I had to find out.
***
Lionel slipped through the door. It was now dusk and I sat quietly in the shadows.
"Hi Princess!" he murmured quietly as he finally found me in the unlit room, and kissed me gently on the lips. He handed me an extravagant bouquet of flowers, the exact same arrangement sent to me by my "secret" admirer at the start of my American adventure. I could never have imagined then that the mighty Lionel King would have been the one behind the romantic gesture. Fool that I was! And what a whirlwind change had taken place in my life since then.
I pulled him down to sit beside me and switched on a lamp that stood beside the sofa. Blinking from the sudden brightness and the tears that pricked at the corners of my eyes, I took a deep breath and looked deep into Lionel's eyes. I needed to remain firm, but his powerful, sensual gaze was almost enough to drive all resolution to one side. He looked exhausted, too, despite the desire I could sense behind his steamy gaze. I had the overwhelming urge to hug him to me protectively. But I had to remain strong. He needed to explain why he really loved me. Was it because of me, or just because of my name?
"What would you say if I told you my name wasn't Chantelle Rose?"
I could see puzzlement momentarily flash across his eyes, before he light-heartedly replied, "I would hope, then, that you would say your name was Chantelle King."
"And what would you say if my name was neither Rose, nor King, nor even Chantelle?"
I desperately tried to remain calm. I'd no desire to come across as another hysterical Vivien Francis, though I could feel I was on the verge of screaming at the top of my lungs until my tonsils shook from pure frustration and tears gushed out in torrents.
"Look, Chantelle," Lionel sighed – he really was much more exhausted than I'd first grasped. "I've just sat through three studio interviews, a press conference, and had to deal with a nutty stalker who'd gone and slashed all four of Freddy G's limo tires. The only thing that has gotten me through the day is the thought that I would be with you this evening, and all through the night, and wake in the morning and start the new day with you by my side. I'm not up for any game playing. If you've got something to ask me, please go ahead and say straight out what's on your mind."
No beating about the bush, then.
Out loud, I asked bluntly, "I want to know why you truly love me. Because if what Gabby has told me is correct, the only real reason you're with me is because years ago some mystic clairvoyant gave you my name, and convinced you that you would only be happy with the girl bearing that name."
Lionel stared at me. Then, despite his weariness, let out his boisterous laugh. I actually found myself smiling back at him. I loved his laugh, and as much as I tried to remain serious, it was almost impossible with his flashing grin in my face. I felt like a complete fool.
"I'll admit that Gabby's version of the story is true. I did have my fortune told, and I was told that a certain dark-haired lady by the name of Chantelle Rose would have a great influence in my life. I'll admit that I fantasised about meeting such a mysterious and passionate woman. What I'll also admit is that the real Chantelle – that’s you, my Princess – surpasses all my dreams and fantasies. Even if your name wasn't Chantelle I'd still love you just as much as I do. It's true that I sent Freddy G after you when I saw you, and your name, in that Brit film. But I never expected to feel like this about you. The vulnerability I feel when I think I may lose you. That you may return to England and leave me. The anxiety I felt throughout the days you were ill. I love you for the gutsy determination that brought you out here to face this crazy adventure in the first place. I love you because you are the first woman I've met who shows no interest in me for my money or fame. I love the fact that when I'm with you, all my worries are put to one side. I love it when you smile. I want to be the one to make you smile just as you smile now. I would love you whatever your name. I love you for you! Does that clear your doubts?"
He was kneeling before me, his clear eyes locked into mine. I just nodded meekly in reply as I had a huge lump in my throat and was beyond speaking. The earlier threatened tears were on the verge of flooding out, but now as tears of joy and pure emotion. It was such a blissful moment. I didn't want to ruin it by having mascara running down my face in unsexy black rivulets. He may love me, but I wasn't going to push things!
He held his arms open protectively, and I fell into them and rested my head on his strong chest. He held me tight and bent down to tenderly kiss my forehead.
"You silly kid," he sighed warm-heartedly as he lifted my chin and kissed me passionately on the lips.
