by Emma Morgan
Friday, October 15, 2010 THE SUN
In the explosive final instalment of Stacey Blyth’s autobiography, Entitled, she gets ready to reveal her true identity – and finally meets the living proof that she’s an heiress.
‘THE SECRET GUESSED’
So I’m going for broke.
(Not literally.)
If Louise Dulac is alive and if she knows about the party and if she bothers to come, I’ll just go up to her and do my little routine and I’ll worry about a) what Chiara will say and b) proving it, later.
I’m not going to swab her saliva or demand a blood sample there and then, am I?
No, I’ll wait a while.
Also, I’m pretty sure that as soon as she sees me she’ll just know. Like people say they know when they meet the love of their lives. If Chiara’s spotted the resemblance, and Smoky the Stylist, then surely Louise Dulac herself will see what I’m going for.
Unless she’s blind...
Man, that would be bad luck.
Fingers crossed she hasn’t got a guide-dog, that’s what I’m thinking.
Chiara decides we’ll get changed at the restaurant, so she can oversee everything, so we get dropped off by another mini limo and hang up our outfits in the Ladies’ loos.
‘What dress is this?’ I ask.
(Don’t worry, Chiara hasn’t sabotaged me or anything, I’ve made sure my white dress is the right one, but she’s swapped the vintage tent she somehow squeezed into for some boring black dress from her wardrobe.)
‘Oh, I had a bit of a re-think,’ she says, not looking me in the eye, i.e. lying, ‘and I thought, It’s Louise’s night, I don’t want to look like I’m trying to steal her limelight, you know? It would look crass.’
I’m not thick. I know she’s trying to make me look like a d***.
But I also know that no way is a 90-whatever-year-old woman going to roll up in something slim-fitting and exquisite. So with Chiara retiring from the race, there’ll only be one real contender – and it wouldn’t be some old biddy in a glittery shawl.
Chiara’s just made everything even easier for me.
‘Fair enough,’ I go, ‘don’t want to get in the way of the real star – do you?’
The real star being me – did you get that? Good.
I know she’s hoping I’ll go, ‘Oh, I agree’ but no way do I. And anyway, I’ve only got that one dress and I can’t very well mingle and sparkle in tracky bottoms.
Chiara goes off to fuss about in the kitchen so I start with the eyeliner then gel my hair into waves with hair pins, and when I’m alone I have this moment where I go, Oh.
Oh. I’m about to meet my grandma.
Like I’ve said, I’m not big on family, we’re not close and I always knew I was probably adopted and all that, so I don’t really know how I’ll feel when I meet someone I’m really related to. Like, I’m expecting her to just know who I am, but will it be the same for me, will I get one glimpse of her wispy head and be all, ‘Grandma!’?
And does that mean I’ll suddenly feel all sad about Estella being dead, too? So far, it’s just been like I read about a woman dying and she could have been anyone, even though she’s not, she’s my mum. Was I going to start crying, there in the restaurant?
I check the mascara – water-resistant. Phew!
So I’m wondering about my family and I realise I haven’t been thinking about the money. Much. Is this evening going to be like one of those adventure movies where you think the treasure is going to be actual treasure but really the treasure is just knowledge, like ‘Be kind to one another, that is the greatest gift of all’ written on a rock?
I f***ing hope not.
I might blub, I might not, but I’m definitely cashing in afterwards.
Chiara keeps popping back with canapés for me to try – not many, though, she must have been gobbling them next door – and they look well nice but I can’t eat. Me! I don’t not eat. I know a lot of celebs pretend they’re thin because they work out, when really they starve themselves, but I don’t need to do either. But now, I’m all nerves.
‘You alright?’ asks Chiara, and I go, ‘Fine!’ and it comes out all high.
And she gives me this dead sly look and goes, ‘I thought you were sort of famous, that you went to this sort of thing all the time – are you nervous?’
And I can’t believe she’s doubting me, after all the grade-A gossip I sent her way, What an ungrateful bitch, but I’ve come this far without telling her who I really am, haven’t I, so I’m not going to rush and tell her now – she can wait for the big surprise like everyone else. Also, if I told her she’d tell everyone, I’ve seen that happen.
Imagine having news and everyone else knows it before you tell them?!
I’d be furious, me. So I’m not letting anyone else near my scoop, no way.
So I shake my head and go, ‘No, no, it’s just been a while...’ and it has, to be honest, I’ve not been on the circuit for a couple of weeks now, have I? That’s a long time in celebrity – who knows who’s got pregnant/engaged/divorced since...
