by Sue Watson
“I get it, Ray.”
“…Then there’s plenty of twitching, a huge rise – it’s positively...tumescent.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“As for the merchandise, well, it’s a wild card, blue-sky thinking on a rainy day. Don’t worry – we won’t put your face on anything like that, love.”
“Good. Don’t get me wrong, Ray. I can see that you might want to make the most of all my ‘Darling of Daytime’ awards, but I just wouldn’t be happy with merchandise.”
“What, not even some ‘Darling of Daytime’ Frisbees?” He winked.
“I have a busy afternoon, Ray. Lots to do.” I said, standing up. “I just wanted to make my point.” I picked up my bag, ready to leave.
“Tanya, all those years ago when the country lost Diana, its ‘Queen of Hearts,’ it took you, Tanya Travis, to its bosom.” he sighed, leaving a theatrical pause while heaving himself to his feet. “We may have lost her in a Parisian tunnel but we found you on ITV, five mornings a week. And for fifteen years you have offered a special brand of solace and advice...”
“Ray...”
“... Just like she did.” His eyes were twinkling. “Diana wouldn’t have shied away from live STD tests and DNA results.”
“I beg to differ, Ray. I think we can safely assume that STD tests were never on the Princess of Wales’ royal itinerary.”
He lurched towards me, taking both my hands in his. “Tanya Travis is television’s 21st century ‘Queen of Hearts’. I want you to be remembered for...”
“Frisbees with my face on?”
“No, not Frisbees, Tanya. What I’m saying is that Diana changed her image, from ‘fluffy’ to ‘landmines’.” I frowned at him, not sure what he was getting at.
“Tanya, who knows, perhaps we can in the future look at placing you in something with the gravitas you dream of – documentaries, political interviews... Diana’s Landmine Legacy?”
“Oh yes Ray... That would be great. That’s what I really want. Something that will have a effect, make a difference. I could still look at difficult situations and human relationships in my own way, but in a more serious format. A close up on child trafficking? An in-depth on HIV? 21st century slavery? I’m not scared of real life, Ray.”
“Oh I know. But in the meantime, let’s just hang on in there and stick with the teenagers, the trans-genders and the traveller brides.” He licked his full lips. Ray didn’t want to hear about the real world, only the one where women wore bunny ears and no-one ever died from having sex.
I stood up again, to encourage him to leave. He continued to talk and I watched his mouth move over words like ‘intimate,’ ‘gushing,’ ‘probing’ and ‘sexual satisfaction.’ A deep heat was surging through me and rising up my neck. If I didn’t get out now I wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to wipe Ray vigorously with a damp facial flannel.
I eventually evicted him from my dressing room and finally, finally checked my voice messages. I thought my heart would stop when that stupid female voice said, “You have two new voicemail messages. To listen to your messages, press one.”
“Yes, yes I know!” I said, pressing one and waiting, agitated, my head about to explode.
“Hey honey, it’s Mama Donna. Have you thought about that fabulous offer of foreign travel and prime-time exposure? Celebrity Spa Trek... You know you want to.”
So, Donna was still trying to wear me down on the reality show? I pressed one again and the second message started: “Oh... and before you ask, no I haven’t heard from the Beeb and yes I have put calls in to them.” Fucking Donna, again! I stared at my phone, disappointed.
Within 10 minutes I was tucked into the back of the car with Arthur at the helm. I felt war-torn, beleaguered and old. I had never been so glad to be going home, where I could be alone with my thoughts of Nathan, the pain of his departure duetting with the tantalising possibility he might already be there, waiting for me, ready to forgive.
TWEET: @TanyaTruth Gr8 show 2day! On way home 2 spend evening with @NathanWells + early night. #TrueLoveIs
8
Vodka Cocktails and Love in the Clouds
Arriving back at the house I climbed out of the car on shaky legs, trying desperately not to build my hopes up that Nathan might be back. I waved goodbye to Arthur, opened the front door and walked into the silence. No-one was home. My heart dipped as I took off my shoes in the hall and padded through to the kitchen. I put the kettle on, took my rubber gloves from the drawer and was just about to begin a vigorous tile-scrubbing session when I heard a creak upstairs. Perhaps I wasn’t alone, after all? The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
I left the kitchen and walked into the hall.
