by Sue Watson
“What the fuck are you playing at? Our flight’s been called!” she screamed as I approached.
“Sorry, I thought it was – someone I knew,” I said sheepishly. For once she didn’t say anything – I think she guessed what had happened.
The flight was long and uncomfortable but the cabin staff were attentive. Walking past with scarlet smiles in tight red skirts and swishy hosiery, they constantly offered spicy titbits and paper cups filled with cool water.
“Honey, order yourself a very large drink,” was Donna’s considered advice whilst prattling on in her seat. Travelling with her was hell. I endured hours of her loud ‘freakin’ and ‘fucking’ and unsubtle exclamations about the physical appearance and estimated age of every passenger walking past to use the bathroom.
“She clearly chose face over figure,” she hissed, nudging me as a very made-up, plump, middle-aged woman waddled past.
I tried to close my eyes to it all, and resorted to putting on my headphones to drown Donna out. As I surfed through the entertainment channels, I couldn’t even get excited about a ‘Kardashians in Crisis’, headline on Showbiz News. I was the one in crisis and had to hope to God the paps weren’t waiting to descend on me at the airport. I was headed towards home, towards everything I knew – but had never felt so alone, or so afraid, in my life.
TWEET: @AgentDonna Queen of Mountains about 2 touch down in UK. Press conferences, exclusives + new show TBA ASAP! #BackWhereSheBelongs #GoTanya
35
Lost Brides and Cancelled Cake
We arrived back to an autumnal Britain of rain-swept skies and leafy streets. There was a flurry of press and fans taking pictures on their phones outside the airport as I came through arrivals. Flashbulbs popped in my face and I scrambled in my handbag to find my Chanel shades. “Tanya! Tanya! Over here! Did you know Nathan’s seeing a new blonde, Tanya?” one of the paps yelled, trying to get my attention. I put my head down and with Donna striding ahead and clearing the way with her big Brooklyn voice, I made it outside.
It was 5am and a grey dawn was breaking over London. “Let’s find the taxi rank, Donna” I said, staring glumly at the dull sky and pulling my wrap around me to keep out the wind. Donna smiled.
“Mama Bear has taken care of it” she said and pointed to a familiar car parked in the ‘pick-up only’ bay. The door opened and Arthur stepped out.
“Welcome back, Miss Travis” he said, opening the car door. I had to bite my lip to hold back the tears. Donna and I climbed in, and Arthur drove us silently towards Donna’s London apartment.
“You must stay with me for now, sweetcheeks, until you get back on your feet,” said Donna, lighting up a cigarette and opening the window.
“Thanks Donna but I need to go home.” I replied.
“Home? Kiddo I don’t want to rub it in, but you may recall your house has been repossessed. You don’t have a home.” She blew smoke back into the car, making me cough.
“But hey, über-agent Donna is here for you, girlfriend. And when life throws me lemons...well, you know the rest. There’s a silver lining up there somewhere my little diva. I can see it now; you, a cardboard box, a few ill-fitting clothes, a shop doorway – somewhere photogenic, a designer store of course. Karl Lagerfeld, probably.” She sat back and raised both arms to indicate the headlines; “‘Homeless and Desperate’ scribbled blindly on a bit of old card and your wrinkled old hand reaching out to readers of The Sun’ – ‘Tanya’s Tragedy.’” She turned to me; “Is that fabulous, or is that fabulous?”
“You are kidding, right?”
She wasn’t.
“Just look what bankruptcy did for Kerry and Martine, my little benefits bunny. You can’t get those girls off the front pages. Kerry Katona’s relationship with the prawn ring was lucrative, but what probiotic yogurt has done for Martine McCutcheon will go down in showbiz history! We will have magazine and book offers rolling in, my little cash cow’.”
“I’m not interested” I said in a quiet voice.
“Nonsense sweetie!” she yelled as Arthur pulled up to her apartment. “Listen, are you sure you don’t want to stay here?
I nodded and smiled.
