What's the Drama, Malibu Bennet?

by Michelle Gayle

  “Oh shit. I’m sorry.”

  Typical. Decided to call straight away and explain.

  “It was amazing how quickly I warmed to the idea,” Stephen’s mum said. “I actually pictured a wee bairn.”

  “These journalists, you know, they just get so ahead of themselves.”

  “Aye, I see that. But I did like those Scottish baby names. Very grand.”

  “Aye,” I replied. WTF?!

  The other missed call had been from Robert Fitzgerald, and he’d left a message: “Fantastic article in Here mag, darling! Loved it. See you soon.”

  3 p.m.

  Malibu’s been banging on about the meeting tomorrow. I really wasn’t in the mood.

  But a call from Lara has cheered me up. She’s heard about a salon she thinks I’d love to take over. Her friend works there, but the boss is closing it down because the landlord has almost doubled the rent. He’s willing to sell if someone prefers buying to renting, and the salon comes with a one-bedroomed flat above it. Woo-hoo!!!

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “A couple of streets away from Selfridges.”

  Wow. A proper classy location. People are loaded around there. Lara must think I’m made of money.

  That’s another thing about this celebrity malarkey – everyone assumes you’re rolling in it. OK, the Terri Catalogue deal means I have the deposit for a flat saved up, but apart from that, as the cash comes in, the cash flies out – and I’m talking super-fast. Mostly it goes on things that didn’t figure in my life before – I’m paying for a psych and a frickin’ PR woman who patronizes me to death, for a start! On top of that, I have to buy way more clothes than I used to. I can’t be pictured in the same thing twice. Plus the clothes have to be designer and on-trend – the fashion columns are crueller than any Netherfield Park WAG.

  Anyhoo, Lara gave me the address and I said I’d have a look before I pop into Tah-dah!

  8 p.m.

  Visited the potential new salon. Was v. impressed with the location, and the flat was gorgeous. Thought it had my name on it until the landlord told me the price: sixty-five grand a year to rent the salon and flat; five hundred thousand to buy! What a joke. That’s way out of my league. Just finished having a right old rant about it to Stephen.

  “Didn’t realize you wanted to open another salon,” he said. “Yer barely have time for the one you’ve got now.”

  “I’d get someone else to run it,” I explained.

  “Oh. So you intend to keep up this celebrity thing then?”

  “Well… I reckon I should. I mean, I’ve been lucky enough to get it, haven’t I?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.”

  “What’s the matter?” I could tell something was on his mind.

  “I’ll tell yer when I see yer. What yer doing tomorrow?”

  “A meeting in the morning. Otherwise, I’d be with you right now.”

  “With the catalogue?”

  “Er … no. Something boring. I won’t even waste your time.” This wasn’t the time to tell him about a Bennet sisters TV show that probably wasn’t going to happen anyway. Decided to change the subject, pronto. “Wow, the season starts next Saturday – bet you can’t wait!”

  “Yeah. S’pose so.”

  Then I phoned Dad and complained about the price of the potential new salon.

  “It is in a prime location though,” he said.

  “That’s true. So would you be interested in investing again, seeing as Tah-dah! has worked out so well?”

  “I’m not made of money, love. Have you thought about asking Stephen? Because if you guys are thinking of settling down, it’ll be a good way to work together. That’s all marriage is, you know – teamwork.”

  Dad had clearly been reading Here mag.

  “Dad, that article was a load of balls.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. But talking of settling down, how’s it going with Elizabeth? Made a decision yet? You can’t keep a good woman waiting too long.”

  I like Elizabeth. She’s massively improved Dad’s dress sense and keeps him in check without being a ball-breaker.

  “Have you, um … spoken to your mum?”

  “What about?”

  He sighed. “She sent me some divorce papers. So I suppose that’s it. Final.”

  “Sorry, Dad, I didn’t realize.”

  “Anyway, with that to deal with on top of the business with your Uncle Pete, I’m not sure I’d have the head space to take on another salon.”

