Famous (19 page)

‘Sorry Sam, it’s just…’

‘It’s okay Gareth,’ I sighed. ‘I understand.’

I packed up everything I would need from my office for the next few weeks, put on my sunglasses, and drove myself home at breakneck speed.

‘Ohmygod!’ gushed Lizzie, as she fell inside my front door later that evening, Thai takeaways in hand.

‘Ohmygod what?’

‘Tell me you know?’ she implored.

The tone of her voice was ominous. I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to know.

Ah well, I thought. You’ve been kicked out of your workplace, the entire country has seen your cellulite, everyone hates you, and you are trapped inside your own apartment, possibly for the rest of your life. How much worse can it get? I took a punt.

‘Know about what?’ I asked.

‘Tiny Tits.’

‘What about her?’

‘She’s being interviewed. On
PrimeTime
.’

‘What? But
PrimeTime
is quality television.’

‘I know.’

‘She is
not
quality.’

‘I know.’

Clearly there was always room in God’s little universe for things to get just that wincy bit worse. I have issues with the fact he created the world in six days and rested on the seventh. Perhaps he should have taken a little longer and not rushed it quite so much? Or perhaps he should have got off his arse on the seventh day? Or maybe even made a couple of prototypes first instead of launching straight into the real thing? There were a few too many flaws with this model for my liking.

‘When?’ I asked.

‘Tomorrow night.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Fraid not sweets. I just saw the shorts.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘And what did she say?’

‘Just…you know…stuff.’

‘Stuff about me?’

‘Some.’

‘Bloody hell. The cow!’

‘What shall we do?’ asked Lizzie. ‘Burn every television in the city? Take down the national grid?’

‘If only,’ I sighed. ‘I guess I’ll have to watch it and torture myself instead.’

‘Then we’ll bring you round to my house for a change of scenery,’ said Lizzie. ‘And drink our way through it.’

‘And beyond,’ I added.

The next night I donned my sunglasses and long coat, pulled the hood over my head and ran outside to Mands’ waiting car.

‘Samantha, will you be watching
PrimeTime
tonight?’ asked one of the young rookies from
The Morning Sun
.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Quite obviously I am going out for dinner.’

‘I’m sure Mrs Ambrose will be disappointed,’ added his colleague, the one with the enormous sideburns.

With two Land Rovers and three motorbikes on our trail we drove round to Lizzie’s house. We parked on the street outside and made a mad dash for her front door, while my pursuers ran behind, snapping away. I chose to ignore their pleas for a smile and instead bolted straight through the front door, which Lizzie was thankfully holding open.

‘Bloody hell!’ I exclaimed. ‘Those flashes are going to give me cataracts soon. Or premature blindness.’

Lizzie had been flat out in the kitchen, taking some delicious-looking hors d’oeuvres out of their delicatessen containers and arranging them on a platter. She swiftly set about pouring us a wine. And then another. Mands switched on the television just as the
PrimeTime
intro music began. Then, when we realised the dreaded interview was on second, she turned the volume back down.

‘No need to watch it unnecessarily,’ she said, pouring us another wine.

‘Here we go,’ said Lizzie, turning the volume back up twenty minutes later. ‘Ready?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘But what choice do I have?’

‘You know we don’t have to watch it, sweets,’ she said. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’

‘Turn the bloody volume up…go on,’ I replied.

‘That’s the spirit!’ said Mands, rubbing my shoulders.

I just couldn’t believe Tiny Tits was being interviewed on
PrimeTime. PrimeTime
for God’s sake! An award-winning current affairs programme! How could this ridiculous tabloid drama possibly cut the mustard?

I listened to the voice over intro.

‘Virginia Ambrose…wife of our most famous footballer, Alistair Ambrose, chairwoman of the Youngfellows Children’s Trust, avid campaigner of Computers for Kids…and mother.’

And mother? Said as though this was some sort of accomplishment only she had achieved. Tonnes of people were bloody mothers. They were everywhere. I even knew a few.

‘Christ! She’s a charity cheerleader!’ declared Mands.

‘Easy to be when you’re rich as all hell,’ added Lizzie.

The chirpy voiceover belonged to the interviewer, Glenda Goodson, more commonly known as No Neck, due to the fact she had, well, no neck to speak of.

‘It’s like she’s been beheaded and then they just sort of glued it straight back onto her shoulders,’ observed Lizzie.

