What's the Drama, Malibu Bennet?

by Michelle Gayle

  “And let’s face it, your profile hasn’t hurt,” added Lara.

  Was she saying the success is mostly due to my “profile”? I wasn’t sure, but as it’s the nicest thing Lara has ever said about me (to my face at least), I thanked her.

  “I’m serious. I reckon you could do the same again, no problem.”

  Another salon was always my original plan. I actually wanted a whole salon empire. But how can I open another one when I’m so bloody busy with this celebrity shizz?!

  Thanks for all the compliments, guys. And all those being negative can do one! Today is a #trollfreezone

  10.30 p.m.

  Stephen was proper pale when he opened the door to me.

  “You look like death,” I told him.

  “Ta. I love yer too.”

  I offered to make him something light to eat, but his best friend Angus – who is still living with him RENT-FREE – had made him some chicken noodle soup.

  “Get this down yer, Stevie boy,” he said. “Got the recipe from Gordon.”

  I took it that Angus meant Gordon Ramsay. He’s never met him, or any other famous chef whose recipes he uses, but he always name-drops as if they’re one of his best mates. “Chef” Angus has done loads of compensation cooking in this year of allegedly searching for work (sorry, but I have my suspicions) and his meals are always tasty. Must admit, the chicken noodle soup was delish. Stephen didn’t eat a lot of it though. Poor thing. He’s still feeling rough, and definitely should still be at home, but he’s worried about missing training.

  “I’m sure yer’ll still make the first team. Yer scored a few in Japan,” Angus reminded him. (He’s the resident cheerleader too.)

  “Aye. But not as many as some people…”

  At this, Angus gave me evils as if it’s my fault Stephen and Robbie play for the same team – another one of his “jobs”: bodyguard of Stephen’s emotions. He’s well over the top when we’re out – shoos people away from us, if he decides they’ve come too close. And don’t dare make a snide remark. When we were clubbing at Whisky Mist a few months ago, Angus squared up to a weedy little bloke he’d overheard saying Stephen can’t score goals. Ended up grabbing him by the shirt and lifting him off the floor. “Der yer wanna say that again, yer little prick?” he screamed in his face. Weedy Little Bloke complained to security and they came up to us ten minutes later, warning us to calm Angus down or they’d have to throw us out. So–o embarrassing!

  I’m far from perfect, I know that, but I’ve gone over this a hundred times and this messed-up situation has everything to do with sheer bad luck and nothing to do with me. When I met Stephen I had no idea that he was a footballer, let alone that he was about to join my ex’s team! Robbie and Stephen hate each other even more since they had the fight that launched my new career. They constantly try to outdo each other on the pitch, and I think their manager uses it to keep them both scoring goals. In interviews he says things like, “I think Robbie Wilkins will be my top scorer this season, but it’s possible for Stephen Campbell to be a close second.” That really gets Stephen going. And Angus. And the Campbell clan back in Scotland. Me too, of course, although not so much because, to be honest, I still don’t get football. I just want Stephen to be happy.

  He started to wilt about half an hour ago, and now he’s asleep. I, on the other hand, am most definitely awake. Lara has sparked something in me and I can’t stop thinking about what she said.

  NEW SALON

  Pros Cons

  I love the idea! Won’t have time to run it

  Expensive.

  Could lose all my savings (unless I find an investor).

  OK, so this isn’t ideal but I’m still buzzing about the idea. Also think I’ve solved one of the problems: I may not be able to run it, but Malibu can! And, seeing as she needs to get back on her feet, that kills two birds. Genius!

  She’ll really appreciate it too – relying on Gary for money must be half the reason she’s down. He only pays basic maintenance for Gary Junior. Nothing compared with how much he earns. Mum told her to take him to court, but Mal said he’d only bring up how she cheated on him, and she doesn’t want to wash her dirty knickers in public. Methinks it’s actually because she wants to get back with Gary, but she needs to realize that might not happen. And when she does, she’ll look for a back-up plan – aka ME. I’m even willing to make it a partnership; we can split the profits 50–50.

