by Becci Fox
Then he suddenly changed the subject and went, ‘Sweetheart, have you ever done TV work?’
My heart beats proper fast when I smell opportunity.
‘No, but people keep telling me I should,’ I replied, and that’s true.
‘Well, I agree with them. You’ve got star quality about you,’ he said.
‘Oh my God, I’ve always seen myself in something like 90210 or Gossip Girl.’
‘Well, I know a lot of producers that could hook you up. You and Ben should come to LA sometime. I’ve got plenty of room at mine if you need a place to stay.’
‘I would love that!’ I screamed.
Essex, Monaco, LA . . . what next? I could physically feel life escalating. I mean, that’s all it takes to make it big. You just have to meet that one person who can turn things around for you, whether it’s professionally or romantically. So far Ben had totally improved my world for the better, but I felt my career was still falling by the wayside. Don’t get me wrong, I put a hundred and ten per cent into Tasha’s shop, but did I really want to be working for my sister for the rest of my days? However, I couldn’t go any further with the conversation because the American’s young blonde girlfriend came over to drag him away. A girl can sense when her sugar daddy’s up to no good, and she was right. He handed me his card before following her and whispered in my ear, ‘By the way, I like your dress. But I like what’s underneath it better.’
I was speechless, but I suppose he’s only human. I told myself that his parting words were a promising sign because, as we all know, sex sells. By this point, loads of people were up on the white sofas dancing – finally! So I got up there and danced my heart out without any judging eyes. I had to celebrate my networking skills with a victory dance, but I felt less joy without Brooke. Being away from Essex had opened my eyes to a few things, and I decided me and Brooke would have a serious chat when we got back. Her friendship was too important to me and I knew she’d be too proud to make the first move. I hold my hands up – I’d been a total boys’ girl; but that’s what happens when you start dating, right?
The night got more debauched with women in leather hot pants dancing on podiums, and there was just wall-to-wall beautiful people doing seriously dirty dancing. The highlight for me was the champagne parade through the club where they attached giant sparklers to bottles of Cristal, which lit up the place like Christmas. How a sparkler ended up in my cleavage I’ll never know. It’s hard to admit this, but this club was Essex in overdrive. I know – whenever I say that, it blows people’s minds. I even did a couple of lines with Ben. Like I said, I don’t do class As no more, but sometimes I get the devil in me and just want to get totally off my face. So much for curbing excess, but how often to you get to do that in Monaco, right?
By 4 a.m. I was proper gone and realized I needed to go home. Only problem was I’d lost Ben. I worked my way through the whole club and decided there was nothing for it but to check the bloke’s toilets. I’m classy, so I didn’t go in myself, but this guy was about to so I tried to catch his attention.
‘Oi, monsieur . . . monsieur . . .’ But he didn’t respond, so I shouted, ‘Oi, mister.’ The word came out of nowhere, but at least he took some notice. He turned to me and went, ‘Oui? Parlez français?’
‘Umm, un petit pois,’ I replied, but instantly regretted it because firstly, I didn’t know any French past that, and secondly, he was pissing himself laughing.
‘Je suis desolée, love, but you know as much French as me,’ he replied in an English accent.
‘Why did you just answer me in French then?’
‘You started it.’
Hmmm, I couldn’t argue with that.
‘Funny. Anyways, do me a favour. Since you’re going in the men’s . . .’
‘Do you want to come in too?’
‘No, no – you going to let me finish? If you see a bloke in there who looks like Freddie Ljungberg, could you tell him his girlfriend’s waiting outside.’
Off he went and I hung outside for about five minutes. I thought maybe this bloke had got chatting to Ben or something, but he came out by himself.
‘You still here?’
‘Errr, yeah. I was waiting for you.’
‘That’s good of you.’
‘And . . . did you see a man who looked like Freddie?’
‘Nah.’
‘What you been doing in there this whole time then?’
‘We’ve only just met, love. You’re a bit personal, aren’t you?’
