'We did not have lunch,' says Elody more angered by the accusation that she might have been eating than if Soph had accused her of murdering babies. 'Kelly does not eat lunch any more; she's on a diet.'
Oh God. How much worse can this all get? I am amazed at how much Elody's sticking up for me, and part of me's really flattered, but most of me is thinking, 'Please shut up; you're making this so much worse.'
'God, you've changed,' says Sophie angrily. 'You'd rather ponce around clothes shopping than see us. You'd rather diet yourself to nothing than come for a pizza with the girls. You know, when we didn't hear anything from you, I really thought you were going to turn up for lunch today with balloons and a present for Mandy to make it all right again, but you couldn't even do that, could you?'
'You don't need to diet at all,' says Mandy sweetly. 'You have a lovely figure.'
'Errrrr,' pipes in Elody. 'You are perhaps not exactly the best person to give advice on who needs to lose . . .'
I grab Elody and drag her off before she can finish her insult and compound the problem. When I look back, the two of them are standing there, staring after me. Fuck.
'I feel awful,' I tell Elody.
'I know. I would too if I had friends like that.'
'No, I feel awful because they are my friends.'
'That's what I'm saying,' she says. 'You have fat friends. It's embarrassing. We are agreed. But I know what will make everything perfect again.'
'What?' My heart lifts. I'm hoping she's going to suggest something magical to get my relationship with the girls back on track again. I'm hoping she can think of a great plan for me to sort out this mess that's been caused.
'Shoes,' she says. 'If you feel awful, you have to buy shoes. It's the only way.'
'Yeah, but shoes aren't going to change the fact that I've let down two of my best mates, are they?'
'Best mates? Those two? Darling. Please. No. You are in a different world now, a world full of new, thinner, glossier and much better dressed people. Those two – from your past. Come with me . . . into the future. I need to introduce you to some of my best friends. Here . . . look . . . these little darlings are called Louboutins . . . they are my very best friends.'
It's all too surreal for words. I'm given a glass of champagne, my feet are massaged and words of flattery are hurled at me while I shop for catastrophically expensive and terrifyingly high-heeled shoes.
'Always buy shoes when you are in distress,' instructs Elody, slipping her feet into shiny black numbers with these odd-looking studs up the heel. 'Shoe shopping is a calming experience. So much better than injecting drugs or drinking a bottle and a half of whisky or eating some bread,' she says, indicating to the assistant that she will take the fancy black numbers which, to be frank, look more like weapons than shoes.
'I usually find that thickly buttered toast, a large mug of tea and a Twix sorts me out,' I say.
'Stop teasing me,' says Elody with lightness to her voice. 'You're being silly now.'
No, I'm not.
It's 5 pm by the time we get back to the house, laden with bags, and feeling exhausted. My head's spinning and my feet hurt. Shopping like this is a bloody stressful experience, let me tell you. I'm desperately worried about the girls, and the horrible meeting I had with them. Bollocks. Those two mean the world to me; I can't believe that happened.
'Wine?' asks Elody. She looks as if she's settling herself in for the night.
'I won't. Thanks,' I say. 'I've got the most terrible headache.'
I've no idea whether Jan and Isabella will be coming round at 6pm, as I suggested in my text, because they didn't reply to it, but just in case they do, I don't want Elody here.
'Listen, I'm exhausted,' I try. 'I think I'm going to have a bath and get an early night. Do you mind?'
'Oh,' says Elody, looking absolutely distraught. 'Is it something I did?'
'No, no. Of course not. I've had a lovely day, but I'm dead on my feet now.'
'OK,' she says, warily. 'I've got like a ton of parties to go to anyway, so I'll leave you to it. Call me if you get lonely and need company, and thanks for being such a great friend today.'
'No problem,' I say with a smile. 'I loved it, Elody. It is I who should be thanking you.'
Elody leaves and I feel instantly guilty. I should have told her that Isabella and Jan might be popping round, and I should have asked her if she wanted to stay. The problem is that she's so unpopular. If they arrive and see that she is here, they'll stay five minutes and leave, and I'm keen to get to know some of the other women, not just Elody.
It's bang on 6 pm when I hear that someone has arrived at the gates.
