by Sandy Barker
‘Oh, you have no idea,’ I reply, and we both dissolve into quiet giggles as the lift doors open. I step inside, followed by Jack, and this time, I keep my billowing sleeves well away from the giant jaws of death.
Chapter Four
‘Go back to Jack again. I want to hear more about the gorgeous Australian,’ says Lisa.
‘He’s not …’ Oh, who am I fooling? After spending several hours with Jack at the café across the road from Feed Your Mind, Jack is absolutely ‘the gorgeous Australian’. My blossoming crush was solidified when he offered to buy my coffee and the blueberry muffin I was eyeing in the glass cabinet next to the till.
I called Lisa as soon as I got home. It went to voicemail, of course―with her being a super spy, she never answers my calls during work hours. She is now ensconced on my tatty (but loved) sofa, peering at me curiously over the rim of her wine glass. We’re drinking fizz, which she insisted on bringing, even though I’m only fifty-seven per cent certain there’s anything to celebrate, and most of that number is because of Jack and Sydney―and the thought of spending time with Jack in Sydney.
‘Am I being ridiculous?’ I ask.
She blinks at me and lowers her glass, nestling it between cupped hands. I only have one set of wine glasses, giant globes, and no matter what we’re drinking, Lisa insists on filling them to the equator. There’s almost half a bottle in each glass, but my thoughts of fizz and equators are simply a distraction. Despite having asked it, I don’t want to ponder my own question―deep down, I already know the answer.
‘How do you mean?’ she prompts. I purse my lips and blow out a long breath, my gaze fixed on the stack of tabloid magazines I subscribe to for work. ‘Abs?’
I leap off the sofa, taking my glass with me, and start pacing the (short) length of my lounge-dining-kitchenette. ‘Two days ago, I was a staff writer at an online tabloid.’
‘You still are,’ she interjects. I flash her a shushing look and she raises a hand in apology―she knows better than to interrupt a ‘talk it through’ monologue. ‘Continue.’
‘Two days ago, I was a staff writer at an online tabloid,’ I start again (it’s always the best way), ‘and now I’m supposed to embrace my tabloid writer status and dive even deeper into the muck.’ She goes to say something but stops herself. ‘But what if this Stag caper cements my position at Feed Your Mind and I can never, ever break away from there?’ My voice pitches, sounding screechy and desperate, and I take a sip of fizz.
‘All right, I know it’s against the rules, but I’m going to stop you there,’ she says. I cease pacing. ‘Well, keep pacing if it helps.’ It does so I do, looping my finger in the air to tell her to continue. ‘So, you go, you write your recaps, you enjoy being schlepped about Sydney―because let’s face it, those shows spare no expense when it comes to excursions―and you write the exposé you mentioned … I think that’s the part you should focus on.’
‘Really?’
‘Abs, it’s a brilliant idea. And just think, you could get picked up by The Guardian, or The Conversation or The New Yorker! Imagine the doors that could open and then you’d be able to leave Feed Your Mind. For good.’
‘But what if it all blows up in my face?’
‘What do you mean?’
I sigh out another long breath and deposit my glass on the table. ‘Well, the plan is to pretend to be someone else, Doe Abby, while writing recaps as Anastasia Blabbergasted, while also writing an exposé as me, Abigail Jones the journalist. That’s a lot of versions of myself to keep track of. What if I’m rubbish at all the role playing and deception? I’m not you,’ I say, alluding to her spy status. She rolls her eyes, but I note that she doesn’t correct me and I continue.
‘But I mean it, Lise, what if I screw up and let something slip? Or worse? What if the Stag is gorgeous and lovely and I fall madly in love with him, only I’m not me, I’m Doe Abby and I can’t write my exposé, because I’ve gone and done the one thing I wasn’t supposed to do―fall in love with the Stag!’
‘All right, now you’re just catastrophising.’ She’s right. I’m whipping myself into quite a state, a sure-fire way to trigger a panic attack. I join her on the sofa and reach for my water bottle, downing a generous slug.
‘And, Abs, you’re forgetting something.’ I look at her. ‘Jack.’
Oh, right, Jack. Who needs the Stag when there’s lovely, lovely Jack, with the floppy hair, gorgeous green eyes, and that ‘misbehaving’ T-shirt? Oh dear, I am in massive trouble. ‘And what about the makeover this Roberta woman is insisting on?’ she asks.
