Cause Celeb

by Helen Fielding

  “Well, if you pull it off, old sock, it’ll be fanbloodytastic,” said Henry. “If you don’t, well, you’ll look a bit of a Charlie.”

  “Well, I think it’s a marvelous idea, Rosie dear.” Betty. “Absolutely super. When in doubt, do something rather than nothing, that’s what I always say. And, besides, I remember Marjorie Kemp in Wollo in nineteen eighty-four. They’d been screaming about the famine for six months and what help did they get? None. It was only when the BBC came out that it got moving. If the celebrities do come out here, well, I’m sure we can manage to make them welcome. I’m sure they’ll bring out a few goodies for us as well. Ask them about brussels sprouts.”

  Oh, no. Betty welcoming celebrities. I almost changed my mind.

  *

  O’Rourke came into my hut as I was packing.

  “I don’t think you should go,” he said.

  I looked at him. “Why?”

  “Look, it’s not that I think you’re irresponsible. I can see your reasoning. You’ve set everything up here very well. They can manage for a couple of weeks.”

  “What, then?”

  He rubbed the back of his head.

  “Do you think it’s letting the UN and the donors off the hook?” I said.

  “No. It’s doing the opposite, if anything. It will embarrass them.”

  “So what in the name of arse is it, then?”

  He smiled quickly, then looked serious again. “I don’t think media stars should be involved with this. I certainly don’t think we should have celebrities at large in Safila.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I think the notion of celebrity is completely absurd. All it proves is how gullible everyone is.”

  “It’s not the celebrities’ fault.”

  “Quite so. It’s the whole world that’s mad. Everyone wants to imagine it’s possible to achieve wealth and power out of all proportion to what they do. So they pay to see and read about stars who’ve managed to do that. But the reason the stars managed it was because people would pay to see them and read about them doing it. It’s completely nonsensical.”

  “Isn’t it good that they want to put something back?”

  “Come on. Who’s helping who? Caring’s a requisite part of the image these days if you’re a celebrity.”

  We were standing at opposite sides of the hut, facing each other. I’d hoped he would back me.

  “Do you think I haven’t thought about this?”

  “So what have you thought?”

  “I think there’s a fine line,” I said. “On the one side are the celebrities who are helping the cause more than they help themselves, on the other side the celebrities who are helping themselves more than the cause.”

  “You can’t make simple distinctions like that with aid. Look at the mixture of motives you get even in this place. Anyway, you’re not going to be able to pick and choose celebrities in that space of time.”

  He was probably right there.

  “It might not be an ideal solution, but what harm can it do if it gets us the food?”

  “It’s a question of human dignity.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, and I know that the north/south divide should be lessening and it isn’t. Putting out images of celebrities wandering amongst famine fields is an obscene symbol of the divide. It’s like saying, ‘Hey! the status quo is acceptable. All we need to do is put out a helping hand here and there and we’ve done our bit.’ It’s an emollient. It’s a lie.”

  “Isn’t it better than doing nothing?”

  “Maybe or maybe not—if it makes people think something’s being done, when nothing much is being done.”

  “It could save Liben Alye’s life.”

  “But what does his life mean without Hazawi?” He saw my look. “I’m sorry. But celebrity campaigns are always, by their nature, too late. They are reactive. You know that.”

  “Not every time. Maybe not this time. We’ve got three weeks. And maybe we can put that message across, about being too late.”

  He shook his head, looking at me. “You are very naïve sometimes.”

  “It’s you who’s naïve. This is the way of the world as it is. We can’t change it. The public will listen to celebrities.”

  “Why don’t you just get an airlift sponsored? You don’t have to get involved with show biz.”

  “Because it’s not just Safila that needs food. What about the other camps? If we get media attention focused here the governments will have to react.”

  He shook his head.

  I turned back to the bed and carried on with my packing. He was confusing me. “I’ve got to get on.”

  “Fine,” he said, and let himself out.

  After he’d gone I sat down and thought. I knew he had logic on his side, but it was the only way I could think of to get the food here in time, and that seemed more important. But, still, it worried me that he thought I shouldn’t go.

