by Lotte Daley
‘Yet,’ I said, as I shoved the grainy picture of Jack canoodling with Jessica in the back of a limo under Richard’s nose.
‘Youch,’ he said, pulling a startled face.
‘Magenta said I could have compassionate leave?’ I asked.
‘Yes, she said take as long as you want. She’ll pay you too. To be honest, chick, she’s probably over the moon at the ensuing publicity you’re going to generate for Poets Field PR with this little media storm.’
‘But it’s hardly good publicity, Rich, is it? “Administrator at Poets Field PR gets dumped for super-rich plastic megastar” doesn’t exactly have a good ring to it.’
‘It all depends on how you conduct yourself from now on, darling. You could come out of this as the dignified, classy English Rose or the downtrodden, common Waynetta Slob.’ He looked me up and down, taking in my pyjamas and tea-stained pink robe. ‘Now, have you thought about getting some advice? I know a chap who could guide you through this whole to-do. You could make yourself a tidy sum out of it – pain equals pounds, darling!’
‘Oh God …’ Danielle groans from the living room.
‘What?’ Richard and I say in unison.
Danielle calls us in and Richard and I sit down together on my couch, transfixed by This Morning.
Holly Willoughby stands there looking boobtastic in a figure-hugging wrap dress whilst a giant picture of Jack and Jessica adorns half the screen.
‘And now, let’s meet Joel Farthing, a well-respected media agent, acting on behalf of Jack Hunter. Joel, how are you today?’
‘Hi, Holly, thanks for inviting me on the show. Well, as you can imagine, things are indeed pretty hectic for Jack right now and, of course, for Jessica.’
‘And where exactly are Jack and Jessica right now, the couple at the heart of the UK’s most sensational story?’
‘They’re out of the country. They’ve gone on holiday because we knew there would be quite a furore over their clandestine encounters. Jessica Hilson is actually a very low-key star, preferring quiet nights in to glamorous nights out. Jessica prefers to shy away from the spotlight unless it’s specifically to do with her artistic endeavours, such as Cowgirls, set for release very soon.’ Joel taps his nose and nods to the camera. ‘And of course,’ he adds as an afterthought, ‘they don’t really want any more attention.’
‘Hmmm, of course,’ Holly nods vigorously and flashes a set of perfectly white teeth.
‘Now,’ she continues, ‘what may seem like an obvious assumption, can you confirm for us, the question on the nation’s lips – are Jack Hunter and Jessica Hilson an official item?’
‘Well, I’d like to say watch this space, but they’re definitely enjoying one another’s company right now … you’ll have to wait and see!’
And with that, Joel gives a smarmy wink to Holly and then to the camera. Holly’s cheeks blush a furious red. She wrapped up the conversation by talking about another actor Joel represented who was staying in the Priory. The picture of the two hurtful figures in my life was replaced by a skinny-looking person with bad skin holding a guitar.
‘What a rat,’ Danielle said.
‘Bastard!’ I said.
‘How on earth did he manage that?’ Richard cooed.
We both turned to glare at him.
Richard got up and peeked out of the window.
‘Richard!’ I screamed. ‘Shut those bloody curtains, I cannot have anyone seeing me in this state!’ I instinctively reached for my shades and stuck them on my face, just in case.
‘Whoa, sorry, I was just seeing if it was clear to get you out of here, that’s all.’
‘To where?’
‘I don’t know yet, but you can’t stay here,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because you have that big-nosed journalist living on your doorstep, about ten trucks with cameras perched on top trained on your front door and a bunch of old ladies on deckchairs, eating cheese and pickle sandwiches, handing round their flasks of tea to the thirsty press. They won’t budge until you give them a story. Come off it, Katie, I’m a PR media account manager, I know how this shit works.’
‘You work with lipstick brands and lingerie! It’s totally not the same thing!’
‘The methods of execution are the same,’ he smiled sweetly.
‘Well, what do you suggest I do, then? Creep out in disguise?’
‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘Either that or you get scurvy from lack of sunlight.’
‘I guess I could go to my mother’s … and then figure out what to do next,’ I mused.
