The Ex Factor

by Laura Greaves

  Arriving in London and observing its zealous worship of celebrities – talented or otherwise – was a breath of fresh air. I developed an appetite for glitz and glamour that couldn’t be sated, no matter how many copies of Heat magazine I bought or how long I spent debating whether the latest D-list celebrity hook-up was the real deal. I took the first vaguely celeb-oriented job I was offered, running the entertainment pages on a newspaper in London’s leafy commuter belt. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the sort of place that attracted the uber-famous. Instead of writing about Keira Knightley and Orlando Bloom, my bread and butter was people like notorious comedian Jim Davidson and whichever former EastEnders actor was starring in the local panto at Christmas. After two years of it, and having spent every Sunday freelancing at The Mirror, I practically French-kissed Girish Thakkar when he offered me my job on the showbiz desk.

  I’m good at what I do, there’s no doubt about that. But the longer I do it, the less enticing the boozy lunches and free tickets and trips away become. No matter how much I try to deny it, I’m becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact that the celebrities I write about are people, too.

  I shake my head, trying to chase away my maudlin thoughts. It’s Helena’s news that’s made me all introspective. How will I explain to my goddaughter that I revel in others’ misfortune – for a living?

  ‘Anna?’ The hairs on the back of my neck bristle at the singsong voice. Nicki Ford-Smith perches one firm buttock on the corner of my desk, sweeps her white-blonde hair over one shoulder as if she’s in a Herbal Essences commercial and fixes me with her vacuous gaze. Ugh.

  ‘Yeah?’ I tap furiously away at my keyboard, trying to give the impression of productivity.

  ‘Um, I was just wondering how you’re, like, getting on with the Cat Hubbard piece?’

  ‘Oh fine,’ I lie breezily, not looking at her. The mere sight of Nicki’s five foot ten bronzed frame makes me want to dive for a packet of chocolate digestives. ‘I’ve got a couple of good leads on former classmates and the woman who works in her local drycleaner reckons she once brought in a dress with a dubious stain.’

  Nicki bares her perfect teeth – I couldn’t really call it a smile. ‘Great,’ she says flatly. ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind but I made a few calls of my own and I’ve, like, come across a couple of bits and pieces.’

  Here it comes: the stiletto in the back.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll dig up something much better but, just in case, I could always put together a few paragraphs on her, uh, husband.’

  Bullseye. ‘She’s married?’

  ‘Not any more,’ Nicki says with a toss of her mane. I’m reminded how long it’s been since I’ve had a haircut. ‘But she was, back when she was, like, nineteen. I mentioned it to Girish and he’s keen to run with it if, you know, you haven’t got anything better.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Oh, I have a couple of friends in Primrose Hill.’ There are those teeth again.

  I glance at the clock – forty minutes to deadline. I could make a fuss about this glorified secretary – sorry, entertainment desk assistant – hijacking my story. Or I could go to WH Smith and buy What to Expect When You’re Expecting for Helena, followed by an intravenous gin and tonic for myself.

  ‘Sounds good,’ I say, flashing my falsest smile back. ‘If you could knock a page lead together, I’ll save my angle for tomorrow.’

  I feel a heavy hand clasp my shoulder. ‘See that you have an angle, Anna,’ says Girish Thakkar, fearsome news editor. ‘It seems to have been awfully quiet in the world of celebrity this week.’

  ‘Will do, Girish. Not a problem,’ I say with far more confidence than is justified.

  Girish frowns. Nicki’s pearly whites glint under the fluorescent lighting. Ugh.

  I grab my bag and make a run for it, scurrying out of the building before Nicki has the chance to launch phase two of her showbiz coup. Still reeling from Helena’s announcement, I fumble for my mobile phone and punch in Finn’s number.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Hey gorgeous, it’s just me. You will never, ever guess what’s happened.’

  Finn sighs. ‘Look, Anna, I’m really busy here. Whatever celebrity drama is unfolding, can’t it wait’til I get home?’

  ‘Well, no, Finn, it can’t,’ I say, my stomach lurching at the obvious irritation in his voice.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Helena’s pregnant!’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I can hear the click-clack of his computer keyboard in the background.

  ‘Uh-huh? Finn, this . . . Are you typing?’

  ‘No.’ The click-clack stops.

  ‘Hey, will you listen to me, please? This is big news. It won’t kill you to give me your undivided attention for thirty seconds.’

