Eva put a heating pad behind Lexy’s neck for extra comfort; she cleansed and moisturized Lexy’s face and décolletage; she applied terrifying-looking twin oversized plastic forks the size and shape of salad servers, attached by wires to a machine she wheeled out from a built-in cupboard, to Lexy’s neck and lower face.
‘This is our Precision Lift treatment,’ she said, pinching the forks onto what would be jowls if Lexy had them. ‘It’s a microcurrent therapy called CACI, originally developed to treat facial palsy – you know, after a stroke your face gets saggy on one side? They worked out they could bring back muscle tone by running microcurrents on the saggy bits. Lots of cosmetic improvements come from medical innovations, actually. We call it a non-surgical facelift – lots of ladies get it because they’d rather tone up than get plastic surgery. We really promote alternatives to that here.’
‘Doesn’t it hurt?’ Caroline was unable to resist asking, watching the forks dig into another section of jawline.
‘Like buggery,’ Lexy said, as best she could with the forks deep in her skin. ‘But that’s how you know it’s working. I don’t know why they say “Like buggery”, eh? That’s much more fun!’
Caroline and Eva both sensibly decided not to respond to this last statement, though Caroline scribbled it down so that she could use it for the book; it was so very Lexy.
‘And you can feel the current going through?’ Caroline asked.
‘Oh yeah. It buzzes a lot.’ Lexy produced a little giggle. ‘She’s got no idea what’s coming next, does she, Eva? Hope she doesn’t freak out!’
Eva smiled, a perfect professional smile; she was clearly used to Lexy’s teasing ways. The CACI treatment completed, the machine was returned to the cupboard and Eva started to mix up a facial mask, thick and gelatinous. To Caroline’s amazement, Eva applied this to Lexy’s entire face and neck. Eyes vanished entirely under the viscous white substance, as did lips, till only Lexy’s nostrils were visible. Caroline felt a palpable sense of panic on Lexy’s behalf, which only increased when Eva wheeled out a second machine, and, incredibly, attached electrodes on clips to the edge of the mask, which had already jellified enough for this to be feasible.
‘The current drives the nutrients in the mask much deeper into the lower layers of the skin, where they’re really needed. We use very fresh Vitamin A and C, plus antioxidants,’ Eva told Caroline. ‘This will stimulate her collagen production and increase her hydration, making her skin much smoother. Without the machine to force those nutrients into the lower dermis, it’s all just cosmetic. You get a nice glow for the day, but that’s all it achieves.’
Caroline heaved a sigh.
‘That’s exactly what happened when I had facials. I looked nice and shiny afterwards, but my spots never got any better,’ she said gloomily.
‘Nothing that you can get over the counter or in a beauty salon will make a difference deep down where the skin needs it,’ Eva explained, now massaging Lexy’s arm with long flowing strokes. When she had had facials, Caroline had always been left alone in the room while the face mask sank in, but this, again, was not a discount voucher beauty treatment. Clients were tended to every moment they were in the treatment room.
‘That’s why our clients take their vitamins and omegas every day,’ she added. ‘We treat the skin from inside and outside. It’s called Feed, Fortify, Finish.’
As Caroline scribbled this down, the machine beeped. Eva unfastened the electrodes, took hold of one side of the mask and lifted the whole thing off in one smooth go. It had set to a rubbery consistency now, like something from a science fiction film, the underside moulded to Lexy’s features. Eva disposed of it and started working a light oil into Lexy’s face to finish off.
‘Hey, Eva,’ Lexy said once this was done, ‘while I’m getting dressed, why don’t you take Caroline upstairs and give her the skin consultation? Then she can write about that for the book, too.’
The consultation entailed Caroline sticking her face into a light-filled machine so that her skin could be scanned and photographs could be taken of the condition of her dermis. Then she had to look at one terrifying scan after another covered with ominous-looking coloured dots, and be told by the lovely and smooth-skinned Eva about the bacteria and lack of hydration that was adversely affecting her rosacea and period acne. This was particularly hard as she knew there was nothing she could do about it; the treatments Lexy had just undergone, with all the expensive machines and gadgets, were far beyond the reach of a self-employed ghost-writer who had to live on a thousand pounds for four to five months and would have to negotiate an overdraft to cover her rent and food, as her meagre savings certainly wouldn’t cover those expenses . . .
