“We should go somewhere else soon. It gets lame here after a while.”
“Lame?” Was there anything in life better than this?
She nodded.
“I ran into this guy and he invited me to The Box, so we could go there.”
She let out a sly smile. “The Box. Do you think you’re ready for it?”
I shrugged my shoulders. It was just a club, right?
***
It was not just a club. There was a very long line of people outside and I was too shy to walk up to the doorman.
“Darling, just go. We’ll be standing here all night.” She rolled her eyes and nudged me towards the menacing doorman and a waif-like drag queen dressed as Little Bo Peep.
“Umm, I’m Paige Crawford, with Jason Frost?” I practically whispered to Bo while trying to avoid the eyes of the bouncer. Bo nodded and the bouncer moved the black velvet rope preventing mere mortals from entering the exclusive club.
We entered a large room, decorated like an old burlesque theater with tiers of tables topped with buckets of ice and vodka. I was scanning the crowd of people in very nice clothes when I felt someone grab me around my waist from behind.
“Canada!” It was Jason. “Come over to our table, you don’t want to be standing here when the show starts.”
Show? Lucinda and I followed him to a corner booth on the second tier. There were several attractive men in suits and a few sixteen-year-old Russian hookers/models. I wasn’t sure of the protocol so I just stood there for a few seconds bobbing my head to the music and smiling like a moron. Jason came over to put me out of my misery and handed me a vodka and soda.
Suddenly the lights came up on stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to welcome to the stage a lady who is a gentleman. Miss Holly Wood.”
The curtain opened and revealed Holly Wood standing in a short skirt and bikini top. Holly was definitely a man but also had a pair of very large fake breasts.
Holly Wood began to dance and grabbed a large bottle of vodka off one of the tables in front, very near to where I was standing when Jason found me. She spun around and I saw her flaccid penis helicopter. Hoping not to project a flashing sign that said, “I’m a redneck from Canada,” I held a straight face, like this was no big deal to me. Come on, I saw transvestite penis all the time. Except I didn’t.
Now, I consider myself to be a fairly open-minded person. I even had a French friend growing up. However, then I saw something that I think would even be hard to find online.
Holly Wood had placed the half full bottle of vodka on the ground and was grinding her way down, penis on full show. Eventually, she sat on the bottle of vodka and continued to grind until the neck was fully up her ass. Then, to prove to everyone that it was definitely in there good, she stood up and the full part of the bottle hung down between her legs. Incidentally, that made her penis look kinda small, but I guess that wasn’t her biggest concern. Finally, she pulled the bottle out of her behind, drank out of it, and spit the contents of her mouth onto the crowd below.
My mouth hung open in shock. Jason came over to me, laughing. “Don’t see that in Canada much, do you, Paige?”
Well, good news was he did remember my name was Paige, not Canada, but the bad news? I would probably need therapy, or more vodka. Jason came by with the latter.
Four hours and a bottle of vodka later, I leaned in to say goodbye and thank you to Jason, but he grabbed me by the waist with one arm and moved the other hand around the back of my neck and kissed me hard. My legs decided they wanted to stay and kiss him some more, but my brain wanted to do cartwheels. The result was an awkward stumble, knocking over a half-empty glass of vodka soda. Was I having a stroke?
Jason kissed me again.
Nope, I was just totally head over heels for him. Literally. Pheromones were no joke.
“See ya around, Canada.” He smirked and turned back to his party while I was left in a haze of drunken lust.
Lucinda and I stumbled our way back to the entrance. Flashing lights from cameras were frantically going off and a commotion started outside every time someone opened the door. I didn’t care. At that point, there was nothing that could keep me from the dungeon I slept in, except possibly McDonald’s. I was drunk, hungry, and it was tomorrow already.
I pushed past everyone congregating near the club’s entrance and stepped outside. Suddenly, there were thousands of flashes everywhere and I was temporarily blinded. Dazed, I took a step and could feel myself fall forward. As I headed for the ground, a strong and sturdy arm caught me and instead of hitting the ground, I felt my face hit someone else’s.