At that point, I'm ashamed to say, the floodgates opened.
***
I remained just a couple of days longer with Lionel, in a pre-honeymoon-type bliss. For indeed it was pre-honeymoon, as we planned to marry as soon as I returned from the UK. I was to go back to England to sell the cottage, settle my affairs – which would take about half an hour – and collect all my belongings. I thought I would probably end up giving most of my clothes to an Oxfam shop as I really couldn't see that in sunny California I would have much need of my big Puffer jacket, or any of my thick itchy woollen turtle-neck jumpers, or my classy leg-warmers, earmuffs, three-metre-long scarves, mittens and sexy Wellington boots. Saying that, I wasn't sure Oxfam would be that desperate for any of those fashion statements either.
I was desperate to tell Tammy in person that I was going to get hitched. I couldn't quite believe it myself. The tabloids were going to have a field day. I hadn't even known Lionel for more than two and a half months. I was, all considered, totally ignoring every bit of guidance which had been drummed into my head for as long as I could remember: "Don't talk to strangers… Don't walk down a dark alley at night… Don't get hitched before you're thirty… Make sure you know that 'He' doesn't like wearing your underwear… Only have kids when you're totally ready… etc etc.
So there I was thoroughly rushing into things, jumping the gun as it were. Nevertheless, it was either marriage or living in sin, and as both appealed and the first option had been offered, there was no stopping me. If Lionel, at some future point, decided that he rather liked walking around the bungalow in my lingerie and high heels, well, I'd simply cross that bridge when and if I came to it (in any case it already seemed he had a fetish for female shades and sun hats, as I'd discovered on his yacht, so I guess I'd already been forewarned). Life was too short to be overly cautious. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. Besides, that was why some intelligent person invented the concept "Divorce." Shame on me! It was shocking that I had even thought of the D-word as I stood at the doors of matrimony.
I was thrilled by the idea of becoming Mrs King, and was desperate to tell Tammy she was to be my Chief Bridesmaid. As my thoughts turned to England, it seemed ironic to think that my future brother-in-law would be Robbie. It was weird that one brother was obsessed with keeping me at his side, and the other hell-bent on scaring me off. I wondered if it might be something to do with nature versus nurture. Lionel and Robbie were the epitome of the saying: "It’s a fine line between love and hate." On that, I had to agree.
***
Back again across the Atlantic. I was becoming quite an expert on long-haul flights, and the whole departure-arrival routine. Things always seemed to happen to me when I travelled, too. Being fair, I think it would be correct just to say that things always seemed to happen to me, full stop. I felt my life was snowballing out of my control. Of course, I was deeply in love and I did want to marry Lionel, so it wasn't as if that was beyond my control. Beyond the original scope of my imagination perhaps, but certainly not against my wishes. What was getting rather out of my control was my sudden fame and celebrity status. Lionel's public declaration of love for me at the Oscar ceremony, plus the nude pictures of me splashed around the world, had propelled me to stardom – or, depending how you look at it, to infamy. This explained why I found myself rushing through the airport to the check-in desk decked out as if I was
going to a fancy-dress party. I was wearing a blonde wig (in tribute to Marilyn Monroe's golden locks), plus huge dark shades, despite the drizzling rain outside and regardless of the fact that I was actually indoors and there was no natural light.
Gabby said it was absolutely essential to wear a disguise when I was out alone and wanted to avoid attention. However, rather than making me look like a nonentity I saw myself as rather an eyesore. It didn't do the slightest bit of good anyway. Everyone saw right through the disguise – come to think of it, that's probably why celebrities use them – and it wasn't long before I had flocks of people around me screaming for my autograph and snapping their cameras at me, whilst I, as calmly and as serenely as possible, checked in my baggage and went through passport control. I was detained even longer than usual there, of course, as the individual on duty was forced to make me remove part of my disguise, just to confirm that it really was me behind it. Finally I got myself free of fans and officials, rushed into the British Airways VIP lounge, collapsed into one of the plush armchairs, and thankfully wrenched off the itchy, hot wig. It reminded me of a poodle.
