Authors: Alison Kervin
I know about halfway through the car journey that the decision to bring Mum and Maude to the party is not just 'bad' but probably the 'worst decision I've ever made in my life'. I had no idea that Great-Aunt Maude's incontinence is quite such an issue. I had no idea that Elody had insisted on her wearing these skintight control pants that leave no room for her incontinence pads. I had no idea of anything, looking back. It's not until she begins clawing at her head (which Mum says she always does when she feels stressed – I didn't know that either) and rubbing her hands all over her face that I wake up to the fact that problems are afoot.
'What's wrong, love?' Mum keeps asking, as the smell of old lady urine wafts through the car, clashing with the strong musky perfume favoured by Elody to create a truly offensive aroma.
'Everything all right?' Henry asks, winding down the window.
'Everything's fine, love,' replies my mum, gently stroking Maude's arm. 'We just need to get Maude to the party where she can sort herself out and everything will be fine.' She carries on stroking Maude's arm in such a kind and generous way that I feel almost moved to tears. Well, it's either the stroking or the strong ammonia smell floating through the car that's moving me to tears: one or the other.
We get to the house and Maude climbs out; her hair is standing up on end and her lipstick is smudged right across her face. She looks as if she's been in a drunken brawl. The back of her dress is soaking wet, along with the back seat of the car. I look up at Henry apologetically, but he shrugs my fears aside. 'I'll take it and get it cleaned while you're at the party,' he says. 'It'll be as good as new by the time I pick you up.'
'Thanks,' I say. Rufus's staff truly are some of the nicest people in the world.
Elody has not said a word for the entire journey. She just storms up to the door of Zadine's modern house, and rings the doorbell furiously. The Spice Girls song '2 Become 1' bursts out: a rather nasty tinkly-plinkly doorbell version of it, which is more offensive than the real thing. 'Christ,' says Elody under her breath. 'What on earth are we doing in this place? I mean – Zadine Collins? Why would I – Elody Elloissie – come to a party organised by Zadine Collins? Christ, if ever there was a woman untouched by charm and uncluttered by talent or style it was Zadine bloody Collins . . . Zadine! Darling! So wonderful to see you. How are you? You look wonderful. Fabulous.'
'My God!' exclaims Zadine, looking past the fawning Elody and staring straight at me. I think she's going to get cross with me for bringing such an entourage, but she seems to have hardly noticed them at all. 'You've lost sooo much weight! How are you doing it? Jan and Issy said you were looking thinner but I wasn't expecting you to look
so
thin. Make sure you don't overdo it; you don't want to lose all those lovely feminine curves of yours.'
Once we're inside, Elody goes storming through the house with her hands in the air, as if to say 'all this is nothing to do with me'. Zadine, meanwhile, is amazing; she's thrilled that I've invited Mum and Maude to the party and even manages not to look too shocked when she catches sight of Maude with her mad hair and crazy lady make-up. She keeps saying things like, 'I'm so glad your mum and Maude could come, especially given who else is here. We should get Maude cleaned up before she meets the special guests though, shouldn't we?'
Maude is having none of it; she's heard the party music and is transported back fifty years to a time when she was the queen of the South London dance floor. Before any of us can stop her, she's waddled into the sitting room and, with make-up that looks as if it were applied by Alice Cooper, and with the bladder control of a two-year-old, she's leaping around to the music with gay abandon. I glance at Elody and she's making that slice across the neck motion that people do when they want something to end as soon as possible. I can assure her that no one wants this to end more than I.
'Ah, look at her; she's having such fun,' says Mum warmheartedly.
I don't think I ever realised before just how amazing and patient my mum is. In the room there is the usual collection of the rich and well connected, including an older-looking couple, watching from the corner of the room, holding their champagne glasses gingerly by the long stems and glancing with alarm at events taking place before them. I vaguely recognise the woman. She must be an actress; she has that impossibly well-groomed look that so many of these ageing stars have. She looks a little like Jane Fonda; a tiny, little creature with the smallest wrists and the slimmest ankles I've ever seen. Gosh, I bet she was a stunner when she was younger.
Elody walks over to them and they embrace her passionately, kissing her cheek, remarking on her incredibly high shoes, and examining the necklace round her neck. I can imagine the conversation now. 'Oh but, Elody, you always look so perfect. Your jewellery is divine.' People have a habit of noticing, remarking on and admiring Elody without seeming to actually like her that much. You get the feeling that they'd be first in the queue to tell her she looks wonderful, but last in the queue to hold the sick bowl if she was unwell. Not like Mandy and Sophie. I feel so bad about what happened with those two.
