Rhino What You Did Last Summer

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  ‘You ever hear the screams of a man burning to death in a tank?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ever carry your own brother across the thirty-eighth parallel – him bleeding like a stuck pig and begging you to put him out of his fucking misery?’

  ‘Again, no.’

  ‘Again, no,’ he goes. ‘That’s right, Civilian… Well, I thought if I can do all that, then surely I can make this girl a star. But, Jesus, those disclaimers – used to take sixty, seventy takes to get them right. The studio used to say to me, “Act? She can’t even say words on a fucking page?” But they’re doing it for me as a favour. And all the time I’m stringing her along, telling her, “Just one more disclaimer, Cupcake – then it’s the movies.”

  ‘But then suddenly she’s got some producer hanging around her. Good-looking guy. You know the kind. Like you, you fuck – makes the scene. He’s promised to make her the star in a musical. Filling her head with dreams.’

  ‘Is this the one about – and this is going to sound racist – that African bird?’

  He nods. ‘Mutilation Nation,’ he goes. Then he smiles, sort of, like, sadly?

  ‘So what else do I need to know about this bird I’m seeing tonight?’ I go.

  He’s there, ‘She used to date Kevin Cornish – was in a couple of episodes of Dawson’s Creek. Never made it. She’s a real talent – agent’s a personal friend of mine. Wants to put her out there, get her known…’

  ‘It all feels like a bit of a set-up. Like our old pairs have arranged, like, a date for us.’

  ‘It’s called a mutual convenience of wants,’ he goes. ‘And it’s how this town works. Right now, you’re Z list. You listen to me, you’ll be D list inside six months.’

  ‘That is pretty impressive.’

  ‘You bet it is, Popeye. The car will pick you up at eight. There’s gonna be press waiting for you outside the restaurant.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I fucking told them you’re going to be there. You’re going to be asked a lot of questions. Whatever you’re asked, you keep your mouth shut!’

  After Kevin, Ptolemy says, she really needed some time to herself? Which is why she hasn’t, like, dated?

  I wouldn’t make any major claims for myself in the old intelligence department, but I’m beginning to feel like Einstein in this country. Or any of that crowd.

  I checked out her MySpace page this afternoon in the hotel business centre and she lists one of her hobbies as tanning.

  ‘It was like I needed to get back to me,’ she’s going. ‘So right now I’m, like, one hundred and ten per cent focused on what’s real. I just want to live my life and, like, be?’

  This girl could fit her brains into her XOXO clutch without having to take out her lip balm or her iShuffle.

  But one of the things I’ve always been amazing at is appearing genuinely interested in the shit that comes out of birds’ mouths. And she does look like Gabrielle Reece, in fairness to her.

  ‘The thing that really kills Kevin,’ she goes, ‘is that I’ve stayed really, really good friends with his sister? As in Bethlehem, who he still shares with? So, like, any time I call over to their condo, he’s all, “You said you needed space, yet you’re always here?” And, bear in mind, I was literally the only one who was there for Beth when her octoplasty went wrong. So last night? I turned around to Kevin and I was like, “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re hating me for being a nice person,” which is what he’s doing when you think about it?’

  I’m pulling all the right faces, of course, because there’s, like, five or six cameras permanently pointed at us and Trevion made sure to position us in the window so they could get the best shots.

  I ordered, by the way, the baked brie in puff pastry followed by the two-pound steamed marine lobster, but what actually arrived were the micro greens with walnut and tangerine vinaigrette, followed by the miso braised tofu. When I told the waiter that he’d focked up the order, he told me that Mr Warwick had – get this – pre-ordered for me.

  Ptolemy shows not the slightest interest in any of this. She just continues playing with her cumin-dusted Ahi tuna and says she’d describe herself as spiritual but not actually religious, then asks me how she even got onto that?

  ‘I don’t know – you were talking about Maria Serra,’ I go.

  ‘Oh, yeah – Gwyneth’s stylist…’

  Her conversation’s like one of those big long trains you see over here – no focking end to it. Our plates are eventually cleared away. I ask the waiter if I can see the dessert menu and he just, like, shakes his head. ‘Sorry,’ he goes.

  So I make a move for my credit cord, but he tells me it’s already been settled.

