Famous (17 page)

I repeated the neither-confirm-nor-deny line.

‘But surely you can understand how it looks to everyone?

You meeting him at a bar, him going back to your house, and then pictures of him leaving your house the next morning.’

‘Bitch.’

‘Incorrect,’ said Jenna. ‘What’s your answer?’ she pressured. ‘I’m waiting.’

‘I understand how it looks but that doesn’t mean that it actually happened,’ I replied.

‘Good answer,’ said Jenna, clearly happy with my reply.

‘Next one.’

‘Do you have any remorse towards Alistair’s wife and children?’

‘Clearly I am upset this has affected Alistair’s wife and children but, as unbelievable as this may sound, I didn’t know Alistair was married. In fact…I didn’t even know who he was.’

‘You
didn’t know
who Alistair was? The captain of our football team?’

‘No. I didn’t. I barely watch television and I certainly don’t watch football. When I met him in the bar I didn’t recognize him. All I knew is that his first name was Alistair, which is how he introduced himself. He had no wedding ring on and he was buying me drinks, so I naïvely assumed he was single.’

‘I see,’ said Jenna. ‘So you don’t make a habit of sleeping with married men?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Definitely not. That’s Lizzie.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Nothing, sorry.’

‘How do you feel about Virginia Ambrose labeling you a prostitute?’

‘I think she’s a stupid bitch who deserves to be run over by a logging truck.’

‘She is a stupid bitch too,’ said Jenna, who had met her a few times. ‘Wrong answer though.’

‘I think she is obviously someone who is very embarrassed and desperate if she is having to resort to such low levels of name-calling.’

‘So it hasn’t upset you?’

‘No,’ I lied. ‘I just feel sorry for her.’

‘Brilliant,’ encouraged Jenna. ‘You’re doing great.’

The following afternoon I sat in my office and waited for the arrival of Mary Simperington. What arrived through the door was a fifty-something-year-old woman with short ginger hair, a bad skirt, sans make-up, and round spectacles. She looked as though she’d come straight from cataloging books at the public library, in the natural-history section. Although I was sweating profusely under my steel-grey Helen Cherry suit I was determined not to show it. I sat at my desk, I had Izzy make her a cup of coffee, I listened to her questions and I answered them. And forty-five minutes later, with a close-up shot of my face and a shake of my hand, she had left. She had largely stuck to the questions on her list, with no nasty surprises, and I had answered the questions as I had practiced with Jenna. Nice and cagey, without giving anything away. Or swearing, yelling, or wishing Alistair and his wife a speedy and violent death. All in all I was pleased with how the interview had gone.

I spent the rest of the week being photographed in my huge glasses, chased, yelled at, and largely holed up inside my office or my apartment. The two sets of walls were beginning to not only close in on me, but also choke me to death. My only consolation was that whenever a photo of me was printed, there was also one of Alistair. He was obviously being as hounded by the paparazzi as I was and this knowledge somehow made me feel better. I only hoped he was suffering and hating every single moment of it.

Bet he’s probably used to it, I thought to myself, the bastard.

Apparently the critics were worried about the effects our scandal would have on his performance in the World Cup. I prayed it would render him a one-legged uncoordinated retard, and that he would miss every goal he kicked and embarrass the entire nation, before being dropped from the team like a burning spud. This would be the ideal outcome anyway. His manager was of course standing by him and supporting him through this very difficult time. I wished I had a manager to stand by me. All I had was a pair of over-sized sunglasses.

I desperately wanted to go out for a nice meal and a glass of bubbles somewhere, like I used to do nearly every single night. But, since I was followed by at least twenty paparazzi every time I set foot outside my front door I didn’t think this was such a great idea. Mands and Lizzie tried to convince me to go out for dinner with them, and just ignore the vultures. But the thought of sitting in a restaurant while a cluster of paparazzi stood outside taking pictures of me through the window and the rest of the patrons stared and pointed was less than enticing. Instead I was forced to survive on delivery food and meals brought over by Mands and Lizzie.

The papers had even started taking an interest in what I wore. Beside every daily picture they printed was a rundown of my outfit - including designer, cost, and whether it suited me or not. I was subsequently labeled everything from a
clothes horse
to a
trendsetter
. This was the one positive outcome of the whole bloody saga. The only problem was that I was swiftly running out of fresh outfits. And it was extremely difficult to go shopping when you were followed the moment you stepped out the door. Lizzie had kindly dropped round several new items, but I was chewing through them fast. The girls were absolute gems. They were around at my apartment nearly every evening, bubbles and food in hand, braving the vultures at the door, ready to slag off Alistair and his wife at the drop of a hat, and with an endless supply of hugs and soothing words.

On Saturday morning I got dressed, put on my enormous glasses, and braved the walk to my letterbox to retrieve the newspaper, amid yells of ‘Morning Samantha!’ and ‘Give us a smile then!’

They’d be bloody lucky, I thought to myself, staring straight through my giant lenses into the great abyss of Ignore Land, as the flashes bounced off my forehead. I walked back inside the front door, sat down at the dining table and rifled through the paper. There, on the front page of the Life section, was my interview. At the top of the page, in the middle, was a large close-up photograph of me; sitting in my office and looking relatively demure and innocent, although still smiling slightly (just to show I was a warm and loving person, and not a cold-hearted marriage-wrecking bitch).

Could have been worse, I thought to myself, not entirely disappointed.

