by Emma Morgan
Wednesday, October 6, 2010 THE SUN
In the latest exclusive instalment from starlet Stacey Blyth’s forthcoming autobiography, she gets some answers in a language she can’t understand, and overstays her welcome...
‘LOSS IN TRANSLATION’
‘I’m by far the most famous person in rehab – and overnight there’s this heiress?
When did this happen?
(I clocked everyone when I arrived, to see if I recognised anyone, even without make-up or extensions or unfrumpy clothes. But no, it’s definitely just me. Not that anyone says anything, or hassles me for an autograph – manners, that is.)
So now I have to step aside for some rich kid? Well unfair.
‘Oh yeah, an heiress?’ I say, all blasé.
(That would be a good name for a fragrance – I should write that down. Oh, I have!)
Chiara nods and goes, ‘I can’t work out what it all says, but “inherit” or “inheritance” is definitely in there, in the will. And maybe “adopt” too, but I’d have to look that up...”
I’m like, Will? so I go, ‘Is this all in the files? What have you got there?’
And she goes, ‘Just that file I showed you. But it’s got all this extra stuff in it too.’
I totally don’t want to know who the heiress is, I well don’t want her to know I know and think she’s won and is Top Dog or Cock of the Clinic or whatever, but I can’t get my head around what Chiara’s saying.
Also, I’m a bit bored.
‘Fine, show me, then...’ I go, all annoyed, and nip back to where the bedrooms are.
Chiara’s all pleased with herself and ready to show off, so she overtakes me in the corridor and is already pulling the file out from under her pillow when I walk in.
Like, brilliant place to hide, that’s not the first place they’d look or anything. We might as well invite the nurses in to see what we’ve got. Div.
Then, like I’m the idiot, she hisses, ‘Close the bloody door!’ And I do, but only because I don’t want to get caught – and anyway my fingerprints aren’t on the file, are they?
I wonder if there’s a celebrity database, of DNA and that? There should be, then they could build the perfect famous person using all our information. Like in Jurassic Park, but with models and actors and pop stars instead of dinosaurs. I bet she’d be blonde.
So Chiara’s got this paper-folder file thing on her lap now and I can see the doodle from my session, like a coloured-in spider’s web design, it’s definitely the same one, so I can’t work out how it isn’t my file when the therapist read from it just, like, an hour ago.
Then I see the name written on the top of some of the poking-put pages, and it’s isn’t ‘Stacey Blyth’, no, Chiara was right about that, but now everything makes sense and I know what’s happened, only I don’t tell Chiara because of doctor-patient confidentiality.
And I have to laugh, because I realise what I’ve done and it’s dead clever.
So, I’ve checked in as myself, as Stacey, it’s on record that Stacey’s staying here, but – and this is the brilliant bit – all my notes are under an alias, like they’re someone else’s. And Chiara thinks they are, but they’re not. Because I know the name.
I’m sort of surprised she doesn’t know the name, to be honest, but I’m not going to point it out, am I? ‘Oh you must know who So-and-So is? Married to You-Know?’ And anyway, she’s excited enough just thinking she’s found some heiress...
And then I think, Wait, heiress? So, I’m the heiress, then?
More amnesia, must be – who’d forget something like that about themself?
So it starts to sink and I hear myself go, ‘This is amazing...’ but obviously Chiara doesn’t know why I think it’s amazing, that’s for me to know and her to not.
She says, ‘I know, right? She’s walking around and we don’t know who she is. I don’t know the name, do you? It could be an old patient, I suppose, and the file got left out...’
So I say ‘Maybe...’ but mean ‘No’. Then I prompt her: ‘What does it all say, then?’
And Chiara opens the file and there’s all these pages of printing and they look like exam papers, where you have to fill in answers in the blank bits, ugh, only someone’s already done it all, thank god.
‘This top one’s just session notes, typed up’ she goes, and I think, I don’t want you reading that, what with it being about me, nosey, but she must have already had a look so I wonder what she’s seen and I have a glance and see “mother” – which is about right, ha ha – but then she turns it over, like she’s not arsed. So maybe she’s not read it. Relief.
