What's the Drama, Malibu Bennet?

by Michelle Gayle

  11.30 a.m.

  Camilla Douglas-Smith phoned when I was on the way home from Stephen’s.

  “Dahling, what happened with The Mutts interview?”

  “Um… He called, asked about my dog, I said I didn’t have a dog, and then he said he’d phone you.”

  “Oh God, I worked my ahse off to get you that interview.”

  “But if I don’t have a dog, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Well, you’re not supposed to tell him that you’re a cat person. Dog people hate cat people. It’s taken me an age to smooth that over. Now, do you know anyone who does have a dog?”

  I thought about it, then remembered that Grandma Robinson had just got one. A Yorkshire terrier. Bitten Dad twice already – it’s almost as gangsta as she is.

  “There you go,” said Camilla. “Just pretend that your grandmother’s Yorkie is yours. Can you do that for me, dahling?”

  “I don’t understand what’s so important about The Mutts, Camilla. I thought we were going for Life Stories?”

  “Yes, we are but every little bit helps. I’m not saying that The Mutts is little, of course, because it’s huge – huge – among the dog-loving community, many of whom happen to work in television. You’ll instantly win their respect. It’s all about planting the right seeds in the right places.”

  Did the stupid The Mutts interview in the back of the cab. Although I don’t know why the journalist believed I was suddenly a huge dog fan. When I finished the call I thought, One of the best bits about dumping celebrity life will be getting rid of the Camillas that infest the showbiz world. Actually, I decided that Camilla’s call was a blessing because it put me in the perfect mood to tell Malibu that I was bailing out of Being the Bennets. For the sake of my karma, I’d even worked out a nice way to tell her. But when I stepped into the house, Mal was so excited I thought she was going to wet herself.

  “Have you spoken to Robert Fitzgerald yet?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Oh my God, it’s ama–aazing news! He said ITV are interested.”

  “But… They can’t be.”

  “They are! Robert’s set up a meeting for next Wednesday.”

  12 p.m.

  Spoke to Suzy, just to make sure I was doing the right thing moving to Scotland.

  “Suzy, how hard was it to leave your family behind to come to London?”

  “It was kinda exciting because I’d always wanted to see Europe. You know, I just love the royal family, especially William and Kate. I’d love to meet William and Kate – they’re just so awesome.”

  “Yeah, but don’t you miss your family?”

  “Sometimes, but there’s Skype. I figured out some time ago that as long as I have Pootzy, I’m fine.”

  “Suzy and Pootzy” is their couple name. Ew!

  “You goin’ to the game tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Great, I’ll tell Oscar to make sure we’re sitting together. What are you gonna wear?” Suzy never shows side-boob, bra straps or too much leg, and believes British girls dress inappropriately. *boo*

  I, however, am willing to drop my Britishness on this occasion. “Dunno. Something … classy.” We will be a vision of modesty but for completely different reasons: Suzy because – OK, Mal and Kel have a point – she rocks granny chic. Me because I’ll never risk exposing a thong sandwich again!

  4.30 p.m.

  Dr Sharma did her bit with the stethoscope and then told me I had the resting heart rate of an athlete. Woo-hoo!

  “The erratic beating you described may be down to stress,” she said.

  No shit.

  “Are you stressed?”

  “You could say that, yeah.”

  “I saw the YouTube clip,” she admitted.

  I blushed.

  “My children keep me up to date with celebrity gossip,” she took great pride in telling me. “Now work on staying calm. If not, I can prescribe you something.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. I don’t expect to be stressed for much longer. Not in the Highlands.

  Went to the salon after the doc’s and as soon as I arrived Lara asked for a talk.

  “Remy, I feel like I’m much more than a beautician. So I’d like to have a share in the salon’s profits.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I am running the salon – you said so yourself.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ri–iight. Give me a few days to think about it, then. OK?”

  Me and my big mouth. Aa–aaargh!

  Can’t afford to lose her, especially if I’m going to Scotland. Now I’m off home, about to work out a deal that’ll please Lara, me, Dad AND Uncle Pete. I may be some time…

  5.45 p.m.