As Lexy came upstairs again, Eva slipped away to do her make-up. Caroline remained in the consultation room, filling her notepad with information for the book. After all, Lexy sold herself so much on her appearance. There were photoshoots and press launches for which she wore eye-grabbing costumes and hairdos for the rollout of each of her new products; modelling gigs for her various clothing lines; spreads in weekly gossip magazines; endless pap photos in the dailies and tabloids and gossip sites; videos for her YouTube vlogging channel.
And in all of these Lexy needed to look wonderful, her skin smooth and glowing, her hair thick and glossy. Her fans and haters alike pored over her images, eagerly dissecting them, both ripping her apart and getting tips on how to dress, how to do their own hair and make-up like hers. Brands she talked about on social media saw instant spikes in their internet traffic: Caroline knew it was Jane Iredale make-up Eva was applying to Lexy because she had seen Lexy enthusing about it repeatedly on her Instagram. Clothes from Lexy’s brand sold out instantly if she was photographed wearing them.
‘Oi, Caroline!’
Lexy’s head popped round the corner of the room. Caroline blinked. Lexy’s skin, post-BB cream, hydrating spray and powder, was even more eerily perfect than usual.
‘Davina’s had a cancellation,’ Lexy announced. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one? I said you should take the appointment. My treat,’ she added before Caroline could panic at how much this would cost her.
Caroline was struck dumb with shock and gratitude. She was to learn that this kind of impulsive gesture was typical of Lexy. As she had already told Caroline, she was very tight, quite happy to take a quarter-million advance on her book while only paying the ghostwriter who would actually do the work a tiny five-grand flat fee, with no percentage of any royalties that might be earned.
The flip side of her fierce economizing, however, was an impulse to spontaneous generosity. This had been suppressed during the years she’d been building her career, fighting her way ruthlessly up the ladder, refusing to be just a flash in the pan, the latest pretty face/pair of tits combo, to be discarded after a few years by the media as fresher female meat came along.
Now, however, having heard the wistfulness in Caroline’s voice as she commented on her facials not having done anything for her, seeing Caroline’s bumpy rosacea cheeks and the scarring on her chin from past acne breakouts, Lexy had yielded to her better instincts. She was pleased to see Caroline’s flush of happiness, her smile of delight; it was very pleasant to be generous, but it was even more rewarding to see the recipients showing gratitude.
Caroline was stammering a fervent ‘Thank you!’ as Lexy carried on:
‘Oh yeah, and why don’t you get a train down tomorrow morning and bring a suitcase? You could stay in the guest suite for a few days. We can do tons of work, you get an inside view of the whole setup, kids and all – what do you say? It’d turbo-charge getting started on the book, yeah?’
‘I – yes – that sounds—’
‘Frank’s around tomorrow,’ Lexy swept on. ‘If you text me to let me know what train you’re on, he can pick you up. And bring a swimsuit. We’ve got a pool, sauna, Jacuzzi, rainforest shower with colour change, the works. You might as well make the most of it. There’s a gym too, if you fancy working out.�
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I am never, ever, ever wearing a swimsuit around Lexy, was Caroline’s first thought. But her second, and the one that made her feel hot all over, was:
Oh my God – Frank! If he saw me in my swimsuit I think I’d genuinely drop dead from mortification!
And that image hit her with a positive flash of self-revelation, a white light illuminating a hidden corner of her subconscious. She was forced to admit to herself that while she and Riz had been fucking yesterday and today, the image she had seen whenever she closed her eyes had not been slightly pudgy, palest brown, sparse-bearded Riz. It had been golden-pecan-skinned, curly-haired, taut-muscled Frank.
Lexy’s husband. The man she was going to be sharing a car with tomorrow, making conversation as best she could, smelling his aftershave . . . whose house she would be staying in, who she might – God help her! – see in the gym sweating as he pounded the treadmill, as he lifted weights or did lengths in the pool, effortlessly levering himself out from the deep end with his strong upper body, drops of water pouring from his muscled frame . . .
