The Go-To Girl Read online

  Oh bugger. The dentist feeling comes back. How the hell am I going to tell him his book sucks? I should be really brave and tell him the truth, like a real executive.

  ‘I’m still working on the novel,’ I lie brightly. ‘I want to let it sink in.’

  That was much easier. Obviously I’ll tell him. Later. When I’ve had time to think of how.

  ‘We’re going to go out again this week?’ he asks, gingerly.

  ‘Oh yes, absolutely,’ I say, deflating.

  I wonder unhappily how long I can wait before I have to shag him. I hate sex. Most women hate sex, don’t they? Real women, I mean, not pin-ups like Lily and Janet. It’s just so embarrassing. Why do men insist on looking at you even though you’ve got a bit of a tummy and would prefer to do it in the dark?

  And I personally don’t think even Lily and Janet like it. They go out with such losers. It’s probably as much of a chore for them as it is for me. Everybody pretends sex is so great, but it’s dreadful. It’s something you have to do to keep your boyfriend, as Brian kept reminding me. I wish I lived in Victorian times. And wasn’t a poor prostitute, obviously.

  It could be to do with the fact I don’t care too much for any of the men I’ve been out with. None of them made me feel excited and edgy like Bruce Willis or Brad Pitt. Or even Mark Swan. But those aren’t real men, those are fantasy figures, and not very likely to go out with me, are they? I know they’re real, technically. But they might as well not be. The memory of Mark Swan in that shop comes back to me, standing there, all leonine, strong, hugely tall, mountain-craggy.

  I shake it off, and remind myself how lucky I am that Charles is talking to me. Hell. Charles is a fantasy date for a girl like me! Even sent me nice, proper flowers to the office. Back in the Brian days I’d have been dying for that kind of attention. I pull myself together, try to pay attention.

  ‘Well,’ Charles says. ‘Actually, I’m having a bit of a house party this weekend. Been planned for yonks. Up in the country.’

  ‘At the mysterious Chester House?’ I ask, then hearing his sulky silence move to cover. ‘I mean, Chester House, that sounds lovely.’

  ‘Everybody’s going to be there,’ he says. ‘Binky and Jacob and Charlotte and Olivia.’

  ‘I don’t know those people, Charles,’ I remind him gently. He means well, after all.

  ‘Oh. Right. Course. Anyway, Vanna and Rupert will be there,’ he says. ‘Loads of people, actually. All staying over. Dancing, Kedgeree and champagne in the morning. Jolly nice to have you there too,’ he adds, hopefully.

  The door opens behind me and Lily walks in, going straight into her bedroom.

  ‘Well, I – I suppose so,’ I say. I can’t get out of it, can I? Quick, what’s a good excuse?

  ‘Hello?’ says a voice. It’s Lily, picking up the extension in her bedroom. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say coldly. ‘Didn’t you see I was on the phone?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ she lies coolly. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ says Charles.

  ‘Oooh, is this the famous Charles Dawson?’ Lily asks. She’s dropped her voice several octaves to that breathy, sexy smoker’s throat thing she does.

  ‘Hi. Ya,’ says Charles, warmly. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Do you mind?’ I ask.

  ‘This is Lily, Anna’s flatmate,’ says Lily. ‘My friend Janet and I live here too. We can’t wait to meet you. We’ve heard so much about you.’

  ‘Oh, well. Come along on Saturday,’ Charles says. ‘Taking Anna to a house party. Plenty of room. Love to have you!’

  ‘They’re busy that day,’ I say instantly.

  ‘No we’re not,’ says Lily, equally instantly, ‘and we’d love to come. Thanks so much for the invite, darling!’

  Bastards!

  ‘See you all on Saturday night, then,’ Charles says, sounding pleased as punch. ‘Drinks at seven, dinner at eight. Dancing starts at nine. Black tie, obviously.’

  Obviously.

  ‘Bye, Anna,’ he says.

  ‘Bye,’ I say gloomily. ‘See you Saturday.’

  I slam down the phone and march into Lily’s room. I am just about to commit physical violence on her when the door opens and Janet comes in.

  ‘Hi,’ Lily says. ‘Great news! Charles Dawson just invited us to a super house party. At Chester House! All black tie. I bet there’ll be loads of country gents there. Just swimming in money and no idea how to spend it.’ She laughs. ‘Well, we can help.’

