowers? Artisan chocolates? Tell you your face is sweeter than honeydew? It’s easy to be swayed by those things, believe me, but—’
‘Well, no, that’s the thing. He didn’t do any of that. He didn’t take me to dinner. He seemed like he was going to, but then he changed his mind and took me to a poetry night instead. At some little coffee house.’
