‘Hi, Jessica!’ breezed Natalie, her assistant, hanging up her phone and giving her a wave. ‘Thanks for that! And love your sunglasses! So retro!’ She stopped, and screwed her eyes up slightly. ‘Oh! Have you been crying?’
The answer, of course, was yes, that she’d bawled her eyes out earlier when her boyfriend had dumped her by Post-it. But that was unlikely to be the reason for her now red skin.
‘No, just had a facial,’ she said, trying to smile but feeling her skin ache.
‘Ooh, you do look … fresh …’ Natalie’s smile froze slightly as she looked more closely at her boss’s skin. ‘Was it one of those vampire ones?’
‘Vampire?’ It seemed the world of beauty was getting a whole lot more dangerous.
‘Yeah, you know. They scratch up your face and then inject some serum made from your blood …’
‘Ooh, no!’ Jessica screwed up her face (at great personal cost) and shook her head. ‘No, I don’t fancy that at all – too squeamish.’
‘Oh. Great for ageing, though. I read an article that called vampires “the secret to eternal youth”,’ Natalie added, helpfully. ‘So what did ya get? Microdermabrasion?’
‘No, it was a … LifeForce facial.’
‘Oh. So what’s one of those?’
‘Just some sort of, erm. Serum stuff. You know.’
‘Right.’ Natalie’s attention turned back to her phone. ‘Oh, I’d better take this – but you look great!’ she lied, giving her boss the thumbs-up. She pressed the phone to her ear – no mean feat with her erratic curls.
‘Serum, eh,’ said Candice, plonking down a black double-decaf, root-roasted clean non-coffee coffee onto Jessica’s Michael Bublé coaster. ‘Never heard it called that before!’
‘So you did know … um, about the special ingredient?’
‘The sperm? Well, yeah. I read up on it. But I’d already said yes and, like, I thought …’ Candice trailed off, her cheeks flushing.
Jessica was being ridiculous, she realised. It wasn’t as if she’d been assaulted in a farmyard. This was, after all, a Genuine Beauty Phenomenon.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m all for trying new things!’ she tried to breeze.
‘Yeah,’ replied Candice, obviously relieved. She looked at Jessica, her blue eyes as innocent and wide as a Disney character’s. ‘Plus they did say it was the elixir of youth,’ she added, with an apologetic smile.
Elixir of youth? Elixir of hoof, more like.
She’d have to find a way to make it seem palatable, though, in the write-up. She looked at her face, still clearly red even when reflected in her computer screen. Good thing she’d taken an ‘after’ shot before she’d gone to town with a Brillo pad. Because it would have to be a positive review if she wanted the freebies to keep rolling in.
‘So you said Hugo had called?’ she ventured, changing the subject.
Hugh was a designer and artist who’d looked so promising when she’d taken him on a few years ago, but had promptly turned from an upbeat watercolour painter and model-maker into a brooding sculptor creating classics such as Death in a Restaurant and Dead Man in Street – a far cry from the delicate models and gentle watercolours he’d been producing when she’d seen his initial promise.
Jessica knew that she probably ought to ditch him as a client if she no longer believed in his work, but something made her hang on. Thoughts of his initial promise, perhaps? Or some sort of loyalty that he’d been prepared to let her represent him when she was a one-woman band with barely any experience?
With a heavy heart, and a fishy smell wafting towards her nostrils whenever she moved, Jessica dialled.
‘Hugo speaking.’
‘Hi, Hugo, it’s Jess,’
‘Hi, Jess!’ he cried, with uncharacteristic cheerfulness. ‘I’m so glad you’ve called …’
‘OK …’ She braced herself for what was coming next. The only time Hugo sounded upbeat in the last six months had been when he’d called her mobile – blind drunk – at 3 a.m. to tell her he’d had a breakthrough. ‘Empty toilet rolls!’ he’d exclaimed. ‘Just think: an everyday item, but I think (and don’t tell anyone) they could be used to make models! Jessica, it’s a revolution!’