Meanwhile, in the middle of the floor, Maude is sitting down with her legs splayed, having overcome the restrictions imposed by the dress by hiking it up to her knees. She's doing that 'rock the boat' song that she says she remembers her children doing at discos when they were younger. She's trying her best to urge the glamorous older couple to join in but, for some inexplicable reason, the prospect of joining an incontinent old lady with mad wiry hair and lipstick all over her face, is not appealing to them in any way. I'm standing there, wondering what to do when Mum walks over to her, helps her to her feet and takes her off towards the door where Zadine is waiting to assist. In front, the two older people are walking towards me. Thank God I've just moved to this area and don't know anyone.
'Hello,' says the lady who's even more glamorous close up. 'You must be Kelly.'
'Yes,' I say, waiting for them to introduce themselves.
'I'm Rufus's mother,' she says with a half-smile. 'It's lovely to meet you at last. Who on earth was the mad woman with the crazy hair?'
Oh God.
EXCLUSIVE
By Katie Joseph
Daily Post
Showbiz Correspondent
Bizarre goings-on in the home of Rufus George! While the actor is away in LA working on his reincarnation as 007, his new live-in lover appears to have turned his mansion into an old people's home. Look at our exclusive pictures taken last night!
These two ancient women, danced around for our cameras before being whisked inside by burly security men who rushed out while sirens raged through the building. They threatened our photographers who were only doing their jobs, and hurled the old ladies into the back of a black car before driving them through the gates. The ruffians then grabbed the camera off one photographer and ran inside with it so the pictures could not be published. But don't worry! We had not one but two photographers there last night, and the other managed to escape from the thugs to bring you these exclusive shots of the two women who look like mental home escapees. Weird? You betcha! Rufus will be wondering what his lovely young lady has been up to while he has been in LA.
Just one more day before Rufus returns and I CAN'T WAIT. My God, I'm just yearning to hold him and kiss him and . . . well, you know what. More than anything, I'm desperate to have him here; away from that horrible bitch from hell Kearney. If I see another picture in the paper of her smooching up to him with her pretty little heart-shaped face aglow and her blonde hair rippling over the shoulders of her painfully thin body, I think I'll scream. Fucking hell. Why did he have to go out there to promote the film? Couldn't he have done it from here?
I could really have done without the pictures of Mum and Maude being splashed all over the papers, with a follow-up story when the paper realised that the two old women they'd captured on camera were two of my closest relations. Then there was Dodgy Dave. I just knew he'd materialise . . . talking about what a 'goer' I was. Christ! My dad was delighted to read that. The drink-driving story came out too. I knew it would. Well, that's not true. I didn't know it would, but I feared it would and had been warned by Rufus that it might well find its way into the public domain. The hard thing about this life is that people write about you, and you have no real right of reply because things are exacerbated if you add your voice to the debate so, basically, there is no debate. Everyone just says what they want about you and, unless it's truly damaging, it's better to lay low than to strike a blow in your defence.
I think all this press intrusion is having a particularly big effect on me because I'm so bored all the time. I stopped working for a month because I just couldn't do it properly so I'm sitting at home, obsessing about everything and everyone.
I'm losing weight, which is the one good thing in all of this, but the drugs are stopping me from sleeping at all. I mean, really; I don't sleep at night any more, I just pace around and go onto Google and terrify myself half to death as I see pictures of Cindy Kearney. I then get caught up in a horrible cycle of depression about the fact that she must be sleeping with Rufus and that prompts me to dig even deeper and to scour the internet for even more pictures and stories about her; all of which appear to confirm my fears that she's much prettier than me, much slimmer, better dressed and with nicer hair than me, and most damning of all . . . far better suited to being with Rufus than I will ever be.
Rufus is back tomorrow . . . tomorrow!!!! The prospect of it is sending shivers right through me. I've come to terms with the fact that my friends (should I call them 'former friends'?) are no longer interested in me, and my life now revolves around these Friday night drinks parties with my 'new' friends. I have been invited to openings and premieres and things like that, but Elody's been a fantastic buffer, and has told Rufus's agent (because all the invitations etc. do tend to go through him) that when offers come in, he's to send them to her and she'll discuss them with me. So far she's rejected them all, saying that Rufus wouldn't like it if I went to them without him, which I guess is fair enough (even though he is always saying that he's happy for me to go if I want to). When they're important events or going to be full of celebrities, Elody has tended to go in my place – which she loves.