“Astrid, are you there?” I called, taking the stairs cautiously. Once upstairs, I opened the door to my own room and called out again.
“Astrid, is that you?” There was a muffled sound, so faint I could barely hear it. What was it? Giggles? Cries? My heart jumped a little.
“Who is it?” I called again. “Nathan... is it you? Are you there?” The noise seemed to be coming from Astrid’s room, so I stepped towards her door on soft carpet, calling her name as I did. I leaned gently against the door frame to try and hear what it was. “Hello? Hello?” I tried again, knocking gently, panic rising in my chest.
Suddenly there was rustling and movement and I was tempted to throw open the door. But it might not be an intruder, I thought, it might actually be Astrid in her room.
“Astrid?”
“Yes, yesss, I’m here. I feeling a bloody little head-aching Tanya – I stay here and do some of the sleep.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” I tried, hoping she’d come to the door so I could see into her room. She definitely wasn’t alone. But who was in there with her?
“Shall I make you some tea?” I asked, planning to bribe my way in with her favourite lingonberry brew (which should have been more appropriately named, ‘Swedish Cat Pee’). This wasn’t the first time I’d heard noises coming from Astrid’s room recently and what worried me was her reluctance to let me in. I stood there for a few seconds more but she didn’t answer me, so I left her to her headache.
I went back into my bedroom, washed my hands eight times and hung that day’s Armani jacket and skirt on soft, padded hangers. I placed them high on a rail in the black section of the walk-in wardrobe and stood back to admire the view. A Gucci jacket in French navy and a pristine, white silk blouse waited in the wardrobe wings, ready for the next day’s show. I smiled; smooth suits, good, straight lines, colour-coded, clean – all in their place. I stood for a few minutes, enjoying the deep pleasure of clothes hung according to shade, running my hands along the pleats of fabric, from the blackest Jean Muir to the lightest, pastel Chanel. I pulled on my robe and just as I was brushing my hair, there was another noise on the landing then movement on the stairs. I leapt out and to the top of the stairs, just as the front door closed.
“Astrid?”
“Yes?” she staggered up the stairs, breathless.
“Was someone at the door?”
“Yes. I opened door for shithead postman, but he’s gone. What a dick’s head he is.”
“Yes, isn’t he?” I responded absently, thinking the postman never comes in the afternoon. Who just left?
Another hand-washing session calmed me slightly, but I couldn’t be as thorough as I liked because I had to check the next day’s running order and make notes. I also had to call Georgina about my blog, phone Tara, my sister in Australia and text Nathan again. I couldn’t do anything until my hands were absolutely clean and the more I thought about wasted time the more I had to wash. Suddenly hand washing wasn’t enough, so I climbed into the shower and turned it up, as hot as it would go. Discovering a bottle of extra strong, delicious, Flash All-Purpose in Crisp Lemon in the cubicle, I grabbed it, slathered it all over me and worked it in with the scrubbing brush. Pinpricks of blood emerged on my thighs, upper arms and neck. I caught m
y breath as my flesh protested at the wire brush and the searing, citric detergent. Flash may not smell like Jo Malone but it eradicated the day’s filth and life’s pain in a way her White Jasmine and Mint oil never could.
I finally emerged from the spray, rubbing myself vigorously with a towel, hoping that would be enough for that day but knowing in my heart that it wouldn’t.
After my shower, I checked my phone for the hundredth time. Damn, he’d called while I was washing. “Damn, damn, damn!” I hissed to myself through the bathroom steam. I was excited and delighted he’d made contact but filled with anguish and regret that I hadn’t answered. I immediately called him, desperately hoping he’d answer this time. It rang and rang and rang... and just as I was about to pass out, he answered.
“Hi, Tanya.”
“Hello Nathan? How are you? I’ve been so worried about you, darling.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I just couldn’t take it... the pressure. You know how it is.”
