Famous (6 page)

‘Hi,’ said Dan, walking up behind me. ‘Nice dress.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. Unfortunately I hadn’t seen him approaching.

‘Just wondering if you’ve got my jacket?’ he asked. ‘I’m taking off now.’

Hell! The jacket! I must have left it at the shop!

‘Um…yes…’ I faltered. ‘I brought it back with me and put it on the…ah…coat rack at the entrance.’

‘Righto then,’ he said, ‘I’ll grab it on the way out. See you later, Sam.’

‘Okay,’ I replied, making absolutely no effort to convince him to stay. His response to the dress dilemma had clearly proved he wasn’t my type.

Great, I thought. Now I was going to have to leave a perfectly good party and hide in the loos, all because I had lost Dan’s jacket. When, if he was any sort of gentleman at all, he would have come outside, hailed a taxi for me, escorted me to the shop and would have kept his bloody jacket in his sights.

I decided to drag Mands and a bottle of champers into the loos with me, for some company.

‘What’re we doing in here?’ asked Mands. I explained the lost-jacket debacle and she understood perfectly.

‘Best we give him twenty minutes then,’ she said, topping up our glasses.

The rest of the night was spent getting sloshed on Moët and flirting with the dark-haired fox and his friend beside the bar.

Mands ended up going home with the dark-haired fox after putting in very thorough groundwork all evening. His friend invited me back to his place for a nightcap, but between the time he asked me and the nanosecond before I replied, I had miraculously sobered up and seen the light.

‘No thanks,’ I replied, and headed home alone. He wasn’t that foxy after all.

Needless to say, I didn’t hear a peep from Dan all that week. Or ever again for that matter.

I did however get his jacket couriered to my office on Monday from the shop, along with my beaded dress. I took great delight in dropping his jacket off at the City Mission clothing bin later that week, along with some of last season’s skirts. No doubt some old homeless man would take pride in wearing an Armani suit jacket over their homespun jersey. It served him right for his utter lack of support in a time of female crisis.

The next morning Mands and I picked Lizzie up from the airport in Mands’ black Saab convertible. We were taking her straight out for a serious bout of spirit-lifting shopping. It was a gorgeous blue-sky day and the roof was down. The only hitch was that we had Louie on the backseat. Louie was Lizzie’s dog. The dog she had brought home straight after her divorce from Bryce was finalised. She called him her substitute husband and ‘the only male I would ever love or trust again.’ Louie was a schnauzer.

As though in fear of the solitary male role he played in Lizzie’s life, Louie was prone to suffering from great bouts of depression. He was now on Prozac. He had been for the past year.

‘Cheer up Louie, for God’s sake,’ I called out. ‘We’re in the car. You’re supposed to like this sort of thing. Why don’t you hang your head out the side or something?’

But it was useless. The only thing Louie really enjoyed was watching television. Sport in particular. Car racing, namely any Grand Prix, was his favourite. He’d eagerly sit directly in front of the screen, barking joyously at the cars as they whizzed around the track. The irony of having a dog who was addicted to watching sport on television had not escaped Lizzie. But at least, as she said, he didn’t sit on the couch and drink beer (not yet anyway).

When he was around one year old, Louie had developed some strange habits. Firstly he began to ignore Lizzie. Not only would he refuse to follow any of her commands, but he would also turn and stare at her blankly, without averting his gaze, as though he was looking straight through her. After a month of being disobeyed and stared at, Lizzie had taken Louie to visit the pet psychiatrist. The psychiatrist had come to the conclusion that Louie was pining for male company. This was understandably devastating for Lizzie. She had bought Louie as a substitute husband and he was already discontented with her company. The whole drama had put Lizzie on Prozac for six months as well.

Mands and I had suggested to Lizzie that perhaps she should give Louie away, to a man, and get herself a nice female schnauzer. But she wouldn’t have a bar of it. ‘I’m not being fucked about by him!’ she’d declare. ‘Not again!’