I've also come to the terms with the fact that Rufus and I hail from such colossally different backgrounds that it's like we're almost different species. That was obviously thrown into real stark relief when my mum and Maude and his mum, Daphne, and her new husband, Joey, came to the party together. My mum was almost curtseying at Daphne and I saw Daphne take a distinct step back when she was introduced to my mum. We didn't even bother introducing her to Maude; we decided it was easier all round if we just didn't go there.
I didn't say much more to Daphne that night, other than to enquire whether she wanted to stay at the house, and how long she was staying for. It turns out that no, she didn't want to stay at the house, but she was going to be around for a while – for a week, to be precise, at an interior design show and awards evening. 'I'm the host,' she declared proudly.
'Oh please, do come and stay,' I said, thinking that I ought to, for Rufus's sake, make a point of sounding as if I really wanted her to come, but even as I made the offer, Elody was slashing her hand across her neck as if to suggest that would be a really bad idea.
'Darling, don't stay at the house, Kelly has relatives there,' she said in half-whispered, wholly conspiratorial tones to Daphne.
Rufus's mother smiled knowingly, as if to suggest that she understood.
It was all very rude, if you think about it. But that's what these people are . . . they're all rude; there's no other way to describe them. Anyway, it meant Daphne didn't stay at the house and I can't begin to tell you how utterly relieved I was about that. The thought of two sets of relatives coexisting with the staff running around catering to their different demands would have been too much for me to face on my own.
Daphne spent most of the night talking to Elody about clothes; the two of them speaking the same language of trapeze shapes, bell sleeves, eighties retro and 'darling Vivienne, isn't she a scream!' Also hotly debating the role of pleats on the Paris catwalks, and the surprise news that in New York it was all about ruffles. Who knew? Mainly though, Daphne went on and on and on about how much she loved Elody's necklace. There was a rare moment of lightness and humour between Elody and me afterwards when she said, 'Every time I see that woman she goes on about my necklace; it might be less painful if I just gave her the fucking thing.'
God how I wish Rufus was here.
I've spoken to him loads, of course. We have heaps of phone calls and he says he sends lots of texts but I never get any of them. Perhaps texts don't come through when you text from abroad? Anyway, he ends up reading out the texts on the phone in the evening, which is always quite funny.
I remain entirely paranoid about bloody Cindy Kearney, of course, because Elody does go on and on about how pretty she is and how much they used to adore one another, and how everyone thought he'd end up with her, but the thing is, I've been scouring the newspapers and the TV and the internet and I can't find any mention of the fact that the two of them ever went out together.
'Are you completely and absolutely sure,' I say to Elody, but she just smiles knowingly in a way that is becoming intensely irritating.
'The reason it's not in the papers is because they fought hard to keep it out of the papers. Theirs wasn't a celebrity relationship; it was the real thing. They adored one another. I think they still do, and that's why they're looking after one another like this.'
Thanks a fucking lot. My feelings towards Elody definitely ebb and flow in direct proportion to her crassness and thoughtlessness. Some days I think she's really sweet and helpful and I don't know how I'd cope in this strange new world without her. On other days, such as when she's really winding me up about Rufus, I could strangle her. She seems so callous, so cruel and hurtful. I know I'm feeling particularly vulnerable because of the diet pills, which have left me feeling depressed and tired, but she's still way out of line sometimes.
'I'm coming off these pills,' I tell her. 'They're turning me into a monster. I can't keep taking them and feeling this horrible.'
'You can,' she insists. 'You just have to get through the difficulty of the first few weeks and you'll get used to them, and they'll get used to you.' Elody insists that if I persevere for another couple of weeks, I'll have dropped a stone in total by Christmas and that way I'll be able to guarantee that Rufus will forget all about the charms of Cindy and return to me.
'What do you mean "return"?' I ask.
'Well, she's attractive. He's away for weeks. He didn't tell you he was going, and he never mentioned that Olivia would be with him or that his ex-girlfriend was in the film. With the best will in the world, it does rather seem as if he's up to no good out there. I mean – what sort of evidence are you after, woman? Would you like a video of them having sex? Is that what you need?'
