Younger Thinner Blonder

by Sue Watson

  “No, Tanya, I mean Paul. You do know that he’s the lead singer – with, The Hissy Fits?”

  “What… Who?”

  It took a few seconds while I processed what she’d said, and then my stomach lurched down the mountain. At speed.

  “Hissy... Fits?” I whispered.

  “Yeah. Ten number ones? Platinum albums?” She was still whispering, but I heard her loud and clear.

  “Even I’ve heard of The Hissy Fits and I’m an old Mozart-queen,” grumbled Marcus, unhelpfully at my other side.

  No. No. No. I remembered Astrid playing their music, which would explain her reaction when she met him – she was obviously star struck. The truth was, all males under twenty five with that windblown hairstyle looked the same to me, he could have been anyone. And now it was all coming back to me, The Hissy Fits were one of the biggest-selling bands of the last few years. They filled stadiums. No. No. No.

  My mind slowly whirred back over the last few hours, during which time I’d made Paul carry my bag, take notes, make tea and cover my naked body in a towel. I’d then demanded he scrub vomit from my Tshirt, and informed him that if he played his cards right, I would pull strings and get him a runner’s job on a daytime talk show – that I’d been sacked from. And every manic, obscene second of it had been caught on camera, to be aired tonight.

  I wanted to die and be buried right there in the Himalayas, never to return to Western civilization ever again.

  I got through the rest of the filming in a haze, managing to stutter a few coherent words when it was my turn to be interviewed and as soon as I could escape, I found the production truck. I was breathless on arrival but tried a casual, “Hi,” to the editor as I stepped into the tiny suite. He half turned and smiled from his cramped little work space and I began to work one of my irresistible charm offensives on him. “I just wondered if you know what’s going to be on the programme tonight...Dave?” I said, spotting his name badge and going for the personal approach.

  “Don’t worry Tanya, it’s all about you tonight,” he smiled, like that’s what I wanted to hear.

  “Now Dave, listen to me very carefully. That stuff...when I thought Paul was the runner, it can’t go out. My agent would have a fit.”

  “Sorry Tan, it’s good...already been signed off.”

  “Dave, if this footage goes on air tonight, I will look to the viewing public like a crazed, nymphomaniac, control-freak cougar.”

  “You’ve seen it, then,” he mono-toned, without looking up from his controls.

  “Funny, that’s very funny Dave. But it’s my career we’re talking about...this is my life.” Oh God, I was right, it was. This was all I had.

  I was waiting for him to give in. That’s what people usually did to Tanya Travis – they gave in. But not anymore: I was invisible now. Dave continued to be engrossed in his knobs.

  “Tanya, what are you up to?” Flinty appeared at my shoulder, making me jump and addressing me like I was a four-year old. “You’re not trying to influence reality are you? You cheeky minx!”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I snapped, trying to sound assertive, not desperate.

  “There is a problem,” I was trying to gain some semblance of control, but wanting to cry. She cocked her head at me and gave me a big smile.

  “Are you OK?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “But we have such fabulous footage, Tanya!”

  “Well, you might call it fabulous footage, Flissy, but I would call it my death-knell. Look, the Paul stuff... It was a case of mistaken identity.” I was very anxious now. I’d hoped Dave would be a pushover and that we could just press delete on the last 24 hours but it wasn’t going to be that easy and now she’d turned up it was looking impossible.

  “It’s Flinty. Come on, Tanya. The public will love it...though I wonder how much you were playing to the cameras – I mean everyone knows Paul from The Hissy Fits, even someone from your generation!”

  “I’m only forty, I’m not from the bloody Stone Age,” I protested. “And I honestly didn’t know who he was. He collected me from the airport, for God’s sake...”

  “Not exactly. He agreed to share a taxi with you and we left a sign at the airport for him to hold so you wouldn’t miss each other. He thought it would be funny.”

  “It was your fault then that I thought he was the runner. Therefore you shouldn’t show any of it...”

  “Tanya, whether you knew or not, in the contract you signed it says we can film what we like, when we like, from the minute you arrive here and that’s what the viewing public want to see.” She said, her smile disappearing.

  “’I took off my bra and pants, for Christ’s sake!” I snapped.