  “Bloody Mum,” I muttered.

  “She’s moved on, Remy. You can’t blame her for that.”

  Dad’s right. Mum chose Alan a long time ago and he seems to be here for good – Dad’s so blooming forgiving. Malibu would probably give up fake tan to have her Gary be like that.

  9 p.m.

  Mal turned my bedroom into a catwalk earlier. She modelled a ridiculous amount of outfits for the meeting tomorrow. They were all tight or short or both. Once she’d decided what to wear – the floral print playsuit – I said, “Mum’s sent Dad some divorce papers.”

  And she said, “Yeah, I know.”

  Humph! Why am I always the last to know what’s going on in this house?!

  Wednesday 7 August – 8.45 a.m.

  I am Remy Louise Bennet. I am not perfect. But I still love being me.

  Malibu has already been in to go over the plan. She means business. Gary phoned in the middle of her briefing and she didn’t even answer his call!

  1 p.m.

  He–eelp! Think I need a doctor. Actually thought I was having a heart attack this morning!!

  It began just before the meeting with Robert Fitzgerald. On the way to his office, Malibu said, “Please don’t let me down, Rem. This idea is the only thing I’ve got.”

  “What about Gary Junior?”

  She glared at me. “You know what I mean.”

  I promised I’d do my best, but when she knocked on his office door, my heart rate suddenly went ballistic and I got a strange pain in my chest. WTF?!

  “Come in,” Robert Fitzgerald called out.

  I took a long, deep breath as I followed Malibu into the room, then another one as we sat on the posh leather sofa facing him. The chest pain had died down but my heart rate was still all over the place, and when I tried to take deep breaths it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

  “Girls, great to see you again,” Robert said. He looked friendly enough, with his big gleaming, bright white smile. “How are you?”

  “May I use your loo?” I blurted out.

  When I got there, I bent over the sink and splashed my face with cold water. Then spent the next ten minutes slow-breathing like a yoga pro. Eventually, my heart rate came down to normal-ish. Decent enough to go back into the meeting, anyway. Phew!

  Robert and Mal were finishing some small talk about the weather when I stepped back in.

  “All we’re asking for is a decent summer,” said Mal as I rejoined her on the leather sofa.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Thought you’d disappeared again,” joked Robert, and then he became all businesslike. “So, tell me about this TV show.”

  He’d met his match in Malibu. “Well, Rob, I’ve identified a gap in the market for a British show based on glamorous sisters like the Kardashians. And I think we’re the ones for the job. We’ve got the looks, Remy’s gone viral, and we’re not short on personality either.” She sounded even better than when she’d practised in my bedroom. She was giving a proper good account of herself, and I was actually beginning to feel a bit proud, when she started to add new stuff to her rehearsal spiel. “I’m the bubbly one. Remy, of course, is Miss Controversy. But what you may not be aware of, Rob, is our trump card: we both happen to be seeing Premiership footballers.”

  WTF?!

  Robert’s eyes lit up. “Well, obviously I saw your article in Here mag, Remy. But I had no idea about
your situation, Malibu.”

  “Of course not – why would you? I’m not the celebrity. But you should know that both of our Premiership footballers would be well up for being in the show, wouldn’t they, Rem?”

  “Um… Well… Maybe we should…”

  “It would be perfect if they were,” Robert enthused. “That would make it a sure winner for ITV2.”

  “Amazing,” said Malibu.

  Remy Louise Bennet’s Bitch Disclaimer

  Now, let’s make this clear. I am NOT a bitch. In fact, if anything, I reckon most people would describe me as kind and loyal. But I wasn’t about to let my sister offer up my boyfriend for a TV show that there’s no way he’d take part in. Especially when Robert Fitzgerald looked like he was falling in love with the idea. I had to do something to stop her. So I turned to Malibu and said, “You’re not actually with Gary any more though, are you?”

  OK, I admit it sounded a teensy-weensy bit bitchy, but sounding like a bitch does not mean that you are one. Fact.

