‘Thanks for that.’ Our PR friend sneered. ‘We’re in a recession. My brand’s survival depends on individuals like you endorsing the company and providing informed write-ups with accurate details. And it’s only now, at the end of your all-expenses-paid weekend, that you reveal that you’re clueless. Cheers.’
Clark shrank back into the shadows, muttering to himself, leaving the hard-nosed gossip queen tutting at me in disbelief. As she renewed her debate about which WAG belonged to which footballer, my attention was distracted by a beautiful Indian girl on the other side of the glass partition in front of me. She was already on her way to board the plane, but somehow, through the mass of busy people, her eyes seemed to find mine, and both of us got locked into an extended gaze. I couldn’t help feeling she was important, somehow, but despite travelling in the same group as the boisterous celeb wives and girlfriends she had an inner peace that told me she wasn’t famous. Did I know her? And why was she looking at me? It was almost getting uncomfortable when a commuter behind her bumped her forward, and the connection we had was broken. Despite her managing a small smile, which I’m nearly sure I reciprocated, she became lost in the bustling crowd, leaving me with a strange feeling that I might have met her before.
Hyped up from the drama at the gate, the passengers were collectively in party mood as the air crew tried without much success to settle them quietly into their seats. The women were whooping and texting, and the men giving congratulatory high fives to one another as if they’d just scored a winning goal – and then scored one of the pneumatically enhanced blonde babes right after.
Even though I felt a bit odd, almost stalker-like, looking for the beautiful Indian woman I had seen earlier, she was nowhere to be found. So I collapsed into my aisle seat, excited that I was finally on my way home to see my daughter. It had only been two nights, but I missed her so much. She had looked so cute asleep in her cot when I had left her that I had had to resist the urge to nibble at her soft chubby little legs that stuck out the side of her blanket. Being a single mum, I felt a great weight of responsibility on me to provide for and nurture her, and because she was a two-year-old with Down’s Syndrome, albeit in a mild form, I couldn’t afford to take my role as sole parent lightly.
My thoughts became lighter, and I got the giggles as I stuffed my boarding card into my handbag. My seat was 34B, which was depressingly also my bra-size. I had always wanted to be larger, but even though I had previously been offered a freebie boob job through YES!, the magazine I worked for, I had declined their kind offer with a definite NO! Sure, big boobs would balance out my naturally big bottom, but I was too squeamish for elective surgery. One of my best friends, Lisa, had had enough artificial enhancements for the pair of us, so any curiosity I might have had about cosmetic surgery had been satisfied by her misadventures in the bizarre and impractical. Whether it be G-spot enlargements or a buttock lift, Lisa had sampled it all, and she had even recently taken to injecting herself with Botox.
‘I get it in the post now,’ was one of her most recent revelations. ‘How fab is that?’ I questioned whether it was entirely safe to be injecting herself with nerve toxin, but she claimed her actions were totally sane. ‘Fifteen years, sweetie. That’s how long I’ve been a Botox junkie. So I’ve learnt a few tricks along the way. And anyway, I only use it on my feet and under my arms. I rarely do my face myself. And it’s cheaper. This is my way of saving Daddy money during the recession. DIY, baby. I’ve felt an enormous sense of empowerment since I’ve taken it up.’
Unable to argue my way out of any situation with ‘Princess’ Lisa, I just had to be gracious about the fact that she was born with money and I was not. I secretly consoled myself that I was blessed with a somewhat prettier face, not that I would ever say so, and I figured that, to balance things out, Lisa had been given plenty of Daddy’s boom-time builder money to correct whatever she wasn’t happy with.
An hour into the flight and I was lost in Sex and the City heaven, laughing out loud at the classic episode which sees the girls at a tantric sex class. Munching my way through large packets of Maltesers and Jelly Tots, I was distracted from my creature comforts by angry screams coming from the front of the plane. As I pulled out my earplugs and peered down the aisle I could see our old friends Tanya and Issey rowing again. And, just as before, they weren’t holding back on the insults. Although I was finding it hard to understand their accents from a distance, I did hear Issey hiss at Tanya, ‘And Jordan thinks you’re a slapper, too.’
