What's the Drama, Malibu Bennet?

by Michelle Gayle

I chatted with the WAGs, but every now and then I reminded myself that I’m the same person they hated so much before. The only difference is that I’ve now been seen on the sixty-inch HD plasma hanging on their living-room wall. And it isn’t just them; loads of people who used to hate me are suddenly following me on Twitter and requesting to be my Facebook friend. Even after years of bullying, Tara (spit, spit) Reid still had the front to try and “friend” me. I pressed the IGNORE button so hard I nearly made a hole in my iPad. It’s proper hard to tell who’s genuine any more.

  On the drive back to Stephen’s, Harry phoned to say how well he’d played. Apparently the Celtic rep he brought with him was v. impressed, so Stephen was in great spirits by the time we got back to his flat.

  “Excuse us a minute, Angus,” he said. Then he dragged me to his room and gave me a long snog.

  “Are yer sure yer ready for the move?”

  I’d thought about it all afternoon and I didn’t think I could do it if Angus was going to live with us – that would be a deal-breaker for me.

  “I’d like to, babe, but what are we going to do about Angus?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know yet.”

  I could tell he was torn, and I finally understood: looking out for Angus is Stephen’s duty, just like looking out for Mal has become mine. We’re a right pair.

  “Let’s not worry about that fer now. Let’s all go out and get something ter eat and then I’ll phone Mike and ask him ter get us into Whisky Mist.”

  My body froze. “Can we make it a couples’ night out?”

  “What about Angus?”

  “Erm… He can stay here – watch a film or something,” I suggested.

  “He’d be bored.”

  “Well, Oscar and Suzy won’t come, then.”

  Stephen was surprised. “Why not?”

  “Remember last time – when Angus was up for starting World War Three?”

  “Aw, that won’t happen again.”

  “Well, can you at least have a word with him to make sure?”

  “Awkay, gorgeous.”

  Then Stephen rang Mike Monroe. Mike’s connected; he knows the owners of all the top clubs in London. Some of them are quite snooty about who they put on their guest lists, but Mike always makes sure we can get in.

  “Is your mate going to be there – the big one?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  “He’s got to behave himself this time, then.”

  “Sure. Naw problem.”

  Mike called back to say a VIP table had been arranged. I have to admit, being a celebrity has its perks.

  “Babe, are you a hundred per cent sure you want to bring Angus?”

  “Yes–ss!”

  “Just checking.”

  Anyhoo, decided to invite Malibu too. (Can slyly work on her about the Tah-dah! job while we’re out.)

  “A bunch of loved-up couples are the last thing I want to be around,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, Angus is coming too.”

  “Oh, go on, then.”

  Think I’ve earned myself an epic night out! #woohoo

  Sunday 11 August – 2 a.m.

  Angus has been arrested!

  Stephen keeps claiming it’s Malibu’s fault but that’s just a cop-out – she’s not the one who knocked a man senseless. (I think I even heard *splat* when the guy hit the floor.) OK, I can’t deny that Malibu was a real handful last night, because she was. A proper nightmare. She got so bad that in the end I switched to drinking water just to make sure I was sober enough to look after her. Not that it helped. Nobody could’ve controlled her. It was as if MI5 had set her a mission: to get absolutely, completely wasted, and not even James Bond was going to beat her to it.

  In my opinion, there are three kinds of drunk: happy, aggressive and downright miserable. Somehow, Malibu managed to become all three.

  “Tu–uuuuune!” she cried when “Time of My Life” by Black Eyed Peas came on, even though she’s always said it’s their worst song ever.

  Her arms were flying all over the place. People scattered as if she were holding a grenade. Meanwhile, I tried very hard to act like she was invisible.

  “Your sister’s having a great time, huh?” Suzy commented. The rest of us were still sat at our VIP table, trying to salvage the little amount of vodka Malibu had left in the bottle. “Is it the first time she’s been out since having the baby?”

  “Er … no. The second time. We went to a charity ball last week.”

  “Awesome.”