“Yes, of course I do and you didn’t need me adding to it. I’m sorry...” I could feel my chest heave with the explosion of unreleased sobs.
“Look, Tanya, let’s meet tonight. We need to talk about what’s going to happen next.”
“If you just want to meet up to dump me, Nathan, please don’t, just tell me now and get it over with.” I said, holding back the tears.
“No. No Tanya, God, I don’t want us to be over. I want to see you, we need to... sort out our future.” Relief swept over me, my eyes swelled with tears of happiness.
“Ok… yes, that would be good. Let’s meet this evening then shall we? I’ll book somewhere and text you.” I said, feeling hope rise in my chest, he agreed and I hung up the phone.
I immediately called Cloud 23, the bar on the 23rd floor of The Hilton in Manchester City Centre and reserved a table. I knew Nathan would like it there, it was contemporary but not too trendy for an early-evening drink, the views were jaw-dropping and I’d recalled Georgina said the soundtrack was ‘stylish’. Nathan liked ‘stylish.’ I was optimistic about this reunion. Perhaps what had happened with Hello! and our separation had made him really think about where we were headed. I even imagined, in an excited little corner of my mind, that this might be the place he would finally propose, so I wanted it to be perfect in every way.
I arrived promptly at seven after agonising for 17 minutes about what to wear. I settled on a beautifully cut, casual dress from Whistles and a wrap to keep out the evening chill. It was late August, but it was the UK and I was already shivering... with excitement? Fear? Cold? I stared out of the window from the highest point in Manchester, enjoying the outline of the city painted against a dusky sky, the setting sun glinting from car windows below. I lost myself, imagining the evening ahead. We need to talk about what’s going to happen next..., he’d said. Was he saying what I thought he was saying?
Perhaps Nathan was beginning to realise that commitment, emotional security and a ‘Vintage Glamour’ themed wedding was what we both needed? There’d been something exciting in his voice when he’d called. There was urgency, like he was desperate to see me.
I checked the time. Nathan was running late and I tried not to become anxious. A waiter came over and asked if I’d like a drink. “I’ll wait for my- fiancé, thank you,” I said, a sparkle in my tummy as I said the word ‘fiancé’. I was playing a dangerous game with myself.
Despite the stunning views and fabulous décor, it wasn’t long before there was the usual frisson of interest around me. A couple on the nearest table whispered to each other, desperately trying to look like they weren’t staring at me. The girl slowly took her smartphone out of her bag, pretending to send a text – but I knew she was trying to take my picture. When I was first in the public eye people would smile at me, now they just brandished their phones to take pictures of me eating/drinking/being alone or as was often the case, arguing with Donna. It’s hard enough to be in a public place on your own but when you’re famous it’s a bloody nightmare. I always tried to be accommodating – to smile and sign autographs when asked and pose for a million mobile-phone photos even at the risk of missing a flight or being late for a vital medical appointment. But there were days when, like any normal human being, I was upset, ill or just didn’t feel like smiling for a stranger’s camera while their friends and family clung to me like grim death, shouting ‘cheese!’ On those days, if I dared to refuse someone, my magic, celebrity-princess crown was ripped from my head and they beat me with it. ‘Who does she think she is?’ they’d mutter. ‘She looks much older in the flesh, doesn’t she? Miserable old bag wouldn’t even let us have a quick photo... If it wasn’t for us the public, she wouldn’t have that show,’ as if I had played no part in my own career achievements.
In an attempt to look busy I signalled to the waiter and ordered a coffee.
I would need to be careful how I greeted Nathan, if and when he finally turned up. I mustn’t show my anxiety or displeasure – and I definitely couldn’t burst into tears and climb up his legs begging for him to marry me, unless I wanted to be papped and headlined ‘Old, Ugly and Desperate’ on the cover of heat that week.
I’d been sitting alone for over an hour and was just contemplating leaving, when he suddenly appeared at my side.
“Hello, gorgeous.” He held my hand and kissed me full on the mouth, pulling me into his strong arms and taking me by complete surprise – along with the rest of the bar. All my hurt and worry melted into my coffee and I glowed inside and out.
