Famous (18 page)

‘Do you know what the funny thing is?’ I said, as Lizzie poured the three of us a wine. ‘I didn’t even know I was a lesbian until this morning.’

‘And now you’ve seen the light?’ asked Mands.

‘That’s right. I just wish I’d known I was a lesbian before I slept with Alistair, then I might have avoided this whole bloody mess.’

‘Hindsight is a fine thing,’ said Lizzie.

‘Is it what,’ I agreed. ‘I probably wouldn’t have gone out with Jerry either if I were a lesbian.’

‘Well cheers,’ said Mands, clinking my glass. ‘Here’s to you coming out.’

‘Yes. Here’s to me,’ I said, downing precisely half the glass in one gulp.

‘Seriously,’ said Lizzie. ‘How’re you coping?’

‘Well, I’ve done the housework.’

‘Jesus,’ said Mands, realising what dire straights I must be in. ‘Can’t you get someone else to do that?’

‘MayBelle quit,’ I explained. ‘She’s scared of the locusts.’

‘Oh, bugger.’

‘Did Jerry, or Jasmine, or whoever the hell she is, ring you?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Are you referring to my lesbian ex-lover?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, she did. She had no idea she was being snapped. I guess someone must have spilled the beans. God knows who.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She begged me not to tell anyone she used to be a man.’

‘And?’ said Mands.

‘And what?’

‘And are you going to?’

‘No, I promised her I wouldn’t.’

‘Good idea,’ said Lizzie. ‘I think it’d just make the whole thing worse.’

How much worse could the whole thing possibly get? I had no desire to find out.

‘What’s this?’ I asked Mands, pulling a rolled-up magazine from her handbag. ‘More shocking revelations about myself that I don’t know?’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Mands, grabbing the
Woman’s Life
from me.

I saw Lizzie pass her a quick but furtive why-didn’t-you-leave-that-in-the-car look.

‘I think it might be. Go on, give it back,’ I urged. ‘I’m enjoying torturing myself. I’m on a roll here.’

‘Really,’ said Mands. ‘It’s nothing dolls.’

‘We’ll see,’ I said, grabbing it back off her and sitting down.

I flicked through the pages but there were no obvious stories about me, Alistair or Tiny Tits. In fact, there didn’t appear to be any pictures of us either, praise the Lord.

‘Maybe you’re right after all,’ I said, flicking to the last page. The
Letters to the Editor
page.

‘God, what kind of sad old cows write to the editor of this magazine?’ I asked, glancing at the page.

‘Ones who need bullets,’ said Mands, reaching for the magazine again.

‘Hang on,’ I said, suddenly seeing my name at the top of the page. ‘Just a sec.’

But my name wasn’t just at the top of the page, it was all bloody over it. There were ten letters published on the page and every single one of them was about me.
Every one.
With such breathtaking headings as
Nothing But a Floozy
,
Shame on You Samantha Steel! Marriage Wrecker
and my personal favourite,
Hands off Our Man!

I paused to take them all in.

‘Don’t read them, sweets,’ said Lizzie, trying to take the magazine from my grasp. But I was having none of it. I read them all. I was labeled everything from a ‘gold digger’ to a ‘good for nothing’ to a ‘floozy’ and a ‘prostitute’ (again). And that was just the first two letters.

There was not one mention of this whole thing being Alistair’s fault. Not one. Virginia Ambrose was naturally a ‘hard-done-by woman’, a ‘wonderful wife and mother’ and, according to
old-fashioned from Gisborne
, also a ‘beautiful soul’. A beautiful soul? Nowhere was there any mention of her tiny tits.

Alistair was ‘a national icon’, a ‘charismatic man’ and a ‘good role model.’

A good role model? Sure, if you wanted your kids to go about shagging innocent women while they were married, then he was perfect. Couldn’t have asked for better.

‘They all h-h-hate me,’ I wailed, tears coursing down my cheeks. ‘Why do they h-h-hate me?’

‘Because they’re stupid,’ gushed Lizzie. ‘Stupid people who judge someone they don’t even know.’

‘Stupid people who crochet things,’ added Mands. ‘And bake.’

‘Stupid people who have no lives of their own,’ finished Lizzie. ‘I’m taking it now,’ she said gently, sliding the magazine from my lap.

‘I’m never having sex again!’ I cried. ‘Ever!’

This made them both stop and look at me with a mixture of pity, and pure horror.

‘Oh, don’t go that far, sweets,’ said Lizzie. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I do,’ I replied. ‘I am going to get stitched up. Put out of action for good.’

Mands was speechless, for once.

‘But you like sex,’ protested Lizzie. ‘A lot.’

‘And look where it’s got me,’ I wailed. ‘Being trashed in trashy magazines by people I don’t know.’

‘It was just bad luck,’ soothed Lizzie. ‘That’s all it was. It won’t happen again.’

‘Here we go,’ said Mands, handing me another glass of wine. ‘Drink up dolls.’

I did as I was told.

Unfortunately
Woman’s Life
wasn’t the only magazine to publish my hate mail. Over the next two weeks every
Letters to the Editor
page in the country was covered in colourful abuse. All directed at me. Mands and Lizzie comforted me as best they could. They even conducted a trashy-magazine-burning ceremony one evening, which resulted in my entire apartment building being evacuated out onto the street. Although we had managed to put out the fire, unfortunately my smoke detectors weren’t the only ones to be activated. We stood out by the front gate, me in my sunglasses with a scarf wrapped tightly round my head and chin, as my neighbours, largely sporting dressing gowns, gave us death stares. Somehow they intuitively knew it was my fault.

