He asks Lauren her name and she tells him.
Christian’s like, ‘Eeeuuuggghhh!!!’ still spewing, except he’s down on his knees this time, and that sets me off again. Chief Chirpa tells one of the crew – Logray – to get these two fucking jokers out of here, meaning us, and we’re moved backwards to give them some space.
Wicket rings for an ambulance.
‘Okay, Lauren,’ Chief Chirpa goes, ‘I want you to remember that what’s happening to you is the most natural thing in the world – so relax. Can you do that for me?’
She nods.
When Wicket gets off the phone, Chief Chirpa tells him to go up the other end and support Lauren’s head, which he does. She actually looks quite comfortable. Like, I’ve never thought about it before, but I suppose an Ewok is just a big pillow.
‘Slow breaths, Lauren,’ Chief Chirpa is going. ‘Remember, it’s your breathing that’s going to control the pain…’
I feel another sudden spasm. I’m like, ‘Eeeuuuggghhh!’ and Christian hurls as well.
Chief Chirpa checks the, I suppose, relevant area – Ground Zero, if you want to call it that – and says that she’s very dilated. Then he sends one of the baby Ewoks up to the gaff to get some disinfectant wipes for his hands.
‘They’re under the sink in the kitchen,’ Christian manages to go before puking again.
‘That’s it,’ Chief Chirpa’s going, ‘slow breaths. Remember, women’s bodies have been doing this since forever… Now, can you time the contractions for me?’
‘Eugh!’
Me this time. Dry-retching. Fock-all left in my stomach.
‘Eeeuuuggghhh!!!’
Christian’s keeps coming, though.
‘Eeeuuuggghhh!!! Eeeuuuggghhh!!! Eeeuuuggghhh!!!’
The sound of an ambulance siren suddenly fills the air. The Ewoks all stort waving their orms to get the driver’s attention and he ends up having to drive across a field to reach us.
To cut a long story short, the paramedics, or whatever you want to call them, load Lauren into the back of the ambulance, then they give Christian a sick bag and let him ride with her. I tell them I’ll follow them in my cor.
‘You stay the fuck away from us,’ Lauren shouts and of course I don’t know whether she means it or whether she’s just upset.
So I end up going back to their gaff and stewing for, like, an hour or two, watching TV and drinking milk to try to, like, settle my stomach. Then I decide, fock it. My best friend’s about to become, like, a father. I’m entitled to be there. So I grab my cor keys and the dude in the little security hut gives me directions to the hospital and I’m there in, like, five minutes flat.
I find the ward easily enough. The door’s closed, roysh, but through it I can hear the most incredible sound I’ve ever heard. A baby crying. And the second most incredible. Christian crying.
I turn the handle and poke my head around the door. Lauren’s out for the count and Christian’s just sitting there with this little bundle in his orms, staring at it. I sort of, like, clear my throat to get his attention. He looks at me and tells me I wouldn’t want to be here when Lauren wakes up. I tell him okay, I’ll go, but first I want to know what it is.
He says it’s a little boy.
I’m flying down the freeway, same drill as before, sounds on, wind in the old Tony Blair. I’m thinking about all sorts of shit – but mostly about Christian becoming a father – and the next thing, roysh, my face feels suddenly wet and I realize that I’m crying. The tears are flowing so thick and fast that I have to, like, pull into the hord shoulder.
I suppose it’s, like, delayed shock, but I end up sitting there for, like, half an hour, just bawling my actual eyes out. Eventually, I get it together enough to ring Sorcha.
She answers by going, ‘Oh! My! God!’
I’m there, ‘You heard about Lauren, I take it.’
‘Heard?’ she goes. ‘Ross, it’s on the cover of People Weekly.’
I’m thinking, it only happened, like, an hour ago. News sure travels fast over here. ‘The cover?’ I go.
She’s like, ‘Yeah. It kills me to say it, but you did well.’
I’m there, ‘Er, thanks,’ wondering what the fock it says I did.
‘I have to tell you,’ she goes, ‘when you said you were seeing an actress, I had no idea who it was,’ and I suddenly realize that we’re talking about two totally different Laurens here.
I’m there, ‘Hang on a sec, Babes – what exactly is on the cover of this magazine?’
