Just the Way You Are Read online

  Gemma suspected that the original invitee, of either Victoria or her boyfriend, had dropped out at the last minute. But she was still content to be second choice. Gemma had never attended a film premiere or an after show party before. And George Fuller possessed the virtue of not being Guy Ritchie. She was unsure whether she would, or could, wear the Sonia Rykiel number however. Either she had put on a bit of weight since her birthday or her sister had deliberately bought a dress for her that was on the small side.

  After selecting the manuscripts she needed to prioritise – and having worked through her inbox – Gemma found herself in the office alone, with the rest of her colleagues having gone home. A printer hummed in the background. She stared into nothingness, or perhaps Gemma was gazing out the window trying to find the face of God or Mr Right in the cloud formations. Her chin was propped up on her hand. Her phone chimed with the sound of a text message coming through from Abbie, snapping the literary agent out of her daydream.

  Emergency. We’re out of bread. Far more importantly we’re out of Pinot and Magnums. Can you pick some up on the way home?

  Gemma replied to her flatmate that she would.

  She then turned her thoughts towards Thomas – again.

  Did he think about me after our meeting? Were they good thoughts?

  Gemma recalled a line from Daylight, when Joshua declares his love for Rachel. The author quotes a line from the poet Lucretius: “We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another.”

  Was Daniel her best chance of finding love and flying up to heaven? Gemma thought however that he seemed more concerned with getting to the next level on Call of Duty and Halo than getting up to heaven. But perhaps it was more important for her to be grounded and settled, than to indulge in flights of romantic fancy.

  I’m not getting any younger… Should I call him? Just say hi and see what happens. No. But if he gets in touch you should reply. Meet up… Will I ever feel for someone what Joshua felt for Rachel? Does Thomas feel that way about his wife?

  Gemma sighed, for more than one reason. She tried to shoo the author out of her thoughts. She needed to sweep any attraction she might feel for him under the carpet. Nothing could happen. He was a client – and he was married. Stop thinking about him… Go home. She would pick up more than one bottle of wine, Gemma thought.

  It’s interesting though that when he replied to the waitress that he was “married”, he didn’t say that he was “happily married”.

  9.

  That evening Gemma and Abbie decamped in front of the television, armed with a bottle of wine and two Magnums (each). They shared their days and some gossip about mutual friends. Gemma spoke little about her meeting with Thomas and consequently Abbie took little interest in him. She was much more excited for her friend in regards to the party her sister had invited Gemma to. Abbie was a fan somewhat of George Fuller.

  “He’s a nine out of ten, at least,” she enthused, in between sips of wine, drowning out the sound of a power ballad playing over the credits to a classic nineties romantic comedy which they had just watched on Netflix.

  “I’m not so sure,” Gemma replied, scrunching up her face in doubt. She would have considered Thomas handsomer, should she have been asked to make a comparison. “He did date the brunette – the racist one – from that band which had one and a half hits last year.”

  “Well in his defence he also had the good sense to dump her. Suffice to say if he made the call, I’d star in his next film. He could have me on his casting couch or cutting room floor any time.”

  Gemma shook her head in mild disapproval and disagreement – but laughed whilst doing so.

  *

  After a long bath Gemma decided to check her internet dating account. Perhaps the wine gave her the courage to do so. For the most part she received the same monosyllabic or cliché-ridden messages as usual. Some thought that they were God’s gift to women. Gemma wished that, like John Lewis, God could allow women to send back such gifts. Some were faulty. The packaging didn’t always marry up to the product inside. Some were too forward. Some were too backwards. Gemma did receive one sweet and witty message which intrigued her however and made her feel special. She checked out the sender’s profile carefully (and his Facebook page), with a will to respond. It soon came to light that the would-be romantic had sent the same sweet and witty message to dozens of other women. Gemma felt less special accordingly. He was not so much looking for “the One”, as the one hundred. She thought of Abbie and the dating philosophy she subscribed to. “The more darts you throw at a dartboard, the more will stick… It’s best to go for quantity over quantity in finding Mr Right. Indeed, quantity is quality…”

  No matter how many darts I throw, or are thrown at me, on these sites I probably won’t find anyone as good for me as Daniel…

  *

  Before she drifted off to sleep (or perhaps this caused her to fall asleep) Gemma worked her way through a number of submissions that she had downloaded onto her tablet. She hoped that she would find something and someone worth championing. Unfortunately the submissions were more of a source of amusement and frustration than inspiration. More than one author had inserted how many cats they owned into their proposals, or listed what their son or daughter was studying at university. More than one told the agent how much international appeal their novel had – and that friends and family loved the book. Half were already self-published and thought that an Amazon review, composed by their mum, carried as much weight as a review from The Times. Few authors let their books speak for themselves. Numerous proposals trumpeted that the novels were the Hunger Games or Fifty Shades of Grey meets Gone Girl and Twilight. Some wrote well but fell into the temptation of turning a piece of genre fiction into a semi-autobiographical novel. Most overwrote. The professionals stood out from the amateurs, just because there were so many of the latter compared to the former. Fortunately Gemma was too exhausted to despair. She remembered one of the first things Amanda had told her, quoting Christopher Hitchens, during her first week at the agency: “Everyone does have a book in them, but in most cases that’s where it should stay.”

