by Lotte Daley
Brrrriiiiiing! It trilled loudly from the oven, where I suddenly had a flashback of hiding it late last night whilst slightly drunk from red wine, to prevent me from accidentally on purpose sending love texts. I didn’t recognize the ring at first because I usually had the current Number One song in the charts as my ringtone. At present, I had one of those old-fashioned ringtones because otherwise any song I loved right now would in the future be the song/ringtone that reminded me of when I got dumped by Jack. Trust me, no girl wants to be reminded of that. The inoffensive chimes rang out as I looked at the screen. Richard’s cheesy grin flashed up. I had a BlackBerry, which meant I was permanently updating my status on Facebook when out and about and stalking, sorry, wrong word, checking up on Jack. Except, of course, Jack deleted me from Facebook and isn’t searchable so that’s that over with … aside from Google updates, however, mustn’t forget them. I had programmed a picture of my friends’ faces to accompany the trill of the phone so I always knew who was calling. If it was my mother, I could divert her to answerphone. Thank goodness for technology!
‘Darling, how are you?’ Richard purred down the phone.
‘Um, hey you,’ I said back. Richard was being especially nice. He normally just launched right on in with a full-on conversation, complete with instructions as to what was required of me, what to wear, etc. He was exhausting on the phone, a complete whirlwind. No time for pleasantries. What could he be after? It couldn’t be the Space NK products for men. Perhaps he wanted to come shopping to Harrods? No, can’t be that, he’s got more money than he knows what to do with, which he spends on high-class hookers, vintage rock star t-shirts and expensive West End bar bills.
‘I’m outside your door, sweetheart, be a doll and answer it. I don’t like standing outside like a common salesperson.’
‘You’re outside?’ I said, confused and pulling my dressing gown tight around my middle. It felt like an age since Richard had seen me with my clothes on.
‘That’s what I said, stupid, come on, Mrs Bellamy is curtain twitching again.’
‘All right I’m en route!’ I said, putting the phone down. I padded down the hallway, stopping briefly to check my reflection in the mirror. Hmm, not looking super hot but sod it, it’s only Richard.
‘Darrrrrrrling,’ Richard simpered, hugging me tight as I stumbled back into the hallway with the weight of him. For a five-foot-eight guy with not much to him other than carefully sculpted muscle, Richard had a lot more strength than one would imagine.
‘Hey you,’ I said in response, hugging him back. ‘What’s the frequency?’
‘Welllllll, how about you pop the kettle on and we have a cup of tea. Here, I brought you some lovely smoked sausage!’
‘Mmm …’ I said, making my way into the kitchen and putting the kettle on the hob.
‘Biscuit?’ I said, pushing the jar towards him.
‘No, darling, and neither should you.’ And with that, he picked up my beloved biscuit tin and emptied it into the bin.
‘Whoa!’ I cried. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘Carbs. Evil. Banned from now on. FYI.’
‘In English please, Rich? IYP?’
‘Katie, you can’t just make-up acronyms, it doesn’t work like that. FYI is a universal code for “For Your Information”, and I doubt that IYP …’
‘If You Please,’ I filled in.
‘I doubt very much that IYP is part of the celebrity vernacular.’
‘Oh God, OK, fine. Why are my biscuits evil?’
‘They have carbohydrates in them, sugar, nutritionally dense, addictive, give you cellulite, make you fatter …’
‘And the sausage?’ I queried, bubbling with anger at Richard’s blatant disrespect to my Jammie Dodgers.
‘Protein rich and full of fat, keep eating these babies and you’ll be skinny in no time.’
‘Are you calling me fat?’ I said, incredulous to his complete lack of manners.
‘Yes.’
‘Ouch,’ I said. ‘That hurt.’
‘Well, you are, let’s not cry about it. Darling, come on, in the celebrity world that you are going to become a part of as of, ooooh, Tuesday when Sizzle Stars is in the shops, everyone will know who you are … You do read Sizzle Stars, don’t you, Katie?’
