Confessions of an Essex Girl

by Becci Fox

  This book is dedicated to my parents for a lifetime of support, and to the people of West Essex for a lifetime of laughter.

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  1 Looking the Part

  2 Getting the VIP Treatment

  3 Family Comes First

  4 Start Calling the Shots

  5 You Gotta Fake It to Make It

  6 Live Large, Roll High

  7 Say No to the Semi-Pro

  8 Holidays: You Bring the Heat

  9 Once a Player, Always a Player

  10 Poor Me, Poor Me, Pour Me Another Drink

  11 Finding Your Inner Show Pony

  12 Polo is for Posing, Not Playing

  13 Mug Them Off What Mugged You

  14 Champagne: The Lifeblood of Essex

  15 The Science of Sunning It

  16 Flattery Gets You Everywhere

  17 Essex Up Those in Need

  18 The Only Way is a WEG Wedding Day

  19 Set Your Sights High

  Every drama you read about on these pages truly happened to myself, my friends and my family. Some things are so shameless that ALL names have been changed, including my own. As with The Only Way Is Essex, this book is scripted reality. A lifetime of events have been crammed into a six-month narrative but each character is a blend of two or more real people. Every beauty salon, club, bar, doggy day spa, sunbed, posh dinner, tight dress, chat-up line, sports car exists. A number of conversations are genuine banter overheard by myself while out and about in West Essex. It’s not that I got good hearing, it’s just that everyone speaks so loud it’s almost rude not to earwig. The rest is just what me and my crew have said, done and seen over the years. Some of it’s word for word, some of it’s been dramatized for your entertainment. I call it as I see it.

  So you think you’ve got us figured out? Essex girl equals tan, teeth and tits. You don’t know the half of it. Let me tell you something. While you’ve been laughing at them lot from The Only Way Is Essex, they’ve been laughing all the way to the bank. And all because some posh producers came along one day and went, ‘Crank up the Essex to the max, and . . . action,’ and their selected cast became the caricatures we wanted them to be: over-the-top, mouthy and flash.

  There’s some West Essex folk who are going, ‘That’s not what we’re like.’ Well, a good lot of us are, actually, but do you think we get that rich by being that ditzy? My Essex brethren are fun, down-to-earth go-getters who don’t take themselves too seriously. So yeah, what you see on TV is a slice of Essex, but it’s still not a patch on what I’ve seen over the years. If it were the real deal, there’d have been a fight outside Sugar Hut by now. There would have been some cash-in-hand business caught on camera. There’d be more sunbeds than spray-tans. Harry’s gay world would be more adventurous than a dinner date round his mum’s house. The white powder would be flying left, right and centre. And the sexual conquests would be graphic and detailed, for if there’s one thing we excel at, it’s telling a story with all the trimmings.

  And that’s where I come into all this. I thought to myself, TOWIE is a bit limited in what it can show because the cast will only admit to so much and there’s all those TV regulations to abide by. So I went to these publishers and said, ‘If you like, I can write a kind of book version of TOWIE with genuine stories.’ Since you don’t know who I am and I don’t know who you are, I can get proper candid on these pages. Saying that, if I do get found out then I’ll be blacklisted by every establishment and banished from Essex. But then again it’s worth it, because I honestly believe you’ll benefit from all I’ve learnt when it comes to living, working, playing and dating in Essex. I’m not being funny, but I might just improve your life with my WEG wisdom. A WEG is a West Essex Girl, by the way. You have so much to learn!

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to be badmouthing Essex, because I genuinely believe it’s the best place to live if you want to make something of yourself. Yes, the social scene can get a bit incestuous and it’s got all the politics of the school playground, but you can build yourself up from nothing here and have a laugh while you’re at it. It’s got what the rest of Britain lacks, and that’s self-belief. Showing off is actively encouraged and modesty is a swear word. And the good news is the West Essex dream is yours if you want it. As my dear old dad says, you can live the champagne lifestyle on lemonade money here. All you got to do is act the part and the rest will follow.

