“You’re the one who said it would make him pull his finger out if I told him I was buying one!” I replied.
“Yeah, but I didn’t tell you to actually buy one.”
Aa–aaargh!
Good thing I worked out a while ago that it’s best not to take advice from Mal – a little something to do with her “Who’s the daddy?” drama.
She must have been reading my mind. “Anyway, it probably isn’t worth listening to me any more.”
No shit.
Mal thought the first flat was the best. It’s a swanky one-bedroom place on the top floor of an eight-storey building that’s literally five minutes away from Mum’s. (V. handy if I want her to keep doing my washing and ironing.)
Mum preferred the second, which is more like twenty-five minutes from hers. “It may be smaller but it’s in a better area,” she said. (Methinks she wants to avoid doing my washing and ironing.) But she probably does know what she’s talking about, seeing as she’s watched every episode of every property programme at least twice. “They don’t call it Location, Location, Location for nothing, you know.”
Will wait and see what Stephen thinks. Made an appointment to take him to see them tomorrow night.
9.30 p.m.
Was trawling through YouTube comments about my “bum flash” under my fake name, Romano Di Caprio, when Malibu came in, just as I was typing You don’t even frickin’ know Remy!
“I don’t know why you do it to yourself,” she said. “They’re all losers. Now come and say goodnight to Junior.”
“Junior” aka my baby nephew, Gary Johnson Junior, is small but surprisingly strong. I went to Mal’s room and bent down to say, “Goodnight, chunky monkey,” but he replied with a head-butt to my right eye. Ow!
Apparently it’s Alan’s fault. Whenever Gary Junior has a bad night, a knackered Malibu hands him over to a knackered Mum, who then hands him over to Alan. Alan must still be on Australian time because he doesn’t moan about it. Instead, he says, “I’ll take him to the front room and find something to watch.”
I used to think Ah–hhh, how sweet – imagining Junior’s surrogate grandad enduring Bob the Builder, Peppa Pig and Tweenies – but stopped wasting my breath when I found out that he then sits down with him and watches three of the most violent sports on the planet: ice hockey, rugby, and Aussie Rules Football. Now, Gary Junior tackles, bites or head-butts people at will. And his dad, Gary Senior (used to be known as Goldenballs but they’re more like lead now), is proper pissed off about it. SO AM I.
Right, that’s it. The pain’s too much. Going to have to ice my eye.
10 p.m.
Eye is still throbbing. BAD.
One more sleep till I see Stephen. YIPPEE!
Wednesday 31 July – 8 a.m.
I am Remy Louise Bennet. I am not perfect. But I still love being me.
Woke up thinking today’s going to be a good one: my McFit comes home from Japan! Then went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror – my eye looks like I’ve been sparring with Mike Tyson! WTF?!
8.30 a.m.
Had a few strong words with Malibu. “I’ve got a photo shoot today and your son’s blooming given me a black eye!”
“He was just playing.”
“That’s not the way normal kids play.”
“Normal kids?! What’re you trying to say?”
“I’m not trying, I’m saying it: one-year-olds do not go around head-butting people. Fact. At this rate, he’ll be expelled from nursery the first day he walks in.”
“He’ll probably stop doing it by then.”
“He’ll never stop if you keep letting him get away with it!”
Then she started to cry and Mum, who’d just come out of the bathroom next door, rushed into her room asking what the commotion was. Malibu said I made out that she’s a crap mother.
“What? Check the T-shirt I bought him – My Mum Rocks!”
“And what do you want – an award?”
“I can’t win,” I huffed as I walked out.
Mum followed me to give me another talk.
“New parents are very sensitive,” she said. “You have to choose your words carefully.”
“Fine. But when ‘Baby Psycho’ hurts someone else, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Shu–uush. She’ll hear you,” Mum whispered, then added, “I think she’s post-natal.”