‘A picture of you and Lauren Conrad,’ she goes, ‘leaving The Ivy together.’
3. My fifteen minutes
Lauren Conrad has had more than her fair share of heartache. Who remembers Stephen Colletti? Jason Wahler? Brody Jenner? But a buzz is building about the identity of the square-jawed, athletic hunk spotted sharing lunch with the reality star at The Ivy on January 19. So far, LC is remaining tight-lipped about her new mystery man – but from these photographs, there’s no denying the love light is in their eyes.
‘There’s no doubt he’s a ringer for me,’ I’m going. ‘I’m possibly a bit – I don’t want to come across as arrogant – but better-looking?’
Sorcha’s like, ‘Ross, it is you. That’s your pink Hollister T-shirt.’
Fellow diners said the pair chatted closely while they ate. Lauren is believed to have eaten crab cakes and her secret beau a mesquite-grilled Cajun prime rib…
‘That’s what you had the day we were there,’ Sorcha goes, suddenly sounding – it must be said – pretty upset. ‘I can’t believe you even took her there – oh my God, that was, like, our place?’
I’m there, ‘I didn’t take her anywhere. He looks like me is all. Sorcha, I’m saying yes, it’s uncanny. I’m saying yes, it’s weird. But I think I’d know if I’d been out on a date with Lauren actual Conrad.’
I accidentally say this at, like, the top of my voice and practically the whole of In-N-Out Burger hears.
‘Well, it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? You tell me you’re seeing some actress, but you won’t tell me who. The next thing the paparazzi get a photograph of you and LC leaving The Ivy together. It’s like, hello?’
He’s ruggedly handsome with a body that would no doubt drive even former lover Jenner insane with envy! But who is he? Bodyguard? Boyfriend? LC’s reps aren’t saying. In fact, they’ve denied that the stunning Hills star is crushing on any mystery man at the moment, obviously keen to keep the relationship out of the public eye for now. Even sources at MTV are sticking to the line that there is no upcoming storyline involving Lauren and any new flame.
However, there was no disguising the longing in their eyes as they parted – without getting all kissy for the cameras, LC returning to her famous silver BMW 3 Series, her new man disappearing in the opposite direction.
It suddenly hits me. ‘Shit,’ I go. ‘That was the day I met you. That was when you sent me back to the shop to talk to Harvey.’
‘Oh my God,’ Sorcha goes, ‘you were wearing your pink Hollister that day as well…’
‘I must have been walking, like, two feet behind her.’
‘Oh! My God! Did you not even see the cameras?’
‘Like, I did? But you said they were always outside. Shit, so they obviously presumed we were together.’
Sorcha laughs. ‘It could only happen to you,’ she goes, seeing the funny side of it now.
‘Yeah,’ I go and then I laugh? ‘I could be wrong, but it sounded to me like you might have been the tiniest bit jealous there.’
She tries to avoid the issue, of course. She picks up the magazine, turns immediately to the next page and says that Portia de Rossi was spotted buying a pair of Gravati loafers in Neiman Marcus. It must be getting serious between her and Ellen DeGeneres.
I finish my Double-Double, then wander up to the counter and order, like, another. ‘I told you you’d love this place,’ Sorcha goes. ‘Britney eats here all the time… Who I’m really worried about
, by the way.’
‘Britney? As in Spears?’
‘She’s checked out of rehab in Antigua,’ she goes, like they’re friends or some shit? ‘During a wild night at New York’s One Little West 12, she danced in a bikini, Ross, before slipping outside with one of the club’s dancers. The night before, she threw up in her car after partying too hard.’
‘I think you might be reading too many of these magazines, Babes.’
‘Well,’ she goes, ‘you better get your story straight for when they ring.’
I’m like, ‘Ring? Who?’
She’s there, ‘Oh my God, Ross, the press? They’re going to find out who you are.’
I tell her not to be ridiculous. LA’s not even a rugby town, which is one of the things I love about it. I can get up to all my usual tricks but still remain unanimous? She accuses me of having – oh my God – no idea of the power of the media over here?