  The place is proper riddled with opportunists, and good ones at that. It’s no wonder that Burnett bloke came up with idea of The Apprentice after growing up round here. All he had to do was look out his front door to see the money-spinning going on. I mean, The Only Way Is Essex lot aren’t sitting back now they’ve found fame, are they? Yeah, a lot of them have become professional celebrities, but it’s the girls who are starting up all the businesses. They’re all fucking working it. You don’t see the cast from Made in Chelsea grabbing the headlines or opening up shops, because they got no hunger to make their own mark. It’s just instinctive for us: elbow your way forward, make a name for yourself and then make a killing off the back of it. It doesn’t take a camera crew for us to be like that. I really don’t get why everyone isn’t doing it instead of moaning about recessions and credit crunches. Take matters into your own hands, yeah?

  So I suppose what I’m trying to say is that it’s a fucking inspiring place to live if you want to better yourself. That’s why Nan and Grandad left the East End in the first place, and look at us now. But things got weird here last summer and I truly blame the TOWIE effect – it sent us all a bit funny. I mean, I live the loveliest life. I’m part of the Essex elite, I look good, I’ve always gone to the right places and I have nice things. And I only choose blokes who treat me right and show me a good time. But the Essexness went into overdrive for me around the time TOWIE started filming the second series. Coincidence? I don’t think so. If a 24-year-old player like Mark Wright could even think of proposing to Lauren, then the world had truly gone tits-up.

  These aren’t my memoirs, so I’m not going to bore you with the time Leigh Cole pulled me to the ground by my hair for looking at her boyfriend. Although I don’t think many ten-year-olds have experienced that. And this isn’t a diary either. Do you think I’ve got time to write down my thoughts when I roll in at 4 a.m.? So if there are some discrepancies, I apologize now. When you’re under the influence, it makes memories a bit fuzzy round the edges, right? But stay with me, because here’s the thing. What I am going to do is break a number-one rule in Essex and just cut through all the billy bullshit. We’re the best self-promoters in the country, but sometimes we’re too good. I was too good and it turns out there is a limit when it comes to affairs of the heart. I thought I could handle anyone, but then one very good-looking, confident, charming racing driver proved otherwise. I was so far out of my comfort zone, it’s not even funny. But you know what, I’d do it all again. I’m actually going to quote Mark Wright here, but don’t judge me, because it makes sense: ‘We’re here for a good time, not a long time.’ I mean, imagine if I’d said no to the good times and just stayed indoors and watched my TOWIE boxset instead? This would be the end of the story.

  As we say in Badlands, get involved.

  The place I need to start is the day I met him.

  It’s weird how you can just go about your business totally unaware you’re going to meet someone in a few hours who’s going to properly shake your shit up. I mean, I’d had a proper mare of a day with the girls, so perhaps my normal defences were on the blink. Who can say, but I wasn’t feeling too bright.

  Just to set the scene, we were all in my sister’s bridal shop, where I work as a buyer. My best friend Gemma was the
bride-to-be, so she was sat down waiting for her five bridesmaids to emerge from the changing rooms, me included. One by one, we trailed out and stood before her like we were in a line-up. The vibe wasn’t quite how I’d imagined it. I mean, I had personally selected these Fifties-style coral dresses and people are always begging me to style them, but this lot had a right face on them.

  ‘What’s not to like about them?’ I asked. I really was getting quite hacked off. ‘Coral is bang on trend, plus it makes you look well tanned.’

  As soon as I’d seen these dresses two months prior, I’d bought in a job lot because I thought it was a no-brainer and Gem would be sold as soon as she saw them. They were halter-neck and I have great shoulders; they were knee-length and I have great pins; I hate my bottom and thighs, but they were hidden with a netted skirt. Epic win. However, Brooke suddenly revealed she hated coral because she said it clashed with dark hair. Since when? To me, Brooke is like this little China doll (with a tan) that I just want to dress up all the time. She’s got these dark, soulful eyes, and a tiny nose and these ridiculously small ears. But don’t be fooled by this exterior because the girl bites. I wasn’t about to argue with her over the merits of coral.