I’m the one who should be depressed, after the week I’ve had – although, to be fair, even after Good Morning A.M., I wouldn’t swap with Mal. She’s the one sleeping in a cramped bedroom with her “challenging” baby son while Gary Senior hums and haws about whether he wants her back for good. Apparently he’s still finding it hard to get his head round her cheating on him with Lance. Last week I told her that as his mum’s a Christian, she should teach him how to forgive.
“But who’s going to teach him how to forget?” she replied.
8.45 a.m.
Yippee! Stephen just landed and called me straight away. He wanted to meet up for lunch, but I can’t because they’ve set aside 10 a.m. till 6 p.m. for the Here mag photo shoot and interview. Looks like Camilla’s really pulled it out of the bag. Apparently it’s going to be a double-page spread and, as Ron Burgundy would say, that’s “kind of a big deal”.
Arranged to meet Stephen tonight so I can show him the flats.
Dear God, please let him see sense and ask me to live with him instead.
7 p.m.
Strange day.
Used to get proper excited about photo shoots – loved getting my hair and make-up done by professionals. But the shine soon wore off. Well, I got butterflies over today’s shoot as if it were my first. This was important: the fight back from the brand new, sophisticated me – a chance to bury Bumquake FOR EVER.
The glam squad did their bit – clipped in a few extensions, concealed my black eye, shaded and highlighted my face to make it look like I had amazing cheekbones. It may have taken ninety minutes but I did look ten times better. Then a stylist called Fran turned up with a clothes rail full of dresses, jeans and tops – a mass of blues, pinks and reds. I used to gasp at the amount of clothes stylists brought along. Today I just said, “Erm… Got anything in black?”
Luckily, she did. My first pick was a black leather dress with white daisies running along the hem. Luke, the photographer, said, “Great dress, Fran,” when I came out, as if she were the one wearing it. Then, as an afterthought, added, “You look good, Remy. Right, let’s rock and roll.” It was time to pose. Eek!
For me, posing always feels awkward. Just can’t help it. And if it feels awkward, it looks awkward.
“Imagine you’re in a club, yeah, and the lens is… Who d’you like that’s famous?”
“Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“Yeah. This lens is Leonardo DiCaprio.”
Awkward.
“Now… Smile… Pout… Make a sexy face, yeah.”
AWKWARD.
There was an electronic instrumental tune playing. I’d never heard it before and never want to hear it again.
“Move to the beat, yeah, sway to the… Shall we change the music?”
Poor Luke.
We stopped for lunch. Then Camilla Douglas-Smith called Fran and everything changed. Fran passed her phone over to me.
“Remy, dahling.” Camilla sounded even posher over the phone. “I’ve been sent some of the shots. Now, do you trust me?”
V. strange question coming from a person I barely knew, but she sparked my curiosity so I found myself saying yes.
“Good. Becawse I have an idea that will stop them talking about your ahse, and start them concentrating on your clahss.”
“I’m in.”
Fran left her half-eaten lunch, took her mobile and walked to another room.
“Yes, can you bike it to me asap?” she said, phone glued to ear, when she came to join us again fifteen minutes later. She ended the call. “New hair,” she said to Max, the hairdresser. “An up-do.”
“Sure,” he replied.
“And make-up?” checked Bethany, the make-up girl.
“Yes, something a bit softer, please.”
She could see me frowning. “Camilla’s idea,” she explained.
It took an hour to be transformed into a Disney princess. Is that really me? I thought when I looked in the mirror – wow! Then the bike arrived and Fran walked in with a WEDDING DRESS. Literally the most beautiful wedding dress I’d ever seen. A mix of cream lace and chiffon – loveliness fit to marry Prince Harry in.
“We’re thinking of a fairy-tale bride theme,” Fran explained.
Well worth breaking my black-clothes-only rule for. “Bring it on!” I replied.