  “Well, it’s complicated,” she said to me through gritted teeth. Then she forced a laugh. “You know how these things are, Rob. But I’ve got a son with him – Gary Johnson Junior – and, to be honest, it’s been a proper dramatic journey. You never know, I might even confess all on the show.”

  She looked well pleased with herself. OMG! Was she being serious?

  “Malibu, you can’t go washing your dirty knickers in public – remember,” I hissed.

  “He wants me back, too,” she continued. “Badly. I bet people would love to find out whether we actually kiss and make up.”

  What!!

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “I’m not!” She glared at me.

  There was only one way to make her stop. “If you talk about what happened with Lance, Gary won’t want anything to do with you.”

  Silence.

  “Wow! This is great TV already.” Robert laughed. “I’ll call ITV and set up a meeting.”

  Then my heart rate went nuts again. I clutched my chest.

  “Are you OK?”

  “I … just need some fresh air,” I told them.

  I walked out of the room as calmly as I could, then as soon as I’d shut the door behind me I bolted outside and stood on the pavement gasping for ages. Deep, deep breaths. Deeper, deeper breaths…

  The feeling had worn off by the time Malibu came out, and I thought I’d sound like an idiot if I told her about it. Besides, she looked the happiest I’ve seen her in yonks. She held up her hand for a high-five. “Remy Bennet, you are the best actress England has ever produced,” she said.

  4 p.m.

  Just got to the salon. Had an argument with Mum before I left. She’s redecorating the front room AGAIN. This time she’s channelling her obsession with Downton Abbey and going for a period feel, which involves covering the walls in (imitation) gold leaf. She had a massive tin of it in her hands. All I said was, “Mum, that doesn’t exactly go with the Seventies curtains, does it?” and she said that I’m missing a sensitivity chip.

  “I’m insensitive?! I’m not the one who sent her husband divorce papers and couldn’t even be bothered to tell her own daughter!” Then I stomped off to my room before she could answer.

  Ten minutes later Camilla Douglas-Smith called, saying she wants me to have interview technique lessons to prepare for Life Stories.

  “Oh, so I’m definitely doing it?”

  “A confirmation is imminent, dahling. And you need to be prepared. I’ve already established the narrative.”

  Eh?! Turns out that “narrative” means the storyline (in a roundabout way) and this is mine, according to Camilla: “You are a girl from a council estate who has had fame thrust upon you because of circumstances beyond your control. You couldn’t cope. No one in that position could. So, of cawse, on that fateful day on Good Morning A.M. you reacted like … well … any person from your background would.”

  “But I’m not from a council estate.”

  “Well, in my opinion, nor did the earth shake when you fell and flashed your bottom. Now, which one would you prefer people to believe?”

  Aa–aaaaaargh! She’s so blooming patronizing. Probably never met someone from a council estate, yet here she is, trying to make out that people who live on one are all troubled. Wanted to bin her there and then, but as I’ve already paid for her services, I said, I’ll be back in my head – Terminator style. And believe me, I’m going to plan every single detail of her sacking.

  As for potential heart attack… No sign. My heartbeat is so normal I’m wondering whether I made it all up.

  Hey tweeple! Enjoy every day because you don’t know if you’ll be here tomorrow. #YOLO

  7.10 p.m.

  Salon’s closed. Now waiting for Stephen. He’s taking me out for dinner.

  When he said he had something to tell me face-to-face, I thought Uh-oh. But it can’t be anything bad – not when he’s booked a table at Simone’s!!!! Simone’s isn’t any old restaurant, it’s the place to be. Mal’s been going on about it for ages. Checked it out online and it’s only considered to be the most romantic restaurant in London. Woo-hoo!

  The salon was huge on gossip this afternoon. The major bit of info was that Lance Wilson has postponed his wedding to Amy Fitzgerald AGAIN. It’s the third time now but this one was proper lastminute.com – the invites had been sent out and everything. Apparently he doesn’t feel ready. Who would ever have guessed? *roll eyes*

  Had to call Malibu to tell her the news. “Thank God he didn’t turn out to be Junior’s father,” she replied.