  At this point, Malibu was definitely having a good time. Taking selfies and uploading them to Facebook with uber-happy messages underneath to make Gary burn: “Par–rrty time!” “Having the best time EVER!” “YOLO!”

  But then she became aggressive. An aggressive drunk has issues – being messed around by the father of her child, in Malibu’s case – and if the person they have issues with isn’t present, they find a reason to take it out on someone else. That would be you, blonde girl who accidentally spilt your drink on Malibu’s dress. I understand that it wasn’t your fault and that it only happened because of Malibu’s flailing arms, knocking the glass out of your hand. But, unfortunately for you, you were dealing with Malibu Bennet.

  “You stupid bitch!” Malibu screamed loud enough to drown out the music.

  “Erm, is your sister all right?” checked Suzy.

  “Yeah, yeah, she’s … awesome.”

  She so wasn’t. And all it took was a song … their song, more importantly – “We Found Love” by Rihanna – to move her to stage three: downright miserable. She staggered back to our table, two mascara canals streaming down her face.

  “Do you reckon he’s found someone else, Rem?”

  “No, Mal.”

  “He has, hasn’t he?”

  “No.”

  “That bastard.”

  OK. Change of tactics. “Yeah, he’s a bastard, Mal. Forget him. Move on.”

  “But he’s my bastard though *sob* and I love him.”

  New tactic: “OK, well go for it, then. Let him know how you feel.”

  “But do you reckon he’s found someone else?”

  I could tell Stephen felt sorry for me. “Come on, let’s drink up. It’s time to go home.”

  The dance floor was packed by then and someone with four-inch spiked heels, made a huge mistake by stepping on Malibu’s toe, as we were making our way out. She shoved the girl, who went flying into what turned out to be a feisty drunk man, and he then sprang at Malibu and started screaming in her face. Cue our bodyguard. Angus got all Kevin Costner on his ass and grabbed him by his shirt. Feisty Drunk Man spat in his face – and that’s when Angus knocked him out. *splat*

  Feisty Drunk Man had two semi-aggressive drunk friends who wanted to defend their mate. They stormed up to Angus, threatening to do him damage, but when Angus shouted, “Come on, then – let’s go, yer little pricks,” they froze. So Angus decided to fight them anyway.

  Girls screamed.

  Suzy screamed. “I told you the guy’s a psycho!”

  Malibu screamed. “And you can shut up, you uptight old granny!”

  Suzy screamed back, “Did you just hear what your sister said to me?”

  Suddenly, four burly bouncers rushed in, grabbed Angus and dragged him away. The police were already outside and the bouncers handed Angus over to them.

  “Please, guys,” Stephen pleaded, “just tell them it was mistaken identity and bring him back.”

  “It was self-defence!” Angus screamed as he was thrown into the back of the police van.

  It was clearly too late to save him.

  “Man, we’re gonna be in huge trouble if this gets out,” Oscar said to Stephen.

  Suzy had other things on her mind. “Hey Malibu, what did you freaking call me back there?”

  “A g-r-a-n-n-y,” Malibu spelt out because she’s g-a-n-g-s-t-a.

  Anyhoo, I know enough about celebrity status by now to realize that by the time this incident is reported in th
e newspapers, it’ll be “footballers Oscar Raymond and Stephen Campbell and meltdown queen ‘Bumquake’ in fight”. And Angus will get away with just a brief mention. None of this seemed to have occurred to Malibu. She had gone full circle and returned to happy drunk, giggling in the back of the cab on the way home.

  “What a drama. No wonder they want to do a TV show about us, Rem. This would’ve been perfect for ratings!”

  Stephen glared at me.

  “Ha, ha, ha, TV show? Mal, you’re so funny,” I said, and won’t be waiting for an Oscar nomination.

  The cab stopped at Mum’s. Malibu slurred, “See ya later, guys,” opened the car door and then staggered towards the house.

  “Look at the state of her.”

  “Leave her alone, she’s having a hard time.”

  “Well, I hope yer knaw Angus might get locked up because of her.”

  Stephen said that I’d better go in too, as there was no point going to his place – he’s going to spend the night trying to find out which police station Angus has been taken to.

  4.05 a.m.

