Famous (20 page)

‘I’ve been hoping you would call me, Samantha,’ said Cara Jessup, the producer.

She had left a message on my phone two weeks ago.

‘Well, here I am,’ I replied. ‘All yours.’

‘Fabulous,’ she said. ‘I’ll be around shortly with a contract.’

And before I could blink she was on my doorstep, the contract in her hands still warm from the printer.

I read through the contract, which seemed fairly straightforward, then stopped dead at the figure. Really stopped dead this time. It was twenty thousand dollars.
Twenty grand!
This seemed ridiculous. I was going to be paid twenty thousand dollars to talk to a journalist for one hour in front of a TV camera? One hour? I still had absolutely no idea why celebrities hated doing interviews.

The interview was scheduled for Friday afternoon, in three days time, at my apartment. It was to be shown on television the following Wednesday. My interviewer was going to be Shari Vijay, a beautiful part-Indian woman who was, thankfully, not much older than myself.

Hopefully she’ll have some empathy with me, I prayed.

Once again Jenna kindly came round to my apartment and helped me prepare for the interview. Television was her speciality.

‘Lots of eye contact is the key,’ she instructed. ‘Make sure you look her in the eyes at all times. And think carefully about your answers, form your reply in your head before you open your mouth.’

‘And,’ she added, ‘for God’s sake keep your hands still and in one place. Put them in your lap and bloody well leave them there.’

Wayward hands were something that clearly annoyed Jenna.

After two more days and nights holed up in my apartment, attempting to do what work I could, Friday afternoon arrived. Mands and Lizzie had come round the night before to help me with the inevitable task of What To Wear. I wanted to look respectable but not prudish, and above all else, I wanted to look confident. We decided on my cream suit, with skirt and high priest-collar jacket.

‘It’s perfect,’ noted Lizzie. ‘You look demure. But with a good smattering of sexy.’

‘And it practically screams Saint,’ added Mands.

I sat on my sofa, attempting to look as relaxed as possible, which was no mean feat, as the two camera operators set up their equipment about my living room and fitted me with a microphone. I crossed my legs, and then re-crossed them the other way. I looked as though I needed to go to the toilet. Shari, who was as stunning in the flesh as she was on the telly, ran through the questions she was going to ask.

There didn’t appear to be any nasty surprises, but Jenna’s words rang strong in my head.

There always is
, she’d said.
Always. Just when you think it’s nearing the end, they’ll slam you with a nasty question and knock you for six. Be prepared!
she’d warned.

‘Comfortable?’ asked Shari.

No. Not at all.

‘Yes,’ I lied.

‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered, leaning in close towards me and winking. ‘I won’t make you look bad. I’m on your side.’

I doubted this was something an impartial interviewer was supposed to say to an interviewee, but it was comforting nonetheless.

‘Right. Let’s get started then, shall we?’

‘Okay,’ I agreed, taking a deep breath.

Remember, I told myself. All you are doing is telling your side of the story. This is your one chance to clear the air.

‘Tell me about your relationship with Alistair Ambrose,’ said Shari.

Repeat the ‘Met in a Bar, Went Back to My Apartment, Left the Next Morning’ story.

Keep your hands still.

‘Did the two of you have sexual intercourse?’

Repeat the ‘Yes He Stayed the Night But No Comment On the Sex’ Story.

And so the pattern went. Shari asked: Had I met Alistair before? What do I mean I didn’t know who he was? Had I seen him since? Were we an item? Was I surprised by the media frenzy surrounding me? And how was I coping with it?

And I answered: No. I don’t watch sport and he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. No. No. Yes, very. Not very well, I’m a private person.

Keep your goddamn hands still.

After a strew of questions that were by and large expected and unsurprising, she finally sounded as though she was winding it up. But not quite yet. Oh no. There was just one more question.

‘Samantha,’ said Shari. ‘Tell me about your relationship with Jasmine Taylor. Is it true the two of you were an item?’

And there we have it, people; The Nasty Surprise.

Do not lunge forward and throttle her about the neck until she turns blue and begs for mercy. Sit back, smile sweetly, and answer the question.

She used to be a man! yelled a burly voice from within. Go on, tell her! Here’s your chance.

No. I can’t.

‘No. Not at all,’ I said, laughing. ‘Jasmine is an old and dear friend of mine. And we have never been anything more than friends.
Ever
.’

And with that, thanks be to Christ, the interview was finally over.

‘You did well,’ said Shari, once the cameras had stopped rolling. Then she leaned in towards me and whispered in my ear. ‘He’s pretty top in the sack, isn’t he?’

‘Certainly is,’ I agreed.

But how did she know?

‘Bagged him last year,’ she added, winking at me.

‘Oh.’

She had shagged Alistair too? Was there anyone he hadn’t shagged?

So that’s why she was being so nice to me, I thought to myself. Here I am getting publicly torn to shreds while she got away scot-free. Lucky cow.

The day after my television interview Mands and Lizzie decided to whisk me out of town for the weekend, to Sprouting Fern Health Spa, the idea being that I would be cocooned in the caressing palm of massages and mud-wraps and exempt from public harassment, at least for a couple of days. I wasn’t one to protest. It sounded ideal and I was so relieved at finally being able to leave the confines of my townhouse prison. It would be nice to have some other walls to stare at.

