Wondering what my next move would be on finding myself abandoned on the other side of the Atlantic, I bumped straight into someone holding up a banner which had MISS ROSE written in huge letters. I would have spotted it a mile off if I hadn’t been daydreaming over Robbie.
“That’s me,” I said meekly, realising I'd winded the poor fellow with my trolley. He was an elderly chap fitted out in a flashy chauffeur’s uniform, and I wondered if he didn’t feel dead embarrassed having to walk around in public with that outfit on. But I kindly kept my thoughts to myself as I held out my hand to shake his. I was quite relieved to find that his grip was as weak as mine. At least if he tried to pull something funny on me in the car I could probably out-fist him.
I sat back as we drove through the sprawling city of Los Angeles, thinking that this all had to be a dream and I’d wake up with a jolt. I was sitting in a whopping huge white limo which was larger than my bedroom back in my flat in London. It was kitted out with all sorts of gadgets which I didn’t dare play with, thinking I’d probably come across an emergency eject button that would catapult me through the roof. Mr Chatty, the chauffeur, didn’t say a word to me throughout the drive. I didn’t blame him really, he was probably still suffering from the humiliation at having to walk around in public looking like a right plonker. I pressed my face up against the tinted windows as we sped through the lattice of streets and flyovers, trying to lap up all the goings-on. There were thousands of expensive-looking cars everywhere. Tammy’s Jag would've been quite plain out here, and I was aware that I'd just landed in Poser City.
As we drove south, out of the LA sprawl, I gaped open-mouthed at the huge luxurious houses with their exotic and dense gardens. The further out we drove, the more plush and immense they became, and each one was more isolated than the last.
Sometime later we pulled up by a huge iron gate. The chauffeur pressed his window down and muttered something into the security camera that was pointed right at the limo, and, as if he'd waved a magic wand, the gate swung open. By this point my stomach was in a right old twist. I wouldn’t so much say I had butterflies; it was more like a stampede of elephants. I tried knocking on the bulletproof glass that divided me from the driver to get some idea of where I was being taken, but the old chap completely ignored me. Trying to remain calm I returned to gazing out of the window, where the driveway was lined with palm trees and exotic flowers in bloom. A rare short Californian shower had stopped and the petals looked like they dripped pearls.
I gasped out loud as we finally pulled up outside a magnificent mansion, which would have been the envy of Tammy’s mother. The three-storey white stately residence – nothing humble about it whatsoever, I observed – with its six columns that soared halfway to heaven, was just overwhelming. My nerves were swallowed in a flash as I stared, gobsmacked, at what I saw.
The chauffeur stepped down from his seat, moved around the car, and opened the passenger door. As I climbed out I was suddenly acutely aware of my slobby attire. I'd flown over in a really unsexy and untrendy navy blue tracksuit, making comfort for the journey a priority. I now realised this had been a big mistake. I felt totally under-dressed and there was no hiding my muddy trainers that were so old and used that you could see my socks poking through.
As I came to grips with the fact that I looked like I'd just been picked up off the streets, I also became aware of the commotion coming from the house. There was music blaring, and a loud hum of voices floated over towards me picked up by the gentle evening breeze. I really can't face a crowd of people now, I thought in turmoil, just as Mr Guillem emerged on the veranda. Despite his bulky size, he was beside me in a flash. Gone was the smooth silk beige suit, replaced by blinding Bermuda shorts and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt. Cocktail glass in hand, he linked his arm through mine and guided me to the house.
The mansion was pleasantly cool on the inside, blinds down blotting out the glaring evening sun and stifling Californian heat. The booming music was just a distant murmur inside the casa grande, and as I took in the spacious hall and winding stairs leading to the second floor I thought I might actually get out of having to be presented to the mob of people I'd heard from the driveway. Alas, Mr Guillem gently urged me through to the back part of the house, restraining me as if I were a terror-stricken rabbit ready to bolt – which was, indeed, how I felt. We passed the pine-wooded kitchen with its marble worktop and through into a conservatory with floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors. These gave me a perfect view of the back garden, which was more like a stately park. There was an immense swimming pool, with a built-in bar at one corner and bar stools that jutted out of the crystal clear water. What most captured my attention was the fact that there were at least fifty people milling around. I say people, but to be exact they were life-sized clones of Barbie and Action Man, and me, in my seriously unsexy tracksuit, was being forced to go out and meet them all.