It didn’t matter who it was, I was so grateful to not be mortally injured, it could have been Holly Wood for all I cared.
“Thank you! You saved my life!” I slurred as Lucinda grabbed my arm and lead me out of the chaos. “Lucinda, let’s get McDonald’s.”
I woke up to creepy Philip knocking on my bedroom door.
“Paige, do you have your radiator on? The gas bill arrived today and it’s higher than normal since you moved in.”
Umm dick-face, I moved in, like, five minutes ago.
“Philip, I’m not sure if that has anything to do with me. I moved in yesterday.” And what was a radiator? I listened to Philip march up the stairs unnecessarily loudly. Ugh, he was one of those people who made sure everyone within earshot knew what kind of mood he was in based on how much noise he made.
I rolled over onto my back and the pungent smell of vomit filled the room. Did I? I peered over the edge of my bed and saw last night’s heels lying on the floor covered in puke. Crap! I tried to get up quickly, but all the calories I drank went straight to my head and it had miraculously gained fifty pounds overnight.
I swore right then I was never drinking again, but three seconds later realized I was in a new continent and had my life to figure out. Eliminating alcohol at this point would be unwise.
I literally rolled out of bed and cleaned off my shoes as best I could. My stomach felt as though it was caving in and I hadn’t gone grocery shopping yet. Balans it was. I could already taste the creamy hollandaise sauce and crispy bacon.
Amazingly, my hair didn’t have any chunks of vomit in it, so I quickly threw on clothes, brushed my teeth three times, and then left the house.
Walking down Old Brompton Road with my head down and sunglasses on, I tried as hard as I could to stay upright. Thoughts of food took over and everything on the street other than that lovely little door leading me to culinary bliss was blurred. The portions at Maddox were really small and I must have drank my weight in vodka and champagne. The mixture was quietly threatening to relieve itself all over the street.
Balans was crowded and the lively internationals brunching were clearly in better shape than I was. Apparently it was the place to be on Sunday, and I smelled like a homeless hooker. Awesome.
Scanning the room, I hoped Jason wouldn’t be here and thankfully I didn’t see him. I was practically down on my knees praying they would have a table for one when the Gap model/waiter from the other day spotted me and came over.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, eyes darting around behind me.
“Ummm, you serve food and I’m hungry, isn’t that normally how restaurants work?” I was clearly doing all I could to squash that “Canadians are super nice” rumor.
“Come with me.” He grabbed my arm and dragged me to the back of the restaurant. “No, I mean what are you doing out after last night?”
I knew I looked like shit, but how did he know what kind of night I’d had? He grew impatient with my obvious hangover-induced mental handicap and shoved today’s copy of The Sun in my face.
It took me a minute to register what I was seeing but once I did, I dropped onto the banquette in shock. There I was, on the front cover of England’s best-selling national newspaper in an apparent romantic embrace with a man I’d never seen before. The paper named him as Stuart Smith, superstar Chelsea footba
ller, notorious ladies’ man, and apparently married to some pop star named Kerry. Poop.
Gap model/waiter sat down next to me. “What happened? Are you dating him?”
“Uh–uh, no! No, I’m not! I was at The Box and there were all these flashes and I tripped and I don’t know. Oh my god! Seriously, I got here YESTERDAY!” Why was I on the front cover of this paper?
The article insinuated that I was some home wrecker that this Stuart guy had been fooling around with behind the back of his beautiful wife. Easy, I was just going to have to call up the paper and get this whole thing fixed. No big deal. And it was a pretty good picture of me, so that was an upside to the whole debacle.
The waiter flapped his arms as if flying away from this situation was the only solution available. “Listen honey, my name is Duncan, and this is my number. I know someone at The Sun, and I’m sure he’ll sort this out for you. Are you hungry? Eggs benedict again?” This guy seemed to think this was a bigger deal than I did. My brain knew I should be slightly more alarmed, but my head was still clouded and would be until I had food.