I stormed off. I hate fucking time-wasters and people who think they’re funny. I know I’ve just described my dad there, but he’s old. He can’t help it. This guy was about thirty and should have known better.
‘Oi, oi, oi, where you going to?’
‘None of your business,’ I replied, but he kept talking at me as I waited for the lift down from the club.
‘Look, I’m not being rude,’ I said, ‘but I’ve had a really amazing night and I don’t want it ruined now. I’ve lost my boyfriend and now you’re just winding me up. So fuck off, will you?’ I instantly regretted being such a bitch, but my patience wears thin when I’m drunk and tired.
‘I was leaving anyway, Miss Hoity-Toity.’
‘Good. Well, let’s just stay silent from now on.’ To be fair to him, he did shut up. But when I got a taxi outside, he went, ‘Where you going?’
‘Hôtel de Paris,’ I said.
‘Me too. Makes sense to share, don’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’
He tried to make conversation with me on the way back, which turned out to be a well short drive. He was actually an alright person, but he was dressed in cargo shorts and a white T-shirt. He looked more Margate than Monaco. By the time we got to the hotel, I’d warmed to him a bit. Turns out he was a musician, and, as you know, I can’t help respect someone who’s got a gift.
‘This has been one of the most rollercoaster twenty minutes of my life,’ he said as he paid the taxi guy.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I said. ‘Good job I met you cos I actually had no cash for a cab.’
‘So you AND the Queen don’t carry money around? You must be from a very elite background,’ he said.
‘Yeah, I am. West Essex.’
He paused, then pissed himself laughing. Oh, charming.
‘That would explain why you’re staying at the Hôtel de Paris.’
‘Yeah, but so are you.’
‘Nah, I’m not.’
‘But you said . . .’
‘I was enjoying the ride so much I didn’t want to get off, did I?’
‘Oh my God, you’re such a freak.’
‘I just enjoy a woman with a bit of spirit. What’s the crime?’
‘Whatever. Listen, I’m off, so you toddle back to whatever shithole you’re staying at and let’s get on with our lives.’
‘Oooh, hangbags,’ he said, doing a camp gesture at me. ‘Listen, what’s your name, anyway?’
‘I don’t give out personal information, babe.’
‘No matter, I have ways of finding these things out. See ya,’ and he walked off all breezy and whistling. Wasn’t that such a creepy way to end a conversation? But I didn’t have time to give that bloke a second thought cos I needed to get into my hotel room somehow.
Since I didn’t have a key to the room, I took off my shoes and banged hard and loud with the heel. Nothing. So I went all the way back down to the hotel lobby and got the spare key to the room and up I went again. I opened the door and surprisingly all the lights were on. Ben’s clothes were scattered on the floor in the hall and hanging off the sofa.
I followed the trail of clothes into the bedroom and saw the most predictable sight. A blonde bouncing up and down on Ben’s cock.
Oh no, not just any old blonde. The blonde girlfriend of that American guy. And it gets worse. Guess who’s filming it all? Well, I couldn’t see who it was until I heard Ben go, ‘Now go suck Gino off.’
‘What the fuc
k’s going on?’ I yelled. Everyone turned to look at me but they didn’t look very shocked or worried. ‘Well, is someone going to give me some answers?’
Gino calmly got up from his chair and tried to escort me away from the scene of the crime. ‘Put some pants on, would you?’ I said all wildly as I shook him off me. I didn’t want his saggy man-tits anywhere near me. I had to keep my eyes on the ceiling to avoid looking at his old boy which was now properly standing to attention. He had the worst kind too: fat and short. I was scarred for life.
Ben and the blonde were perfectly still and just staring at me. Gino duly found his pants and I stormed back into the living room before he had a chance to touch me again.
‘I don’t understand. Why’s everyone acting like I’m the mental, like I’ve walked into a perfectly normal scene?’
‘We thought you knew about this. We thought that’s why you hadn’t come back.’
