Younger Thinner Blonder

by Sue Watson

“Donna, don’t drag it out – just talk me through the offer, then you can have your cigarette.” I said, noticing her long fingers were starting to tap on the table, a sure sign she needed a nicotine hit.

  “OK. Here’s the deal” she said. “We have here a written document, offering to pay you seventy-five thousand pounds, a presence in five European countries with an option on the US. AND, my little fairy-tale princess, all the outrageous expenses your agent can claim on your behalf,” she glared over her bifocals.

  “Go on, I’m still listening... I’m just concerned that there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “All above board,” she rummaged in her black patent YSL just to make me wait a little longer.

  “Donna, what’s the show? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  She curled her lip. Holding a fag in one hand and a contract in the other, she was like a baby with a comfort blanket, calmed just from holding the things most precious to her.

  “Ok sweet cheeks, it’s like this. You want a slot on prime-time, and I want a cut of seventy-five grand. So make Mama happy and agree.”

  “Stop dragging it out and tell me you twisted bitch... What is it?”

  “You will love it ...here’s a clue... my little spa queen.”

  “Spa? A luxury spa show?”

  I held my breath.

  “It’s Celebrity Spa Trek” she said, holding out her arms like she’d just offered me a prestigious documentary series for the BBC.

  I stared at her in horror. “Donna, I watched the first episode of that last year and couldn’t face the rest of the series. It isn’t a luxury spa! It’s Guantanamo Bay!”

  “Look, before you say no, three things. Money. Exposure. Prime-time. It will give the viewers a chance to see a different, softer side to you. You can cook for them all and cry about how you miss your agent. The Beeb will be banging your door down after it.”

  “No.”

  “Think about it.”

  “I have. And I am not doing a downward dog at the top of a bloody mountain on live TV. And I’m definitely not doing it next to a skinny blonde, twenty years my junior with a flexible torso. Oh, and just in case you mistake my reluctance in any way for ‘yes,’ the answer’s a definite ‘no.’ I will not ‘perform’ – even on prime-time – with a sad gaggle of reality-show, bitchy, has-been C-listers.” I snarled.

  “Enough with the C-word,” she muffled through the unlit fag now dangling from her mouth. “We’re all one show away from the C-word. One bad day, one email with low audience figures and C is your status.”

  “It’s not about status. I hate camping and dirt and... It would be madness. Where is this travesty of a programme taking place?”

  “Nepal.”

  “Oh, fuck off!” I snapped loudly just as the poor waiter approached.

  “No... Not you!” I called after him. But he’d gone. I was definitely turning into Donna.

  “I can’t go to the Third World... it’s dirty, there’s no running water and... and I have my show.”

  “Show, shmow,” she spat. “Look, you haven’t had a holiday since you started. Ray owes you some time off. They can get someone to cover for you for a couple of weeks.”

  “No Donna, I’m not doing it.”

  “I can’t discuss this anymore until I’ve had a ciggie,” she barked, unfurling her gaunt, six-foot frame. She wouldn’t look at me, just pushed her Chanel glasses over her head and staggered off to inhale her fag on the patio where, according to the website, cutting-edge design blended seamlessly with attention to detail.

  Nathan had recently described Donna as the love-child of Janet Street-Porter and the American model, Janice Dickinson. As I wiped my hands and watched her stagger onto the distant patio like an elegant, disgruntled giant, I smiled at the sheer accuracy.

  Seven minutes of calm later, she was back – for round two.

  “Think of your karma,” she yelled. “You were only talking about your karma the other day.” I put my finger to my own lips in a desperate but polite gesture for her to shut up. I really didn’t want any more of my business blasted across the pristine interior of one of London’s most fashionable eateries.

  “It’s all about Ayurvedic and Amchi...” she continued, flopping into her seat: “It’s about Buddha and ...well my little piggy ...it’s about losing ten pounds and gaining seventy-five thousand,” she sniggered, deliberately looking me up and down in a critical fashion.

  I ignored her.

  “It’s for charity... you love charity, you’re always banging on about it.”

  “There won’t be any toilets!”