  I’ve just sent her a text telling her to call me! #excitingtimes

  10.50 p.m.

  When Mal phoned I said, “I think I’ve found a way for us to work together again.”

  And she replied, “No way! So have I.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I’ve read articles about sisters breaking their arm at the same time, or even giving birth on the same day – admittedly, they’re usually twins – but could us Bennet sisters actually have thought up the same plan at the exact same moment?

  NO.

  “Go on then, what’s yours?” she asked.

  “Opening a new salon, with you running it!”

  “Oh.”

  “Why, what were you thinking?”

  “Something way better than that.”

  “Mal, I’ve really enjoyed running the salon. I think you’d enjoy it too.”

  “Yeah, but it’s nothing compared with what you’re doing now, is it? You’re living the dream.”

  I sighed. “I suppose I am.” While Kellie makes my situation sound better than it is, Malibu makes it sound like I’ve won the blooming lottery.

  “So, I’ve been thinking. Now that you’ve gone viral and all that, it’s time to take things to the next level. I’m talking about us becoming a British version of the Kardashians.”

  Pause.

  “Have you had a drink?”

  “No! Think about it, Rem – our own TV show! Being the Bennets – epic title, eh!”

  She has clearly lost it. Why would anyone want to do a TV show about us? I’m a Z-lister; she’s a Z-lister’s sister!

  “Look, we can always change the title if you don’t like it. But our own show, Rem. It’ll be brilliant! And it’ll be a chance to show Gary that I don’t need him.”

  Well, at least we were agreed on one thing, I thought.

  “Phone that producer – let’s sell it to him,” she pressed.

  “What producer?”

  “The one who gave you his card the other night. The Silver Fox. He loved us.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yeah. Of course he did.”

  “Er… Bit late now. Let’s leave it till tomorrow.”

  Going to bed. My head hurts.

  Saturday 3 August – 9.25 a.m.

  Popping into the salon for a bit, after my personal training session with she-who-holds-no-hostages Mimi Taylor. Last time, I begged her for mercy so I could get out of doing my last set of sit-ups.

  “I can’t do any more; I’m dead,” I said as I lay there like a sweaty corpse.

  “You can’t be dead – you’re talking,” she told me. “For that you can do an extra set.”

  Can’t believe I’m actually pay for that shizz. But I have one more Terri Catalogue photo shoot to do before my contract’s up, and if I don’t look good they might not offer me another one.

  When I’m finished in the salon later, I’m going to Scotland with Stephen. It’s all a bit last-minute but Stephen reckons we might as well use his two days off to visit his family; and Lara said she’d be fine to run the salon without me (let’s face it, that’s actually what she’s been doing all year).

  Stephen’s been a brilliant boyfriend and booked us an ace hotel in the Scottish Highlands, so we’ll only spend a couple of hours in Glasgow with his family. He says he wants me to see the true beauty of Scotland. To be honest, that’s the reason I agreed to go, as Glasgow’s OK but I have an ickle problem with the Campbells: they hate me. I think they hated me before they even met me. I knew as soon as I was introduced to his mum and she shook my hand, then smile
d as if she were constipated.

  “Maybe it’s because you’re English,” Dad said when I filled him in. “Historically, the Scots don’t much like the English.”

  “Duh! I have seen Braveheart.”

  Kellie said it probably had nothing to do with me being English; more likely they thought I was a gold-digger – “Which you’re not, of course,” she added. “But so many of these WAGs are.”

  Yeah. Like Stephen’s ex-girlfriend, Rosie.

  Hmm. Will make sure I drop in how well the salon is doing. And that I’m getting paid a mint for my clothing range… Gold-digger my ass.

  Hey @MimiFitness, I’m on my way. Go easy on me. LOL! x

  1.30 p.m.

  Some things just don’t go together: the two ends of a magnet; Rihanna + roll-necks; exercise + Remy Louise Bennet. Did so many squats my bum cheeks cramped. Walked into the salon like I’d soiled my pants.