Obviously she wasn’t just referring to Louie. The thing was, Mands and I found Louie depressing to be around. He was like a furry sponge, soaking up all the happiness around him. A canine kill-joy. Mands and I often suggested to each other that one of us should ‘do a Helen on him’. (Helen was the best friend of Lizzie’s sister Sara and had managed to kill her stepmother’s prized pet poodle while she was dog-sitting it, accidentally of course. I think it had been run over or something.)

I really wished someone would run over Louie.

We pulled into the drop-off zone just as Lizzie walked out of the terminal. It was a seamless collection.

‘So,’ I said, as she climbed into the backseat and gave Louie a kiss, without even a wag of his sorry tail in return. ‘First we’re going for brunch at Mink. Then we’re going to High Street. And then we’re going to Ponsonby Road. And then we’re going for a late lunch and bubbles at Prego.’

‘Okay,’ said Lizzie. ‘Sounds good.’ She sounded about as excited as a boarding call.

‘Cheer up, Lizzie,’ enthused Mands. ‘Bryce is a bastard.’

‘Yes he is!’ I agreed.

But Lizzie remained mute on the subject. Clearly she was going to require some serious pampering for the torrent of foul-mouthed abuse to begin flowing again.

We walked into an overflowing Mink and a prime table was miraculously cleared and set on our approach. It helped that Mands had used the resident chefs here for various events she had organised, so the service was impeccable every time. It was as though the staff could sense her approach before they actually saw her. Very
Sixth Sense
. We strolled past the various groups waiting for a table and sat down.

‘Bugger waiting for bubbles,’ said Mands. ‘Let’s have some now.’

‘Roger that,’ I replied. My head was slightly foggy after last night and could do with a bit of reviving. Plus, it was the weekend after all.

‘Sure,’ said Lizzie, although she still looked like the fat kid who wasn’t picked for the netball team.

I decided to tell her about my dress catastrophe to cheer her up. It worked and she even managed to crack one of her beautiful smiles.

After a gorgeous brunch and a bottle of champers we decided to hit the shops. First stop was Karen Walker.

‘Absolutely gorgeous!’ I declared, spotting a pale pink silk shirt with sequined paneling and holding it up against Lizzie. Any shade of pink was gorgeous on her English-rose complexion, lucky sod. With my slightly olive complexion (aided by the odd sunbed and spray tan) and green eyes it made me look like an anemic who had recently succumbed to an horrendous vomiting virus. We might have been the same five-foot-seven height and size-ten build, with the same straight shoulder-length hair and soft layers framing our faces, but that is where the similarities ended. Where Lizzie’s hair was a dark chocolate colour, mine was (with the aid of highlights) a much lighter shade of brown.

We left the shop with three full bags. Each. Lizzie was finally beginning to smile more regularly. We then hit World and Trelise Cooper, to much the same effect. Mands and I made it our prerogative to lock Lizzie in the changing rooms and enlist the assistance of the salesgirls to make her try on fabulous item after fabulous item. She subsequently spent far more money than she intended to. It’s just a pity it was no longer Bryce’s credit card she was damaging.

Next stop were the home-design stores along Ponsonby Road.

‘I cannot believe what an utter wanker he is!’ exclaimed Lizzie, suddenly coming to life. It must have been the post shopping endorphins kicking in.

‘Scum of the earth,’ I agreed, as Mands backed out of the car park.

But I didn’t quite catch Lizzie’s next turn of phrase, as I was suddenly jolted forward in my seat to the catchy tune of scraping metal.

‘Jesus Christ!’ hollered Mands.

I turned and looked at the culprit. All that was visible was the arse-end of an enormous and incredibly ugly vehicle.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked Lizzie, who was sitting in the back seat, luckily with her seatbelt on.

‘Think so. What the hell is that?’ she asked.

‘A people mover,’ I replied. ‘I think.’

