Famous (31 page)

What if I’d no food left? I thought in horror. I did, but I was just taking a moment to exaggerate the situation. I’d starve, that’s what. And then I’d sue this town! Providing I was still alive of course.

From now on I was simply going to have to make a better effort to stock up and be prepared for The Closing. It’d be like preparing for some sort of civil emergency, cans of baked beans stacked sky high on every shelf. I was just annoyed there’d be no date scone for me today, I had come to love them. I stood on the footpath for a few more minutes and definitely saw a couple of tumbleweeds roll past this time. Then I drove back home and made myself a cup of tea, sans scone. I spent the rest of the day reading, lazing about and generally recovering from my morning hike. I contemplated checking my emails, but for some unknown reason decided against it. They could wait.

I spent the following week working at the tiny kitchen table, interrupted only by my morning-tea excursions to Elsie’s café and a daily walk. It was surprising how much work one could accomplish when one didn’t have numerous people asking one a succession of stupid questions. I felt as though, for the first time in over a year, I was finally getting on top of my workload. It helped that I didn’t have to leave my laptop for time-consuming meetings or ad shoots.

Friday evening took far too long to arrive. I couldn’t wait to see the girls. I had now been living in rural isolation for exactly two weeks and I was beyond the point of loneliness. I had even begun to converse with myself, on a regular basis. I picked some wild lilies from the roadside and scattered them about the cabin, in a pitiful attempt to make it more feminine and welcoming, and less like the hunters’ trophy shack it was. Then I opened one of my two remaining bottles of wine in anticipation and rustled up three mismatched glasses.

I had polished off the bottle by the time they finally arrived. They were two hours late when I spotted Mands’ headlights inching up the driveway and went outside to greet them.

‘Bloody road signs!’ cried Lizzie, climbing out of the car.

‘We got lost.’

‘Gathered that,’ I replied, giving her a huge hug.

‘I need a drink,’ sighed Mands, collapsing into my arms.

‘She hit an animal,’ explained Lizzie. ‘Not coping very well.’

‘You mean I
killed
an animal,’ corrected Mands.

‘Sorry, correction, killed.’

‘What sort of animal?’ I asked, hoping like hell she hadn’t run over one of the neighbour’s farm dogs.

‘A brown furry one,’ said Lizzie. ‘Something nocturnal.’

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Back there…somewhere,’ said Mands, waving her hand. ‘It all looks the bloody same to me. Pitch black and no houses.’

‘It wasn’t very pretty,’ said Lizzie. ‘It just sort of sat down in the middle of the road and stared up at us as we ran over it.’

‘With its big scared eyes,’ wailed Mands.

‘And then it sort of went bump under the car,’ added Lizzie.

‘So I pulled over,’ continued Mands, ‘and we went and had a look with the phone.’

‘The what?’

‘My phone’s got a little torch on it.’

‘I see.’

‘And…’ faltered Mands.

‘And it was mashed all over the road,’ finished Lizzie, clearly enjoying herself. ‘Like a can of guavas.’

‘Please!’ said Mands.

‘Sorry.’

‘Okay, come in and let’s sit you down with a vino then,’ I said, leading Mands by the hand. ‘And don’t forget the dog,’ I said to Lizzie.

Louie was sitting solemnly in the back seat, looking every inch the condemned prisoner. He continued to sit there even when Lizzie opened the door to let him out. Eventually she grabbed him by the collar and hauled him inside.

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Mands, when we got inside under the lights. ‘Your hair!’

After two weeks I had become immune to my red hair. In fact, I’d even become rather used to it.

‘Hells bells!’ cried Lizzie, also seeing it for the first time.

They both touched it, to make sure it was real, and then they stepped back.

‘It looks…well…a bit wrong doesn’t it?’ said Mands.

‘You’re the one who bloody well picked the colour,’ I reminded her.

‘I don’t think so, sweets,’ said Lizzie, cocking her head to one side. ‘I think it suits you. It’s just different, that’s all.’

I couldn’t tell if she was being honest or just kind.

‘You look a bit like Nicole Kidman,’ she added.