‘Of course I do, I’m addicted …’
‘Then you’ll know that they have a section called “Sinners & Winners” and in the Sinners are pictures of celebrities’ sweat patches, their lady gardens, spots, back flab, nose hair … the list goes on and on and, honey, you could very well end up in the Sinners bit if you’re not careful. Especially with those teeth.’
‘Gosh,’ I said, aghast. There’s no point arguing with Richard, his acidic tongue would win hands down each and every time.
‘I suppose you do know what you’re talking about …’ I murmured.
‘Yes, I do. I have dated a string of supermodels and even they have the odd pouch of fat that I had to pay to get lipo’d out. Still, I wouldn’t ever date a woman above a ten. That’s just how I am and it’s how most men are and I hate to say it, sweetie, it’s probably how Jack was, which is why he’s up and off with Jessica size-zero Hilson.’
‘Fucking hell, Richard, are you trying to give me an eating disorder?’
He looked genuinely shocked as his forehead furrowed. I saw a line or two crease up and relax as Richard visibly went through a myriad of thought processes before opening his mouth and continuing.
‘Katie, I’m sorry, I forget you’re not a celebrity yet, you’re not used to my world, the world of being a big-time, hot-shot, uber-successful PR Account Manager. I totally forgot that you really don’t need to be thin and glamorous because you are the PA, behind the scenes, doing a very important job and we wouldn’t do without you, God no, but I do think you just need a bit of education, darling, that’s all.’
Richard needed a kick in the face and a swift reality check. Is this what hobnobbing with Soho media types did to a person? They become shallow and vacuous and unrepentant when they throw insult after insult after insult, whilst dressing them up with bright white teeth and the flash of a Rolex.
‘Richard, I am, as you say, a PA and that’s it. I am not a celebrity, I don’t have hair extensions.’
‘Yet, darling, they come Monday.’
‘No, Rich, Monday’s my boob job! Oh, I can’t tell you how excited I am, especially since I’ve just seen Jessica’s chest straining through her itty-bitty top and they looked glorious, all mountainous and bouncy and sexy and I want boobs like that, ones that spill out over corsets and immobilize men from speaking, thinking and anything else that requires a dual process. Everyone knows men can only do one thing at a time.’
‘Bullshit. I had two girls last night.’
My mouth dropped open. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘Filthy bitches, stuff of dreams, very good, shut your mouth, Katie, your teeth are hideous.’
I sighed and literally had to stop myself from wedging the biscuits from the bin where the sun don’t shine.
‘You’re not having the breast augmentation any more, sweetie.’
‘What? Why!’ I cried out, no, no, no, this could not be happening, I wanted that boob job for, like, ever and I needed that boob job, to get Jack back and to get Bailey’s attention!
‘It was collectively agreed between the doctor, Hanna Frost and Aubrey that you were displaying overemotional tendencies of a worrying kind. In short, it was felt that you are a little too on edge over this whole to-do with Jack and Jessica, meaning that you have had a couple of meltdowns, namely the one in Ziggy Wang’s that everybody saw, and the last thing any of us wants is you crying to the papers months down the line, saying that you hate your tits, they’re too big and you were forced into it.’
‘I wasn’t forced into it, though, I was a little, um, scared and a bit nervous and not entirely sure about the size, didn’t know what size …’
‘You can have a jab to make them bigger. Don’t worr
y, we’ll sort you out, it’s semi-permanent and if you still want ’em blown up like balloons then you can go right on and book an appointment with the doctor when you make your millions.’
‘So,’ I said, taking in a deep breath. Must not get sucked in to his warped media brain. Must not listen when he says I’m fat. Size fourteen is not fat! I am athletic! I am … bouncy in other bits of me, apart from my chest. I can have a jab that makes them bigger. That, in all honesty, felt slightly less frightening than being knocked out at the mercy of Dr Vasquez.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘Oh, I had to drop by and one, tell you all about the non-boob-job decision so you could eat something tomorrow, and two, I wanted to check you weren’t rocking in the corner with a bottle of gin watching Bridget Jones after hearing about Jack’s engagement to Jessica.’
