Confessions of an Essex Girl

by Becci Fox

  ‘Maybe next year, Dad.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got what it takes to be seen on his arm. Talking of which, guess who I’ve seen on your brother’s arm recently.’ Dad is the biggest gossip I know. He’s ten times worse than Mum.

  ‘I haven’t got a clue. Brooke?’ I wouldn’t put it past her.

  ‘Nah. His new Doris is only bloody Sue.’

  ‘Come again? You talking about Sue of Cheryl and Sue?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up. You’re having me on?’

  ‘Does this look like a face that would mug you off, princess?’

  ‘You’re not joking? You’re serious?’

  ‘Yep, he’s been fitting Sue’s new carpets. And that’s not all he’s been fitting in.’

  ‘This is so gross.’

  ‘Happens all the time when you’re working in lonely women’s houses. Before I met your mum, I got a lot of action that way. You can learn a lot from an older woman.’

  ‘DAD! Please don’t talk any more. I don’t even want to know how you know or any of the details. I’m guessing Mum’s oblivious.’

  ‘Yeah, course she is. That’s why I’m telling you. I’ve had to hold it in for a whole week. She’d go spare if she knew.’

  The world had gone mad. Mum’s friend was doing my brother, Brooke was doing my ex and Gemma and Grant were doing everyone but each other. I always think life would be so much simpler if we didn’t enjoy sex. It causes a shit-load of grief. I wasn’t surprised about Sue because she’ll try it on with any man, dead or alive. I mean, Mum actually walked in on Sue going down on their therapist last year. But I never had Jake down for a granny-fiddler. I won’t lie, I was disgusted.

  When we got to the airport, Dad yanked my baggage out the back and handed me a wodge of euros. ‘Look after yourself, Honkytonks, and buy yourself something nice.’

  ‘Dad, you don’t have to give me that.’

  ‘Please, you’ll make an old man very happy. Plus that’s the money I got out after Ben said I’d be going on this romantic break with him.’

  I don’t think there is a more giving dad than Don Fox. He’s been throwing his cash at us a lot more recently. He keeps banging on about not being long for this world. He’s pretty melodramatic for a very healthy sixty-year-old with both his parents still alive. I don’t actually know how he’s made so much money, but if you ask him what he does for a living, he’ll tell you he’s a professional landlord and investor. All I know is that he’s a builder by trade (though I’ve never seen him graft in my lifetime), he owns the carpet shop Jake works at but he has a manager that does all the work for him, and he has fifty-one properties on his portfolio, most of which have had their mortgage paid off. Pretty impressive, right?

  It helps that he’s done a lot of cash-in-hand stuff like most people in Essex do. I mean, a lot of the beauty salons round here only accept cash. The taxman can’t monitor every pedicure and nor can he monitor how much Dad charges for rent. Essex is like some sort of unofficial tax haven really. We’ve gone down the same route as Monaco so I reckon just make the county a republic and be done with it. I mean, you can justify anything round here with the phrase, ‘It’s Essex, innit.’ So if you were to say, ‘I don’t have no cash for my pedicure,’ the beautician would say, ‘Sorry, darling, it’s Essex, innit. There’s an ATM five minutes down the road. We’ll keep your dog as a hostage.’

  We’ve got our own set of rules round here and it’s normal to walk about with wads of cash instead of using your debit card. You’d see what I mean if you got your groceries from Buckhurst Hill Waitrose. Fifties flying everywhere, and before the taxman even gets a snifter, it’s spent. It won’t surprise you that Dick Turpin came from these parts. Although Dad would say the taxman’s the highwayman in this day and age.

  The easyJet flight was the only thing I’d forked out for on this trip. Ben and his sponsors were covering everything else, which was a pretty sweet deal. I had to keep reminding myself these shitty two hours on the plane would be the only roughing it I’d be doing. Honest to God, I don’t know how Brooke works on these flights. She doesn’t come from a monied-up family so she had to find a job fast after university. She lives for holidays abroad so it seemed the obvious option, but whether you’re an employee or customer of easyJet, its basically still the airline equivalent to KFC: it does the job but you always feel dirty afterwards. All she wants is a piece of British Airways action. I know that’s going to happen for her one day, and then she’ll never have to wear orange again. A total tan clasher.