Although I had occasionally done celebrity interviews and been branded a celeb reporter during my freelance days, I told myself I had no interest in getting involved in the saga. I was now a feature writer, and that’s how I liked it, away from drama and storms in DD cups. But the hack in me couldn’t help but be curious. And of course, my PR friend was also keen to get an eagle-eyed view of the WAGs at war. ‘Je-sus Christ, this is unbelievable,’ she squealed. ‘Where’s a feckin’ video camera when you need it?’
‘I’ve got a camera,’ I said, thinking out loud.
‘Well, then, take the bloody thing out and start filming. This could be your big break! The News of the World would pay a fecking fortune for this scrap. What are you waiting for?’
It went against the grain. I hated the idea of shopping these women, even though I knew they were acting like trailer trash and would possibly love the press attention that would follow. But I wasn’t sure if I was brave enough or reckless enough to go through with it. I remembered the hurt I had felt after being exposed in the Irish papers a few years previously for kissing a very married man in public. He had been a well-known Irish publisher, and our clinch had been caught at a press launch on CCTV and leaked to the press. Those images had devastated his marriage and lost me my job, home and family for an extended period of time. Could I expose these women to the same thing? My PR friend soon snapped me out of my anxious thoughts. ‘Don’t start to feel bad.’ She nudged me as she spoke, sensing my reservations. ‘Quick, quick, you’re missing it. They’re beside the toilet, look over there.’ Although panic had started to build up inside me, so had adrenaline, and before I knew it I had grabbed my camera out of my bag and bounced to my feet. ‘Listen, a toilet punch-up never stopped Cheryl Cole making it big. If anything, it helped single her out from the Girls Aloud crowd. Now get up there and seize your moment.’ By this stage, my PR friend looked like she’d just been plugged into the mains. Her eyes were bulging in their sockets, her teeth were grinding, and her hair looked almost to be standing on end. ‘It’s like we’ve just been dropped on the set of Footballers’ Wives,’ she squealed. ‘I can’t believe this shit actually happens. It’s unreal!’
I moved out of my seat and crept steadily up the aisle, zooming in on the fighting women like a paparazzo hiding in the bushes. Just as at the airport, the cabin had now erupted into cheers and laughter, and it was a struggle to push past the voyeurs. Abandoning my manners and, all things considered, my common decency, too, as I captured these women letting themselves and their country down, I edged closer to the eye of the storm, careful to keep my head low and not make eye-contact or disturb them. I was like a tigress stalking my prey. They were no longer people with feelings or families to get upset, all I could see was a paycheck. Maybe five figures? If I was lucky, it might even be six. Just as I got close enough to have both women clearly visible in the shot, several air hostesses descended on the feuding pair, and, as they stretched in to break up the fight, an extremely angry Tanya lashed out, pushing one of the hostesses to the wall and smacking her fully across the face. Everyone gasped in horror.
‘Get off me, you stupid bitch,’ cried Tanya as she dealt the damaging blow. ‘You people never learn!’ As if the situation wasn’t bad enough, a male passenger stepped in to rescue the distressed air hostess and he, too, got a slap from Tanya. ‘You bastard!’ she cried, almost demented with anger. ‘Take your hands off me. It’s me you should be protecting. She’s scum, I tell you. Scum!’
&
nbsp; By now Issey had been wrestled back away from the scene and brought to the front of the plane. Tanya was manhandled to the floor, the male passenger shouting, ‘This is a citizen’s arrest,’ as he pulled her hands behind her back. My hands were shaking and it was taking a great effort to keep my camera steady. I just couldn’t believe what I had captured. But I wasn’t the only one shaken by the brawl. The plane had fallen silent, apart from the abuse and complaints from Tanya, pinned to the floor. As if gripped by the horror of a car crash, no one could speak, yet no one could look away. This hadn’t been a glamorous girlie squabble. This was hardcore stuff.
I was just about to stop filming when I caught Tanya’s eye. ‘What the fuck are you looking at? Get that camera off me. I’m gonna smash you and that stupid thing.’ Terrified of what I had just done, I immediately backed away and scurried to my seat, crashing into people as I went. Was I mad? Did I have a death wish, picking a fight with a wealthy footballer’s wife?