In a desperate attempt to avoid being seen, I turned to Mr Guillem in my most pleading voice. "I'm really exhausted from the flight. What with this jet lag and all, I would really appreciate it if I could just escape to my room.”
“Of course darling,” he said in his smooth French-accented voice, and firmly took me by the elbow as he slid open one of the glass panels and guided me down the stone steps. The group at the bottom of the steps, who all looked as though they'd just come from a casting for Baywatch, fell silent as I approached.
I felt myself breaking out into a sweat. Quite apart from my unglamorous appearance, their stares just seemed to be burning holes in me.
Weakly I attempted to smile as I hunted for a friendly-looking face. My attention was turned to a huge-busted, blonde, blue-eyed bimbo. I would have left bimbo out, if she hadn't said in a real catty voice, "Your hair’s real then? I thought that they'd put a wig on you.”
To which I replied as sweetly as possible: "Yes my hair is natural. As is all of me – which is more I can say for your balloon knockers.”
Before she was able to recover from the shock – I thought my reply pretty slick given my jet-lag – I felt a hand gently but firmly place itself on my arm. A rich feminine voice beside me said, “You must be exhausted from your flight over.” Then, to Mr Guillem, “Fred, dearest, I’ll take Chantelle down to the chalet. Get Sav to bring her cases down.”
Still in her firm grip, I was led through the crowd as they all turned to gawp at me. I was taken past the pool and down the garden path towards a partially-hidden gate at the far end of the grounds. Once we were through the gate, my rescuer turned to me and, introduced herself.
“I’m Gabriella, but call me Gabby. The cow with the big tits is Vivien, but don’t pay any attention to her. She’s just jealous.”
“Jealous?” I was amazed. “Of what? She’s really pretty and has got a great figure on her, even if it is all silicone.”
“My dear girl,” said Gabby, with obvious amusement in her voice. “You obviously aren’t aware of your potential. Give me a week and you’ll outshine Vivien and everyone else by far." Then, more to herself, “Boy am I going to have fun with you.”
I looked at Gabby straight in the face, thinking she was just kidding around, but despite the amusement in her voice, I could see she was deadly serious. Up close, I placed her to be in her late thirties, with dark shiny red hair slicked back in a tight ponytail, which made her look deceptively young. Tanned skin with faint laughter lines etched around her sparkling green eyes, she was the same height as me (around five feet nine), and had an extremely fibre-fit, toned body.
In silence I followed Gabby down the track that led away from the secret gate. The garden was denser here; I rather felt that I was being led through a tropical forest. There was a clearing some way ahead, which, as I walked closer, I saw led to a snug wooden bungalow, built of select, authentic pine. There was a veranda that ran around the whole perimeter. It looked so cosy and welcoming that I had a sudden vision of Hansel and Gretel, and wondered if I was being led into some kind of trap.
Gab
by led the way up to the front door and opened it letting me through first. I stepped straight into the living room which was very spacious, exquisitely decorated with a delicate peach three-seater sofa and a low oak rocking chair positioned in front of a 70” Plasma TV – fully equipped with internet connection, PlayStation and all the latest gizmos in entertainment. I sighed with relief. Well, if I was going to be held prisoner, at least I wouldn’t be bored.
There was a sudden hustle behind us, and I could make out “Sav,” obviously short for Savannah, struggle down the pathway with my hefty suitcase.
“Su maleta, Señorita,” she huffed, out of breath as she lugged my suitcase up the three wooden steps to the veranda. She was a young, very pretty Mexican girl, and I wondered if she'd come up to California hoping to make a break in the movie business and be the next Salma Hayek, or if she'd just been desperate for work and was willing to put up with the likes of Vivien.
