Famous (11 page)

It was a well-known industry fact that the only entertainment at ad shoots was the models. Without them I would have nodded off on many an occasion.

The most entertaining display I’d ever witnessed was at a three-day shoot for a tampon commercial. There were four female models present, with the average age of twelve-and-a-half (or at least that’s what it looked like). By the afternoon of the second day they were desperate to ingest narcotics and nothing was going to stop them, not even the complete lack of a clean flat surface.

‘What about the floor?’ one had suggested.

‘It’s white! How’re we going to see it?’ protested another.

‘True,’ the other two agreed.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ the tall lanky blonde one had said, as she’d walked towards a crate holding a feather duster, a bottle of cleaning spray and an iron. She had removed the iron and walked back to the other three.

‘What’s that for?’ asked the others in surprise. ‘Do we have to press our own clothes?’

‘Hold it,’ said the blonde one, shoving it into her friends’ hands, flat side up, as she reached for a piece of paper to lay on the bottom of the iron.

Aha, I’d thought to myself. I had to hand it to her. This showed an initiative I had no idea she possessed. The sight of the five white lines racked up on the bottom of the iron would have been enough to render any good 1950s housewife speechless. I bet the person who invented the iron had absolutely no idea of its full potential.

I looked back at the two models sitting in front of me. The blonde one kept pulling her top back onto her shoulder, only to have it slip straight back off again. There were simply no boobs to hold it up. My mother would have gladly sold her soul to have five minutes alone in a room with these two, I thought to myself. At least neither my sisters nor I had qualified as model material. God help us.

Thankfully, by the time the shoot finished it was seven o’clock and my mother and her protesting female entourage had presumably gone home to eat the three-course meals their dutiful husbands had ready and waiting for them.

4

For the next wee while (post disastrous bikini waxes and culinary trauma) my life began to coast along relatively smoothly once again, lulling me back into a false sense of security.

‘I’ve had it with men,’ declared Lizzie, as the three of us once again sat in Prego having dinner.

She was still suffering badly from the Simon-with-foetus news. Thankfully she had decided to give him the flick post dinner-party disaster, and she had also mercifully managed to refrain from killing him.

Mands and I braced ourselves for what was coming next. Perhaps she was changing teams? we thought to ourselves. Fair play to her. First there was Bryce the Bastard and the whole no-baby drama. Then she’d convinced herself Simon was going to leave his wife and they’d settle down and have a baby together. All Lizzie really wanted was to have a baby.

‘I’m having a baby,’ she announced.

But how? Was she already pregnant with Simon’s child?

‘By myself.’

Oh. Stop the clock.

Mands and I put down our glasses of wine and stared at her.

‘So, you’re not becoming a lesbian then?’ asked Mands, somewhat confused.

‘No,’ replied Lizzie. ‘Not yet anyway.’

‘Wow!’ I said, unsure of the appropriate response to this type of news. ‘That’s great, sweets. A baby. Cripes.’

‘I’ve had enough of trying to find the right man to have one with,’ continued Lizzie. ‘So, I’m just going to do it by myself.’

More staring.

‘Well, we’ll be there to help you sweets,’ I replied, breaking the silence. Although only God himself knew how much help we’d actually be.

‘Won’t we, Mands?’ I prompted.

‘Yep…course we will,’ said Mands, finally coming to.

‘When are you going to have it?’ she asked.

‘Soon,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’m just trying to pick the donor. From the internet.’

‘You’re picking a father from the web?’ we cried. Good Lord. I was all for embracing new technology, but surely this was taking it a bit far?

Lizzie told us about the online organisation she was using to purchase the sperm and how the whole thing worked.

‘You’re getting it from the States?’ I asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there’s a better selection of donors to choose from. And they give you way more information about the donors family history.’

Obviously Lizzie had done her sperm homework.

‘Plus, this country’s too small,’ she added. ‘I’d probably pick a donor just to find out I went to school with him.’

‘Or that he’s your uncle,’ said Mands, once again opting for the worst-case scenario.

‘How do you get it?’ I asked.