  Gem’s sister Karen looked OK except her back fat was spilling out. I suggested she whack on a shrug, so that solved that. Actually, Gem’s cousin Paula had the same problem but they both wear so much make-up I doubt anyone would have been looking below their necklines. It’s like they use a face stencil, their tidemarks are so perfect. And in my opinion, Gem’s mate from college, Emily, looked amazing, but I couldn’t please her either. She said the look was ‘a bit much’. She’s not a native. I think she’s from Sussex. Maybe Suffolk? Surrey? Anyways, she was one of those vanilla girls who badly needed some Essex razzle-dazzle in her life.

  ‘Fuck it, I can’t be dealing with all this,’ Gemma screamed at us. ‘This is the sixth shop we’ve been in and I’ve had one hundred per cent grief from all of you. This was meant to be fun.’

  And it was fun at first. Gem told us each to pick a bridal shop and then she’d choose a bridesmaid’s dress for us all to try on. Naturally, I chose the family business, not out of pure selfishness but because I knew I could cut Gem a deal. That’s how it works in Essex – never pay full price, use your contacts.

  ‘Becci, considering you’re the buyer for this shop, you haven’t got a very wide selection. Why is everything above the knee?’ Gem said, tossing her long blonde hair in my direction. She’s one of those graceful, willowy types who can express a thousand words in just one hair-flick.

  This dig at my fashion sense would normally rile me up for a full-on showdown, but not this time. I caught my sister’s eye and she busied herself with some papers. That’s because Tasha was as guilty as I was, since she’d helped me move all the dresses I didn’t like into the stockroom an hour before the girls showed up. I had hoped it wouldn’t look too obvious.

  ‘Problem is, Gem, it’s March, so everyone’s bagged their summer bridesmaid dresses already,’ I said in my defence. That wasn’t true. I go to wholesalers all the time to replenish stock, otherwise we wouldn’t have a business. Duh.

  ‘I suppose I have left it quite late,’ said Gemma. I can be quite convincing sometimes. She looked defeated and slumped down on the red velvet chaise longue (it’s well plush – chosen by moi) with her head in her hands. I’ll fess up, I felt this rush of guilt (there’s a first for everything), so I pushed a cold glass of champagne into her hand. That usually livens people up, but she just downed it and walked out the shop. She clearly wanted me to chase her out so I had no choice, which meant everyone outside stopped in their tracks to watch. I felt like saying, ‘Wind your fucking necks in, people,’ but then that would make me such a hypocrite. I bloody love watching confrontations.

  ‘Look, I’ve got an idea,’ I said, grabbing her shoulder to shake the strop out of her. ‘You should give us a colour theme and we’ll buy our own dresses. Loads of girls are doing that now, and it makes the wedding party look way more interesting. I’d totally do that myself,’ I added, trying to be helpful and selfish at the same time.

  ‘Fine. Just wear what the fuck you all want. Let’s just get out of here,’ she snapped back. Charming.

  This wasn’t even our lowest wedding moment. We’d gone to Emily’s chosen shop earlier that day and she clearly didn’t get how far Chelmsford was for us. That’s the thing about outsiders, they don’t know how Essex works as a county. All you need to know is that my manor is a cut above the rest. Make us West Essex and them East Essex, I say. We’re more urban and classy, whereas Chelmo is hicksville. They all live in the countryside, so they can’t help it if their lifestyle expectations are lower. I mean, they rate Dukes as a nightclub and they think a night in Bas Vegas is living the high life. Enough said.

  I won’t name and shame the shop in case I get in trouble – the bridal business is a small world and I don’t want no one giving me evils at the next wedding fair – but let’s just say it rhymes with Disgrace. So we go into Disgrace and the boniest bint looks us up and down. Needless to say, she wasn’t going to waste her champagne on us. Strike one. We try on a strapless floor-length piece that Emily and Gemma love, but Gem’s sister Karen is having issues getting in it. It’s a size 16 dress and she’s a size 16 (apparently).

  The snippy lady goes, ‘I would give up on that if I were you. You’re clearly a size twenty-two.’

  We’re all speechless for once. We all turn to Karen fully expecting her to kick off.

  ‘Not according to my jeans,’ she says, waving them triumphantly as evidence.

