by Lucy Vine
I also tell her about my funny texts from that producer guy I met on my first night – Noah. They’ve been coming in non-stop, and they’re great. I think I actually quite like him. I mean, I know I’m only here a month but it’s nice to have those butterflies when my phone buzzes. But I’m also very aware the messages don’t seem to be going anywhere. He hasn’t said any more about going on a date. I’ve casually mentioned meeting up a few times and he just changes the subject.
‘Do you know what his star sign is?’ she asks suddenly, dead serious. I roll my eyes. ‘No, Eva, I do not.’
‘I’m just saying, I could help you a lot more if I could do his star chart. That’s how I knew Jeremy was The One.’
Fucking Jeremy.
Something occurs to her and she adds in a worried voice, ‘Also, just to warn you, I did see the name Noah on a Facebook meme the other day. It was a list of men most likely to be commitment-phobes, and his name was, like, number seven.’
I laugh. ‘You believe in such crap, Eva.’ She looks sad again as the Skype connection fizzes. I raise my voice over the interference. ‘NAH, I THINK HE’S JUST ONE OF THOSE REALLY HOT FUCKERS WHO ONLY WANTS TO CHAT FOREVER AND NEVER WANTS TO ACTUALLY MEET UP. YOU KNOW THAT TYPE? THEY JUST WANT THE EGO BOOST WITHOUT ANY OF THE . . .’
‘BABE,’ an angry-sounding Isy interrupts us through the wall. ‘CAN YOU STFU PLEASE? I’M TRYING TO SLEEP.’
I cringe because she actually did say the letters S-T-F-U, which is no more syllables than ‘shut the fuck up’, and did not save her any time to say.
‘OK, BUT NOW YOU’RE SHOUTING, TOO,’ I shout back, trying not to laugh. I really enjoy winding Isabelle up. It’s so easy.
‘I KNOW I AM BUT ONLY TO MAKE A POINT,’ Isy yells.
‘POINT MADE,’ I yell back. ‘SORRY DUDE. I’LL TRY TO KEEP IT DOWN IN FUTURE, YEAH?’ On the screen in front of me, Eva is covering her mouth, trying not to snort. She knows Isy well.
‘THANK YOU,’ she screams back.
‘ISY?’ I bawl, enjoying the noise. ‘BABE? COULD YOU ALSO KEEP IT DOWN NOW THOUGH? I’M TRYING TO SKYPE EVA?’
‘STFU, ALICE, YOU’RE NOT FUNNY.’
‘SHHHHHHUSH,’ I shout, and then collapse in giggles. Eva is wiping tears away and I give her an exaggerated shrug.
‘Is Isy being really annoying?’ she stage whispers.
I nod, ‘Yes, but I do appreciate her letting me stay here. And to be honest, I’ve barely seen her. She’s been out every single night with that producer friend of Noah’s. The one who didn’t look at all like Brad Pitt and was a bit of a knob. The two of them have been at it like horny rabbits since that first night I got here. I bumped into her in the kitchen yesterday where she was making them kale smoothies with ‘sex dust’ she bought online. I asked if sex dust is rohypnol, but apparently it’s something Gloop sells to make you horny. As if they need help.’
I giggle as the connection fizzes again. When Eva’s face returns, she looks contemplative.
‘So listen Alice, how are you, um . . .’ she pauses and I know what’s coming, ‘. . . how are you feeling about the Steven stuff? I texted Mark about it a bit the other day in Australia, and he seems OK. He says not much has changed with Steven’s condition. Have you, um, been in touch with your mum at all?’
She knows this is dangerous territory with me.
‘Um, no.’ My answer is short and brooks no further discussion.
‘Mark said the doctors don’t think he’ll last much lon . . .’
‘Eva,’ I sigh deeply. ‘I love you and I know you mean well, but I’m not really ready to talk about it yet. I don’t want to talk about it, please leave it alone.’
She nods, hearing me. ‘OK Al, but you know where I am if you do ever want to talk. I know it’s a difficult situation for you. And I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you,’ I say brusquely, but meaning it.
She clears her throat. ‘By the way, have you heard anything from TD since you’ve been there? He must be able to see online that you’ve left the country. We all know how he orbits your social media.’
