by Lucy Vine
We turn back to the film, which seems to be a detailed – and highly inaccurate – biology lesson. My phone lights up with a message from Mark and I click away from the poor, hairy chinchillas.
‘How’s LA? Miss you.’
I reply quickly. ‘I have accidentally joined a vagina cult, which would be fine, except they don’t even know the difference between vagina and vulva.’
His reply is quick. ‘Who does? Have you signed over all your money yet?’
‘I would’ve but they don’t accept Paypal,’ I type back. And he gives me a LOL for my troubles.
I suddenly really miss my brother. I want to speak to him, to hear his voice. I slip away from the group and press call.
Mark is two years older than me, and then we have a sister, Hannah, who is a few years older again. The Early Mistake, as we call her, and which she very much enjoys.
I’m closer to Mark, but I am very fond of Hannah. Mostly because she’s such an oddball. Truly. Whereas Mark and I have grown up with the internet, she was just a little too old to ever fully accept or trust it. She is convinced it is watching her and monitoring her every move – which duh obviously it is doing that, but Millennials mostly don’t care, do they? She loves any kind of conspiracy theory – you name it, she believes it. Elvis isn’t dead; the moon landing was faked; the government is a secret race of lizard people; Princess Di was murdered by her in-laws; Finland doesn’t exist; Peppa Pig is Illuminati brainwashing propaganda.
She sends round a monthly family newsletter sharing all her amazing thoughts on these topics – as well as tedious and embarrassing factoids about our relatives – but never ever click on a link she sends round. Your computer will never recover. Actually, I should send her the details of this place, she’d love it.
Mark, meanwhile, is an enigma. He is the world’s most evasive best friend. He loves gossiping about me and my life, but he gives me almost nothing back. He just shrugs and smiles when I try to get him to open up. He’s been like that for as long as I can remember. Sometimes when I’m drunk, I grill his best mate to find out secrets, but Joe laughs and says he doesn’t know anything about Mark either. And they’ve known each other almost as long as me and Mark. Joe lived one road over when we were little and is the happiest person I know. He’s one of those people who is always looking on the bright side of things and giving motivational speeches over brunch. Him and Mark actually make quite a strange, night and day-type of pairing, but it seems to work because I’ve never seen them fall out. Maybe being evasive and constantly turning things back around keeps a friendship safe. Or maybe not. Either way, it frustrates the hell out of me. Honestly, the only way I know Mark loves me is that he keeps getting in touch.
‘Hello dickhead,’ he answers quickly, sounding happy.
‘Hello yourself,’ I say, pleased. ‘Sorry for calling, I know you don’t approve of phones being used for calls.’
‘That’s fine,’ he laughs. ‘I don’t mind when it’s you.’
‘How is your sunburn?’ I say, not sure how else to reference his trip to Australia without getting into specifics.
‘Even, dark and non-burny,’ he replies smugly. ‘Sorry Al, I know you burn in stripes. It’s really sweltering here.’
The moment – and the here – hangs in the air.
‘What non-vagina-y things have you been up to?’ he says, when the silence has stretched on too long.
I clear my throat, staring off at the group on the other side of the hall, watching the brainwashing propaganda closely.
‘I went shopping where a woman shouted, “Have a great day” at me so aggressively that I am now really afraid of not having a great day,’ I say. ‘I feel like she will somehow know and she will find me and she will gouge out my eyes with expensive oak coat hangers.’
‘And you would deserve it.’
‘I know right. It’s strange, I’m just not used to everyone being so nice and friendly. And everyone speaks therapy. I sat in a coffee shop this morning listening to a man having a brilliant argument on the phone. He was saying, like, “I do appreciate you communicating where you’re at, but I do not feel valued by you.” I thought it was some street theatre at first, it was so great. My coffee got cold while I eavesdropped.’
‘I’m so jealous, I love listening to people’s conversations. It’s the only reason I go outside.’