  When I got to Nice, I had instructions to meet Ben in the airport’s members’ bar, the Cap Ferrat Lounge. Sounded fancy. I made my way up there to find Ben and Gino swigging back the beers. It was seriously unfancy for an exclusive lounge. I was expecting chandeliers, big armchairs and offers of neck massages, but it was more like a quiet doctor’s waiting room with some colourful chairs. Didn’t seem to bother them, though.

  ‘Oh, I see, I see, drinking already, are we?’ I said in a pass-agg way that would ensure a drink came my way.

  ‘I’ll order you something. Champagne?’ said Gino, who’d started letching all over me already. Before I had a chance to reply, Ben had grabbed my face and pulled me in for a full-on snog. It was amazing. It was like we hadn’t seen each other for months even though it had only been a week. My champagne radar started beeping so I stuck my arm out for Gino to put the glass in my hand while I carried on snogging Ben. We only stopped because I could feel Gino was getting off on it. He was so gross! Ben was looking even fitter than the last time I’d seen him.

  ‘Hun, you’re looking so tanned,’ I said, touching his arms. His biceps were practically bursting out of his polo shirt.

  ‘It’s been well hot in Spain, babe. Like when I was sunbathing, my belly button would fill up with sweat,’ he replied. If anyone else had said this I would have up-chucked, but even this vision of Ben was a turn-on. In fact, I would have sucked that sweat right out of his belly button.

  I thought we’d just be getting a taxi from the airport, but no. He’d hired a fucking helicopter. I am serious! Getting a helicopter from Nice to Monaco is one of the most incredible things I’ve ever done. But word to the wise, don’t wear a floaty maxi dress if you’re going to do this as it will blow up. Luckily I had my best La Senza thong on and some high espadrilles, so my tanned cheeks would have looked amazing at the heliport.

  The ride over the French coast wasn’t long enough for my liking, but I got over that once we drew up at Hôtel de Paris. I’ve stayed in a lot of classy joints, but this beat the lot of them. The suite was probably the same size as my cottage, and to my joy it was wall-to-wall pink with a pink carpet and pink roses on a table. The bathroom was packed with Hermès products which I would be stealing later. There was even a terrace overlooking the sea! That’s where I got my first proper bird’s-eye view of the racetrack. I had to contain myself. If Brooke had been here we’d have been jumping on the bed hugging and screaming. As it was, I acted cool as you like and opened the champagne that was sat in a bucket of ice.

  Whoever says money doesn’t make you happy is just telling themselves that to make themselves feel better. Those sad sacks would totally backtrack if they got given a weekend of extravagant luxury with limitless possibilities ahead. I think I sat on the terrace drinking with Ben for about an hour before I could really speak. I forgot to put suncream on so annoyingly I had a red chest for my first night in Monaco. Or is it Monte Carlo? I don’t really understand the difference. It’s such a small place, just call all of it Monaco and be done with it. And yeah, I get they’re not French now but they still speak French, so that’s what’s confusing.

  Now let me share something with you about dirty weekends away because it’s something I wish I’d known. I used to have a major phobia of going to the toilet in hotel rooms in case the bloke heard and then that would destroy the myth that women don’t do number twos. And on one weekend away eight years ago, I h
adn’t been the whole time and that obviously puts pressure on your organs. While 69-ing with me on top, the exertion got too much and I ended up guffing in the bloke’s face. It was such a passion-killer and I dumped him as soon as we got home because I couldn’t ever face him again. Now what if this had actually been my future husband? Proper BHQ moment.

  I told Gemma about my toilet phobia while we were shopping and she said, ‘Why don’t you just turn on the taps when you go to the toilet?’ That was a total newsflash to me. So I said, ‘But if I’m running all the taps, won’t the bloke know what I’m up to,’ and she said, ‘It’s standard code. Everyone’s protected, no questions asked.’ Who knew? So I tried it for the first time in this Monaco hotel room with Ben. A bit risky, I know, because he was so hot. But it totally worked! I was in there for a good ten minutes and we had lovely afternoon sex (the best kind, in my opinion) as soon as I came out.

  If you learn anything from me, let it be that.

  We were going to yet another fashion show for our first night on the town. I won’t lie, I was sick of fucking fashion shows by this point. But then Ben said there would be loads of F1 racing drivers modelling. The lovely Alonso! That gave the night a bit more edge. I started getting ready at 4 p.m., and by 7.30 p.m. I was ready.