I briefly closed my eyes, trying to calm myself after fighting my way through the screaming mob of devotees. I couldn't have imagined how popular one could get overnight, though I realised that the mob that had chased after me were the regular groupies who hung out at the airport celebrity-stalking; a bit like train-spotting only slightly more energetic. I could feel a stinking headache coming on and promptly rummaged around my handbag for an ibuprofen. As I shifted through the items in my bag in vain attempt to find a painkiller, I heard a sudden gasp coming from the entrance to the VIP lounge. I looked up. Paused by the door, contemplating which would be less traumatic – sharing the lounge with me, or facing the hounding aficionados outside – was none other than the haughty Ms Crystal Lee.
As I raised my eyes to meet her deadly stare, she, realising that there was nothing for it but to enter the room, tossed her head proudly and strode in with clicking, assertive steps. She positioned herself on the far side from where I sat, held a glossy magazine up so as to obscure me from her view, and tutted with displeasure.
I was fully aware of the reasons for her unfriendly reaction. It was obvious that she assumed I had been behind the "stolen" photos. Everything considered, the nude images of myself actually showed me in a pretty favourable light – especially if one believed I'd been looking for fame and further work opportunities. Whereas Crystal, the Hollywood Queen, had not come out of it well at all. The publication of the article had been an ultimate treachery.
I sat fidgeting in my seat for a while deliberating whether I should confront the old witch and risk getting my head bitten off, or remain in my seat and pretend I was oblivious to her tittering groans and snubbing behaviour. I finally decided that by remaining in my seat in silence it was almost like admitting that I was behind the dirty deed. Moreover, I certainly wasn't going to let her go on accusing me of something I hadn't done, especially when I'd been just as angered by the article as she was.
Gathering my courage about me, I stood tall and, with more conviction than I actually felt, walked over to where she was sitting.
"Ms Lee?"
I hoped that she would at least look at me. She, however, remained with her face buried in her magazine (1,2,3 Slim…!?) and ignoring me completely. I couldn't believe how rude she was. I cleared my throat loudly hoping that she would remember her manners and at least acknowledge my presence. She just ruffled the pages even more rapidly and loudly, as if I was a pesky fly that had molested her but was not worthy of further attention.
I had an urge to yank the hefty fitness magazine from her hands and smack her across the head with it, but instead, I remained poised silently, hovering above her, and slowly counted to ten, convincing myself as I did so that pulling her hair out in mighty fistfulls would only lower myself to her level of behaviour. I believed that's what she wanted, because then she would've known how to react. Furthermore, I certainly didn't fancy being on the front of the tabloids for having had a catfight with the mighty Crystal Lee. Having my buttocks exposed to the world was already more than enough.
I didn't realise you were deaf as well as fat-arsed and downright rude… The words almost slipped from my lips, so I remained standing as I counted to ten once again. Crystal was obviously not used to having someone stand over her in patient silence, and I started to observe her squirm with discomfort. I'll admit I rather enjoyed the feeling of power it gave me.
"There are obviously two possible reasons why you are totally ignoring my presence," I began. My tone was calm as I spoke, hoping that if I remained unruffled Crystal would react in the same way. I had heard her whip-like tongue before, many times, and had no desire to be subjected to it myself. "The first reason," I continued, "could be that you're too conceited to talk to lesser beings such as me. The second is that your lawyers have advised you not to have any contact with me whatsoever, as you obviously believe that I'm the one behind the article in Hollywood Blue and that you plan to take legal action. Well, you can go ahead and prosecute, but you’re wasting your time, because I had nothing to do with the publication. Believe it or not, it's not my idea of fun having my body parts, and my identity, flashed around in a glossy magazine for the whole world to stare at. The only reason I went ahead and did the scenes in the first place was because I was desperate for money, and I’d been promised that no one would even find out that a body double had been used, let alone that the body double was me. I'm truly sorry that you don't look good in all of this. But, honey, you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think I had anything to do with it. In fact I would be more than happy to co-operate in bringing whoever is behind all this to justice. There are plenty of people in this world who are in need of the money I could win out of suing. I would give it to them. So stop huffing at me, you're just wasting your time."