  ‘Fine,’ Finn says wearily. ‘Helena’s pregnant. I didn’t think she had a boyfriend?’

  ‘She doesn’t. It was, uh, unplanned. But she’s going to have the baby and she’s really, really excited and I’m thrilled for her.’ Even to my own ears I sound mildly hysterical.

  ‘Well, that’s great. Is there anything else because I —’

  ‘Yes, there is something else actually,’ I snap. ‘She’s asked me to be the baby’s godmother.’

  Silence.

  ‘Finn? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ he says, and I detect a definite note of mirth in his voice. ‘And how did you respond to this offer?’

  ‘I said yes, of course,’ I say, indignant. ‘I’m honoured that she asked me.’

  ‘But Anna, you don’t even like kids.’

  His tone is hesitant. He’s asking me to read between the lines. He doesn’t want to have to say I’ll be a terrible godmother. As if I hadn’t already worked that one out for myself.

  ‘I don’t dislike them,’ I venture. ‘I’m an only child; I just haven’t had much experience with kids. I can’t quite figure out how to work them.’

  Finn snorts with laughter. ‘And you’ll make a good godmother because . . .?’

  His smugness is really starting to grate. ‘Because,’ I say hotly, ‘Helena is my best friend and she thinks I can do this. And her baby will be different. I’ll be involved in her life from the start so we’ll get on just fine.’

  ‘How can you be involved, Anna? Helena and her baby will be in Adelaide. You’ll be in London. It’s not like you can pop round for walks in the park.’

  I don’t respond.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got a piece leading the six o’clock bulletin,’ he says.

  ‘So does that mean you’ll be home at a decent hour?’

  Finn pauses. ‘Er, actually, I was going to have a couple of drinks with the lads after work. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Suddenly I’m very, very tired. ‘No, Finn,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Great.’ And he hangs up without saying goodbye.

  Good mood suitably dampened, I mooch into the Tube station. As recent conversations with my boyfriend of five years go, that one was pretty good. I’m almost resigned to the fact that I’m obviously far from the most interesting thing in Finn’s life these days. The trouble is, despite my apparently glamorous existence, he’s still the most interesting thing in mine.

  My stomach does a little flip-flop as I recall the barely disguised boredom in his voice. I’ll go baby shopping tomorrow; right now I want my couch, my dog and some cheesy chick flick.

  The red message light on the phone is blinking as I step in the front door. Before I have a chance to dial voicemail, I’m kneecapped by a tiny black missile. Nui, my Boston terrier, flings himself at me as though he hasn’t seen a human being in decades, as opposed to the four hours since his lunchtime dog walker left. I scoop him up and let his rough little tongue cover my face in kisses, enjoying the fact that Finn’s not there to tell me – again – how unhygienic it is.

  Nui doesn’t like Finn, and Finn can’t bear it so he pretends he doesn’t like Nui. Even though we bought him t
ogether, choosing the fuzziest black fur ball from a writhing mass of fuzzy black fur balls in a child’s playpen in the breeder’s kitchen (how’s that for unhygienic?), he never took to Finn the way he did to me. Oh, he’ll take as many tummy scratches and chewy rawhide treats as Finn cares to dispense, but the moment he’s done Nui will be back next to me on his favourite sofa cushion. It drives Finn mad, particularly as he named our pet. Nui means ‘big’ in Tahitian. The actual Nui is tiny – he only weighs seven kilos – and Finn thought he was being terribly clever. But, I have to admit, the name suits him.

  ‘At least someone’s pleased to see me,’ I murmur as I set Nui down. He skitters off into the kitchen, claws clicking on the floorboards. The phone rings. And I’d been so close to that G&T.

  ‘I suppose you’ve known about this for weeks?’ a clipped voice hisses before I’ve even said hello.

  Christ. Forget the tonic and double the gin. ‘Brigitta, what a nice surprise. It’s been quite a while.’ Please don’t yell at me, I silently add.

  ‘I’ve left seven messages. I’ve been up all night. Why haven’t you returned my calls?’

  ‘Well, I’ve just walked in the door. I’ve been at work, Brigitta,’ I venture.

  ‘Ah yes, work. Gainful employment. Something Helena will never see the likes of again once she’s a dole-bludging single mother.’ Her voice is even more ear-splittingly shrill than usual.