  The door rattled. It was O’Rourke again, carrying the Kefti photographs and the notes we’d taken.

  “Don’t go without these.”

  “Thanks. I’ll leave a photocopy with Malcolm.”

  He sat down on the chair. “If you’re determined to do this, then I’ll support you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you need some money?”

  “No.”

  “Think about it—flights, clothes, taxis, London. You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure, but thank you.”

  He looked at me. His eyes were hazel green, searching. “Are you all right?” he said.

  There’s nothing like someone being nice to you to make you want to cry. Suddenly I just wanted to lean against him, and feel his arms round me. But he had given no sign, since that night, that he wanted that.

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  “I wanted to say—that night in the desert, that absurd conversation with Linda. Are you feeling all right? You’re not angry or unhappy?”

  Don’t lay yourself open, I told myself. Don’t risk it, not now. “I’m fine.”

  “I just didn’t want you to go off to London feeling—”

  “Are you involved with Lin—?”

  “No. We were, briefly, three years ago. But not since, except—”

  “It doesn’t ma—”

  “—except that since I arrived it’s been a bit like being hit over the head with a valentine. I didn’t even know she was here when I got the job.” He looked troubled. “But I—”

  “Listen, it’s fine. Forget about it.” I didn’t want to hear it. I knew what he was going to say: “I don’t want to get involved with anyone else, either.” Meaning me. I felt close to tears.

  I got up again. “If you don’t mind, I’ve really got to pack or I’ll never get going.”

  I turned round to the bed and started folding clothes, because I didn’t want him to see my face.

  He stayed where he was, and I carried on packing. After a while he said softly, “You seem very defensive.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Did someone hurt you?” he said.

  I wiped my eye with the back of my hand and carried on with the packing. “I’ve got to finish packing,” I said. “I’ll come and say good-bye before I go.”

  He hesitated a moment and then he let himself out, lifting the corrugated iron and replacing it.

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  Geldenkrais, Arimacia, Beth-Luis, enter now the aura hole and heal. Let the Jade Warrior guide. See . . . feel . . . experience.”

  Bill Bonham was floating in a dimly lit tank of water beneath a turquoise pyramid trimmed with seaweed. “THE TRANCE OF THE SHAMAN TANTRA!” he thundered. His portly form rose from the tank, white robes dripping. “WHERE? WHERE ARE THE HOPI?”

  Already I was starting to wonder what I had done. It was the first night of an unusual one-man show The Healing of the Chakra Energies, billed as “A theatrical first for the nineties and the New Age. An exploration of man’s spiritual pote
ntial through Performance Art.” I remembered Bill as a cynical leather-jacketed friend of Oliver’s who made a great thing about not suffering fools gladly and was always disappearing into the toilets to snort cocaine. Apparently, between being commissioned for his one-man show and producing the script, he had gone stark raving mad. He now believed he was descended from the Aztecs and destined to reveal the Route to Ecstasy through wearing turquoise.

  It’s fine, I told myself, a very good use of time. The Famous Club was out in force, the search for the Hopi merely the price to pay. Four seats away, Kate Fortune, dressed in something ludicrously frilly as usual, was gazing raptly at the stage, shiny lips reflecting the dancing purple lights, flicking back her long hair from time to time. The tiny wizened pixie director, Richard Jenner, sat with his teenage girlfriend, Annalene. I hadn’t seen them since I was sick at their dinner party. Corinna Borghese, the acerbic girl who had presented Soft Focus with Oliver, was fidgeting in her seat and rolling her eyes, her hennaed crop so short now as to be almost shaved. She was wearing sunglasses. Couldn’t say I blamed her. Across the aisle, the distinguished profiles of Dinsdale Warburton and Barry Rhys looked impassively forward, as if they were watching an RSC Lear. Beside me, Julian Alman was fiddling miserably with his electronic personal organizer.