Obviously I want to know what it says, what I’ve said, but I keep cool so I don’t give her any clues about who I am. That’s need to know, and she doesn’t need to know.
(When you’re famous, everyone wants to know everything about you, so it’s quite nice, actually, to have something secret. I mean, I’m telling you now, obviously, but only because I want to. Because I’m getting paid for it. Otherwise, nothing. Lips sealed.)
Chiara’s all interested in other papers. ‘This one I think is a will,’ she goes, ‘this one seems to be a birth certificate, and that one’s an adoption form.’
Only all I’m seeing is squiggles, like I’ve forgotten how words work.
So I go, ‘I don’t understand what you’re reading,’ and Chiara looks all apologetic and goes, ‘Oh, no, it’s in Arabic. I know a bit of Arabic, that’s why I only know bits of what it says. But I’m pretty sure about those bits.’
Why would they be in Arabic?
Then I think: Marrakech!
Only I must have said it while I thought it, without meaning to – like when someone’s snide and you go ‘Bitch’ in your head and you think out loud, accidentally.
So Chiara gives me this odd look and says, ‘How did you know about Marrakech?’
And I’m like, Shit – how do I know?
Then she goes, ‘Oh, you saw the “Maroc” bit.’
And I don’t know what she means but I nod anyway and she stops looking suspicious, and says, ‘I think the papers were all filed in Marrakech. They’re all from 1976. So our heiress would be at least...’
Fine, I’m 34. Whatever, I look good for it. Everyone thinks I’m loads younger. I’m sure Chiara thinks so, so I let her keep thinking that, so she doesn’t work out I’m the heiress.
‘...34. She’s born, her mother makes a will, and then she’s adopted – all in 1976.’
And I forget it’s me we’re on about, so I go, ‘She must have been an ugly baby, eh?’
And Chiara laughs, the cow. I’ll remember that, I think. And I have.
I pretend I’m not bothered, and go, ‘Why put her in the will if she’s not keeping her?’
Chiara does this big frown, like from before Botox was invented, old school, and looks at the papers again, doing the translate-y thing, and says, ‘Oh, it’s not a birth certificate...’
So I’m not really rich?
‘...It’s a death certificate. The mother died. So maybe that’s why she made the will and her daughter was adopted. That makes sense.’
Do I cry? No. Why? Someone I’ve never met’s dead – why cry? I might as well cry all the time if I did that. Actually, I’m happy, because now I know for real I’m adopted.
I’ve always known I was adopted. I never said anything, because I didn’t want to upset anyone, but I knew. I just knew. I’ve got thismuch in common with my parents. So none of this is a surprise to me. It’s just – what’s the word they use in there? – validation.
So for me, it’s all falling into place. I’m adopted, like I always thought, and I was adopted because my real mother died. But she was rich, so that would help me cope.
Wait – she was rich, right? I mean, you don’t say ‘heiress’ unless there’s money.
‘So how much do... does she inherit?’ I go, almost slipping up.
Chiara looks a bit guilty and says, ‘Er, well, I don’t know. I think th
at word means “everything” but what everything the dead woman had amounted to, I don’t know.’
Maybe nothing at all.
Cheers, Mum.
Then Chiara goes, ‘There’s loads here I don’t know, bits of Arabic are coming back to me a bit but slowly, so I might work on it tonight – you don’t mind, do you?’
Basically, she’s the only person I speak to and she knows it, but I want to know what it means as much as, well, no, more than she does, so I say, ‘That’s fine’, and leave her to it without having a strop or anything. Very mature of me, actually.
So I get back to my room, to have a lie down before tea, because doing nothing all day gets quite tiring, and there’s a letter on my bed. And first I’m all like, Who’s been in here? but I haven’t got anything worth nicking, have I, and then I see it’s from the clinic so I suppose the cleaners left it or something.
I open it and, basically, they’re throwing me out. Something about “reported irregularities on your credit card” and did I have “another method of payment”? And of course I don’t, or at least I don’t know the numbers if I do.