‘Yes,’ I sighed, ‘I heard all about it, saw her gleaming on T4’s Celebrity Bits. So that paparazzi shot of them hovering with intent outside Tiffany’s was the real deal?’
‘Yes, seems so. Although the ring she chose has had to be made specifically for her very thin and small fingers so she won’t have it until mid-week. Just in time for the première of Cowgirls on Saturday.’
‘He did it with a penny sweet,’ I said, picking at the sausage.
‘I know, cute, isn’t it?’
‘You think?’
‘No, of course not, I wouldn’t be caught dead giving a girl a sweet as a token of my commitment to her, but then this is me, I don’t do the C word. God. Right, so anyway, you’re OK, you’re not a wreck, all is good in the hood and I am offskis, I have a very naughty brunch date to pick up.’
‘Annabelle?’
‘Yep, she’s young, hot, stupid as fuck and up for anything. It’s something light on the Thames, I’ve hired a private boat, going to blow her little tiny mind.’
‘Good luck,’ I said, as Richard stood up and smoothed his hair down in the reflection of the kitchen window.
‘Have fun at Harrods,’ he called as he walked down my hallway and opened the front door. ‘And, Katie …’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘When I said you were fat, I only meant a little,’ and he shoved on his Wayfarer shades and made off to his sports car.
‘See you,’ I said, under my breath. I plastered a smile on my face, gathered up the cat who had come to stand by my feet for a view of this incredibly self-obsessed, shallow man. He did have a heart of gold, though, and I loved him all the same. Life would certainly be a duller place without Richard in it … definitely. I walked back into my living room, finished the sausage and opened a new packet of chocolate digestives. I would never give up these edible lovelies, not for him, not for the size of my bottom, not for anyone.
Chapter 10
BEEP BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
I raced to the front door, flip-flops smacking against the wooden floor, as I grabbed keys, purse, phone and my light denim jacket. I was wearing loose clothing so I didn’t sweat too obviously and a gigantic Stranna hat by Malene Birger that Tom Theodore had suggested would hide my face more stylishly than Dad’s balaclava, when worn with a real pair of Ray-Bans. Besides, I bet if I turned up at Harrods in a balaclava, I’d be arrested or shot or something. Now, I thought, looking in the hallway mirror and tousling my honey-blonde locks into a fan across my shoulders, in this classy disguise I was beginning to feel more like the girl in the magazine shoot, the girl who is going to be a star, who’s a celebrated person, at least in the world of Twitter and Blogspace. (Yup, I checked out what my new-found fan base have to say about Jack. So far, he’s an odious toad and I’m better off without him. Rather apt and I couldn’t agree more.) The painkillers for my migraine had kicked in a little and I was ready to indulge myself in sheer designer delight. I took one last look in the mirror and likened myself to a younger version of Goldie Hawn. A younger, chunkier version with wonky teeth, but still, I thought I looked good.
‘Finally!’ Danielle said, as I skipped towards her open-topped Porsche Boxster. I’ve always been jealous of Danielle’s pay packet, which is huge and topped up with bonuses which she laughingly refers to as ‘love money’. To keep schtum about having it off with her very married boss. No, really, it probably is, but if we err towards the reality of the situation, things get frosty and Danielle gets uppity, making sure I know she works hard and isn’t any kind of prostitute lawyer. Oh, no.
‘Sorry, I was adjusting this hat,’ I say, as I open the door and park my bum on the plush leather seats.
‘Primark?’ she jokes, knowing full well it is something that cost the best part of a month’s wages – hers, not mine, so super expensive I’ll have you know – and I laugh and tell her that it was a gift and that I love it very, very much.
‘And the shades are real Ray-Bans!’ I exclaim.
‘Whoohoo!’ she says, and once again, I detect a slight note of sarcasm in her voice.
‘Yeah, so …’ I drift off as she turns on Radio 1 and some funky pop music wafts out of the sub-woofers and into the London sunshine as we zoom down Old Street.