“Can I get you a drink?” I asked as he sat down, still holding my hand, staring straight into my eyes with his deep blue ones.
“Yes, I’ll have a vodka and Red Bull please.”
The waiter came and I ordered his drink and a vodka cocktail for me. I felt a bottle of Dom Perignon was perhaps a little presumptuous at this early stage in the proceedings, but he was definitely in a better frame of mind: so far so good.
“Darling, I’ve been so worried, where have you been? You’ve not been answering your phone,” I said gently.
“Oh Tanya,” he said, annoyed. “I’ve only just got here, I re-arranged my whole night to see you and you start with the questions.”
My heart sank. I knew he felt I could be possessive and controlling but I only wanted to point out that I’d been waiting for him, alone. I wanted to kick myself. Why did I always have to ruin everything by nagging?
The waiter returned with our drinks. “I’m sorry Nathan, I’m a bit stressed. It’s just difficult being me, on my own in a bar – you know how it is with the public.” I tentatively reached for his hand across the table.
“It’s no picnic for me either, going out with you,” he sighed pulling his hand away.
I took it back gently. “I know, and you’re a saint for putting up with me and all my baggage. No-one else ever stayed this long, you’re very special.”
“And you are to me, Tanya. I wanted you to know how special you are – I got you something. Look, I know it’s been tough between us recently and I want us to make up, get back together.”
“Oh! Nathan... I never expected...” I looked into his eyes, searching for a clue, was this the moment I’d been waiting for? My hopes soared high over Manchester Cathedral and hovered with sparkly expectation over my head.
He reached into his pocket while I tried hard to suppress the grin that was threatening to fill my whole face. I looked from his eyes to his hand, searching for a clue. He was pulling out a small Tiffany box and I had to resist the urge to tear it from him, open it and shout ‘yes, yes, yes!’ like Meg Ryan in When Harry met Sally. Instead, I feigned restraint and gently took the blue box from his outstretched hand, with a carefully-composed look of surprise and intrigue on my face. I slowly lifted the lid, my eyes flitting between his and the emerging contents which were to dictate my future. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me – like the world had paused to see what was in the box.
“Oh Nathan how lovely...it’s...it’s…so thoughtful... It’s.
.. earrings!” I willed my mouth to smile as the rest of me picked my heart up off the floor.
“You love Tiffany’s, don’t you?”
I nodded, unable to form words. Yes, I adored Tiffany jewellery. Yes, I loved the exquisite necklaces and the dainty silver bracelets and the gorgeous silver stud earrings, like the ones I was holding now. But here, in this lovely restaurant with spectacular views and stylish soundtrack, these particular Tiffany earrings were just a searing, painful reminder that whatever he said, Nathan still didn’t want to marry me.
He lifted his drink, looking at me, uncertainty in his eyes. “You do like them, don’t you? Would you have preferred gold?”
I’d have preferred a fucking ring, I thought, but I slurped my drink to stop myself saying this. As I looked at the pretty, expensive earrings, I thought about the pile of unopened bills that I had swept into a drawer whilst I was making the fragrant chicken.
“Um – did you buy these... on the credit card?” I tried to smile, gathering myself together, the more familiar, practical Tanya taking over.
“Tanya, there you go again. Does it matter how I paid for them? I left my mate Darren’s early to go across town and get them... I went to a lot of trouble. I had to get a taxi. But it’s not good enough is it? It’s always about the money.” He turned himself away from me and stared out of the window.
“No...I...it’s just...”
“Look, you know the score, Tanya. I’m a bit strapped at the moment. Yes, I used your bloody precious card but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re paid back in full. Perhaps you’d like a signed IOU?”
I sighed and reached for his hand. I was hurt and disappointed. I wouldn’t have minded if he’d paid for an engagement ring with my card, that was worth getting in hock for, but he’d paid for earrings I didn’t want, with money I didn’t have. Talk about rubbing salt in the wound. I felt a lump forming in my chest; I swallowed hard and sat back, abandoning the drink. I smiled, which was hard, given that my heart was battered with deep disappointment. I wanted to cry, but people were looking.