  OK, so I made the mistake of checking Mail Online. Oops! One hour later… (It’s the celeb pictures, they always suck me in – plead with me to click on them!) Anyhoo, thank God I did, as it meant I was online when an email came from the Highland Manor. It was just about special offers on salon treatments, but that reminded me of something. Called them straight away and, as I’d hoped, they’re still looking for someone to manage the place. They asked me to send my CV and an application form. The pressure of me moving to Scotland, and Stephen joining a new club, will be bad enough – but if I get the job I can put off asking him to invest in a salon for at least a year. #buyingtime

  Downloaded and printed the application form, filled it in, and have just been to the post office to send it Special Delivery (not taking any chances). Scotland, here I come!

  6.45 p.m.

  The calculations have fried my brain – but I genuinely think I have a solution for the salon that will please everybody.

  It’s Gary’s weekend – he’s just been to collect Gary Junior. Me, Malibu, Mum and Alan gathered in the hallway to say goodbye as if we weren’t going to see the little munchkin for years.

  “Be good,” I told him. He gave me a cheeky grin.

  “He’s always good for me,” Gary replied. “I set boundaries.”

  That got Malibu going. “Well, maybe if a certain person was around more, I would too.”

  “What difference does it make?” Gary snapped back.

  “Why should I be the one shouting and screaming at him, while you play the good guy, taking him out and buying him treats?”

  When both Garys left, I asked Malibu what she was going to do with her night off. “Fuck all,” she said, then she went into her room and slammed the door.

  I listened out for crying so I could go in and put my arm around her if needed. If she is on the brink of depression, I’m going to do whatever is needed to prevent it. Maybe even surrender to Being the Bennets – whatever it takes.

  “Who d’you think you are, talking to me like that in front of my family!” I heard her screech into the phone. “I don’t care any more. You’re out of order… It’s not easy looking after him, you know, while you’re lording it up in your mansion. And if you don’t start giving me more maintenance, I’m taking you to court!”

  I was quite proud of her for ripping into him about the maintenance money, but when she ended the call she was sobbing.

  “I hate my life!” she suddenly shouted at the top of her voice.

  I went in to console her.

  “It’s OK, I’ll be all right,” she said, quickly wiping her eyes.

  When she calmed down, I went to Mum and told her that Mal needs to make an appointment with Dr Sharma.

  “What for?”

  “To check whether she’s … stressed.”

  “We don’t need to check whether she’s stressed – we know she’s stressed.”

  “Well, maybe … Dr Sharma can prescribe something to help.”

  Phoned Stephen after that. The match tomorrow kicks off at 3 p.m. Haven’t been to Netherfield Park for ages. After having the whole of last season off, I must be looking forward to hanging out with Suzy because I’m surprisingly excited about going. Stephen didn’t believe
me when I told him that though.

  “Yer don’t have to go that far, Remy.”

  “Have you asked for the transfer?” I checked.

  “Naw, I wanna shine tomorrow to keep Celtic interested. And to do that, I have to be selected. But there’s naw way I’ll be picked if I ask for a transfer.”

  Bloody hell, football sounds like chess.

  10 p.m.

  Went to check on Malibu. She said that her one stupid mistake with Lance has made Gary hate her.

  “Sometimes he looks at me and I can see the disgust on his face.”

  “Maybe it’s not disgust. Maybe it’s hurt because he still loves you.”

  “He’s just so angry all the time! He says that even if he forgives me and moves on, how could he convince his friends and family that I’m not a leech or a gold-digger. A leech?! I’m nothing like that, Rem. I genuinely love him for who he is, and I still would even if he drove a bus.”

  “You with a bus driver – that wasn’t part of the WAG Charter!” I laughed. Oops, clearly have a bit of work to do re sensitivity chip.

  “That was just a bit of fun.” Mal started to cry. “Lance is a builder and I would’ve easily ended up with him. But I met Gary and I chose Gary because I loved him more.”

