Look At Me Now

Simone Goodman

Description

Gracie Porter’s life is in a tangle. Her television cookery show is flailing and her boyfriend’s affections are waning. It's time for a change…

Best friend Faith rescues her place on the small screen when she unwittingly lands them both starring roles in a steamy spin-off that becomes an instant hit.
The new show is more about relationships, sex and stonking big vegetables than cooking.
Throw in a fluctuating crush on her surprisingly irresistible agent, Harry Hipgrave, an unlikely friendship with a pair of D-list models and a gossip journalist intent on making her life miserable, Grace wonders if becoming famous is all it’s cracked up to be?
Romantic, utterly uplifting and poignant, perfect for the fans of Sophie Kinsella and Lucy Diamond.

What readers are saying about Look At Me Now:

'Funny, romantic, uplifting and really well written. I enjoyed reading this book.'

'I really enjoyed reading this and definitely had some LOL moments!'

'Funny, clever and super relatable. '

'I didn’t want to put the book down!!'

'It’s romantic. It’s funny. It’s heart warming. It’s everything I want from a good chick-lit. '

'The cast of characters are vividly written, and most avoid becoming stereotypical.'

'it’s always amusing or easy for the reader to feel connected to her.'

'This book is a delight from the beginning to the very end.'

Sujets

• Siblings
• Humorous
• Men
• Contemporary history
• Romantic Comedy
• Sibling
• General officer
• General
• Holiday
• Contemporary
• Topic
• Family Life
• Romance
• Fiction
• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 05 novembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838892968
• Langue: English

Extrait

Look At Me Now


Simone Goodman
Surround yourself with people who believe in you – beginning with yourself
For Cat Hedge Farm
Contents