  I had arrived at Heathrow in the early hours of that morning, stayed at Shirley’s and spent most of the day asleep. In the afternoon I called Julian Alman. Julian and Janey: out of all Oliver’s friends I had been closest to them. Julian, the nation’s happiest comedian, was now in a state of wallowing moroseness, in the throes of a separation from Janey and he had eagerly invited me along tonight as his date. It was the perfect opportunity.

  The sound of waves, seagulls and whales filled the auditorium. Bill Bonham was prostrate at the front of the stage. “The Spirit Horse!” he enunciated. “Where, where is the Spirit Horse?”

  Damp fronds of hair framed the bald patch above the puzzled face. “Seek, seek, seek,” chanted an Aztec chorus over the PA system.

  There was silence. Then a gong and a high insistent peeping filled the air around me.

  “Blast,” whispered Julian. “My phone. Blast.” He fumbled in his coat and dragged the phone out, its green lights twinkling. “Hi, Julian Alman here.”

  “Shh,” hissed Kate Fortune, without taking her eyes off the stage.

  “Turn the phone off,” I whispered.

  “Shh,” said a voice behind us.

  “Janey, look we can’t keep on—,” Julian was whispering into the mouthpiece.

  “THE SPIRIT HORSE IS ARRIVED.”

  Kate Fortune stared at Julian with her eyebrows raised, then turned quickly back to the stage, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

  “Look I’ve told you, I need to unify my personality before—”

  I took the phone from Julian. “Janey, it’s Rosie. Julian’s actually in the theater. He’ll ring you in half an hour.” I turned the phone off and put it in my bag. Julian looked at me, anguished.

  Where was Oliver? Was he here?

  Bill Bonham reappeared now, dressed in jeans and leather jacket. He was spotlit at the front of the stage, sitting on a pile of bones.

  “You laugh, of course, chakras, gobbledegook, crap. But then you think, Christ, who’s laughing. Is it me? Or is it the wounded child within?”

  Across the aisle I saw Dinsdale’s shoulders beginning to shake reassuringly.

  There was darkness.

  “RELEASE THE BLOCKAGES.”

  The stage lighting changed to pink.

  The pyramid and the platform were vibrating, and suddenly Bill Bonham appeared on the platform, hands at either side, palms raised upwards.

  “Open to the Channeling.”

  A rush of dry ice rose around the flotation tank. People in the front row started to cough.

  “Fertilizing the Star Seed!”

  The platform, and Bill’s arms were rising.

  There was a flash of red light and, across the auditorium, above us in a box, Oliver’s face was illuminated for a second, grinning broadly at the stage, before it disappeared back into darkness.

  When the houselights went up the box was empty.

  *

  Crowds were pouring out of the theater into the startling noise, rush, lights and cold of Piccadilly Circus. Dinsdale and Barry, possibly the two most famous actors on the British stage, were standing in the middle of the pavement, projecting at each other, oblivious to the crowd gathering around them.

  “Bloody load of hogwash,” roared Barry. “Errant, woolly-minded, self-indulgent, and poorly enunciated. Absolutely crazy.”

  “Don’t, my darling, don’t,” said Dinsdale. “I absolutely can’t beaaaar it when you get like this. The boy looked divine and you know it. Those rrrobust little thighs silhouetted thrrrrough sodden, clinging, heavenly rrrrobes. Oh, look, there’s that divine young Indian, writer poetry chappie,” said Dinsdale, spotting Rajiv Sastry stomping towards them, shoulders hunched in his Oxfam overcoat.

  “How are you, darling boy?” shouted Dinsdale flirtatiously.

  “Fucking angry, actually,” said Rajiv. “Sends me tickets to the show then doesn’t invite me to the fucking party. Fucking classist unnecessary manipulative—”

  “But, my darling boy, do not fret! You must come as my escort. What in the world could be more charming?!”

  Dinsdale feigned surprise as a pair of elderly ladies asked him for an autograph. “My autograph? But I would be honored, I would be thrilled, I would be delighted. Bless you, my darlings. But surely you would like to ask my distinguished friend and colleague here too? Barry Rhys?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, you bloody fool,” thundered Barry, furious. “You’ve been doing this to me for forty bloody years. It wasn’t funny the first time and it’s not funny now. I’m going to the bloody party.”