Do I?
I wait and see if any more magic numbers pop into my head... but nothing happens.
So someone can report my credit card as stolen – but not me as missing?
The rest of the letter is all “We trust you have enjoyed your stay” and that sort of crap and then it says I have to leave tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Where am I supposed to go?
I forget about dinner, I just lie on my bed trying to think of someone I can call – no numbers – and somewhere I can go – can’t remember any addresses – and finally drop off with the exhaustion of it all. And then it’s morning and I’m starving and have to go.
And I haven’t told Chiara.
And Chiara’s got my file.
So I rush to breakfast but when I get there I’m so hungry I just eat and eat and forget to say anything. Then Chiara’s about to go back to her room and I remember and hiss at her to stay because I’ve got something to say.
And she says ‘What?’
And I say, ‘I’m off.’
And she’s not happy, understandably. As if I am?!
‘Why are you going? Are you... better?’ She says it like no-one ever gets better because no-one was ever really that ill and, of course, in my case, that’s true.
I try to be all dignified about it, so I say, ‘They’re throwing me out because of a problem with my credit card or some sh*t.’
Chiara’s eyes go massive. ‘You?’
She can probably see I’m wealthy, genetically.
‘Do you want to stay?’
Do I? I like the security but I am a bit bored. So I just shrug a bit, say ‘Bye then’ and walk off and leave her. Which is rude but I don’t want her to walk off and leave me, that would be humiliating – it’s like finishing with someone before they can chuck you.
I’ve got nothing to pack so I just have an extra-long shower and wait in reception.
And again, I’m thinking, This is all a set-up, I’ll be met by my friends in a limo and taken home to a party, it’s all been like a bad-ish dream.
Wrong.
I think of all the things I’ve done for them... And this is how they repay me? So I spend my final few minutes plotting revenge until I remember the inheritance and think, What better revenge than being filthy rich and blanking them all forever?
Then this taxi arrives and I think, Maybe I’ve misjudged them?
Only no-one gets out and I ask the receptionist and she says it’s not for me.
So I sign my papers, finally, and hang about a bit hoping she’ll give me a Travelcard and some cash, maybe, but nothing happens, does it.
‘Do I just go, then?’ I ask.
She nods. Once, like that costs money too.
‘Out the front door?’
She doesn’t nod this time, just presses a button and the door buzzes open.
Out of habit, like with jewellers and boutiques that don’t let everyone in, I rush for the door before it locks again, only then I’m outside on my own with nothing, literally nothing, not even a penny or some fluff in my pockets, for f***’s sake.
I try to make eye contact with the taxi driver but he’s reading a paper. Then I just stand around for ages trying to think where to go, because I can’t remember where anyone lives and I don’t know where I am anyway, so how would I work out how to get anywhere?
So I start walking again and it’s like with the river, I’m on this road that never ends – I can’t even see the end of the drive. I just plod on, feeling like I’m getting depressed all over again, back where I bloody well started, and then the taxi beeps me out of the way.
I’m furious, and already freezing, so I shout ‘I can walk where I like!’
And someone shouts back, ‘Wouldn’t you rather have a lift, though?’
So I turn round, still angry, mind, and Chiara’s head is sticking out of the taxi window.
‘Got bored!’ she says. ‘Come on, it’s too cold to fart about.’
So I get in and she gives this Docklands address to the taxi driver then says to me, ‘I’ve got an Arabic-English dictionary at home, so... I thought I’d check out too.’
And she’s all upbeat and I’m not, so she goes, ‘You can come to mine, if you like – unless you’ve got a better offer?’
Of course I haven’t, I haven’t even got a worse offer, have I, but I pretend I’m thinking about it first, then say ‘OK, then’ like I’m doing her a favour.
She grins and passes me the file, ‘to keep it safe’.
‘Maybe you can be my secretary while I’m translating it?’ she says.
And I pretend I’m not insulted – that’s practically treason, that is – and just smile and look forward to watching Sky tonight.
IN TOMORROW’S PAPER: ‘Don’t you see... I think they might have murdered her!’