What's the Drama, Malibu Bennet?

by Michelle Gayle

  Afterwards, Malibu said Camilla would have to tell her everything, even her sexual history, if she were paying her five hundred pounds a week.

  “She works for you, remember.”

  Anyhoo, now wasn’t the time to be worrying. Phoned Stephen, who agreed to come with me to the ball. Then ten minutes later, one of Camilla’s assistants called to say a top designer was going to bike over some options for me to wear. All I’ll have to do is tweet about them.

  Now home, waiting for them to arrive. Please let them be VERSACE!

  5.20 p.m.

  OMG. OK, they’re not quite Versace but they’ve only blooming sent over dresses from Nancy Scott! She’s the real deal: Coleen Rooney, Cheryl Cole and Victoria Beckham have been pictured in one of her dresses. Woo-hoo! Mal said Camilla must be proper connected to set that up.

  I tried on every dress – there were five of them – but that was just for fun because I knew I was going to pick the black one.

  “I prefer the pink,” Malibu said.

  But I’m going to be papped, I thought. And when my butt appears in some magazine I’m sure the trolls will diss the size of it, anyway, without it being draped in a load of pink sequins. That would only encourage comparisons with Peppa Pig.

  Right, better do my job.

  Really looking forward to rocking @NancyScott tonight at the Aid for Children Ball!

  5.45 p.m.

  DISASTER. Stephen has texted to say he can’t come after all. He thinks he’s got food poisoning – he’s been sat on the toilet for an hour. Poomageddon!

  I wrote back: Wish I could be there to look after you, baby.

  And he replied: No, you don’t. Trust me.

  Hmm. Will have to go to the charity dinner with someone else.

  Who though?

  6.15 p.m.

  Malibu’s coming! First, she checked that Mum would be OK to look after my “energetic” nephew. Then she climbed into the Nancy Scott pink sequined dress to see how it would look. Amazing. No one would ever think she had a baby a year ago. (Trust Mal.)

  “Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together,” she said, striking a pose. It’s her first girls’ night out since Gary Junior was born, and she’s so happy to be coming that I wouldn’t be surprised if I looked under her bed and found a voodoo doll wearing a kilt and sitting on a loo.

  “Will you still do my hair for me?” I asked.

  “Don’t think I’ll have time now I’ve got to do my own.”

  “But you wouldn’t be going if it wasn’t for me!”

  “That’s just being selfish!”

  Grrr.

  Mal’s so much better at hair than me. I’ll probably look crap now. An ace hairdresser offering mates’ rates is what I need. And, of course, I used to have one till we had an epic fall-out. Really need my old BMF James back in my life TONIGHT!

  Out tonight with my big sis, all in the name of charidee. Thanks for the amazing dresses @NancyScott #woohoo

  10 p.m.

  I’d take Poomageddon over tonight’s charity event – every time.

  Climbed into my new tummy-control pants then squeezed into the sequined black dress. It fitted like a second skin. Wow! I thought when I stood in front of the mirror. For the first time ever, my stomach looked completely flat – no annoying little bulge to hold in when someone was taking a photo. Yes!

  We were travelling there in style: Camilla had arranged a chauffeur-driven shiny black Mercedes. Malibu was so chuffed when it arrived. She gave me a high-five.

  “Tonight’s about letting your hair down,” I said to her with a grin, “and you have my permission to get legless. Me and Mum can look after Gary Junior tomorrow, if you have a hangover.”

  “Thanks, Rem.”

  When I asked the driver how far away we were and he said we’d be there in eight minutes, I began to get nervous.

  “Do I look all right?”

  “Of course you do,” Mal said.

  “What about my dress? Does it really suit me?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? Yes–ss.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely positive.”

  There were a string of black Mercedes clones in front of us, slowly trickling along until they reached a grand hotel with a red carpet out the front. Each would then stop, its well-dressed passenger would step out, and a flash of camera bulbs would go off, courtesy of the photographers lined up on both sides of the red carpet. This was it – the reason Camilla Douglas-Smith wanted me to come; the reason Nancy Scott was so willing to lend me a £2,000 dress. My stomach churned.

