Famous (21 page)

We drank the juice in silence. Mands visibly grimaced at every mouthful, while Lizzie and I tried desperately not to.

The next morning we made our way to the yoga class, which was taken by Helena and was, surprisingly, rather enjoyable and revitalising. Or maybe it was just the rarity of waking up without a throbbing head which was revitalising. Either way, I felt great afterwards.

‘There’s a self-esteem and life-values class at eleven o’clock, if you’d like to join in,’ called out Wendy, as we walked back past the reception desk.

‘Bunch of bloody fruit loops,’ muttered Mands, under her breath.

‘I think we’ll give that one a miss, thank you,’ replied Lizzie.

‘That’s fine,’ smiled Wendy. ‘In that case just be back here at one o’clock for your afternoon treatments. And don’t forget there’s a library along the corridor if you would like to sit and read at any stage.’

‘I didn’t pay six hundred bucks to sit in a fucking library,’ said Mands, as we walked back to the cabin. ‘We could have done that at home. For free.’

There were more pitchers of juice waiting for us in the cabin. It was remarkable how similar the green one looked to what had started to be released from my system.

‘Anyone else’s poo look like this?’ asked Lizzie, pointing at the pitcher.

‘Dead ringer,’ replied Mands and I.

After a little lie down we headed back inside for our treatments. This was the good stuff. Body treatments followed by another full-body massage.

‘You can choose between a full-body exfoliant, or a full-body mud wrap,’ said Wendy.

‘What are the mud-wrap options? asked Lizzie.

‘Well, you can have good old-fashioned mud…or seaweed…or cow bi-product.’

‘You mean cow dung?’ asked Mands, screwing up her face.

‘Well…yes…if you want to put it like that.’

‘Surely you’re joking?’ I asked.

‘No,’ replied Wendy, calmly and serenely. ‘I’m not.’

‘Wow,’ muttered Mands and I.

‘What do you recommend?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Well, the cow bi-product wrap is new here and it’s proving very popular. A fabulous re-hydrator. It’s all the rage in LA treatment centres at the moment, particularly with models and actresses.’

I looked at Mands and Lizzie. They both looked back.

Twenty minutes later the three of us lay on individual tables in the sauna room, completely naked except for the fact we were covered from head to toe in cow dung.

‘This better work,’ I threatened, through gritted teeth. ‘It bloody stinks.’

‘No shit!’ agreed Lizzie. ‘Har-de-ha,’ she added.

‘Look,’ said Mands, who had completely changed her opinion on the cow dung as soon as Wendy had said the words ‘models’ and ‘actresses’. ‘If they’re doing it in LA then it must work. So why don’t you both shut up.’

‘If I wasn’t caked to the spot, I’d come over and give you a bloody good slap,’ I replied.

‘Me too,’ said Lizzie. ‘A big old crap slap.’

Which sent the three of us into an hysterical fit of giggles.

‘We look like three giant poos,’ I observed, through fits of laughter.

‘Giggling t-turds,’ laughed Lizzie.

‘Laughing l-logs,’ spat Mands.

It was at this point that Suzanne, our health therapist, came back in to check on us.

‘Firming up okay?’ she asked.

‘Ye-esss,’ we replied, convulsing on the tables.

‘Try not to move too much or you might start cracking,’ she advised.

‘Did you say crapping?’ asked Mands.

‘No,’ replied Suzanne. ‘I said cracking.’

She wisely decided to leave us to our adolescent behaviour. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed so hard, at least not in recent weeks, and it felt great. It was such a relief not to worry about vultures outside my gate. I almost felt normal again.

An hour later, by which stage my entire body resembled a large piece of brown cement, Suzanne came back in and gently instructed us to take a warm shower and wash off the dung. She turned the showers on for us and left us to it, telling us to make our way to the massage room next door when we were ready.

‘She really is the shit, that woman,’ said Mands.

‘No, you’re the shit,’ I said, looking at her.

‘So are you,’ she said slapping me on the arm with her brown hand.

‘Can you scrub my back,’ asked Lizzie. ‘I want it off. All of it.’

We took turns scrubbing the cow dung from each other’s backs.

‘God, that feels good!’ declared Mands, drying herself with a towel. ‘My skin is tingling.’

‘Me too,’ I agreed. ‘I feel younger already.’

After another exquisite full-body massage we headed back to the fertility cabin for more juice.

‘There’s a meditation class beginning in the green room shortly,’ called out Wendy.

‘Meditation class my arse,’ muttered Mands.

‘I think we’ll just have a little rest instead,’ I replied.

What I wouldn’t have given for a bubbles. Or at least a latte.

The next afternoon, after yet more juice and another yoga class, my wish was granted.

It was time for our final treatment. It was enema time. And I was an enema virgin.

‘What sort of treatment would you like?’ asked Wendy, as she led us into the womb-like waiting room.

I had no idea there was a choice in the matter.

‘You can have a plain enema…or a coffee enema, which is a very popular choice.’

‘A coffee enema?’ I asked.

‘That’s right.’

Dear God.

‘It’s huge in LA,’ she added, which sold Mands straight away.

‘Okay,’ agreed Lizzie and I, rather nervously.