  ‘Look, Brigitta, you should really be talking to Helena. I’ve only just found out myself. I can’t get involved in this.’

  ‘But I have to talk to you, Anna,’ she rails. ‘You’re the only one I can talk to because you, my dear, are the only one that idiot daughter of mine will listen to. You know she’s always looked up to you, since high school. When you moved to London I thought perhaps she might finally be motivated to do something with her own life. And instead she’s done this. You simply must change her mind.’

  I cringe at the steel in Brigitta’s voice. How had Helena stood her ground in the face of this?

  I take a deep breath. ‘It’s not up to me to change her mind, and I really don’t think I could if I tried. Helena is going to do this, she’s going to be a mother. And, you know, I think she’ll be a good one.’

  Brigitta scoffs. ‘A good one! That poor child is ruined before it —’

  ‘She,’ I offer.

  ‘Before she has even arrived. Helena is useless, Anna. She will fail at parenting like she’s failed at everything else.’

  There’s a hammering at the front door. Thank you, God.

  ‘Uh, I have to go now, Brigitta. I have company,’ I babble as I lean into the hall to crack open the front door, herding an ecstatic Nui away with my foot and gesturing at whoever’s there to come inside.

  ‘I always told her she’d been swapped at birth! If only it were true!’

  ‘Okay then, bye.’ I slam the receiver back into its cradle and flop on to the sofa. I release my chestnut hair from its practical work bun and it spills down my back in messy waves. Squeezing my eyes shut, I attempt to teleport myself to a dimension free from pregnant best friends and their psychotic families.

  ‘Um, hello?’

  My eyes spring open at the forceful greeting. It’s Luke Parker from next door or, as Finn and I have not-so-affectionately named him, Parcel Nazi. He fills the sitting room doorway, dark eyebrows arched in a way that suggests he’s entirely unimpressed. Indeed, Luke has been wearing a scowl virtually every time I’ve seen him since he moved in a year ago. It’s a shame, really; he’d almost be handsome if he smiled every now and then.

  Quickly, I scan Luke’s rangy frame to try and locate the source of today’s annoyance. It doesn’t take long to spot it. He’s clutching a bulky, brown paper-wrapped parcel that looks suspiciously like —

  ‘Jimmy Choos!’ I squeal, leaping up. ‘Oh, I forgot I’d ordered these. They were on sale on this great designer sample website and I just had —’

  ‘Yeah, that’s great. Look Annie, I —’

  ‘Anna.’

  ‘Right. Well, look, obviously you’re some sort of cyberspace benefactress, single-handedly keeping the footwear industry in business, but the thing is, I work from home and I’m really sick of being interrupted five times a day by couriers who can’t deliver this crap to your house because you’re not here,’ he says.

  Clearly I’ve angered the gods. How many more people are going to be inexplicably rude to me today? Of course, where Parcel Nazi is concerned, it’s not entirely unexpected. Based on my previous experience, it seems he just can’t help being a prat.

  ‘Do you think,’ Luke goes on, wearily running a hand through his mop of dark hair (it’s bordering on mullet – I’d say something if I wasn’t convinced he’d throw the Choos at me), ‘that you could have these things delivered to your office instead?’

  He doesn’t wait for a response but drops the parcel on the floor, turns on his heel and stomps out. I go to the window and watch him huff along the footpath to the next house in the terrace, muttering to himself. The slam of his front door reverberates in my sitting room windowpane.

  I rescue the parcel and unwrap the shoes. Beautiful. As if I’d have such stunning specimens delivered to the office; they’d mysteriously vanish in the mailroom, I’m sure. How could anyone harbour hostility towards such divine accessories? I pause. It really is unreasonable. And I’m not having it. Not today.

  Shoes in hand, I yank open the front door, hop the low dividing wall and, with a barking Nui in pursuit, rap sharply on Luke’s door. He opens it warily.

  ‘If I were you, Luke,’ I spit, ‘I would look on these visits from couriers as an opportunity to work on your social skills. Because, from where I’m standing, you’re not much of a people person.’

  He stares at me, dumbfounded, his stupid bushy hair flopping over one blue eye.

  ‘Thank you for bringing me my shoes. It’s much appreciated, neighbour.’ I saunter back to my own house and throw my meagre remaining energy into flinging the door closed. A panel of leadlight glass cracks. Nui yelps and dives under the settee.

  Waiter? Make it a triple.

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