Caroline closed her eyes briefly, telling herself to get a grip. She knew, of course, that she was quite safe. Frank wouldn’t glance her way for a moment. She could indulge herself in fantasies as much as she wanted without any fear that she would get into trouble for flirting with her boss’s husband.
Even if Lexy guesses how much I fancy him, she thought sadly, I won’t get the sack – she’d laugh her head off instead. She’d think it was hilarious that a spotty chubster like me would have a crush on her gorgeous husband.
Flicking through her notes, making sure that everything was committed to paper before she had her facial and completely zoned out, Caroline read the scribble of Lexy joking about buggery being fun, and another image flashed vividly before her eyes: Riz, doing precisely that, as she smushed her face against a pillow and imagined it was Frank kneeling on the bed behind her.
Riz, she reflected, wasn’t going to believe his luck when she got back to Edmonton that evening.
Chapter Eight
Want to know how Frank and I met? He gets really embarrassed when I tell this story, but that’s Frank, so fuck it. He gets embarrassed by tons of stuff anyway and if I worried about that I’d never tell anybody anything! So, I was on Twitter just messing around and this fan tweeted me with ‘Hey, did you know that Frank Callis fancies you?’
Frank’s not on Twitter, obviously. He’s the least chatty person ever. So though they hashtagged him in the tweet he didn’t see it or anything. But they posted a link – apparently some journo from the Sun asked him who his celebrity crush was and he said me. I’ve got a suspicion that he was hoping I might hear about it – Frank would never normally tell a journo who he fancied, he’s very private!
Now, here’s something I’ve found out over the years to get a bloke interested in you. Trust me on this. It works. If you’re crushing on someone, and you don’t look like the backside of a bus, tell some of your mates that you fancy him. It’s bound to get back to him, and when it does, he’ll think: ‘Oh, really? I wouldn’t mind giving that a go!’ It’s human nature to sit up a bit when you hear that someone likes you and think: ‘Well, what about it then?’
I must admit that Frank hadn’t been on my radar. I usually go for the more outgoing types. Ones who are naughty like me, if you know what I mean. I knew his name, of course, but I couldn’t give a shit about sport, which is ironic considering how many footballers and basketball players I’ve been out with.
Oh, talking about that, here’s another bit of advice: if you’re going out with men who play sport for a living, but you don’t watch it, don’t fake it and be all, ‘Oh I thought the ref was really out of order with you on Saturday’ or, ‘They should’ve been playing 4-4-2’ or anything like that. I’ve seen endless girls do this to suck up and try to show that they’ll be good girlfriend or wife material, but trust me, the guys can smell it from a mile away. They might fuck you but they’ll take the piss out of you behind your back. It’s much better to go, ‘Hey, I don’t know WTF you do apart from the fact that the ball needs to go into the net, but show me those ripped abs again, why don’t you?’
Anyway, I googled Frank and I liked what I saw. He was a bit different, and to be honest I thought I needed a total change from Jamal. God, Jamal was a massive slag. He couldn’t keep his dick in his pants for longer than thirty seconds and he partied so hard he made me look like an amateur – trust me, that’s not easy! Going after Frank wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t think, Oh yay, this guy is my future husband, which is just common sense. I’ve known girls picturing the ring before they even shag the guy, and it never ends well.
I’d’ve tweeted him, started flirting, but like I said, Frank and social media are like carbs and bikinis, you know? They just don’t go together. And honestly I had my hands full with a few other guys . . . But a couple of months later I was at this launch for a new restaurant – I’m not going to name it because the drinks were rubbish and the VIP area was a fucking joke, so I’m not going to give them publicity – and guess who was there too! So I rolled up to him from behind, pinched his bum and went, ‘Hey, sexy, I read in the Sun that you fancy me! When are you taking me out?’
His bum was amazing. Like that bit from Blackadder – ‘Ooh, Nursie, I like ’em firm and fruity’. And then he turned round and frankly – haha – I was a bit dumbstruck, and that never bloody happens. He’s taken, so don’t all you bitches start getting ideas, but Frank is so gorgeous in person, you have no idea. I’d’ve done him then and there if he’d been up for a leg-trembler in the loos.
