Jackie Bites the Bullet

Chapter 1

"What's that you're drinking, Jackie?"

Two brown eyes tried to come into focus in the middle of a slender, attractive face framed by short auburn hair.

"It's a vodka espresso, and it's my fourth."

The words were slurred. The head started to droop. By the time it hit the table, she was giggling. Jackie didn't usually get so drunk. But today was special. She'd received word that she'd got the job she interviewed for just two days' before, Arts Reporter for the 'London Bullet', the trendiest newspaper in town. You didn't take that kind of news lying down. You celebrated noisily with friends, progressing from one Soho watering hole to another, knocking back the cocktails, whooping it up, thinking of the money and glamour to come.

"It looks God-awful," Geri squawked, peering at the glass.

"I feel God-awful!" Jackie's voice was huskier than usual, though the slight upper-class drawl, handed down from her parents and perfected in boarding school, remained. She put a hand on her stomach, taut enough to the touch underneath her black top, but performing somersaults inside.

"You'd better get used to it," said Roz, Jackie's best friend. "Won't your new job take you to the smartest places around? You'll spend all your time painting the town red!" Themselves, they were all painted black: tight black trousers, black tops or jackets, black accessories. Geri even had black lipstick. In the gloomy lighting of the Rock Lab, it was hard to separate them from the walls.

"I suppose I will."

Jackie's eyes were glazing over. The alcohol, partly. But she was also thinking of her father, the captain of industry with his Rolls Royce and double-barrelled surname, Tindall-Smith, voicing disapproval in la-di-da tones. She could imagine the phone conversation now. "Oh Jackie," he'd say, "when are you going to do something really useful? It's all bright lights with you. Someone's got to do a serious job of work in the country." She'd heard it all before.

"You'll need some new clothes, I guess."

The word 'clothes' yanked Jackie out of her reverie. She loved clothes. Wearing them. Shopping for them. Paying for them? Not such a thrill, though her father's allowance did make life easier. On Saturday mornings she liked nothing better than to meet up with Roz in the West End and cruise the stores. Maybe they wouldn't buy anything; but they'd enjoy being young, urban, chic and thin.

"Press conferences, gallery openings, charity functions with a minor royal. You need to look smart, girl. Hey, maybe you'll appear on breakfast TV!"

Was Geri making mockery or not? It was hard enough to tell when Jackie was sober; impossible when she was not.

"It's not going to be all glitter," Jackie countered. "There's hard work too. I'll have to use my brains. I might have to write about Jackson Pollock, or Michelangelo..." She strung the last name out, uncertain whether her tongue would get to the end in one piece.

"Oh Pollocks," Geri shouted. "Let's go on to the Ratcatcher." It was her favourite unsavoury watering-hole.

But Jackie knew when enough was enough. "I've got a boyfriend waiting. I've got an aspirin to take. I'd better go home. Coming, Roz?"

Jackie scooped herself up, found her balance, slung her handbag over her shoulders, pecked a few cheeks, and tottered towards the exit.

"Oh Jeez!" she cried, slamming straight into a homeless youth squatting outside, stubble on his chin, emptiness in his eyes, three coins in his begging bowl. "You couldn't be homeless somewhere else, could you?" Before he could fight back or launch into his pitch Jackie and Roz were three doors away down the street, sounding off loudly.

"I do wish the homeless would go away," Jackie said. "They're just so grungy. And many of them are impostors."

Roz attempted a little human kindness. "Wouldn't it be horrible to be homeless?"

"I guess. It would also be horrible to be old. Old people should be banned. Poor people should be banned. Fat people should be banned."

They laughed at their outrageousness all the way to the Underground station at Leicester Square.

As she clumsily turned the key in the door of her Chelsea flat, Jackie heard the sound of the television: men's voices, laughter. She could guess the scene that would greet her: Hugo, her boyfriend, sprawled on the sofa, can of lager in one hand, remote control in the other. He was a sports reporter for 'Be There', one of the lesser London listings magazine, where she once worked herself as a dogsbody. Since then Jackie had moved on to what she considered higher things, like the free magazine 'Girl Talk', usually found discarded on public transport or littering street corners. Hugo, handsome, amiable, less ambitious, had stayed put. They'd been living together for three years.