‘Good idea. Now, for a distraction, do the press have any idea of what you look like?’ he questioned.
‘I don’t know, perhaps, if someone has given them a picture of me … I never answered the door fully so they couldn’t see my face yesterday or today, I wore these comedy shades,’ I said, wafting said shades in the air.
‘I doubt that the press are going to just go away, though, are they?’ Danielle said. ‘And they know I’m not Katie and clearly, as a bloke, you’re not Katie either, so how do we get Katie out of the house without them noticing?’
‘I don’t know. Give me a minute to think.’ Richard scratched his chin. ‘I’ve got it! We get you out of the house with a pillowcase over your head with only eye-shaped holes cut out. My sports car is parked at the end of your road, we run out, past them, and jump into the car and I’ll speed you anywhere you like. They won’t catch us, they’ve got too many news vans and pensioners lining the street.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘Plus, Mrs Bellamy and other nosey parkers have set their deckchairs in prime position in the middle of the road facing my house. They’ll never move them out of the way, you know how slow old people can be at the best of times.’
‘By the time they’ve turned their cars round and shuffled Mrs Bellamy out of the way, we’ll be halfway across the city. Now, where shall we go?’
‘My mother’s house, in deepest, darkest Oxfordshire.’
‘Right, well, get your things. Danielle, can you take Grum?’
‘I’ll just come round using the spare key and feed him, if it’s all the same to you. I’m allergic to cats,’ she said, sparking up another cigarette.
I ran around the house looking for a pillowcase I didn’t mind cutting up, my make-up and sufficient clothing to last me for however long it took for this ordeal to die down.
I was lucky I had my friends around me, otherwise I could quite possibly have starved to death as I had run out of bread and milk that morning. I sighed heavily and rubbed my temples. Jack’s departure had hit me harder than I had ever imagined. I loved him with all my heart, not despite his faults and mild annoyances, but because of them. I could smell him on my clothes and his aftershave lingered on my pillows, in my hair, in the living room. There were remnants of my boyfriend and our life together all around me and I could still feel him in the air. It was all I could do to stop myself from crying long, drawn-out, incomprehensible sobs on to Danielle’s shoulder as she stroked my hair and said the right things to make me feel a little bit better last night. It must have been a good four hours before I could stop sobbing yesterday. I managed ten long minutes of semi-dry cheeks at any given time last night, which was enough to light a cigarette and not extinguish it with tears. Danielle had no option other than to remain by my side, the Kleenex man-size tissues at the ready, mopping up my sodden face. When she left for those brief moments I would shamelessly wail in a totally over-the-top fashion, fuelled by my worst nightmare coming true and a vat of Blossom Hill. When we had sunk enough wine to inebriate an army, I climbed up on the kitchen stool and clumsily continued up on to the breakfast bar where I ran my hands around the rim of the shelving units. We then consumed all the emergency wine. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, exhausted from the day’s events, we had collapsed in a drunken heap on my bed. I prayed with all my might that it – Jack leaving me for a Hollywood film star – had all been a bad dream.
But no, I
woke up this morning to yet more intense scrutiny of my house, love life and stupid Jack Hunter. Just who did he think he was, ditching me like this? My heart-wrenching, guttural pain of last night was now somewhat absent with the presence of a banging headache, dry mouth, and intense fury for unwittingly being presented to the world as a ‘scorned woman’. How dare he do this to me! I can feel the anger bubbling up inside of me, adrenaline surges through my veins. I angrily throw on my dressing gown and violently shove my feet into my slippers. Oh, it was all right for Jack Hunter, wasn’t it! He was off sunning himself with my nemesis whilst leaving me here to deal with a bunch of hacks on my doorstep, plus I was totally going to be the subject of gossip at work. It was bad enough having Richard charge in and take control as though he was Max bloody Clifford, what with all his talk about getting my own PR adviser to guide me through this drama, but realizing Jack’s dreams didn’t include me was so much more terrible than I could ever comprehend.