I laugh, relieved she’s not going to push me into a difficult conversation I don’t want to have. Not that she ever really would, she’s so nice.
‘I got a text last night, actually,’ I say, giggling. ‘He sounded really annoyed I’d gone. He was demanding to know when I’d be back, and asked why couldn’t I pop back for a few days. He’s livid that my vagina is currently unavailable.’
She squeals, horrified. ‘Ew, he’s so gross. Did you ignore him?’
I make a face. ‘Well, no. I did reply. And don’t tell me off, Eva, I know I shouldn’t have. But I was just being polite, I don’t want to be rude! Being nice is the, like, higher ground. And obviously I told him I’m not coming back for a while, so it’s not like I’m going to see him.’ She doesn’t look convinced so I add, ‘I didn’t ask any questions, either, so it was obvious I didn’t want to chat!’
‘Alice!’ She looks stern. Eva is rarely stern and I struggle not to laugh. ‘You’ve really got to cut him off completely. Responding at all makes him think he still has a chance with you. You’ve got to be totally done with him, block him! You made me do it with Xerxes, remember? And it worked because then I met Jeremy!’ I snort at the mention of Eva’s ex, the poshest moron to ever live. He once asked me what a Woolworths was. She ignores me and continues. ‘That’s what this trip is about, right? A fresh start? Knocking yourself out of these bad habits and unhelpful patterns. TD doesn’t deserve a second of your time or consideration, you know that, Alice. He’s an idiot and a user, and you are too good for him. And, look, you’ve got Noah now.’
‘I haven’t got Noah,’ I roll my eyes. ‘He’s avoided all mentions of meeting up again. It’s all just texting forever and ever and ever.’ I pause, then add defiantly, ‘I’m going to be too busy for men, anyway.’
She smiles. ‘What have you got planned for your second week of LA living? More of the same?’
‘There will definitely be more extreme drinking and eating,’ I confirm. ‘But I also want to do some more typical LA-type stuff. I want to feel culturally awkward in a pedicure place. I want to go to a Soulcycle class. I want to get my palm read by a fraud on Muscle Beach. I want to wander the streets trying to get recruited by a cult. I want to do everything Constance Beaumont did when she was here.’
Eva is now equally obsessed with Constance Beaumont. Back in the UK we spent a solid week sending each other her glistening sunny Instagram pictures while it rained outside. Just to make sure we fully hated ourselves and our lives.
I pause, then add, ‘Also, I totally want to get Botox.’
‘You don’t mean it?’ she looks at me agog.
‘Yeah I do,’ I insist. ‘I stopped a woman yesterday to ask for directions and she was like, “Sure hon, I can tell you how to get to the Whole Foods, but then I’m giving you directions to a place that will get rid of your elevens”.’
‘What does that mean?’ says Eva, looking perplexed. I point to the parallel lines between my eyebrows. ‘These are apparently my elevens,’ I tell her. ‘I didn’t know they were something I should be ashamed of, but now I do and I’m obsessed. I keep staring at them in the mirror. Plus, why not? I want to try new things. Why not try some poison in my forehead? Everyone else does it. You should see Isy’s face. It didn’t even move when I told her I’d never had my vagina steamed.’
She laughs, long and hard, and I can tell she doesn’t think I’m serious. I don’t even know if I’m serious. I did say I wanted to try LA stuff? Have adventures.
Botox the Adventure!
It sounds like a Lady Gaga music video.
‘OK,’ she is still laughing. ‘But if you get it done, I have to get it done, because you can’t cheat ageing unless we’re all cheating ageing, otherwise it’s not fair.’
‘I don’t thin
k they’d let you have poison injected in you while you’re prego, Eva,’ I point out.
She looks down at herself surprised. ‘Right, of course not. I forgot for a minute.’
I change the subject. ‘Oh, and Isy’s getting us into some fancy awards show thing on Sunday. So that should be exciting.’
Eva squeals, ‘Ooooh that IS exciting! Is it the Oscars? The Emmys? The People’s Choice Awards?’