I stort horsing into my second burger and ask her how Honor is. She says she had another tantrum this afternoon – oh my God, her worst yet. ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ she goes, ‘but Cillian was pouring his coffee – and she was trying to get at it. As in, she was trying to take it out of his hand. She actually tried to bite him, Ross…’
‘You’re shitting me.’
‘I’m not,’ she goes. ‘But anyway, we think we’ve finally gotten to the bottom of it – why she’s been behaving the way she has been?’
For, like, a minute, my hort is beating like you wouldn’t believe.
‘This girl, Faris – her daughter Coco is in crèche with Honor – I bumped into her in Splendid Littles and I happened to mention it to her? And she was straight away there, “Oh my God, I know what that is!”’
I’m there, ‘What? What is it?’
She’s like, ‘Well, she was saying that adults tend to be, like, too reactive during these little fits of temper? The way she put it was, the worst time to try to teach someone how to swim is when they’re actually drowning. Wait until the situation calms down before you try to deal with it. Or better still – this is what she does with Coco and she’s so good, Ross – hunker down to, like, her eye level, then hug her. And tell her exactly why you’re hugging her? In other words, find some positive from the situation. It’s like, “Oh my God, you got angry and yet you didn’t bite anyone. You acted like – oh! my God! – such a good girl.”’
Jesus Christ, Honor’s going to end up shooting the focking crèche up if Sorcha keeps listening to horseshit like this.
I know at this point that I should tell her the truth. And I’m about to – or at least I’m considering the best way to break it to her – when all of a sudden her phone beeps. She reads the message and I’m expecting her to tell me that Nicole Richie’s been spotted in vintage Missoni or Nick Lachey’s been spotted, I don’t know, picking his nose in Musso & Frank.
‘The mystery of Hills star Lauren Conrad’s new love has been solved,’ she goes, reading it out. ‘The five foot, ten inch hunk, first pictured with LC after a romantic lunch at The Ivy, has been revealed as Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, a 26-year-old socialite from Ireland. The son of chicklit phenomenon Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly, he has himself achieved some small measure of fame back home, as a player of a game called rugby (literally pronounced rugg-bee). “He’s a gentleman,” a former flame has revealed. “He’s considerate – and not just in the bedroom. He’ll always put the woman before himself.”’
I stare into space. I’m in, like, total shock.
‘That quote’s definitely made up,’ Sorcha goes. I tell her thanks very much. ‘You do realize,’ she goes, ‘that this is going to change everything?’
I drive back to Santa Monica, thinking mostly about how this thing is going to play out back home. I’m imagining especially Caroline Morohan’s face. It’s, like, er, Caroline, remember that dude who sent you over a slippery nipple in Renards, like, three Christmases ago and you sent it back, calling him, like, a loser? Er, you should have a look at this.
I’m actually having this conversation out loud as I swing the old beast into the valet parking area at, like, the front of the Viceroy and I end up having to brake hord to avoid hitting this, like, major crush of people outside. At first I presume it’s for Jessica Alba and Cash Warren, who are supposed to be staying here, or even Michelle Trachtenberg, who I saw horsing into the scrambled tofu at the breakfast buffet this morning.
It’s only when someone aims a camera lens at me through the window of the cor and storts flashing away like there’s no actual tomorrow that I connect it with the whole Lauren Conrad thing.
Everything happens pretty quickly after that. Three or four of the valet dudes form, like, a human shield around me and we force our way through, like, a ruck of press people, all of them shouting questions at me, like, how did we meet, is it true that we’re thinking of getting engaged and who am I wearing? In shock, I suppose, all I manage to say is, firstly, ‘The story is total bullshit,’ and secondly, ‘American Eagle Outfitters,’ before I’m bundled through the revolving doors into the, I suppose, calm of the hotel lobby.
I stand there, trying to catch my breath, then look back to see ten, maybe fifteen faces pressed up against the glass, flashes still going off and the questions still coming. Is it true I’m already married? Have I got Whitney and Audrina’s stamp of approval yet? Am I aware that Solange Knowles said I looked kind of cute at a movie premiere in Westwood last night?
I’m in, like, a total daze. Obviously I’ve had fame before. I’ve lived with it most of my life – being, first, the rugby player that everyone thought was going to make it, then being the rugby player that nobody could believe didn’t make it. But this? I’ve never experienced anything like it.