“Then go back to Manchester and check into a hotel – The Hilton, I’ll cover the costs – and call me tomorrow.” She opened the car door and with one leg on the ground and one still in the car carried on yelling; “I’m thinking a warts-and-all, fly-on-the-wall doc covering your descent into true poverty... Must call Dickie and see if he’s up for it. I’d say ITV? Whaddya think?” I didn’t answer. “I know, I know... You’re thinking BBC3, More 4 – Youth Culture? Either way, I guarantee your über-agent will milk this for all it’s worth”. Arthur hauled her luggage out of the car and set it down. “Speak soon, my little honey bee. And cheer up – you won the show!” she said, and in a flurry of kisses and a swish of Prada luggage she was gone and I was alone in the back of the car.
“Where to, Miss Travis?”
“Home, Arthur. Take me home.” I said.
The car hurtled along empty roads. I was tired and jet-lagged and looking through the car window was struck by the lack of vibrancy and colour after Nepal. The hedgerows and trees were lacklustre, dotted tightly along impossibly straight roads framed by little, bland, uniformed houses. Fragrant spices didn’t scent the air here. There was no perfumed jasmine or honeyed sunsets, just a veil of greying net curtain over Britain.
We finally arrived a few hours later outside the beautiful, white Georgian house that until recently had been my home. I knew the locks had been changed, but I had to see it one last time.
Arriving at the front gates I climbed out of the car and with a little push was surprised to open the large, iron gates. There was no electricity to operate them anymore and they hadn’t been locked. The garden was slightly overgrown and my bespoke patio furniture, left out in the weather, would soon become shabby and unloved. Like me.
I walked up to the house and peered through the letter box, and despite the publicity about my cancelled nuptials, it seemed a gushing tsunami of wedding brochures had continued to litter my doormat. Tulle brides standing in front of stately homes and couples holding glittering glasses of fizz in soft-focus candlelight peered up at me from the mat, making me nauseous.
Having peered through the letterbox I wandered around the back, revisiting my past, like a ghost. I pressed my face against a window to see the sad remains of my designer kitchen. Cakes had never been baked there, Sunday dinner never cooked, no family to sit around the table. I thought of my perfect bedroom and the king sized bed that had never seen love, a living room so manicured and clinical it had looked like a private doctor’s waiting room. This was my past, what I’d come home for. All the champagne, the congratulations, the awards, the press and the fans – this had always been the truth of my life: I’d been empty and alone.
I got back into the car, numb inside. Like a blank canvas before paint, it was daunting, but up to me to paint a new picture now. I had to make myself a new life. “Take me to a hotel, Arthur. Not the Hilton – somewhere less... Well, just...less.”
“OK Miss” he said and we pulled smoothly away. I looked back through the window at my former home and as it disappeared from view, tears slid down my face not for what was, but for what could have been. Then my mobile rang.
“Hello?”
“Tanya, you big shit, it’s me, Astrid!”
“Astrid! How are you? I am so sorry about your job, I couldn’t keep you on, as you know everything’s being sold. Where are you living now?”
“Don’t worry about job. I have new job and new flat. I am dialling because I have your room, Tanya.”
I was confused. “What do you mean, my room?”
“They let me get some of your shit before they close the house up. I told big bastard bailiffs to be pissing off and I took your clothes. I have all things you like at my flat now – and Tanya, there is a room for you. You can be living with me now, yes?”
For a few mome
nts, I couldn’t speak. “Thank you, Astrid” I finally managed to whisper. She gave me the address and said she would meet me there later, once she had finished work. It would be mad, I had no doubt, but better than being alone in a hotel room.
It was mid-morning when I arrived at Astrid’s and bid farewell to Arthur. I welled up again when we said goodbye – who knew when, if ever, we would see each other again? I found the key to Astrid’s flat outside under a meerkat pot, where she’d promised to leave it. I opened the door in no doubt this was the right place, as a nasty citrus blast of her signature air freshener hit me right between the eyes.
“Jesus,” I sighed. The tiny flat was filled with Astrid’s stuff, fluffy-soft toy cats and piles of TV box-sets strewn across the living-room rug. A Gok Wan calendar stood proudly on the mantelpiece, the perky boy smiling back just for Astrid. Lovely Gok, all white teeth, designer specs and a horribly mistaken, but well-meaning, belief he could make every woman look good naked.