  We hit the red carpet. Photographers were barking, “Remy, look at me!” Flash! *awkward* “Down here!” Flash! *awkward* “Up!” Flash! *awkward* “Look right!” Flash! *v. awkward* And so–oo embarrassing!

  Malibu loved it though. She posed her socks off until one of the organizers came up to us. “Isn’t Stephen Campbell here with you?” she asked me.

  “Um… No. He was meant to come but he’s sick, so I brought my sister instead.”

  The organizer looked disappointed. “Right. Well in that case, can we get Remy on her own, please?” Malibu went bright red as she walked to the side and waited for me. I felt bad for her, and it was way more embarrassing posing on my own too. Then finally it was over. Phew! We were escorted through a lobby (where a glass of champagne was practically pushed into our hands) and shown to our table. Four guests were already seated there. I recognized one of them: Dynamic – the magician that looks and dresses like Eminem. He was sitting next to his glamorous girlfriend: huge breasts, tiny waist.

  “Hi, I’m Remy,” I said.

  Dynamic looked down his nose at me. “Yeah, yeah, I know who you are.”

  “So do we, and we love you,” said an immaculately dressed man sitting opposite Dynamic. He looked much happier to be graced by my presence. “I’m Stefan, and this is my hubby, Robert Fitzgerald,” he said, indicating an equally immaculate man beside him with silver cropped hair and beard. “I think you’re sitting with us.”

  “Great. This is my sister…” Malibu had been by my side, but had disappeared. Didn’t take long to spot her though. She was standing by a waiter holding a tray of champagne and I watched as she took two glasses of bubbly and downed them, one after the other. OK, I said she should get drunk but not in the first five blooming minutes!

  “Can you excuse me for a second?” Went over to Mal and grabbed her arm. “Come on, let’s sit down.” She thought about it, her eyes fixed on the remaining three glasses of champagne on the tray.

  “Guess what, we’re sitting with Dynamic, the magician.”

  “No way!” That got her moving.

  “Sorry about that,” I said as we returned to the table, and introduced Malibu to Stefan and Robert.

  “Ooh, you’re a bit of a silver fox,” she said to Robert. “And as for you,” she said, waving at Dynamic, “has anyone ever told you that you look like Eminem?”

  His slow nod told me he’d heard it a thousand times. Moving on, he politely said, “This is my girlfriend, Lisa.”

  “Wow, I’d never put you two together in a million years.”

  I’d forgotten how embarrassing she could be when she’d had a few.

  To break the tumbleweed moment, the Silver Fox said, “Love what you’re wearing, girls.”

  “Thanks. They’re by Nancy Scott,” I told him.

  “Only on loan though – we’ve got to bloody return them tomorrow. Get our pictures taken in them, promote her, then she blooming well wants them back!”

  Robert saw me cringe. “It’s OK, I know how it works. I’m a TV producer.” He reached into his jacket pocket and gave me his card. “Who’s your agent?”

  “Harry Burton.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I know Harry. Are you happy with the way he’s … handling things at the moment?”

  I blushed. “Yeah. Well … sort of. Obviously it’s a bit tricky with—”

  “Look, I’ve worked with peopl
e who have done far worse things than you and bounced back.” He mentioned a children’s TV presenter who was sacked when he was papped with a dodgy-looking “roll-up” in his mouth. Three weeks later he started presenting an adult show and has never looked back.

  “The point I’m making is that you have a window – a very small time frame, but a window nonetheless – where, if you get it right, you’ll move onwards and upwards.”

  Now, if Camilla Douglas-Smith had put it like that, I would have liked her on the spot, I thought, smiling.

  That’s when Tamsin Spader turned up.

  I love the way she dresses. She’s the latest it-girl model and she’s married to the coolest DJ on the planet – Chad Spader. But he wasn’t with her tonight. Instead, Tamsin had a tall black woman with huge curly hair by her side.

  “That’s Tamsin Spader,” Stefan whispered. “If I remember correctly, she’s sitting next to your sister.”