  “Yeah, that was a bonus... We didn’t ask for that in the contract,” she sniggered.

  “I was covered in vomit, I had no choice. Oh God, I made him scrub the crispy bits off...”

  “Yeah, that wasn’t in his contract either.” Dave the editor snorted.

  “Look Flossy, I don’t bother with the small print in contracts – I leave all that stuff to my agent, I just sign it.”

  “It’s Flinty.” She was now standing in front of me, arms folded, barring the way to Dave and his knobs, like I might leap-frog over her and try to sabotage the footage.

  I decided to try a different tack. “Please, er, Flinty. Please don’t air the bits with me and Paul.” I touched her arm in an awkward attempt at intimacy. By now I was close to tears.

  “Sorry, Tanya. The show goes on. ” She smiled at me, patting me patronisingly on the arm and turned her attention back to Dave and the monitor. I was dismissed. I stomped back to camp and attempted to get some sleep in my flimsy nightie, in a sleeping bag on the cold, damp grass.

  TWEET: @AstridLun I laff till the crying @TanyaTruth being shouty filthy with hot @PaulHissyFits #TanyaTravis4Queen #DocMartin4Ever #GokWan4Me

  17

  A Scary Night and a Dirty Massage

  Before I knew it, I was being shaken awake by Tiffany and told to go to the campfire for the first live show. I couldn’t believe it was time to get up. I’d barely slept and the last thing I needed was Tiffany’s twenty-something face, shouting, ‘wake up lovely’.

  “I am NOT lovely,” I hissed.

  “You can say that again, dear. Ill met by moonlight!” Marcus could be bitchy, day or night.

  Cindi was rising from her sleeping bag and apart from a few tangles in the hair extensions, she looked stunning. “Come on, Tan, let’s be girlie and put our make-up on,” she offered, rummaging around in her bag. She held up mascara, a lip-gloss and some foundation – all part of her allowance – I’d used mine up on anti-bac creams and wipes.

  “How can we put make-up on? It’s pitch black and we don’t have mirrors,” I said, feeling lost, alone, exhausted.

  “Oh come on, Mrs Grumpy-Drawers, there’s a bit of light from the cameras over there and we can help each other.”

  The last thing I wanted was a girlie make-up session with Cindi but if I looked as rough as Marcus implied and we were about to go out live in front of millions, I needed it.

  “Now, close your eyes,” she commanded, coming towards me with the mascara. I put my hands to my face instinctively, remembering Astrid’s insane lipstick application.

  “I’ll be fine. I don’t need make-up, Cindi.”

  “Oh, yes you do,” she giggled, slapping foundation on my cheeks and following with a little lip-gloss.”

  Marcus said it was a definite improvement and Jonny whistled, which was both embarrassing and, I felt – patronising – but I didn’t say so. He had enough on his plate with ‘Rottweiler Rex’.

  As Cindi, Marcus and I approached the campfire, Rex and Paul were settled by the firelight, chatting.

  “Ooh, you dirty stop-outs – you two haven’t been to bed, have you?” Cindi said, plonking herself between them.

  “Hey, us cowboys don’t need any sleep. But if you fancy sharing a sleeping bag, I could be convinced?
” Rex offered.

  Cindi giggled and slapped him playfully on the arm. “Cheeky!” she said, but I could tell by her face she was pleased.

  “Hey Marcus,” Jonny tried as he took his place at the fire, “Rex is looking for someone to share his sleeping bag.” Rex didn’t even respond to this, just curled his lip. We all took this as a visual cue to ignore what Jonny said; we’d all seen Brokeback Mountain, but no-one was going to call this cowboy gay.

  Marcus suddenly began making strange, guttural noises and I couldn’t decide if it was a heart-attack or a distraction technique.

  “I’m doing my voice warm-up,” he said, dramatically. “No actor can go before his public without warming up the old vocals.” He continued to make strange noises and followed these with ‘la la la la’, at which point Kara seemed to be really wound up.

  “Will you bloody SHUT UP!” she yelled. “It’s not the Marcus show.” For a moment, everyone went quiet and Marcus sulked.

  “Oh Kara, come on, don’t be a spoilsport,” Cindi soothed. “Let’s all do voice exercises together.”