‘Hmm?’ I heard her, I just don’t want to tear my thoughts away from Jack.
‘What does that entail exactly? Did Jack say?’
‘I did ask, but he was a little vague on the details. He just said something about a spa day and hair and makeup. Honestly, Lise, every time I think about that part, I get an even squidgier tum. What if at the end of it I’m not me anymore.’
‘It’s probably just a little zhuzhing, that’s all. I mean, you’re already gorgeous,’ she says, indicating the blob of insecurity that is me.
‘I can’t tell if you’re taking the piss or not.’ My mind? Incredible―a word I can say in four languages, by the way. My looks? Er, not so much.
‘Abs, no! You’re a natural beauty―I’ve told you that so many times! You’ve got perfect skin, those big brown eyes, curves for days―and your gorgeous, glossy hair. You know I’d kill for your natural highlights―instead, I pay squillions for mine.’
I eye her suspiciously, but don’t detect a shred of insincerity. ‘Will you come with me?’ I ask.
‘What, to the makeover?’
I nod. ‘Just to make sure they don’t go overboard.’
‘Of course! I’d be happy to.’ I’m awash with relief. ‘I’ll be your bodyguard―get it? Your bodyguard.’ She waggles her eyebrows at me. It’s a good thing I’m the writer in our relationship. Her jokes are dreadful.
‘Oh! I’ve just remembered, Jack also said I’ll meet with a personal shopper―and that I’ve got an allowance for clothes.’
‘Well, that’s not terrible. Just focus on that,’ she says, taking another sip of fizz.
She’s right. I’m in this come what may and I should think of it in terms of what I’ll gain, not what could go wrong. There’s Sydney, there’s Jack, and it will be nice to have some proper clothes. So, several major concerns dispelled and I’m now hovering around eighty per cent sure that this is something to celebrate.
But what about the other twenty per cent? When will that get on board?
It’s been two months since that fateful meeting in Prue’s office and it’s makeover day. Since receiving this (bizarre) assignment, I’ve oscillated so many times between calm acceptance and abject terror, that I’ve discovered a new form of motion sickness―emotion sickness.
And as Lisa and I wait for the town car to collect us, I’ve gone from a squidgy tum to a squidgy bum. I have literally run to the loo three times in the past half-an-hour.
‘Good god, Abs, sit down, will you? You’re making me dizzy.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, reaching for my water bottle.
‘Are you all right? You look …’ her eyes narrow ‘… not good―greenish.’
‘I’m just nervous, that’s all.’
‘I promise I’m not going to let them do anything drastic.’
‘No, not about that. I mean, yes, a little, but this makes it real. Lise, I’m flying to Australia next week. I’m really doing this.’
‘It’s not too late to back out,’ she says, perhaps to be helpful. It’s not.
‘That’s just the thing, though. There is no “out”. I’ve signed the contract. And look.’ I go to my desk and retrieve the dossier Roberta had couriered over a couple of days ago. I hand over a folder marked ‘Confidential’ across it in large red letters and watch as Lisa flicks through page and after page of Doe Abby’s backstory, her brow creased.
‘This is quite … uh
…’
‘“Comprehensive” is the word you’re looking for,’ I say.
She looks up at me and breaks into a grin―a completely different reaction to what I was expecting. ‘Abs, this is brilliant.’
‘What? How so?’ I join her on my sofa and poke an unmanicured nail at a random detail. ‘Look at this. Apparently, I grew up in a manor―a manor! They’ve essentially given me your background.’
‘That’s what I mean, Abs, if anything comes up that you’re not quite sure of, you can message me―I’ll be your de Bergerac.’
‘Well, obvs I’ve already thought of that,’ I say, my tone a little sarky (but isn’t that what besties are for―loving us even when we’re behaving badly?) ‘But you’re forgetting one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll be in a technology-free zone―total blackout. We’re not allowed phone calls, text messages, media, social media, anything. For two months!’ I screech.
‘Oh, Cadmus, I will absolutely screw this up,’ I think as I ride the pendulum back towards abject terror.