‘I also visited Muscle Beach, which has got a very Blackpool-in-October vibe. It’s such a strange place. On one side you have this very real, very stark homeless problem – and then on the other side, you have an entire shop dedicated to, like, toe rings. And there are extremely rude pants for sale everywhere you look.’
‘Sounds hot.’
‘They all say things like “All you can eat”, “Lick me until ice cream” and “Slippery when wet”.’
‘Aw, did you not get me one?’
‘I was actually very tempted. But I got my palm read instead. There are hundreds of psychics who all happen to be dotted along the sea front. I think the sea must be a psychic energy conductor.’
‘Oh my God, tell me everything.’ Mark sounds breathless. ‘Did the psychic mention me? Am I going to be rich? Famous?’
‘Very. You were all she wanted to talk about. But really, it was actually hilarious. This bored-looking woman just held my hand for ten minutes and spoke at high speed about how I was going to live a long life, but I was chasing something right now. She also said there is a man in my life who doesn’t treat me very well. Like, LOL, who ISN’T that going to apply to?’
‘She is right though. I hope you haven’t been in touch with TD lately.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear you, the connection is bad.’
‘Ohhhh, Alice! At least tell me you haven’t sexted your boss again though.’
A pulse of humiliation burns through me. I do not want to be reminded of that terrible night. A beat passes and Mark speaks quickly, probably sensing he has hit a nerve.
‘So no more progress with that Noah guy you met on your first night?’
‘Nah, but that’s fine. He was super good-looking but I don’t know, I think he might be really boring.’
‘Fair enough. Did the psychic say anything about other men coming your way?’
I pause.
‘Nothing about men. But she said . . .’ I am not sure whether to tell Mark this. ‘. . . that sometimes I can be unkind to people.’
There is another pause and I add hastily, ‘But I think that was just because she was upset I was laughing in her face.’
A few more seconds pass and I feel myself getting cross. I’m not unkind! I’m a straight shooter! Honest! I’m not unkind! That’s unkind to say!
‘But are you finding The Fun like you wanted?’ he says.
I jump on the change of subject.
‘I kinda think I am,’ I reply. Despite my current discomfort and boiled feet, I am actually having a great time in LA. It’s not anything like I expected, but everything is so new and exciting. And I can’t tell you how affecting it is to have the sun on my face every day. I had no idea how much the grey gloom of London was dragging me down.
‘Project Find The Fun is definitely coming along. Maybe I’ll just stay in Fun mode, here in LA. I don’t need to Find Myself in Thailand if I can Find Fun forever instead, do I?’
‘True, but I think the novelty will wear off all your Finding Fun soon. You like being able to complain and shout too much. Plus, they’re bound to chuck you out soon. Have you not heard of a BUI?’
‘No, what the fuck? Is it like a DUI?’
‘Yep. But for biking under the influence. It’s an actual crime, and they take foreigners straight to the airport if they’re caught. And frankly, Alice, I cannot see a way around it. You are bound to end up hiring a bike one day while you’re drunk. It’s just too YOU not to happen at some point.’
; ‘Oh shit, that is true. I’m going to get a BUI. They’re going to chuck me out.’
‘Try to wait until your last day, because that could work out quite well. Hey, I saw Hannah earlier.’
‘Oh? How is she? Wanting more tips on how to use AWOL? She’s almost as bad at it as me.’
‘Ha, no,’ he says, his voice a little tight. ‘She wondered if I would try to talk to you again about . . . Mum.’
My breathing gets shallow but before I can reply, the lights in the room come back up and I hang up, throwing my phone back in my bag, and rushing back to the circle.
‘Here comes the chinchilla,’ mutters my new friend, as the Sheathology leader sweeps back in.
‘Right,’ she shouts, smiling benignly as she regards each of us. ‘Time to remove our robes.’
6
AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog: Living My Dream and Feeling Very #Blessed
26 April – 5.24 p.m.
Good evening, dream chasers,
I have had an intriguing afternoon at an animal sanctuary, where I saw a range of creatures, most notably chinchillas. Unfortunately, I had to leave early when many of them almost escaped from their cages. I did not want to see that.