  Called Stephen every half-hour for updates. The only thing we knew for sure was that we were both banned from Whisky Mist (Mike Monroe was the first person to call). We had no clue where Angus was.

  “Wow. He’ll do anything to live rent-free,” I tried to joke.

  Stephen wasn’t having any of it. So it was good to hear the relief in his voice just now.

  “Found him,” he announced.

  Apparently Angus is in Charing Cross police station and he’s going to be detained overnight.

  “He’s been in trouble for fighting before,” said Stephen with a sigh.

  “No shit.”

  “They might sentence him this time. Thanks to your sister.”

  “She’s not the one who KO’ed someone!”

  “He was trying to protect her!”

  “And what about the other time when he almost flattened that weedy bloke?!”

  “Yes. But he didn’t, did he?”

  “All right, calm down. I think I have a plan.”

  I’d called Kellie. Like proper besties we’re still allowed to phone after hours if it’s an emergency. And as she’s destined to be a hotshot lawyer, I needed some advice asap.

  “He needs to stick to his self-defence claim. All potential witnesses would have had one too many. That means their statements can’t be trusted. So, it’ll be hard to prove. He should get off,” I told Stephen.

  “You been speaking to Kellie?”

  “Er… Yeah.”

  “Did she also tell yer that up until then, my name’s going ter be torn to shreds in the papers?”

  “Mine too, y’know.”

  “Aw aye. Perfect for yer TV show. Great for the ratings,” he snapped.

  “She was drunk!” I protested.

  “Aw really? So are yer doing this show or not?”

  “No, I’m not bloody doing the show!” I lowered my voice. These walls are proper thin and I didn’t want Mal to hear me. “Look, it’s complicated. I haven’t managed to tell Malibu that I’m not up for it yet, that’s all.”

  “Well, when will yer?”

  “Soon. I have to time it right… She’s depressed,” I whispered.

  Stephen reckons the story is bound to come out, so we agreed that he should call Harry. He’s great when he goes into what he calls “clean-up mode” to protect his clients. So, fingers crossed.

  9.30 a.m.

  I lay in bed with the phone in my hand and dozed on and off until Stephen called back to say he’d spoken to Harry. I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting football to be at the top of the priority list.

  “Harry’s worked out how to smooth things over with Netherfield Park and Celtic.”

  Stephen sounded ecstatic. Apparently people target players all the time. Sometimes they’re rival fans or just jealous of the hero worship. The point is there’s a whole gang of people who enjoy making trouble for a footballer, and that’s how Harry wants us to play it.

  “He says everyone’s got to be singing the same tune – and that includes yer sister. Then he’s going to phone a few friends in the media and plant a story about Angus protecting us from a Hawley United fan.”

  Hawley United are Netherfield Park Rangers’ bitter rivals.

  “But that’s bullshit,” I said.

  “Do you want us to be crucified?”

  Hmm. Good point.

  “Just make sure yer sister goes along with it.”

  “OK–aay,” I huffed, starting to feel sorry for Malibu.

  Brekkie time: starving.

  10 a.m.

  Mum was sitting in the kitchen. Alan was by the toaster.

  “Where’s Mal?” I asked.

  “Still in bed. How much did she drink last night? Popped my head round the door and she was dead to the world.”

  Something made me panic. What if she’d done something stupid? I ran upstairs and knocked on Mal’s door… No answer. Knocked a bit harder… Nothing. Then banged my fists against it and finally burst into her room. She was lying in bed. Lifeless.

  “Oh God! Mal! Mal!”

  Suddenly her eyes flashed open. “Get the hell out of my room!”

  Humph! To think I actually felt sorry for her a few minutes ago. Hope she goes to Dr Sharma, pronto, because she needs her head bloody checked! I’m sick of her. Said as much to Mum and Alan when I went back into the kitchen and told them about last night.

  “You know she always gets touchy when Junior stays over at Gary’s,” said Mum.

  “Alison, stop defending the indefensible,” said Alan.

  OK, Alan has his faults – having an affair with Mum (HIS BEST FRIEND’S WIFE) springs to mind – but he was right. “At last – someone in this house sees sense,” I replied.

