by Sue Watson
“Tanya, why did you do the mooning with your ass?” Astrid asked, genuinely.
“I’ll explain later, Astrid. Right now I need a very hot shower.” I said miserably
“You need more than that, now you’ve dropped your pants in the Twittersphere,” Donna said, lighting a cigarette and opening the window. She stuck her head out and took a deep drag.
“Tell me what to do, Donna.” I coughed through a lungful of smoke.
Astrid and I both looked at her, waiting in anticipation for the answer that would solve all the problems.
“OK. OK.” She smoked in silence for six minutes, then flicked her ciggie and closed the window, hair everywhere. “So, here’s Donna’s five star, bulletproof, SAS-style rescue plan.”
“Thank God the American knows what to do,” said Astrid, resting her chin on her hand in anticipation, “even if her hair now looks like cat’s arse.”
“Go on, what’s your plan?” I asked, leaning sideways so I could see Donna behind Astrid’s head.
“How would you like to get away from it all, be on prime-time TV, change the viewers’ perception of you, turn your career around and be paid a fortune?”
“Fucking hell yes, do big birds fly?” Astrid yelped.
“That sounds great.” I said cautiously. “Is it the Beeb job you mean?”
“Oh no, my little psycho, I think it’s safe to say that ship has sailed. I called them seconds after your meltdown, hoping to get a contract signed, sealed and delivered before it was everywhere in the known universe. I hate to tell you this but it was online so quickly I smell a rat... Someone from the production team must have posted the whole thing. Anyone who missed the live version can catch up on YouTube, along with ‘Gate-gate’ and probably now, a lovely shot of your cellulite-riddled ass. Ain’t technology grand?”
I banged my head repeatedly on the window.
“This offer sweet-cheeks is all you’ve got, and it’s a good one. I think you know what it is.”
“Oh, is it The Countdown? Is Tanya new number-lady Carol?”
“No Astrid, it’s not as good as that,” I sighed. “It’s ‘I’m a Celebrity get me out of the fucking Spa’. No way.”
“Hello? Earth calling Tanya?” Donna said, “a) this is exactly what you need: fresh air, a change of scene and b) you have no money, so no other option.”
I stopped banging my head and gazed out of the window; we were nearly home, thank God.
“Someone tweeted that I was a barren, diva bitch this morning.”
“Ah the magic of Twitter,” Donna smiled, taking another cigarette from her bag and winding down the window.
“I do hundreds of great shows, help people and say stuff I’m really proud of and no-one notices. Then a couple of things happen and the world is talking about me... but not in a good way.”
“Yep, and now you only have to google ‘Menopause Meltdown’ or ‘Tanya Travis cellulite’ and you have all the material you need at your fingertips, my little global phenomenon.”
I felt sick thinking about how fast everything had changed, how exposed I’d become. Two weeks before, I’d been riding high, winning awards with a vintage-glamour themed wedding on the horizon. I was turning down reality programmes with C-listers up mountains thinking I didn’t need it – I had a great show and a great life. Meanwhile, as I happily surfed the Prada website and endured loud lunches with Donna, the fourth floor had been grooming Georgina and Nathan was impregnating some blonde. Now I was single, with no money, no career and no hope of getting another job. I would have to sell the house, let Astrid go and say goodbye to my bespoke orangery with its views of parterre gardens and undulating lawns.
We pulled up outside the house and got out. Donna played with her Blackberry as I opened the door, making little muttering sounds and no doubt hoping I’d ask what she was looking at.
“You’re my agent Donna. What’s your advice? Isn’t there something in my contract that says they can’t get rid of me?” I said, throwing my keys onto the hall table and taking off my jacket.
She walked through and sat down at the kitchen oasis. “Yes, there probably is something in your contract about giving notice, but I guess there’s also something in the small print stating you won’t shout ‘fucking give it to him’ atop a moving twelve-foot gate in front of the world’s press, or scream and swear at the production team while live on air.”
“Ok, leave it. Just don’t mention it again... or anything else, Donna.”
I ground coffee and she shut up for a whole 54 seconds. I think she got the message.
