How To Lose Weight And Alienate People
‘Why don’t we go clubbing?’ I suggest. ‘Ask Warren to bung us on the guest-list somewhere. He’ll have some gear too, right?’
Luke raises an eyebrow at me. ‘You want to get stuck into the speedo?’
‘You know I don’t do that any more.’ I may have stopped purely not to hear him say that beyond-irritating expression. ‘But I …’
‘… wouldn’t mind doing something to let the wheels come off?’
Yes, I would like to. Maybe an E, but not because I want the wheels to come off. The opposite. When I occasionally use drugs, it is as a tool to get myself back in control. I see it like this: being yourself and convincing other people of this self is a mental marathon. One that does not have a finish line. The stop watch will never go back to zero. Nor will you be wrapped up in a heavily branded silver foil blanket. There is certainly no medal. It’s a hard slog. So sometimes you need time out from the race. For me, that’s what drugs are about: a reprieve from thinking. It’s a trick. Not a treat.
‘Why not?’ I say to Luke, reaching into the bag I brought with me. I get out a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and some beers for Luke (which he will probably ignore in favour of a Dr Pepper). ‘And stop looking at me like that.’
‘Why don’t you just tell me what’s the matter? You’ve obviously had a shit day.’
I prickle, wrong-footed. ‘I haven’t. I simply want to go out and have fun. That’s all.’
‘Fair enough, but I can’t stay out late; I’m working in the morning.’
‘I thought the whole point of your job was that you didn’t do weekends or overtime.’
‘I could do with some extra cash right now.’
‘What for? More cables to add to your viper’s nest?’ I huff. ‘Look, I won’t keep you up for hours. Warren has got some Valium’ – another necessary trick – ‘hasn’t he? It’ll knock me out as soon as we get back.’
‘You’re really not dressing this up as A Night to Remember.’
‘Christ, Luke … live a little.’ I add another huff and untwist the cap on the vodka bottle.
He huffs back at me, then opens the freezer compartment for a bag of ice and half fills two pint glasses with cubes. I pour at least three measures of Grey Goose into one of the glasses. He reaches into the fridge for a bottle of Dr Pepper. When he turns round I can see his face could be about to crumple.
‘Why do you always have to lash out at me like a cut snake?’
I figure this is not the time to pull him up on his usage of Aussie slang. ‘I don’t mean to.’
‘Try harder.’
‘I am trying.’
‘Yes, you are … very trying.’
‘Why do you bother with me, then?’ I nod at my glass. ‘More ice, please.’
He looks at my glass, then at me, chucks the ice on the table, and gently pushes me back against the fridge. ‘Why do I bother? I wish I didn’t feel I had to. But unluckily for me I find your combination of short temper and long legs extremely attractive.’
‘How attractive?’
‘On a scale of one to ten?’
‘Yep.’
‘With one being reasonably do-able if there was no one else around who I fancied the look of and ten being this much?’ He grabs my hand and places it firmly over his crotch. ‘I’d say you’ve got yourself full marks there.’
So, we don’t go out. Luke keeps me entertained in his bedroom. He entertains me on the floor, in the chair, against the door, by the wardrobe and over the mixing desk – we video that bit. Basically, we do it everywhere except the bed because the frame is about to collapse. You can sleep in it but that’s about it. Bar the rickety bed, Luke has made a real effort to make the room comfier over the past year. Although the floor is still covered in cables, he has filled the shelves with candles (bit corny, I know, but the original ceiling light could have been used to perform laser eye surgery), painted the walls, acquired new bed linen (black to hide my fake tan smudges), stripped the floorboards and covered them with a fluffy rug from Ikea, bought a miniature fridge and kettle so I don’t have to go into the kitchen in the morning, and he’s had the window fixed so it can open and his boyish smells aren’t allowed to fester. He also keeps it pretty spotless. Okay, so it’s still not going to merit the cover feature in Architectural Digest but it’s a world away from the dank, putrid cave that is Warren’s bedroom up the corridor.
