At least, I tell myself, I haven’t ruined anything. I haven’t said anything to Charles or Mark. I can still get married, still have a companion, still live in Chester House …
I open our door. And stop dead.
Janet is sprawled over the sofa, shaking with sobs. There’s a huge bottle of gin right next to her. She looks as if she’s had a quarter of it already. The smell of the alcohol hits me like a punch in the face, mixing with my hangover, but I ignore it. I rush right over and put my arms round her.
‘What happened?’
‘Ish my agent,’ she says. ‘He shays he doeshn’t want me any more.’ And she dissolves into a fresh round of heaving sobs.
‘Stay there,’ I say. I pick up the gin bottle and empty it down the sink. Then I run downstairs and out to the Boots across the road, and pick up loads of bottles of freshly squeezed orange juice. Janet loves freshly squeezed orange juice. And I get some more Shapers sandwiches and some fizzy mineral water with elderflower and some bubble bath (lavender – she needs to be soothed). Then I race back up to our flat. On the way up the stairs I notice I’m taking them two at a time, and I’m not even out of breath. Am I getting fitter? And why am I thinking about myself?
Janet’s exactly where I left her. I put some ice in a tall glass and pour the elderflower water over it.
‘Drink this,’ I say.
Janet takes a sip then pushes it away. ‘It’s sweet, I can’t drink thish,’ she wails. ‘I’m fat, thash why I’ve got sacked. Fat an’ old an’ no one wantsh me!’
‘It’s diet,’ I say. ‘No calories. Look!’ I shove the bottle under her nose. ‘Now drink!’
Obediently she chugs it down. I force her to drink four huge glasses of water until she rebels and says she won’t have any more.
‘Orange juice then,’ I plead, unscrewing the cap and waving the plastic bottle temptingly under her nose.
‘Definitely calories,’ she says.
‘Just a few and full of vitamin C. Which makes the skin smooth and the – the eyes bright,’ I say. ‘It’s been proven by scientific studies.’
‘Hash it?’ gulps Janet.
‘Yes, and it also cures wrinkles … and … freckles,’ I say. Janet hates her minute sprinkling of freckles.
It works. She drinks almost the entire bottle of juice, I have the rest, and then she manages to eat two low-cal prawn sandwiches. Eventually she seems to calm down a little bit, the water works, she’s not so drunk. But she still seems incredibly miserable.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I called Marcel about this gig,’ she says tearfully. ‘First thing this morning. I was all ready. I’m never late, always professional, you know? Not like some girls.’
‘Who was it for?’
‘Harpers and Queen,’ she says. ‘It was my first big national shoot for a while. But when I called in, Marcel said they’d decided to go with another girl. Laura Boynton. D’you know her?’ she asks, pathetically. ‘She’s the one with that lean athletic look and the cropped brown bob. She’s nineteen. She’s so hot right now.’
‘That’s only one shoot,’ I say sympathetically.
‘I tried to say that. To put a positive spin on it,’ says Janet with forced brightness. ‘Make lemonade out of lemons. I was modelling my millionaire mentor. That’s J-Lo. I don’t know her but I feel I do spiritually. What would J-Lo do? That’s the motto of the Jay-Me Crew.’
‘Ahm, yes.’
‘But Marcel said, “We have to talk, Jay-Me,”’ she sobs. ‘And then he tells me that I’m a very beautiful girl, but the market’s got different needs right now … and … some other stuff … and he couldn’t be my agent any more.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘I said maybe somebody else at the agency could handle me. And he said he was speaking for the agency. He told me they’ve got a new policy and they only represent girls over twenty-three if they’re exceptional.’
‘Oh, Janet,’ I say, hugging her.
‘He said, “To be honest, you’ve been living on borrowed time, Jay-Me. Maybe you should think about retiring. Or try one of the specialist agencies for older women,”’ she wails. ‘It was so humiliating.’
‘But … couldn’t you do that? There are model agencies for girls over thirty, aren’t there? And you’re not even thirty.’
‘I will be soon,’ says Janet darkly. ‘Thirty. Imagine.’
‘That’s not eighty.’