‘I’ll have a decaf trim latte,’ requested Mands.

‘I’m afraid we only do organic ground beans,’ said Wendy, giving her a wee smile.

‘Oh.’

‘Just sit here and relax and we’ll have them prepared for you,’ said Wendy, as she floated away.

‘These people look as though they’ve taken loads of drugs,’ observed Mands, as we rifled through the pile of health magazines on the table in front of us.

She was right. They were all smiling their heads off and jumping about unnecessarily.

‘Maybe they’re just happy because they’ve got healthy bodies,’ replied Lizzie.

Mands and I stared at her. For someone so smart, sometimes she was just plain thick.

‘Course they’re on drugs,’ I agreed.

Twenty minutes later I lay on a table in a private room, naked from the waist down and lying on my right side, with my legs bent up towards my chest, all foetal-like. There was something slightly Romanian-orphanage-like about the scene. Aside from the fact I was having a cup of coffee, via a tube inserted ten centimetres into my rectum.

‘There we go then,’ said Suzanne, leaving me and my enema bag in peace. She had attempted to explain the process to me, but I was too worried about having the tube inserted up my bottom to pay much attention. Only odd words like ‘portal vein’ and ‘fifteen minutes’ had glanced my ears. If she didn’t come back by the end of the day and remove it I would have to take some form of action.

But fifteen minutes later she did come back and take it out. And ten minutes after that she came back again to have a good gander at my depository bag, while declaring in her raw-vegetables-only voice, ‘Lots of nasty toxins in here.’

I had to look away. Her holding a clear plastic bag filled with my excrement in close proximity to her face was a little overwhelming.

‘Reminded me of Sven,’ said Mands, when we met back in the waiting room, livers stimulated and toxins removed. Exactly what part of having a tube filled with coffee inserted ten centimetres up your rectum was bringing her memories flooding back I wasn’t sure. Nor was I sure I wanted to know. Sometimes it was best to just ignore her.

Back to the fertility cabin for more juice and a little afternoon siesta, and then it was time to pack up and head home. My pursuers had given up waiting at the gate, presumably once they realised I was just going to a health spa for the weekend and not a Tantric sex camp.

‘I feel wonderful,’ said Lizzie, as we drove home. ‘All calm.’

‘Same here,’ agreed Mands and I. ‘All cleansed and energised.’

We were new women, we decided. Healthy, invigorated, and pure.

‘Who’s keen for a bubbles?’ asked Mands, as we approached the city.

‘Love one,’ replied Lizzie.

‘Gagging for one,’ I added.

Mands promptly stopped and bought two cold bottles, which we took back to my apartment and guzzled back in record time.

‘God, how I’ve missed it!’ cried Mands, swigging back as though it had been two years, and not two days.

The following morning there was a picture of me on the front page of the
Telegraph
, arriving at Sprouting Fern Health Spa, with the heading ‘Sam’s Weekend Escape’.

At least they hadn’t mentioned the cow dung, I thought to myself, thankful for small mercies.

After three more days holed up in the confines of my apartment, my
One Nation
interview was aired on television. True to her word Shari Vijay did not make me look like a marriage-wrecking slapper. Instead I came across as reasonably confident, intelligent and misunderstood by the nation’s media.

Exactly the face I had been hoping to project. Plus, according to Mands and Lizzie, I looked dead sexy in my cream suit, while also radiating a definitive Don’t Fuck With Me air. This was the first singularly positive thing that had happened to me in the past five weeks (if you can call having to go on television to publicly defend yourself positive, that is).

Early the next morning, post television debut, as I sat at my dining table staring into Yet Another Day Trapped Inside My Apartment, Mands and Lizzie both arrived on my doorstep, low-fat blueberry muffins and takeaway lattes in hand, for a quick pit-stop on their way to work. As we sat at the dining table and assessed the damage in the morning’s papers, my mobile rang.

‘Hello,’ I sighed, expecting it to be yet another media hack who had somehow got my number.

‘Sam?’

‘Yes,’ I sighed, not recognising the voice, which was always a bad sign.

‘It’s Alistair.’

Alistair? Oh. My. God. It was Alistair!

‘Look Sam, before you hang up, I just want to tell you that I…am very sorry for what’s happened.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I honestly thought you knew who I was that night.’

Obviously he had seen my screen debut, or my newspaper interview, or something.

‘Clearly not,’ I replied.

‘So, you don’t watch much sport?’ he asked.

‘So, you don’t get your nails done then?’ I replied.

‘Right. Point taken.’

‘How did you get my number?’ I asked.

‘You gave it to me.’

‘Oh.’

I wished it was the only thing I’d given him.

‘Look Sam…’ said Alistair. ‘I just want to tell you I really am very sorry…and I’d really like to take you out for dinner and try to make it up to you.’

Dinner?

‘Make it up to me? Alistair, it’d have to be the most expensive restaurant on earth with entrées of gold nuggets to make up for the constant daily fucking harassment I have experienced. And the fact there are now twenty photographers living on my doorstep.’

‘So…no dinner then?’

‘I would, quite honestly, rather go to hell. Plus, haven’t you got a wife? I seem to recall seeing her on television looking somewhat devastated.’