‘I wanted to ask if we can meet up next week sometime? I’d like to discuss my work.’
‘Right, no problem. In what way?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean, what thoughts did you have?’ she said.
‘Well, to be honest, I’ve moved the work in a different direction. I think my dark phase is drawing to an end. Jess,’ he paused dramatically, ‘I’ve had an epiphany!’
‘You have?’
‘Yes! Oil paints! I’ve never realised before how, well, how versatile they are. I mean, the other day I, well, I won’t go on. But I really do feel excited about my latest work. You know the competition – the Independent Artists’ Award?’
Jessica had emailed Hugo a link about a competition recently. It was a small award with a bursary and some gallery space awarded to the winning artist. ‘Yes, you were thinking of entering Drowning Man on Fire, weren’t you?’
She remembered the day when he’d called her over to see his new work two years ago. She’d been quite excited. She’d always loved his soft watercolours, simple charcoal sketches and occasional sculptures of birds.
But when he’d whipped off the black cloth covering his new work, what had confronted her was the head of a man fashioned from clay, his tongue lolling and some sort of rubber ‘water’ dripping from his hair. The rest of the man’s figure had been engulfed in copper flames, leaving only the ghastly head visible.
When Hugo asked if she approved, she’d been so shocked that she’d said yes. (Although she had enquired later whether – in an unconnected way – he’d had any hard knocks to the head recently.)
‘I’m so glad,’ he’d said, grabbing her hand in his and tearing up slightly. ‘I am so, so glad.’
Another lie she was trapped in, she realised.
‘Anyway, Mathilda, you know, the woman from next door?’ Hugo continued. ‘Well, she came over and gave me some oil paints – someone had given them to her as a gift and she didn’t want them. So I thanked her … but didn’t think anything of it. I mean, I always thought oil was such an old-fashioned medium – far too clunky for anything truly beautiful.’
‘Yes?’
‘But in the middle of the night … Jessica, I was inspired! I leapt up and began sketching, naked as a baby. And, well, the result is just …’ he trailed off, too dazzled by his own talent to finish the sentence.
‘That sounds great.’
‘Anyway, I rejigged the entry form and dropped it off this morning.’
‘You have?’ Jessica felt her heart sink. ‘Already?’
‘Yes! And I really feel that this could be an exciting time for us all!’
‘Well, that’s great.’
It was hard not to be a little infected by his enthusiasm.
Just spoke to @ArtyHugo #HugoHenderson about his new direction. #sotalented @IndependentArtists
‘Was that really Hugo?’ Candice said, turning around from her screen, brow furrowed.
‘Yes.’
‘But … you’re smiling!’
‘Yes. He seemed, well, happy!’
‘Has he finally finished Death in an Office?’
‘No, apparently, he’s moving into a more colourful phase now: oil paintings.’
‘Oh, that’s good. I mean, well, I know how enthusiastic you were about his sculptures, but art’s so, so … individual, isn’t it, when it comes to taste?’
‘Yep.’
‘Just when you think you know someone, eh. You just never know what’s going to happen next!’
‘Yes,’ replied Jess, more flatly now, thinking of Dave’s note. ‘People are full of surprises.’
She’d call him, she thought. She needed him home.
Fit at 30
REVIEW:
Style and Style, LifeForce Facial
If there is ever an elixir of youth, it makes sense that it comes from a life-giving product. So when I heard that the LifeForce facial used bull sperm (hand-sourced) to enrich the skin and stimulate repair and rejuvenation, I thought I’d give it a try.
The semen was cool and rather refreshing, and after a facial massage, I was left to absorb all the nutrients from this rather unusual beauty product for twenty minutes.
At the end of the process, the remaining semen was removed with a damp cloth, but my therapist Lucy told me that it was better not to wash the skin for twenty-four hours to benefit from the full results.
As the semen is refrigerated, there is no smell. And two days later, I must admit my skin feels fresh, taut and more youthful than it did before.