‘Looks like some sort of freaky bloody spaceship.’

‘Okay?’ I asked Mands, who was staring straight ahead, a nasty look engulfing her face.

‘Fine,’ she replied, opening her door and getting out of the car.

Uh-oh, I thought, deciding it was best to stay put. I had seen that look before.

I peered into the rearview mirror and saw Mands walk to the back of the car, lift her sunglasses, and assess the damage.

‘Oh. My. God!’ she hissed.

Lizzie, who had bravely hopped out of the car, reported back that there was a crushed bumper and one smashed taillight. I turned around in my seat to get a better view.

A very badly dressed woman stood beside Mands, looking at the back of her hideous vehicle. The sound of several screeching small things emerged from inside.

‘Oh dear,’ she said, clearly not as upset as she should have been.

‘My car’s completely screwed!’ declared Mands. ‘I trust you’re insured?’ she asked, turning to the woman.

‘Yes,’ replied the housewife. ‘Are you?’

‘Of course I am,’ said Mands. ‘Although I don’t know what that has to do with anything?’

Lizzie had wisely decided to get back into the car too. It wasn’t going to be pretty. And with the roof down we could hear the conversation perfectly. Plus, the screeching from inside the kiddie coach was getting progressively louder.

‘Well, we both sort of backed into each other, didn’t we?’ said the woman.

‘Listen sweetheart,’ said Mands, as though the woman clearly needed the situation explained to her. ‘I know it’s all a little bit confusing, but I think you will find that you backed into
me
.’

Mands is an event manager. She is the most driven person I know and has an inherent gift for ordering people around and forcing them to make decisions, but in a way that looks as though they’ve made the decision themselves. She is a tiny blonde bombshell. Or firecracker if you prefer.

Mands’ father had kept all of her school reports (written proof of her driven nature), if only to sell to a magazine one day he claimed. On her twenty-first birthday he had given her, and everyone else at the party, copies of what he considered the two most outstanding ones. They are as follows.

School Report (aged 6),
Green Meadows Primary Schoo
l

Amanda has frequently shown what I can only term intelligence throughout the year (I am reluctant to admit a six-year-old is capable of deception). There was the toilet incident where she stuck a ‘do not use, out of order’ sign onto one of the girls’ toilet doors, for three weeks straight. Upon questioning I was led to believe her motive was to ‘save the toilet for herself to use and no one else’. Apparently she did not want to catch any type of ‘germ’ from the other children.

Then there was the incident of selling kisses on the lips to the boys at lunchtime. Amanda was not the one giving the kisses — she had convinced a classmate (Sally Ricketts) to sell the kisses to the boys, taking a ninety per cent share of the profits for herself. Once again, I will refuse to believe a six-year-old is capable of acting as a ‘pimp’. Although Sally Rickett’s parents believe otherwise.

Joanne Halstro
p

(Amanda’s Teacher)

School Report (aged 16),
St Catherine’s College for Girl
s

In addition to Mands’ straight A report card the principal had written:

I must say that I have never in my thirty-five years of secondary school teaching met a student more willing or determined to succeed than Amanda, and at any cost. Nor have I ever met one who has demonstrated more raw ambition or caused more genuine chaos at our school. As you know, she was the driving force behind the Teacher Lock Out earlier this year, with myself and all members of staff being refused entry to the main building due to ‘our inability to cater to the needs of modern society and provide a lunch bar for students’. Fortunately the new lunch bar is operating at a profit (similar to that indicated in Amanda’s business proposal I am reluctant to admit).

Then there was the Skirt Incident, which you are no doubt aware of, as it was broadcast on national television for several weeks. It was somewhat disturbing for me to see the school’s name dragged through Parliament on Amanda’s petition — that it is the right of female students to decide what length to wear their school-uniform skirt. It was also disturbing when the Minister of Women’s Affairs publicly supported Amanda’s petition, announcing that our school, along with others, was blatantly disregarding basic female rights.