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36


Acknowledgments

More from Simone Goodman

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
1

‘Oops!’ Rushing into the television station where I work, escaping the demonic gale that’s sweeping across London this morning, I slide delicately across the wet tiles inside the entrance.
I say delicately. But it’s more hope that I look like an accomplished ice skater as I clumsily regain my balance. Being a healthy size 14 – I don’t consider myself fat, I’m just not reed thin – there’s a risk I’ve come off more like a comedian on a banana skin. Thankfully, no one other than Mitzi, our receptionist, is here to hold me accountable.
‘Golly, Gracie, are you okay?’ Mitzi calls from across the foyer, where she’s sitting behind the front desk, most likely reading a script.
‘I’m okay, Mitzi.’ By all accounts, my near miss looked distinctly less than elegant. Laughing, I steady myself on the death-tiles. It could have been worse. I could have toppled right over my own feet.
It’s only a short few hundred metres dash from Oxford Circus Tube station to my workplace, our studios located in a narrow but deceptively cavernous Georgian building on Soho Square. My umbrella blowing inside-out against the pelting rain and wind this morning, I covered the distance as quickly as possible. My dash best described as a nippy jog, it’s the most exercise I’ve done in months. It’s early January, the time for New Year resolutions. Possibly, it wouldn’t be the worst idea for me to consider joining a gym?
‘I’ve been warning someone will break their bones on those tiles,’ Mitzi says.
‘We could do with a non-slip mat here,’ I agree.
‘We could do with a lot of things around here,’ Mitzi sighs.
She reminds me of Daisy Lowe, the model. Dark hair. Doe eyes. Cherry-red lips. Though her role is to welcome visitors, Mitzi looks the part for television. Like many people who work here, she yearns to be in front of the camera.
I have my own show. But it troubles me, more and more lately, that I don’t look like I belong. This isn’t to say I don’t have my finer points. Pragmatically speaking, we all do. What can I tell you? My eyes are sometimes so blue as to appear violet. Almond-shaped, they’re generously framed with oodles of long, thick lashes. My dark locks cascade to below my shoulders and, at thirty-three years of age, I’ve not got a single grey hair on my head. My complexion is creamy, free of lines and, generally, spots. But before you picture me as some uber-glamourous cross between a young Elizabeth Taylor and a brunette Katy Perry, bear in mind I’m the more robustly packaged (sometimes size 14 plus) version. Some days, I fear I’m veering more into the territory of a Dawn French and Melissa McCarthy lovechild – without their comedy vehicles for kicks. But surely no one likes a thin chef?
I host my own daily cookery show, Gracie Porter’s Gourmet Get-Together .
The title is a bit of a misnomer. It’s impossible to prepare gourmet meals, haute cuisine of several aesthetically balanced and rich courses of food, within a short thirty minutes allotment of air time. Notwithstanding that with preparation of the set, the ingredients and me, it takes almost a full day to pre-record every show that then airs across the whole of England, Scotland and Wales at 10.30 a.m. the following week. Also, there isn’t much ‘getting together’ with my format. I like to think I’m always engaging with my audience as they tune in to connect with me from the comforts of their own homes, but the original concept had me hosting the occasional special guest: other chefs, celebrities and perhaps the more interesting politician. With none of us, including my producer, Robin, moving in celebrity circles, with Westminster MPs otherwise occupied with their scandals, solicitations and squabbling and me reasoning that any chef who wants to be on television would surely want their own show, we failed to deliver. When no one pushed us, we let it slide. We don’t even have a live audience. It’s pretty much me and the crew who chow down after a recording finishes. On this basis, my cookery show has aired daily for almost a year and a half.
Previously, I worked as a normal chef. I prepared mouth-watering meals in lovely places where people came to eat. When it comes to food, I’m a consummate professional. As far as television goes, I’m still cutting my teeth.
From the beginning, both investment and expectation of our little cookery show has been low. Being at the bottom end of a long list of hot shows and hotter stars left me below the radar – and this has suited me fine. Things changed late last year after Titan Media, the US entertainment giant, acquired a large chunk of our relatively tiny UK operations. This afternoon, at 3 p.m., I have a meeting with the American executives who now run things to discuss my ‘future services to the company’. It hasn’t escaped me that not everyone summoned to such meetings returned from their New Year breaks. People have been literally disappearing from the studios in droves. And I know my ratings aren’t the best.
I don’t disagree with Mitzi that things around here could be better. However, today is a day for putting the best, most confident and upbeat version of me forward.
‘I’m sure things will settle down and everything will be fine again soon,’ I assure her. I put my wet umbrella inside a cotton shopping bag.
Behind me, the front doors burst open. I turn to look. Shadowing the doorway, wearing her long, spectral black-hooded cape, stands Zelda the Magnificent, our resident daytime television psychic.
‘Gracie,’ Zelda declares on seeing me. ‘Dahling.’ Her voice is deep and melodic. Her accent is old Budapest enchantment. She’s like a darker, earthier Zsa Zsa Gabor. ‘Please, stop for Zelda,’ she implores in her dulcet tones. ‘I have, for you, a vision.’
Pushing the hood from her head, Zelda releases a mass of black curls to topple down and over her shoulders. The curls are part of a voluminous wig. Rumours abound that, underneath, Zelda is completely bald. Rumours also abound that Zelda isn’t merely old but ancient, a hundred years and counting. Because these conjectures add to her mysticism, Zelda does little to quash such blather. Having once shared a dressing room, I know from my own eyes that her scalp is in fact covered with a short mop of white-grey ringlets and, by the birthday card she received last summer, that she isn’t more than eighty years young.
Closing the few steps between us, Zelda clasps my frigidly cold hands within her un-seasonally hot fingers. She smells of sage, vanilla and cloves. I breathe in her aroma. My mind drifts to thoughts of crispy sage in a burnt butter sauce, drizzled through ribbons of pasta. Of vanilla pods in pots of clotted custard. Of melt-in-your-mouth hot salt beef, boiled with cloves and juniper berries and served thickly cut with mustard on rye. Shutting her eyes, Zelda’s face wrinkles with whatever wizardry she’s conjuring.
‘Um, Zelda, I’d rather—’ I begin to protest.
‘My child, I see a gathering of dark clouds.’ Ignoring my attempt to dissuade her, Zelda begins her psychic vision. ‘I see a storm is brewing...’
I don’t need divine intervention to inform me of this. There are the pressures at work. At home, things aren’t much better. This morning, I endured another cold flannel wash at the bathroom basin after my boyfriend, Jordan, again used all of the hot water in our flat. During, I should add, another of his suspiciously long showers – by his indifference towards me lately, Jordan could better be described as my supposed boyfriend. To fill you in a little bit, we met the same night I won the contract for the show. After a whirlwind courtship of the best sex I’d ever had, eighteen months on, our physical connection has fallen by the wayside. All less of him no longer being my hunk-a-hunk-of-burning-love and more Jordan no longer seeing me as his mi amore. On top of which, although we live together, we barely talk. Whatever friendship we shared has flatlined alongside my boyfriend’s libido. There’s the excuse that Jordan works ridiculous hours as an advertising executive. But things are so distant between us, we haven’t properly discussed what is – or, more to the point, isn’t – going on in our relationship. Let alone my professional challenges.
‘Ach… so much rain,’ Zelda clucks her tongue and shakes her head sadly. Over her closed eyelids is a poorly applied, pale purple eyeshadow. I don’t believe in clairvoyants, but I love a character – I adore Zelda. Whenever I cook anything like a Hungarian goulash or a sweet baklava pastry, Eastern European dishes that I know she’ll enjoy, I set aside a plate for Zelda.
Outside, lightning flashes, followed by a thunderous crack. A gust of wind slams the front doors shut. Zelda’s emerald eyes pop open.
I sigh my relief that we appear done. Holding up a bejewelled finger, Zelda begs of me a moment more.
She fumbles amongst the pockets of her cape and then inside her patchwork bag, her charm bracelets tinkling. Eventually, she withdraws her hands and slips a small, pink crystal into my open palm.
‘To help you little bit,’ she says. With a warm expression, Zelda shrugs.
I clasp the stone, smooth and surprisingly warm, inside my hand.
‘Quieten the storm.’ Zelda gently taps my che