“Nah.” He laughed. “At least a prostitute gets paid.”
I frowned. “What? I don’t get it.”
“OK,” he said, as if he was Dad giving in to my pleas to be told the facts of life. “Girls like Paris target guys like us – so they end up getting used and abused.”
“Yeah, right, by having loads of money thrown at them for Versace dresses?” I scoffed.
“That’s nothing to Terry, princess. He makes that kind of money sitting on the toilet. But when he wants to get serious, she’ll get binned and he’ll find himself a proper girl.”
“Oh. Right.” It hadn’t occurred to me that footballers actually knew they were being targeted by WAG wannabes. I suppose that’s why Malibu invented the Charter – a way to make it look like she couldn’t care less about pulling one. (When it’s actually all she’s been thinking about for the past five years.)
“So … what am I to you then?” I asked.
We’d just pulled up outside my house. Robbie turned to me, gently touched my face and said, “You’re the real thing, princess. Wife material.”
And then he kissed me and kissed me and kiss–ssssssssed me!
Friday 11 July – 7.30 a.m.
Had a crappy night’s sleep. Can’t help thinking that Robbie will go elsewhere if I hold out for another five and a half weeks, like Malibu says I should. It’s not like he’ll be short of offers. Nearly SIX WEEKS? That’s a blooming lifetime!! Besides, I’m not sure I need to keep it up. If he thinks I’m wife material, that means the WAG Charter has already worked. Job done.
What2do? What2do?
7.30 p.m.
Wow! Just finished making Mum up, and it was HER who asked ME to do it. Almost had a heart attack.
“What’s brought this on?” I asked.
“Nothing special,” she said, but her eyes twinkled, so I figured she wanted to please Dad.
First, I applied a grey eye shadow to make her blue eyes stand out, then a bit of silver in the arch of her eyebrow, black mascara, bronzing to the cheekbones and a touch of melon-pink lip gloss, and I can honestly say that once I’d finished she looked a million bucks. Just like the old days.
“Thank you, Remy,” she said, gazing into the mirror.
“Pleasure,” I replied.
And it truly was a pleasure to transform someone’s appearance, seeing as I spent most of my time on reception today (even though I’m now a proper beauty therapist). Grr. It’s gutting because I get commission for doing treatments, and I could really do with the extra money. It’ll help pay for all the clothes I have to buy for my dates with Robbie.
In our lunch break I managed to have a word with Malibu about the WAG Charter.
“Do I really, really need to hold out for eight weeks?” I asked after telling her what Robbie had said when he dropped me home.
“I dunno why you want my advice after the mess I’ve made of things, but in my opinion…” She thought about it for a second and then said, “Don’t play games. Just do what you feel.”
Yay!
Then I checked that she was all right, because today all the gossip in the salon seemed to be about Lance and Amy getting married. No one could believe it. And when Malibu’s client – Lorraine the Pain – asked her how she felt about it, Malibu said, “I don’t give a flying fuck.” But I, of course, knew she did.
“Don’t you worry about me,” she said. “I’m going to Gary’s tomorrow night.”
“Really?”
“Yep. The new Posh and Becks mission is back on! Only bigger and better this time. Which is probably why I said you can forget about holding out, because I certainly don’t intend to.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down, then broke into a cheeky grin.
“You minx,” I said. But it was good to see her actually having a laugh.
10 p.m.
Malibu watched a DVD in her room while I watched The Entrepreneur with Mum and Dad. Very surprising episode tonight – the favourite went out. He’s v. posh and called Tristan. “I went to Oxford, you know” was his favourite line. Dad always said, “So bloody what,” but everyone else on the program seemed to worship the ground he walked on. This was the first time he’d been hauled in front of Deborah Gordon, and when she pointed at him and said, “You’re outta here,” Dad clapped and said, “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke. Obnoxious pillock.”
When it was over, Mum went to make a cup of tea and Dad asked me how the business plan was coming along. I felt bad telling him I’d given up, but I couldn’t see a way round it.
“Not great. The start-up cost comes to about forty grand!”
“Forty grand?” he repeated. “That’s toppy for a bit of nail varnish.”
“It’s not just nail varnish, you know! There’s the cost of nail bars, fake tan, wax, facial creams, a laser skin-rejuvenation machine – and they’re dead expensive.”
“What do you need a laser thingamajig for then?”
“Because…” I was going to say “because Kara has one”, but then I realized this wasn’t Kara’s we were talking about. This was MY salon. And I could do anything I wanted.
“It sounds to me like you’re starting too big,” Dad said. “Think of just doing the basics for now, and then you’ve got room to expand.”
I realized he was right.
“And then of course you’ll need less of a loan,” he said, as if it was obvious.
“A loan?”
“Well, that’s what the business plan is for, isn’t it? Or have you come into some money that I don’t know about?” He laughed at his own joke.
“Um… No, of course not,” I said, laughing back. (Thinking: A loan!)
“Right. Less money borrowed means you can pay back earlier. Just make sure you forecast your profits clearly – and realistically, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed, nodding seriously as if I knew what he was talking about.