'Jan and Isabella,' says Pamela enthusiastically. 'They're such lovely people. I'm glad you're getting friendly with them instead of . . . Well, I'm just glad you have new friends.'
The unspoken words, of course, are that Elody's rather bad news.
'Come in,' I say, ushering them into the sitting room, then quickly changing my mind. While Elody's always keen for us to sit in a rather formal fashion, I'm much happier in the snug at the back of the house.
'Shall we go through to the snug?' I say. The two women look at me blankly. I don't suppose they've even seen the room.
'Come on, I'll show you.'
I lead them to the back of the house and swing open the door to the snug. They both gasp appreciatively. 'It's beautiful,' they say. 'My God. It's a lovely girly oasis.' It does look good now I've finished messing with it. I have filled it with plants and flowers, and put little sparkly fairy lights up around the edge. In the evening it looks almost magical and in the daytime when the winter sun shines through the glass it's like being outdoors. The rest of Rufus's house is so formal and kind of masculine that I wanted somewhere that would be fun for me to hang out with my friends. I imagined bringing Mandy and Sophie here and the three of us lying around, getting drunk and gossiping under the twinkling lights and the soft smell of flowers. After today, that seems incredibly unlikely.
As my new friends settle themselves down, I head into the kitchen to find David and ask him which sort of wine I should offer them. I feel a responsibility to get this right. I know that if I were in either of their houses, they'd uncork the best bottle available, and we'd sip it gently, murmuring in appreciation. The trouble is, they know about wine and I don't. It was embarrassing enough last night. I ended up drinking six gin and tonics because I was too ashamed to admit that I didn't like it.
'Were you thinking of white or red?' asks David.
Bollocks. I don't know. I always drink white but isn't red supposed to be better? I just have no bloody idea about this.
'Hang on,' I say to David and I walk back to the snug.
'I have a confession,' I announce. 'I know nothing about wine. All I ever drink with my friends is the cheapest wine available . . . and I usually add lemonade to it. Last night Zadine asked me what wine I wanted and I nearly died. I'd love to bring some nice wine but David asked me whether I wanted red or white and I fell at the first hurdle . . . I didn't know what to say. I don't know which is better.'
'You big fool,' says Jan, standing up. 'The best wine is the wine you prefer. It doesn't matter about cost or what's "trendy". You just need to find out what wine you like and that is, officially, the best wine. I think we should do some wine-tasting. Don't you? That way, you can work out what you like.'
'Oh yes,' I say, overcome with delight.
'Lovely idea,' says Isabella, standing up gracefully, and stroking her cream wraparound dress across her knees. The woman is flawless, honestly; I don't think I've ever seen anyone look more effortlessly glamorous. From her gently tanned, slim legs, crossed at the knee, to her high, strappy sandals in a pale-beige colour. Her hair is neatly tied back and her make-up is lovely and understated. She told me when I met her before that she uses fake tanning cream on her legs because the sun is so bad for the skin; I think I need some lessons from her. There are no streaks or strange orange patches like I get, a
nd, when I try to cover the streaks up, I end up going so dark I look like an extra from Slumdog Millionaire.
Jan is in the kitchen, telling David what our plans are. 'Brilliant idea,' says Pamela from the other side of the kitchen, heading for the elaborate French-looking dresser in the dining room where Rufus keeps the glasses. 'You can tell me what wine I should be drinking too. I normally serve what I'm told to serve without having a clue what it all tastes like!'
'Then you must come and join us,' I instruct. 'And bring Julie too.'
'No. I couldn't,' says Pamela, wiping her hands on her apron. 'Look at the state of me.'
'Yes you could,' I insist. 'I want you to come. You look lovely. I insist you come.'
So, three becomes five. Julie and Pamela look desperately nervous, as they sit in the corner sipping the wine. 'I feel a bit out of place; are you sure this is OK?' Pamela keeps muttering to me.
'Yes, of course. I want you here.'
'This is a Chablis,' says Jan, sipping gently and allowing the taste to wash around her mouth. 'See what you think.'
'It's a lovely wine,' says Isabella with confidence. They seem to take tiny sips, while Julie, Pamela and I knock the whole lot back every time.