‘It gets flown over. Frozen,’ said Lizzie. ‘And stored at the fertility clinic here until I’m ready.’

‘It’s all very organised,’ I observed.

‘And pricey,’ added Lizzie, disclosing the amount she was paying. Sperm money.

‘Fifteen grand for a bit of sperm?’ cried Mands and I.

‘Bloody hell!’

So, the following night, we found ourselves sitting at Lizzie’s dining table, staring at her laptop as she showed us the three sperm donors she had shortlisted. The first donor profile popped up on the screen, along with a picture of a very cute smiling two-year-old.

‘But he’s already got a kid!’ cried Mands, understandably confused.

‘No,’ said Lizzie. ‘That’s him.’

‘C’mon Lizzie,’ I replied. ‘He’s a bit young to be taking himself to a sperm bank.’

‘You can’t see recent pics,’ explained Lizzie. ‘Only their baby photos.’

‘Really? Bit dodgy isn’t it?’ said Mands. ‘How are you supposed to know what they look like now?’

‘You should go for an ugly baby then,’ I suggested. ‘It’s safer. You know what they say about good looking babies.’

‘No. What?’

‘Ugly adults sweets, very ugly adults.’

‘How old is he?’ I asked.

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Wahoo!’ screamed Mands and I, jumping up from our seats. ‘You’re going to shag a twenty-three-year-old. Fabulous!’

‘Unfortunately I don’t get to shag him,’ replied Lizzie.

‘Oh, that’s right,’ we remembered, sitting back down. ‘Shame though.’

‘Here’s all his stats,’ said Lizzie, opening up a file to rival Watergate.

‘Bloody hell!’ I exclaimed, staring at the screen. ‘It’s a family tree.’

Indeed it was. Screeds of information on his family - siblings, parents, uncles and aunts, grandparents, and even great-grandparents. Everything from their shoe size to the disclosure of any addictions.

‘One paternal great aunt with a drinking problem,’ said Lizzie happily. ‘That’s it.’

‘That’s it?’ said Mands and I in unison. ‘That’s hardly normal, is it?’

‘Doesn’t the rest of his family drink?’ asked Mands, a concerned look on her face.

‘Don’t know,’ said Lizzie. ‘But they’re not addicts anyway.’

‘You should check,’ I suggested. ‘You don’t want to give birth to a teetotaller.’

‘He’s at Harvard,’ said Lizzie, ignoring me. ‘Studying Politics and English Literature.’

‘Ivy League sperm,’ muttered Mands.

‘Oh dear,’ I said.

‘What?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Well, do you really want a child who’s going to try and debate with you? Plus, politics are boring.’

‘Good point,’ said Lizzie, making a note on her pad.

‘Does it tell you the size of his willy?’ asked Mands.

‘No!’ replied Lizzie. ‘Why?’

‘Well, think about the kid, Lizzie. If it’s a boy, do you really want to inflict him with a small package?’

Lizzie and I looked at her sideways.

‘Just a point,’ said Mands, getting up and pouring us another wine.

‘This one’s at Yale,’ said Lizzie, opening up the next donor profile.

Another smiling two-year-old popped onto the screen. He wasn’t quite as cute as the last one.

‘Height?’ asked Mands.

‘Six foot.’

‘Eye colour?’

‘Brown.’

‘Addictions?’

‘None.’

‘He’s musical too,’ added Lizzie. ‘Plays the saxophone and sings.’

‘Fabulous,’ I replied. ‘You might give birth to some sort of musical prodigy. They’re very profitable these days.’

‘You could be a stage mum,’ added Mands. ‘Travel round the world living off the profits, controlling their diet and occasionally yelling things like Get a grip Harriet and put that banana down! You know what potassium does to your tonsils!’

‘Or,’ I added, getting into the swing of things, ‘What do you mean you want to go to the movies with your friends tonight? You know you’re singing for Prince Charles! Time is money, honey!’

Lizzie stared back at us, unmoving. Apparently shopping for a baby was serious business. She brought the final donor profile up on screen. This two-year-old had lovely deep-olive skin and a beautiful smile.