‘Have you heard Jack’s popped the question to Jessica Hilson?’ I ask Danielle.
‘Yes, I heard. Are you OK? Have you heard from the delectable Bailey?’ she queries.
‘Yes, I’m fine, never better, full of hatred, bile and despair and no, not heard from Bailey,’ I say, feeling a flush of embarrassment. He hadn’t called but then it hadn’t been long since we exchanged bodily fluids, not even a day. See this face of mine, it wasn’t fussed. I checked out my smile in the side mirror to confirm.
‘I Googled him,’ Danielle continues.
‘Oh? Anything juicy?’ I ask, feeling a flutter of trepidation as to what she may have uncovered.
‘He’s un-Googleable,’ she says, sparking up a cigarette as we come to a brief rest at the traffic lights.
‘What do you mean, he’s un-Googleable?’
‘I couldn’t find him.’
‘Well, that’s not surprising, we don’t know his first name.’
‘I do,’ Danielle says, as we turn through the city roads. ‘It’s Sam. Sam Bailey. I searched Poets Field PR, made some calls and looked for dirt …’
‘Why would you do that?’ I say, suddenly angered. ‘Dirt? Don’t you like him or something? He’s not Stewart, you know, there are no skeletons in the closet. No wives there either!’ I say, instantly regretting it. I loved my best friend, I didn’t mean to be a bitch, I guess this headache was more fierce than I thought.
‘I just don’t want to see you hurt and really, he is a bit odd, isn’t he? You can’t deny that,’ she continues, puffing on her cigarette and blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth.
‘I just, well, I don’t know either, Danielle, I just, come on, let’s not talk men, gosh, yawn, boring men, let’s talk shoes … what would you like to buy?’
‘Ooh, something special, that’s for sure!’
With the Bailey/Stewart situation successfully diffused, I prayed to the gods that I could find a gift for Danielle to appease her that wasn’t too expensive because, as much as I loved her, I also loved the Nicole Farhi dress I saw on the telly the other day. We parked up, were robbed by the Kensington & Chelsea council parking meter and made our way towards Harrods.
‘Wow,’ I said breathlessly, as we stood outside the clothing emporium.
‘Come on, then!’ Danielle said, linking arms with me as we moved towards the entrance.
‘Let’s shop till we drop!’
Four and a half hours later and exactly five thousand pounds down, Danielle and I stood outside Harrods, laden down with a selection of boxes and bags (although not quite as many as we’d have contended with had we spent the afternoon in Debenhams). Oh, I think we could quite easily have bought absolutely everything in sight, but as it happens, I made a beeline for the Nicole Farhi dress, which was exquisite by the way, and Danielle had to tear me away from the Fossil & Antique section. If I had eleven grand, I could have owned
my very own Freshwater Limestone Plaque with Fish. How cool would that be? I could imagine it now, next time I asked Bailey in for a cup of tea, I could say, ‘Would you like to come in and view my Freshwater Limestone Plaque – with Fish …’ Hmmm, yes, had a much better ring to it than, ‘Would you like to come in and meet my cat?’
Struggling back to the car, I listed in my head the items I bought.
There was the magnificent Nicole Farhi dress, and there was the Mike + Ally collection of Gold Trim Ebony Empire soap dispenser, cotton-ball holder and toothbrush holders, a cool £500 for the lot, plus I bought myself some super-amazing princess goose-feather pillows, some ‘Katy’ collection Missoni bedsheets, OK so they didn’t have KATIE bedsheets, but Katy was good enough for me! Besides, it’s not as if Bailey knows how to spell my name. Jack can barely read, let alone spell, so I figured it didn’t really matter if Missoni was a letter or two out. Finally, I bought myself a Sonata silk charmeuse throw, a bathrobe, some deliciously sexy underwear that would be sure to come off in a minute next time Bailey sees me in all my glory, and as a special present to my cat, I bought him a plush cushion bed which I hope he will use.