‘Er, no . . .’ I say, a little embarrassed. ‘It’s something called The Teddy Awards.’
Eva tries and fails to disguise her disappointment. ‘Ah, um, right, I think I’ve heard of that one!’ she says, mustering fake enthusiasm.
‘No you haven’t, and I hadn’t either,’ I reassure her. ‘But it’s still an awards show! An awards show in downtown LA!’
‘That is amazing,’ she enthuses. ‘Do you know which celebs will be there?’
I shake my head. ‘No idea. But if I don’t Netflix and Chill with an actual Netflix star on this trip, I will cancel my subscription and write a stern letter.’
5
AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog: Living My Dream and Feeling Very #Blessed
26 April – 2.14 p.m.
Good afternoon, dream chasers,
I am sitting down to a large chai latte after a very chilled morning spent truly embracing #LA life. I enjoyed an early Soulcycle class, which was very easy for me because I am very fit. I then went for a #SelfCare pedicure where I very much bonded with my podiatrist and she suggested I enjoy the cultural hub of Muscle Beach and Sunset Boulevard. Which is what I’m doing now. The natives are so very welcoming and happy, it is warming my soul.
After all my #LA #SelfCare, tonight is the top secret AWARDS DO I am attending with my actor friend Isy!!! I cannot possibly tell you anything about it, except that it is set to be very very glam and full of celebs (coughMerylStreepcough). Before then, however, I shall be having some ME time to myself, enjoying the sights and delving deep into this new world around me.
Sending good thoughts,
Alice x
#CrushingSoulcycle #PamperSesh #LAPedicure #LovingLife #CelebsDeadAhead #TravelBlogger #GoneAWOL #AliceEdwardsBlog #BloggerLife #Blessed #Brave #DreamChaser
7 Comments · 4 AWOLs · 7 Super Likes
COMMENTS:
Noah Deer
| You’re amazing surviving a Soulcycle class, they’re brutal!
Karen Gill
| Send me a selfie with Meryl.
Morgan PatriotsRule
| Why are you in my country dumb bitch!!!!
AWOL MODERATOR
Replying to Morgan PatriotsRule
| Hey Morgan mate, we know it’s just a bit of a ‘LOL’, but please be respectful to our users :) I’m here if you want to chat!! Luke
Morgan PatriotsRule
Replying to AWOL MODERATOR
| go suk a dick luke
Hannah Edwards
| d
Alice Edwards
Replying to Hannah Edwards
| Thanks Han.
I have found a cult and I am THRILLED.
I spent all morning in a state of sweaty terror thanks to my determination to spend the day being as LA as possible. Which meant getting up at 5 a.m. for one of those Soulcycle classes, so beloved by celebrities. Except I overslept, arrived really late, then tripped over a bike as I tried to sneak in the back. The instructor then stopped the music so everyone could wait for me to find the only spot available, which was inevitably front and centre. I only made it through ten minutes before I started seeing stars and had to pretend I needed a wee. Everyone in the room knew I was off to the loo to puke but it was better than passing out on the instructor.
And I didn’t see a single Beckham in there so it was an absolute waste of my time.
After that I went to get a pedicure to calm myself down, but that experience was even more embarrassing. The woman spent an hour ignoring my attempts at small talk, as she sawed at my yellow soles, making noises like she was competing at the women’s Wimbledon final. She then made me leave wearing lurid green flip-flops in a man’s size eleven.
Since then I’ve been trying to pull the day back from the brink of terribleness by limping around Sunset Boulevard looking for a Scientology building. Mark dared me to get recruited, and I’ll be damned if I fail at that one thing.
I was just about to give up hope when a lady, wearing what could only be described as robes, stopped me in front of a nondescript building, holding out a leaflet.
‘I sense you need to find yourself,’ she said, smiling through dead eyes. ‘We can help you. In fact, we are the only people who could ever truly understand you.’
I nodded enthusiastically, completely delighted. ‘That’s good,’ I told her. ‘Because my brother says no one will ever understand me, or my haircut.’
‘We can help you solve your haircut and all other problems with the art of Sheathology,’ she continued, smoothly.
‘Oh, don’t you mean Scientology?’ I said, trying to hide my disappointment.