"That you, Jackie?" He was sprawled on the sofa, can of lager in one hand. The remote control was somewhere else.

"Uh-ha." She leant forward, bestowed a quick kiss, and cast a frosty eye on the comedy show blasting out of the TV. Three young men in t-shirts and shorts were sprawled on another sofa, canned drinks in their hands, looking about to puke. One of them then did, down his own legs. Jackie winced. She knew this show, 'Men Behaving Badly'.

"You've been out with the ghouls?"

"Girls, not ghouls," she said with a sigh, slumping down beside him. "I've been out with the girls. Why do you watch such rubbish?"

"I was waiting for my loved one's return. I have to do something, Jackie."

"I had a lot to celebrate."

"It's alright. Are you hungry?" Reaching under his backside, he found the remote and turned down the volume.

She said no. She rarely was. And the thought of food entering her system, working its way through to meet the vodka espressos, was not pretty. Suddenly she sensed something on the move, shooting up, hot and sticky. She dashed to the bathroom.

"Touché!" Hugo cried.

Five minutes later Jackie emerged, bedraggled but clean, with an embarrassed grin, her olive complexion a little whitened, the hollows of her cheeks wider than usual. She slunk low beside him. Hugo smiled. "I love you," he said.

No response. She had fallen asleep.

**
What should she wear? It was a big question. She wanted to match the 'Bullet' image. Cutting edge. On the button. Forget the hours she'd have to spend tapping out her stories on a computer. She wanted to dress for show.

She'd gone shopping with Roz, credit cards primed. They'd had a ball in Top Girl, touring the designer clothes, picking up slinky black things in silk and leather, whisking them into the changing rooms under the admiring eyes of a chubby young supervisor ("In your dreams, fat girl," Jackie had muttered), posing before the mirrors, sullen and pouting, as though they were fashion models. Jackie had staggered home with a tight leather number, almost a catsuit, a hideously expensive Armani two-piece outfit perfectly tailored for her slim frame, plus a sprinkling of new underwear.

Now it was Monday. Her first day at work. Hugo was still asleep. She rifled through her wardrobe, new and old, ran her fingers down the leather catsuit, decided against it, and moved on to the Armani. On went the pants, clinging tight round her bottom - "as sweet as two cherries", an old boyfriend had once said. On went the jacket, her breasts tucked away neatly inside. Hands perched on her hips, she swayed left and right before the full-length mirror, lowered her eyes, puckered her lips, and did her best to look haughty. She loved acting the model; since adolescence, once she'd abandoned her dream of being a ballerina, being a model was all she ever wanted to be.

"Is this too much?" For a moment she took a step back in her thoughts and saw herself in the mirror, trapped in a game, looking hard and shallow, better instincts blotted out. Hugo stirred, she blinked, the moment passed, and the game continued. There was breakfast to make - black coffee, two dry pieces of toast, no butter, no jam. No wonder her weight had scarcely moved beyond 116 pounds in years; no wonder excess fat had been last seen in puberty, piled up during her boarding school years and shed immediately after. A brisk shower got her cleaned and perfumed. And then on with the Armani, on with the shoes, handbag poised jauntily, eyes burning bright.

"How do I look?"

"Stunning. Quite stunning."

"I knew it!" A hug, a kiss, good luck words: and then she was out the door.

**
She sat on the Tube train tunnelling under London, packed with commuters and a few early-bird tourists trekking into the West End. Was she overdressed? Now she started to worry, and sized up the wardrobe of the other passengers, their heads buried in the morning's newspapers. She was smarter than some. Smarter than most. Thinner, too.

By 9.30 she was outside the 'Bullet' offices, installed in a recent development in a once-forlorn district on the edge of London's newly fashionable East End. Office blocks had sprouted; a few wine bars had taken root, and the young and successful were moving in. The perfect home for the 'Bullet', born over thirty years ago as a sober broadsheet called 'The London Bulletin', but now reborn with a snazzier name, a tabloid format, and a new editor, Kirkhope Martin, determined to make it the newspaper of choice for the young urban hordes.