‘I wonder what she says when people tell her to pull her head in?’ I replied.

‘Probably something like “Look I have, see!” ’ said Mands.

I looked at the screen and there, sitting opposite No Neck, was Mrs Alistair Ambrose. In the flesh. Well, a cold flat piece of glass type of flesh, that is, but you know what I mean. From her perfectly manicured peroxide blonde bob, to her perfectly manicured toenails. To her perfect round baby bump. Every perfectly manicured and glowing Chanel-smelling inch of her.

‘Virginia,’ began No Neck. ‘You are a busy woman, aren’t you? The Youngfellows Trust, Computers for Kids, two small children. Just how hectic
is
your life?’

‘It’s unbelievable Glenda, just unbelievable, but I love it. There’s never ever a dull moment, that’s for sure!’

‘Tell me about your work with the Youngfellows Trust. How involved are you?’

‘Very involved. I chair the board, I head the fundraising team, and I help out personally with the rehabilitation of children and their families.’

‘Now, these are children who have spent a significant amount of time in hospital, either with injuries, undergoing surgery, or in some cases with cancer, is that correct?’

‘That’s right. And when they are finally released from hospital we help them and their families adjust back into normal life again by providing a support network for them.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ chirped No Neck.

‘Dear God, this is sickening,’ moaned Mands, faux-gagging for emphasis. ‘She thinks she’s Florence bloody Nightingale.’

‘Now Virginia,’ said No Neck, ‘I’d really like to talk about Computers for Kids. You started this charity initiative, almost ten years ago now I believe, and I understand you’re still fully involved with the cause?’

‘That’s right Glenda. I am still the chairwoman and spokesperson for the organisation.’

‘What was it that led you to start this wonderful initiative?’

‘Well Glenda, it is a sad fact that not every child in this country has ready and easy access to a computer within their home. And this is something which personally concerned me, and something which I really felt I could do something about. We realise how important computer literacy is for children of all ages. How it contributes to their ability to learn, and their ability to succeed. Not only at school, but in their future lives.’

‘Hark,’ said Lizzie, cupping her ear. ‘Is that a violin I hear?’

I really did have to spend a bit less time drinking bubbles and a bit more time doing charity work, I thought to myself. Or at least starting to do charity work. She was making me look bad.

Cutaway to Tiny Tits sitting in a chair in her pale-pink Chanel trouser suit, showing a picture of a computer to two poor computer-less children as they sat on her knee.

‘You just know she chucked them straight off and brushed down her pants as soon as the camera stopped rolling,’ said Mands.

‘Now Virginia, I know this must be difficult for you,’ said No Neck. ‘But I would like to talk about your husband now. People would have had to be living on another planet, or at least in another country, to escape the media furor which has surrounded your husband, and yourself, over the past few weeks. Just how difficult has this been for you?’

‘It’s been an absolute nightmare Glenda, just so very painful. The media have been hounding us. And the poor children too.’

‘Are you angry with your husband for his part in this?’

‘Yes, are you?’ I asked the television screen. ‘Because you bloody well should be!’

‘Honestly,’ replied Tiny Tits. ‘I’m just far too hurt to be angry.’

Oh somebody save me!

‘What a load of crap!’ cried Lizzie. ‘Of course she’s pissed off. He’s made a big tit of her!’

‘A tiny tit of her,’ corrected Mands.

‘Now Virginia,’ said No Neck. ‘I know this is very difficult for you, but I have to ask. What do you think happened that infamous night, between your husband and Samantha Steel?’

I must have let out a gasp, because Mands was suddenly rubbing my shoulders again.

‘Well Glenda, that woman obviously threw herself at my husband…as so many of them do…he’d had way too much to drink and he made a
huge
mistake.’

He was hardly rolling drunk, I thought to myself.

‘This woman has completely ruined my life. And my children’s,’ she sobbed. ‘We were so happy.’

Can’t have been that bloody happy if he shagged someone else! I thought to myself.

‘Can’t have been that bloody happy if he shagged someone else!’ cried Lizzie.

‘She’s full of shit!’ declared Mands. ‘Course he’s shagged loads of women before. It’s just that you’re the only one the media’s found out about.’

‘Well thanks, that makes me feel so much better,’ I replied. ‘Just one more in a whole line of floozies.’