'You're supposed to spit the wine out when you're tasting,' says Jan. 'But that's so inelegant that we've decided against it.'
'And it's more fun zis way,' says Isabella, with a distinctive slur. 'Now . . . what next?'
It's nearly midnight. Five women, about forty glasses, nine half-empty wine bottles and the sound of hysterical laughter permeate the house.
'And finally, the tenth wine. This is Sancerre,' says Jan, passing around glasses. 'I think you might like this one.'
'I ly them all,' I say, with an almighty hiccup. 'All bloody loverly if you ass me.'
Pamela is asleep in the corner and snoring rather loudly, while Julie is trying to cope with a fit of the giggles. I'm just deliriously and hopelessly drunk and loving every minute of it. I now know that my favourite wines are Pouilly Fumé in white and Châteauneuf-du-Pape in red. Will I remember them in the morning? Hell, no. Jan assures me that she'll write it all down for me, and even keep the labels so I remember what I liked.
'Howdyastaysosobernsensible?' asks Isabella, one leg falling off the other as she attempts to recross her legs the other way but fails miserably. 'How do you, Jan? Stay sooo sensible?'
'I don't swallow,' she replies.
'Don't swallow?' says Isabella, almost tumbling off her chair. 'Don't swallow?'
It's too much for the three of us to bear. We practically fall backwards off our seats, laughing hysterically until tears pour down our faces. Then Jan laughs too; more, I suspect, out of amusement at the state we're in than anything else, but once she starts, she can't stop. 'Not that sort of "don't swallow",' she says. 'I meant I'm taking tiny tastes, barely enough to swallow.' But we're laughing so much that we can't hear her.
'Oh sod it,' she says, reaching for one of the half-empty bottles and taking a large slug from it. 'I might as well get pissed too.'
Chapter 12
There are two weeks remaining before Rufus returns from Los Angeles and I have to be honest with you, I'm starting to lose the plot. It doesn't help that I've spent days shaking off the worst hangover known to man or womankind, and that the diet pills are making me feel nauseous and irritable. Added to all that, no one ever phones me. I mean, not ever! I have been ringing Sophie and Mandy like mad, despite the fact that Elody seems to think it's the worst idea in the world. With them making no effort to communicate with me, it means we just don't talk any more. Despite sending texts and leaving messages, nothing comes back. I can't believe they're willing to cast years of friendship aside so easily. God, and I really want to talk to them . . . I hate that Rufus is away, I hate that the papers are full to brimming with pictures of him on various LA beaches with attractive girls swooning around him. And whilst I know I could talk to Jan and Isabella because they're both so lovely, they're Rufus's friends, so I don't feel I can sit there moaning about him.
I talk to Rufus every day and I've taken to calling him in the night because I'm not sleeping properly. I get about four hours sleep, then I'm wide awake and can't sleep any more . . . bloody pills. God, I can't stop moaning about things at the moment – I'm in this terrible vortex of misery that's pulling me further and further into it. So, while we're at it – I hate the fact that the paparazzi are always outside so I'm stuck in here unless I want to be in the news. And I'm . . . 'Oh, hi, Elody. I wasn't expecting you.'
'Kelly darling,' she says. 'I couldn't sleep last night. I kept thinking of your footwear crisis. I think it would be a good idea if we reviewed your shoe situation and ordered some more in from designers as soon as possible. It's just not right at the moment; not right at all.'
Oh God. I can't do this any more. I really want to go to the Rose Garden and talk to Frank the gardener, not look at more bloody shoes. In fact, I'd rather do anything than obsess about clothing and spending money. It's stultifying; all this talk about what goes with what and how 'anyone who's anyone' is wearing boyfriend-style blazers. I don't even know what those are and – you know what? – I don't care.
'Why don't we go out and have fun instead!' I suggest boldly. 'Or we could go and stuff ourselves in Pizza Express and collapse on the sofa and watch a movie afterwards.'
What's the point in being rich and having loads of free time if you spend it all in such a boring fashion? I'd rather have less money and less free time, but at least be having fun with the little I have.
'Telephone,' says David, walking into the sitting room and bowing deeply. He sometimes bows down so far I fear he'll go arse over tit and never get up. 'What do you mean you killed the butler?' Rufus will say, and I'll be stuck there trying to explain.
