by Sue Watson
“Nothing,” I hissed. He was still holding the towel but standing a little distance away in staged mock-surprise and horror.
“Show some control, laydee!” Paul joked and everyone erupted with laughter.
“It’s only...hand-cream...” I tried. I’d been so desperate to put some anti-bac cream on my hands and in secret that I hadn’t considered what it might look like to onlookers.
“Oh, don’t mind us dear...you just keep lubing yourself up,” came haughty Shakespearian tones from behind some rhododendrons, where Marcus was having a cigarette.
“Paul. Will you keep the towel still?” I was cross now. “I need you to keep it round me while we walk. Stop laughing, you’re making it go up and down.”
“Ooh, Matron!” came Marcus’s voice again, from behind the bush.
“I have to get clean,” I hissed. “Get a bloody move on, Paul.”
“You got it Tan,” he said, still smiling, fag dangling from his mouth but at least he was now holding the towel more firmly as instructed.
“Nothing to see here,” I shouted, feeling like the back end of a pantomime horse. “Please go about your business,” and to my relief everyone slowly wandered off while Paul and I walked on to the stream.
“Well Paul, we’ve got our work cut out. Vomit is hell to get out of clothes...and I ate all that dhal,” I said, as we galloped downhill together. “I don’t know if you’ve ever fought a washday battle with turmeric, but let me tell you, it’s one we are in danger of losing if we don’t step to it. Speed is of the essence.” I said, a little breathless now from the steep incline.
“If only I had my box of Stain Devils with me. I have one for every stain,” I added. I clutched at Paul as we tripped over rocks, me now holding the towel while he carried my designer backpack. On reaching the stream he was still holding my dirty clothes. “I’ll keep that towel round me and wash my underwear,” I smiled. I wouldn’t expect a young man to wash my pants, whatever his job. “But it’s up to you to get the sick stains off my top and shorts. And do it properly Paul, don’t just scrape the dried, crusty bits off,” I added, dunking my fabulous new Rigby & Peller bra in misty rose into the running stream. I squeezed and scrubbed at it, then splashed water all over my hands, arms and legs, still trying to keep the towel in place.
After about an hour (it was torture without a watch to know timings) I eventually managed to get me and my underwear as clean as possible, given the conditions I was working in. I sighed as I squeezed out the last of the antibacterial gel. We weren’t allowed luxuries but this was a necessity and I’d made sure Donna negotiated it into my contract. I slapped on the final droplets and left Paul to finish scrubbing at my vomit-stained top. He’d tried to get away with a little rub here and there but I told him I wouldn’t allow him to leave until my garments were absolutely spotless.
I decided to have another go at my hair and no sooner was I submerged than the lazy sod was quietly sloping off back to base camp.
“Paul, have you definitely got all those stains out?” I shouted from under a wet mass of hair and soap foam.
“Yes. I think so...”
“You think so? Let me see,” I beckoned him crossly.
He offered me the sodden ball of T shirt and I snatched it off him, giving it a vigorous squeeze before checking it. “SQUEEZE, Paul, you need to squeeze it hard.”
“I thought you might want some privacy while you washed yourself,” he tried, but I wasn’t buying it.
“No, you can wait for me. Not too much to ask is it? Or are you too busy doing other stuff?” I said sarcastically, but it was lost on him.
He grunted then reluctantly staggered over to retrieve my backpack while I finished dressing.
“Look, you should make the most of this opportunity, Paul. Most youngsters would kill for a chance like this – it’s better than being unemployed.”
“Yeah. I suppose it is,” he said, shrugging as I joined him to stagger uphill back to the camp. He carried my bag and wet towel while I burned calories with a vigorous power-walk, leaving him in my wake.
“Christ Paul! Get a move on!” I shouted back down to him, shaking my head in despair as he huffed and puffed his way up. He stopped to catch his breath and was now bending over, wheezing. He only had a couple of bags and a towel but he was so out of condition for a young man.
“That’s what smoking does to you,” I said.
He shrugged. So rude.