Thankfully most of the paparazzi, bar three (the graveyard shift), had gone home for the night. Mands and Lizzie flanked me on either side so they were unable to get a good shot.

‘Might as well have a drink while we’re out here,’ said Mands, who had evacuated two bottles of wine and three glasses with her.

She promptly popped the cork, which just made my neighbours stare more. They declined her offer of a glass.

‘What on earth were you girls doing?’ asked the head fire officer, once the truck had arrived on the scene.

‘Sacrificing the magazines,’ replied Lizzie.

He stared back at the three of us, too scared to question us further. By twelve-thirty we were allowed back inside the building, my neighbours bidding us evil farewells as they and their dressing gowns headed back to bed. We traipsed back into my apartment, rather drunk, with two empty bottles in tow. Naturally the whole scene was front page news the following day, under the heading
Samantha Steel’s Blazing Trail!

The following morning my foggy head and I were awoken far too early by a phone call, from a complete stranger.

‘Is this Samantha?’ asked a man’s voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Samantha, this is Alexander Carroll speaking. The writer.’

I’d never heard of him.

‘I wrote Bindi Leeth’s biography.’

Oh God, the book about the underwear model who shagged the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Called
Uncovered
or
Laid Bare
, or some such bollocks.

‘Hello,’ I replied. ‘What do you want?’

‘Well, Samantha, I know this must be a very difficult time for you. But I was wondering if perhaps we could meet for a coffee and a chat? You see I have a proposal that I would like to discuss with you. A proposal which I think will help your current situation.’

‘I don’t think anything is going to help my situation, Mr Carroll,’ I replied. ‘And how did you get my number?’

‘From directory,’ he replied.

Christ! No wonder I was getting so many unwanted calls. I would really have to do something about that.

‘Look,’ I replied, ‘I’m not in the habit of meeting complete strangers for coffee so I think it’s best if you just tell me what this proposal is right now.’

‘Well, Samantha, I would like to write your biography. I think you have a valid and truthful story which simply needs to be told.’

‘And how exactly do you plan on stretching a one-night stand out into a book?’

‘Well…it wouldn’t just be about that one night,’ he replied. ‘It would be about you…your childhood…your ambitions…and what drove you to sleep with Alistair Ambrose.’

‘What drove me to sleep with Alistair Ambrose, Mr Carroll, was the fact I was in a bar, I hadn’t had a decent shag for far too long, I’d had a few drinks, and I thought he was a bit of alright. And single. That is what drove me.’

‘I see,’ he replied. ‘Clearly there are many angles we could take.’

‘Look,’ I spat, ‘I’m not interested in having a book written about me. I have enough trouble seeing my name and face in the newspaper.’

‘Okay,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps we should discuss remuneration then.’

‘I don’t think you understand me,’ I replied. ‘I don’t want you to write a book about me and no amount of money will make me change my mind. Goodbye.’

‘I see, Samantha. Well, I will send you my card in case you change your mind. I doubt Mrs Ambrose will be as opposed to my offer,’ he added.

Great, now he was threatening me. And he obviously knew where I lived.

‘So, how much did he offer?’ asked Mands, when she and Lizzie were sitting in my living room that evening.

‘What?’

‘How much was he going to pay you to write the book?’

‘I don’t care Mands. He could pay me a million dollars and I still wouldn’t do it.’

‘Really?’ she asked, clearly surprised by my response.

‘Good on you, sweets,’ said Lizzie. ‘Don’t lower yourself.’

‘I just can’t believe all the hype!’ I cried. ‘You would’ve thought I’d shagged the bloody prime minister!’

‘Except she’s a woman,’ pointed out Lizzie.

‘This is worse,’ said Mands. ‘Way worse. People actually like Alistair Ambrose.’

‘It’s sport that runs this country after all,’ agreed Lizzie.

‘Oh shut up. Both of you.’

When I was a young girl I had dreamed of one day being famous. A famous actress or a famous writer. Even a famous politician. Never in my most debauched dreams had I imagined I would achieve fame by shagging a footballer.

The next evening at work I was about to pop on my glasses and make a dash for the car park when Gareth knocked on my door.

‘Sam, can I have a quick word?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

‘That’s a nice coloured lippy,’ he said.

‘Sunset,’ I replied. ‘New line by Lancôme. No smudging, absolutely no flaking, lasts all day. You would not believe how fabulous it is.’ I pulled it out of my handbag and held it up for him to see.

‘Lovely,’ he replied, sitting in the chair opposite, although his tone indicated he didn’t quite grasp how life-changing this new find was.

‘No flaking,’ I repeated. ‘Not ever.’

‘Sam…’

‘Unbelievable,’ I continued, shaking my head for emphasis.

‘Must have a brilliant moisturiser or gel in the mix.’

‘Sam…’

‘And it’s about bloody time. All those others claim to be non-flaking, then you get to eleven o’clock and they’re falling off your lips already.’

‘Sam!’ shouted Gareth. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Oh…okay.’

The look on his face was anything but welcoming. Somehow I didn’t think he was about to invite me out for a post-work drink.

‘Look Sam,’ he began. ‘This media trail of yours is getting ridiculous. The phone doesn’t stop ringing. There are paparazzi blocking the front doors. I even saw one trying to shimmy up the bloody fire escape. It’s just…well…it’s just not good for business.’

‘I see.’

‘Look, I don’t care whether you shagged the guy, or shagged his wife for that matter, that’s not the point. I just think it’s best if you work from home for a few weeks, until the whole thing blows over. Or at least until the paparazzi bugger off.’

Working from home was the last thing I wanted to do. I was like a large goldfish in a floodlit bowl. At least here I couldn’t see the parasites waiting at the front door.