Jackie quivered before the revolving door. She had glimpsed the staff when she went for interview - they seemed young, fashion-conscious, just like herself - but imagined that they couldn't all be like that. Surely, some old trouts from the past must have survived? Yet as she moved through the open-plan maze, all she saw was her own mirror image. Beanpole girls in designer clothes; men with sharp suits, no ties, hair shaved down to the scalp. On arriving as editor, Martin had swept through the staff with a scythe. This was the result.

There seemed so many hands to shake, and introductions to make. Katrina, the Fashion Editor, had the opposite desk. "Haven't I met you somewhere before?" she said brightly.

Jackie reeled off a list of clubs and bars. Katrina had been to them all. Their friendship became further cemented when a trolley groaning with little snacks, muffins, chocolate bars, and sandwiches, trundled down the aisle. Neither wanted anything.

"I don't know why they bother with that," Katrina told her. "No-one takes any of it, except perhaps the old duffers in Accounts." Without saying a word, they both gave thanks for their restraint and slim physiques.

"Oh well, on with my work!" Jackie said.

Kirkhope had already given her a list of preliminary assignments: press conferences, exhibition openings, the financial headaches of the Royal Opera House, the rumour that yet another Rembrandt in the National Gallery was a fake. Not every event generated a story worth reporting, but Jackie enjoyed plunging into the media whirlpool, signing in at the press desk with a flourish, gearing herself up for schmoozing with nibbles and a drink, and striking poses meant to indicate that she was someone worth talking to. Dexterity was needed to balance the plate of sandwiches, the glass of white wine, and the press kit tucked under the arm, but by observing others she learned the knack. Back in the office, she'd write up her articles, check she was spelling 'Renaissance' correctly, see her stories onto the pages, and fly into Soho for a drink or a movie with pals, or Hugo.

But for Jackie the best evening's entertainment was attending another press event, the kind you had to RSVP to, with glamorous attendees. At the Rock Lab one night she had waved about an invitation to an exhibit at the Commonwealth Institute, "The Inuit: Life and Art". Roz sounded perplexed.
"They were called Eskimos when I was at school. Now they're called Inuit."

Geri performed a mock yawn.

Jackie went with Roz, who was amused to see her friend in action, arming herself with a glass of Chardonnay and the nibbles ("Ah, prawns," she cried, "first time this week!") before darting into the fray. Jackie chatted gaily to the great and good, and introduced Roz with five words guaranteed to stop any conversation: "She works in milk marketing." Unfortunately it was true.

After about half an hour, they turned themselves to the art on display: small figures of seals, polar bears and shamans, miniature igloos, photos of the Inuit's working life, men crouching over a hole in the ice or speeding along in snowmobiles, women skinning the day's catch or cradling their young. Jackie gave the sculptures short shrift, but something in the photos kept her riveted.

"These women, they're all so - fat!" One photo after another showed a round, smiling female face and a round body below, well wrapped in caribou fur against the cold but clearly carrying almost as much blubber as the seals their menfolk hunted. "My God, is no-one slim? And when did they last go to a hair salon?"

Suddenly she found an Inuit expert at her shoulder, a balding chap with an identity badge, bad photo glaring out at the world. "It's in the genes. All the women turn plump by the time they're 30. Just like the creatures of the ice and the sea, they need their fat for insulation, and for nurturing their young. It's not as if they have central heating." He smiled, and moved on.

"They can't buy Armani suits, either. My God, Roz, it's a different world. Fancy turning fat, just like that." They both shuddered. Jackie returned to replenish her plate.

In the office the next day, Jackie struggled to turn her Inuit exhibition into an article worth printing. But she couldn't find an angle. There was no funding crisis at the Institute. Nothing controversial going on. The Chardonnay and the prawns were great, but what reader would be interested in that?
"I drew a blank with the Inuit thing," she told Kirkhope as she arrived for the Editor's morning conference. She caught his eyes wandering up and down her body; she was finally wearing the leather catsuit.