Despite his flamboyance and scathing comments, Richard was one of my favourite colleagues at work. He loved fashion and designer labels even more than Jack. If people think Jack bats for the other side, it’s fair to say that most people’s first impressions of Richard are that he’s an eccentric, image-obsessed gay. He doesn’t correct their assumptions, because this is one of the tricks he uses to attract women. Richard often told me about the tricks that men use to attract women. He kept books and magazine articles dedicated to subliminal mind tricks with which to entice a woman into bed and he swore blind that they worked. He was like a romance version of Derren Brown. I was well inclined to believe him, based upon the fact he almost always had a stunning six-foot goddess draped all over him at any given time.
‘Why,’ I asked him one day, ‘is it OK for a man to have it off with tons of women but it’s not OK for a woman to have it off with loads of men?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s easy.’
‘Explain,’ I said.
‘Well … for a man to have slept with many women he must be charming, sensual, attractive, funny and rich.’
‘Well … that’s not strictly true …’ I grumble, thinking about my ex-boyfriends.
‘For a woman to have slept with many men, she simply has to exist in the same oxygen space.’ He smiles and winks.
I roll my eyes. He was forever expanding upon his laws of attraction theories, in the car on the way home, over coffee at work, during lunch, in emails, on the phone and in just about every other conceivable situation. He was obsessed with beautiful women.
‘You chicks love gay men,’ Richard announced one day, shortly after I made him watch Will & Grace round my house one night whilst I lay on my sofa dying of the flu. Jack had sensibly stayed away from me in case he caught it and potentially jeopardized his upcoming audition for the bartender in Cowgirls, the part that has now ruined my life. I should have sneezed all over him. From watching my girly box sets, Richard figured that women instantly put their trust in a gay man – all of us ladies want a Gay Best Friend as much as this season’s Chanel lipstick. He also figures that lulling girls into a false sense of security by acting gay and discussing emotions, sharing and feelings talk, will result in a 10 out of 10 smash-up – his term for getting a woman into bed.
Richard talks about another man-technique that he uses to succeed with women, although he never stays with the women for any great length of time. A love ’em and leave ’em type, he breaks hearts and beds and narrowly escapes having bits of him broken by the scorned women. It’s the Cat String Theory.
‘It’s like this,’ he said, as he crunched on some of my homemade tacos in front of the telly, ‘you put some string in front of your cat and you dangle it.’
‘Yeah …’ I said, blowing my nose into a tissue, ‘obviously, that’s what cats like …’
‘No, well, yes they do, and what happens when you pull the string away?’
‘The cat goes nuts for the string. Oh, Rich, please tell me you’re not comparing us girlies to balls of string!’ I say, affronted.
‘Kind of … What happens when the cat gets the string you’ve been teasing him with?’ He gives a wry smile.
I sigh loudly and Rich squeals, ‘He gets bored!’ at me before slapping his thighs. ‘AH HA!’
I grin back at him, shaking my head. I can’t believe men operate on this level!
‘Kitty gets bored and he loses interest within five minutes and searches for another toy to please him and I’m afraid, darling, that this is what men do to girls, all the time. Seriously, girls need to make themselves that little bit unavailable, that little bit mysterious. Us men, we’re predators!’
Despite all of his arrogance, women flock to Richard, men flock to Richard, animals and children flock to Richard and all get a short shrift. He is charming and devilishly handsome with it, a wicked combination. He is a natural at Public Relations.
He’s also bloody good at getting my backside out of the door and into his car at the end of the road. Without warning, he manhandled me up and over his shoulder, which was impressive considering how slight he is. He tumbled me down the street, one hand clinging on to his shoulder for dear life, the other holding on to the pillowcase which made me look as though I was about to either burgle someone or join the Ku Klux Klan. Reporters attempted to give chase but were prevented by the gaggle of fogies who had now all stood up to get a better view of my backside wobbling in the air. I gave a quick wave to Danielle, who stood on the doorstep giving little concerned hand gestures as though she was waving me off to sea. A tear escaped down my face, ruining the mascara I had freshly applied in case my pillowcase should blow away in the wind. I couldn’t quite believe that Richard was giving me a fireman’s lift away from a crowd that had gathered outside my house to get a glimpse of me. Was this what it was like being a celebrity? Would Sizzle Stars and This Morning now have images of the crack of my bottom and flowery giant Tesco pants? Which was inevitable, really, when someone hoists you up with no warning, you don’t get the chance to pull up your jeans as high as they’ll go to avoid what was probably happening now. I couldn’t see a thing through my eye slits other than rows of terraced houses, cars and bemused-looking passers-by, wondering what on earth was going on.