  Even worse news – Angus has decided to see his family in Glasgow too. Acting the true martyr, he said that he could only afford to take the bus, and when he added that it would take nine hours, Stephen said, “Dawn’t be silly. I’ll get yer a ticket so yer can fly with us.”

  This was no surprise to me – Angus is Stephen’s man-child. What I didn’t expect was that this meant we’d all be there in time to watch the charity football match Angus’s sister was playing in, and that Angus would suggest we went with him. Stephen and Angie used to be an item. OK, they broke up when they were fifteen, but that doesn’t give Stephen the right to look at me questioningly as if watching her play was an option. I made sure my eyes transmitted back: not in this frickin’ lifetime.

  He got the hint. “Thanks fer asking, Big Man, but we’ll need to get to the hotel.”

  While Stephen was packing his last bits I finally phoned Suzy Raymond. She wanted me to know that she was in my corner, one hundred per cent.

  “We all make mistakes, right?”

  Yep. Some are bigger than others though, and I can’t help thinking Suzy’s biggest slip-up is probably forgetting to tip a cab driver.

  Sunday 4 August – 10 a.m.

  Good morning tweeple. The Scottish Highlands are beautiful!

  The hotel we’re staying in is stunning. It’s called the Highland Manor and the grounds stretch on for ever – lush greens as far as the eye can see, with a lake that guests can fish in. Our room has the type of four-poster bed and large stone fireplace that I reckon Henry the Eighth had back in the day. Outside, you inhale the air and know you’re as far away from the pollution of London as you can possibly be. You feel revitalized and ready to go – I bet no one needs Red Bull up here. LOL! Anyhoo, I feel brand new – so new that I actually contemplated having a make-up-free Sunday, like the old days. I figured there’d be no paparazzi up here. Then I realized there’d probably be tons of hotel guests with camera phones – can’t take any chances.

  Stephen’s most definitely a new man today. This morning he felt good enough to go for a jog. He hasn’t come back yet but when he does, we’re going to have some breakfast and then watch films in bed. BLISS.

  More good news – methinks I’ve made a breakthrough with the Campbells! Once I’d swapped constipated smiles with his mum, she asked how I was. “Couldn’t be better,” I said. “The salon’s always fully booked, and it looks like Terri Catalogue are about to renew my contract for a hu–uuuge wedge.”

  “Aw. That’s good,” Mrs Campbell replied. “But I was thinking more how yer doing personally – you know, since Good Morning A.M.”

  Oops!

  “Mum. I told yer not ter bring that up!” Stephen hissed as I went red.

  “Aye, of course yer did. I forgot.”

  Mr Campbell came to the rescue. “Anyone want a cup of tea?”

  We all said yes and when Mrs Campbell offered to make it, I followed her through to the kitchen to help.

  “I really am sorry about that,” she said as she took the cups out. “Me and my big mouth!”

  “It’s OK. But as you can imagine, I’m majorly embarrassed about it,” I admitted.

  “Aye, I can see that. Still, it was good ter see someone give it ter that Lorraine Edinbugger Macintosh.” She suddenly graced me with her first genuine smile.

  10.20 a.m.

  Was standing in front of the mirror, squeezing my thighs to see what they’d look like if they were thin, when Malibu phoned.

  “Have you called him yet?” she asked.

  “Called who?” I said, confused.

  “The Silver Fox!”

  “Oh, him. No, sorry – forgot.”

  “How can you forget such a big thing? Go on, call him. Now. We need to strike while the iron’s hot.”

  “On a Sunday. Even Him upstairs took a break on Sundays.”

  “Just ca–aall.”

  I thought about getting real with her by pointing out the Z-ness of our celebrity status, but that might have been too blunt. (As Mum said, I have to “choose my words carefully”.) Instead I said, “To be honest, Mal, I don’t think a programme on us two will work.”

  “Why?”

  “Because … I don’t.”

  “All right, if you wanna be like that,” she said in a huff. Then she cut me off.

  11 p.m.