‘Those con-artists have no idea,’ she scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Sheathology is the only real method of self-discovery. We dig deep inside you, down below, to determine what terrible spirits are holding you hostage and preventing you from reaching your sheath potential.’
‘So, you are still a cult, right?’ I asked, anxiously.
‘Of course we’re not a cult!’ she replied, cocking her head at me. ‘We only ask that members commit themselves fully to our cause, turning their backs on non-believers and giving themselves and their ancestors to the Sheathology cause for the next thousand years. In exchange, we can help you release your demons and become the sheath bearer you were meant to be.’
‘Sounds great!’ I said happily, following her inside.
Which is how I find myself sitting in a circle of nervous-looking females, all sitting on the floor of a large hall, clutching leaflets.
‘Er, what do you know about Sheathology?’ I whisper to the young woman on my right, because I’m starting to worry there is a small chance I’ve made a mistake.
She leans across enthusiastically. ‘Oh, it’s . . .’ she begins, just as a beaming ringleader – wearing the same robes as the woman outside – strides in and plonks herself down, cross-legged, in the centre of us.
‘VAGINA,’ she shouts, still smiling inanely. I jump.
‘Welcome, my fellow sheath-owners,’ she continues, making steady eye contact with each of us, one-by-one. ‘Today you have taken the first step towards reclaiming your vagina from those who would keep it from you.’
Oh God.
She gestures at her groin, smiling maniacally. ‘Sheathology is all about releasing the power of the vagina. We must, each of us, embrace our collective vagina – our magic muff is one – and exorcise her demon. Today, I will show you how this can be achieved.’ She stands excitably, her robe flapping around.
I start sweating. This is not what I signed up for. I wanted Tom Cruise secrets, not taco talk.
‘For those of you who don’t know,’ she continues, speaking way too loudly, ‘vagina is the Latin word for sheath. It is where those worthy can place their sword. And the one true king is the one who can remove it again.’
Wait, is that a Sword in the Stone reference? What was I thinking doing this? Spontaneity is a terrible idea.
Merlin moves around the circle, stopping in front of me and we stare at each other. A bead of sweat runs down my face. Godammit, Mark won’t be impressed by this cult at all – he doesn’t like vaginas. Honestly, I’m not even a fan of my own. Maybe if I tell them about my awkward smear test they’ll let me leave? They won’t want my terrible vag ruining their collective hoohah.
Merlin is still talking, waving her hands some more and talking about how our group flower needs room to
blossom.
‘We shall now watch a short film about the rise of the rosebud,’ she announces, as one of her whisker biscuit minions pulls down a projector screen and dims the lights. ‘The movie will be followed by a discussion on what type of animal your vagina is,’ she announces, eyes bulging as she walks off. ‘Mine is a chinchilla.’
The room gets darker and the woman beside me leans back into me.
‘Holy shit, this is amazing,’ she breathes in a European accent. I grimace in the gloom. I was going to try to sneak off, but I have a believer beside me. She continues in my ear, panting. ‘Isn’t it though? I mean, I wanted mad, but this is absolute batshit nonsense.’
I suppress a relieved giggle. ‘What kind of animal is your vagina?’ I say in a hushed voice and she considers it.
‘A mosquito, probably. I’m small and cause an itch.’ I giggle and someone nearby tuts.
‘That’s not an animal!’ I say, scolding.
‘That is a good point,’ she looks thoughtful. ‘In that case, is a pussy too obvious?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’ll let you have that, but you’ll have to be more specific. Sphynx? Siamese?’
‘Garfield,’ she says baldy. ‘Because my vagina hates Mondays.’ I giggle again as she adds, ‘You?’
‘I think . . .’ I squint, knowing this is very important. ‘Mine is a giraffe. Because it’s yellow and spotty with a long neck.’
We both laugh again, but silently. ‘Why do you think she’s a chinchilla?’ I whisper, pulling out my phone and Googling them.
We regard the picture. ‘They are very hairy,’ she says at last, in a serious tone.
‘And grey,’ I add thoughtfully. We look at each other for too long a moment and simultaneously snort. An older woman on our right angrily shushes us.