  Ptolemy whips out her compact and checks her teeth for fock knows what – she hasn’t eaten anything and her mouth has been Exit Only for the past hour. She says she can’t decide if sushi mats are a good house-warming gift for her friend Rhiannon – the theatre festival coordinator she was telling me about?

  Despite her horseshit conversation and the fact that she didn’t look at me once tonight, I still have the inclination towards copulation. And even though she probably couldn’t pick my face out of a book of mugshots, so actually does she.

  We step outside and we’re immediately blinded by flashes. The press are being held back behind a red rope, but the questions are coming thick and fast. They’re asking me if I phoned Lauren for her birthday and Ptolemy if she’s over Kevin Cornish and then both of us what we think of George W. Bush’s decision to send an additional five thousand troops to Iraq.

  We manage to get past them without saying a word, but at the same time looking really, really well? We get into the cor, then Ptolemy turns around to me and goes, ‘How far is your hotel?’ and I don’t even bother my orse answering. It’s, like, a ristorical question.

  There’s no need to paint you a picture of what went down back at the Viceroy. What I will say is that Ptolemy has more than a few surprises in her grab bag.

  The following morning, I open my eyes to find her standing in front of the mirror, throwing her clothes on. She’s got a waist like a focking matador, but she keeps checking it out from, like, different angles, then making, I suppose you’d have to say, disapproving noises. She’s quiet this morning – wrecked, obviously, after the workout I put her through.

  As I’m lying there in the sack, I notice her pop a couple of pills. When she hits the apple fritter, I have a root in her bag to find out what they are. It turns out they’re, like, tan-optimizer capsules and I remember her MySpace page. She comes back and catches me with the packet in my hand, but she says fock-all except that Helena Christensen uses them.

  I ask her does she have to head off, thinking I wouldn’t mind another quick go, but she says she has Cardio Barre and I make the mistake of asking her should I get checked out now as well.

  She actually laughs at me and I’m left thinking, er, how did it happen that I’m suddenly the brainless one?

  She’s gone about ten minutes, roysh, and I’m just drifting back into a nice, comfortable sleep when my mobile rings. It’s Trevion. The first thing I do is tell him I owe him big-time. My entire life I’ve been looking for a girl who’ll do the business without putting me through fifteen or twenty minutes of boreplay first.

  I’m there, ‘I’m beginning to love Hollywood.’

  He’s like, ‘Well, Hollywood’s beginning to love you. The Star website described you as one of LA’s hottest young couples. In Touch said that Lauren Conrad is hopping mad, according to friends. And I have it on very good authority that Us Weekly is going to say that Ptolemy’s tiered Bensoni top and whiskered Chip & Pepper jeans added depth to her petite frame.’

  Which is all nice to hear. There’s only one thing that’s really bothering me. ‘Do you mind me asking,’ I go, ‘what’s with all this ordering my food for me? I’ve got to tell you, Dude, I love my lobster.’

  He’s there, ‘You need to lose some weight.’
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br />   At first, roysh, I think I’m obviously not hearing right. I would have thought I was in pretty great shape. Ptolemy’s hands were up and down my abs like she was playing the focking squeezebox.

  ‘Whatever you say,’ I go, ‘although, I have to tell you, a lot of people out there would actually disagree with you.’

  ‘A lot of people don’t know shit,’ he goes. ‘If you’re going to be famous, you’re going to need to lose twenty pounds.’

  ‘Twenty pounds?’

  ‘Twenty pounds. And fast. You look soft in these photos. Next item of business – what are you doing today?’

  I’m there, ‘Em, I was hoping to spend a bit of time with my daughter? Sorcha’s sort of, like, guilted me into it. She’s got a strop on – she’s never coped well with me being in the public eye.’

  ‘Spending time with your kid – a nice touch. But keep this Sureeka – whatever she’s called – out of the picture for now. Tonight, you got another date.’

  ‘Another date?’

  ‘That’s right, Timberlake. Broad called Ginnifer. She’s one of mine. Hoping to break into movies. She got thirty-six-inch breasts.’

  It’s like, thirty-six-inch breasts? End of conversation.

