Jill on the Box

JILL ON THE BOX

by

Albert Woods

When it first occurred, Jeremy Burton failed to recognise the thing as a phenomenon; in fact, he simply put it down to a cock-up at ITV - another broadcasting gaff. The newsreader said they were going over live to the Guildhall where Jill Gibbs was waiting to interview the visiting Irish bishop. What Jeremy then saw was a shot of the steps outside the building with the bishop standing alone. There was no sign of this Jill Gibbs person, though that, in itself, was hardly unusual; media people were often not in the picture. But what did seem odd was that the little fat Wicklow man was answering questions; questions that, apparently, only he could hear. Bad miking, presumably.

The incident would have passed without comment had Curtis not made some passing reference to the recent bombings later the same evening. He and Jeremy were having a quiet beer in the Prospect and, as was their wont, the two were mulling over international affairs and putting the world to rights. "Then there's that bishop on the box earlier," said Curtis. "He comes over here accusing us of abetting the IRA. Gets right up my nose, it does. Still, it was nice seeing that Jill Gibbs bird in her tight T shirt. What boobs!"

Jeremy was too lost in thought about orphaned children and the near destruction of Nelson’s Column to immediately register the observation. "They ought to swing," he said.

"What, Jill’s knockers?" "No, those Micks. Anyway, what are you on about? They didn't show her on the telly tonight; at least, not on the six o'clock news."

"Yes they did. As I said, she was wearing a tight blue top and, as far as I could tell, nothing underneath. Highly delightful."

It was not an issue worth arguing over, and Jeremy let it drop. Presently, however, when he sat down to watch the late night news bulletin, a recording of the earlier interview was shown again. "Are you watching this?" he asked Curtis on the telephone. "Now you tell me where this bit of stuff is."

"Right there," said Curtis. "She's right there in front of me on the screen. You are watching ITV 1 I take it?"

"Of course I am. You must be seeing things Bob. The bishop's there on his own; and that's the other thing - you can't hear the questions they're asking him."

Curtis laughed. "Are you trying to pull my plonker? Go to bed Jer; you've been overworking I reckon."

Both men did exactly that, both certain that the other was playing silly-devils.   Then, the next evening, the news anchor announced that Jill Gibbs was at the Motor Show. Over they went to a stand that proudly displayed the new 'Corlianne', the car being hailed as the family saloon of tomorrow. It was a sleek looking thing, with wide wheels and decidedly sporty lines. ‘Smart,’ thought Jeremy, though he could not understand why the editor had chosen to leave the shot on the screen for a full two minutes without any accompanying commentary. And before a single word was said, the viewers were taken back to the studio to the newsreader's ludicrous statement: "That was Jill Gibbs at the NEC."

"And I suppose she wiggled it at you?" Jeremy mocked Curtis after the latter claimed that, this time, the gorgeous journalist had actually sprawled over the bonnet of the car with her delectable rear to the camera for most of the feature."

"She doesn't need to," Curtis slobbered. "She just oozes sexuality."

"But she wasn't on," Jeremy was losing his patience.

"Now look," Curtis warned. "Once was amusing, but twice is overkill. What's up with you anyway?"

"Me? This is plain daft. Twice you've said she was on the box when she wasn't. Maybe you're seeing things. It wouldn't surprise me, the way you go on about the tart. You’re obsessed with her. Anyway, they're a false lot, those TV people. I sometimes wonder whether any of them really exist."

"There's one way to settle this," suggested Curtis when it was clear that something had to be done. "Let's phone the ITV and ask them."

"Good idea," Jeremy agreed, and looked up the number. "Perhaps I am a bit off colour," he conceded, weakly, after the call. "Well, I must say I find it a bit disturbing. I could’ve sworn she wasn't in the picture."

By now, Curtis had come to realise that his friend had been quite serious all along. "Have a couple of days off," he suggested. "Give your brain a rest."