‘Height?’ I asked.

‘Five nine.’

‘Hmm…a little on the short side.’

‘Occupation?’

‘Student as well. At Stanford, studying Economics.’

‘Clearly there’s no student allowance in the States,’ observed Mands. ‘Just sperm banks.’

‘Any bad points?’ I asked.

‘His maternal grandmother suffered from depression.’

‘Oh, not good, sweets,’ I replied, thinking of Louie.

‘So…what do you think?’ asked Lizzie, once we had scanned and evaluated everything from his waist size to the occupation of his maternal great-grandfather.

‘The second ones gets my vote,’ said Mands. ‘He looks like the kind of baby you’d take home to meet your parents.’

This set both of us off in a hysterical fit of giggles. More staring from Lizzie.

‘The second one too,’ I said, regaining my composure. ‘He seems very well-rounded, good family background, nice and tall, and clearly not a thicko. In fact, if he was here right now I’d definitely shag him.’

‘After me,’ said Mands.

‘No,’ said Lizzie, asserting control over her sperm. ‘After me.’

‘Right you are,’ conceded Mands and I. ‘After you.’

‘What’s his name?’ I asked.

‘Eight three nine seven,’ replied Lizzie.

‘Very catchy. Are you going to give the baby his surname?’ I asked.

‘I think you should,’ added Mands. ‘And you should call the baby Twenifor.’

‘Twenifor Seven!’ we screamed, slapping each other on the arm.

Lizzie closed down her laptop, happy with our feedback but not our attempts to name her unborn progeny, and the pictures of the smiling two-year-olds disappeared. It crossed my mind that the three of us had shopped together for years, but this was the first time we’d been shopping for a baby.

‘How’s Sven?’ I asked Mands, turning the conversation away from designer babies.

‘Good,’ she replied. ‘But…’

‘But what?’

‘Well he seems to have developed a fetish…with my feet.’

‘Your feet?’

‘Yes. He only likes me to wear open-toed shoes and he’s always bloody well rubbing them.’

‘Rubbing them with what?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Just his hands, thank God. And he talks to them too.’

‘He talks to your feet?’

‘Yes. In bed.’

‘Does he look at them when he’s talking to them?’

‘Intensely. He spends most of his time at the other end of the bloody bed with them in his hands.’

I looked down at Mands’ feet, sitting in open-toed Spanish red heels. Although I’d known her forever I’d never had a decent look at them. And there they were, small and petite, like the rest of her. But they were just feet, nothing more, nothing less.

‘And I’m getting really sick of foot massages,’ continued Mands.

‘Get out!’ said Lizzie and I. What we wouldn’t give for regular foot massages. ‘You can’t be!’

‘I am. As sad as it is,’ said Mands, shaking her head.

‘A tragedy,’ agreed Lizzie and I, shaking our heads too.

‘And…’ said Mands. ‘He took a picture of them last night…on his phone.’

Granted this was taking things a bit too far.

‘Why?’

‘To put as his screen saver.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ I replied. ‘The man is walking around with a picture of your trotters proudly displayed on his cellphone?’

Later that week, I lay back on Lizzie’s sofa with a glass of champers in one hand and a salmon-stuffed caper berry in the other, having succumbed to a rather severe bout of peer pressure. I stared nervously at the needle coming towards me, thinking about the last time I had a needle coming towards me and hoping it was going to be an entirely different experience altogether.

Well here goes then, I thought to myself, as I took another big gulp of champers. I am about to join the other side. I am about to be
one of
them
. I am very nearly about to be officially
botoxed.

This was Mands’ idea, not mine. I had planned on hanging out until I hit at least thirty-five before I branched into any form of cosmetic enhancement. However, I also didn’t like to be left out of anything and my arms were not so much rubber as very long strips of velcro. They could not only be bent every which way, but also easily stuck fast to that new position.

‘Look girls, how will we know what everyone else is talking about if we don’t give it a bash?’ Mands had said to Lizzie and I, her sales pitch in full throttle. ‘It’s in our best interests to keep informed. Fingers. Pulse. On.’