  “Have you told him that?” I asked.

  “Of course I have, then he goes and calls me a leech.” She angrily wiped the tears away. “You wait, when this TV show comes off and makes us rich, I’m going to shove it in all their faces.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” I told her.

  Doh! Talk about making it hard for myself.

  I then suggested that we chill out by watching a film. “How about The Wolf of Wall Street?” A chance for me to coo over Leo D.C. and cheer Mal up – perfect.

  Saturday 10 August – 9.15 a.m.

  I am Remy Louise Bennet. I am not perfect … and I woke up hoping Malibu would understand that as much as I want to spare her from depression, I really don’t want to do the TV show. I’m going to have to tell her. The question is, when?

  Mal, Mum and Alan were sitting in silence when I went down for breakfast. Obviously something was going on.

  “If I were you, I’d appreciate the fact you have a healthy little nipper,” huffed Alan after a while.

  “Like I said,” replied Malibu, “keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “Malibu, that’s enough now,” Mum said sharply.

  Silence again. I made myself some toast and sat down to eat it.

  “No wonder you can’t lose weight when you keep on eating that kind of rubbish!” snapped Malibu.

  “What, toast and jam?”

  “Carbs and sugar – everyone knows both were put on this earth by the devil.”

  “A bit like Gary Junior,” I joked, attempting to lighten the mood. Mum gave me THE eyes. “Er… You know… Cos he’s a cute little devil… Isn’t he?”

  Mal burst into tears. In the past twenty-four hours she has shed enough tears to fill the River Thames. Methinks depression is now a reality.

  “It’s my fault,” she blubbed.

  “He’s not a devil, Mal, I was just joking.”

  “Junior’s an angel.”

  “Exactly – fell straight from the sky.”

  “But I’ve ruined his life, and mine. You don’t know how lucky you are, Remy. You’re getting a second chance – make sure you don’t fuck it up.”

  Didn’t know whether she meant a second chance with Stephen or my celebrity career, but wasn’t about to ask. She dropped her head to the table. Mum got up and stroked her hair; I rubbed her back. Alan looked awkward and picked up the newspaper. “Get her to Dr Sharma,” I mouthed over her head. Mum nodded. When the crying died down, I said, “You’re a catch, Mal, and if Gary doesn’t realize it, he can jog on.” That drew a faint smile. “Now, why don’t you let me spoil you with some treatments at the salon?”

  Just called Lara. The beauticians are fully booked this morning, so I’m going to swing by and do the treatments myself.

  1.30 p.m.

  On the way to Netherfield Park Stadium. EEK!

  Took full advantage of making up with James by calling him for some hair advice. I need to look perfect because unless the WAGs have had surgery on their personalities (along with their boobs), they are definitely going to judge me. He told me to go for the Croydon facelift, which is when you pull your hair into a ponytail as tightly as you can – so tight your cheekbones rise, Kate Moss style. It’s not as simple as it looks; it took for ever and loads of hair gel to get it right. I then felt paranoid about my face being so exposed. So I slapped on some extra make-up – more blusher with a bit of shading underneath and highlighter on top, to contour my face. Massive improvement, but still way too much face on show. Problem is, it’s too late to pull my hair out and start again, so I’ve had to add even more blusher, highlighter, shading. *sigh*

  The good news is, I have a sister who didn’t shed a tear during her facial and mani-pedi. That’s two hours: RESULT.

  When I finished her facial, Mal said she had flashbacks about working in Kara’s. Aha! Perfect time to tell her my plan about running Tah-dah!, methought. Till she added, “And I never wanna wax someone’s privates again.” DISASTER.

  Anyway, I need to forget all that for now and concentrate on the game. Will hopefully have a v. happy boyfriend after it, and he says we’ll go out clubbing if he wins: RESULT.

  Trouble is, Suzy and Pootzy will refuse to go if Angus is going too (due to previous experience at Whisky Mist). DISASTER.

  “The guy’s bad news,” said Suzy when I called to say I was running a bit late.