“Show that you’ll be able to pay off the loan in about three to five years and Bob’s your auntie’s husband.”
He made it sound so–oo simple, but I know it’s going to be hard work. The difference is that now I know I can get a loan, I’m not going to give up.
10.30 p.m.
Yay! I’ve been doing some research for my salon. There’s big money in spray-tan booths. Apparently they’re going to get more and more popular because everyone wants to be brown, but the government are pushing the fact that sunbeds are lethal… Cue the spray tan!
The Feminazi pays us to spray customers, but there are automatic booths that can do it instead. The best one is called Tanarama and it delivers a spray tan in just six minutes! It’s so–oo expensive, though. £15,000! I thought no bloody way am I spending that on one piece of equipment – until I read on the Tanarama website that if you charge £25 per treatment and get fifty customers a week, you’ll make £50,000 a year.
Fifty grand! And you don’t even have to pay a beautician.
I’m going to take Dad’s advice and cut back on the other things I wanted to buy – a laser skin-rejuvenation machine, for a start.
10.45 p.m.
I’ve cracked the budget problem! My salon is going to specialize in three things: nails, tans and waxes. That way I’ll only need a couple of beauticians, because the tanning booth will be like having another two pairs of hands!
Genius.
Now I’m going to look online for a sample business plan so I can learn how to forecast profits. And I’ll make sure I type in basic business plan this time, so I don’t get confused.
Go “quantify” that!
11 p.m.
OMG. Went online and realized I hadn’t checked my emails today. Godfather Alan had sent this:
Hey Remy,
I hope you’re well. I’ve decided to come back sooner rather than later. Hopefully I’ll be there on Sunday.
See you then,
Alan x
Sunday?! That’s like two days away. This is definitely the best week ever!!!!!!
Saturday 1
2 July – 7.40 a.m.
Last night I dreamt about what my salon will look like. I can’t believe it! I’m dating a hot Premiership footballer yet I’m dreaming about Tanarama spray-tan booths and Essie nail colours. Doh!
In my dream, everything was absolutely purrfect. My salon had white side walls and a bright-pink back wall that had a framed sign hanging on it that said: Get your wax done. Get your tan done. Get your nails done. Ta-dah! Hanging from the ceiling was a hu–uuge glitterball that didn’t stop shimmering. But the best bit was that the queue to get in ran out into the street. I wish.
8.29 a.m.
I just called Robbie, because when he phoned last night I was talking like a zombie. (Was right in the middle of looking at business-plan samples.)
“Sorry about last night, babe, I was really stressed out,” I said.
“What’re you stressing about?”
“My business plan.”
“Your business plan for what?” he asked.
“My OWN salon,” I said, making him the second person in the world I’ve ever told.
I waited for him to be impressed, but he just went, “Oh … right.”
He probably still had the hump with me because I really was useless over the phone last night (“uh-huh, hmm, yeah” is basically all I said). So I added quickly, “Anyway, I promise to make it up to you.”
And that perked him up. “Oh yeah? How’re you gonna do that?”
I put on a German accent and said, “I have vays.”
He started to chuckle and everything was all right again. “Well, I’m looking forward to it, princess,” he told me. “Let’s meet up tomorrow, about seven-thirty. I can’t go out tonight – I’ve got a pre-season match tomorrow afternoon.”
“Dealio,” I replied.
“D’you want me to pick you up from yours this time?”
I thought about it. Wouldn’t it be great for Mum to see that I WAS pretty enough to pull a footballer? Surely that would be worth Dad giving him the threatening eyes.
“Great,” I said. “I’ll text you the address. Better go to work now, baby.”
“OK. I’ll bell you later.”
Then the rest of the conversation went like this:
“Bye, babe.”
“Bye, princess…”
“You end the call.”
“No, you end the call.”
“No–ooo, you,” I said.
Then he did.
7 p.m.
Yay! Did two treatments today on people who had just walked in. One simple chin and upper lip wax on a girl who hated the pain so much, she gulped loudly every time I tore away a wax strip. And a pedicure for a lady who had the smelliest feet ever! She was wearing trainers with no socks on, and when she took them off we should have fumigated the whole place. Mouldy Gorgonzola. Yuck!
But apart from that, I had a right laugh. Especially when Blow-dry Sarah came back from the coffee run clutching a copy of Now magazine, waving it about as if it was the last golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.
“Check this out!” she said, slamming the magazine down on the reception desk. Natasha was free, so she came over to see what the fuss was about. The Feminazi was off collecting clean towels and Malibu was at her nail station, mid-manicure but peering across at us.
Blow-dry Sarah rifled through the mag until she got to the “Spotted” page, then pointed to a picture of Sarah Harding coming out of the Orchid Bar.
“She looks great,” I said, wondering what the drama was about.
“Do you think so?” said Natasha. “I’m not sure. She—”
“Not THAT,” Blow-dry Sarah cut in. “THIS!”
She put her finger right on the edge of the picture, and there, way behind Sarah Harding, was an out-of-focus blonde figure in a neon-orange dress. You couldn’t make out the face because it was literally a dot, but it had to be Malibu!