This is just a quick one to update you, as I can now reveal that I am merely moments away from attending the very exclusive Teddy Awards!!! I know it’s going to be a life-changing experience and I am very grateful for my life. I will embrace these moments and also live in the moments. Look out for me in the audience on the telly.
Peace and love,
Alice x
#TeddyAwards #MerylStreep #NotTheOscarsButCloseEnough #TravelBlogger #GoneAWOL #AliceEdwardsBlog #BloggerLife #Blessed #Brave #DreamChaser
7 Comments · 9 AWOLs · 13 Super Likes
COMMENTS:
Hannah Edwards
|.gu
Alice Edwards
Replying to Hannah Edwards
| Gu? Like the chocolate pots? That is a great idea, thanks! You are such a wise big sister.
Sarah Sommers
| You better catch some celeb dick or I’ll never forgive you.
Piers Ned
| Whore slut.
AWOL MODERATOR
Replying to Piers Ned
| Sorry to be a boring dad type, Piers – AWOL is cool, I promise! – But please be respectful to our users :) I’m here if you fancy chatting more. Luke
Piers Ned
Replying to AWOL MODERATOR
| luke u bellend wot u sayin bout my dad
Noah Deer
| You going with your English friend? Have a good time. I can get you into an afterparty if you need? Message me.
I have grown quite attached to my green flip-flops by the time I meet Isabelle, who is waiting for me outside the theatre.
She looks down, fear making her eyes all bulgey.
‘What on earth are you wearing on your feet? We have to go in!’ she says, panic in her voice.
‘The pedicure woman stole my shoes, Isy, what can I do?’ I shrug helplessly, secretly delighted. ‘Don’t you think they almost work, though?’ I look down and wiggle my toes, pleasingly.
I was going to tell her about my afternoon with the vagina cult, but it’s clear Isy’s not in the mood. She sighs impatiently, hopping from one foot to another. Despite the warm early evening temperatures, she must be freezing her tiny ass off in the smallest, tightest dress I’ve ever seen. I love it and completely approve. I think women should be as cold – or as hot – as possible, at all times, just to prove a point to those judgy types who temperature-concern-troll you about your outfit choice.
You know what I mean? ‘My goodness, aren’t you cold in that?’ is a comment that is only ever intended to make you feel insecure. Likewise, when I’ve still got my jacket on at a party and someone’s like, ‘Wow, you must be boiling!’ It is never the heat making me uncomfortable, it is YOU trying to make me remove my clothes. And, honestly, fuck off mate, I paid a hundred and forty quid for this Zara coat, it goes with my shoes, so I AM KEEPING IT ON YOU WILL NOT MAKE ME FEEL SHIT ABOUT THIS.
Isy flicks her perfectly coiffed hair over her shoulder and regards me critically. Her make-up is expertly applied in that way that makes her look like she’s hardly wearing any, even though I know for a fact she is wearing all the make-up that exists in the known universe.
‘Wow,’ I breathe out. ‘You look stunning.’ She smiles widely and I see the tension leave her shoulders. ‘Thanks, I only used ethically sourced, organic manure-based make-up,’ she says, trying not to look at my feet. ‘You look nice, too.’
I’ve pretty much only brought one Really Nice Dress along on my travels. It’s long and yellow and makes my boobs look momentous. I’ve been carrying it around all day so it’s nice and crumpled, but I’m still enjoying feeling dressy.
‘Cheers,’ I say, cupping my chest proudly. I reach for Isy’s arm. ‘So how did you get us into this tonight?’ I ask as we head slowly inside. ‘Are you nominated for an award or something?’
Her stride falters. ‘Um, no. Maybe one day! But not this time.’
‘How then?’ I ask, suddenly suspicious. I’ve just noticed there are no other people in fancy outfits around. No red carpets, no paps screaming for attention.
‘How, Isy?’ I say louder this time. ‘Did your new boyfriend, Ethan, get us in?’
She shakes her head. ‘Um, don’t be mad, Alice, but we’re actually . . . seat fillers.’