‘Lot of people looking for you,’ the duty manager walks up to me and goes, at the same time handing me, like, a big whack of messages. ‘I’ve put them in order for you. Media – TV, then print – agents, corporations and companies, bars and restaurants, fans… Oh, Mary-Kate and Ashley called. But then they always do…’
I’m, I have to admit, totally overwhelmed.
I walk towards the lift – or, over here, I suppose elevator? – feeling literally dizzy. I hit the button for up, then stort reading through the names. MTV. CBS. Entertainment Channel! Us Weekly. Breitling. Cartier. Earnest Sewn. Oronoco Rum. The Boulevard Lounge. LAX Nightclub. Dan Tana’s. Sushi on Ventura…
The – again – elevator arrives? I step into it, then hit the button for the top floor. Just as it’s closing, I hear this voice go, ‘Hold the doors!’ and I spot this figure pegging it across the lobby towards me. I do that thing – we’ve all done it – where you pretend to reach for the button to open the doors, except you move so slowly you could be in outer focking space.
He still manages to get his foot between the doors before they fully close and they slide open again and I find myself looking into this dude’s face.
I end up nearly shitting myself.
‘Hello, again,’ he just goes and I watch in, like, total terror as the doors close behind him.
Like a lot of jealous boyfriends I’ve had to flee from in my time, Trevion turns out to be not quite as big as I remembered from the night I jumped out of his aportment window. In my imagination, he was six-foot-six with humungous biceps – now I’m pretty embarrassed to realize that he’s actually an old man. It’s, like, what the fock was Sahara thinking? The dude’s well into his seventies for storters and he’s small, we’re talking five-foot-nothing, with hunched shoulders and huge ears and, like, grey hair, neatly ported, although the most noticeable thing about him is his face, which is just, like, covered in scors. It looks like someone corved a focking joint of beef on it.
He is pretty scary-looking – that much I remembered right. I immediately switch to, like, defence mode? ‘Dude,’ I go, ‘if it’s any consolation, she came onto me?’ but he doesn’t say shit, just reaches into his inside pocket for what I’m half expecting to be either a knife or a gun.
&nbs
p; It’s actually a business cord. ‘Looks to me,’ he goes, ‘like you want help.’
I check it out. It’s like, ‘Trevion Warwick. Agent to the Stars’, and then underneath it’s like, ‘It ain’t show friends – it’s show business’, which I know is from Jerry Maguire because I’ve seen it, like, a million times.
I suddenly remember Sahara telling me that he was an agent. ‘Five minutes of your time,’ he goes. The lift goes ping. We’ve reached, like, the top floor. He goes, ‘Believe me, fella, you need me more than I need you.’
I tell him okay.
When I walk into my suite, it’s immediately obvious how much I’ve come up in the world. There’s a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the table, compliments of the hotel.
‘You gonna open that,’ Trevion goes, ‘or just stare at it?’
He’s one of those permanently angry dudes – like Joe Pesci or one of that crew, except huskier?
‘What do you know about fame?’ he goes while I’m unscrewing the wire cap.
I’m like, ‘Fame?’
He’s there, ‘Something wrong with your fucking ears?’
That pretty much sums up the vibe between us. ‘I’d know a little?’ I go. ‘Like, I had it once before. I’d have been pretty well known in Ireland as, like, a rugby player. Then a rugby player who threw it all away…’
‘Okay, here’s how it’s going to work, Big Talk. You’re going to keep your sentences short. That’s my oxygen you’re wasting, too – you get me?’
‘Er, yeah, whatever,’ I go.
I pop the cork and fill two glasses.
‘Me, I been fifty years in this racket,’ he goes. ‘If I learned one thing, it’s this. Fame is like riding a bucking bronco. Oh sure, any schmo can climb up there. But when you get thrown on your ass is entirely up to the beast. Unless! Unless, my friend, you got someone on your side who can help you ride that animal. Make sure when you land – because land you will, Lover, that’s as obvious as your fucking nose – you’re gonna have a lot of money to cushion your fall. And girls. You like girls, right?’
Rhino What You Did Last Summer Page 9