  Getting ready with Ben in the room was a huge eye-opener. I thought I’d have the bathroom to myself, but I’d only been in there an hour before he started banging on the door. I’ve never lived with another bloke apart from my brother, so I don’t know how long men take to get ready normally. From what I remember, Charlie spent thirty seconds beautifying himself before a big night out, but I thought back to that drawer in his bathroom and realized Ben would be taking as long as me. So as I was getting ready, I kept one eye on him to see what he was up to.

  He spent ages shaving his chest in the shower, for one thing. Then he applied a gradual tanner all over. What’s the point of a gradual tanner? But I kept my opinion to myself. Then he shaved his face so precisely that he kept a very even stubble. Then he applied a different self-tan to his face. Turns out he was a real Clarins fan too. Even though he had seriously short hair, he still managed to spend twenty minutes grooming his strands with his gel-covered fingertips. It was hypnotic to watch. Then he put on a bit of foundation, some bronzer, some under-eye concealer, a dab of lip balm and curled his lashes. Plus he spent half an hour selecting his outfit, which ended up being jeans, a tight V-neck top and a black jacket. It’s what Mark Wright would call ‘The Italian look’. Oh, and he did some press-ups!

  I suppose I always say I don’t wake up looking like this and it turns out neither did Ben. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not. It annoyed me that Charlie had always been a bit slack with his appearance, although he did love his designer brands. But I was now faced with the other extreme and it was a bit of a surprise. He didn’t even comment on my outfit, which was this stunning gold jumpsuit with gold strappy sandals. I wasn’t about to beg for a compliment so I gave him a bit of stick about how much he loved himself, and he pulled me in for a kiss. He clearly hadn’t picked up my pass-agg tone.

  The fashion party turned out to be fucking amazing and blew the previous two right out the water. It took place poolside on the Plaza’s rooftop and the party continued at a place called the Amber Lounge. We had a pass that gave us unlimited drinks, so I was well hammered on the sparkling rosé. I don’t think it was champagne so it wasn’t as flash as it sounds. Kim Kardashian was there, Taio Cruz performed, but no Alonso. I was gutted. There were ten other racing drivers all trussed up in white suits for the show, but they were no lookers. I was pretty confident I’d have to bump into Alonso at some point over the weekend, especially as Ben had met him before. He was my golden ticket.

  I tell you who took my breath away, though – that Charlene who’s now married Albert of Monaco. Stunning. There were a lot of haters that night calling her Trashlene, but I reckon that’s because the girl done good and that makes the ladies well jel they’re not her. She hasn’t got that great a lifestyle anyway if she’s got to have sex with a bald man for the rest of her married days. And when I got back to Essex I read that she tried to escape the country and get out of the wedding. You can’t hate someone that unhappy, however minted they are. But anyway, I felt right at home surrounded by all the beautiful people except everyone was too well behaved. No one was jumping up and dancing on the couches like they do in Essex clubs. No one was crying, not even that Charlene. No one was even tempted to push anyone in the pool.

  I couldn’t really complain, though, and I thought I could definitely get used to the Monaco lifestyle. Even though I was seriously hanging the next morning, it was made slightly more bearable when the one thing on my to-do list was sunbathe on a luxury yacht. The only irritation was the cars whizzing past during the qualifier. At first it was a novelty but eventually I felt every engine rev hit the back of my skull. The yacht belonged to one of Ben’s sponsors and this would be the location we’d be watching the Grand Prix from as well so I made a mental note not to drink to excess that night. No way was Monaco going to get the better of me. If I’d had any doubts about Ben initially, they all faded away on deck. I was living this incredible existence because I’d taken a massive gamble on Ben. Perhaps I was starting to feel a bit cocky, but it was while I was soaking up the rays in my bikini that I decided I would get Ben to rub suntan lotion on my back and start a much avoided conversation. Always best to do this when you’re practically naked and can’t make eye contact. You get more answers.

  ‘Hun, how come you don’t introduce me as your girlfriend?’ I asked. I could feel the suntan-rubbing get a bit faster. I knew this would be tricky. I waited.

  ‘I’ve not really thought about it,’ Ben said, trying to be proper casual. ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘No, it’s fine, but people look like they want to know more when you just say, “This is Becci,” then leave it at that. It’s a bit strange.’