  I don’t feel as strongly as she does, but he can be a pain. Just sitting beside him for the match today is an overdose of Angus in my opinion.

  “Why don’t I tell Stephen to make it a couples’ night.”

  “Can you, sweetie?”

  “Sure.”

  Doesn’t mean Stephen’s going to listen though.

  8 p.m.

  At the flat of a semi-happy boyfriend.

  The team won: Yay!

  Stephen scored: Double yay!

  But twot-face Robbie scored twice: Sucks big time!

  Decided to wear a black maxi dress, and hoped that Suzy would approve; she may not be perfect but she’s good to have in your corner when you’re up against the Netherfield WAGs. Suzy doesn’t have a good word to say about any of them.

  “Here comes our bodyguard,” she whispered as Angus made his way to his seat next to us. (She doesn’t have a good word to say about him either.) “And look at his freaking teeth – no wonder he can’t get a job.”

  I think Angus’s teeth offend her the most. Admittedly they don’t say glamorous American, but they’re nowhere near the level of the average guest on The Jeremy Kyle Show. #justsaying

  “Great day for it, girls,” he boomed as he sat down.

  Yep. Today was the hottest day of the year so far. Yippee! I’d passed a shedload of ice-cream vans on the way to the stadium, already seen four FB posts about barbecues, and gawped at numerous happy, inappropriately dressed people with wobbly bits wobbling as they bounced down the street. Hey folks, if my bum causes earthquakes, at least today proves I am not alone.

  Unfortunately for Suzy, that meant the Netherfield Park WAGs proudly had their extremely un-wobbly, rock-hard silicone bits on show. I suppose they’ve worked hard (or, in some cases, paid) to get their perfect bodies, and today was an opportunity to show them off. BIG TIME. Anyhoo, they sparked endless tutting from “Granny”.

  “You look classy,” I said, admiring her white trouser suit.

  “Thanks. You look pretty awesome too.”

  Oh yeah – Suzy says “awesome” a lot.

  People are still away on holiday so the stadium was only three-quarters full. Pre-season games aren’t usually important but I felt nervous for Stephen – his chance to play for Celtic was at stake. And as for Angus, I’m sure he’d chewed off all his fingernails barely ten minutes into
the match! When Stephen scored, all three of us jumped out of our seats and hugged each other.

  “Way to go, Stevie!” shouted Suzy.

  “Ye–eeeees. Stick it ter them, Stevie boy!” roared Angus.

  “So, will he live with you guys when you move to Scotland?” Suzy leant in to whisper.

  I was shocked she knew about Scotland. “Stephen told Oscar,” she explained.

  I was glad it hadn’t been down to my big mouth, but it still ruined any chance of me enjoying the rest of the game. I hadn’t considered Angus moving in with us. I tried to convince myself that he wouldn’t – surely Stephen would’ve mentioned it?

  “No,” I whispered back. “At least … I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so,” she hissed. “Man, if I were you, I’d get that straight, right away!”

  The manager subbed Stephen fifteen minutes after his goal.

  “Why did he do that?” I asked.

  “Favouritism,” griped Angus. “Hopefully he won’t have ter put up with it fer too much longer.”

  Robbie then ended up scoring twice, as I said, and the match finished three–nil. I don’t feel anything for Robbie any more – he doesn’t even deserve my hate – but I still blush when people stare to see my reaction. Especially when it’s Suzy. “Are you OK?” she asked each time Robbie scored.

  “I’m awesome,” I said after the second goal.

  In the players’ lounge, instead of snubbing me like they’d done the last time I was there, some of the WAGs gathered round to say hello. Charlotte, Becky, Danielle… They looked proper excited to see me.

  “Have you heard from Paris?” I asked Charlotte. She shook her head. “No, me neither.”

  Charlotte said Paris is probably still gutted about being dumped by Terry Dawson for a pair of pole-dancing twins (one for him, the other one is going out with Robbie). That’s just so predictable of those two. They’re cardboard cut-out footballers.