Obviously she was just being kind.

I watched as Mands and Lizzie evaluated their new surroundings.

‘Bloody hell!’ declared Mands. ‘He said it was basic but he didn’t say it was a shack!’

‘A little on the rough side,’ agreed Lizzie, although the look on her face indicated it was quite substantially on the rough side.

‘A real fire!’ she exclaimed, noticing the blazing fire in the hearth.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Who lit that?’ she asked, looking around. ‘Have you got a bloke living here already?’

‘No,’ I replied proudly. ‘I lit it.’

Against all odds I had managed to light a fire every night for the past week.

‘Get out!’ said Mands, suddenly cheering up. ‘No you didn’t!’

‘Yes. I did,’ I confirmed.

‘Hell!’ said Mands. ‘Unbelievable! Who taught you then?’

‘No one. I taught myself.’

‘Go on! You’re having us on!’ said Lizzie.

‘No, I’m bloody not,’ I replied.

Did they really think I was incapable of lighting a fire? Well, okay, a couple of weeks ago I was. But nothing enhances your ability to learn like freezing your tits off.

‘It’s just a fire,’ I added. ‘It’s not that hard, you know.’

I had a sudden flashback to my second night in the cabin, lying on the floor, furtively blowing into the fading embers, tears streaming down my face. Well, maybe it was a bit hard.

They glanced sideways at each other, a strange smirk on both of their faces.

‘She’s going all
Survivor
on us,’ said Mands. ‘She’ll be voting us out of here next.’

She clocked the antlers hanging on the wall. ‘Christ alive! The man’s a mass murderer!’

‘And you’re related to him,’ I added.

‘I had no idea,’ said Mands. ‘He always seemed so normal.’

‘That’s not the worst of it,’ I said, showing her the stuffed rabbits in the bedroom.

‘I’m not sleeping with those,’ she wailed. ‘Get them the hell down!’

I lifted them off the wall and shoved them into the bottom of the wardrobe.

‘Is that a bunk?’ she asked, noticing the bedroom furniture.

‘Yes.’

‘And I’m sleeping on that?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m gonna fall off and kill myself.’

‘Why don’t you put the rabbits on the floor to break your fall?’ suggested Lizzie.

‘Very funny,’ said Mands. ‘I’d like to see you sleep on that thing.’

‘I’m sleeping with you,’ whispered Lizzie in my ear.

‘I heard that,’ said Mands. ‘Which is fine by me because we all know you snore.’

Lizzie and I laughed. We both knew it was Mands who snored when she’d had a few. Like a trooper. Over the years we had both thrown various cushions, pillows, and anything else within arm’s reach which wasn’t going to cause serious head injury at her, in a vain attempt to make her wake up and shut up. Invariably she stopped for about two minutes before roaring straight into it again. It was astounding how something so small and petite could make so much noise.

‘Where’s the toilet?’ asked Lizzie, popping her head into the tiny bathroom. ‘Absolutely busting.’

‘Um…’ I replied.

They both turned and looked at me.

‘Um what?’ said Lizzie. ‘Have you broken the toilet already?’

‘No, it’s just…um…’

‘Spit it out!’ cried Lizzie. ‘Or I’m going to pee on the floor.’

‘It’s outside,’ I replied. There was no easy way to say it.

‘Outside as in outside the back door?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Yes…sort of.’

‘Please,’ said Mands. ‘The suspense is killing me.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ said Lizzie.

I grabbed the torch and took them outside the kitchen door and pointed across the glass clearing, at the small shed. They both stared back at me, eyes wide with disbelief and jaws agape.

‘But…’ started Mands.

‘…it’s a shed,’ finished Lizzie.

‘Technically it’s a long drop,’ I corrected her.

‘Is that the only toilet?’ she asked, childlike desperation in her voice.

She was obviously hoping I was telling a big fat lie and somewhere back inside the tiny cabin there was a spanking new porcelain amenity waiting just for her.

‘Yes,’ I replied solemnly. ‘It’s the only one.’

‘That uncle of mine’s got a lot to answer for,’ declared Mands, walking back inside.