“Yes, please.” I gave him my biggest smile. Nobody actually cared about this, right?
I picked at my meal and pretended not to notice everyone staring at me. Discreetly running my hands through my hair, I made a new rule not to leave the house in a state I wouldn’t be happy explaining to my grandmother. My appetite was gone, which was not only strange, but also tragic because the hollandaise was shouting “eat me now!”
Why on earth did this paper jump to a conclusion that was so clearly false? And why did everyone believe what they read?
My phone rang.
Lucinda didn’t give me time to say hello. “Have you seen the paper? Where are you?”
“Yes, I’ve seen it. I’m at Balans. They don’t have my name so I really don’t think it’s that bad.” I was trying to brush off the situation so she would. It wasn’t working.
“Come over to mine. I have better coffee than Balans, and we can figure out how to deal with this. You are going to need to burn that dress and cut your hair.”
“Umm first of all, Luc, no, my hair is staying as is. That dress was expensive and, judging by those pictures, I look super hot in it. Besides, what is there to deal with? It’s not true, and I have a visa entry stamp to prove it. Honestly, who cares if some athlete is cheating on his wife? That’s not exactly shocking. People are staring though. See you in a sec.”
I paid my bill, and Duncan gave me a sympathetic smile mouthing “call me” as I waved goodbye and walked out.
Lucinda’s flat was immaculate and just off Kings Road which made me realize I was, in fact, living in a shit hole/mental hospital.
“Lucinda, this place is beautiful!”
“I know what you’re thinking and don’t worry, I work in finance, I’m not a prostitute.”
I needed to get me a job in finance.
“I thought you were a model.”
“Oh chicken, you’re so sweet. I haven’t modeled since I was sixteen.”
So in other words, she was a model. She turned on the shiny stainless steel cappuccino machine in the far corner of her kitchen. I could smell the roasted beans and closed my eyes in delight.
“Let’s see how bad this actually is.” Lucinda grabbed her laptop.
She had only typed two letters in and clicked once when her face dropped. “OK’s picked it up as a story. And they know your name. Paige, is your surname Crawford?” She looked up, hopeful that I would say no. I nodded my head slowly.
How was this possible? My flatmates didn’t even know my last name, how did OK Magazine? Immediately my mom’s disappointed face ran through my head, followed shortly by a disapproving tut from my grandmother. Not internationally embarrassing my family was specifically on my list of things to do in London. I’d failed at it in less than twenty-four hours.
Lucinda and I decided that the best thing to do was to call Duncan and have his friend fix the story. I would lay low for a few days and hopefully some other footballer would cheat on his wife and this would all be an anecdote I’d tell at fancy dinner parties one day. Simple. Nobody at home needed to know about this.
My phone rang again.
“Paige? It’s Natalie. Men with cameras outside are asking for you. Why?” F my life! How did they know where I lived?
“Just some stupid mix up. I’m going to call the police and get them to leave. Sorry, Natalie.” I sighed as I hung up the phone and told Lucinda the new development.
“You can stay at mine today, darling. Those vultures will get sick of standing out in the cold eventually.”
I called the police and they said there wasn’t anything they could do. As invasive as it was, paparazzi outside my house wasn’t illegal because they hadn’t actually harassed me. Yet.
I had a nap on Lucinda’s plush white couch and woke up to the doorbell several hours later. It was early evening and last night seemed like a hazy dream. The smell of hot pizza filled the room.
“Pizza and movie night?” Lucinda smiled and held up a DVD.
***
The best time to go home was first thing in the morning when I figured even the paparazzi had to have some sleep, so I walked home at six. Lucinda fixed my hair and makeup just in case the photographers were still outside, but thankfully they weren’t. I laughed at myself for being so vain. Why on earth would they wait outside all night to get a picture of me?