  Janet shrugs. ‘I don’t want to go.’ She looks so down.

  ‘Why not?’ Lily demands.

  ‘They sent me away from a booking today,’ Janet says. ‘Told me I had the wrong look. All the other girls were eighteen or nineteen and under a hundred pounds.’

  ‘You really must do something about your weight,’ says Lily severely. ‘It’s your own fault. No discipline.’

  ‘My booker wouldn’t take my calls this afternoon,’ Janet says, tearily. ‘They kept saying he’d have to call me back, but he never did. He thinks I’m a failure.’

  ‘Have you considered a facelift?’ Lily asks.

  ‘Oh, shut up, Lily,’ I say. ‘Janet’s only twenty-eight.’

  ‘Only,’ says Lily, scornfully. ‘That’s ancient.’

  Janet rubs her eyes, then blows her nose to cover it.

  ‘This is so stupid,’ I say. ‘Janet, you have to come to the party.’ The two of them there is my worst nightmare, and now I’m trying to guilt her into coming? ‘I need back-up,’ I say firmly, ‘and Lily’s coming, so you can’t leave me alone with her.’

  ‘You’ve got Charles, at least he fancies you,’ Janet says.

  ‘Oh, come off it,’ I say. ‘When those…’ I want to say chinless wonders but that’s not very nice, so I settle for, ‘country boys see you, their eyes will bug out of their heads.’

  ‘There are going to be tons of society men there,’ says Lily. By this, she means rich.

  ‘And most of them are from very good families,’ I add temptingly. By that, I mean titled.

  ‘Maybe I’ll come,’ Janet says. ‘If I can lose five pounds by the weekend. I can go on that watermelon diet again.’

  ‘Too much sugar,’ Lily says.

  ‘You think a plain fast?’ asks Janet, worried. ‘Just the vitamin pills and water?’

  Lily shrugs. ‘Some of those vitamin pills are five calories each,’ she warns. ‘You’d better check the labels.’

  ‘Oh, what a crock,’ I say, impatiently. ‘You’ll eat like a normal person or you can’t go. Same goes for you, Lily.’

  ‘We’re already invited,’ says Lily, tossing her glossy platinum mane.

  ‘And I can get you uninvited,’ I threaten. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’

  ‘OK,’ Janet says. ‘To be honest, I’ve had a rubbish day and I don’t think I could take a fast.’

  Lily looks at her pityingly, as if she has no self-control, but backs off when I give her my death stare. I pass her a bottle of champagne.

  ‘Here, open this,’ I say. ‘Make yourself useful.’

  ‘Oh, champers,’ says Lily. ‘Not vintage,’ she adds, disappointed. ‘But it’ll do. What are we celebrating?’

  ‘I got a raise,’ I say proudly, and tell them all about it. Janet seems genuinely delighted, and Lily pretends to be. Which is about all I can expect. I eat the korma and they both decline (good, there isn’t enough to go round) but they agree to eat the peaches. And one and a half bottles of booze later, all three of us are eating salt and vinegar crisps.

  It’s funny watching Lily struggle with herself over the crisps. She wants another packet. I don’t think she’s eaten crisps in five years, every time she bites one she looks as if she’s having an orgasm. Desperately she gets up and goes into the kitchen and returns with a tired-looking stick of celery.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ I ask.

  ‘Celery’s great,’ says Janet earnestly. ‘It takes more calories to eat it t
han it gives you.’

  ‘It’s weight loss in a stick!’ Lily says, biting into it. ‘You should try some,’ she adds to me.

  ‘Looks vile,’ I say, eating another crisp. ‘Dairy Milk?’ I ask, unwrapping the bar and waving it under her nose.

  Lily looks as though she might faint. But she’s a strong-willed girl. ‘See you two later,’ she says, getting up and draining her champagne. ‘I’m going out,’ she adds, grabbing her coat.

  ‘Where?’ asks Janet.

  ‘Anywhere,’ says Lily, slamming the door.

  ‘I’ll have some Dairy Milk,’ Janet says once the coast is clear. ‘It’s not like anybody’s ever going to hire me again anyway.’

  I break off two squares and give them to her and then, wrestling with myself, put the bar away. Because she’s only going to eat it all. And then feel sick in the morning. Plus, for Janet, eating a family-sized bar of chocolate might cause a mental breakdown and then where would I be?