‘Might as well be. Take up with one of those agencies? I’ll be modelling mumsy skirts and high neck blouses for the UKfashions! catalogue,’ Janet says, breaking down completely.
I pass her some Kleenex.
‘OK, look,’ I say, when there’s a ten-second break in her crying. ‘Look, Janet. You are beautiful.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are,’ I said. ‘Incredibly beautiful. If you don’t fit into the model mould any more, so what?’
‘I’ll have to live on the streets,’ Janet says. ‘I’ll starve. There aren’t any charities to help old models,’ she adds plaintively.
‘I don’t think Help the Aged starts at twenty-eight, no.’
‘I suppose I could get married. D’you think Ed would still be interested?’ she asks hopefully. ‘Even if I’m not a model any more?’
‘I’m sure he would, but I wouldn’t bring up marriage,’ I say hastily.
‘Why not?’ she demands.
‘Erm, because you haven’t actually dated for a month yet,’ I suggest.
‘Oh yeah,’ she says, dejectedly. Her shoulders slump again.
‘But why does that have to be your only option?’ I ask. ‘You’re a clever girl. You’ve got personality. Why is that the only thing you could do?’
Janet sighs. ‘Never done anything else.’
‘Do you have any qualifications?’
‘Oh. Those,’ she says, as though retrieving a distant memory. ‘Yes. I’ve nine GCSEs and two A-levels.’
‘That’s great!’ I say enthusiastically. ‘What are the A-levels in?’
‘Pottery and art history.’
‘OK,’ I say, carefully. Obviously the career as an English teacher or international merchant banker is out the window. ‘Are you good at making pots?’
‘No,’ says Janet, tears trickling out of her eyes again. ‘I only got a C. I kept failing my practical, my pots came out all wrong, and I tried to say they were conceptual pieces but they just marked them as wonky.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Well, we’ll think of something. You can start a whole new career. I bet you can be really successful and make loads of money.’
‘D’you really think so?’
‘Absolutely,’ I lie. ‘How much money do you have right now?’
‘I don’t like to look at my bank statements,’ she says.
‘Maybe we should start. Why don’t you get them?’
Janet gets up a bit unsteadily, goes into her room, and comes back with a sheaf of unopened Barclays statements.
‘Which is the newest one?’
‘That one.’
‘OK, open it and see what it says.’
Nervously, she rips it open. ‘Oh, that’s not so bad,’ she says. ‘Five thousand and thirty-eight pounds and sixty-two pence.’
I breathe out. ‘There you go. You’ll be fine while we find you a new career.’
‘What does OD mean?’ she asks.
‘Overdrawn,’ I say. ‘Does it say OD by that figure?’
‘Yes,’ she says, miserably.
‘So you’re actually overdrawn by five grand,’ I say carefully. ‘Well, not to worry. We can fix it.’
‘How?’ Janet says.
I have no idea! How can she pay off a five-thousand-pound overdraft with no job and no prospects? But she’s looking at me hopefully with those big brown eyes. I’ve got to do something …
‘We can call the bank,’ I suggest. ‘Get you on a payment plan. And I can lend you a bit of money. To start.’
‘Don’t be silly, Anna,’ says Janet kindly. ‘You haven’t got any money. You spent it all on those clothes.’
‘I had a promotion, remember? I’ve still got a bit left.’
‘The rent’s due next week,’ Janet says, also miserably. ‘I thought something was wrong when I went to the ATM machine last week and it ate my card.’
‘It did what?’ I ask in horror. ‘How have you been managing?’
‘These!’ Janet says brightly. She fishes her purse out of her bag and shows me a dazzling array of credit cards in gold and platinum. ‘They’re brilliant!’
‘Janet,’ I say. ‘You must have … at least fifteen.’
‘Oh yes, but I’m very responsible,’ she says. ‘I do open their letters.’
‘That’s a good start,’ I say encouragingly.
‘And I’m not behind on any of them,’ she says proudly. ‘Look. I’ll show you.’ She goes to her room and returns with another huge pile of envelopes. But, as she said, all of them have been neatly split open. I read through a few.
‘But almost all of these are maxed out,’ I say.
‘Not these three, they’re new,’ she says, displaying a gold visa and two platinum Mastercards. ‘There’s loads of space on these ones.’