  “Thank you, Remy,” he said, surprised.

  Mum glared at him.

  “Well, I hope you know that it’s my name that’s going to be dragged through the mud – not hers,” I said to Mum. Then I stormed off to my room in a strop.

  10.30 a.m.

  Mal came in to apologize. She looked a right state. Still pretty, of course, but pale – deathly pale – and the residue of last night’s hairspray, combined with what must have been a lot of tossing and turning in bed, meant that sections of her hair were standing on end.

  “I made a bit of a tit of myself last night, didn’t I?”

  “Um… You weren’t at your best.”

  She looked embarrassed. “What happened to Angus?”

  “They kept him in overnight. Hopefully, he won’t go to prison.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Look, if anyone asks, last night’s fight was because a Hawley United fan tried to attack Stephen, OK?”

  “OK. And… Tell him I’m sorry.”

  There wasn’t anything she could do about it now so I tried to make her smile. “What time’s Gary Junior coming back?”

  “How am I supposed to know? I’m not psychic!”

  “Mal, you’re so blooming moody all the time, it’s doing my head in,” I told her.

  She said I would be in the same state if I hadn’t been touched or kissed for months. “I’m not just a mother, you know. I’m a woman too!”

  Yes. A very frickin’ mardy one.

  Malibu sighed and sat down on the edge of my bed. “It’s just that Gary doesn’t seem to see that any more. Maybe it’s nothing to do with Lance. Maybe it’s because I’ve had a baby. Some girls at my NCT group have had their husbands go right off them after seeing them give birth. They say it’s hard for them to get past seeing their wife’s bits squeeze the equivalent of a melon through a pinhole. Not that Gary was there when I had Gary Junior…”

  No, but I was. And thankfully, I stayed north. That was traumatic enough!

  Stephen phoned about ten minutes later – Angus has been released and he’s on bail while the police investigate the incident. He’ll have to return to the station in a month to see whether he’s charged
. I offered to come over, but Stephen said that it’s best to stay home until Angus calms down.

  Gr–rrreat.

  Felt like I was being punished, even though I wasn’t the psycho who went ballistic! “So, have you decided what you’re going to do about him?” I asked, feeling proper annoyed – meaning when we move to Scotland…

  But Stephen replied, “Yep. I’m going ter get him somethin’ to eat – he’s always like this when he’s hungry. I’ll call yer when he’s OK.”

  Meanwhile, what am I going to do? Can’t exactly hang out with Miss Moody Knickers.

  Aha! Will phone James and Kel, and see if they’re up for doing something. #everycloud

  10.55 a.m.

  Woo-hoo! We’re all going to meet for Sunday lunch. And James is bringing his new man.

  @Kelz @James1Hair See you soon, biatches! #reunion #bringiton

  6 p.m.

  Learnt loads today. First thing was that I am most definitely an adult. So is James. Kellie is only technically one.

  We had a proper good talk about how we couldn’t wait to be adults when we were younger. Thought we’d be able to do whatever we wanted: no parents ordering you about any more, etc. – woo-hoo! Thing is, when you’re an actual adult you realize that you CAN’T do whatever you want because of an ickle thing called RESPONSIBILITY.

  I have responsibilities towards my staff and clients at the salon – plus Dad and Uncle Pete for giving me the loan. James has a responsibility to pay his rent to his brand-spanking-new landlord. Kellie, meanwhile, is pissing about at uni.

  “Stop demeaning my life,” she complained.

  “We’re not demeaning it, Kel, we’re simply saying you don’t have any responsibilities.”

  “Yes, I do. I have to pay for my student residence.”

  “And you’ll have to pay off an enormous loan at the end,” piped up James’s boyfriend.

  “That’s right. Thank you, Dominic,” Kellie said.

  I really like Dominic. He’s a handsome blond with a square jaw, superhero body and, most importantly, he’s totally gaga for James. I’ve never seen James so happy. He’s found himself a flat near the hair salon where he works. The next step is coming out to his parents, and then Dominic is going to move in.