“Tanya, have you left Paul down there, struggling with all your stuff?” giggled Cindi, who still seemed to find me hilarious: “You’re even worse now than you were when I worked for you.”
“No I’m not. I believe in tough love as you know, Cindi. Young people need guidance and strict discipline.”
“Yeah, so you said, Miss Whiplash.” She smiled, unfurling her sleeping bag onto the cold, hard ground.
“Are you sleeping there?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah. We all are,” she replied. I looked at her, horrified. It was getting dark and the altitude meant it was quite cool, despite the warmth of the setting sun. Marcus was huddled in his large coat and Rex was asleep on top of his sleeping bag nearby. Kara and Jonny were chatting by the camp fire, apparently cooking dinner and sending welcome wafts of warm, spicy scent across the camp. Despite my terrible reflux I felt quite peckish but had to deal with the problem of sleeping arrangements first.
“This can’t be right!” I announced, and stomped off to find Tiffany who took great delight in informing me it was in my contract to sleep under the stars.
“My agent wouldn’t agree to that.”
“She would, sweetheart. She did.”
“Well she’ll be doing more than sleeping under the stars when I get back to the UK. She’ll be sleeping with the fucking fishes!” I hissed. This was the final straw. I couldn’t sleep in a bag on the ground. I had no toiletries, no hot water and now no bed. A tent with a small bed inside would have been bad enough but this? This was uncivilized, unspeakable. I would call Donna to spring me, first thing in the morning.
“I’m not sleeping here, it’s filthy!” I called over to Marcus, who was sitting on his Cath Kidston sleeping bag, with a cup of tea in hand.
“Oh don’t be such a drama queen, dear. Wouldn’t we all rather be at the Kathmandu Hilton tonight? But that’s what the show’s about: roughing it.”
“I’m not ‘roughing it’ for anyone,” I snapped. I was disappointed that the old thespian wasn’t getting his codpiece in a twist over the sleeping arrangements. I was sure he’d have a problem with dusty old sleeping bags on rocky ground and join me in my crusade for humane treatment. It looked like I was on my own.
“Join me for a cuppa and I’ll tell you all about my time with Kenny Branagh at the RSC,” he offered. I didn’t have much choice and I needed to think about what to do next. I mustn’t do anything rash – especially as the cameras would soon be whirring, I needed to be on my best behaviour to be seen as fun, young and happening. I decided that a theatrical gossip queen and a squeeze of Earl Grey teabag in those Spartan surroundings might be quite pleasant. I staggered over and was soon enjoying delicately-perfumed tea with a delicately-perfumed homosexual. It was all very acceptable and Marcus was just settling down to recount ‘my Lear at Stratford’, when everyone else began heading towards the campfire on the other side of base camp.
“What’s happening?” I called from behind Earl-Grey steam and mid-way through ‘Kenny’s Edmund’.
“Team meeting, Tanya,” Tiffany shouted back. “You need to meet the producer, she’s going to explain how it’s all going to work over the next few days.”
“But we’re not starting until tomorrow, are we?”
“Already started sweetheart,” she chirped.
“Yes but the actual filming?”
“We’ve been filming you all for hours.”
“But you need our permission, surely?”
“Got it. All in the contract, now come on, you two old lovelies.”
My mouth dropped open in horror. “It’s not possible! They can’t film us secretly without our knowledge?” I hissed to Marcus, who had just poured himself another tea and was settling down for Lear’s descent into madness.
“O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! I would not be mad," he spat everywhere, in full Shakespearian throttle.
I could see I wasn’t going to get any support from Marcus, so made my way to the campfire, determined to have it out with the producer. Railroaded by yet another effervescent, nubile researcher we all took our places for the meeting. I sat next to Marcus and as we watched, two young women walked through the clearing towards us. The first was carrying a clipboard, her dark hair pulled into a simple ponytail. She was super slim, wore combats and a white T-shirt and was talking earnestly to the other woman, who I knew was Carol-Ann Langham, our presenter. Carol-Ann had been absent from the welcome party in Kathmandu as she’d had to fly in late from another job and here she was, fresh and buoyant and tiny. Carol-Ann was in her twenties and had only recently given birth to a perfect baby girl. According to Donna, nothing ever got in the way of Carol-Ann’s career; “She was back doing a piece to camera while birthing the placenta,” Donna had announced with deep admiration. I tried not to think about Carol-Ann’s placenta as we shook hands.