Before we go to sleep, Luke gives me an early birthday present; not clothes, thank God. Hair straighteners. He says they are for me to keep in his bedroom so I don’t need to bring mine over every time I stay. The tongs are made by ghd, but they are the pink ones, which means that a certain amount of the purchase price will go to a breast cancer charity. Typical Luke; reminding me that having hair with a propensity to kink if left to dry naturally is not the most life-threatening condition that can affect a woman. They make me smile, and a few seconds later I find myself telling Luke about Adele’s engagement and asking him if he minds me staying with him for a short while when I move out of her flat. He reacts as a young spaniel might having just been told he is the new quality-control manager in charge of road-testing products at The Squeaky Ball and Throwable Stick Company. He is as ecstatic as it is possible to be without risking further structural damage to the bed … and I have to admit, that as I lie there under the more than adequately togged new duvet but with just the right amount of cool breeze drifting in through the window, I don’t think it’s the worst idea in the world. Just until I get myself sorted, anyway.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Oi oiiiii! Wozza’s in the hoooooooooouse. Time to get the mother-fuckin’ clown car out the rave garage! Vroom vroooooooooom! Ooooooooooh, this gear is mental. MENTAL! It’s mental continental Avis four-door hatchback seven-day rental chicken orientaaaaaaaaaal!’
At seven o’clock the next morning, Luke’s flatmate Warren – the only living organism to make Scott Disick look complicated – returns home from a night out with his mates. Banging dance music starts pounding through the wall. Simultaneously, the washing machine in the flat above kicks into the planet’s clunkiest spin cycle, so I give up trying to sleep and make a cup of tea. Luke has stuck a note on the kettle.
Happy birthday! As they say in The Outback, ‘Rinse it like a drongo!’ So here’s the plan. From now until 8 p.m. I want you to remember you’re awesome, because you are. Then, at 8 p.m. meet me outside that Spanish place round the back of Bethnal Green Road. We’re going for tapas …
I freeze and immediately stop reading. Christ, really? Tapas is a ridiculous way of eating. Multiple dishes come to the table at random times and nothing on the menu is straightforward, i.e., plain brown, white or green. Bar the olives, I suppose, but even they could be stuffed with an insurgent pimento. I take my tea back to bed and pull the duvet around me. Luke’s room hasn’t got the same kind of feel about it in the cold light of day, with no twinkling tea lights or post-coital glow to bathe in. (Spotting the almost full tape in my video camera makes me cringe slightly.) I listen to the bass pounding away through the wall, and as much as I wouldn’t want to be hanging out with Warren and his gang, I am jealous that they have all been out having fun. The thought of not going to Ibiza this summer – the Promised Land of Fun – makes me disgruntled.
I look over to the mantelpiece. Propped up behind a photo of Luke’s family is the acting card my agent, Terry, uses to send out to casting directors. For someone who resolutely avoided a single picture to be taken of them between the age of ten and twenty, it’s weird how relaxed I appear. The shot is in black and white and I am looking directly into the camera whilst pulling my best smiley yet pouty, serious but light-hearted, angelically devilish face … to show I have a fantastically varied range. I lean forward and try to figure out how old I look in the picture but it’s difficult to tell. I certainly don’t look my age, but then I’m not, not really. According to my birth certificate I am thirty-five today, but in a sense I’m only twenty-five. That dark side period … it obliterated a whole decade of my life. Losing me to it, looking for me, giving up on me to create the new me, getting used to this me … took close to ten years.
My eyes wander back to the picture of Luke with his family; he is laughing as his father pretends to plonk a large prawn on his mother’s head with some barbecue tongs. He must be seventeen, nearly eighteen, at the time that picture was taken – round about the same age I was when I left home. The scene looks like something out of a summer TV commercial for outside grilling equipment, with Luke’s parents cast as the perfect mum and dad. But then Luke thinks his parents are perfect. One of the first things he ever said to me was that the greatest lesson he learnt from them was to be honest with yourself … because then you will be honest with other people. I murmured something resembling an agreement – as I do every time he imparts any other words of wisdom his ‘folks’ have bestowed upon him – because it’s the easiest thing to do. But frankly, their inspirational fridge-magnet approach to life doesn’t sound that far up the well-meaning-but-delusional scale from my mother’s biblical one. Proverbs Chapter 10 Verse 9: Honest people are safe and secure, but the dishonest will be caught … She couldn’t have been more wrong.
I flop back against the head rest. The bed snaps in two like a Venus fly trap, ensnaring me in the middle and sending my tea flying. Wriggling out, I catch my hair on one of the broken springs, which causes unhelpful tangling. So I switch on the do-gooding styling irons Luke gave me last night. But even after a minute they don’t heat up to a level anywhere near as powerful as my own ones that I bought off that stylist. It just goes to show you can’t save lives and achieve a catwalk-ready look. I crawl over some electric leads to get my own straighteners out of my bag. But whilst rummaging, I stop, grab my Nokia instead and quickly scroll down the list of received calls. I find the number I need and before I give myself a moment to change my mind, I phone it. The call is answered on the third ring – I knew she would be up.