“I know this might hurt but my guess is that all the stuff going to the press about your private life came straight from Georgina,” said Donna thoughtfully, as the coffee machine whirred.
“What?”
“Well, it adds up. She knew every detail about you, every day, and it certainly helped her cause to get bad stuff out there.”
My heart skipped: “So it was Georgina behind all the Nathan stories?”
“Not necessarily. I ain’t sayin he’s innocent honey, so don’t go all dewy-eyed but the ‘nine-times-a-night-Nathan’ stories didn’t do her any harm. I suppose we’ll never know.”
I started to cry. I couldn’t help it. I’d pushed Nathan away by not trusting him and believing some ‘kiss and tell’ story from a stupid young blonde and now it looked like Georgina might have been out to get me; I’d been the stupid one. There was no-one except Donna in the world that I could trust and she wasn’t exactly the warmest, cuddliest person on the planet.
“Tanya, you are so sad, I get out the box of Kardashians and we watch later, yeah?” Astrid’s head appeared round the door. Yes and I also had Astrid, and her TV box sets.
“Look. There’s nothing I can say to make it better or make it go away. If I could, believe me I would.” Donna said, putting her arm awkwardly around me. She was trying for gentle and caring, but as it was so unusual for her to behave like this it came over as vaguely sinister.
“My advice is to ride the waves, accept Celebrity Spa Trek, make sure everyone loves you – and come back to prime-time applause.”
She moved her arm from my shoulder and picked at her nails. She did that when she was nervous – which wasn’t often.
“So? Whaddya say? Shall I call the Spa people and get you on that first plane outta dodge?”
“I can’t leave now, what about Nathan?”
“What about him? He’s a creep.”
“I know you think I’m crazy but I believe there’s still a chance for us and I know he still cares about me. I love him.”
“That’s up to you. Personally I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. He’s a cheater and whether or not it was Georgina telling the press, I told you there’s no smoke without fire. Give it some space... if it’s meant to be... and all that crap. Anyway, who knows, if you’re up some mountain thousands of miles away, he might actually miss you? Let’s face it, he loves the limelight, he’ll miss that at least.”
It was indeed starting to look like a rescue package. I couldn’t think of anything in the world I wanted to do less – but Nathan wasn’t offering to meet up any time soon and I wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with job offers, so why stick around? Perhaps Donna was right, perhaps I needed space. And there was plenty of that halfway up a mountain, with no mobile signal.
“OK, so do we have a deal?” She rubbed her hands together and I nodded, discreetly turning on the kitchen tap. My hands had never felt so dirty in my life.
TWEET: @TanyaTruth: Sooo excited:) Off 2 beautiful Nepal 4 Celebrity Spa Trek. Can’t wait! #CelebritySpaTrek #Nepal #LuckyMe
Part 2
13
We Have Lift Off...and Appelkaka
There were three screaming children in the business class lounge. The youngest, a little boy, was throwing a tantrum that an A-list diva could only aspire to. I shuddered and looked away. My head was throbbing, the plane was delayed and I just knew the flight to Nepal would be hellish
. I had been swept up in Donna’s enthusiasm and had agreed to this out of sheer panic. I wasn’t totally convinced that leaving the remnants of my life and career to try and regain it in another country was the answer. I’d lost my job, my fiancé and even my beautiful home was now hanging in the balance. I’d extended the mortgage repayments to cover the cost of Nathan’s sound studio – a stupid thing to do at the best of times but now, with no income, I couldn’t actually meet the monthly payments. Donna was looking after everything while I was away and warned me things would be tough. It didn’t look like I’d be able to enjoy my Marston and Langinger bespoke orangery for much longer. Just thinking of the way the fading gold light of evening played upon the toffee rattan and Oka cushions in washed linen brought a tear to my eye. I stood up and stretched, checking the board to see if there was any progress on the flight. From the corner of my eye I could see Astrid, tucking into the ‘complimentary’ business class food and I noted that she was already on her second glass of wine. “Tanya!” she beamed at me from across the room. “They have the appelkaka,” she waved a wedge of cake at me. “I am loving this free shit!”