‘Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, my friend,’ says Lisa. ‘You are Abigail Effing Jones and you are not going on this stupid-pathetic-awful show because you want to win or “find love”’ ―her voice drips with cynicism― ‘or any of that nonsense. You are there undercover. And, of course, you’re going to have access to a phone or a laptop or something―how else do they expect you to write your recaps?’
For someone with a brilliant mind, I can be very dim. It’s the one question I’ve never asked―how will I communicate with the outside world―or, at least with Prue?
‘Give it,’ I say, practically tearing the folder from Lisa’s hands. I start flicking through all the pages―Doe Abby’s bio and backstory, bios and backstories on all the other Does, each with photographs―this is pure platinum right here in my hands―and there it is, at the back, a single sheet of paper entitled, ‘Provisions’. I lift it from the folder, the rest of the contents lying on my lap and threatening to spill onto the floor in an avalanche of private information.
I scan the one-pager and my eyes settle on words like ‘private office’, ‘internet access’, ‘mobile telephone’, and ‘viewing privileges’.
As I said, I’ve been dim. I had it in my head that I’d write my recaps on scraps of ill-gotten paper or some loo roll, then leave them in a pot plant for someone to retrieve, then send to Prue. I’m not sure who I was imagining that ‘someone’ would be―perhaps a spy-like person, someone like Lisa.
‘See?’ she asks, reading over my shoulder.
‘You were right,’ I admit, never one to stubbornly hold a position I know is wrong. But this just consolidates what I am already most fearful of. ‘I’m going to be rubbish at all this sneaking about,’ I add, glumly.
‘You are not. You’re the smartest person I know. You’re so, so clever, and where do you think Anastasia comes from, anyway? That brilliant, sassy bitch is you, Abs. You’ve got this in the bag, no question.’
‘But it says in there that I can ride a horse―a horse! You know I’m terrified of horses,’ I say, my voice wavering. It’s true. Lisa took me horse riding on her family estate once. Five minutes in, I was tossed into the air by a prize mare, resulting in a trip to A&E to see if I’d broken my ankle or merely sprained it.
‘So what? It’s The Stag. Even if there is any horse riding, it will probably be at a hobby farm or something. You know, with those horses that are trained to follow each other around a set trail. And besides, Jack knows this is all make-believe. He won’t make you ride a horse if you tell him you’re afraid, all right?’ She runs a soothing hand up and down my back.
‘Look, the car will be here soon,’ she continues. ‘This is supposed to be the fun part, Abs―a spa day, then meeting your personal shopper. Uh, hellooo, this is the Pretty Woman part. Do you really want to spend the day all tied up in knots?’
I look at my best friend, one of only two people in the world who I would do anything for, and I am overwhelmed by the kind (but tough) love I see in her eyes.
‘Oh, fuck it,’ I say, and she bursts out laughing; it’s not often that I break out the profanity. ‘Let’s go and have a fabulous day and forget about all this nonsense.’
Her smile tells me that she knows this is bravado but she’ll indulge me and go along with it―which is exactly why she’s my best friend.
‘You have ze skin of infant. Perfection.’ Nadia is a striking, dark-haired, pale-eyed Russian woman with cheekbones you could use to cut diamonds. She’s also my beauty therapist and after that comment, we’re off to a good start.
She has my chin clasped between her strong fingers and is examining me―well, my face―intensely. Occasionally, she makes a guttural sound in the back of her throat, which I am taking as approval.
‘Ve vill do deep cleanse, zen intense moisture, zen brows―make zose brown eyes pop. Zen mani-pedi, of course. Everyzing else―is makeup. I vill teach,’ she adds with a wink. Oh, I am definitely Team Nadia. I wonder if I can talk Jack into flying her down to Sydney for the next couple of months.
‘Oh, and bikini,’ she adds, seemingly as an afterthought.
‘Bikini?’
‘Da, I do wax―make very tidy.’
Oh. I deflate a little. I’ve never had a bikini wax before. I’ve always been … er … natural.
‘Now, lie back,’ she commands.
I do, soon losing myself in the soothing motions of lathering and slathering as she gets to work on my face. I hear the occasional flicking of a magazine page―my only tether to the real world and a reminder that Lisa is right there with me―but I slip into an almost meditative state. Even the brow shaping doesn’t impede my Zen. There’s something almost comforting about the tugging sensation as Nadia runs the dual threads across my brow arches.