  ‘So, the party,’ I say, trying to cheer her up.

  ‘What are you going to wear?’ she asks me.

  I shrug. I don’t care what I’m going to wear, I only care what Janet’s going to wear. I’m going to be humiliated whatever I put on, aren’t I?

  ‘My black dress with the pearls,’ I say.

  ‘You always wear that,’ Janet says.

  ‘It’s suitable,’ I explain. ‘Anyway, what are you going to wear?’ Maybe I can find somebody for Janet. Fix her up. She’s actually a nice girl, under all that beauty.

  ‘I haven’t decided,’ she says, then fixes me with a stare. ‘But I’m taking you shopping on Friday. And to the hairdresser. And we’re going to get you made up.’

  I feel a flash of anger. ‘Give over, Janet. What’s the point of that?’

  ‘There’s a point,’ she says. ‘You’ll see.’

  I shake my head and reach for another packet of crisps. Why can’t she just leave me alone? I’ve been supportive to her, haven’t I?

  ‘Why don’t you have another peach instead?’ Janet says.

  ‘Bloody hell, I can’t believe this,’ I snap. ‘I’m being so nice and sympathetic to you…’

  ‘It’s not about beauty,’ Janet lies. ‘It’s about health. I mean, you’re an executive now. Maybe you should think about changing your diet just a tiny bit. For more energy.’

  I put the crisps down sullenly. She’s ruined them for me now, anyway.

  ‘You like that new guy at work, right?’

  ‘Eli Roth. Yes, he’s nice,’ I say, a bit lamely. ‘I mean, obviously I don’t like him in that way. My friend Claire really fancies him. But he’s cool.’

  ‘Well, you want to be like him, right?’ Janet asks encouragingly. ‘All successful and making loads of blockbuster movies with big stars?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. I’d also like to be able to leap tall buildings at a single bound.

  ‘Sooo, you should model him,’ Janet says earnestly. ‘Look.’ She goes to our sparse bookshelf (all I ever read is scripts, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Lily’s illiterate, apart from fashion magazines). ‘I adore this book. Take Control! Take Over!’

  I look at it. It’s very glossy and American, with a woman in workout gear giving a big thumbs up on the cover. As well as the workout gear, she’s wearing a huge diamond necklace, like she forgot to take it off on her way to the gym.

  She looks very rich and thin and healthy.

  ‘What does it say?’ I ask. You might as well give it a chance, mightn’t you?

  I’d better come clean. Despite my scorn for Brian, I do have a secret addiction to self-help books. I’ve got most of them. All the famous ones. I am an expert on feeling the fear and doing it anyway, the seven habits of highly successful people, and so forth.

  Of course I never put any of their tips into practice, but I will. Just as soon as I have some time.

  ‘Here,’ Janet says, flipping through the pages. ‘“The Seventh Success Secret, Model Your Mentor! By now you should have acquired your very own millionaire mentor,”’ Janet reads slowly. She looks up. ‘Is he a millionaire?’

  ‘Several times over,’ I say airily.

  ‘“There is no need to spend years perfecting your own strategies,”’ Janet continues. ‘“You can piggyback by using hers or his! She or he has gotten to where you want to be! Do not be afraid to ask questions! Imitate your millionaire mentor in every way! Think like them! Dress like them! Be like them! By consistently following her or his actions, you too can gain her or his results!”’

  ‘Hmm,’ I say, all excited. I love discussing my career, now it looks as if I might have one. It makes me feel all giggly, like I was thirteen again.

  Is it possible some of his success could rub off on me?

  ‘Maybe there’s something to this,’ I exclaim.

  ‘What does he look like?’ Janet asks. ‘Is he full of energy?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I agree. ‘He’s tall. And he’s got dark hair and dark eyelashes. And he wears these black suits which pick out his eyes.’

  ‘Married?’ asks Janet, interested.

  ‘Girlfriend,’ I say.

  ‘Oh well,’ she says. ‘They all do. Anyway, what is his body like?’

  I blush. ‘What a question! How should I know?’

  ‘You haven’t shagged him in the broom closet yet?’ she teases. I shake my head. ‘Oh, sorry, you needn’t look so po-faced about it. I know you’re mad about Charles,’ she says. ‘I’m just asking, can’t you see if he’s fit and healthy?’

  ‘Of course he is, he’s Californian.’