I sipped my drink and buried my head in my copy of Vogue to avoid the glares of the businessmen and the outraged expression on the face of the toddler terror’s mum; perhaps bringing Astrid hadn’t been such a good idea after all. I leafed through the mag, hoping it would have a calming effect but even ‘Catwalk Ready Cruise Wear’ and the herbal aroma of my favourite gin couldn’t take my mind off my troubles – and we were only at the airport. There was a whole ten days of Celebrity Spa Trek horror to get through yet. Astrid came over with a laden plate and threw herself down beside me.
“I am loving being your PA, Tanya Travis!” she beamed. “Thank you for having me... Would you like a bite of my knackerbrod?”
I waved away the laden crisp-bread she held at my face. “Yes, well you’re only my PA until I leave for the base camp,” I said. “Times may be hard but I refuse to look like a total Z-lister and everyone else will have an assistant. I need some sort of entourage – even if it’s only you, Astrid,” I said, with images of the Beckhams and their travel posse swirling round in my head.
“This knackerbrod is gooood,” she said, smiling, a face full of cream cheese and dill. Donna had insisted to the production company that I flew business class and when I invited her along to assist, Astrid couldn’t have said yes more quickly. Finally after what seemed like an age, our flight was called. As we swept past all the economy class passengers, Astrid strode ahead of me. “Excuse me, toss-faces, Tanya Travis coming through!” she yelled as we made our way to the gate.
“Astrid!” I hissed, “Stop it! When I said I needed a PA, I didn’t mean the type that actually made announcements.”
She looked at me, puzzled. “You are the celebrity, Tanya. I am just making sure that the paps know for the photo, yes? Like that man he does it on the Kardashians’ show.”
I put my head down and hoped no-one would recognise me but I could already see mobile phones being taken out of pockets to take clandestine pictures of the fallen talk-show host. We got to the gate and boarded quickly. “I have never turned left on a plane before!” said Astrid, her eyes shining. “Always before, I turn to the right.” At first I thought something was lost in translation and then I realised: Astrid had always flown economy. The thought that one day soon I too might be forced to ‘turn right’ made my blood run cold but I tried to banish such thoughts from my head. There was only so much I could take and I put on my Tanya-Travis-smile mask to greet the stewardesses as I made my plane entrance.
Once we were settled we soon took off. As we soared through thick, chalky white clouds, my chest thudded and my fingers itched to be scrubbed.
“Wow they have mother-shit TV, Tanya!” Astrid exclaimed, as the plane climbed up over the sea and away from everything I knew. She was flicking through the in-flight entertainment. “Look. So many good shows! Big Fat Losers and seasons of America’s Next Hot Model. Oooh and Sexy in the City with Jessica Sarah Parkerson is here also. I will be a busy PA, Tanya,” she sighed, like she’d died and gone to heaven.
I looked out of the window at the silent, soft clouds below and reflected on how, in a matter of days, my life had been transformed. All the invites to premieres, product launches and fashion shows had dried up overnight and when I Googled myself, the highest ranked results were YouTube clips of ‘Gate-gate’, my outburst at Hermione, pictures of my naked buttocks and lurid articles in the tabloids about ‘Tanya’s Toy-boy Lover’s Baby’ or how my career was in ruins, along with my backside. And to add insult to injury someone was making a killing as all this was usually accompanied by ads for cellulite or wrinkle cream. I had tried to resist reading about myself but it was addictive. That morning before I left, the awful showbiz news website GOSSIPBITCH was leading with:
Which former Daytime Darling is off to the spa today to cleanse her sins and win back her fans? It will take more than a mudmask to save her!
I closed my eyes and pressed my head against the window. I missed Nathan; I missed him with an ache that sat on my chest like a big rock and never went away.
I turned to Astrid, who was engrossed in an underwater modelling assignment with Tyra Banks and 12 wannabe-top-models. I ordered another gin and popped a Valium from the emergency section of my handbag. Within minutes, the whirring of the engines and the calming alcohol anaesthetised the pain and I slept.
TWEET: @TanyaTruth So excited 2 see Himalayas + make lovely new friends on @CelebritySpaTrek #NewChapter #HimalayanAdventure.
