by Emma Morgan
*****
The Mail On Sunday, Sunday 10th October 2010
Self-proclaimed celebrity Stacey Blyth was struggling with depression before a stint in rehab and the chance to write an autobiography, Entitled, saved her. But as she meets with Beth Smith, legal injunctions threaten to end her claims to Hollywood wealth...
‘All I want is to tell my story’: Alleged heiress explains telling – and selling – tales
I almost don’t spot Stacey Blyth when I arrive at our pre-arranged meeting place. Most people who pass themselves off as celebrities are forever ‘on’, playing the part of a famous person. If they’re in a room, you know, not necessarily because they’re the most beautiful or charismatic characters imaginable but because they demand attention – sometimes literally. But Stacey Blyth is not making a nuisance of herself with waiters or wearing inappropriate, eye-catching clothes; she’s sitting quietly, almost apologetically in a corner booth of this West End restaurant, nursing an aperitif.
Her first words to me are, “It’s non-alcoholic!”, as she spots me eyeing her glass. It is barely midday – not that this would have stopped Stacey in her party-girl pre-rehab heyday, but that’s not the part of her life she dwells on in her autobiography, Entitled.
When the book – originally set for publication at the end of next week but currently embargoed due to legal issues, more of which later – was first excerpted, it caused great consternation: Who is this woman, and why should we care? All she revealed in last Monday’s extract was the identity of a blonde who fell from Chelsea Bridge in January– herself – and that a stint in rehab followed.
It seemed inconceivable that so much space should be given over to a nobody, especially one who hadn’t lost several stone in six weeks or born a footballer’s baby.
Was she surprised to get so much coverage?
“No, not really... but then I know what’s to come.”
Such as?
Stacey smiles, for the first time, and draws lines in the condensation on the sides of her glass, as if to distract herself from answering. “I’m under contract, so I really can’t talk about anything that hasn’t been in print yet.”
Yet. Although legally vetted extracts are set to continue all next week, solicitors are said to be fine-toothed combing the book galleys, not just for the lazy libels biographies tend to contain but also for evidence of plagiarism.
Which brings us to the issue of the aggrieved writer behind a blog that claims to tell the truth about Stacey’s life since falling in the river. ‘Chiara’, as the author calls herself – after the sidekick character in Stacey’s extracts – says she wrote an authorised book about Stacey, and that what’s since made its way onto tabloid pages is just a fantasy.
Who is she – does Stacey know her? And if so, is anything she’s claiming true?
As if reciting a script, Stacey replies, “I’ve been advised I can’t talk about all that, but I will say that anyone can write an anonymous blog. There’s no reason to believe this person is who they say they are and I’m confident their ‘case’” – she restrains herself from making quote-mark gestures but her tone suffices – “has no legal merit.”
Statement ends.
Beyond tweaks to appease the paper’s legal team, has the manuscript been altered? Was this woman involved in an earlier version of Stacey’s life story?
“My life story is my life story, whoever writes it,” she says, defiantly. “Whoever this person is, they have no right to say they own my story – how could they? It didn’t happen to them, it’s isn’t about them...”
But if what she says is true, that she’s the person you call ‘Chiara’ in your version, then it is about her too, to some extent.
Anger flashes in Stacey’s eyes. “If you took the Chiara character out, the story would be the same and it would be about me.”
But it wouldn’t, would it? According to you, Chiara steals your file, Chiara gives you a place to stay, Chiara takes you to Marrakech – she’s the catalyst... and the cash register.
After some uncomfortable-looking thought, Stacey says “That’s just artistic license,” again with the inferred speech marks, as if she’s not sure what the phrase means but believes it to be a verbal Get Out Of Jail Free card in situations like this.
So as far as you’re concerned, even if this Chiara wrote a book about you, you own it, you own all the rights to it, and you can do whatever you want to it?
“Explain to me why I can’t?” she says, as if it’s a threat.
It’s her intellectual property, I reply, noting that ‘intellectual’ makes her eyes glaze.
Stacey rebuffs me with a shrug. If she doesn’t understand, it doesn’t matter, it seems.
So you have changed the book, then?
Stacey returns to the script. “What book isn’t changed? I handed over the manuscript and was given some notes, which I chose to make myself. The version in the paper, and the book, is more personal and accurate about my life and experiences.”
So the book will come out?
“Of course it will,” she says, assertively. “She can’t stop me.”
She being Chiara – so she’s the one who’s launched the legal bid?
“I can’t talk about it, can I?”