  10.

  The following morning Gemma arrived in the office to find an email from Sara Sharpe saying how much she would love to have lunch on Monday. She also asked for Gemma to send over the full manuscript of Daylight for her to have a look at. Thankfully a few other editors got back to her too, requesting to see the novel. She was as happy for Thomas as she was for herself, that the proposal had drawn an initial positive response.

  She received an email from Thomas himself mid-morning, mentioning how much he had enjoyed meeting Gemma the day before. She had been “smart and sweet” – and should they secure a deal Thomas promised that he would take his agent out to lunch or dinner. Gemma read over the email more than once, smiling. For a moment or two she found herself glowing. The glow lost some of its lustre however when she overheard Amanda say to Libby that she had received an email from Thomas mentioning how much he had enjoyed meeting her yesterday – and to thank her for looking after him.

  Just before midday Gemma had a text message come through from her sister.

  Hi, am in area-ish. Oliver has cancelled a lunch date on me so can come over and take you out for bite to eat. Will get to you for 1.00. xx V

  Gemma puffed out her cheeks and felt a little exhausted just at imagining her lunch hour spent with her sister.

  *

  Victoria arrived at the brasserie early. As per her usual routine she asked for a different table after being shown to the one she had booked in advance. She claimed the best table outside and achieved what was, for her, the right impression: she was someone who was important and who demanded high standards when being attended to. Victoria was someone who knew what she wanted – and how to get it. The model had spent half her life having men trying to please her, whether she wanted them to or not. Unfortunately she had also spent half of her life having women being disp
leased with her – embittered feminists and fashion models alike. Modelling was a dog eat dog or model eat model environment. As a model one is instructed to eat little else, she wryly thought.

  Victoria was dressed in a Valentino monochrome lace bow dress. The outfit was as stylish as it was sexy. The hemline was as high as the price. She turned the heads of teenagers, office workers and other women alike. In a sense the former fashion model would feel uneasy and offended once people stopped objectifying or judging her.

  The statuesque beauty haughtily ordered a still mineral water, with ice and a quarter of a slice of lemon, whilst checking her phone in the vain hope of receiving a text from Oliver citing that he could now make lunch (Gemma would understand if she cancelled on her at the last minute, she reasoned). Unfortunately the only message showing on her phone was a reminder from her diary that she was due to have lunch with Oliver. Victoria consoled herself with the thought that at least he had cancelled their meeting due to work, rather than his wife. Lavinia. She was old money – and about to be yesterday’s news.

  He will divorce her soon… He’s promised.

  During their recent trip away Oliver had explained to Victoria how he was ready to end things with his wife. Their marriage had become an act or dumb-show, he argued. They no longer slept together. His children were now grown up or settled at university. She also had her own money – so any financial settlement from the divorce wouldn’t ruin him. He wanted to be with Victoria, he said desperately and ardently at the cliff-top restaurant on the Amalfi coast. The stars had shone as brightly as the diamond earrings Oliver had given his mistress the night before.

  She loved him, she told herself. Victoria enjoyed being with him. She had equally been seduced by the world and society that Oliver had introduced her into. For the past three months Victoria had even remained faithful to Oliver, despite various offers and temptations. An ex-boyfriend, a member of the Chipping Norton set, wanted to get back into her life. And someone who had been described as “the next Dylan Jones” – with cheekbones that even Victoria envied – had tried to chat her up at a nightclub recently and given her his card. But Oliver was smarter, funnier, nicer, richer…

  He could be the one.

  It was time to marry and have a family, Victoria told herself. Her life of leisure was growing tiresome.

  Whilst waiting for her sister to arrive Victoria basked in the sunshine and watched the world go by – internally critiquing it as she did so.

  She’s not pulling off that skirt. Although she should pull it off and put on something else – that fits… Her weight problem seems to be that she’s unaware she has one…

  *

  Gemma made sure she was on time. Her sister liked people to be punctual, although the standards she set for others did not always apply to herself. Victoria was quick to catch the waiter’s attention and order. Gemma felt compelled to order the salad after her sister had done so. After complaining about the various chavs and Russians who seemed to have taken over Bond Street Victoria brought up the subject of the film premiere party due to take place the following evening.

  “Oliver is bringing a friend, Simon, who I’ll introduce you to. He’s a colleague of Oliver’s, who works in probate. You’ll like him – and his apartment in Little Venice… He’s cute. But be even cuter when you meet him… He’s married, but he’s due to sign his divorce papers this or next month… I feel like playing Jane Austen’s Emma and matchmaking…”

  Gemma was far more pleased in regards to her sister making a literary reference, than with her intention to set her up with a married lawyer – albeit one who worked in probate and was “nearly free and single”. Halfway through her sister’s speech Gemma ordered a glass of wine to help her stomach the bland salad – and Victoria’s advice.