Anyway, that’ll be small fry when I tell all, right?
When Chiara’s ready too – put on dress, brush hair, that’s about it, and she’s no natural beauty, let me tell you – we pick ourselves a booth at the back of the room, where we can see everyone arriving.
‘No one will be early,’ she says, like I’ve never been to an event like this before.
Of course not. Arrive early, look like a loser.
So she snacks on the canapés and I try to sip champagne but I just can’t, I feel all butterflies-y. Like I’m about to win an award, only I already know I’ve won. This is my Oscars, and there aren’t any other nominees.
Hang on – does this mean I need to practise an acceptance speech too?
If anyone overhears me and Louise, they’ll expect an announcement...
So I start thinking about what to say – ‘You can’t choose your family, but if I could, I couldn’t have picked a richer one... ’, something like that – and I get so caught up in it I don’t realise people are starting to arrive at last.
Chiara’s hanging round the front door like an autograph hunter, so not cool, but she does well with all the air-kissing, I suppose, and she seems to know who everyone who turns up is. So do I, but I’m not going to flaunt it. Let them come to me.
So I sit and wait.
And wait.
And the room fills up and gets noisy.
And then this little old lady’s wheeled through the front door by her carer.
Now, I don’t really know what Louise looks like, I’ve just seen some old posters online and they’re, like, 80 years old, and I assume she’ll look like Estella, a bit. So is this Louise, or just some pensioner who can smell the mini quiches from the street?
They are pretty pungent – Stilton or something, ugh.
She trundles towards the back of the room, towards me, and Chiara totally hasn’t noticed, she’s excited just getting to stand close to properly famous people, so I know I’ve got her all to myself for the moment.
I wait until I know she isn’t just aiming for the loos, then I go over to introduce myself. And I’m shaking a bit – imagine that! Me, nervous.
So I say, ‘I’m so glad you could make it tonight, it really is an enormous honour to have you here.’
I think, It might not be her, after all, so worst-case scenario, I sound polite.
No response. So I think, What if she’s not blind, but deaf... or both?
It turns out maybe she hasn’t heard me first time, as her carer points me out to her, with a really odd look, like she’s sort of amazed, maybe.
The old lady turns round to me and smiles, so I repeat it all, only louder.
She nods and stares at me, then turns back to her carer and says, ‘Extraordinary!’
Yes I am. Nice of you to notice.
‘You look very nice too,’ I say. (I almost say, “You two... ” but her carer’s dressed in some tatty
old ethnic sundress, and I don’t want to encourage her.)
I know I won’t have long before Chiara notices and introduces her to the whole room, and everyone lines up to pretend they’re all big fans and how wonderful she looks and all that, so I take a big breath – not that easy, in an old dress, they didn’t do cleavage back in the day – and try to remember my lines.
And I swear I practised that script, like, a million times, I even did it in accents in the bathroom when Chiara went to bed, but I go blank, like I’m on a quiz show.
‘I... I... erm... I just wanted to say, to let you know... no... erm, I’m...’
And I’m just going to pieces – me! – and I don’t know how I’m going to get through this, I really don’t, and this is my big moment and maybe I’m having a stroke or something, I can’t explain it, and then Louise smiles and says, ‘You look very familiar.’
And I breathe out, all relieved, because I know she knows.
And I don’t need to remember my words after all.
We’re improvising, I think.
‘Yes,’ I manage to say, ‘b-b-b-b-because...’
And Louise puts her crinkly old hand on top of mine, and it feels like it’s made of tissue paper, it’s all dry and delicate, and she looks me in the eye – right in the eye – and says, ‘I know who you are... and I love you.’
Seriously, that’s what she said: ‘I know who you are and I love you.’
She knows! And here’s me getting all flustered about telling her. I don’t need to!
She knows as soon as she sees me, as soon as she sees the dress and the make-up and the hair and all that. She knows.
And I don’t feel any great warmth towards her – relief and gratitude, yes – not there and then, but I think maybe these things come with time, right?
So we just sit and she holds my hand and we smile at each other and I try to make out whether she’d looked like me before she got so old but as she obviously hasn’t spent any of her money on facelifts there’s too much skin to tell. More cash for me!
Then I see Chiara’s finally spotted us and I think, You know what, I’m going to be famous for a long, long time now, let Louise have tonight all to herself.
So I let Chiara wheel her away.
After all, we’ve got the rest of her life to catch up.
And when she dies, whenever that may be, then I’ll celebrate.
Copyright Stacey Blyth/Suki Dulac, 2010