‘Sorry,’ said Mands. ‘No disrespect intended dolls. It’s not your fault,’ she soothed. ‘It’s just that those footballers are always having women hurling themselves at them.’

‘I didn’t hurl myself at him!’ I protested. ‘He hurled himself at me!’

‘I know he did, sweets,’ said Lizzie, rubbing my shoulder too. ‘Perhaps he was after a challenge?’

‘Well he certainly got that, didn’t he?’ I replied. ‘The bastard!’

‘Is it true Alistair has in fact moved out of the family home?’ asked No Neck.

‘No!’ replied Tiny Tits. ‘He is just staying elsewhere temporarily, until this whole media circus settles down. With the World Cup just around the corner he really needs to concentrate on training and working with the team. Unfortunately having paparazzi camped out on our doorstep twenty-four hours a day isn’t helping his preparation.’

‘Bet he’s done a runner,’ said Mands. ‘Hey,’ she added, ‘if he’s single then maybe you can shag him again?’

I flicked her the Death Stare.

‘Or maybe not,’ she murmured.

‘So, the rumours the two of you have separated are untrue?’ asked No Neck.

‘Absolutely,’ replied Virginia. ‘Alistair and I love each other very much and are very much together. There is no doubting we will get through this. I intend to stand by him as long as it takes. It’s just that…that it’s so hard living in the public eye sometimes,’ she sniffed. ‘Constantly having people taking photos of us and the children…and having to read the things that are written about us.’

‘At least they bloody well like you!’ I wailed. ‘Try being loathed on for size!’

Close-up of watery eyes and dainty white hankie.

‘What a blubberguts!’ cried Lizzie.

‘Really is nothing worse than a sobbing pregnant woman,’ added Mands.

‘Is there anything else you would like to say to Ms Steel while you have the opportunity?’ asked No Neck, attempting to wind it up.

I gripped the arm of the sofa and braced myself for more abuse.

‘I just hope that she can live with what she has done.’

Mands and Lizzie clocked my reaction and promptly set about pouring me another wine and rubbing my shoulders a bit more vigorously.

What I’ve done? If only she’d take some of the anger she was firing at me and target it at her cheating husband, where it belonged.

‘For God’s sake!’ cried Lizzie. ‘She really does think she’s Mother Teresa!’

‘Bet she only got with Alistair by throwing herself at him in a bar,’ said Mands.

‘He must have been plastered too,’ I added, deciding to join in. ‘Look at the state of her. Bloody great blubbering mess.’

‘Bloody straight,’ agreed Mands. ‘Wringer. Dragged through.’

‘Backwards,’ added Lizzie.

‘By her feet,’ finished Mands.

‘Thank you so much for talking to us, Virginia,’ said No Neck. ‘And I wish you and your family the very best for the future.’

‘That woman makes me want to vomit,’ declared Mands, switching the television off.

‘Which one?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Both of them,’ replied Mands and I in unison.

‘What a complete drama queen!’ agreed Lizzie.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Mands.

‘Like the devil,’ I replied. ‘A she-devil home-wrecker.’

‘Look…’ said Lizzie, attempting to comfort me, ‘if she’s that much of a blubbering mess then he’s better off living somewhere else. She must drive him bloody nuts.’

‘He’s probably glad he’s finally got a reason to move out,’ agreed Mands. ‘He’ll be eternally grateful to you.’

I highly doubted that, but took some shameless comfort in their lies. I’d be eternally grateful if I never saw either Alistair Ambrose or his perfect wife ever again.

‘There’s only one thing for it,’ said Mands.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘You’re simply going to have to go on telly and defend yourself.’

‘I can’t do that!’ I cried.

‘You have to. You can’t let this two-bit charity chimp make you look like some bar floozy.’

‘You’re not a floozy,’ agreed Lizzie. ‘You have to stand up for yourself.’

‘You have to let the public know you’re a professional, intelligent woman,’ continued Mands. ‘And not some toilet-shagging home-wrecker.’

‘But then everyone’s going to recognise my face, aren’t they?’

‘Sweets, they already do,’ said Lizzie, wrapping her arms around me. ‘But at least this way they get to hear your side of the story, without your words being distorted by a stranger’s pen.’

7

The following morning, with shaking hands, I phoned the office of
One Nation
, the rival current-affairs television programme.