As soon as I was seated my PR friend pounced. ‘Did you get it? Did you get her slapping the head off the guy?’ For a moment I couldn’t breathe. I felt I was having a panic attack. My whole body began to shake, and the walls and ceiling of the plane seemed to press in on me. ‘Let me see,’ she demanded. ‘Remember that’s gold in your hands. Be careful not to delete it. And don’t forget the little people when you’ve made your fortune.’
‘Can I just have a minute please?’ I pleaded.
She ignored me. ‘Give it me here. My friend Sheila will spit when she hears that I was in the thick of it. This truly is the best gossip ever.’
After handing over the evidence I continued to sink into my hard, uncomfortable airline seat, my mind racing with crazy thoughts and my breathing becoming increasingly more erratic. I had done a horrible thing by recording that girl’s behaviour. Clearly she must have been in a dark place emotionally. Wasn’t everyone allowed a meltdown at some point?
‘I can see the headline now.’ My PR friend chuckled, her face stuck in my camera. ‘“Wags Gone Wild.” Yes, congratulations, Ms Valentine, you’ve just put food on your table for the next six months. Nice feeling, eh?’
The lump that had formed in my throat meant I couldn’t answer. Could I really flog this footage? Could I?
2
‘OK, I’m just going to put you on hold. Ben will speak to you in three minutes, after the commercial break.’
I was sitting on my suitcase, which was still in the hall, with one hand clutching my house phone, the other covering my face. One of my best pals, Parker, stood beside me for support. It was 7.05 a.m. and I was moments away from speaking on GMTV, Britain’s top-rating national breakfast TV programme. It had been organized by media mogul Cassis Ripley, and I felt like I was having an out-of-body-experience. It was the first of many interviews lined up for that day, and I wasn’t sure how I would cope with the pressure.
‘Are you still there, Eva?’ asked a voice at the other end of the line. ‘Hello, Eva?’
‘Yes, sorry, I’m here. I’m ready – are you ready?’
‘One minute to air, stay on the line, please.’
After the white-knuckle flight with the WAGs, I had used my between-flight time at Heathrow yesterday and immediately rung Parker – who worked in the film business and had plenty of contacts in the luvvie world of meeja. It took less than thirty minutes for Parker to haggle out a £27,500 deal with Ripley, and by that time a courier had been sent to collect the SD card out of my camera, and in return the biker had handed me an envelope with legal forms that I was apparently meant to read through, sign and fax back before 10.30 p.m.
‘OK, speaking on the line from Ireland we have journalist Eva Valentine, who witnessed this brawl between Tanya Cruze and Issey Blaze – good morning, Eva.’ I tried to respond, but terror had made me mute. ‘Hello, do we have Eva on the line? Good morning?’ With one eye firmly on the TV in the living room, Parker realized I wasn’t answering my call and kicked me with his size 11 Prada loafer to get me to talk.
‘Yes, eh, g-g-g-good morning,’ I stuttered. ‘This is Eva.’
‘Thank you for taking our call, Eva. Now, I understand this is your footage, which was taken on-board the Ryanair flight from Baden-Baden Airport to Heathrow, which we are about to show for the first time.’
‘Eh, yes. Yes it is.’
‘OK, then. Now if you could just fill us in on a few more details of what exactly happened. From what the papers are saying today, the fight originally broke out in the airport, and then continued again once airborne. Is that correct?’
Even though I tried to elaborate on my answer, all I could do was reply, ‘That is correct.’
Parker gave me another kick. I looked up, and he almost growled at me. ‘Speak, woman,’ he whispered with a snarl while rustling his fingers as a sign of money. ‘Make a bloody impression. Just do it.’
‘Emm, sorry, Ben.’ I picked up confidence for fear of losing one of my cheekbones at the end of Parker’s shoe. ‘Actually, yes, I was there when the girls first started arguing, but they weren’t the only ones rowing. From what I could see, a gang of about six, um, footballers’ wives and girlfriends were screaming at one another in the airport at Baden-Baden, but it was Tanya and Issey that eventually let it get physical.’
‘Really, Eva? That must have been scary for you to watch?’