“Tanya Travis,” she smiled. “I grew up watching you, from a little girl.”
I smiled stiffly. Why did people always feel it necessary to remind me how old I was and how long I’d been around?
“You’re my idol, Tanya, I’d love to do a show like yours... Like the one...you had.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get there,” I smiled, attempting to help her over the embarrassment of my loss.
The other woman cleared her throat and motioned for us all to be silent.
“Hello everyone, I’m Flinty, the producer on the show” she started with a megawatt smile. “I’m going to explain how it’s going to work over the next few days, so you know what to expect.”
“Celebrity Spa Trek is aired every day at 8pm UK time and as Pokhara is 5 hours 45 minutes ahead, all our celebrities need to go to bed early each night and get a brief sleep, in which time the crew will be editing the highlights from your day. No, stay with me... Then you will be woken up, at 1.45am Nepal time, which is when the live show airs in the UK,” she smiled, holding her clipboard to her chest like a shield.
“Any questions so far?” We all shook our heads, everyone equally horrified at the prospect of little sleep and extremely early morning calls.
“So for the live show, everyone will gather around our campfire. The first half of the show is catching up with the highlights of the action, the trials and the challenges leading up to the vote. Now, most of the time, the public will be voting for who they want to do a trial or who to send home, depending on what is planned for that show. The format at the moment is that we will alternate nightly between a trial and an eviction. Of course, we like to keep you on your toes, keep it fresh, so this isn’t set in stone.”
When Flinty had finished, she looked around with a smile. “Is everyone OK with all that? Any questions?”
“So when does it start, exactly?” I asked.
“Tonight!” she said. “We’ve been very busy editing the highlights of your meeting last night and your journey here today. It would be advisable for you all to go to bed shortly, because we’ll wake you at 1.45am, when you will gather here so everyone back home can watch what you’ve been up to!”
I was horrified. I’d been at Spa Trek base camp for about 7 hours and had already vomited, stripped, then had appeared to be pleasuring myself under a towel...and it was all on film.
“Flinty, I need to speak to you about the edit for tonight.” I said desperately.
“Later, Tanya” she looked at her clipboard. “Now, I need to just film a few quick words from you all, about how you are feeling.”
How I was feeling? About what – the fact I’d come all that way, left the remains of my wannabe wedding at home and the love of my life in pieces to rebuild my career? Or how I felt about doing all of that, then being filmed for seven hours without my knowledge, my lunatic behaviour then broadcast to the nation?
Then the cameramen appeared. I was glad, I needed a distraction as I was worried I might lose it again. As soon as he saw the camera, Rex started banging on about shooting from his left as it was his ‘best side’ and how he couldn’t face the light. Cindi wanted shadow for her curves and Kara was demanding full, warm lighting to show off her ‘light-hearted and fun side.’ I sympathised with the director, who had his work cut out to capture ‘light-hearted’ and ‘fun’, given Kara’s manly muscles and stalking convictions.
I stood waiting anxiously while my campmates bid for seats and ‘baggsied’ lines to say. I was so used to being star of the show and having people fawning around me that I was finding it surprisingly difficult to fight my corner.
I suddenly spotted the camera light on. Perhaps I needed to give some ‘performance’ for the camera, as everyone else seemed to be doing? Let’s face it, I had a lot of damage limitation to do regarding my treatment of young researcher types and this was a perfect opportunity, so I thought on my feet and reached out to gently pull Paul towards me. Touching his face tenderly, I began my Tanya Travis Show speech: “Paul, I will guide you in your journey through TV. But remember, I can only take you so far down that long and winding road... (pause for dramatic effect, close up on camera five). It’s up to you to be the best you that you can be.” this was said in my best Oprah voice, while nodding gently and never taking my eyes from his.
