Famous (24 page)

So, the following Saturday morning, after yet another long stretch of solitary confinement, and yet again being chased by a convoy of paparazzi, I found myself sitting in Dr Hall’s waiting room once more, flanked on either side by an uncharacteristically sombre Mands and Lizzie. Minutes away from going under the knife.

‘Are you sure you want to do this, sweets?’ asked Lizzie for the hundredth time that morning.

‘Yes,’ I replied, also for the hundredth time.

‘You don’t have to you know,’ repeated Mands. ‘It’ll all blow over soon dolls.’

‘Like hell it will,’ I replied. I didn’t think the media were ever going to let me have my old life back.

At that very moment a woman walked out into the waiting room with an enormous white bandage covering ninety per cent of her face, looking for all the world like a new-aged Tutankhamen. Mands and Lizzie glanced across me at each other, and then both looked at me.

‘Don’t,’ I pleaded, and they promptly looked back down at their magazines.

Five minutes later another woman walked through the front doors and into the waiting room. I made the mistake of glancing up at her. I wasn’t alone. It is difficult to describe exactly what she looked like, except to say that it wasn’t human. The first thing that hit me was her lips. They were like two giant Swiss sausages that had been crudely stapled to her chin, and then stung by a thousand bees. They were ginormous and covered at least half of her face. So big they were unable to close. So big they appeared to have a life of their own. So big they would need to rent their own apartment.

I looked across at Mands and Lizzie, who were both staring at the woman, jaws precariously close to the floor.

‘Oh. My. God,’ whispered Lizzie.

‘He had absolutely nothing to do with this,’ whispered back Mands.

I looked at the woman’s eyes. They had been lifted so far up that they were now sitting on her forehead.

My eyes were in a state of utter shock and had gone all fuzzy, but still they kept peeling back to her. It was like watching a succession of train wrecks, I knew what was going to happen but I just couldn’t bring myself to look away.

‘I’ve never seen a set of walking lips,’ hissed Mands.

I glanced down at the woman’s breasts, which sat just below her chin, like two bobbing balloons. They were
enormous
. Mands and Lizzie were now also blatantly staring at the woman’s breasts.

What else could this woman possibly be in here for? I wondered. There was not one part of her being that had not been lifted up or blown up. What else was left to do? I could not take my eyes off her.

Ohmygod! I thought to myself. I bet she started with a little nose job and eyelift too. I bet she only wanted to change her appearance, just slightly, and look what happened. She’d been unable to stop herself. Sweet Jesus!

‘I can’t do this!’ I wailed, throwing my hands over my face.

‘Oh thank Christ for that!’ cried Mands, grabbing my arm and pulling me out of my chair with such force that she very nearly propelled me up onto the reception desk.

‘She’s changed her mind, thank God!’ called out Lizzie to the receptionist, as they both frog-marched me out the front door, one on each arm.

‘Right,’ said Mands, as we sat back in the car. ‘Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen and go and have a nice glass of wine.’

‘Good idea,’ agreed Lizzie.

I would never forget that women’s image, it would forever be burned onto my retinas. I would never, as long as I lived or as hard as I tried, be able to erase those enormous lips from my memory bank. I could only assume she had been some sort of sign from above, sent down to stop me having a nose job, eyelift, and subtle cheek implants. Someone really didn’t want me to go under the knife. Not yet. It was funny though, I’d always assumed I would jump under the knife at some point in my life. Give things a subtle perking up when they got a bit saggy round the edges. But clearly my body wasn’t ready to take the plunge just yet. However, something simply had to happen. Something to stop me hiding inside my apartment twenty-four hours a day like some criminal under house arrest. Something to make the vultures outside leave me in peace. And something to stop me from going completely and utterly insane.

8

You finally get used to sitting at the bottom of the barrel, like a rotten apple, and then someone above thinks it’d be a right old laugh to knock the bottom out of it. See how she thinks she’s hit rock bottom? Well, look a little closer and you’ll see she’s not quite there. Not yet. There’s still a good couple of inches left for her to fall!

I looked at my picture on the front page of the newspaper. And then I looked again.

Oh. My. God. I thought to myself, staring at it in complete disbelief.

Printed on the page was a large close-up shot of my face as I reached into my letterbox - my enormous glasses, my mouth, and my nose. And also my left index finger. My head was bent down and my finger was scratching the bottom of my nose. Only, with the camera angle, well…well it looked as though I was picking it.

Oh, it just doesn’t get any worse than this! I despaired. It just doesn’t! Here I was on the front page of
The Daily Telegraph
with my finger up my nose. Clearly the bastard had waited until I’d scratched my nose to take the picture. Asshole. I read the byline underneath in horror…

Perhaps Samantha Steel should pick her beaus more carefull
y.

Oh great. That’s just fanbloodytastic. I bet the subeditor clapped their slimy little hands together when they thought of that one.

I slammed my forehead down onto the dining table. It hurt.

That’s it then, I told myself. You will never be able to step foot outside this apartment ever again. You will simply have to grow old and die here. I banged my forehead onto the table a couple more times for good measure, until it really began to throb.

I was still sitting slumped in the chair, head down, when my phone rang half an hour later.

‘Hi sweets.’ It was Lizzie. ‘Um…’

‘Save the ums, Lizzie. I’ve seen it.’

‘You have?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

‘Looks a wee bit like you’re…’

‘I wasn’t picking my nose, I was scratching it!’

‘I know, I know. Bit of an unfortunate angle though.’

‘The bastards.’

‘Look…it’s not that bad,’ she soothed.