‘Okay. Up now.’ I blink my eyes open―that cannot have been an hour―and slowly sit up.
‘Oh, Abs, your brows look amazing!’ Lisa drops In Style into her lap and smiles at me encouragingly.
‘Here.’ No-nonsense Nadia hands me a mirror and I regard my reflection. My skin looks better than I’ve ever seen it and I have a natural flush in my cheeks that makes me look almost pretty. But my eyebrows! Lisa is right; they look great, framing my eyes perfectly.
‘Is pop, yes?’ asks Nadia, pursing her lips at me and nodding in admiration of her own work.
‘Is pop,’ I reply, mirroring her syntax.
She nods at me in approval. ‘Mani-pedi now. Come.’
‘Er, I was thinking, what if we did the bikini wax now?’ She arches an eyebrow at me. ‘It’s just that I’m a little nervous about it and I’ve heard that it hurts … er … a bit. So, if we do that first, then the mani-pedi is like a reward, yes?’
A little scowl appears, disappearing almost instantly as she nods at me again. ‘Strip,’ she commands. ‘Bottom half only.’ My eyes fly to Lisa’s in a panic. Surely, I can leave my knickers on and we can work around them? ‘Everyzing,’ adds Nadia confirming my fears.
‘I’ll excuse myself for this part, Abs,’ says my best friend, abandoning me. But I suppose watching a stranger pour hot wax on my vulva and tear out my pubic hair is beyond the boundary of our friendship.
Fifteen minutes later, Nadia has ‘made tidy’ and I’m left wondering if there is a lollypop big enough to make up for that much pain. I cast my eyes about―no jar of lollipops, but I do have the mani-pedi to look forward to before hair with Günter. Oh, god, I hope he doesn’t want to do anything drastic, like giving me a pixie cut. But that’s why I brought Lisa, so she could step in if they try to turn me into ‘not me’.
But this isn’t about me, I remind myself. This is about creating Doe Abby and maybe she has a pixie cut. Gah!
‘Oh, Abs,’ says Lisa for the umpteenth time today, though I really don’t mind. As my makeover progresses, each reveal has been more and more surprising―in a good way―and now I’m actually enjoying myself.
My
time with Günter ended up being brilliant. He was a straight talker with warm, friendly eyes, and he took one look at my anxious grimace then assured me I had nothing to worry about. ‘Your hair is gorgeous,’ he said, ‘great colour, good condition. I’m thinking just a light trim and adding some layers to frame your face. How does that sound?’ I sighed with relief and grinned at him in the mirror, nodding vigorously.
When he spun me around an hour later, I eyed myself curiously in the large mirror, acknowledging that with Nadia’s makeup and his expert styling, I looked pretty. Like me, but pretty.
This latest reveal is the work of Caitriona, my personal shopper. I’m wearing dark-wash jeans, a silky cream-coloured shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and heeled espadrilles. ‘Perfect for a casual date,’ says Caitriona. ‘And you can dress up the shirt with those trousers you tried on earlier.’
I gaze at myself in the three-way mirror. Is it completely narcissistic that I’ve got a girl crush on Doe Abby? It’s just that I’ve never looked this good in my life. And seeing how perfectly these jeans accentuate my curves, I have an epiphany. A good fit makes all the difference. Maybe after I get back from Sydney, I’ll splurge on decent clothes once in a while―clothes that actually fit, rather than ten-pound ‘mom jeans’ from Sainsbury’s.
‘Right,’ says Caitriona, as she scrolls the list on her iPad. ‘I think that’s everything.’ I should hope so―we’ve been at this for hours and the ‘yes’ pile is enormous; I’m so glad The Stag is footing the bill. I have casual outfits, smart-casual outfits, dresses for day, dresses for evening, several pairs of shoes, a swimsuit. And if I thought finding the perfect jeans was a minor miracle (and it is), Caitriona found the holy grail of swimsuits―it looks good and it supports my boobs!
‘Oh, wait,’ she says, ‘just bras and knickers left.’
My shoulders slump―I hate shopping for bras and knickers. Until now―bikini wax not included―my entire day has been like a movie makeover montage. Why did we save the worst part for last? Again―bikini wax not included.