I reckon Luke still thought my posing looked awkward, but it felt a lot better for me that time around. At least I managed to smile. It was easy once I pretended it was my big day getting hitched to Stephen. #bliss
Then off came the dress, down came the hair, and I was suddenly faced with reality: a five-foot-nothing, leathery skinned journalist named Samantha “call me Sam for short” Turner.
“So, obviously this is your first interview since you know what. How are you feeling?”
“Still a bit embarrassed, to tell you the truth – about the fall and the ranting afterwards.”
“Uh-huh.”
She brought up my statement, the one that Harry wrote and released to the press. “You said that you’ve found it hard to cope with fame and you’ll be seeking some professional help. Have you done that?”
I imagined how shocked Grandma Robinson would be to find out that I’m now seeing a psychiatrist. In her day, that probably meant I’d be wearing a straitjacket and locked in a cell with padded walls.
“Um… Well… Sort of. I’m talking to someone. You know, just airing my feelings – I’d been bottling them up.”
There. Nothing to worry about, Grandma!
“It must have been hard for you – girl next door one minute, making front-page news the next. Very hard.”
Tell me about it! Stupid old me thought trying to keep up with the Netherfield Park WAGs was difficult; then I wound up being a celebrity (fully aware that some people would call “celebrity” an overstatement) and realized the real meaning of PRESSURE.
“I never classed myself as a beauty or anything,” I explained, “but suddenly people started turning up at the salon expecting me to look like Miss World.”
She frowned. “The salon?”
“Yeah. My salon. I own a salon called Tah-dah!”
“Oh yes. Of course.”
“If people turned up there and I wasn’t looking perfect, they’d actually make comments about it on Facebook or Twitter – sometimes even to my face.”
“Any examples?”
“Well, one girl who didn’t think I was as pretty as she expected said, ‘You’re actually quite plain, aren’t you?’”
“Hmm.” Sam looked sympathetic. “People don’t think; and it can’t be easy with you dating a footballer.”
“Huh?”
“I mean, it’s hard enough to keep hold of a rich handsome guy, but a footballer…”
Is it me or did Sam for Short ram the pressure up to max right then?
“Yeah… Well…” I stuttered.
“You looked beautiful in that wedding dress today. Any plans you want to tell me about?” she said with a cheeky smile.
“Plans?” I repeated.
“Yes. Plans.”
I laughed. “Look, we don’t even live together, so one step at a time, as they say.”
Sam leaned towards me and lowered her voice. “Listen, as this is your first interview since Good Morning A.M., what Camilla would like me to do is to show that you’re moving on with your life. Basically, I’m after a good news story and our audience love weddings and babies.”
She sat straight again and raised her voice to normal. “So, do you have any plans?” she repeated.
“Er… No… Not really.” Sam sighed. I’d clearly let her down, so I quickly added, “But I hope to have some soon.”
That made her smile. “And babies?” she pressed.
“What about them?”
“Have they been discussed?”
I shook my head.
She sighed again. “Would you like any?”
“Me? Yeah, I’d like at least two.”
Now she was happier. “Good for you. I think you’ll make a great mother.”
“Thanks. I hope so. I suppose having a little nephew is good training.”
“And how old is he?”
“One.”
“Ah–hh. Bet that’s made you broody.”
“Er… Yeah… Sort of.”
“When my older sister had a baby, I picked baby names for my own children, even though I didn’t have a partner at the time.”
We both laughed.
“I’ve done that too,” I admitted. “Maybe it’s a girl thing.”
“Well… What are they, then? Don’t leave me in suspense!”
“Effie for a girl, and Doug for a boy.”
“Traditional Scottish names. Oh, they’re beautiful, Remy.”
I was proper chuffed about this (had put a lot of work into finding those names). Sam for Short was OK really, I decided. If a little nosy.
Got home and when I told Mal I was going to show Stephen the flats she brought up commitment again.
“If he says they’re great, you’re going to look silly if you don’t end up buying one. And you don’t want to buy one because that leaves him commitment-free.”