‘Ha!’ cackles Barb Silver. ‘You do have a bit of freakin’ ambition after all, kiddo. Maxy will be freakin’ pleased you’re coming. Listen, I’m mid Gyrotonic … I’ll shoot you over the details in five minutes.’
They ping through in three. I am back at home in forty. I am ready in two hundred and twenty-six … and waiting by the window in the lounge for my cab. Whilst I am there, I text Adele, tell her I’m going to a party and ask if I can go into her closet and borrow some accessories – namely, the ones I have already stolen. Monday watches me from the sofa, blinking. He blinks a few more times then wraps his big orange tail tight round him, and settles down amongst the cushions with his back to me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Rexingham Hotel car park is teeming with coordinators and assistants buzzing around wearing Prada pumps, headsets and stoic expressions at having a job that is so all consuming it would make a student nurse feel positively overrun with leisure time. A bank of photographers are positioned either side of the entrance steps, where they are being monitored by security guards in dark suits. Not that the press are likely to get out of hand today. On an event like this, which is supposedly not about the stars, there probably won’t be any outrageous outfits on display for the paps to get in a frenzy over, which is a shame. I like female celebrities to always go the whole hog – I want to see them sucked in by Spanx, splattered in Swarovski crystals, feet scrunched into podiatrist-baiting high heels and heading for the ‘What Was She Thinking?’ pages of a trashy magazine. Otherwise, what’s the point of them?
I wait in a holding area for ten minutes before the people carrier draws up with Payton at the wheel. Nicholas sticks his head out the front passenger window.
‘You’ve scrubbed up more than adequately, darling,’ he says, eyeballing me.
I eyeball him back, knowing that I have scrubbed up way more than ‘adequately’ in a clingy, short, charcoal-grey dress (a decent – if you don’t come too close – Alexander McQueen rip-off from ASOS for £39) worn with no hosiery (my legs are smothered in that chip-fat style body grease the models in the Versace adverts are always varnished with), smoky eyes, nude lips and just-got-out-of-bed-hair (which took an hour and a half to perfect two hours after I initially got out of bed). On my feet I am wearing truffle-coloured Marni shoe boots (Adele’s) and in my hand I am holding a flat leather clutch (ditto), which is more of a yellowy beige. Nothing is more damaging than ‘matchy-matchy’ accessorising – it can make an outfit look very cheap. Especially when it is.
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ I tell Nicholas. ‘I’m not here because of your lecture on being some sort of desperate old husk.’
‘No?’ He smirks at me as the window whirs up. ‘Of course, you aren’t.’
The back door of the people carrier slides open and Barb lowers herself onto the tarmac. She is wearing a metallic dress that coils down into a twisted fish tail, with stilettos and a feathered head-dress. That’s more like it.
She whistles at me. ‘Check you out. Cinder-freakin’-ella is certainly going to the ball.’
‘Cheers.’ I smile. ‘Although, I can’t afford to lose one of these shoes. They’re not mine.’
‘Lose? Ha!’ Barb cackles. ‘Cinderella didn’t lose that goddamn slipper. Girlfriend clearly had an agenda. Can’t blame her though … did what she could to get out of a bad situation. You have to admire that.’
Maximilian gets out of the people carrier next. He jumps down next to Barb.
‘And here’s Prince Charmless,’ I mutter. ‘Hi, Maximilian, you look …’ I glance casually at him, ‘… nice.’
Make that dazzling. His complexion is ultra matte and unblemished, except for the jagged scar, which I have a feeling could have been accentuated with cosmetics. His hair is artfully tousled and gelled to give the appearance of being ever so slightly wet, as if he could either have just leapt out of the shower or out of some dangerous rapids after rescuing a baby deer from drowning. His pectoral and stomach muscles are conspicuously nudging the fabric of a precisely washed-out grey T-shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up so that the full curve of each bicep is on display. The indigo-blue jeans he is wearing are also exquisitely distressed and tucked half in/half out of his scuffed hiking boots. Barb must employ a crack team of men with a similar physique to Maximilian to wear his brand-new clothes until they are sufficiently worn-looking for him to pop on.