  The owner attempts a pinched smile and says, ‘Those may be a size sixteen, but bridesmaid dresses are entirely different. Your chest makes you big. I can tell someone’s size just by looking at them, and you are definitely a size twenty-two dress.’ Strike two.

  Karen violently yanks off the dress so there’s a faint ripping sound and the woman bristles. But wait, she still has one more blow to serve. She turns to Emily and goes, ‘You’re a bit older than the average bridesmaid, so if I were you, I wouldn’t go for a strapless,’ and she displays this sack of a dress.

  With gritted teeth, Emily goes, ‘I’m only twenty-six.’

  To which the owner replies, ‘Sorry, dear, it’s hard to tell when people have no make-up on.’

  To be fair, it is rare to see someone go bare-faced in Essex, and Emily’s got such sun-addled skin, and don’t even get me started on the hair. Do all people from the shires have straw on their head? Still, I did feel for the girl. We ended up throwing the woman’s stupid dresses on the floor, and Brooke shouted, ‘What a load of old toot,’ as we went. You should have seen the silly cow’s face. All outraged.

  So now we were back at square one. Still no bridesmaid dresses. I did feel a bit shame-faced, but then if it weren’t for me, Gem wouldn’t have scored such a bargainous Vera Wang wedding dress. I seriously worked my contacts to sort her out with a designer dress. See, I’m not all bad!

  ‘Gem, we are turning this day around,’ I declared as we left Tasha’s shop. ‘We are going to get ready and then go have the biggest night of our lives. You’ll be too hung-over to care or remember you’re getting married.’ I detected a fraction of a smile. If there’s one thing I am good at, it’s lifting people’s moods. ‘Ladies, are you with me?’ I said, extending the offer. Turns out they weren’t. Excuses of kids and returning back to the sticks were voiced, but that was fine because that meant it was going to be the original crew of me, Brooke and Gemma. Essex was about to witness something pretty special that night, although when we jumped in my car, I still had my doubts about Gem’s state of mind, especially when Brooke said, ‘Bagsy front seat.’ Is it normal for an adult to bagsie things still? It drives us all nuts, but we never dispute her claim. Forced to squeeze into the bucket-seat at the back, Gem went off on one again.

  ‘This car’s so stupid. You can’t have more than one friend if you drive one of these,’ she said, dissing
my precious Audi TT.

  ‘Yeah, but wait till it gets hot and we can get the roof down,’ I said, ignoring her strop.

  ‘Oh yeah, fucking awesome. You two looking like Thelma and Louise while I’m back here with my legs round my head like Harry bloody Houdini.’

  ‘If you can do that, then no wonder you’re the only one with a bloke,’ I said. Finally she laughed.

  ‘Don’t tell Grant I’m so bendy or I’ll never hear the end of it. He’s been coming out with some right filth lately. Maybe he needs to let it all out before we get married. So you girls going to come over to ours to get ready?’

  Brooke and I looked at each other in an attempt to read each other’s thoughts.

  If we were going over to Gem’s place in Epping, that meant were going to end up at One9Five, which is literally a stone’s throw away. It’s the smallest club ever invented, but we’ve had some top nights there. All very messy. In fact, that’s the club we spotted Kimberly Stewart snogging Jude Law in once. How random is that? It was all over the papers the next day because everyone just got their camera-phones out. You can tell Jude Law isn’t a local if he thought, ‘I’ll just go out in Essex for a discreet night out and bang that Stewart girl.’ Duh! Her dad must have been so proud of his little princess. If you’re a Rod Stewart fan (as if I think he’s sexy), just hang out down Epping High Street and you’ll bump into him. If you don’t see Rod, you’ll definitely see Ray Winstone. That said, those boys are probably the cream of the Epping crop, but something told me One9Five was the place to be that night.

  ‘Yeah, go on then,’ I say. ‘Let’s swing by mine first, though.’

  ‘Hun, the night will be over before you get your shit together,’ moaned Brooke.

  ‘Oh shush, I’ll just throw everything into a bag and we’re off. Done and done.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Brooke said, rolling her eyes. I hate being pigeonholed.