Crystal had stopped rattling 1,2,3, Slim, just as I was wondering if the non-stop waggling she'd kept up was some kind of upper-arm-toning exercise. Indeed she remained in total silence, and I began to wonder if, in fact, she really was hard of hearing. I stood there feeling rather perplexed, and fairly foolish. I hadn't wanted her to throw herself into a raving temper as she had done during the Nevada desert shoot. I had, however, expected to get some response from her. But she just sat there, muter than an Egyptian mummy.
She finally spoke. "Sorry for prejudging you." This explained a lot. She was obviously not used to apologising, and finding and using the right words must have come at a huge effort.
"No worries," I said back, and gave her a shy smile as I retraced my steps to my armchair. Just as I was settling back in the plush lounger I heard Crystal toss her 'toning' magazine aside. She clicked over to me and spoke again.
"Do you mind if I give my lawyers your number so that they can contact you to hear your side to the story?"
“Of course” I replied, quite surprised to hear her actually asking me for my number. I'd said I was willing to help, but I didn't think she would take me up on the offer.
She looked sad, and I found myself feeling sorry for her. She was a Hollywood star at that age where things start to sag, in an industry that worships all that is the epitome of beauty and youth; an industry which is unforgiving and strongly critical of all who do not strive for, or maintain, such an image. Growing old gracefully was going to be a tough road for Crystal. No amount of money in the world would take away her eternal obsession with her looks, her growing wrinkles, her grey hairs and her sagging bum.
So it came as no surprise to hear her ask, "Chantelle, in confidence, who's your plastic surgeon?"
I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. “Can't help you there, I'm afraid.” In my head I said a quick little prayer: Dear God, please spare me the torment of suffering from this demoralizing obsession with one's appearance.
I hated to think that my every waking hour could be spent fretting over cellulite and the like. I hoped that I would have something mor
e important in my life than an ever-growing desire to remain young. There were so many other, far more important, matters to fret about.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Keeping in line with my habitual travelling mode, I slept during most of the flight over to London. This was probably just as well, as it saved me from the gawping stares of my fellow passengers, despite being in First Class. Even the cabin crew, who had to be fairly accustomed to having celebrities aboard, were flabbergasted to have me on the flight. Most famous big shots had their own private jets. I was still getting used to flying First Class.
I had a huge sparkler on my third finger which Lionel had given to me the previous night as an engagement ring. Of course I hadn't said anything to him, but to be truthful it was a bit too flashy and vulgar for my more subtle tastes. I kept my hand half-hidden; the ring may have been slightly OTT, but it was obviously worth a fortune. No more nude scenes for me. If I ever got that desperate again I could sell the ring, pay all my debts and still have enough left over to help save the rainforest.
Tammy's face lit up as soon as she saw it, once we'd managed to sidetrack a screaming mob of teen fans who recognised me as soon as I stepped through Arrivals, despite the wig, which I'd hastily replaced before disembarking. It felt a bit lopsided, indeed I think I must have put it on back to front, as I seemed to have a curtain of blonde curls obscuring my vision, which made my escape all the more tricky. Gabby's morning runs, thankfully, finally paid off; I was able to out-sprint most of the mob as we made a dash for the safety of the car, but Tammy struggled to keep up. Hence I got into the driver’s seat as soon as we reached the parked car, worried that she could well hyper-ventilate and pass out somewhere along the M25. Mind, there was a chance that after the long-haul flight, I could, perhaps not hyper-ventilate, but possibly drop off to sleep (again). So relying on the fact that the constant lane changes, junction turn-offs and ongoing traffic down the M25, which is difficult enough at the best of times, would be stimulus enough for my dozy mind, I drove off.
A Little of Chantelle Rose Page 21