by Lucy Vine
The actress has probably only gone for a wee, I likely only have a couple of minutes, and so I close my eyes and bask in the few moments I have among the B-list. The stage is overwhelmingly close and the clapping is noisy. I open my eyes and glance around. Across the room in the gloom, I can just about make out Isy, who gives me a quick wave. She still looks a bit jealous. Which I’m fine with.
‘How are you doing? I like your flip-flops,’ a half-whispered voice interrupts my glow. The man on my left is leaning over and smiling. He is wearing a tux and looks vaguely familiar.
Oh God, I’m not allowed to talk to guests. But the boss didn’t brief me on what to do if guests spoke to me, did he? So I can make up my own rules.
‘Hiya!’ I whisper cheerfully, offering him my hand to shake. ‘I’m Alice!’
He takes it, smiling. ‘You’re one of the seat fillers, right?’ he says, cheerfully. I smile and nod, hoping I’m being watched by the seat-filler dictator. I have celeb mates now, he can’t tell me what to do.
‘Do you know what’s going on backstage?’ he continues. ‘Have you been there all this time? I’m nominated in the next category and I wondered if you’d heard anything while you were waiting around back there?’ I shake my head slowly, giving a helpless shrug. He slumps down in his seat, despondent.
‘Never mind, it doesn’t matter,’ he says, speaking too loudly. ‘I don’t stand a chance anyway. I’m up against that guy who overdosed last year and just got out of rehab, so clearly he’s got the sympathy vote. Plus, one of the other nominees has been sleeping with literally everyone on the voting panel so I’m way down the list.’
Shit, this guy is loud. Let’s hope the other nominees aren’t sitting around us. I grimace at him in what I hope is a supportive – but not encouraging – way. Maybe I shouldn’t have engaged after all.
‘Oh fuck it!’ he exclaims even louder, and the presenters on stage just a few feet away glance down at our row, looking startled. My face is beetroot, as I stare straight ahead, trying to pretend nothing is happening.
Behind us a reality housewife angrily shushes us and I sink lower in my chair. When am I going to be relieved? My actress must be doing multiple number twos in the loo. The two times table maybe.
‘Sorry,’ he shouts hazily behind him, and I realise he is drunk. ‘Heyyy,’ he leans into me again, ‘you know who I am, right? You watch Netflix, don’t you? Of course you do, everyone does.’
I give him a sharp nod, as subtly as possible, even though I still don’t have a clue who he is. He takes this as encouragement, continuing, ‘I knew you had! I could see it in your eyes. The star-struck thing. I see it all the time. I can’t walk down the street without seeing that desperate look in people’s eyes.’
I consider this. How intently must you have to look at people as you walk along, to be able to spot them spotting you? And if you’re staring at everyone to see if they’re staring, no wonder they stare?
‘It’s hard to have a proper life, y’know?’ he sighs now. ‘Because of people like you always bothering me, Alice.’
I bite my tongue to prevent it calling him a dick – and also to stop from laughing. There’s no stopping him though, despite the angry shushing around us getting more intense.
‘I just think I deserve a bit of recognition from my peers, don’t you think?’ his volume has reached a truly uncomfortable level. ‘I know I’m talented, everyone says so. Everyone says it. I am extremely talented – a genius – not my words. Why shouldn’t I get some accolades for that?’ He reaches under his chair and swigs from a bottle he had hidden, while I continue to stare steadily ahead, my face radioactive with shame.
‘Can you please keep it down?’ A very famous US telly presenter has turned fully around from the front row and is directing his waggling finger at my new best friend – and me. I’m in this now, I’m part of it. It’s not just him, it’s the two of us.
Oh God, the cameras have arrived. There is a guy with a camera on his shoulder, and the wider pan attached to a crane swings down near our faces, zooming in on my green flip-flops. But my new pal is oblivious, continuing his rant unabated.