“Gracias,” I said. This was the only Spanish I could remember from three years of Spanish lessons at high school, which is a real disgrace, but I was rewarded with a generous smile. I realised that the likes of Vivien would probably never even look in the girl's direction, let alone acknowledge her presence by speaking to her. Gabby, however, let out a string of Spanish that flew way over my head, and in a wink Sav was gone up the garden path again. I was left with Gabby, who had effortlessly taken hold of my case and carried it through into the main bedroom of the bungalow. The bed was spread with gauzy silk. There was an en-suite bathroom and walk-in wardrobe that I could get lost in. I was aware that the clothes I'd brought over with me would occupy only one shelf. For once, I'd actually under-packed!
Before I knew it Gabby was ungraciously hauling all my belongings from my case. My leopard-skin g-string went flying, followed by my Union Jack bikini, and I just squirmed when I saw the box of fruit-flavoured condoms Tammy had given to me at the airport as a joke before I'd left. I remained rooted to the spot waiting patiently for Gabby to finish. I had no intention of confronting her, aware she could probably out-clout me in the blink of an eye. Finally satisfied at rummaging through all my stuff, she turned to me with an apologetic smile.
"Please excuse me, but I just had to make sure you weren’t hiding a stash of drugs or any other dodgy shit.”
What is it about me that causes this reaction in people? As if I could get away with getting anything remotely illegal past customs control. I mean, come on, they strip you down in a blink of an eye if the lip gloss in your bag is shinier than normal.
Gabby continued, “I refuse to work with anyone who is dependent on anything, and it’s a relief to see you don’t smoke tobacco either. It makes my job so much easier.”
“What exactly is your job?” I asked, feeling at a complete loss.
Gabby just smiled. “You’ll find out tomorrow, but I advise you to get a good night's rest. There’s food in the fridge, and if you need anything, whatever hour, just press this buzzer.” She handed me a walkie-talkie. And for the first time in twenty-four hours I was left alone.
Starving, I made my way to the brightly-lit kitchen (despite the now sinking sun) and opened the fridge.
To my horror, it was filled with nothing but low-fat yoghurt and carrots.
Chapter Four
I was rudely awoken the following day at the crack of dawn by Gabby kitted out in running gear. Amazed at her energy at such a godforsaken time in the morning (5.30 am, to be precise), at first I thought she was just a night vision, a dark silhouette in the corner of the room. But all thoughts of hallucinations were swiftly cleared by the glare of the bedroom light and the glass of cold water she chucked over me as she yanked the bedclothes aside. A Nike sports bag landed with a thud on the bed beside me.
“You’ve got five minutes.”
Whereupon she turned her back on me to step out of the room allowing me privacy to change. I stuck my tongue out at her and mock-saluted her as I said under my breath, “Yes, Sir!.” I was knocked for six to hear her reply: “Ma’am. It’s ‘Yes, Ma’am’.”
At least she’s got taste, I thought, as I pulled some really stylish sportswear and a pair of hip Nike trainers out of the bag. Kitted out in less than three minutes I stepped out of the bedroom. Gabby was stretching by the front door. “Well that’s a start,” she exclaimed. “But honey, do us both a favour: trash your old sneakers.”
Behind the bungalow was another gate which I hadn’t seen the previous evening. Gabby unlocked it and let me through, and in an easy jog we both set off down the pathway. About 100 metres along the track we came to a clearing. There, before me, along an extensive stretch of virgin sand, the indigo Pacific glinted in the early light. The surf was calm, and peace radiated from its shimmering surface, which stretched far out to the horizon. I gasped in delight. I might just have to let Gabby get away with waking me up at this unearthly hour. The vista wins.
We jogged across the soft sand down to the Ocean, where the waves lapped lazily, and continued at a steady pace along the water’s edge. My lungs, amazingly, held out, but my heart boomed and battled away and I wondered if I would be able to sue Mr Guillem if I was to have a heart attack on my first day. About a mile further down the shore we cut back up the soft sand and ran onto a green and very exclusive-looking golf course. Keeping to the verge and avoiding the sprinklers we headed up towards the clubhouse, which I could just make out in the distance. As we got nearer I heard the thud of tennis balls, and realised that we weren’t the only maniacs to be up at this outrageous hour. Closing in on the plonking noise, and just when I thought my legs were on the verge of packing in, I heard a voice call out, “Hi Gabby, WOW!! Who’s the new kid?”