  “Look, filming starts next week and they are looking for seven celebrities to be hauled up hills. The goal is to firm thighs and change lives, forget toilets.”

  “Next week? And they are only just asking now?” I stared at her. She scrutinised the table top.

  “Kerry Katona dropped out,” she muttered.

  “Oh, great, so I’m not even first choice? Forget it!” I said.

  “Well it’s not just about you, Tanya Travis. If you don’t want to change your life, just think of those poverty-stricken peasants, their arms outstretched... every mile you trek spares them another night sleeping in the filthy gutter.”

  “I couldn’t do it. I’ll just donate instead.”

  “You’ll have no money to donate to anything if you keep saying no to work,” she said crossly. “Remember, I see your bank balance and trust me, what’s coming in ain’t covering what’s going out. You live way beyond your means; you always have. You give money away like a man with no arms to anyone who asks and you need more money than the show pays.”

  “I refuse to bare my soul or my cellulite to ten million viewers. I’m funny like that!”

  “Look hon, if you want the Beeb job, there’s work to do and you are going to have to show the nation a softer side. Plus, if you don’t get out of Daytime now, you never will. We always wanted prime-time, didn’t we? It’s what we’ve worked for all these years, God knows we’ve both made sacrifices along the way.”

  I bit my lip. Yes there had been sacrifices for my success – and we both knew mine had been greater than Donna’s.

  “No, Donna.”

  But she wasn’t giving in; “Look, my little Prime-Time Primadonna, it’ll be worth you taking a couple of weeks off your show. The Beeb will be gagging for you and so will Ray and Dickie who’ll probably up your money when they realise how even more fabulous and sought after you are. So even if the Beeb thing doesn’t work out, it’s a win-win.”

  “The answer’s still no.” I said, firmly.

  Always quick to anger, especially when someone didn’t do as she told them, Donna slugged back the last of her Chablis. Throwing a wad of cash on the table, she gathered up the Spa Trek documents, and punched them into her bag.

  “I don’t have time for this, Tanya. I have meetings with my other clients – who want to take my advice. Time’s running out – call me. In a few weeks I may be able to get you a gig with a well-known stair-lift company ... or not!”

  She hugged me roughly and stomped off, almost knocking the beleaguered waiter over in her haste to leave.

  Once outside, I climbed into my car and Arthur set off for Manchester and home as I relaxed into the peace and quiet without Donna. My phone beeped as we sped away from the capital: it was Nathan.

  No meeting tonight after all so dinner somewhere nice? Let me know where u are and what u are up 2. Miss you.

  I read it out loud, aware that my face was producing a large, involuntary smile and sent him a text back.

  Was planning a night in with my fragrant thighs, like 2 join me?

  The phone soon pinged a response:

  Delighted to Miss Travis. See you later. Ps needed 2 buy that new kit 2 day so borrowed your card like u said. Hope that OK. C u later sex kitten x.

  I smiled and slumped back into the comfortable car. Calm washed over me as I wiped my hands and thought of a relaxing evening at home,
with Nathan.

  As we travelled back up north through the rainy city streets I thought about the evening to come and felt a rush of warmth. Donna thought Nathan was only with me for the fame and the money but I knew our relationship was based on more than that. The real problem was the Press, who loved to torture older women with the audacity to think they were still vaguely attractive enough to be on the telly. Poor Nathan kept getting caught up in it all and we were constantly reading lies implying he was cheating on me with younger women, usually blondes. He was only a couple of years younger than me and if I’d been the man and he’d been the woman we’d have been considered the same age. It must have seemed incredible to the rest of the world that a man as good-looking as him could be with someone less than stunning and older than 25.

  Driving past the housing estates on the outer edges of the city, I gazed through the car window, imagining other lives. Running home in the rain, oven chips, children’s voices, hot baths and homework all played against the backdrop of crockery clatter and teatime news droning on the telly. In this world, there was no pressure to perform, stay young, keep ‘current’, just to live your life and love your kids. It was something I might have had if things had turned out differently. And despite the fabulous home, designer clothes, and glittering awards, in that moment I felt a longing for what might have been. Given the chance, I would make some different decisions to those I had made when I was younger... when anything was possible. I’d just been too young to know.