And next to the large photo of me was another large photo, of Alistair, in mid-kick, looking rather foxy in his white shorts, I had to admit. But it was the large photo that lay underneath which I wasn’t expecting. There, in full colour, was a picture of Jerry, or rather Jasmine, looking as stunning and gorgeous as ever. And underneath the picture, in large bold type, were the words
Samantha’s Ex.

Oh dear God no! It can’t be! I cried aloud, propelling my head into my hands. Mary fucking Simperington! The two-faced cow! The bloody sodding bad-skirt-wearing bitch! Now everyone will think I’m some sort of bisexual marriage wrecker!

Oh sweet Jesus! How the hell did they find her? I wondered aloud.

Half an hour later, as I remained motionless at the dining table, my head still in my hands and a look of utter despair still plastered across my face, my mobile rang. It was Jasmine.

‘Sam? It’s Jasmine.’

‘Hi.’

‘Look Sam, I am so sorry. I don’t know how they got the picture. They must have been following me or something. I had no idea. Honestly.’

If there’s one thing Jerry/Jasmine wasn’t, it was a liar. Even the smallest, whitest lies had made him stutter like a schoolboy.

‘I know,’ I replied. ‘Half the time you don’t know they’re behind you until it’s…too late.’

‘How are you coping?’ she asked.

‘With the fact the entire country not only thinks I’m a marriage-wrecking floozy but now also a lesbian? Still coming to terms with it to be honest.’

‘I’m sorry Sam.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ I sighed.

‘Are you going to tell the media about…me?’

‘What about you?’ I asked.

‘You know…that I used to be a man.’

The thought had crossed my mind.

‘It’s just that not everyone knows about my past,’ she continued. ‘In fact, I have a new group of friends now who don’t know about it at all.’

‘I see,’ I replied.

‘So…if there was any chance at all you could not mention it, well, I’d be most grateful…I really would.’

Great. What were my options? Reveal the fact my ex-boyfriend has had a sex change to the entire country and expose him/her to prejudice, as well as outing him/her to all her friends? Or have the entire country thinking I am a lesbian, or at best bisexual? Both such fabulously enticing options.

‘I won’t tell,’ I promised. ‘As long as you never talk to the media, or anyone, for that matter, about us.’

‘I won’t,’ said Jasmine. ‘I promise.’

‘Good.’

‘Take care Sam. And don’t worry, I’m sure it will all blow over soon.’

‘I hope so.’

I stayed trapped inside my apartment for the rest of the day. With the new revelation of my lesbianism, the locusts at the front gate had tripled within a few hours. I took the phone off the hook and turned off my mobile. I had no desire to field calls from shocked friends and family. Instead I set about cleaning the apartment from top to bottom. Ever since MayBelle, my housekeeper, had stopped coming nearly two weeks ago, the clean, serene surfaces had become few and far between. Pint-sized MayBelle simply couldn’t cope with passing the hounds at the gate.

‘Day is tewible Zamanfa. Day scare may.’

Even my offer to triple her pay hadn’t given her the confidence to run the gauntlet.

‘Win day gone, den I comez back,’ she’d said. ‘Eyz promiz Zamanfa.’

At four o’clock I collapsed onto the couch and admired my handiwork. I’d no idea how long it took to clean a two-bedroom apartment.

How did MayBelle do it all in three hours? I wondered. And the ironing too?

I would definitely have to give her a raise, I decided. She was a machine.

I decided to put my phone back on the hook and as I did it rang, sending me catapulting back into the wall.

‘Well, well, well…’

It was my mother.

‘I had no idea, Sammy,’ she said joyously. She only called me Sammy in situations of extreme happiness. I hated being called Sammy, it made me feel like a Labrador.

‘It’s not what you think,’ I replied.

‘So you didn’t used to go out with this woman?’ she asked.

‘Well, yes, but she was…’

‘I just want you to know I’m very proud of you love. Very proud.’

It crossed my mind I was probably the only woman alive who’d had a lesbian fling (imaginary or otherwise) whose mother was very proud of her.

‘Elizabeth…’

But she was having none of it.

‘You know what the funny thing is? She reminds me of someone in a strange way.’

‘Who?’

‘She reminds me of Jerry.’

‘That’s because…’

‘She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she is, but Elizabeth…’

‘The only thing I don’t understand,’ she continued. ‘Is why you didn’t tell me?’

‘Well the thing is…’

But before I could explain she was at me again.

‘Why did it end?’

‘It’s a long story,’ I replied, deciding to give up.

It was far easier having my mother over the moon that I’d had a lesbian tryst than it was to explain the whole Jasmine sex-change thing to her. Plus, I had promised Jasmine I wouldn’t tell anyone.

‘Anyway, I think it’s wonderful. And so does your father.’

I doubted this very much. In fact I was confident he had very little to say about the matter at all.

As I hung up the phone there was a knock at the door. It was Mands and Lizzie, several bottles of wine and gourmet pizzas in tow.

‘How on earth did you know I’d be home?’ I asked, as I swung open the front door. ‘Oh that’s right! I don’t go anywhere anymore.
Ever
. I just stay trapped inside my apartment, awaiting the odd visitor and pining for social contact. All while I go completely raving bonkers.’

‘How’re you doing, dolls?’ asked Mands, giving me a kiss on the cheek and a concerned look.

‘Just peachy,’ I replied. ‘Although I think you should both know your best friend is a lesbian.’

‘Hi sweets,’ greeted Lizzie, also giving me a kiss on the cheek. ‘We know.’