‘I’ve had enough of hearing how great I am from the general public on Twitter,’ he shouts. ‘And yet that greatness never being recognised or validated. I don’t need validation, you know? It’s not even about that. I just think it’s only right. When all these HACKS around us have got a Teddy Award and I haven’t, it starts to make the whole thing look like a bit of a joke, doesn’t it, Alice? Like it’s all a fix, and just because I haven’t given the right blowjobs in this town, suddenly my genius on screen doesn’t matter. It’s a JOKE.’
The glowering around us is hot on my neck and I cannot sink into my seat any lower. Suddenly he grabs my arm. ‘Come on Seat Filler,’ he yells, standing us both up and bustling me along the row ahead of him. ‘Let’s rush the fucken stage! If we can’t be award winners, we will be internet heroes instead! It’ll be so much FUN!’
OK, well I did ask for fun.
7
AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog: Living My Dream and Feeling Very #Blessed
29 April – 2.19 p.m.
Good afternoon, dream chasers,
Apologies for not updating this blog for a few days, everything is excellent and fine and I am still very #blessed. The Teddy Awards were truly wonderful and went off without a hitch. I mean, apart from that one tiny hitch which I am legally not allowed to talk about. But I know many of you have seen it on YouTube by now. I am not legally allowed to say anything, but I do just want to say again that I had nothing to do with what happened. It was not my idea to rush the stage, I was swept along in the moment. He made me do it. I say again: it was not my idea.
In particular, I had no clue at all that he was going to defecate on stage.
And whatever it may look like in the video, I did not deliberately flash, it was a total accident. One of the security men who grabbed me caught my bra strap with his gold signet ring. And despite all those YouTube comments, no, my bra isn’t grey and stained, it was the lighting. My bras are all v expensive and well maintained. Of course I cannot legally talk about any of this, but I will just also say that I wasn’t thrown out, I left by mutual agreement.
And otherwise it was a really wonderful evening that went off without a hitch. And I got a goodie bag!! Which I didn’t steal. It was just sitting there going spare as I left. You are meant to help yourself. Do not believe those YouTube comments, I was a victim in all of it.
Anyway, with that out of the way, I am excited to report that I’m now moving out of my friend Isy’s place. And for the record, that was always the plan, it’s not because she pretended not to know me at the Teddy Awards. I do not blame her for that, I would’ve done the same. But to say again, I was innocent in all of it. Anyway, we have had a truly bonding experience living together and learning about each other’s intimate foibles. We are closer than ever, and thank you Isy, again, for my Gloop subscription. I will definitely use it. Now I’m off to a really lovely AirBnB in Marina del Rey.
Having the BEST TIME, sending my good vibes,
Alice x
#TeddyAwards #OfficialStatement #DontReadTheYouTubeComments #NonDisclosureAgreement #SecurityGotRough #WardrobeMalfunction #Travels #Wanderer #GoneAWOL #AliceEdwardsBlog #BloggerLife #Blessed #Brave #DreamChaser
7 Comments · 102 AWOLs · 65 Super Likes
COMMENTS:
Isabelle Moore
| I would also like to say here that I didn’t pretend not to know you, I was just hiding from NAME REDACTED BY MODERATOR because he started throwing his poop at the audience.
Alice Edwards
Replying to Isabelle Moore
| We’ve all seen the YouTube video Isy, let’s not go over this again. Thanks for having me to stay anyway!
Isabelle Moore
Replying to Alice Edwards
| Thanks for coming! I’m sad I didn’t get to see enough of you though. Blame @EthanWinklemanProducer
Ethan Winkleman
Replying to Isabelle Moore, Alice Edwards
| Hey, don’t blame me! I can’t help it if I’m just so distracting ;)
Isabelle Moore
Replying to Ethan Winkleman, Alice Edwards
| Oh, you know it’s all your fault, big boy. I’m looking forward to being ‘distracted’ again later tonight . . .
Ethan Winkleman
Replying to Isabelle Moore, Alice Edwards
| I’m looking forward to getting distracted all over your face . . .
Alice Edwards
Replying to Isabelle Moore, Ethan Winkleman
| Please God, why am I still tagged into this conversation. Make it stop, for the love of Christ.