  ‘There you go, then.’ Janet takes an exultant swig of champagne. ‘You should try to be fit and healthy. Just to model him.’

  I look regretfully at the salt ’n’ vinegar crisps.

  ‘But I’ll never be skinny,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to eat celery. And drink hot water with lemon in.’

  ‘Baby steps,’ Janet says. ‘Slice the salami. You could just do a little. More peaches fewer crisps.’

  ‘They are delicious, though,’ I point out.

  ‘They are,’ agrees Janet. ‘Tell you what, there are only two packets left. If we have one each we’ll have eaten them up and then there won’t be any temptation left.’

  ‘It’s the healthy thing to do,’ I concur.

  6

  I wake up the next morning feeling a bit fragile. You wouldn’t call it a full-blown hangover, but you wouldn’t call it bounding out of bed to greet the day, either.

  Groaning for some water, I stagger into the bathroom and cup my hands under the tap. Then I climb into the shower.

  As the water is sluicing down over me, rinsing away the shampoo, yesterday comes back to me. The best day ever! I’ve got Mark Swan. And then there was what Janet said.

  As I step out of the shower, swathing myself in my huge bath sheet – I bought it so I’d never have to see any part of my own naked anatomy first thing in the morning – I suddenly decide to do something different.

  I actually examine myself.

  This is too weird. I’ve spent years not looking at myself, except for a quick check in the mirror to see I’ve no lipstick on my teeth. In fact, I have elaborate and well-tested avoidance methods. And now here I am, facing the grim truth.

  And it is quite grim.

  There I am. Am I fat? Depends how you define it. I may not need reinforced floors to walk on or a crane to winch me from room to room, but there’s that big tummy …

  I look at my tall frame, my big, strong hands. You can’t see my feet from here, but there’s my nose, and then my hair which is plastered wetly around my face, ready to be combed through. My skin is really pale, but not in a porcelain way, in an ‘I stay inside all day and never see the sun’ type way.

  I’m just not very attractive, all round.

  I do have my good points. My bottom isn’t bad and I have nice, strong legs. I don’t hate my arms either – that’s from lugging around all those scripts.

  Part of me says what it always
says. And I always listen. The part that says, well, since you’ll never be pretty, you might as well eat whatever you like and dress invisibly. Nothing will ever make you look good. But this morning, there’s another part of me that wants things to be a bit different. Because they are different. I’ve got more money. I’ve been promoted. Kitty believes in me.

  I would like to model Eli Roth. I would like to be just like him, except a girl. And I bet he doesn’t guzzle huge packets of Dairy Milk and salt ’n’ vinegar crisps all day. He probably eats tofu and drinks wheatgrass juice.

  Oh, it’s ridiculous, says voice no. 1. You’re not going to eat tofu!

  And of course I’m not. But maybe I’ll just … experiment, I think, guiltily. Guilt because I’m actually thinking I could make a change, which is obviously stupid. Anyway, for a laugh, perhaps I’ll try to cut back a bit. Just slightly.

  * * *

  ‘Exciting, innit?’ asks Trish, when I arrive to pick her up. She’s got her long, blond hair braided into a sleek plait, and she’s picked out a silvery shirt with a black pleated skirt, stacked Maryjanes, and spider-web tights. It’s a very disturbing look, very hot sixth former. I can just imagine Kitty’s reaction to seeing her like this. Or Mark Swan’s. Next to her, I feel about as feminine as Lennox Lewis.

  But Trish is genuinely thrilled. She’s doing her patented Tigger impression, bouncing up and down like a child on the way to EuroDisney, making it impossible for me to hate her.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she says. ‘You’re a bloody genius, you are.’

  ‘The deal’s not done yet,’ I remind her.

  ‘But it will be,’ she says with total confidence. ‘They’ve got Greta Gordon and Mark Swan. Did you see Suspects?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Fuckin’ great film. What’s he like, then?’ She breaks out a cigarette and strikes a match. ‘Fag?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Great for appetite suppression,’ she says, kindly. ‘Is he a moody genius?’

  I grin. ‘I don’t know about moody. But he’s a genius all right.’

  ‘That Kitty called me,’ Trish says. ‘Came round to see me yesterday an’ all.’

  I blink. ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, in the afternoon.’ When I was up in Hampstead Heath. ‘Nice lady,’ she says, doubtfully.