  Well, that would have been interesting if Tamsin had actually sat down, but she didn’t. She stopped a few metres away from the table, looked horrified, and then walked away.

  “Oh my–yyy God. Did you see her face?!” Mal said. “Dynamic, can you pass me that bottle of white, please?”

  “Erm… Let’s go to the toilets first,” I said quickly.

  “Ugh! Do we have to?”

  “Yes–sss!”

  We walked by Tamsin on the way to the loos, and overheard her ripping into the same organizer who had made Mal step aside on the red carpet.

  “The magician’s cool. But there’s no way I’m sitting on the same table as her.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Spader, I didn’t do the seating plan.”

  “Well, who did? Because they should know I wouldn’t want to sit with a nobody WAG, or whatever the fuck she is.”

  Stormed into the loos and spent ten minutes in the cubicle, trying to collect myself, with Malibu standing outside it, turning the air blue. She wanted to wade in and give Tamsin what for but I told her not to – I was in enough trouble already. Besides, I’d done my bit and had my photo taken so I decided to make it easy for everyone.

  “Let’s go home,” I said.

  Stayed quiet on the drive back and just nodded when Malibu kept going on about what a bitch Tamsin was. “Don’t take any notice of her – she’s probably jealous.”

  But jealous of what? She’s the cool one; I’m the loser who’s now known as the Bumquake.

  Friday 2 August – 8.15 a.m.

  I am Remy Louise Bennet. I am not perfect. But I still love being me. (Sort of.)

  Cried myself to sleep. Why do people like Tamsin Spader enjoy making other people feel like crap? That’s what I’ll be asking Dr Clein in my next session.

  Rang my McFitty just now to see how he’s doing. He always makes me feel good. He sounded drained. Said he was up all night but thinks the worst is over. The club have given him a couple of days off training and he’s going to stay in bed watching films, in between downing cups of Dioralyte. I told him I’d come over after work. I’m spending the whole day at the salon today.

  “How was last night?” he asked.

  “Rubbish.”

  “Bet you looked great though. Even with the black eye.”

  “It’s actually more bluey-green today.”

  “Aw, even better.”

  Wish I could take him with me everywhere.

  Stick with the people who make you feel good, and ignore the haters! #realtalk

  8.45 a.m.

  Harry texted to say he’s emailed some red-carpet pics of me from last night. He said that they’re great and he expects one to appear in today’s Metro. Felt quite hopeful till I saw it. Papers like the Metro don’t bother with Photoshop – it’s the real you. UNFORTUNATELY.

  Now running late. Wonder if Lara will tell me off? Wouldn’t put it past her. LOL!

  4 p.m.

  DRAMA at the salon. There was a fight! Debbie Wyatt (the wife) walloped Natalie Roberts (the mistress) into next week. The police had to be called and everything.

  As we were witnesses, all of us were interviewed. Apparently either Debbie had been staking out the salon or she had been tipped off.

  “Did you in any way, either accidentally or deliberately, let Mrs Wyatt know that Mizz Roberts would be here today?” PC Adams asked me.

  “No, absolutely not,” I answered.

  The fight’s been the big talk in the salon. Every client seems to know about it before they’ve even arrived, but they still fish for more details: “Where did she hit her? How hard?!”

  The general verdict seems to be that Mizz Roberts deserved it. (Clearly, salon community love doesn’t extend to mistresses.)

  Anyhoo, spent the first half of my lunch break talking to my bestie. Kellie’s just got back from what sounds like a full-on holiday with her uni friends.

  “Guess who I got off with?”

  “Who now?”

  Can’t keep up. Kellie and her new mates get up to all sorts, even when they’re supposed to be studying. She’s especially close to a girl called Rebecca who – and I never thought this could be possible – makes Kellie look like a nun! I don’t like her one little bit but don’t feel I can say that to Kel.

  “Uni life sounds like one big shagfest slash piss-up,” I said. “So make the most of it because real life is hard.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah, right. You haven’t got a real life either. You’re being paid a fortune for pretending to design a fashion range.”

  Kellie always makes my situation sound better than it is. Then I feel bad about complaining. But this time I felt justified. “Yeah, well I might not be for much longer. Not after my TV disaster.”