Eventually Richard set me down, collapsed against the bonnet of his car, and clicked his key fob to open the doors. Sweat trickled down his face and he touched his chest with his free hand and sighed dramatically.
‘Oh, come off it, Richard, I’m not that heavy!’
He raised an eyebrow at me and clutched his chest some more before taking out a hanky and wiping down his forehead.
‘Get … in … the … car,’ he said, breathlessly.
I clambered in, and sat back against the seat, chucking my rucksack of clothes and other bits and pieces into the back seat. Richard sat down next to me and put the radio on.
‘Phew! Well, we did it. Keep that pillowcase on your head, we don’t want anyone taking pictures of you with their long-lens cameras!’ he said, as he revved up the engine and we sped off in the direction of my childhood home, the village of Little Glove, Oxfordshire.
‘Thanks,’ I said to Richard, as his face went back to a normal shade of peach and his breathing slowed.
‘It’s OK, chick, any time. Now, let’s get you home.’
Chapter 3
The car rolled on to the gravel driveway of my family home two hours later and we came to a stop. I still had the pillowcase firmly on my head in case we were being tailed by any paparazzi. We’d twisted and turned through several routes with a number of suspicious-looking vehicles’ bumpers halfway up our backsides. Richard had sped away and it looked like we had escaped them all.
As we parked up, I reached into the pocket of my rucksack for my cigarettes and lit one up. I didn’t care that my mother, who was fastidiously against smoking, may quite possibly kill me for lighting up in the front garden.
All of a sudden, the all too familiar grainy picture of Jack with Jessica Hilson’s head
in his armpit, arms flailing at the camera, an eye throwing an accusatory glance backwards, was slammed up against the window of the car. My seventeen-year-old sister stood there with a copy of the offending tabloid.
‘For goodness’ sake, Janice, don’t you think I’ve seen enough of that picture to last me a lifetime?’ I scream at her. ‘Besides that, you nearly frightened me to death!’ I say, grabbing my chest for effect.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ she screams back at me. ‘I’ve had to, like, field off zillions of phone calls all about you and Jack, plus my Facebook has been inundated with friend requests!’
She stands there, hand on hip as though my drama is her drama.
‘There is no me and Jack!’ I state defiantly, before thinking of suitable words to throw at her that best describe my feelings towards Jack, her and that huge chip on her shoulder. ‘Not any more,’ I add, with a lump in my throat.
‘Bite your tongue,’ Richard hisses in my ear. ‘She’s a kid, she lives and breathes celebrity gossip, you’ve probably just single-handedly elevated her in the popularity stakes in the sixth form for having a sister who inadvertently dated a movie star. She’ll thank you for it when she goes into school tomorrow.’
‘Well, this isn’t about her, is it!’ I spat.
And then it dawned on me … Facebook … zillions of new friends … could only be one thing!
‘You didn’t say yes to any of those friend requests, did you?’ I asked, with a cold feeling in my blood. But I already knew. With a sinking heart, I realized that of course Janice had accepted every single friend request that came her way because having as many friends as possible, regardless of whether you knew any of them or not, was a badge of honour amongst her friends.
‘Yeah … so?’ she answered blithely.
‘Well, didn’t you think that some, if not all of them are from journalists digging for information on me?’
‘No, I guess … I … I didn’t think.’
‘You never bloody think, Janice! Oh my God, those are probably the same journalists who have been camping outside my house for the past day and a half! The very same journalists who have hounded me out of my home and over Richard’s shoulder disguised by a pillowcase over my head!’ I was red in the face, close to tears and pointing at her furiously.