‘But on this one,’ I tap an Arsenal FC card, and Janet hates football, ‘you owe three and a half grand.’
‘But I only have to pay twenty-nine pounds,’ Janet says brightly. ‘See? It’s easy. You only pay a bit.’
My headache is starting to come back.
‘So you’re making minimum payments on all the cards,’ I say, ‘and when each card maxes out you just get new ones?’
‘They send me new ones because I’m not behind,’ Janet says proudly.
‘And you pay the minimums … out of the bank?’
‘Well, it ate my card,’ Janet pouts, ‘so now what I do is I get cash advances from the new cards and pay off the old ones with them! I’ve loads of space. My limit’s six thousand on this one.’
As it sinks in, for one wild moment I feel glad. Isn’t that awful? But I had been beating myself up because Janet and Lily always go to the best hairdressers, the most expensive restaurants, the chic little boutiques, and I couldn’t afford any of them. And now I realize, neither could Janet. I wasn’t so totally out of it before.
But then I feel really mean for thinking that. Poor Janet, she’s clueless. She’s got no idea what she’s got herself into.
‘Um, can I have that calculator?’ I ask. She passes it over, and I tap in the figures.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘And now can I have your purse?’
She passes it over. ‘What are you doing?’
I take it into the kitchen. ‘Nothing,’ I say, fishing around in the drawer for the scissors. OK, there they are.
‘Nooo!’ Janet shrieks. She rushes into the kitchen as I start cutting up all her credit cards, arms flailing at me. But I fight her off. ‘What are you doing?’ she shrieks. ‘I need those!’
‘I’m leaving you this one,’ I say. I hand her back the gold Visa with the six grand limit.
‘What the hell did you do that for?’ Janet yells. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘Janet,’ I say, ‘You owe these credit card people twenty-one thousand pounds.’
She blinks.
‘Your monthly minimum payments come to eight hundred pounds, give or take,’ I say.
‘So, I’ll have paid them all off in two years,’ Janet says defensively.
‘No. That’s just the interest. Your balances won’t actually go down. You could pay eight hundred pounds a month for your whole life and you’d still owe the same amount.’
‘But – but that’s robbery,’ Janet says faintly. ‘They’re just thieves.’
‘And with the bank overdraft, that’s twenty-six grand. And you’ve rent of seven hundred a month, so you need to find one and a half grand every month after taxes and that doesn’t include any bills or food,’ I say.
‘I don’t … I can’t…’ Janet says. Her eyes are tearing up. ‘I don’t know how this can be happening. Oh my God, Anna. What the hell am I going to do?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I tell her. ‘But I’ll figure something out.’
What the hell. At least this is distracting me from my own pain. I put my arms round Janet’s slim body and give her a huge hug.
I do what I can. I call some debt services and negotiate a lowered interest rate, and get Janet on a payment plan. Same thing with her bank. They won’t give her any more overdraft, but they have stopped threatening legal action.
‘It’s a start,’ I say.
‘No it’s not,’ she says, about to dissolve.
‘It is,’ I insist.
‘What about the rent?’ she asks unhappily. ‘I can’t pay! You know what Lily’s like.’
Yes, I do. ‘Maybe you could move out,’ I suggest. ‘Get somewhere cheaper.’
‘But I wouldn’t be with you two,’ Janet says. ‘You’re my friends. And this is Zone One.’
‘I don’t think you can live in Zone One any more,’ I say gently. ‘You’ve got to look for somewhere cheaper. Maybe a share in Zone Four. We can get a copy of Loot…’
‘Oh my God,’ says Janet, starting to cry again. ‘I’ve been dumped because I’m too old and too fat, and now I’ll never make any money again and I’ll have to live in Neasden!’
‘We need to find you a job,’ I say. ‘Let me just think, OK? And maybe you could borrow some money from your parents. For a couple of months.’
‘I had a quarrel with my mum,’ Janet says. ‘She didn’t like Gino.’
‘See? She sounds like an excellent person,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you give her a call?’
‘I’ll look like a stupid failure,’ Janet says. ‘My dad told me I shouldn’t be a model. And now he’ll be right.’