  Just got home and it looks like everyone’s in bed.

  Today was amazing. When he got back from his jog, Stephen climbed into bed and we snuggled and kissed for ages. We could do this all the time if we lived together, I thought.

  “Rem?” he said suddenly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yer didn’t tell me Terri Catalogue renewed yer contract.”

  “Well, they haven’t yet, but if this new PR woman does her job right, they should.”

  “Oh. And that’s a good thing, then … yeah?”

  “Well, it’ll make me some good money.”

  “Aw, right.”

  “What’s the matter?” I could tell something was wrong.

  “Nothing. It’s just … well … if yer going to keep up this celebrity thing, could yer please not talk about me in interviews?”

  “Stephen, you’re my boyfriend – you’re bound to come up.”

  “Aye, I know, but this is a make-or-break season fer me and I need to concentrate on my game. When yer talk about me, the sports press start looking at me as a wannabe celeb instead of a proper sportsman. Then they’re even more critical.”

  “Ugh!” It sounded like a big pile of BS to me. “Bet you wouldn’t have said that to Rosie.”

  It took a while for him to open up about her, but Stephen eventually admitted that his experience with his ex-girlfriend was the reason he’d kept quiet about being a footballer when we first met. She was a model who broke his heart by leaving him for a millionaire when it looked like his football career had stalled – aka a professional gold-digger.

  “Why’ve yer got to bring her up?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Of course it isn’t. Look, babe, I’ve discussed it with Harry and he agrees.”

  “Well, Harry hasn’t discussed it with me,” I snapped.

  “He should’ve done, then.” Stephen named a few sportsmen who had seen their career nosedive since dating famous women. One of them was a rugby player called Toby Norton.

  “He should consider himself lucky, cos I hadn’t even heard of him until he started going out with her.”

  “Well, ask Toby how he would’ve preferred yer to have heard of him.” He cuddled me tighter and started to peck my neck. “I don’t want us to fall out about this, OK?”

  I sighed. “OK.” But I was still in a right mood until he announced he’d booked me a treatment in the spa – a hot stone massage. Always wanted one of those. You’re forgiven, I thought … by about fifty-nine per cent.

  Gave Kel a quick call on my way down to the spa.

  “He’s ashamed of me, I know he is. He’s probably heard all the Bumquake jokes and I’ll be dumped by next week.”

  “Don’t be ridic’. He wouldn
’t spend a fortune taking you away if he was about to dump you. Though even if he did, you’d have no problems pulling someone else. Everyone with an Internet connection has seen you don’t wear knickers.”

  “I do. It was a thong.”

  Sometimes, when Kel jokes about my problems, I start to pine for James.

  The spa had super-stylish black tiled walls. Pan-pipe music drifted out of invisible speakers; the smell of scented candles filled the room; and a large water feature met you as soon as you came through the door. If peace were a place, I had just walked into it. The woman who did my massage, Amanda, had a lovely soothing voice: “Let me know if you need less or more pressure,” she said. “Apart from that, close your eyes and enjoy.”

  I more than enjoyed. Each time she kneaded a knot in my back, she squashed out of me any thought of being dumped; and once I was relaxed, I went into a dream-state… Stephen was asking me to live with him… To marry him… To have his babies… Perfecto.

  Once the massage was over, I asked Amanda to point out the salon’s manager so I could sing her praises officially.

  She was really chuffed. “Though technically, we don’t have a salon manager,” she explained. “She went off to have a baby but she’s just decided she’s not coming back.”

  “Well, you were brilliant today,” I told her, and made myself a mental note to tip her when we left.

  Stephen had gone for a sports massage and he was back in the room five minutes after me.

  “How was it?”

  “Loved it. Thanks, baby,” I said. And I love you, I thought.

  11.30 p.m.

  Aa–aaargh! Nightmare. Mum was listening out for me; she just came in for a “little chat”.

  “I hear you and Malibu had an argument.”

  “I didn’t argue with her. I simply pointed out a fact, then she cut me off.”