Jeremy agreed, and spent the next two days in bed, some of it watching television. "Oh God no!" he shrank behind his blanket when, for the third time, Jill Gibbs failed to appear on his screen when she was supposed to. Perhaps he was going mad, he considered. But he felt perfectly sane in all other respects, and was a rational thinker. He decided to find out where he might be able to see the woman in the flesh. It wasn’t a long wait for, as luck would have it, his local freesheet carried a piece announcing that the TV reporter would be opening the new Sparta Superstore, in Camden High Street on the coming. Saturday morning. So he went along; and made sure of a good view, getting there early. By the time the celebrity was due to arrive, the crowd had swelled to several hundred; and though Jeremy was in a good position to witness the cutting of the tape, he could not see the road when the chauffeur-driven Mercedes glided to a halt. Like the others behind him, he cheered Jill’s arrival, and felt the crush as a gangway formed to allow her through. Then he waited; and waited. "What's the hold up?" he asked the woman beside him. "When's she going to appear?"

The woman looked most uncomfortable. "Crackers," she whispered to her neighbour.

Then the store manager took hold of the microphone and spoke. "Welcome to the new Sparta Superstore," he said. "We will now call upon that glamorous television personality, Miss Jill Gibbs, to perform our official opening." Another cheer went up, interjected repeatedly with wolf whistles from the male contingent whose lustful gazes set Jeremy worrying. Could they see her, he wondered; and, if so, where was she? In case she was obscured from his line of vision, he decided to focus all his attention on the ribbon that was to be cut. She would have to do that; and there was no way she could get to it without him seeing her. He watched, and watched, and then, to his total astonishment, the tape fell in two and the audience applauded. He fainted.

"You lucky sod," one of the shelf fillers said after he’d come round and drained an under-brewed cup of tea in the staff room. "What a way to wake up."

"I'm not with you," Jeremy frowned. "Having that lovely Jill Gibbs stroking you; jammy devil."

Jeremy shook his head and blinked. "You mean she did that?"

"Oh, come on - you know she did. Is she an old friend of yours, or something? Not her boyfriend are you?"

"I'm sorry," Jeremy was confused. "Are you saying that this Gibbs woman was talking to me?"

"Talking?" sniggered the lad. "And the rest. The manager was a bit embarrassed. I’m sure he thought you were going to do it there and then."

"I think I'd better see a doctor," Jeremy croaked, then got up and staggered out of the building.

The next time he saw Curtis was a week after the incident. By then, the tranquillisers had settled into his system, and most of the anxiety - which, according to the doctor, was not uncommon in early middle-aged men - had subsided. He felt fairly normal again: at least until Curtis spoke.

"Kept that quiet, didn't you. No wonder you've been acting the loony. She's trying to keep it from the press I imagine,"

"What? Who is?"

"Come off it Jer. You've been seen. Pete Richards saw you and her in the Tinto Tapas on Monday; and McCulloch, opposite you, says you've been taking her back to your place most nights this week."

"Who?"

"You know bloody-well who. Jill Gibbs, that's who."

Jeremy began to tremble. "Look," he reared up, "I went to that restaurant on my own. I don't know why you're doing this, but please stop it. I haven't been feeling myself of late, and all this skylarking to try and make me think I'm going nuts isn't funny. Cut it out, will you."

Now, Curtis' dirty grin deserted his face. He was also starting to feel angry. "If that's the way you want to treat a friend,” he snapped, “then bugger you!"

Over the next few weeks, Jeremy spent his evenings alone at home. And further strange things happened. It started with little involuntary actions, like setting out two cups when he made tea or coffee, or cooking double helpings of food. What made it worse was that, quite inexplicably, the cups and plates were always empty when he came to wash them. He really must be cracking, he concluded.

His loneliness - for that is what it had become - continued into the summer. Nobody came to visit him, none of his old friends, not even Curtis whom he had considered to be about as close to him as anybody. It was a long miserable time until one evening at the end of July when, again for no reason he could explain, he climbed into bed and amused himself by kissing an imaginary being; kissing her, petting and, finally, making love. Although he knew there was nobody there, he experienced such elation, that he went to sleep with a wide, satisfied, smile on his face.

He still felt good when he awoke next morning. As was now the norm, he brewed a large pot of tea and boiled two eggs; though this time he placed one serving on a tray and took it into the bedroom, setting it down on the bedside cabinet. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched closely. What he saw fascinated him; not that objects floated about in mid-air or anything; but the egg did crack and its contents erode before his eyes. It was the same with the tea; slowly, but surely, the level lowered - a couple of centimetres at a time. At last, he felt confident to say something. "Good morning darling. Did you sleep well?" Although there was no audible reply, Jeremy felt confident that she was there, and that he could anticipate her likely responses. He began repeating them out loud so as to maintain some measure of normality.