They collected me late in the afternoon and we drove out of the city, with a convoy of Land Rovers and motorbikes following closely behind. They trailed us all the way to the spa, which was situated two hours north of the city and set amongst native bush and forest. It was also conveniently set behind a large wooden security gate, which meant we could leave my pursuers on the other side as we were waved through. We wheeled our three suitcases through the front doors and up to the reception desk, behind which sat a woman with long brown curly hair, sans make-up, pale skin, and a long flowing white frock, who went by the name of Wendy. She was the type of person who radiated calmness and serenity. No doubt if we’d wheeled three bombs up to the desk instead, she would have remained calm and serene.

‘You’re staying in the Cuban Fertility Cabin,’ said Wendy, once we had signed the necessary forms stating that if we died while being full-body-massaged or mud-wrapped then, naturally, Sprouting Fern Health Spa wasn’t to blame.

‘The what?’ I whispered to Lizzie. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘It’s just a name,’ she replied. ‘You won’t get pregnant. I promise.’

‘I’d better bloody not. That’s precisely the last thing I need at the moment.’

Luckily Mands was too busy evaluating her new surroundings to hear the name of our room. Wendy walked us outside, along a long bush-framed path, and showed us to the Cuban Fertility Cabin, which was all open and Survivor-esque with an enormous round spa pool sitting in the middle of the room.

‘Bloody great!’ I exclaimed, clocking the spa. ‘All we need now is three Swiss skiers and a crate of champers.’

‘Too right!’ agreed Mands and Lizzie.

Wendy just stared at us. I think she thought we were joking.

‘All you need to do now is unpack and relax,’ she said calmly, handing us our itineraries and backing out of the room. ‘You’re each booked in for a full-body spa massage at seven o’clock.’

‘There’s no mini bar,’ noted Mands, frantically looking around the room.

‘No sweets,’ replied Lizzie. ‘I don’t think they put booze in the rooms.’

But Mands wasn’t giving up until she had searched every Feng Shui inch of the place.

I set about reading our itinerary. The options for tomorrow morning appeared to be either a rainforest walk or a yoga class.

‘Who the hell wants to walk in a forest?’ called out Mands, still upending everything in the room. ‘Where’s the sleep-in option?’

‘There isn’t one,’ I replied.

‘I’m doing yoga,’ said Lizzie.

‘Then so am I,’ I replied.

At seven o’clock we made our way back into the main building for our spa massages. It felt wonderful lying under the warm jets of water as Helena, my masseuse, massaged my body from head to toe. I immediately began to feel sleepy and drift off.

‘Your back’s going very red,’ said Helena, who had woken me up to tell me this. ‘I think you must hold a lot of anger in here.’

‘You don’t think it’s because you’ve been whacking it solidly for the past half-hour?’ I ventured.

I really didn’t like being woken up, not under any circumstances.

But she wasn’t giving up. ‘Anger leads to fear,’ she continued. ‘Fear leads to…’

‘Hate,’ I interrupted. ‘And hate leads to the Dark Side.’

But my words fell into the silence of someone who simply Did Not Get It.

An hour later we wandered back out into the reception area, all three of us in a jelly-like state of relaxation.

‘Hello,’ said Mands, walking up to the reception desk. ‘Just wondering where we might be able to find a bottle of bubbles?’

‘Bubbles?’

‘Yes, you know, some champagne?’

‘I’m afraid we don’t have alcohol on the premises,’ replied Wendy.

‘Pardon?’ said Mands.

Wendy repeated herself.

‘Oh,’ said Mands, although I could tell she didn’t believe her.

‘They don’t have booze!’ she hissed at me.

‘I heard.’

‘What are we supposed to drink?’ asked Mands. ‘Spirulina?’

‘We have a variety of freshly squeezed juices available,’ replied Wendy. ‘Plus,’ she added. ‘I think you will find you’re booked in for the weekend detox package.’

‘The what?’ I asked. Now I was concerned.

‘Detox,’ repeated Wendy. ‘No food. Or alcohol. You will only be ingesting fresh juices for the next two days.’

Mands and I stared at her, our mouths opening and closing. We both turned and glared at Lizzie.

‘Lizzie, where the hell have you brought us?’ demanded Mands and I, as we walked back to the fertility cabin.

‘To a weekend of relaxation…and detoxification,’ she replied, sheepishly. ‘And no alcohol…or food.’

We stared at her.

‘They were booked out,’ she added. ‘It was the only package available.’

‘That’s it,’ declared Mands, as we stepped inside the cabin. ‘I’m leaving.’

Lizzie looked dejected.

‘No you’re bloody not,’ I said grabbing her arm. ‘If I have to stay here and suffer then so do you. Plus…’ I added. ‘Think about the facial and mud-wrap tomorrow.’

‘Okay,’ she relented.

Twenty minutes later our dinner was delivered to the cabin in the form of two large pitchers of juice. One green and one red.

‘Wish we had some vodka to pour into it,’ I said with a sigh.