  I hang up, roysh, then turn over and drift off to sleep again, thinking about how well I think I’m going to cope with fame the second time around. I’m thinking, this time, older, possibly even wiser, I’m more ready for it.

  Of course, I have no idea how wrong it’s possible for one man to be.

  So I’m sitting outside Buckys on Hollywood Boulevard, wolfing down a couple of slices of their blueberry swirl cheese-cake, with a firm grip on Honor this time. I decide to ring Christian, because I haven’t actually spoken to the dude since the famous day.

  He answers on the third ring. ‘Well?’ I go. ‘Have you been reading the gossip magazines?’

  He’s like, ‘What? Oh, it’s you,’ except, like, he whispers it?

  In the background, roysh, I can hear Lauren go, ‘Who is it?’ and Christian’s there, ‘It’s, er, George Lucas. The tauntauns have arrived.’

  ‘Oh,’ she goes. ‘Tell him I said thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.’

  He’s there, ‘Er, Lauren says thanks for the flowers, Mr Lucas.’

  I’m like, ‘She’s obviously still pissed at me, is she?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ he goes. ‘Listen, I better go. I’m in the middle of changing the little guy,’ and he hangs up without me even getting a chance to ask how the little goy is or what they’re even calling him.

  ‘Hen piao liang,’ Honor goes, so I give her another little sip of her espresso. And at the same time, I’m thinking, if Christian and Lauren’s son turns out to be even half as happy as this little one, they’ll be very lucky parents.

  ‘I love coffee table books myself,’ I go. ‘They make you look smart without actually having to read?’

  Ginnifer cracks her hole laughing, so I end up passing it off as a joke.

  She’s actually a major improvement on Ptolemy – even looks-wise, if you can believe that. She’s so like Rachel Bilson, you’d actually do a double-take. Same eyes, same mouth, same reddy-brown hair. She used to be – get this – a volleyball player and she has, like, a Pan American Games medal, albeit silver. My attitude would have always been – never bring runners-up to my table. But she’s big-time hot.

  And, like Trevion said, she’s trying to break into acting. She’s played, like, a nurse in House, a lifeguard in One Tree Hill and – even though she doesn’t speak any language other than English – the head of a Trilingual Immersion Programme in an episode of Gilmore Girls that unfortunately never screened.

  And, yeah, she’s banging on about herself a bit, telling me that she had, like, a beehive for the Peabody Awards – like Katie Cassidy’s? – and that it’s easy to do, except you have to use a Mebco flipside comb. But she’s also got a brain and she’s really into hearing about my whole story?

  I’ve actually got to talk to her about Ronan, who she says sounds hilarious, about Cillian, who she admits sounds like a total dick, and then a bit about why I think Ireland have no chance of winning the World Cup this year with Eddie O’Sullivan in charge.

  She’s literally one of those birds you can talk to about anything.

  We’re in, like, Capo in Santa Monica, where, again, Trevion seems to be God. Various waiters stop by and tell me to tell him they said hi. I suppose they all want to be famous, too.

  It’s, like, an amazing restaurant. Italian, which I love. It’s rustic, yet elegant, according to Ginnifer, who especially loves the high-beamed ceilings. ‘You seem to know your shit,’ I go, ‘in fairness to you.’

  She says interior design is a passion of hers. I’m about to tell her that beautiful women are a passion of mine, but I think it might come across as, like, cheesy?

  I’m just watching her, roysh, studying her menu in the candlelight, with the sound of the sea – I suppose – breaking on the beach and I’ve suddenly got a boner on me like a stickshift.

  ‘Do you mind me saying,’ I end up having to go, ‘you’re a serious ringer for Rachel Bilson – as in, you look like her?’

  She looks up, obviously delighted. ‘Rachel Bilson? She is, like, so pretty. I saw her, like, two weeks ago at a Clippers game!’

  She’s big-time happy with me. I just shrug and go, ‘Well, it’s out there now – just so you know.’

  I order the meatballs, followed by the pasta d’capo with quattro formaggi. What ends up actually arriving is the organic Lyon artichoke, followed by the Dungeness crab risotto, though this time I don’t bother saying anything.