  “A bit of bum flashing followed by a row is just an average night in Magaluf.”

  “Well, it wasn’t Magaluf, it was national TV. So could you please stop turning everything into a joke?”

  Kellie could tell I was serious. “Honestly, Rem, there’s war, famine, global warming … proper serious issues out there, and if all the press can write about is your backside, they’re the ones with a problem, not you.”

  “Yeah, s’pose so. Anyway… How’s Rebecca?”

  “Oh, she has definitely replaced you.” Kellie started to giggle. (She knows me so well.)

  “You cow.”

  Then she suddenly got serious. “Have you heard from James?”

  I haven’t spoken to my ex-BMF for seventeen long months. For the first couple of months I was still angry with him for denying his boyfriend had laced my drink; but for the past fifteen, I’ve missed him. BADLY.

  “Nope. Why would I have heard from him?”

  “Well, he said that he’d—”

  “Hang on, have you spoken to him?”

  “A couple of times,” she mumbled.

  “You traitor!”

  “I’m not. And if you call him, you’ll know why.”

  “No way am I calling him.”

  “Yeah, you’d much rather hang out with your Yankee granny friend.”

  She was talking about Suzy Raymond. According to Malibu and Kellie, Suzy isn’t just square – she’s judgemental and boring too. They have a bit of a point; both Raymonds think the British drink too much for a start. #fail

  “Maybe I would. In fact, I owe her a call.”

  “You mean she’s still talking to you after that tacky exposing of bum flesh? Oh–h my–y goodness,” she said in Suzy’s voice.

  “Actually, she sent a nice text about it,” I said defensively. OK, I know it was a bit cringe, but Kellie didn’t need to know that.

  “Did she? What did it say?”

  I knew Kel would crack a joke about the “believe in yourself” part of Suzy’s text so I only repeated, “Ish happens.”

  “‘Ish’? What the hell’s ish?”

  “You know she doesn’t swear.”

  She put on Suzy’s voice again. “No. And she also poops roses.”

  “Yeah, right. Anyway, I think you should know… She has replaced you.”


  She cracked up. “Love you too. Always and for ever.”

  “Whatev’.”

  Twenty seconds after we rang off, @Kelz tweeted: @RemyBennet is my wifey for life xxx

  So I tweeted back: @Kelz cosign xx

  Then spent the rest of my lunch break searching every bit of my picture in the Metro for flaws. Apart from the obvious need for a firmer butt, I also need tighter arms and thinner thighs – basically I NEED LIPOSUCTION.

  6.30 p.m.

  Done my last customer for today. Charlie and Isabel are still busy, but when Lara’s last appointment cancelled half an hour ago, I told her she could go home and I’d lock up. She deserves an early night. Took a while, but I happen to be in a v. good mood.

  1. Because I’m going to see my man tonight.

  2. Because I’ve had three texts complimenting my pic in the Metro – from Mum and Dad (will have to take with a pinch of salt, as parents) but also from Blow-dry Sarah (who, for her sins, is still working at Kara’s).

  3. Because I’ve received twice as many complimentary tweets as insulting ones. Replied to as many as I could with Thanks x – after I’d shed a couple of tears over the insulting ones. Ugh! No matter how strong I tell myself to be, one or two always get to me first.

  Don’t want to hog the happiness bubble or anything but the day would be complete if James called to say that he’d seen the pic too. He always reads the Metro.

  Before she left, Lara said I should consider opening a new salon because Tah-dah! was doing so well. Told her that the salon’s success was due to how well she’d been running the place; and she said no, it’d been my idea to focus on nails, waxing and tanning – which she’d had her doubts about at the beginning – that had set my salon apart from everywhere else.

  “Especially from Kara’s. She must be gutted about the way things have turned out.”

  She’s probably right. My old boss, Kara “Feminazi” Cooper, doesn’t talk to me any more. She maintains it has nothing to do with loads of her customers switching over to Tah-dah!, and everything to do with me revealing that her nickname had been “the Feminazi” during an interview with the local paper.