I thought of the irony of me having photos taken in a wedding dress today.
“What you smiling at?”
“Nothing. Besides, he has committed – we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, aren’t we?”
“I’m talking about taking it to the next level. You know I am.”
Anyhoo, I’ve packed an ickle overnight bag and now I’m off to meet Stephen. Hoping that seeing my potential new flat makes him pull his finger out.
Hi everyone, look out for me in HERE mag – coming to a store near you very soon!
Thursday 1 August – 8.30 a.m.
Had an almost perfect night with Mr McFit. Almost, because the flat hunting didn’t get the result I was looking for. He didn’t like either of them. Woo-hoo! I thought, hoping it was because he had a better idea – like me moving in with him. I said, “Well, what do you think I should do?” with big brown “save me” eyes.
And he replied, “I think yer should hold out for something better, gorgeous.”
Grrr.
On the upside, when I took off my make-up to climb into bed, he noticed my black eye, gave it a kiss and then said he quite liked it. “Gives yer a Glaswegian edge.”
“Really?”
“Aye. The girls are tough in Glasgow.” Then he kissed it again. And again…
1 p.m.
Lunch break. Just waiting for Dad. Think I’m finally ready to meet him, answer questions about Good Morning A.M., and deal with any disappointment he might show in his face. Managed to block twenty-five trolls on Twitter this morning. They took issue with my tweet about Here mag. Would rather set fire to my own eyebrows than read about a Z-lister like you, said one. So I then tweeted: Everyone’s entitled to an opinion but not every opinion is entitled to count. This got even more abuse, e.g. Like yours, you useless b****, so I had to block another thirty. Deleted the tweet to avoid getting any more. All in between running reception at the salon. Yet again, every beautician is fully booked. Yay! Lara says we could make the Tanarama booth available twenty-four hours a day and still have a queue out of the door.
There’s been loads of gossip flying about today because a customer called Debbie Wyatt is on the warpath: her husband has been having an affair with one of our other customers, Natalie Roberts. #scandal
Debbie was in for a mani-pedicure earlier. (Natalie had better be scared because Debbie does kick-boxing.)
“You’re well rid of him, Debs,” said Charlie.
“Yeah, you’re far too good for him,” Lara chipped in.
Think that’s what I missed most when I stayed away last week: at the salon we’re a team; and every woman who steps through the door gets our support. That doesn’t seem to exist in the celebrity world.
4 p.m.
Every girl should have a dad like Reg Bennet. The first time he’d seen me since Good Morning A.M. and as soon as we sat down to eat he said, “I want you to know that I’m very proud of you. Always have been, and always will be.” What a dude.
“But you must feel a little bit embarrassed about what happened,” I said.
“You could never embarrass me, Remy.”
Dad said I should accept what happened and learn from it. “It’ll only make you stronger. And if you gain just one per cent more confidence, that’s a result.”
“Do you think I lack confidence in myself, then?” I asked him.
“I think, for a long time, you felt you were in Malibu’s shadow,” he replied, which is so–o true. It’s proper hard having a beautiful sister. I then asked how it was going with Elizabeth, and Dad said he’s enjoying it but she wants more, now that they’ve been seeing each other for a year, and he’s not sure about making a bigger commitment. Ugh! What is it with men?
Camilla phoned when I was on my way back to the salon.
“I hear the interview and photo shoot went splendidly well, yah?”
“Yeah. Happy days.”
“A couple of things, dahling. First, there is a charity ball that you need to be seen at tonight. It would be wonderful if you could get Stephen to tag along. Could you do that?”
“Should be able to.”
“Fantastic! And second, the reason I need you to be seen is becawse I’m working on booking a huge TV interview for you.”
Eek! TV again! It seems so soon!
“A big interview?” I asked cautiously.
“Not big, dahling – huge.”
“Who with?”
“Aha! That would be telling.”
What's the Drama, Malibu Bennet? Page 2