The most important part of any new place is, for me, the bathroom. Or loo as I’m deliberately calling it in front of every American I encounter, just because it confuses them so much.
As far as I’m concerned, that particular room can make or break a holiday. A weak flush, or a cold, leaky shower can be the difference between a happy start to every day, and an angry, annoying one. The perfect bathroom needs a strong toilet, an effective shower, a readily available air freshener, good ventilation, nice towels, and most importantly – especially when it’s an en suite like I have here at this AirBnB – a good solid, sound-proof door. The insulation between sexy boy visitors and my morning poos could be the difference between me getting some, and me very much not getting some.
And after all the false starts with Noah, not to mention the texts still occasionally coming in from TD, I really need to get me some hot strange soon. Which means this new loo has to be up to scratch.
As the AirBnB host, ‘Patrick’, shows me around, I’m impatiently waiting to see the bathroom, and whether it will pass muster. We wander down a short corridor and he stops. ‘Here’s your room and there’s a restroom,’ he says, waving off to the left.
‘The loo is through there, huh?’ I say, emphasising ‘loo’ out of English spite.
‘Huh? The what?’ he says.
I ignore his confusion, surveying my space for the next few weeks. The bedroom is small and functional – acceptable. I hold my breath as I pass through to my favourite room – and breathe a sigh of relief.
It’s perfect. Small enough so farts don’t echo round the flat, and the shower head looks clean and new, with controls I actually understand. There’s even a little shelf in the shower, for me to put the balled-up blob of hair I will peel out of my bumcrack. It hits me now how much women need a hair shelf to save us wasted hours trying to get the hair blob to stick to the wall. Maybe that could be my new career when I get home – a range of hair shelves?
I reach for the towels. They are soft and made of a material that will actually dry my hands. Wonderful. What is with those posh towels that just seem to spread the water around?
I’m happy. It passes all the amenities tests.
To be honest, my bathroom obsession isn’t just about having a nice showerhead. It’s more than that. The loo has always been a kind of sanctuary for me. It’s a place to be alone. Somewhere to run away from whatever your situation is. Whether it’s work, arguments or a boring party. It’s the small room to hide in when you’re on a bad Tinder date with a guy called Quentin who won’t stop licking his lips. It’s somewhere to sit quietly when you’ve had a long day with your dick boss. And sure, it was somewhere to escape as a kid. A place to disappear to when Mum was crying, or Steven was staggering around drunk again. Everyone needs to shut their heads down for five minutes in the chaos, don’t they? And everyone needs to wee. It’s a legitimate escape when you need that alone time.
I turn around and Patrick is watching me with a slight air of amusement. Fuck, how long was I fondling his towels?
‘Would you like a tea?’ he says, nicely. ‘I got some in when I realised it was a Brit staying with me.’
I am so touched, I could cry. And I might.
‘That is so thoughtful, thank you. I would love one, you have no idea,’ I say, following him out into the kitchen. ‘Got milk?’
He laughs. ‘Got milk! Like in the ad!’
I laugh nervously along, but have no idea what he’s talking about. And he hasn’t answered my question. I decide against enquiring after sugar.
I sit down on his sofa and Patrick puts water on the hob to boil.
‘Don’t you have a kettle?’ I ask, bewildered. He laughs again and I huff. Why do Americans think everything I’m saying is a joke? It’s this dumb accent I have, that’s what it is.
Handing me my cup of tea, I sniff it suspiciously. He has added milk, but it is a terrible colour and I know this will be bad. Tea colour is sacred – he might as well have set light to the British flag. But I must not be ungrateful, he’s gone to a lot of trouble and not being polite would be just as unBritish.
‘Thank you very much!’ I say as enthusiastically as possible, pretending to take a sip and trying not to gag.
‘What have you got planned for the rest of the week?’ he says sweetly, blowing on his own cup of vile mud-water. ‘Need any tips for local bars or anything?’