  ‘None of their business is it, babe? We know what we’re about and that’s all that matters.’

  I wasn’t going to leave it at that.

  ‘So don’t you want to be my boyfriend?’

  ‘Course I do, babe.’

  ‘Alright then, that’s sorted. So are you going to take me out for lunch or what?’

  Now see – what I did there was I kept it nice and short because Ben’s not the soppy type, but he was so grateful I’d changed the subject, he agreed to a slap-up meal at a three-star Michelin restaurant. Although, I didn’t rate the grub there – I’ve had better meals in Sugar Hut and that’s saying something – but there must have been some sort of aphrodisiac in the food because Ben was so hot for me afterwards we ended up having a quickie in the hotel toilets, even though our room was just upstairs. Then he booked me in for a major pampering session in the spa while he went to the casino. So all in all, it was an epic win for me.

  The plan for that evening was to go on yet another yacht for a charity dinner, then on to somewhere called the Billionaire Club. That sounded like a place I belonged in. The charity thing was not my scene at all. It was on some boat called Lady Joy but there was no joy to be had. The women were told to take off their heels to protect the boat. I’m sorry, but don’t have a party on a boat then. No way was I taking my heels off. Some woman had a go at me and when she walked off I heard her friend go, ‘People from Essex are hateful anyway, darling.’ These people are meant to have manners too! At least in Essex we’ve got the decency to say these things behind people’s backs and to their faces.

  When I saw that Charlene girl was at the party too, I felt her pain. She was dealing with a ship-load of snobs, so good luck to her, I say. Michael Schumacher showed up wearing some embarrassing leather trousers (something Don Fox would be well jel of). The only excitement on the boat was the buzz for tomorrow’s big event. Everyone was chattering about pole positions and bigging up the drivers’ parade and saying how amazing all the final-night parties were. Ben was going to take me to the p
its where he said he’d find Alonso for me. Result!

  The only thing missing from Monaco was my girls. They would have dissed the boring boat, but they’d have gone mad for the Billionaire Club because this was our kind of joint. As we rolled up to the hotel, the sight was incredible. Porsche after Bentley after Ferrari, all waiting for the valets to park their cars. We totally looked the part in the black Rolls-Royce Ben had borrowed off his mate. I’m not joking, the number plate said G0D on it! The club was at the top of the hotel and was run by that short old racing tycoon who went out with Naomi Campbell. Unbelievable who women can bring themselves to do.

  I’d got my look bang-on for the occasion with a strapless black sparkly number which left nothing to the imagination as far as my 34Ds were concerned. I now had Ben’s full attention. Well, for the first half of the night anyway.

  That bloody Gino was there too but I couldn’t complain really as he would introduce me to people whenever Ben disappeared. And he’d introduce me as Ben’s girlfriend. Ben still hadn’t been able to say the word to people, but since we’d got it all out in the open, I was less worried. These things take a while. No matter, I saw Jason Statham that night and it turns out he’s an uglier version of Ben. Who knew? Ben was loving that, so I got a picture of the two of them together. I kept my eye out for Alonso but Ben said no drivers would be out the night before the Grand Prix. I said, ‘Surely they’re just sitting in a car, so they can do that hung-over?’ Ben was proper unimpressed with my observation. So unimpressed that I didn’t see him for an hour after that. Let him have his tantrum, I thought.

  So I got talking to an American guy who just looked rich. Tanned, crisp white clothes and perfect teeth, but I could still tell he was old enough to be my dad. Turned out he was the boss of some NASCAR racing team. I don’t know, so don’t ask. But the more we talked, the more I realized that he was actually really keen to get Ben over to the States and do trials out there. Being the dutiful ‘girlfriend’ that I am, I totally bigged up my boyfriend. I’d say the usual sort like, ‘Lewis Hamilton is majorly paranoid about Ben entering F1,’ and ‘Jenson Button’s doing everything in his power to stop Ben getting a serious sponsor here.’ That’s how you do it in Essex, you just spread rumours until enough people believe them. Like, I was telling women at wedding fairs that Denise Van Outen bought her wedding dress from our shop. She hadn’t, but since word of mouth is well powerful round our way, the spring of 2009 was nicely profitable. Essex rule: Never let the truth get in the way of a good story. I’m a really good person to have on side, and this Yankee was drinking in every drop of it.