  My “flirtation with death” this morning must have changed me because I genuinely felt sorry for Amy. She’s always going on about marrying Lance. How humiliating. The girls in the salon didn’t think she deserved any sympathy though – and neither did Malibu. “She made her bed, and she has my blessing to bloody well lie in it. Just like I had to.”

  Doh! Malibu and Gary’s wedding was cancelled too. By Gary. Straight after she fessed up about her affair with Lance.

  “Right. But I still don’t think you should say stuff like that. It’s bad for your karma.”

  “So I’ll come back as a snake or something. So bloody what – it’s worth it to see the smile wiped off Amy’s smug face!”

  Methinks Mal may be missing a sensitivity chip too. (Maybe it’s a Bennet thing.)

  Anyhoo, the good news is that I am now ninety-nine per cent positive that I’m not going to die. I Googled my symptoms on the way to the salon and it looks like I had a panic attack. Malibu still thinks I was acting. Said my performance at the meeting was Oscar-winning and she was gutted when I said I wasn’t going home tonight, because she’d bought me a little present.

  “You truly outfoxed the Silver Fox,” she said. “Where’re you guys going, anyway?”

  Didn’t want to sound too much of a show-off. “Oh … just Simone’s.”

  “Simone’s!” she exclaimed. “Lucky you – it’s the most romantic restaurant in London. Oh–hhhh! I know what that means!”

  “What?”

  “I was wrong! That Here mag interview has kicked Stephen up the bum. He’s gonna ask you to move in with him!”

  “No way!”

  “Of course. In fact, he might even go one better and propose.”

  “Don’t be stupid!” I scoffed, although a part of me thought Maybe!

  “Trust me.”

  Right, Remy, calm down. Do not set your hopes too high. It could be nothing.

  Nothing at all. *sigh*

  Thursday 8 August – 10 a.m.

  DISASTROUS NIGHT.

  I’d worked myself up into a frenzy by the time we were seated at our table in Simone’s. I’d convinced myself that he was going to propose. On the way there I’d gone through a range of questions in my head. Started with sensible ones: Do I want to get married? Am I too young? Hmm… Maybe we could have a long engagement? But before I knew it, questions had evolved into actual decisions: Right, Nancy Sc
ott will make the wedding dress, Kellie and Mal will be my bridesmaids, and there will be lilies at the reception. No, not lilies – white roses. Yeah, roses – perfecto! It carried on as we waited for our meal to arrive. Then Stephen put his hand on my knee. It made me go all tingly, This is IT, I thought.

  “Rem?”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “I’ve been thinking…”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be a regular starter for Netherfield Park so…”

  Hmm. Bit of a strange start. Slow build. He’s going for a slow build.

  “… how would yer feel if I had the opportunity ter transfer to another team?”

  “Another team?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which team?”

  “Um, Celtic.”

  “But aren’t Celtic in … Scotland?”

  Not big on football but even I knew that.

  “Yes. Glasgow, ter be precise,” said Stephen cautiously.

  “Oh God, why Glasgow?”

  “Cos it’s my home.”

  I suppose there was that little detail.

  “And I’m not going ter be happy sitting on the bench,” he went on. “I need to be playing.”

  “But you probably will be. You were banging in the goals in Japan.”

  “Things change quickly in football, gorgeous. Harry says Celtic are willing to take me and they’re promising that I’ll start.”

  “Oh.”

  No marriage proposal, and now we were talking long-distance relationships.

  “And the thing is, Remy, I’d really like you ter…” He paused. “Well… I’d really like yer to come with me.”

  “Me? Live in Scotland?”

  “Aye.”

  “With you?”

  “Naw, Simon Cowell – of course me.”

  I should’ve been glad. He’d finally asked me to live with him, but after all my fantasizing it had lost its shine. And SCOTLAND!

  “Well… It’s so unexpected, I don’t know what to say.”