  Cindi convinced Marcus to continue with the strange sounds, and copied him, followed by the rest of us. In the end, Kara reluctantly joined in and we took it in turns to make the most ridiculous sounds we could. And so it was that as I made loud, mewling, animalistic sounds in the darkness, Carol-Ann appeared, led by the gorgeous Ardash through the bush towards us, cameras following her.

  “Great, I’m now captured on film forever, mewling like a depraved cat,” I hissed to Cindi. “I can see the headlines now.”

  “So, you’ve seen what’s happened in the last 24 hours, now let’s say hello to our celebrities!” Carol-Ann said enthusiastically to the camera. I grimaced and tried hard not to dwell on how I might have looked, or sounded. Everyone sat up straight and smiled. “Well, today is our first challenge,” announced Carol-Ann, with a flick of her strawberry-blonde bob. “You, the public, have been voting since the beginning of the show and one of these lovely celebrities is going to be enjoying some time in a spa!”

  I didn’t see that as a hardship and if the public wanted to see me relaxing in a face mask, having exotic massages and healthy vegetable purées I could live with that. But I wasn’t daft; I knew there’d be a sting in the ‘spa’ tail. I just prayed I’d slipped under the radar and that the delightful ‘voting public’ had gone for Cindi (hoping she’d get her bikini on), Paul (hoping he’d put tiny trunks on), or Marcus (hoping he wouldn’t).

  “‘Scary Sparry Night’ is the name of our very first challenge here in the beautiful Himalayas and it’s a good‘un!” She teased. “In a special twist, our sleep starved celeb will be enjoying this treat – tonight!” I looked round, horrified; I had assumed all the challenges would take place the following day. I could see from everyone else’s expressions that they were shocked too, as Carol-Ann taunted and flounced, revealing slowly but agonisingly what tonight’s ‘pampering session’ would entail for ‘one lucky celeb.’

  “Our celeb will spend the rest of tonight enjoying the delights of the ‘Celebrity Spa Trek Hillside Spa’, including a rat-infested hut, a filthy, exfoliating mud massage and bespoke facials using, among other ingredients, the finest and stickiest snake mucus.”

  “Ridiculous!” I heard myself say, shuddering as something walked over my grave.

  “And of course, the whole night will be spent alone, without electricity so that means no light-bulbs, just a torch... After all, this is about finding yourself...even in the dark!” she quipped.

  “So... who’s it gonna be? Is it gonna be...” she pointed her perfect finger in our general direction, waggling it up and down and making us wait.

  “...you Cindi? Pretty Cindi with the beautiful blue eyes? Or are you in for a bit of a rough night on the massage table, Marcus?”

  He rolled his eyes and pursed his lips, but I had the feeling it was right up his street, especially if the masseur were male.

  “Mmmm... Who’s the lucky celebrity going to be? I think it’s gonna be... it’s gonna be... Time for a commercial break!” she said with a giggle and a flourish.

  “Let me at her,” spat Marcus.

  “She’s only doing her job,” Cindi said, rubbing Marcus’s knee in a calming gesture.

  “I’m scared of the dark,” he said. “There’s no way I’m doing it – even for a very, very rough massage.”

  “I agree,” I hissed into his ear, “let’s stick together on this and if either of us are chosen we must stand strong and support the other one. It’s me and you against the world, Marcus.” He nodded in agreement and squeezed my hand.

  I knew the show would entail some horrors, that there’d be a few tough nights under the stars too – but a dirty mud massage? A whole night spent in filth on the side of a mountain?

  “I wouldn’t have set foot on the programme if I’d known we’d be expected to get so... dirty,” I said, to no-one. Staying alone in the dark with rats was bad enough but it was the sticky mucus and the dirty massage that upset me the most. I hadn’t had a hot shower since I left the hotel and I was beginning to feel extremely anxious.

  “I had no idea of the extent of their depravity,” spat Marcus, crossing his legs tightly as we returned from the commercial break.

  “So, here we have six celebrities. Ten days, tough challenges and lots of gooey stuff in between... Just so, at the end of it all, you guys out there…” she said, gesturing at the camera, “…can choose your very own Himalayan God – or Goddess?”