'No,' I say. 'Of course not. But there isn't any evidence at all.'
'That's because men are very good at hiding evidence, which, in itself, proves that they are having affairs. Have you been through all his things?'
'Been through his things? No. Of course I haven't been through his things,' I say.
'No?' Elody takes a step back in amazement and does nothing to hide her incomprehension. 'What sort of woman doesn't go through her husband's things when he's away with his hot, young and glamorous ex-girlfriend?'
'He's not my husband,' I retort rather pedantically. My heart is racing, my head is throbbing and I feel like shit. Frankly, pedantic is about as good as it's going to get with me at the moment.
'No, my love, and he never will be your husband unless you get a grip.' She illustrates this last point by gripping her tiny hands into tense bundles, squeezing them so tightly that all the sinews in her hands stand out; even the sinews in her scrawny neck have jumped to attention, making it look gnarled and knotted like the trunk of a tree. She looks old, and I feel myself strangely and rather uncharitably pleased by this.
'Get a grip,
ma petite fleur
,' she continues, her eyes narrowing and her eyebrows struggling to raise themselves against the barrage of Botox in her forehead. 'A woman must do due diligence before committing to a man. Dahling, it is vital. Taking a husband is like buying a house or a business. You have to know what you're buying into. You have to be sure you're getting your money's worth. While he's away you have a perfect opportunity to pry; don't lose this valuable chance. He would be disappointed in you if he didn't think you were taking this relationship seriously. Now, I'm going out for a while to get my skin plumped so it looks its best for Friday night's party. I may be some time.'
Elody disappears, clip-clopping dramatically down the wooden corridor. She probably likes to think she sounds like Marlene Dietrich; a fusion of drama and style wrapped up in arrogance and all personified in those tiny footsteps. The truth, though, is that she sounds more like a show horse. Once the sound of hooves has faded into the distance, I turn immediately to the room in front of me. Is she right? I suppose there would be no harm in looking through his things, if only to reassure myself that, as I suspect, he's not doing anything wrong.
OK, let's try to be logical about this. Logic's not my strongpoint, to be fair, but I do need a little bit of it now. If I were a handsome Hollywood film star with things to hide from my depressed, overweight, unadventurous girlfriend, where would I hide them? With a speed that would impress Linford Christie, I'm straight onto the obvious places: the bedside cabinet, beneath the bed, in his sock drawer, in his cufflink drawer, his handkerchief drawer (yep, I know, a drawer – but he does have a lot of cufflinks and hankies, so he has to keep them somewhere). Nothing. Not even a slight hint that anything untoward has ever been there. In the boxer shorts drawer there are boxer shorts and in the tie drawer there is nothing but neatly rolled-up ties.
In his office, where everything is so organised I'm worried about even standing there for fear of marking the walnut wood floor. I'm worried that my breath will mess up the carefully ordered air. Really, I've never known anything like this. I know he has tons of help, and that there are people racing around after him to tidy up with every step he takes, but still . . . to be this tidy . . . it's kind of weird. Well, to me it is. There's not a thing out of place. It looks like no one's ever been in here. It's like some derelict upper class gentleman's club in Mayfair that is no longer frequented but is still cleaned every day by diligent staff.
To be honest, I don't know where to start when it comes to searching through his stuff. The idea that there'll be anything secreted away is quite absurd. Everything's so perfectly filed and organised. Honestly. How would he have something incriminating in here? The chances of finding a used condom in his scripts drawer, or a pair of lacy knickers in his file of rejected Broadway offers are about as likely as me finding out that my mother is actually Posh Spice. Added to the fact that it's desperately unlikely that I'll ever find anything of interest, is the realisation that I must exercise caution because there are CCTV cameras throughout the house. I'm hoping that Sam, the guy who heads up our security, will just think I've mislaid something and am searching for it, but I hope he doesn't work out that I'm a paranoid girlfriend looking for evidence of infidelity. What if I'm the latest in a long line of girlfriends who have behaved like this? Shit. The thought of Sam and the security guards all sitting around the TV screen saying, 'There she goes . . . just like all the others . . .' makes me feel quite queasy.
I wonder how many girls he's brought back here. He told me he's only had one girlfriend since moving to England, and he saw her for a couple of weeks before they split up, but he could have brought other girls back – one-night stands or brief flings. Let's face it, he could have been lying to me, and actually have had hundreds of girlfriends. That's certainly the view that Elody has adopted.