Apparently not. But you can talk about the events of the first week’s extracts. (We meet at Friday lunchtime, by when I’ve hungrily read that day’s instalment, having stayed at the Mamounia myself – but experienced no Proustian flashbacks.)
So, did you really jump into the Thames to get away from Cady Stone?
“Cady Stone has nothing to do with any of this,” says Stacey. “If you’re going to ask my questions about the blog, I can’t help you. I’m here to talk about my book.”
So you were really just depressed?
“Really.”
And you couldn’t just have seen a doctor, taken some medication, you went straight for suicide, despite having been out on the town just hours earlier – with Ms Stone?
A deep inhalation precedes her response.
“I’m not denying I know Cady Stone – that would be stupid. I’ve stayed at her home, I’ve been photographed with loads, we’re dear friends...”
I wonder whether her contraction means ‘we are’ or ‘we were’.
“...but the idea that I would sell stories to tabloids is despicable.”
But you have sold stories to a tabloid – your own life story.
“That’s different.”
Is it? You’re not the only person in your story, we’ve already seen that with the Chiara character. Everyone else you write about, by your own reckoning, deserves ownership of that part of the story, so everyone you mention – your parents, Chiara, the man at the hotel – all have the right to stop you saying what you want, or to correct what you write.
“That’s not gossip, that’s real life,” she says.
Gossip is about real life, though. Sometimes it’s skewed but it’s always about real people, otherwise it wouldn’t be gossip, would it, it would just be stories.
“I didn’t do what the blog says I did. I wouldn’t.”
And Cady Stone believes you, does she?
“She doesn’t believe a word of it, no. And she doesn’t read the internet, anyway.”
So you’re still friends, then? You haven’t been pictured together recently...
“We’re both very busy, that’s all. I’ve been working on the book, obviously.”
You’ve been too busy to go out, I can understand that, but what’s Cady up to? Since the ‘Chiara’ blog got mentioned on Twitter, she’s been MIA, declining to attend a shop penning by another “dear friend” on Bond Street last night and bowing out of presenting an award at this weekend’s fashion gala. Why else would she be in hiding?
“If I knew, and maybe I do, I wouldn’t tell you,” she smirks, as if she’s won this round.
Back to the river – the woman the RNLI pulled out refused to give her name to the Police and left
the hospital before she could be identified. So anyone could claim it was them. A lot of people doubt it was you.
“Why would I lie? Who’d pretend to have tried to die? That’s mental,” she mutters.
People do that sort of thing all the time, I point out. Every murder enquiry fields hundreds of calls from crackpots claiming to be the killer – and there’s a mental condition called Munchausen’s syndrome, where healthy people feign illness for sympathy and attention. Perhaps you’re just another elaborate attention-seeker?
“I did it, it happened. I’m not proud of it. My dress was still at the hospital, wasn’t it? The dress I’d been wearing the night before. Or did I plant that?”
Oh – so now you’re corroborating the blog? How odd.
Stacey stares at me open-mouthed, unsure how best to respond, until our food arrives.
As the blog mentioned, she’s well kempt with arching eye-brows and an odd, almost broken-looking nose (I’m terrible at spotting plastic surgery, forgive me if it’s obviously a botch-job), but nervous energy is her key characteristic. She fizzes with insecurity.
We eat in silence, Stacey racing through her sole, and our plates are cleared away as cleanly as if they’d never even been there –the portions were so small, that’s how it feels.
When she declines the dessert menu, I sense it’s time for a final question.
So, Stacey Blyth – assuming what you say is true, can you prove any of it? I mean, I could say I’m really the adopted daughter of someone who’s been missing since the ’70s, anyone could, without proof. What makes you special, what makes it true for you?
“You’ll have to wait for the rest of the story to come out,” she smiles without sincerity.
But if the book remains embargoed, and the lawyers trim out contentious revelations?
“It will all come out, somehow,” she says with steeliness, as she shuffles clumsily along the banquette, towards the front door. “All I want is to tell my story.”
But not today?
“No, not today. Sorry.”
With that, she hooks her wrist into the strap of her sack-sized handbag – knock-off or boutique, it was hard to tell – and leaves, without shaking my hand.
I guess we’re not destined to become “dear friends” – but with friends like that...
*****
Daily Mirror, MONDAY 11.10.2010
SHH! Which chatty lass has earned herself a brand-new nickname, before we’d even worn the old one out? Seems she’s now known as ‘Damienne’ to her one-time nearest and dearest – an Omen of the success of her forthcoming (not-so) autobiography?