‘Why the fuck would I know about this? Did you text me about it at some point in the night to go, “Ben’s banging someone else tonight so if you could make yourself scarce, that’d be well nice of you.” Fuck you, Gino.’
‘When you’d vanished, we assumed Mike had found you.’
‘Who the hell’s Mike?’ I asked, suddenly confused.
‘The American guy. Sylvie’s boyfriend,’ said Gino.
‘Is that Sylvie in there?’ I said through gritted teeth.
‘Correct.’
‘And Mike’s the old guy?’
‘Correct.’
‘So why’s Ben banging his girlfriend?’ I yelled.
‘Because Mike’s meant to be banging you.’
My blood ran cold. The situation hit me like a massive wave and I fell back onto the sofa and just muttered, ‘He’s swopped me.’
‘Not really. It’s more like Mike did the swopping and Ben agreed,’ chirped Gino.
‘Oh, that’s alright then,’ I said, getting some fire in me. ‘Fine, you want to play this game. Tell me what room Mike’s in.’
‘Why don’t you join our party?’ said Gino casually.
‘Room number, please.’
‘323, across the hall,’ he replied reluctantly.
I grabbed my bag and slammed the door behind me. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I did know I was furious and I wanted revenge. So I banged on room 323 but the door was already open. I walked into this Mike’s room and found him butt-naked except for his white socks. Thankfully, he was asleep, but face down on the bed in this horrible star-shape position that left nothing to the imagination. What a fucking weird situation. My need for revenge had subsided with this vision and my survival instincts kicked in. I spotted Mike’s wallet on the side of his bed and took out every note in there. It was technically looting, but I was owed.
I sat on the sofa and got on my iPhone to book the first easyJet flight out of there. Since no one in their right mind was flying out of Nice on Grand Prix day, that part was easy. I had less than five hours until my flight took off so there was no hurry. I just lay on the sofa for another hour drifting in and out of nightmares before pulling myself together. I was still pretty out of it, so I went back down to the lobby at 7 a.m. and did an espresso shot while the hotel called me a taxi.
There I was, sat in the back of a French cab in last night’s outfit and my clutch stuffed with euros. That’s when the sadness set in. And I mean the sort of sadness that squeezes your heart so hard you feel actual physical pain. At first it was silent sobbing where your mouth’s open but only hot air and hot tears come out. Then I let out this cry that came from so deep within, it sounded like a wild animal. The taxi driver swerved with shock, which is not good when you’re going round the same bends Grace Kelly drove off. Although I’d actually have been thankful to BHQ for putting me out of my misery even if I did die at an all-time low. The thing is, I’m not a crier. I’m not cold or anything, but I don’t cry at films, books or get set off by friends crying. The only time I can’t cope is if I lose someone. I suppose that’s grief. Weirdly, this was the deepest grief I’d ever experienced. I felt more exposed and vulnerable than ever. Once the floodgates were open, they would not shut.
The taxi driver kept trying to speak to me in limited English the whole forty-five-minute journey, but I just waved him away each time he turned around. How the mighty fall . . . arriving in a helicopter of happiness and leaving in a taxi of torment. When we got to the airport, I just shoved all the notes in the guy’s hand and walked off. I couldn’t talk to the lady at check-in, so I gave her my phone with the booking on. When she asked about baggage, I just showed her my empty hands and cried harder. I think she just wanted to get me away, so no questions were asked.
I spent the next hour walking through duty-free, crying as I spritzed myself with Gucci. We finally started boarding and miraculously the crying turned into whimpering. But once I stepped on board and saw all those attendants in their neon orange uniforms, I started bawling again. Not just because it’s such a nasty colour to put anyone in, but I really wanted Brooke to be on the flight, and she wasn’t. As I sat sobbing, I knew I needed a friend to meet me at Stansted or I was done for, so I sent a text before the bitchy flight attendant had a go at me for not turning my phone off. Like I could bring down the fucking flight or something. My only luck was that my entire row was empty, so once we’d taken off, I just curled up and kept it to a low moan for the entire two-hour flight.