  TWEET: @TanyaTruth Heading home after a delish + relaxing lunch at Nobu with my uber agent + best friend @DonnaAgent #BestFriendsForever

  6

  Fantasy Weddings and Flagrant Tights

  Arriving home after my meeting with Donna, I put all thoughts of the past aside. As the car pulled up in front of my beautiful house, calm washed over me. After all, ratings were good for the show, the Beeb were chasing me and Nathan would be home tonight. I was also quite flattered to be asked to do Celebrity Spa Trek, though I wasn’t letting on to Donna because it was sure to be a C-list nightmare halfway across the world and Hell would freeze over before I said yes.

  I unlocked the door and walked into the house, which smelt of air-freshener and warm garlic. I’d called Astrid from the restaurant to ask her to buy chicken thighs for tonight’s seduction dinner and it smelt like she’d made a start.

  “So, I put bastard thighs in bowl with lemon-stick shit?” she said, looking up as I came in.

  “If by that you mean, you marinade the chicken thighs with the lemongrass, then yes, Astrid,” I said, walking into a messy kitchen that made me itch just looking at it. My Kashmir granite worktops were sprayed with red paste and Astrid was about to drip coconut milk over the polished floor. I leapt forward and made a save with some kitchen towel because I knew she wouldn’t.

  Judging by the amount of coconut milk she was adding, they were way past marinade – drowned would have been a more appropriate term.

  I grabbed my apron from the utility room and without even taking off my suit, made a rescue attempt on the seduction dinner. I moved in next to her to keep a close eye as she studiously followed the recipe on the laminated card. It was my signature dish – well, I always claimed it was mine, but a gay hairdresser from Norwich made it on Come Dine with Me and I stole it from him.

  “Not too much milk, Astrid.” I instructed, as she slopped it all over the place. “And be careful with the chillies, we don’t want to blow our heads off – just a gentle kick.”

  “You are a cock, Tanya,” she said, ignoring me (and apparently, the recipe) and opening another tin.

  “What ...?” I said, distracted, suddenly spotting a pile of post on the table.

  “Cock, you are the big old cock.”

  “Yeah...that’s right... I am...” I monotoned, my stomach lurching at the sight of the unpaid bills and demands on the side; I swept them into a drawer. Then I realised what Astrid had just said.

  “What do you mean, I am a cock? I’ve only just got in, Astrid, and I’ve had a long day. That’s not very nice,” I remonstrated, I absently picked up the magazine-shaped brown envelope, pleased it didn’t look like yet another final demand. Then I realised what it was. Oh God, it was worse than a bill – it was this week’s copy of Hello! – with me in it! I held it to my chest, afraid to open it.

  I gazed through Astrid, imagining the horror of what was inside the unopened envelope. She frowned, then her face split into a smile and she started laughing.

  “Oh Tanya, I tell you that you are cock ...that’s so funny...”

  “Well, I don’t think so.” I said holding the envelope tighter. This was all I needed right now.

  “Tanya... It’s IS funny, you think I call you man’s willy when I say cock?”

  “Well, I suppose you’ve called me worse, Astrid.” I said, and put the envelope on the side where it glared at me, willing me to open it.

  “No. No. No... Not cock! Kok – k-o-k. This doesn’t mean you are a big man’s willy! In Swedish it means cook. You are big old cook, Tanya.”

  “OK. Fine. I’m just popping to the bathroom, Astrid,” I said, absently. Astrid was guffawing loudly at the translation from Swedish to English while kneading the thighs very roughly. They would be escalope of thigh by the time she’d finished – but I didn’t care, I had a more pressing matter to attend to. Once in the downstairs bathroom, I ripped opened the envelope, then chewed at the plastic package with the urgency of a wild beast eating its prey. It was at times like this I was glad I’d turned down the offer to go on Celebrity Big Brother – imagine how this bathroom scenario would have played out on secret cameras! Eventually, after much gnawing and tearing, and swearing, the bloody thing was liberated from its packaging and I was staring at myself, dressed in cloud-grey cashmere and wrapped around Nathan. The cover picture was good, airbrushed well, giving me a dewy, thirty-something look I approved of. But oh – the headline, the headline: ‘Tanya Travis Exclusive: Her Wedding Plans Revealed!’ It screamed.