‘Ah that’s really nice of you,’ I say politely, already bored of being polite – GOD, isn’t making new acquaintances so tedious? – ‘I’d love that. I’m going to do some tourist stuff on Friday – visit the Walk of Fame, that kind of thing – but otherwise I haven’t got much specifically planned. Actually . . .’ I laugh, ‘I’ve kind of got a date tomorrow.’ I make a face so he knows I know it’s weird.
He looks amused.
But I don’t care. I’m well into week two of my LA adventure, and this leg was definitely, definitely, definitely meant to include sex. I mean, could ‘Fun’ have been any more euphemistic? The closest I’ve come so far was when the vagina cult wanted to compare bushes. And Isy promised to help me, but she’s been too busy non-stop fucking that moron Ethan. I still kinda hope Noah might be a possibility, but I’m officially sick of waiting for things to happen naturally. So I have taken matters into my own hands. I have opened Bumble.
I had the dating app back in the UK, but it was mostly just for people-watching. I never actually met up with anyone for dates, I just went on there to look at humans and get the odd dopamine hit and ego boost from matches I never bothered messaging. Truthfully, I’ve been going through a major dry spell this past year. I haven’t made eye contact with a man in at least nine months. The last night out I had where there were attractive men present – all taken – I actually thanked one of them for standing near me. That’s how bad things have been. Honestly, I think I used up all the men in London in my mid-twenties. And then of course, I was trapped in the TD vortex for far too long.
But I am meant to be having fun on this leg of the trip. And surely sex with strangers – or at least snogging strangers – has to come into it somewhere.
And so, yes, I went online and I’m actually super impressed with LA Bumble. Everyone is much hotter, more tanned, and more naked than on the UK Bumble. After an hour of swiping on the beach, I narrowed it down to ‘Robert’, a sexy dirtbag type, who loves a selfie, and ‘Emre’, a sensitive musician, who was a clear hatfish.
A hatfish – if you’re not familiar – is a guy who wears a hat in every single photo, because they have bad or no hair, and they don’t want you to know. Which is weird to me, because I love a bald dude. Be bald and proud, I say, because at some point, we’re going to figure it out. Unless you’re planning to wear a hat in bed, and I don’t know many people who are into that.
In the end, I went with Robert. Mostly because a sexy dirtbag is exactly what I’m looking for right now.
My new friend Patrick laughs. ‘Dating in LA is kind of strange,’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘I only moved here a year ag
o, from Michigan. Over there we just kind of went on a date and if we liked that person, we made a go of things.’ He sighs a little dramatically. ‘That is not the way of things here. I think LA dating is a perpetual state of being for many natives. They have to be forced or tricked into actually committing. I’m not really into either of those options, so I’m staying single. Actually I quit dating a few months ago.’
I make a sympathetic face, but I’m delighted by all this information. I am so not looking for commitment right now. I just need a wipe clean after TD. Casual is ideal.
He clears his throat. ‘So, where are you going on this date tomorrow?’ he says.
‘It’s a themed restaurant,’ I reply, thinking about it. ‘And apparently it’s great. It’s pirate themed! So I guess we’ll have a drink and if we don’t hate each other, we’ll get some food after.’
‘Pirate themed?’ Patrick says, looking amused again. ‘Sounds like it could go either way. Whose idea was that?’
‘His,’ I confirm.
Which, I realised later, should really have been my first clue.
8
AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog: Living My Dream and Feeling Very #Blessed
30 April – 9.25 p.m.
Good evening, dream chasers,
I have come to LA to meet humans from all walks of life, to connect with other souls from around this big wide world. And to that end I am currently on a date. This will be a very quick blog post as he is in the loo and will soon return. I was feeling very excited about the date because I sensed he could be my soulmate, and now we are here, I can report that he is very handsome and lovely. But sadly, I can now also sense that he is not The One, and we must all trust in our instincts, must we not?
Now I am left with the sad problem of what to say in order to soothe his hurt, to apply balm to his wounds. How do I leave without upsetting this person? These are questions I must contemplate.