I’d thoroughly recommend it! 10/10
COMMENTS
Anonymous:
Thanks for this review. It’s really great to read that the treatment doesn’t smell – I was worried about that. I’ve booked myself in for next week – wish me luck! Steph.
Mrs B.
I usually love reading your online diary, Jessica. But this is in rather poor taste. Is it appropriate to be writing about such private things on the internet? Anyway, I thought I’d ask about next week – is it OK to bring profiteroles? Or are you going to make one of your special desserts? Your father wanted me to ask whether you’d mind avoiding prunes this time – they do tend to make him a little gassy I’m afraid. Let me know. Mum.
Gail
Hi Jess! Just found the blog and love the tips on healthy living! Am going to try the vegan brownies recipe. Not sure about the above though Maybe one day!!!! Lol.
Chapter Four
#HomeEarly #ownboss #winningatlife
‘I’m home!’ she cried, as she walked through the door. Before she remembered that there was no one there to hear her.
Grabbing her phone from her pocket, she dialled Dave’s number again. And was rewarded – again – with the sound of his answerphone. ‘Hi, it’s Dave. If you can’t get me, I’m probably at the gym.’
‘Hi, Dave,’ she said, trying not to sound annoyed. ‘Can you call me when you get this? About, well, obviously, it’s about the note. I …’ she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror – dirty hair, hastily pinned back with strands escaping and framing her still-red face like spider legs. ‘I think we need to talk about it, don’t you?’
She checked Dave’s social media but there was nothing unusual there. Earlier, he’d uploaded a mirror selfie from the changing room wearing his favourite, red workout thong, leg up on a bench. Nothing out of the ordinary. #gluteousmaximus
She automatically flicked on the coffee maker (bean to cup, with milk frother) and made a half-hearted, low-fat, soy cappuccino with cinnamon top. And a black de-beaned coffee, for good measure. Placing the pair on the table, she took a quick slurp of the cappuccino, then rummaged in the cupboard for a couple of cookies, one of which she crumbled artistically onto the saucers. Then she whipped out her phone to take a snap. ‘Chilling with OH over a caffeine-free fix, with home-made, non-sugar oat-cookies,’ she typed. ‘#goodtimes #soymilk #beantocup #fitness #relaxation.’
It hit her then how much had changed: yesterday she’d have written at least six more hashtags. But today she was really struggling.
And she might have even baked the cookies rather than faking out with a pack of Anna’s favourites – full of sugar and not an oat in sight.
#heartbroken
‘Loving my new bean-to-cup coffee machine,’ she tweeted for good measure. ‘First one I’ve found that froths #soymilk properly.’
The machine had been a blogging perk – she got to keep it, provided she waxed lyrical about it on social media from time to time.
Just as she finished the hashtag, the phone rang and her screen was flooded with a picture of Dave – one she’d taken on their holiday last year, lying on the beach in tiny trunks. Those tight little swimming pants had driven her almost mad with desire at the time. ‘They’re a specialist brand,’ he’d told her, ‘designed to lift and sculpt the glutes.’ What he’d failed to mention was the significant amount of padding around the crotch area, which she’d noticed when she’d hung them on the line. (Although it had explained why, when someone’s frisbee had hit him in the groin earlier that day and bounced into the sea, he’d barely broken his stride).
‘Hello?’ she said, feeling nervous.
‘Jess,’ he said. ‘You called?’
As if he had no idea what it was about! ‘Yes, about your note.’ Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked, annoyed with herself.
‘I tried to tell you, you know? But you always had your head in the computer.’
‘What? Tell me what?’
‘Come on, you can’t seriously think it’s been going well?’
‘It was going … OK …’ she trailed off.
‘Face it, Jess. You’re not interested in me any more.’
‘I …’
‘You used me as a personal trainer … a … a … gym gigolo! Now you’re off exercise, it’s like we never spend any time together. I mean, when’s the last time you asked me something when you didn’t need the answer for your blog?’