I stop. ‘Wait, what?’
She continues in a rush. ‘We’re seat fillers. When the actual attendees go for a wee or to take coke in the bathroom, we have to sit in their seat. It’s so the auditorium never looks empty on camera. You have to be on hand during the show to run in if a celeb vacates their chair. It’s actually a huge honour and you have to know all the right people to even be asked to do this. I had to pull so many strings for this.’
I consider it for a second. A seat filler? ‘This is . . .’ I pause and she looks worried. ‘This is the COOLEST THING I’VE EVER HEARD!’
She laughs, relieved by my reaction.
‘Isy, this is so epic! Not even Constance Beaumont got to do something like this when she was travelling around California! I could be sitting in for Meryl Streep. I could feel the warmth of Meryl’s bum on my own. I bet Meryl has lovely warm buttocks, y’know? Not too hot like she’s farted, but just comforting and cosy levels of warm. Will I be able to take a picture of Meryl’s bumcheek imprint before I sit on it?’
Isy shakes her head. ‘No, definitely not. You have to be cool, Alice. Seriously, or they’ll chuck us out. No pictures, no AWOL updates, and you’ll have to sign a non-disclosure agreement as we go in. Plus, there is no way Meryl will be here.’
‘Oh. Well, still.’
‘I mean it,’ she insists. ‘You can’t be . . . well, you. You have to be polite, no backchat to the men upstairs. You have to be nice, quiet and discreet.’
‘Great,’ I say sarcastically. ‘It’s 1954 in there.’
She rolls her eyes at me. ‘Fine, yes, tonight you are a Handmaid, got it? And it’s all top secret. What happens in seat-filler club stays in seat-filler club. Not that non-disclosures really mean that much to anyone any more. Not since Harvey and Donald.’
I nod. ‘I’ll be cool, I promise.’
I’m thrilled. After failing to get recruited by a cult, this is exactly the kind of celeb silliness I was hoping for from California. A seat filler! This is going to be so much fun.
OK, it’s not that fun. We’re currently huddled in a corner of the main hall with the rest of the seat fillers: a large group of confident-looking regulars. A stern man has already shouted at us not to talk to anyone, not to behave badly, not to have any fun at all, actually. He keeps singling me out to scream about how I’m not paying enough attention, but dude, I get it.
We are not allowed to drink or eat, we are not to speak to any invited guests, and even eye contact with celebrities is fiercely discouraged. Our job is to blend in, to avoid drawing any kind of attention at all, and smiling is outlawed.
I made that last bit up, but it feels that way.
There was a moment of awe when they eventually lead us into the arena where the ceremony is happening – the high ceilings and glittery décor has clearly cost serious big bucks – but then we were dumped in this dark corner. Out of view, out of the way, with orders from the dickhead seat-filler conductor not to speak. Isy and I do anyway, breathing out in low whispers whenever someone important-looking arrives, but we are well into the show before I spot anyone actually famous. If I’m being honest, I am fairly bored.
Until. Suddenly there is action.
‘Go. YOU, go,’ the boss is violently hissing at me, grabbing me by the elbow and throwing me towards the audience. I glance back and he smirks at me like he knows something I don’t. What is his problem? He’s probably jealous I get to join the celebs while he’s stuck in the corner on his power trip.
Oh my God, an actress I recognise from one of my favourite telly shows is gliding out of her seat in the second row. We pass each other and she is dazzling up close. For a moment, I forget the instructions shouted at me mere minutes ago, and I look her full in the face. She is irresistible, she is a goddess, I cannot resist her celebrity pull. We make eye contact and she winks.
‘This is the bad place,’ she murmurs as we cross paths, and I nearly pass out.
Her seat is still warm – it is just like I imagined Meryl’s bum print would feel – and I feel the buzz of celebrities surrounding me on all sides. The bad place? This is the best place ever! My stomach fizzes happily. I don’t care how shallow it is, this is amazing. Well worth standing around for hours in the shadows. Even worth the dickhead boss screaming at me to take this seriously.