I wandered into the tiny kitchen to see Martin Clunes’ signed photo on the fridge (so she’d finally tracked him down, God help him!) I also saw some letters addressed to me. I’d asked the wedding suppliers to send their invoices to Donna’s agency due to the current housing situation and somehow, they’d ended up here. As I ripped open the envelopes, I stared at receipts for the deposit I’d paid from Nepal only days before, on the venue, cakes and dress alterations. The very last pennies I owned spent on a wedding that now wasn’t happening. I stuffed them into my bag.
There was too much going on, so I tidied the box-sets away, wiped the worktops down a few times, (twelve times to be precise, always even numbers) put the kettle on and went in search of the bathroom. On the way, I poked my head into the other rooms. One was clearly Astrid’s bedroom; all pink hearts, plastic daisies and even more cuddly cats. I walked into the last room, and stopped still, overwhelmed at what I saw. A small single bed was swamped with my enormous Fenn Wright Manson duvet in café-latte and covered in my plump, goose-down pillows. My buttercream lambs’ wool handmade rug took up most of the floor space and when I opened the wardrobe, all my suits and dresses looked back at me. And there, carefully wrapped and hung, was the Vera Wang wedding dress I’d had for so long. Tears filled my eyes and I shut the door. There was a bottle of Jo Malone room spray on the bedside table along with a packet of Saniwipes and under the mirror was my jewellery box. I sat down on the bed, taking it all in. I couldn’t believe Astrid had gone to so much trouble to rescue my stuff. I lay down on the soft, comfy duvet and stared at the ceiling, until I drifted off to sleep.
I woke a few hours later and wandering back into the cluttered living room, caught sight of a familiar object. My huge flat-screen telly sat on an upturned crate in the middle of the lounge with a cat shaped post it note on it. ‘Tanya’s TV’ it read. ‘Bailiff Bastards Fuck Off’. I smiled and flicked it on, hopping without much interest through the channels. I didn’t want to think and settled on Housewives of Orange County. It was the one where Gretchen danced with The Pussycat Dolls and I was just about to record it for Astrid when my mobile rang. “Tanya are you home, did you find key under meerpussy, you old bitch?”
“Hi Astrid, yes I did,” I smiled, pleased to hear a familiar voice that wasn’t Donna’s.
“Tanya. I want to hear all about your adventures. I’m going to pub after working tonight. You need to meet with me for the drinks and shit.”
“OK, that would be nice – well, the drinks anyway.”
“I bring new friend with me Tanya, his name is Lars. He’s a big dick’s head, you will like him.”
For one horrific moment I thought she was trying to fix me up with some moody Swede. I wasn’t ready for another man and if he’d learned English from Astrid I feared my life would start to sound like a script from a Quentin Tarantino movie.
“Is he just a friend, Astrid?” I said suspiciously.
“Ah Tanya, you fucker, you guessed... Lars, he’s my hot lover.”
“Really? Well, good for you,” I smiled to myself, delighted for her, she actually sounded happy.
After the freedom and openness of the Himalayas I was keen to leave the cramped flat if only for an evening and agreed to meet up with Astrid and Lars later in a small wine bar.
They were already there when I walked into the Mexican-style bar, decorated in oranges and yellows with cactus and piñatas posing everywhere. It was supposed to look Mexican, but to me it just looked messy. I pushed down an urge to start tidying and walked to where Astrid and Lars were sitting, looking into each other’s eyes. Lars was blonde, handsome and clearly besotted with Astrid, who looked younger and prettier than I’d ever seen her. Lars kindly went to the bar to buy more Sol and I hugged Astrid, who had become more girlish with love for her fellow Swede.
“He’s cute fucker, no?”
“Yes he is. Have you given up on Gok Wan?” I asked, settling down into a booth.
“No. But Lars will do for now,” she giggled. “He’s very long...”
“Too much information, Astrid,” I said. “I don’t need to know the size of his penis, thank you very much.”
“And I’m not going to tell you, you nosy old slapper. Yep, he’s a long tosser...” and she raised her hand to indicate height and I remembered it was all in the translation.