"Yes thank you, Jeremy," he said.

"And did you enjoy your breakfast?"

"It was delicious."

Good. It was easy once you'd started, and he soon became used to it. So it was not long before their conversation progressed beyond one way question and answer sessions. Soon, she was making idle observations, sometimes telling him about her aches and pains, frequently mentioning the weather and, on the rare occasion, coming out with some profound political comment.

"That was beautiful," he would say after their sex sessions.

"Yes it was, darling" he would agree.

By autumn, Jeremy had fallen hopelessly in love with Jill. When he came to think about it, he could barely remember what she looked like, and his attempts to see a photograph had all been thwarted. They were always blank; still, that didn't matter; she had such a sweet and loving nature that he simply melted every time he spoke on her behalf. She still worked for the TV company, only now Jeremy would deliberately avoid tuning-in when she was on. Seeing her, he felt, might break the spell; spoil everything.

Sometimes, if he was down in the dumps, he would question himself, ask himself if he was really mad. She would sense his concern and reassure him. "You're perfectly normal, my sweet," he would say. "Now make love to me."

Eventually, when he felt the time was right, Jeremy popped the question. "Will you marry me?" he asked.

"Oh... oh, yes I will," he replied. It was the finest moment of his life. Now he felt so proud, so self-assured. He would venture back out into the world again; let his friends think he was mad if they liked. What did he care.

Jill seemed delighted for him. He was sure she had always been concerned about the agoraphobia that had kept them cooped up in the flat for all those months. She’d tried to encourage him on many occasions. "You really ought to try and get out, Jeremy," he'd often say for her.

So, on the Friday after their engagement, Jeremy curled his arm for Jill to link and set off down the street towards the Prospect. As he'd guessed, Curtis was there, in his usual corner; as were several of the old crowd.

"About time too," said Curtis, getting up to shake hands. "Where’ve you been for all these months?"

As yet, Jeremy couldn’t be certain whether Curtis, or the others, could actually see Jill, but he wasn't too concerned. "Give the lady a seat, will you," he stated as much as asked.

"You bet," Curtis enthused, making sure it was the chair next to himself. "You are," he said to Jill, "if you don't mind my saying so, an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Even more beautiful in real life."

"Thank you," said Jeremy.

Curtis gave him an odd look, then returned to Jill. "So you've fallen for this old reprobate then."

"If you mean have I fallen in love with him,” Jeremy said, “then the answer is yes,"

"Are you a parrot?" asked somebody. The point was missed, and the conversation continued in this fashion throughout the evening; the eager admirers asking Jill all about herself, and Jeremy echoing every answer she gave; even saying, "Excuse me, I want to pop along to the ladies."

And that was what did it; for once they were back in the flat, Jeremy, speaking for Jill, launched a scathing attack upon himself. "Why did you have to show me up like that?" he railed. "Why did you repeat every bloody word I said. It wasn't at all funny. The boys must have thought you'd taken leave of your senses."

"But I always speak for you," he remonstrated. "It's been like that all along. You know it has."

"What! No it hasn't. What are you talking about? You really are in a funny mood this evening. It was as though I wasn't there. You kept looking right through me. Everybody noticed."

"But Jill, you know how it is. You know I can't see or hear you."

"Then you really are mad Jeremy," he said. "It's no use. I can't marry you."

The flames of passion had long since died when Jeremy read, in the newspaper, that Jill Gibbs was on maternity leave – so he felt safe turning on TV news bulletins again. He wouldn’t have to not see her. Media people, he’d concluded, were totally false; nothing more than an illusion that he had the ability to see through.

Then, at the tail end of the broadcast one evening – and to his horror – they showed a photograph of a proud couple with their newborn child. He could see all of them, quite clearly. "Our reporter, Jill Gibbs, gave birth to an eight pounds boy this morning," the voiceover said. "Pictured here, with her, is her partner, Jeremy Burton."

Jeremy's eyes dilated into saucers. He felt his body with his hands, touched himself all over then ran to the bathroom to be sick. He splashed cold water in his face, and took a towel off the rail. As his head came up, and the towel lowered, he looked into the mirror, gaping in total shock.

He simply wasn't there.

* *  * *  * *

Copyright Albert Woods (2012)