  “Hello, Dinsdale! How are you?” I said when the ladies had gone.

  “Hello, my darling, what can I do for you?” He turned to me, expecting an autograph.

  “Rosie Richardson,” I said.

  He looked at me blankly for a second.

  “Rosie Richardson. Ah, er . . . I used to do your publicity at Ginsberg and Fink?”

  He threw open his arms and grasped me in a theatrical embrace. “My darling, how maaaarvelous to see you! You look wonderful.” He still didn’t remember. “And have you met the most gorgeous, the most talented boy in the whole world?” he said, gesturing vaguely towards Rajiv.

  “How are you, Rajiv?” I said.

  “Great. Yeah. It’s going really well. We’ve got the first read through on Thursday.”

  “What did you think of that maaaarvelous show? Wasn’t it simply the most divinely, exquisitely outrrrrageous thing you have evah, evah seen? Of course, my darlings. Bless you. Who is it to?”

  Another old lady was asking him for an autograph.

  “Lovely to see you, my precious,” he said in a tactful dismissal, over her shoulder. “Bless you.”

  “Bye,” I said, obediently, with a sinking heart. Dinsdale had been one of my big hopes. I made my way over to Julian, who was still standing in the entrance to the theater, anxiously rubbing the portable phone against his chin. A young girl in leggings and a bomber jacket was about to corner him, holding out a notepad.

  “You really cheer us up, right?” she was saying. “It’s like when you’re on, like, everything seems, like, really funny, right? Like, no worries, right?”

  He caught sight of me over her shoulder. “Janey just doesn’t understand that I have to be whole within myself before I can form a relationship,” he wailed. “But hang on.” He started dialing the number again.

  I took the phone from him. “Let’s go to the party,” I said.

  “Hey, thanks, right?” said the girl, looking puzzled.

  *

  “Awesome to make himself spiritually naked in that way. I was humbled, genuinely.”

  “Totally lost it . . . end of his career . . .
like, I really love that man.”

  “Veree, veree rare to see that kind of raw courage on stage.”

  “What an asswipe.”

  “I mean, what do you say to the guy?”

  The walls of the banqueting room in the Café Royal were lined with stands selling New Age merchandising, crystals, runes, feather items. A Perspex pyramid was suspended on wires above one of the most spectacular Famous Club turnouts I had ever seen.

  “I don’t know where to start,” I said to Julian. “Who do you think I should ask?”

  “The thing is, it is very nourishing when we’re together,” Julian replied, “very nourishing. But then, I wonder, why do I need this support in my life?”

  We had been talking about Janey since Julian rang my doorbell, only interrupted by The Healing of the Chakra Energies. Janey had a baby now. She had discovered she was pregnant just after they had split up. Julian had insisted on calling the child Irony. My efforts to bring up the crisis in eastern Nambula had been met with distracted stares.

  “Oh, my angel!”

  Heads turned as Kate Fortune fell on a young girl holding a baby, threw back her hair, seized the baby, and cradled it in her arms. Flashguns flashed, cameras clicked, the paparazzi surrounded her in a scrum.

  “It’s Romanian,” said Julian. The phone rang. “Excuse me a minute. I’ll catch you up later,” and he scurried off into a corner.

  I spotted Corinna Borghese curling her lip at Gloria Hunniford’s back, running her hand over her spiky head. Let Corinna try to do her patronizing right-on number on me now, I thought. I wasn’t just Oliver’s bit of stuff anymore. I’d done things.

  I made my way over to her.

  “Hi, Corinna. How are you?”

  She peered at me. “Sorry? Have we met?”

  “Rosie Richardson.”

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah. Hi. Haven’t seen you around for a while.”

  “No. Been in Nambula actually, working in a refugee camp,” I said airily.

  Corinna tossed her head. “Oh, God, not more neocolonialism. Do you realize we’re on the brink of a third world war because of these patronizing Western attitudes to the Arab states?”

  “Excuse me. Do you mind?” Kate Fortune was trying to get past me, with the nanny following on, holding the baby.