  “Remember to dress somewhat less casually tomorrow night too,” Victoria remarked to her sister, raising her eye in light of the jeans and t-shirt Gemma was wearing. “You certainly couldn’t dress any more casually though, even if you tried. Just joking…”

  Gemma rolled her eyes rather than said anything in reply.

  After providing some fashion tips and arguing how Gemma should be more confident in the way she dressed and acted (and that the two were linked) Victoria asked her younger sister about her plans for the weekend. Would she be free to visit their parents?

  “It would be nice if you could catch up with them, especially Mummy. She mentioned that you’ve not been over to see her for over a month.”

  Gemma wanted to defend herself by replying that she had been busy of late. But the truth of the matter was that selfishness and laziness had shaped her behaviour in regards to her parents. Her family often bored her, especially her mother. London was colour. The suburbs seemed grey by comparison. Small towns bred small mindedness. Her family were also uncommonly predictable, Gemma told herself. If she did visit then her mother, Margaret, would spend over half the time talking about her older sister – her past, present and future. She would ask about Gemma too, but that conversation would last for all of two minutes. Was she seeing anyone? No. How was work? Fine. When was the last time that she had seen her sister? As to her father, he would either be remote or irascible. At least if he was drinking he would be amusing. Or he may just lock himself away for the day and watch the cricket.

  “I’ll try and visit on Sunday.”

  11.

  A stream of taxis started to cause congestion on West Street. The film premiere on Leicester Square had ended and a hundred VIPs had been invited to the after show event at The Ivy club and restaurant. Most people waited in their taxis to stop right outside the entrance, rather than get out early and walk ten yards down the street.

  Gemma, who had perhaps been the only guest to have walked to the venue, shuffled along behind a few others in the queue to give her name at reception and be shown up to the private room where the party was taking place. She was nervous, thinking that her sister had forgotten to forward on her name to the organisers.

  Would it be such a disaster if my name wasn’t on the list though?

  Gemma was already experiencing a sense of anxiety imagining herself at the party, looking and feeling out of place. Everyone else attending was one half of a happy-ish couple. The people around her seemed like they were from another world. Gleaming teeth, burnished tans, designer dresses and suits, impeccably groomed and well-schooled (though too often lacking in wisdom and sympathy). But all that glistens isn’t gold. Some hastened for the bar. Some hastened to the toilets, for alternative highs. Gemma noticed a breakfast TV weathergirl whose self-proclaimed ambition and dream was to the “the next Melinda Messenger”. She also recognised a talk show DJ who spent half his time spouting progressive, trendy opinions about everything – and the rest of his time avoiding paying tax and cheating on his wife.

  Gemma headed up to the private function room in the elevator. The lift was awash with expensive perfumes and Louboutin heels. Or stripper heels.

  You can’t dress trashy till you spend a lot of money. – Billy Joel.

  Gemma nervously tapped one of her own feet. If her sister wasn’t already present she would be standing around, alone. Ever the wallflower. Should someone come up and speak to her they would find out within two minutes how insignificant – and poor – she was compared to others. When she got up to the function room she felt like an ugly duckling, surrounded by beautiful swans. Champagne flutes were as slender as the figures holding them. Most heads were turned towards the door, waiting for a celebrity to enter. Gemma felt like she was being eyed up – and everyone seemed tall enough to look down their noses at her.

  Gemma spent her time half-sipping and half-smiling for ten minutes, before her sister and Oliver arrived. They walked in like movie stars. Victoria flashed a smile on seeing her sister and pecked her on each cheek – yet she also warmly embraced Gemma and seemed genuinely pleased to see her. Gemma thought to herself that her sister must have had a couple of drinks. Oliver kissed Gemma on the cheek twice
too and appeared pleased to see her. He oozed confidence and charm, as usual. He turned heads, as did Victoria.

  He’s a poor man’s George Clooney. But I suppose that’s better than being a poor man’s George Osborne. Although he reminds me more of the latter rather than the former…

  Gemma noticed, as he kissed her on the cheek, that Oliver was wearing a touch of make-up. His black hair was slicked-back with oil. Oliver was tall, slim and most women would have considered him attractive – or even gorgeous. Gemma told herself that he was not her type though. Most things in life had come easily to the corporate lawyer, either because of his virtues or because his parents had provided everything for him. Oliver had been sent to the best schools in the country and when he left Oxford his father also opened a number of doors to further his career in the legal profession. The Chipping Norton set look after their own – at the expense of other people. Oliver could be friendly, funny and intelligent – but he was all surface. It wasn’t just because Oliver was married that Gemma disapproved of the former Bullingdon Club member going out with her sister.

  “Lovely to see you again Gemma. How are you? Glad you could make it,” Oliver remarked in his clipped, posh voice whilst looking over Gemma’s shoulder to see if he recognised anyone else at the party. Before Gemma could reply however the lawyer continued to talk. “I’d like to introduce you to a colleague of mine, Simon Reeves-Piper.”