‘Not that bad? It’s a bloody disaster, that’s what it is! I’m on the front of the newspaper picking my nose!’

‘People will know you’re just scratching it,’ placated Lizzie.

‘I have to get out of this city!’ I wailed. ‘I can’t stand this anymore!’

And I really and truly couldn’t. I was at my wits’ end. At breaking point. It seemed fleeing the city was my only hope of holding on to any glimmer of sanity.

‘Hold on sweets,’ said Lizzie. ‘We’re working on it.’

An hour later, after receiving phone calls from my mother, Susie and Vicky, all of whom also thought I was picking my nose, I had a call from Mands.

‘Now,’ she said, the serious tone of event management resounding in her voice. ‘I’ve found the perfect place for you to hide out for a while. It belongs to my Uncle Sten.’

‘Where is it?’ I asked.

‘Floodgate.’

‘Where’s that?’ I’d never heard of it.

‘About four hours south.’

‘Is it a city?’

‘Not exactly. More like a…ah…small town.’

‘Does your uncle have a house there?’ I asked.

‘Ah…not exactly…more of a cabin-type thing.’

‘A cabin?’

‘Yes…but it’s very cute and rustic…apparently.’

‘Apparently? You mean you haven’t been there?’

‘Well…no.’

‘What does he use it for?’

‘Hunting…mainly.’

‘Hunting?’

‘Look,’ said Mands, ‘it might be a bit rough around the edges, but at least no one will find you there. And there’s no phone for reporters to ring and harass you.’

No phone. This was good news.

‘There’s no television either, so you won’t have to look at yourself.’

That was a definite plus.

‘I don’t even think there are any shops, which means no face in trashy magazines either.’

‘No shops?’

Surely there were shops?

‘Well…perhaps a couple.’

‘So, what do you think?’

‘Okay…I guess.’

‘Cheer up, dolls,’ encouraged Mands. ‘You won’t be there long, probably only a month. Just until it all settles down.’

‘If it ever does.’

‘It will,’ she promised. ‘Don’t worry. Plus, Lizzie and I will come and visit you. Lots.’

‘You’d better.’

‘Course we will. Now, we have to organise getting you out of this city ASAP. I think we can get you out by the end of the week. Can you hang on for that long?’

‘Just,’ I replied.

‘It’s tight, but we can do it,’ said Mands, sounding even more like resident master and commander. ‘I’ll start making plans. All you need to do is organise your work. And pack.’

‘Okay.’

‘And remember,’ instructed Mands. ‘Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.
No one
,’ she repeated.

After hanging up from Mands I phoned Gareth straightaway.

‘Gareth. It’s Sam.’

‘Hello. Just been looking at you on the front of the paper again. Not a very flattering pic, is it?’

Great. Was there anyone who hadn’t seen it?

‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s not. Look Gareth, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to leave town for a while. Until this whole drama settles down.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know,’ I sighed. ‘A month…possibly longer.’

‘Really? Where are you going to go?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t say. Top secret. But I’ll be taking my laptop and phone with me and I’ll be contactable. And I’ll do as much work as I can.’

‘Okay,’ said Gareth. ‘I think it’s probably for the best. I assume Erica can cover your client contact while you’re gone?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, although it worried me just thinking about it.

I was sure my client contact wasn’t the only thing she’d have her sticky little fingers into while I was gone. But what choice did I have?

‘Just keep in touch Sam,’ said Gareth. ‘And take care.’

‘I will. I promise,’ I replied. ‘And thank you.’

Maybe Floodgate wasn’t that small? I consoled myself. Perhaps it was one of those thriving little romantic towns with exquisite restaurants and wealthy tourists?

I searched for it on google maps, which was no small feat.

Small? I gaped at the webpage in horror. It was practically invisible! Floodgate consisted of four roads, which were surrounded by blank green screen as far as the eye could see.

What the hell was I going to do? I wondered.

I walked to the window and opened the curtain a sliver. Although it was now eight o’clock and dark outside there were still five vultures standing beside the front gate.

You’ve got no choice, I told myself. You have to go. I glanced forlornly around my apartment. I felt as though I was about to be shipped off to prison. But at least the prison was in the city.

Five more days of entrapment later, Departure Day arrived. It had been almost two months since the fateful night I had slept with Alistair Ambrose. Mands had enlisted helpers for the evacuation mission. Her assistant Charlie, Lizzie of course, my parents and my two sisters. They had all met at Mands’ apartment last night to run through procedure. I wasn’t allowed to attend, for fear I would attract the vultures. Mands had drawn up a schedule of duties and no one was permitted to leave her apartment until they could recite it. Blindfolded, backwards, or from any other unnecessary angle. Apparently I was a bit like President Obama surprising the troops in Iraq. They had to make people believe I was heading to Camp David, when in fact I was flying to the other side of the world.

After a sleepless night I opened the curtain a crack and peered out my bedroom window. There were the usual morning crew outside - standing about and chatting to each other, coffee and cigarettes in hand, as if they were on a bloody film set and not imprisoning an innocent woman. I got dressed and stashed as many necessary possessions as I could fit into my Prada tote bag. I wasn’t allowed to pack a suitcase, Mands had stipulated, as this would give the plan away. Whatever the plan was. Instead, she and Lizzie had been gradually removing some of my clothes on their visits over the past few days, putting on extra layers and filling their handbags. These clothes were now somewhere en route, waiting for me to catch up with them. Mands and Lizzie promptly arrived. Mands was in her event management element. She was wearing diamante studded combat pants, a black polo-neck jersey and trainers, and looking every inch the Little General. The feminine version.