‘Actually it was intimidating for all of the passengers present. The language that the girls were using was extremely vulgar, and then when the fight itself broke out, I could see many of the older passengers looking terrified. I’m just surprised they were let on the flight at all, to be honest, Ben. But then I suppose many of the young, famous and rich feel they are a law unto themselves most of the time.’
Parker, delighted, punched the air with his fist and gave me the thumbs up, which boosted my morale.
‘And what were the two reality stars fighting about, Eva?’
‘Boobs.’
‘Excuse me, did you say boobs?’
‘Yes, it seems laughable really, Ben, but Tanya told Issey that her boob job was so bad that it looked like she was smuggling a bag of cats down her top.’ I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard sniggering down the line, so I thought it best to continue making light of the situation. ‘Yes, it wasn’t what you’d call a highbrow debate, Ben. One minute Tanya was bragging that she had the same rhinoplasty as Angelina Jolie – wasn’t that a stretch? And before I knew it Issey pulled a Catherine Tate and screamed, “How very dare you,” and started ripping out Tanya’s hair extensions.’
‘I presume the situation was calmed down by security, but tell me, Eva, how did the altercation on the plane come about?’
‘Well, Ben, it was a classic storm in a double-D cup. It appeared to me to be nothing more than a jealous squabble between two girls who didn’t like each other.’
‘OK, Eva, stay on the line. We’re just going to show our viewers at home the extent of the drama on board yesterday.’
Peering around the corner to see the TV, both Parker and I stared at the screen like two of the three wise monkeys – Parker covering his mouth with one of his hands, and me pathetically covering my ears. The section they played was only seconds long, but showed the most shocking scenes: from when Tanya lashed out at the air hostess, to where she was pushed to the floor herself by the male passenger. Although most of the sound through the telephone was quite muffled, I could clearly work out the end piece of Tanya screaming, ‘What the beep are you looking at? Get that camera off me. I’m gonna smash you and that stupid thing.’ It sent a shiver down my spine.
The presenter quickly picked up the conversation again. ‘It’s Ben here, Eva. That’s pretty scary footage. Were you worried for your safety?’
‘Emm, yeah, and just listening to it back there again, well, yeah, I was scared, and probably I still am. But you know, I’m glad I’ve made this video public.’
‘Why is that, Eva? Do you not feel you’re invading people’s privacy?’
Gatheri
ng my confidence, I took a deep breath before unleashing the pent-up anger that I didn’t even realize I had. ‘Well, firstly I’m a journalist, and it’s my job to report. Secondly, I feel duty bound to expose such scandalous behaviour. How dare those girls subject other people to their violence? It was frightening to watch. I just feel they really let themselves and their footballing husbands and boyfriends down.’ I quickly glanced at Parker, and saw he was now holding his chest in the dramatic fashion that only he could carry off. I knew I had to continue. ‘But also, we live in a celebrity culture that allows young women like Tanya to act in such a low-grade manner. I don’t think that’s right. I feel very strongly that this kind of behaviour is shameful. And I believe there should be consequences.’
Interrupting my train of thought, Ben asked, ‘What do you think should happen to Tanya?’
‘Emm, I’m not sure, really, but I think she should pay some penalty, otherwise it’ll just encourage this sort of behaviour. It’s not healthy that today’s kids want to be footballers’ wives or reality TV stars instead of doctors or teachers. Glamorizing unruly behaviour is wrong. And that’s why I made this public.’ Out of breath, I listened to the presenter wrap up the item and thank me for taking the call. Before I knew what was happening he had cut me off. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye, but I wouldn’t really have had the energy to do so anyway.
Feverishly darting his gaze from the TV to me, Parker asked, ‘Well?’
Unsure how I felt, I sighed. ‘I’ve done it now.’
‘Oh yes, you have, girlie,’ screeched Parker excitedly as he fell to his knees to join me. ‘You’re a proper heartless tabloid hack now. You’ll be selling your granny next. Oh-my-God! I better watch my back. You’ll be selling stories about me.’
‘Shut up!’ I moaned, uncomfortable with the idea that I was now a bona fide guerilla journalist. But Parker had only started his teasing.
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