  ‘Tanya invites us into the beautiful Cheshire home she shares with gorgeous rock musician Nathan Wells and reveals all the details of her big day!’

  My blood was now boiling water, coursing through my veins. Why, oh why did I have to let my imagination run away with me? The journalist was so sweet, and during our chat she revealed she was getting married herself. We started chatting about her venue, and before I knew it I was describing the dream wedding I so desperately wanted for myself in graphic detail. Her eyes lit up and she started taking notes but I didn’t care, I was on a roll. I had planned it all in my head for so long, it was wonderful to actually share it with someone. She looked at me, all young and bright-eyed at the end of the conversation and said, “So, when is this all going to happen, Tanya?”

  This had flustered me slightly. “Oh, well, he hasn’t actually asked me yet...” I started. She looked at me quizzically. “But,” I hurried on, “between you and me, the proposal is imminent. Let’s just say it could be any day now.” She broke into a beam again, and after exchanging a few more pleasantries, she left. It was only when I received a crate of Bollinger and a ‘congratulations from the team at Hello!’ the following morning that I realised she might have read too much into what I had said.

  I was sure Nathan and I would walk down the aisle one day, he just needed time, that’s all. I’d played it all so well for four years with not even a whisper of white lace so as not to frighten him off and it worked, he’d stayed with me. The last thing he needed now was a full-blown, six page special of the thing that scared him most..

  Of course I know how it works and as the journalist left I’d had a horrible feeling my non-existent wedding would feature in the story, but I never imagined this – not a front page exclusive. ‘Wedding Plans Revealed’ – Christ! I sat on the toilet seat with my head in my hands – Nathan was going to go ballistic when he saw it.

  “Tanya! Tanya! The flagrant tights are burning.”

  I hastily stuffed the
magazine under a pile of books in the toilet and rushed into the kitchen to rescue the thighs, and Astrid.

  When Nathan came home later that evening, he grabbed me roughly for an embrace as soon as he walked through the door and my legs turned to jelly. I melted into his chest, inhaling the sweet, slightly musty smell of the pub which clung to his clothes. He looked casually gorgeous in his Levi’s and checked shirt. “Hello, Miss Travis,” he said with a twinkling smile, brushing my hair out of my face, “something smells good.”

  I smiled at him and led him through to the dining room, where I was slightly surprised to see three places set. Having a third person at my romantic meal hadn’t been part of my seduction plan, but Astrid was clearly proud of her efforts in the kitchen, and she dished out three plates and plonked herself down at the table with us.

  “Tanya, we missing Embarrassing Dr Christian tonight while we eat your thighs,” she said, taking a huge mouthful of steaming food.

  “Well Astrid, we wouldn’t be offended if you want to watch Embarrassing Bodies in the sitting room. You could eat yours on a tray in front of the TV,” I suggested tactfully.

  “Oh no, Tanya. You silly cow, tonight the bloody doctor looks at skin – I don’t want to eat these thighs of chicken and watch stinking flesh covered in scabby old ...”

  “Ooh, I think we get the picture thank you, Astrid,” I smiled, holding up my glass in a cheers gesture. I smiled indulgently for Nathan’s benefit, pretending I wasn’t bothered about the programme, but I had the inner security of a woman with ‘Catch-Up TV’ technology.

  We ate in silence and when we’d finished our ‘romantic’ meal Nathan suggested we go into the living room and listen to some of his latest music on the laptop. Astrid hated Nathan’s music so she went off to her room to catch up with Dr Christian and his Skin Lesions Special.

  Nathan and I cuddled up together on the sofa and he proudly opened the computer and played me his latest tune. He searched my face for a response as I listened to the rather jarring and slightly erratic sounds coming from his laptop.