Smiling serenely, I did big-hearted and sincere with just a little sprinkling of Mother Earth...nothing too ageing. Oh yes, I could still give Oprah a run for her money. Everyone was looking at me – I hoped in awe, but they were all so stupid the prevalent feeling appeared to be confusion.
“Now, I think I’ll sit over there, if that’s OK with everyone?” I said, daring them with my eyes to object. Paul looked bemused, but I felt I’d made my point.
Marcus was peering at me – no doubt worried I’d be in his shot, but softer now we’d almost bonded over tea and Shakespeare.
“What are you up to now, Gloria Swanson?” he lisped.
“I’m getting ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille,” I joked, clicking my fingers for Paul to help me as I lowered myself to sit down on the rocky ground.
“Put him down, dear,” Marcus giggled. “You’re like a rampant cougar.”
“I need him to help me,” I protested. “I am a slave to my back as it is; God only knows what lying on hard ground will do to it while I’m here. I’ll be begging for bloody eviction after the first night.” I said preparing the ground for when I was the first one voted out.
Suddenly, poor old Jonny saw his chance to be on camera. “Six big celebrities sitting on a wall, if one big celebrity should accidentally fall, there’ll be five big celebrities sitting on the wall!” he sang as we all perched awkwardly round the fire, embarrassed at his outburst but smiling stiffly in case the camera caught us. Rex rolled his eyes and uncrossed his long, cowboy legs. Not only was Jonny embarrassing, he was making us all nervous. Tomorrow night the first eviction would take place: no-one wanted to be first and we all had something to prove.
“Right, let’s get a wide shot of everyone sitting round the camera talking,” barked producer Flinty. “Then we will speak to everyone individually.”
All the celebrities sat up straighter, their smiles wider as the camera began to pan between us. I noticed Paul was still sitting next to Rex and this made me uncomfortable. The viewers didn’t want to see Paul, the spotty teenage unknown, contaminating their pure-celebrity line-up. Was nobody going to say anything? I knew that once Lance the director realised that the runner was right in the middle of the shot, he would have to film the scene all over again and none of us wanted to do extra filming, we were all tired. So, it’s up to Tanya to sort them out again, I thought, leaning for
ward. “Paul!” I hissed at him. I guessed he must be slightly deaf because he never seemed to respond when I called him.
“Paul,” I said more loudly, willing him to turn round.
He stopped speaking to Rex and looked at me.
“Paul you’re in the middle of the shot,” I said, shaking my head and waving my arm vigorously in a ‘get out of the way’ gesture.
“You are outrageous, Tanya,” Cindi giggled in my ear.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Cindi, he’s a nice enough lad and one day he might even be good at what he does,” I said quietly to her. “But we need to get him to move or we will have to shoot this bit all over again.”
Paul shuffled a little, aware he was causing controversy but typically ignoring it. Suddenly I was fed up of it all. Someone needed to get a grip – all I wanted was to get this done and try and get some sleep as I’d just been informed we would be woken in the middle of the bloody night. There were no tents, no showers and now Paul the sodding runner was ensuring that we would have to reshoot this bit and I’d never get to bed.
“Well I’m damned if I’m sitting through this with the runner sat right in the middle of a celebrity line-up,” I said loudly, trying to get to my feet. Cindi grabbed my arm and pulled me back down.
“What?” I snapped.
“The runner?” she mouthed, confused. She was looking straight at me with that annoying face she made when she worked for me, when I asked her something simple that she didn’t understand.
“Yess,” I hissed, “runner.”
“Tanya, what are you going on about?”
“OK, I know everyone wants to be a celebrity,” I said, “but this is just silly. It’s bad enough having my former assistant sipping champagne next to me but at least you had the decency to do a sex tape and get famous first. There’s a limit, Cindi and Paul the runner is not famous, nor to my knowledge has he done a sex tape – therefore he needs to move, so we can all just get on with it.”
“The Hissy Fits, Tanya?”
“It’s not a hissy fit. I’m just fed up with this.”