"Not to worry. This will generate lots of copy." He was waving a piece of paper. "The Cannes Film Festival in May. Go there. Be seen. Get all the stories you can."

She let out a whoop of joy. Now this really was the high life! Her mind started racing. A slinky dress: she would need a new one to mingle with Tom and Nicole, Brad and Jennifer. Maybe Katrina could advise. Hugo would probably be jealous, but work was work.

Back at her desk, she told Katrina at once. Just then the snacks trolley made its morning progress. Heads were shaken throughout the office, except Jackie's. "Do you have any chocolate muffins?" Katrina raised her eyebrows.

"I'm just celebrating," she said.

May couldn't come soon enough. She had difficulties choosing a specially stunning dress, but eventually emerged from a newly-opened boutique, Girl On the Make, with a nifty black number that plunged at the front and back and hugged the figure until just above the knees.

Hugo was miffed that he couldn't come to Cannes too. Jackie said she'd send him a postcard, and with a hug and kiss she was off.

**

Cannes was less glamorous than she imagined. Some days it rained hard: rain with windy kick in it. "Ah, the mistral!" an old-timer told her. "Remember that from your geography lessons?" "A-ha!" said Jackie. She didn't.

And no matter what you wore, it was hard being glamorous in a crowd of 500 fighting to squeeze into a 100-seater cinema. She used her elbows to jab others out of the way; no different, she thought, from getting into a winter sale or a crowded bar. She soon learned to save her finery for the evening dinners, or the interviews where she wanted to look as beautiful as the star she was interviewing.

Not that Jackie was falling over celebrities. At one dinner, dressed to kill in her new acquisition, the place card by the adjoining seat told her she was sitting next to Christian Bale.

"Who's Christian Bale?" she whispered to her mistral informant on her left.

"Child star of Spielberg's 'Empire of the Sun', now grown up. Very boring. The kind of actor who gets cast in films only because better actors aren't available."

She would make an assault, Jackie decided, but she didn't know quite how to begin. "Do you - come here often?" she said, hoping to sound ironic.
"I have been to the Cannes festival three times before," Christian Bale replied in a wooden voice.

"My God," Jackie thought, "he really is boring. I'm more interesting than he is. This food is more interesting than he is." She decided to concentrate on it and, turning back with a polite smile, buckled down to her Salade Nicoise, strewn with tuna and olives, her guinea fowl roasted on a bed of potatoes, and the orange cheesecake that she somehow could not refuse.

"You enjoy eating, I can tell," said the mistral man, a Swedish journalist called Erik.

"Not really, no. Really I don't. I hate it. Do very little of it."

On rainy days Jackie usually went to the British Pavilion for lunch, picking up gossip and phone messages, along with a large ciabatta, ingredients tumbling out of the sides - far preferable, she found, to the Pavilion's slabs of microwave-heated lasagne. That had been a big mistake. When the sun shone, she often tried for one of the beach restaurants (excellent pasta and pancakes), then lay on the sand, summer blouse removed to reveal her black bra, black pants snugly framing her midriff and the long slender thighs and legs that stretched towards the blue waves lapping a few feet away.

Films? She saw fewer than expected, but it did not matter. Colleagues told her how to interview someone whose movie you had not seen. Sometimes all you needed to do was switch on the recorder and let them burble. Like Kenneth Branagh: once she'd said the word Shakespeare he was off and away, leaving her ample time to sit back, sup her drink, and observe with surprise, the slightest suggestion of a tummy bulge beneath her white cotton trousers. It was obviously caused by the way she was sitting. Of course it was. She pulled herself upright, and the bulge disappeared. Nothing to worry about. Now what was the bore Branagh saying?

Walking back to her hotel she felt her waistband pinching a little, a sensation she realised had been growing. She fancifully thought her trousers had shrunk when she became caught in that rainstorm over the weekend. Or maybe it was the immediate effect of her lunch. "Could I have gained a tiny bit of weight? Impossible. I never gain weight. I'd die if I did. It's a fluke. A freak effect. Nothing to worry about." She decided against examining her midriff. What was the point?