“I bloody love him and Tanya, Tanya...are you guessing what? We are engaged.” She held out her hand to reveal the ring and I squealed with genuine happiness. “I know it seem quick Tanya, but I know him for many years before, in Sweden. When I come back from Nepal, I meet up with him and now I cannot live without his funny little shitface.”
When Lars appeared with three lime-wedged bottles I hugged him too and demanded an invite to the wedding.
“Ah, we wait a little while, Lars is gardener and the bastards he working for don’t pay much.”
“Where are you working now?” I asked her, thanking Lars as he handed me my bottle.
“I am just starting work for the vets” she said proudly. “I am training to become a nurse and I will be soon taking examinations so I can make the little buggers better.” She squeezed Lars’ hand and looked into his eyes. For a few moments I thought of Ardash and how his eyes had taken me somewhere else. How wonderful that Astrid had managed to capture the elusive true love that I had never been able to hold on to. She looked so beautiful and so young.
“I need to pop to the bathroom,” I said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I walked into the toilets and washed my hands. Then I called Vera Wang’s office, the Cake Fairy and the wedding venue (one of the bonuses of being an ex-celebrity was that I had people’s out of office mobile numbers) and went back to join Astrid and Lars.
“Where in buggering hells-bells have you been, Tanya?” Astrid exclaimed as I landed back at the table.
“I’ve been making a few calls. There’s something I want you to have.” I said, sitting down. I opened my wallet and took out the receipts for my wedding and placed them in front of the happy couple.
“I don’t have any need for it now, so please make me very happy and accept my fairy-tale wedding,” I said. “I have spoken to everyone involved and they are happy to make any changes you would like.”
There was a silence while the two of them looked from each other and back to me. I hoped I hadn’t offended them with my offer.
“You killing me, you big shit!” Astrid suddenly leaped up and hugged me followed by Lars, who wasn’t sure what was happening but smiled and nodded, knowing that if Astrid was happy, so was he.
GOSSIPBITCH: Who’s been whoring himself around the tabloids promising an exclusive kiss-and-tell about life and love with a former Daytime talk-show star? And who went home empty-handed with his tail between his legs because his former lover is now the media’s darling?
36
The Bridesmaid and the Bröllop
Six weeks later I was proud to be the sole bridesmaid at Astrid and Lars’ fairy-tale wedding, or ‘bröllop’ as the Swedish call it.
She looked stunning in my Vera Wang with her beautiful long blonde hair and young, glowing complexion. Perhaps the cut of the dress was always meant for someone younger and more voluptuous.
My own dress was midnight-blue satin. Astrid had offered to buy me a ‘fucking cool pink dress’ she’d seen in Manchester at the Arndale Centre, but when she described the ‘fantastic furry trim’ I politely declined. I said as it was a winter wedding, pink (even ‘fucking’ fur-trimmed) might be a little unseasonal on a cold November day, especially on an ageing, spinster bridesmaid. “I will take you to slut spurt and buy bridesmaid dress,” she’d insisted. This time I protested strongly; dear God, what retail mind from hell had that idea sprung from? However after much confusion, I Googled ‘slut spurt’ and was relieved to discover it meant ‘seasonal sale’ in Swedish.
I stood with Marcus and Donna in a beautiful room in the big old Cheshire mansion that would have hosted my wedding to Nathan. As the guests arrived, Donna was in full throttle. “I’m thinking, a big no to that big ass in yellow,” she bitched at my side.
“Oh absolutely, the woman looks like an overripe honeydew,” was Marcus’s considered response.
The sniping was silenced only when the bridal music played and Astrid walked serenely down the aisle to her man. I was filled with nothing but love and pride for my friend. How lovely for her to have someone waiting like a safe harbour at the altar...it brought me out in goosebumps. I wasn’t surprised to see in my mind’s eye that the person I would have liked to see there for me was Ardash and not Nathan. I wiped my eyes as I thought about how beautiful Astrid looked, how happy and fresh and smiling she was, in the presence of Lars.
We moved into another room for drinks and dinner and it was clear that Astrid had enjoyed free reign in her ‘decorating.’ Amid the Old Masters and velvet chairs was an abundance of patriotic foliage – yellow, white and blue things sprouted up everywhere, with a two-foot tall Swedish flag on a pole in the middle of each table.