‘Hi, Vivian. You look nice too.’ He gives me a pointed look and pauses as Barb goes over to the wing mirror to redo her lipstick. Then he lowers his voice. ‘About what happened at my house … I should have said something when Nicholas spoke to you like that, but I’m …’
‘An arsehole. As well as a pretentious wanker.’
‘No, well …’ He gives me one of his very slight smiles. ‘Sometimes. But not on that occasion. Look, this is going to make me sound like a tool, but before you arrived I was in a shitty mood about the stuff Parks printed … and then I got some bad news about the sequel for The Simple Truth. The producers are looking to cast someone else as Jack Chase.’
‘Yeah, I overheard. Your publicist doesn’t have the quietest voice.’
‘I was gutted. I still am … and before you have a pop at me, I am fully aware that there are worse things going on in the world than my inability to re-secure the lead role in an action franchise.’
‘Yeah? Name one …’
He ignores me and continues. ‘The thing is, I don’t want to lose the part. I can’t. That character means so much to me. I made him. I am him. I believe in him.’
I laugh. ‘I bet you had an imaginary friend as a child.’
‘Forget it,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You clearly can’t give the back chat a rest for five minutes, can you? I was only trying to be honest with you.’
I allow myself to stare at him again. The sincerity written over his face makes me uncomfortable. It’s not just Jack Chase he believes in … he believes in himself. I don’t let myself consider if that look has ever been written on my face.
‘Okay, okay … so, who might nick your role, then?’ I ask.
‘We’re hearing rumours that JP Goldstein wants Orlando Bloom.’
‘Ha! It’s not 2006 … since then it has been proven that Bloom only works well as part of an ensemble cast in a fantastical location with some form of historical weaponry at hand; bow and arrow, sword, sickle – delete as applicable. If he ever plays the lead in a modern setting the film flops.’
Maximilian thinks for a second. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in one.’
‘Exactly, neither has the rest of the developed world. If you wanted to feel really confident, though, I suggest you take a look at Elizabethtown, which Orly stars in with Kirsten Dunst. There’s a scene in it where they speak to each other on the phone till dawn. It’s excruciating. They should have used it on a loop as one of the torture devices in a Saw movie.’
Amusement flickers across Maximilian’s face. ‘Thanks for coming, Vivian, I appreciate it.’
‘That’s okay, but I haven’t come here because of you.’
And that wasn’t more back chatting. I genuinely have not. Nor have I come – as Nicholas has assumed – because he goaded me into it. Nor have I come – as Barb has assumed – hoping that the event will serve as the defibrillator for my flat-lining career. Nor have I come because I’m not exactly thrilled with Luke’s plans for this evening. The reason I came is because it’s my birthday and therefore essential I distract myself as much as possible, to stop me thinking about my other birthday, that one, when it … the darkness … descended …
Barb totters over and slaps Maximilian on the back. ‘Shake out the tension, Maxy. Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out …’
‘Calm down, Barb,’ he replies, as he hunches his shoulders up then releases them, in quick succession. ‘It’s not as if I haven’t done this sort of thing before. I’ll be fine.’
‘I know, but it’s been a while. You’re bound to be feeling the pressure. After the torture and isolation you suffered last year …’ She drifts off – a pained expression on her face, as if it wasn’t that long ago her client was unzipping an orange boiler suit after a stretch in Guantanamo Bay, not packing his jim-jams after a two-thousand-euro-per-night stay at a leading Swiss clinic.
Nicholas opens the passenger door and nods at Maximilian. ‘Remember what I said, Fry. I want you looking suitably moved during the awards – some mild welling-up will suffice – and keep yourself in check if you bump into Parks. Oh, and get some decent shots with the kids. Go for the ones who have obviously been through the mill. Wheelchairs, braces, not quite complete re- constructive surgery … make every shot count.’ I choke and even Barb looks disapproving. ‘Lighten up, ladies,’ he snorts. ‘Isn’t that why he’s here?’
A blonde woman from the events team dashes over to us. She is talking nineteen to the dozen into a mouthpiece hooked round her head.
‘Yup … currently in docking area. Yup, yup, yup … really? Already in. Great … yup. Great … yup. Yup! Yup, yup, no … not them. Cancelled. Pricks! No, no … she’s here. God, yes. Div-ine! Yup, collecting Maximilian Fry now. ETA meet and greet with charity reps approx. three minutes. Yup. Totally.’ She swings her mouthpiece to the side. ‘Hi, hi, hi
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