I collapsed onto my bed and, like a magnet, my hand was picking up my laptop off my dresser. Even though part of my brain told me it was a terrible idea, the other part punched it in the face and Googled “Paige Crawford Stuart Smith.” My heart sank. Overnight the story had been picked up by Heat and a couple of other gossip magazines. Normally, if I was still back at home, I would put my head in the snow and pretend it wasn’t happening. But I was a grown up now and my mom wasn’t here to take care of the bullies. It was time to end this before it really got out of hand.
“Duncan? This is Paige Crawford, the girl from Balans?”
“Of course! How are you doing, hun? I saw they have your name.” He sounded sleepy, and then I realized it was stupid o’clock on a Monday. Jet lag sucks.
“Sorry for waking you up. I thought it would go away on its own, but it hasn’t, so I was hoping your friend could help me out?”
“No problem. I’ll get him to come by Balans today and you can have a little chat, say around one? Don’t worry about it, hun, it will all work out.”
When I arrived at the restaurant, Duncan ushered me to the same back table he’d brought me to the day before. Peter was another stunning man, with a chiseled jaw and Tiffany green-blue eyes. He smiled at me. His teeth were … there aren’t even words. Seriously, how did he even manage to eat? They had a green tinge, not one of them was at a right angle with his gums and … I was counting … I’m pretty sure there was at least one missing, but I guess lucky for him they were so off center that missing teeth weren’t instantly noticeable. I was going to ask him who his dentist was just so I knew where to avoid.
“Darling! You’re gorgeous! This is going to be fabulous!”
“Hi, Peter, nice to meet you.” I had no idea what to say next, painfully aware that he was a journalist for a paper that had started this mess in the first place. That, and I was freely staring at his homeless-man teeth.
“Don’t be shy, honey, I’m here to help. Duncan told me all about what happened blah blah blah. I want to know about you. You have a cute little body, how do you feel about a lingerie shoot?”
“Excuse me?”
“Maybe a bikini? It’s just that people won’t read it otherwise.”
“No,” I said as clearly as humanly possible so it couldn’t be mistaken for any other word.
“Right.” He was visibly disappointed. “Well, shall we get started then?”
So, Duncan brought me a cosmo—yes it was one in the afternoon on a Monday, but I seriously needed it—and I told Peter an abridged version of everyt
hing.
By the time I had finished, I was on my second cosmo and drunk. Duncan called for a picture to celebrate our new friendship and my name being cleared, so the three of us crammed into the corner booth and grinned as the manager took the photo.
“It’s all going to be fine, doll. We’ll run the story tomorrow.” Peter sent me on my way with a double kiss.
Just as I turned to leave the table, he stopped me.
“Paige, you’re still searching for a job, right?”
I hoped he wasn’t saying he knew of a position at The Sun, because seeing what I did in the last edition, it really wasn’t my place to work. I nodded affirmatively anyway.
“Well, I have a friend who works at Fashionista. Here is his email. Send over your CV, and you never know what might happen.” He scribbled an email on a clean napkin.
“Thank you!” Although I was fairly sure I wasn’t qualified and didn’t know what a CV was.
He gave me a look that was very similar to ones I used to give to the cows ready for slaughter at my uncle’s farm back home. They never saw it coming and you felt sorry for them, but not sorry enough not to eat them. That was weird.
Sun came through the window of my dungeon on Tuesday morning, shining into my eyes. It was nice to wake up in a somewhat familiar place and not hung over. Note to self: do this a little more.
Lazily grazing the ground around my bed with my fingers, I felt the hard edge of my laptop and pulled it onto my stomach. I brought up The Sun website and read all the flashing headlines: Cat Stuck in Pipe, Hitler Sympathizers in Richmond School, The Government is Stealing Your Money. I hoped none of those were about me.
I clicked around the site for a bit, eventually landing on the Showbiz tab. There it was, the lead headline: Smith’s Girl Speaks Out. Not the best start. I was kind of hoping for: Everyone was Wrong. This Girl is Totally Innocent And We are All a Bunch of Gossip Mongers. But, I guess it didn’t have the same ring to it.
The Accidental Socialite Page 2