Lizzie stood staring at the long drop for a few more minutes, too scared to take a step towards it.

‘Come on,’ I urged, grabbing her by the hand. ‘It’s not that bad, and I’ve even cleaned it for you.’

And I had too, wearing rubber gloves up to my armpits and whilst dry-retching.

She didn’t look convinced.

‘Okay,’ she reluctantly agreed. ‘But you have to do a check for rats and wait outside the door for me.’

‘Okay,’ I agreed, swinging open the old door.

With a little shove she was inside, torch at the ready.

‘See, it’s not so bad, is it?’ I called as I stood outside.

‘It’s fucking horrific,’ replied Lizzie, who sounded as though she was trying to squat above the toilet seat rather than sit on it. ‘I am going to voluntarily constipate myself.’

Upon our return and after the girls had calmed their shattered nerves with a couple of wines, we set about unloading the car. I was as eager to get my supplies as a deserted ship rat.

They had done extremely well. Even the track pants were decidedly non-revolting for, well, a pair of track pants. The girls had gone completely overboard on the liquid front. There was a crate of hand-selected wine, and a crate of champers.

‘Just to get you through the next couple of weeks,’ they said, as we lugged them inside.

‘And the moisturiser?’ I asked.

‘In the bag,’ said Lizzie.

‘Oh thank God!’ I exclaimed, pulling it out. ‘You don’t know how happy I am to see this!’

‘Settle down dolls,’ said Mands, looking at me sideways.

I had run out of moisturiser nearly a week ago, and had since had to resort to using what I could find at the local pharmacy-slash-hardware shop, the cheap concoction a shock to my poor pampered skin.

As a succession of goodies piled up on the table, it appeared the girls had done better than just extremely well. They had outdone themselves. There were gorgeous cheeses; smoked salmon; a selection of antipasto delights — marinated olives, artichokes and mussels; fresh berries; croissants and baguettes; and chocolate liqueurs. And piles and piles of magazines. I lunged across the table at the latest
Vanity Fair
and gave the cover a smooch.

‘Easy,’ said Mands, taking the magazine from me.

Louie spent the first hour sitting in the corner of the cabin, staring at us.

‘Shouldn’t you be sniffing around or something?’ I encouraged him. ‘Marking your territory?’

‘Ignore him,’ said Mands. ‘He’s just pining for attention.’

But he didn’t look as though he was pining for attention. He just looked like he was, well, depressed.

‘He’s been Mr Morose the whole bloody trip,’ said Mands.

‘A real sack of sad.’

‘Come on Louie!’ urged Lizzie. ‘At least make yourself look comfortable,’ she said, leading him to the tatty rug beside the couch and making him lie down. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’

But Louie just looked up at her blankly, with no change in his expression or desire to roll over and have his tummy scratched.

Once all of my goodies had been unpacked I set about opening several delicatessen containers and whipping us up a delicious antipasto platter. Mands set about updating me on my gossip.

‘Well,’ she started. ‘It’s way better than last week. The
Telegraph
are now convinced you are in Fiji. Apparently there’s been a couple of sightings of you there.’

‘They even printed a picture of you lying in a bikini on a sandy beach,’ added Lizzie.

‘How did I look?’ I asked.

‘Lovely and skinny,’ they replied. ‘And brown.’

‘Fabulous. Can I see the papers?’ I asked, as we sat down at the rickety table.

‘Here we go,’ said Mands, passing me the last two weeks’ clippings from the
Telegraph
and the
Morning Sun.

‘Some days they don’t even mention you at all,’ said Lizzie.

‘The very odd one,’ I replied, staring at the stack of paper clippings before me.

‘Oh,’ said Mands. ‘And there’s…this.’

‘But perhaps you don’t want to read that right now,’ cautioned Lizzie.

‘Give it here,’ I instructed.

And there, on the cover of this week’s
Modern Woman
was Mother Teresa herself, Mrs Alistair Ambrose, with the words
My Pain and Agony
emblazoned underneath her Mona Lisa-like photo.

Not again, I thought to myself. Please God.

‘Steady,’ cautioned Mands.

I took another gulp of wine.