* * * * *
After an 18-hour journey with one stop over in Abu Dhabi, Astrid and I found ourselves standing in Tribhuvan Airport, Kathmandu, amid chaos and confusion. After what felt like a lifetime waiting at the poorly-ventilated passport controls, we were spewed out from the airport, into a cacophony of clatter and noise. Porters dressed in long robes shouted and gesticulated at us, while an alarmed Astrid repeatedly told them to ‘shit off,’ referring to them loudly as ‘tit bags’.
Suddenly, through a sea of saris and colour, I spotted a board being held aloft with ‘Tanya Travis’ on it. “This way, Astrid!” I barked, needing to take control of the situation. I was propelled towards the board by the crowds and almost forced into the arms of the young man holding it.
“Hey... Tanya Travis!” he yelled above the noise.
“Hello, I’m sorry, it’s just so crazy here, I didn’t mean to lunge,” I said.
“Hey that’s OK with me, Tanya Travis. I like older women throwing themselves at me. I’m Paul,” he said, shaking my hand with one hand while still waving the board aloft with the other.
“This is my clean... I mean my PA, Astrid.” I said, with an imperious wave of my hand.
He repeated her name and winked at her. “This way,” he smiled, setting off through the chaos. I tutted to myself as I ran after him; I wished the TV companies wouldn’t send runners to collect the talent – it would have been nice to be greeted by the producer.
Paul seemed pleasant enough but his hair had been sprayed or waxed into a shape that suggested he’d been standing in a wind-tunnel. I wouldn’t allow a member of staff on my show to have so sloppy an appearance, I thought – then felt a stab of pain as I remembered for the millionth time, I didn’t have a show any more.
“You can put the board down now,” I said gently, not wanting to draw attention to myself at the airport; autograph- hunters and photographers popped up everywhere. Paul was looking at me quizzically.
“You are with Celebrity Spa Trek?” I confirmed, firmly grabbing the board and taking it from him.
“Yeah, I am. Hey, wait till I tell my mum you’re on the show, she’s your biggest fan, Tanya.” My heart sank and I set my rictus TV-grin. So much for all that tweeting and rapping and getting down with the kids. I was still the favourite with Mums everywhere.
“This show’s gonna be amazin’,” he yawned as I handed him my cases.
“I hope
you’re right, Paul, I need a bit of ‘amazin’’ in my life just now.” I could see he was going to be one of those kids who needed guidance. I rolled my eyes at Astrid and she smiled brightly, as usual missing the point. She had a twinkle in her eye as she looked at Paul. That was the last thing I needed – my mad-cleaner-pretend-PA fancying the runner.
“Are you sure you’ve got enough luggage?” he asked, trying to be funny as he struggled under the weight of my Louis Vuitton.
Making sarcastic remarks to me about my luggage didn’t put him in my good books from the get-go. I was irritated by his attitude but Hermione had told The Sun how bossy I was with young employees, so I figured Paul might be an opportunity for me to look less bossy and more caring. It was my chance to be seen guiding him through the production maze and helping him to become a better runner – and a better person.
As we headed towards the door, I linked arms with him so he could manoeuvre me through the maelstrom. The airport was a mouth, spitting out fresh tourists to the beggars who were waiting outside for money, like kids at the penny falls machines but I couldn’t look. I climbed into the waiting car, averting my eyes from the dirty little children with deformed limbs and outstretched hands. “Who else will be on the show?” I asked Paul, once we were both inside the cracked leather back-seat of what the driver proudly referred to as, ‘the limo’.
The names of celebrities who would be on the show had so far been kept a secret from the press and I was eager to know who I’d be sharing a tent – or God forbid – a hammock with.
“No-one’s tellin’ who’s on the show – they think it’s cool if the celebs meet on camera. It’s just so – random.”
“Great!” I snapped. As a member of the production team I guessed Paul would know and was just refusing to say. “I’ve only ever seen one episode of the programme before so I don’t really know what to expect.” I said. “So I will need you to keep me abreast of events, ideally before they happen.”