“Look, Mal, you’ve made it!” said Blow-dry, running to Malibu’s nail station to show her the photo.
“So I have,” said Malibu icily.
She was silent for the rest of the day. Until we got out of the salon, that is.
“Do you know how bloody embarrassing that was?” she screeched as soon as our feet hit the pavement. “What’s the point of being in a magazine if no one can even tell it’s YOU?”
I decided the safest response was to just shrug.
“And why was Blow-dry showing it to everyone who came through the door?” she exploded. “It’s like she didn’t realize that nobody could bloody make me out except for HER. I could have been Osama Bin Laden for all anyone else knew!”
“Maybe the other pictures they took will turn up,” I said to make her feel better.
“What other pictures?”
“Dunno. I thought you said had some taken with Golden— I mean, Gary.”
“I didn’t have any taken with Gary.”
I frowned, confused. “Huh? I thought you said you had your picture taken.”
“I did. But Gary hates paparazzi, so he went out the back way. I stepped out the front, saw the flashbulbs going off and… God, they could have at least got me in focus!”
It dawned on me that that picture really was the only record of Malibu’s big moment.
“Was that IT?” I exclaimed.
She just glared at me. So I shut up.
Well, Posh and Becks can sleep soundly tonight.
8 p.m.
As planned, Malibu’s gone to Gary’s house. The big surprise of the night is that Mum has asked me to teach her to blow-dry her hair salon-style. She is so–ooo coming out of complacency mode.
11.30 p.m.
Popped out for a few drinks with Kel. Not sure Mum and Dad heard me come back in, because they’re not even hissing – they’re arguing at the tops of their voices.
“You’re a liar!” Dad’s just shouted. “A bloody liar. Just like I thought!”
So glad Godfather Alan’s coming tomorrow. Planning to hand the mediator role straight back over to him. And now I don’t have that responsibility, I’m putting on my headphones and turning Rihanna up to ten.
Sunday 13 July – 10 a.m.
I love Sundays when Mum’s in a good mood, because when she’s happy she makes us a full-on breakfast. I woke up to the smell of eggs and bacon, so I thought she and Dad must have kissed and made up. But then I walked past the living room and noticed that Dad was there, folding up a blanket on the sofa.
“Cheers, Mum,” I said, going into the kitchen and rubbing crust out of my eyes.
“Pleasure,” she said, all chirpy.
“Where’s Malibu?”
“She stayed out last night. I’m quite glad about it after all those tears we’ve had.” She frowned at me. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I said, thinking: Malibu and GOLDENBALLS! OMG – it’s only been three weeks!!
Then Dad walked in and made his way to the kettle, and they both did that thing again where they twist their shoulders to avoid touching each other.
“Good morning, Dad,” I said.
“Is it?” he grumbled. He looked absolutely miserable.
I couldn’t believe it. It was like Freaky Friday, only it was Sunday – and instead of me swapping personalities with Mum, DAD and Mum had done it instead. I nearly told the pair of them to sort themselves out, but then I remembered that’s Alan’s job now, so I left it.
7 p.m.
Dad’s been AWOL since eleven o’clock this morning. He made a proper show of leaving, too, by slamming the front door with an almighty thud. I decided that worrying about it wouldn’t achieve anything, so I spent my day dreaming about having my own salon instead. It’s become an obsession. And it’s definitely the thing I want more than anything else in the world right now. Along with Robbie, of course.
Kellie popped in at lunchtime and we had a right laugh about the double date and Paris’s “don’t dress in a tent” advice.
“When you told me a maxi dress hides a multitude of sins, I didn’t
think you meant it bloody smothered them,” I joked.
“Paris sounds like a hot mess.” Kellie laughed.
Then I must have drifted off into my salon daydream for a moment, because she frowned and said, “What’re you thinking about?”
So I told her how badly I want to have my own salon and about the business plan and the loan. And she said she was really proud of me and would support me however she could. She even gave me her cousin Rachel’s email address because she’s just started her own business too. I was going to email her after Kellie left but I’ve been trying to find the right (non-tent) sexy outfit to wear.
7.10 p.m.
OMG. Robbie will be here in twenty minutes and I still have no idea what to wear!
7.20 p.m.
I phoned James.
“He–eeeelp! I need to look hot in fifteen minutes!”
“I’m probably a bit too high fashion for a footballer’s taste,” he told me. So I ran through all my options: the tight blue jeans with the satin silver top, the gold sequined dress that stops at my knees, or the red boy-magnet dress I nicked from Malibu’s wardrobe when she went to the pub (about two minutes ago).
“I like the idea of the red dress,” James said. “Will it fit you?”
“It’s Lycra,” I said. “It’ll stretch.”
“Go for it.”
So I have. And it doesn’t look too bad. (Even if I say so myself.)
7.25 p.m.
Can’t believe it – Mum has done her hair and make-up and it looks almost as good as when I did it! That will certainly get Dad’s attention (when he finally decides to come home). It’s been eight and half hours since he stropped out. Must be turning into a diva in his old age!
Pride and Premiership Page 10