So there I was, dressed up for a night out, make-up smeared all over my face and tottering in my patent black Louboutins through Stansted. I must have been the best-dressed mess of a person to ever come through arrivals. Surprisingly, someone managed to recognize me. My gorgeous Ryan was there to rescue me and he was clutching a bouquet of flowers. That image still makes my heart melt. We ran to each other like long-lost lovers and he just held me until I’d calmed down again. I was so relieved to be home, but so haunted by the past eight hours.
We walked out the airport hand in hand and then Ryan turned to me and went:
‘Babe, we’re so going to fix you. Lucky for you, I’ve got wet wipes in the car to sort your face out. Then we’ll sort your heart. We’re all here for you, yeah?’
I just nodded and clutched his arm to say thank you, but we didn’t say anything else for the rest of the journey home. I felt like such a plum. I don’t know why I’d fallen so hard for Ben, but somehow he’d lured me in and then dropped me from the highest point possible.
I didn’t want to talk about Monaco-gate with anyone for the first few days. Mum came over to see if I wanted to go shopping, Dad came over to see if I was coming over for a barbecue, Tasha came round with my niece, Jake didn’t come over at all. I just wanted to lock myself away, cuddle up with my little furball Marilyn, watch old Sex and the City episodes and feel very sorry for myself. But then I got proper bored. So I finally got back to Gemma, who wouldn’t stop leaving voice messages, and I agreed to go out for lunch with her and Ryan at the King Will.
As I made my way to Chigwell, I thought, who knew it was possible to feel so sad driving a Mercedes SLR. If I’m to be honest, I’d really only got sucked into buying it because Ben had one. I majorly missed the Audi TT.
It was so reassuring to see my friends waving me over from the patio with a bottle of rosé on the go. Gemma told me she’d met up with Grant to talk things through, but she didn’t feel she could trust him any more. And Ryan told me how he’d been cruising at Virgin Active that morning and a man had jizzed on him in the shower as he watched. So gross, but who knew cruising happened in our gym and so early on? It makes my women’s changing room stories look a bit tame.
I could see they were gagging to know what had happened to me in Monaco, so I relayed the whole depraved tale but made sure I kept the descriptions of the luxury and the bling in. I didn’t want them to think I was a complete sad sack.
‘So has he tried contacting you?’ asked Gemma.
‘Not once,’ I replied.
‘He’s a fucking arsehole, yeah?’ s
aid Ryan.
‘I expect he’s too ashamed,’ Gemma added.
‘I don’t think Ben knows the meaning of shame. If anything, he’s probably bewildered as to why I left, but he’s not the sort to chase after a girl once the hunt is over,’ I said. And it had been a complete game to him.
‘I suppose you weren’t official boyfriend and girlfriend, no?’ said Ryan.
I grudgingly shook my head in agreement. I couldn’t bring myself to mention the conversation I’d had with Ben on the yacht. Looking back, I know he was just after a peaceful life. He’d agreed to be my boyfriend, but he’d never agreed I was his girlfriend. In Ben’s world, apparently it’s possible to be one without the other. It’s almost like I didn’t have the right to be devastated, and that just made it all the more devastating.
We worked our way through three bottles of rosé, which is not bad going for a Thursday afternoon. It felt good to be outdoors and eating my first proper meal in days, but I still felt really shaken up. And the anger was starting to rise with all the alcohol. I tell you what still really pisses me off the most about all this: I bloody missed the Grand Prix because of Ben and I never got to meet Alonso and I never went to the amazing post-Grand Prix parties. BHQ had thrown me about until I was black and blue, but where was Ben’s comeuppance?
I was in the middle of a proper old rant when I saw a real sight for sore eyes. Looking absolutely stunning in a bright blue playsuit and striped wedges, Brooke came over to our table and gave me a massive hug, which just made me cry again. When would it stop?