‘Just call them,’ I say. ‘And don’t worry about anything. We’ll fix it all.’
‘You know, you’re really amazing, Anna,’ says Janet wistfully. ‘I wish I was like you.’
She wishes she was like me? That’s good for a laugh.
‘But you’re gorgeous,’ I say, self-consciously.
‘You look pretty good too, these days,’ Janet says. ‘And you’re so clever and funny and everybody likes you.’
‘Well, everybody likes you, too. And I know you’ve done a great job with me. I know I look all right now,’ I say gratefully. ‘But still, I’d only look like you in my dreams.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Janet says. ‘If you’re clever and make a lot of money you can make yourself beautiful. But if you’re beautiful and not clever you can’t really do anything.’
* * *
Lily comes home at 3 p.m. after a successful Company shoot, in a good mood because she’d been picked for solo shots out of the group. I’d like to say she’s sympathetic and understanding. But I’d also like to be able to do the splits. Neither seems particularly likely right now.
‘But I don’t understand,’ she says, screwing up her face in mock concern. ‘Why did Marcel say that? Oh, he only mentioned your age? Not your weight problem? Older women agency, I suppose you could try,’ she says. ‘But there are lots of girls going for those spots, aren’t there? I don’t think you can rely on them accepting you, to be quite honest. Maybe if you went on a fast. For two weeks. And have you considered plastic surgery?’
‘Lily, pack it in,’ I say quietly.
‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand the modelling world, would she, Janet? It’s all about beauty. Types of beauty,’ Lily says, taking a quick look at her porcelain skin in our living-room mirror. ‘You have to work very hard if you want to keep your bloom. Janet really hasn’t, so she’s got to expect this sort of thing.’
‘I’m warning you,’ I say.
‘It’s partly your fault, Anna,’ says Lily to me severely. ‘You’ve changed Janet. You’ve been making her eat chocolate and crisps. And I’ve caught you both drinking alcohol. You’ve pushed
her along this path to ruin.’
‘You’re a loony,’ I say.
‘Oh really?’ Lily demands. ‘What about her men? You’ve got her going out with this Ed loser.’
‘He’s not a loser!’ Janet says fiercely.
‘He doesn’t have any money,’ Lily says. ‘And now you’ve got no job, who’s going to look after you? Huh?’
‘Maybe she can look after herself.’
‘Nobody will hire her, Anna,’ Lily says patiently. ‘It’s too late for her. You should let me find her somebody to help. Since I’m seeing Henry now, maybe I can hook you up with Claude Ranier,’ she says. ‘He might still be interested.’
Janet looks pale.
‘She’s not interested,’ I say flatly.
‘She doesn’t have that many options,’ says Lily. ‘She’s not like you, marrying a millionaire. The rent costs money, maintenance costs money. You can’t keep up the right look without certain things,’ she says, examining her manicure. ‘A beautiful girl is like a thoroughbred racehorse. Her upkeep costs money.’
‘It does,’ Janet agrees, looking guiltily at me. ‘That’s why I had to buy those things. Be seen in the right places. You know.’
‘Image is everything,’ pronounces Lily.
‘Janet’s going to be moving out,’ I say to Lily. ‘She’s had some financial troubles and she can’t make the rent.’
‘What?’ Lily snaps. ‘You can’t do that! It’s due next week. You have to give notice.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Janet says humbly. ‘I’ll look for somewhere else right away.’
‘That’s not good enough!’ Lily screeches. ‘You owe me that money!’
‘I’ll pay you back,’ Janet pleads. ‘I’m – I’m going to call my parents.’
‘I can’t wait around for you,’ Lily says nastily. ‘This mess is your own fault and you’re just going to have to pay me, that’s all.’
‘But I’ve no money. The machine ate my card.’
Hearing this, Lily pauses for a second, going rather pale. Then her eyes narrow.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘You can pay me in assets, can’t you?’
‘Assets?’ I repeat.
‘Yes. Assets.’ Lily marches into Janet’s room and flings open her wardrobe. ‘Look at all these clothes! You’ve got your Dolce, your Chloe, your Voyage, your Armani.’
The Go-To Girl Page 34