  Ginnifer asks me how I’m coping with the whole celebrity thing. I tell her unbelievably well, although bear in mind I’ve had, like, fame before, even though it was pretty much just Europe. This time, I tell her, I think I’m mature enough not to blow it?

  ‘So what do you think of Trevion?’ she goes.

  I’m there, ‘I don’t know. He’s one serious dude, isn’t he?’

  ‘Isn’t that who you want on your side?’

  ‘I suppose. But all that shit about men burning in tanks…’

  She laughs. ‘I guess he’s seen a lot.’

  ‘Especially judging from his face.’

  Ginnifer shrugs. ‘Well, he fought in, like, Korea.’

  I’m there, ‘I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t be into, like, world affairs and shit? Then there’s the whole weight thing as well.’

  She laughs again – I think the word is knowingly?

  ‘He’s a control freak,’ she goes. ‘But being thin is, like, so important out here. Have you tried, like, diet pills?’

  ‘No. I was thinking of maybe storting back in the gym. I met this goy who’s gay, but he’s also, like, a port-time personal trainer? I’ve been meaning to actually ring him.’

  ‘Well, you still should try the pills,’ she goes. ‘Did you know, at any given time, you’re carrying around as much as ten pounds in subcutaneous water retention?’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘For six months, I was just, like, chewing food, then spitting it out? Then I went on the pills. And look at me. I’m eating virtually full meals again.’

  She knows her way around a plate of polenta, there’s no doubt about that.

  ‘I’ve gone from being anorexic to being orthorexic,’ she goes, ‘and I’ve never been happier.’

  I tell her that’s cool.

  We get on, it has to be said, unbelievably well. I’m in top form as well. As in, somehow it comes up then that she’s, like, Jewish? And I ask her about the holidays, which I’ve heard are pretty good. She laughs. She says she’s not much of an observer but, as well as the Sabbath, work is forbidden on Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, the first and second days of Sukkot, on Shemini Atzeret, Simchat Torah, Shavuot and the first, second, seventh and eighth days of Passover. I tell her if I ever have to get a job again, I’m definitely joining up. I’m like, ‘I won’t actually be in this week – yea
h, it’s Castleknock. I’ve got to, like, stay in bed all day playing, I don’t know, Grand Theft Auto Three.’

  She thinks I’m genuinely hilarious, in fairness to her, to the point where I’m thinking I could seriously fall for this girl.

  Then I’m thinking about all the people who’ve tried to crack America and basically failed. Robbie Williams, blah blah blah. But look at me. Fame. Women. I presume somewhere down the line there’ll be money. And it all fell in my lap.

  I have to admit, inside, I’m giving myself big-time pats on the back.

  Spirulean. Estrolean. Betalean.

  There’s, like, millions of the fockers and they all sound like either sexually transmitted diseases or Harry Potter’s teachers.

  Thermodynamx. Leptigen. Trimspa.

  I reckon I’ve already dropped two waist sizes walking up and down the aisle of CVS.

  Dermagain. Lipodec. Thyro Stak.

  It’s, like, how the fock are you supposed to know which one?

  For instance, Hoodia contains hoodia gordonii, a succulent plant from the Kalahari desert, used for centuries by the San people to stave off hunger during their long and arduous hunting trips into the South African wild. But Dexatrim Max 20 is available in Strawberry, Kiwi and Mixed Berry.

  But then there’s also Sesathin. Accelis. Clenbutical. Hydroxycut. Lipe-Xen. Thermonex…

  I’m on the point of actually giving up when my phone all of a sudden rings. It’s Sorcha. She sounds seriously pissed off. Years of experience tell me that I’m somehow the reason?

  Her opening line is, ‘Have you seen the cover of Us Weekly?’

  I tell her I’m actually in CVS.

  ‘Oh, they’ll have it there,’ she goes. ‘Go and focking get it!’

  Now, when Sorcha swears, I always fear the worst. But nothing could prepare me for what I’m about to see.

  The fockers must have used, like, a long lens to get a photograph of me sitting outside Buckys… holding a double espresso up to Honor’s lips. The headline on the cover is like, ‘Starshmuck!’ which is pretty clever you’d have to say, but then underneath it’s like, ‘Book Queen Fionnuala Slams Son For Giving Baby Coffee!’