  She waltzed up and down the camp, making sweeping gestures with her hands and smiling – always smiling – for the camera.

  “So...tonight, the viewing public have decided. The person the Great British Public want to enjoy the sheer, unadulterated ‘luxury’ of ‘Scary Sparry Night’ is...the very fragrant...and ooh, just a little bit of a bossy boots... Tanya Travis!”

  She did a strange little victory stomp (something she’d picked up working on satellite, no doubt) while the other celebrities sighed with relief and tried to look sympathetically in my direction.

  “So Tanya, if you would kindly step this way...”

  “No.”

  “Ha...” she was about to giggle, thinking I was playing it up for the camera but saw the look on my face and knew I meant it.

  “I am not doing it,” I snapped.

  “But Tanya, the viewing public, they voted...”

  “And if they voted to have me put in the electric chair, I suppose the programme would insist on that too, would they?” For me, dirt was the equivalent to a thousand volts of electricity, not to mention a rough, dirty massage so I felt death by electrocution was a fair comparison.

  “But Tanya, if you don’t spend the night at the Spa the whole camp will suffer... There will be no breakfast tomorrow. They can’t trek on empty stomachs...” Carol-Ann tried for the emotional-blackmail approach.

  “Oh come on, dearie, you’ve been sleeping with a rat for the last four years, why stop now?” Marcus piped up and everyone sniggered; so much for the solidarity.

  I could feel the swell of emotion from my campmates, willing me to do this and earn them some decent food. Carol-Ann was now leading me through the trees and to a clearing where the hut of filth stood waiting for me.

  “Jesus, no...” I heard myself say, as a man appeared from inside the ramshackle old building looking like a dirty old tramp. He was holding the filthiest towel I’d ever seen in one hand and a bowl of what must have been the ‘mud face mask’ in the other.

  “There are two parts to this challenge, Tanya,” she was saying as much to camera as to me. “Firstly, you will be given a lovely face pack. You have to lie with the face pack on for 60 seconds before it can be removed. Then a ‘luxury’ massage after which you will enter the hut where you will spend the night with the inhabitants!”

  My skin was crawling and my hands were shaking. Then Ardash appeared and gently took over from Carol-Ann.

  Holding me firmly by the arm, he helpe
d me to lie down on the makeshift massage table made from bits of rotten wood. Even in the midst of all this horror, his touch sent a thrill through me. The ‘masseur’ was smiling; he was filthy with no teeth and very little hair, like something from a horror film...or a guest on my show.

  “Don’t you dare come near me!” I hissed.

  “If you close your eyes, you won’t have to see,” Ardash whispered in my ear, as he covered me in a towel. His soothing voice placated me slightly as I reluctantly lay down, closing my eyes tight like when I was a child and scared of the bogeyman.

  I never used a towel twice to dry my hands at home – it was one wipe and straight in the laundry bin. So the dirty towel lying across me and the one the masseur was carrying worried me far more than he did. I tried not to think about it, but I opened my eyes and had a peek. I was covered with a cloth that was stained with foul colours, including what looked like blood. Screwing my eyes shut again, I couldn’t see anything approach but as soon as I felt a waft of something near my face, I shot up with a strangled scream. My arms jerked out instinctively in self-protection and I inadvertently swiped the bowl from Mr Massage’s hands.

  “Do not worry, Tanya.” It was Ardash again, speaking quietly. “These towels are not what they seem. The dirt is not real dirt.”

  I gave him a small, grateful smile and took a deep breath. The masseur had picked up the bowl and he gestured for me to lie back down. I felt sick and I could feel the rising panic as my heart-rate increased and my palms started to sweat.

  The masseur approached me. I could hear the squelch as he dipped his fingers into the bowl of mud. I breathed deeply and thought about the last facial I had before I left, trying to imagine this filthy, horrible mud mask was just the same.

  I felt a small, wet blob on my face. I could hear the blood roaring in my ears. I desperately tried to think happy thoughts but as soon as the masseur began smoothing the filthy mud onto my skin, I lost it.

  “Get it off me! Get it OFF!” I cried, clawing at my face. I was feeling genuine panic and Ardash quickly wiped the mud off.