I turned in the direction of the voice. Smiling at us, racquet in hand, and with the same tanned look everyone seemed to have, matched with brilliant white teeth, was a life-size copy of Barbie’s boyfriend Ken. But my attention was drawn to his opponent: none other than big-busted Vivien, who looked like she was about to hurl her tennis racquet at me. She was clearly not impressed by the comment he had just made.
Gabby, who hadn’t even broken out in a sweat, called back, “You’ll find out this afternoon. She’s got a two-hour tennis class booked with you.”
Not once breaking her stride, Gabby continued up past the courts and out along the other side to the golf course. I’ve got to admit that if it hadn't been for the fact that I had Vivien burning holes in my back I would have stopped there and then. All my leg muscles were screaming, and it was slowly registering that the morning trot was just a warm-up.
Another couple of miles later we were finally back at the bungalow. As Gabby let me through the back gate I sped past her and flew up the front steps and into the chalet.
“You can stop,” Gabby called after me. “You don’t need to keep on running.”
“It’s not my desire to keep on running,” I called back, “It’s just that now I’ve got the 'runs' real bad after scoffing down at least a litre of low-fat yoghurt last night." The yoghurt dinner, mixed with the intestinal jiggle this morning, was more than my digestive system could handle.
With that, I dived into the bathroom. Gabby’s muffled voice called out, “I’ll be back for you at ten o’clock.”
***
Three hours later, at ten on the dot, Gabby rapped on the door before turning the key to let herself in. And before I knew it, we were speeding along the highway into the city in her jet-black 4x4.
Our destination, or rather my destination, was Vidal Sassoon. The hair and beauty centre was huge; it was bigger than my local shopping centre back home. And a million times more exclusive. I was placed in the hands of one of the stylists as Gabby bluntly stated, “Get the hair sorted, then she’s got fifteen minutes of rays.”
To me she said, “So long, honey,” and was gone.
I felt a bit sorry for the stylist left in charge of “sorting” my hair, knowing full well what a challenge that was. However, I've got to admit, three hours later a miracle had taken place. My hai
r cascaded down my back, smooth, silky and sleek, and I'd been given the added assurance that the style would hold out for at least eight weeks after having had it professionally straightened. Hair all under control, I was whipped off to the sun-ray department, told to strip off (underwear and all), and was funnelled into a Doctor Who cabin. With the fluorescent lighting, tinted goggles and being stark naked, I did feel like I was in some sort of time machine.
Gabby was waiting for me as I stepped out with my fifteen-minute tan and new hair, and although she didn’t say anything there was something about the way she smiled to herself that made me realise she was thoroughly enjoying being my Fairy Godmother. Though I guessed that Mr Guillem was really the brains behind it all.
The 4x4 was laden with shopping bags and I got all chatty and excited the whole drive back when I realised that the bags, brimming with new shoes and clothes, were all for me. We were similar in size, so I guessed she'd used herself as mannequin, though I wished she'd let me parade around the boutiques. Mind you, saying that, Gabby had probably correctly guessed that letting me loose in the stores was not a wise idea. Not so much for the bill I could run up, rather for the spectacle I would make of myself, oohing and aahing over the rich fabrics. She probably didn't want to be associated with a run-of-the-mill girl like me, and I didn't really blame her. But I was educated enough not to be ungracious and complain; instead I opted to hum away Pretty Woman until Gabby, at her wits end with my constant nattering and off-key droning, told me to “Shut the hell up.”
After a well-earned catnap in the early afternoon, I found myself once again being driven by Gabby, who in the last twenty-four hours seemed to have become an extended part of my shadow, back to the exclusive golf course and tennis club. The tennis coach we'd come across first thing that morning was already waiting for me down on one of the practice courts. As I walked onto the court in my new tennis whites, looking like a real pro, a slight look of puzzlement came over his face as he looked at me intensely, trying to put his finger on what had altered in the meantime.
A Little of Chantelle Rose Page 4