‘But the blog is—’
‘I tried to get your attention. I bought sexy new outfits. But nothing! You’ve changed! You’re comfort eating – tempting … tempting me with carbs. Do you know,’ his voice went slightly squeaky and she realised he must be close to tears. ‘Do you know how hard it is for me to have mashed potato paraded in front of my face after everything I’ve been through?’
‘I didn’t exactly—’
‘And bread!’ he squeaked. ‘Bread, Jessica, BREAD!’
‘I’m … sorry.’
‘What has happened? Where has my gym Jessica gone?’
‘Hey! I’m still me!’ She wasn’t exactly a couch potato, let alone a mashed one. She still tried to keep as healthy as possible. And surely there was more to their relationship than comparing biceps and urging each other on. ‘Just come home and we can sort it out!’ She heard her voice – and it wasn’t the voice of a ‘successful businesswoman on an upward curve’.
‘I can’t, Jess. I guess I’m on a journey and it’s like you’re no longer part of it.’
‘But—’
‘And, you know. It’s not like we fit together, is it?’
‘What?’
‘Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but you know … You’re looking a bit …’
‘What?’ Her tone was harder, daring him to say it.
‘You’ve got a bit, you know. Fat.’
His face disappeared from the screen as she hung up.
Before she put the phone down she noticed a new glut of notifications on her Instagram icon. Twenty-four new followers since lunchtime.
Once that would have made her happy.
Fat? She looked at her midriff feeling horrified. She’d noticed some of her outfits getting a little bit tighter, but she was still in her size 10s.
Her midriff looked back at her accusingly. You’ve neglected me! it seemed to say. Perhaps Dave was right? He made all the effort and she’d done nothing to keep him interested.
Before Jessica could decide how to react, the sound of Anna’s key in the lock sent her scampering to sweep up the forbidden crumbs before she was exposed as a biscuit snaffler.
Fat, she thought again, this time a bit more defensively as Anna busied herself in the hallway. She’d put on half a stone at most. If that was really enough to put him off, then she was better off without him. Wasn’t she?
Grahame had at least had the common decency to ditch her for someone else. Being du
mped was hard enough, but having a partner who’d had his head turned by someone with a ‘large intellect’ (as he’d put it) was one thing. How was she meant to feel when someone left her for no one? When someone was literally saying that she wasn’t even better than nothing?
Plus, at least Grahame had had the guts to tell her to her face. Cooking her a meal for when she got home from work, and even waiting until Anna was snoozing to drop the bombshell and zoom off in his Audi. ‘It’s just not working,’ he’d said. ‘And, Jess, I’ve met someone else.’
The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur. Her lasting memory was of him ducking out of the front door, covered in spag bol.
She picked up the phone to ring Bea but put it down again. Her best friend hadn’t been very happy with her last time they’d spoken. ‘You never ring me any more!’ she’d complained. ‘You’re on Facebook all the time, but you never seem to get my messages.’
Jessica and Bea had been friends since the age of eight and had always shared everything. But she could see now how much she’d allowed herself to drift away a bit in recent months – what with the gym, her business and Dave, there hadn’t been much time.
She could hardly contact her now, could she?
By the time Anna entered the kitchen, Jessica was sitting at the table, innocently sipping her (pretty disgusting) cinnamon-topped drink, slightly flushed from a mixture of guilt and exertion after her rushed cookie crumb-cleaning attempt (the way she’d probably looked as a teenager when Mum burst in her bedroom and Jack – her then boyfriend – had just dived into the wardrobe).
‘Hi, love,’ she said, trying to look normal.
‘Hi.’ Anna narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘What’s going on?’
‘What do you mean?’ Did she look upset after the phone call? She’d teared up a bit, but was pretty sure her mascara was in place.
‘For starters, you didn’t ask me how I got home.’
‘I know how you got home!’ she said defensively. ‘Jenny’s mum – I organised it earlier?’ Jenny was Anna’s sometime best friend – they’d stay behind for drama club and their mums would alternate lifts.
Everything is Fine: The funny, feel-good and uplifting page-turner you won't be able to put down! Page 3