I have to say I'm pleased with the distraction. I leave Elody standing there in a minor trance, swooning slightly and staggering around at the thought of eating pizza.
'Hello darling,' says mum. I should have known it would be her. She never rings the mobile. Everyone bar Rufus and Mum just calls on the mobile, or should I say everyone used just to call on the mobile, now they don't call at all.
'Hi, Mum. How are you?'
'I'm fine, sweetheart,' she says. 'Are you in?'
'Yes I am,' I say, laughing to myself. 'It's my home phone, Mother.' There's also the fact that I'm always in; the only place I go is shopping and to the Rose Garden. I sit there among the wintry remains of the summer blooms and it's like Rufus is with me; it's pure magic. I love it there. I chat to Frank and feel better about the world. The press haven't managed to discover my secret floral hideaway, so I feel safe. I hope they never, ever find out. I certainly shan't be mentioning it in public, and I know Rufus won't, so hopefully our secret place will remain just that for a while longer. When I'm not talking to an elderly man in gardening gloves, or shopping with Elody, I'm at home because there are paparazzi outside my house. Where else would I be? Where else can I go?
'We're at the end of the driveway,' she says. 'We're coming for two days.'
Whaaaaat? 'Who's "we"?'
'Me and Great-Aunt Maude.'
Oh Lord above. Holy fuck. I glance over at Elody as she whittles her way through my 'shoe wardrobe' (one shelf ), casting aside anything unsuitable. Well, this is sure going to be an interesting meeting.
'Why didn't you tell me sooner? There are photographers out there. Be careful.'
'I know there are photographers here. Maude's having her picture taken with them right now. They've got her pouting and preening and lying down with her legs in the air. She does look a sight.'
Holy fuck. 'Open the gates!!!!' I scream in the direction of David. 'My mum and my batty great-aunt are out there. Get them in here now before they say something ridiculous to the press, or start giving them photographs of me playing with a little duck in the bath aged four.'
David moves with surprising speed considering his advancing years and grabs the entryphone system, t
elephones security and shouts: 'Code red . . . main gate.' A loud alarm shrieks through the building and David clutches his head in his hand. 'Oh dear, wrong code,' he says, then picks up the phone again and addresses the security guys on the other end. 'Code blue!' he squeals. 'I meant code blue. Sorry.'
Oh God. I hope code red doesn't mean that Mum and Maude have been bundled to the ground and hit with sticks because the security guys think they're trying to break in. The alarm stops wailing immediately and I await the arrival of my hapless female relatives. If I hadn't been feeling so rubbish, I might have found some humour in the fact that Great-Aunty Maude was about to meet Elody Elloissie. On the linear spectrum of sartorial elegance they would be at opposite ends.
I hear Maude before I see her. Her raspy, unforgettable voice carries on the cold winter air and violently assaults my ears. She has the Mike Tyson of voices, does Maude. If I spend too long with her I have headaches for weeks afterwards. I think it's because she wears a hearing aid but has it turned up nowhere near high enough, so she can't hear properly, and in rather the same way as someone with headphones on who resorts to shouting above the sound that only they can hear, so Maude shouts to be heard because her perception of volume is limited by her hearing difficulties.
'Kell,' she howls when she sees me. Elody has walked into the sitting room and is looking at Maude as if my great-aunt had two heads.
'Shall I call security?' she asks quietly, nodding towards Maude.
'No, it's fine . . .' I really don't want to have to say this but . . . here goes: 'Maude's my great-aunt.'
'Oh my God!!!' says Elody. 'You need to keep that very quiet.'
God, that woman can be a bitch sometimes. 'Don't you have any embarrassing relatives Elody? You know, relatives who don't dress head to toe in Prada and sometimes say things in public that have you reeling in embarrassment?'
'Not that I know of,' she says dismissively, and it occurs to me how little I know about Elody. I chat about my friends and family all the time and she tells me about her favourite clothes designers. I once pulled out a picture of Mum and she pulled out a picture of her favourite Louis Vuitton bondage shoes. She doesn't seem to 'do' relatives. She's certain not mentioned any to me.
Celebrity Bride Page 15