But that’s not Frank at all. He’s a serious person. I had to practically drag him to bed on the third date. And as it turned out, serious was exactly what I needed to balance me out. I’m a party girl, he’s a family man. I like clubs and parties, he likes the sofa at home and his kids around him.
Trust me, my team was over the fucking moon about me getting together with Frank! Jason, my manager, had been banging on about my reputation ever since I got knocked up by Jamal. I was all, ‘Look, Jason, you’re being sexist, it’s a modern world and I don’t have to get married to have a baby’, but he’d get all snappy and say I was wrong and that a male celeb who puts it about gets flack from the papers too. Sponsors want someone with a pretty wife and a couple of kids.
‘Look at David Beckham,’ Jason said. ‘He had an affair years ago, no one liked that, and now he’s repositioned and rebranded himself as a devoted family man. He even had a baby daughter after the affair to show his wife’s forgiven him. Plus Victoria’s a career woman now, which makes him a modern husband supporting his partner’s ambitions. You’ve got to think differently now you’ve got a kid.’
The way Jason put it, everyone was okay with me having lots of notches on my bedpost when I didn’t have Laylah. My fans really enjoyed seeing what I was up to and reading all the hot gossip in my column – who’s a selfish wham-bam-that’s-me-done-ma’am shagger, who’s hung like a dormouse, who can do it five times a night and still wake up in the morning with a big smile and a tent in the sheets. But now I’ve got a little girl, people aren’t so keen on pap shots of me staggering out of nightclubs at three a.m., falling into limos with my skirt round my waist, some guy I only met that night getting in with me. I mean, I can see it’s not exactly the best image for a mum.
It took a while to sink in, though. At the time I got pissed off and said: ‘Laylah’s being very well looked after and that’s no one’s business but mine,’ but Jason went, ‘Well yeah but you want more kids, don’t you? Sooner rather than later? And what if it doesn’t work out with the next guy, and the next – d’you really want to be a three-by-three or a four-by four?’
Pretty harsh. But I don’t keep Jason around because he’s warm and cuddly. That whole four-by-four thing’s scary – for anyone who’s been living under a rock, it means having four kids by four different dads. I can sort of see how three could be possible, but four’s just bloody slo
ppy.
And Jason was right. I did want more kids, and it’s not exactly fun dealing with your daughter’s dad not being around. So here comes Frank, getting on with Laylah like a house on fire, telling me after a month he was in love with me, making it clear he wanted kids – just what the doctor ordered. Time to settle down – plus, I could throw a huge, over-the-top wedding, get a ton of sponsors for it and sell the photos to a weekly for a massive great whacking sum.
And don’t go thinking I was conning Frank! He knew who I was right from the start. I didn’t pretend to be a reformed character or promise that I’d never go out clubbing again once that wedding ring was on my finger. Actually, I sat down with him and went, ‘Look, if you’re taking me on, you know I’m always going to want to do my reality show and a ton of appearances for publicity, that’s never going to change.’ He was okay with being on the show, as long as he didn’t have to do anything embarrassing – he said he was on TV anyway, so it wasn’t a big deal.
He said he wanted to live in Sandbanks, not London, and I was okay with that. It’s not like we can’t afford a driver or anything. But of course we got a place in town and I need to spend a lot of time there, what with everything I’ve got on – meetings for my product ranges, promo stuff, shopping and yeah, going out to launches and premieres and seeing my mates. After all, I’ve got a rock-solid husband at home now with the kids, so who cares if I go out with the girls every so often and let my hair down?
Well, Frank does, unfortunately. He’s not over the moon about my staying over in London – he keeps saying it’s not every so often, but all the flipping time. He wants to get a dog or two to keep him company, but I’ve put my foot down on that. I know him. If he gets the pair of golden Labs he keeps banging on about, he’ll spend all his free time walking them on the beach, use them as an excuse never to go up to London with me for charity auctions, awards shows, red-carpet dos – he just doesn’t get that we need to be photographed together at that kind of thing!
Killer Affair Page 8
