How To Lose Weight And Alienate People. Ollie Quain

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ very important—’

      ‘Which is?’ My voice goes up a nervous octave as I interrupt him.

      Luke repositions his rucksack, but doesn’t stop staring at me; his mouth is fixed in a sombre straight line. I swallow hard. I really can’t be doing with another heavy conversation.

      ‘I think I … well, I’ve got a bad feeling about something.’

      ‘A bad feeling about what, Luke?’

      He pauses, then suddenly, grins. ‘I may have thrown away that condom in a cutlery drawer … not the bin. That new kitchen set-up is a total mind-fuck.’

      I burst out laughing.

      I am still laughing as I dispose of the offending article in the actual waste unit … along with the breakfast leftovers. I squirt these remains with washing-up liquid and then finish my necessary chores throughout the flat. In the background, I can hear an American actress being interviewed on some morning TV show, talking openly about how she doesn’t let Hollywood’s obsession with size double zero concern her – yeah, right, treadmill face! Then I do my Barry’s Boot Camp DVD and collapse on the sofa. Monday is already on there enjoying a snooze, clearly not having had enough quality shut-eye during the twenty odd hours he slept yesterday. I lie down next to him and scroll through a load of programmes I’ve stored for viewing. I plump for the last series of 90210. The opening scene on the beach in the first episode is entirely stolen by AnnaLynne McCord’s ribcage. It is so prominent I wonder if it has hired its own publicist during the down time between seasons. My mobile bleeps. I don’t recognise the number.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Vivian Ward? Barb Silver …’ She sounds a bit like Streisand. ‘Publicist. I represent Maximilian Fry. I got your number from the manager at Burn’s. I’m assuming you’ve seen what’s happened?’

      ‘Er, no.’ I try to sound slightly irritated, as though getting calls from tough-talking industry players is a regular part of my daily routine.

      ‘You haven’t been online yet this morning?’ she asks, aghast. ‘Freakin’ hell, it’s half past nine! Silver’s Golden Rule Number Twenty-six: Get down with your day before the day gets you down …’

      I turn down the volume on the television.

      ‘So listen, kiddo,’ she continues, ‘Clint Parks has conjured up a load of bull in his column about what happened last night … that Maxy got mad and lashed out like a crazy person.’

      ‘Which is what happened.’

      ‘Ha! Details, details. Anyway, there’s no doubt Parks will try to eek the most he can out of this non-story so he’ll probably come waving his grubby chequebook at you. You’re a sensible girl, though … am I right?’

      No, not really, but selling a story to the press about a celebrity who had come into Burn’s would immediately result in me getting the sack. In fact, once word had travelled no private members’ club would ever employ me again. I could even end up employed by a chain of ‘lifestyle’ bars – collecting empty pint glasses and clearing up piles of pistachio shells as privately educated ex-school boys grapple each other whilst singing faintly racist/homophobic/misogynistic songs in front of giant screens beaming live sport. Shudder.

      ‘You don’t have to worry about me talking to anyone. It’s not my style, Ms Silver,’ I say toadily. ‘I know the score with these situations. Besides, I also do some acting myself.’

      ‘That’s neat,’ she replies. In the way that Rafael Nadal might react to someone who enjoys the odd gentle knockabout during the summer when the weather permits telling him they ‘also’ play tennis.

      ‘And besides, Clint wouldn’t put me in an awkward position. We’re mates.’

      ‘Mates?’ Her voice becomes thicker. ‘You’re close?’

      ‘Yeah, kind of. He’s always looked out for me. We met years ago when I was working as a wait—’

      Barb interrupts. ‘Listen, I’ve had an idea. Why don’t you come and see Maxy at his place? I was going to apologise on his behalf but it’s occurred to me that you deserve a direct apology from the man himself. He actually suggested this to me earlier. I guess it’s a Buddhist thing … they dig all that sackcloth and ashes shizzle.’

      ‘I think that’s the Catholics.’

      ‘Ha! I bet it is. Makes more sense … attention-seeking as usual,’ she cackles. ‘Meet me outside The Lansdowne public house in Primrose Hill at two p.m. Don’t be late.’ She hangs up without waiting for my answer.

      One hundred and fifteen minutes later, I have exfoliated so rigorously that my entire upper epidermis is probably sitting in the drain, and have applied a dense layer of St Tropez Whipped Bronzing Mousse all over my face and body. My tan is developing nicely. I’d say currently somewhere between Natural Cedar and Rich Teak on a generic DIY wood stain colour chart. After blow-drying my hair to a wavy mess, I switch on my special ghd straighteners with ultra-hot ceramic blades (not available over the counter – I bought them from a session stylist on an advertisement shoot) and the real work begins; parching each strand of any natural moisture or oils to get it poker straight. I’m also pleased with my make-up (all by MAC except Yves St Laurent Volume Effect mascara and Touche Eclat under-eye concealer), which I have applied then reapplied with Shu Uemura brushes in twenty-minute stages to achieve a natural yet hermetically sealed finish. Outfit-wise I have gone for a pair of my new grey skinny-leg trousers from ASOS and a brand-new Stella McCartney putty-coloured silky racer-back vest that I found in Adele’s cupboard. It’s baggy on me but that doesn’t matter because the Stella look is all about the billowing top, isn’t it? I also ‘borrow’ some barely worn flat gold sandals. Heels would look as if I had made too much effort. The last thing I want Maximilian to think is that I am some wide-eyed fan who is in any way overawed by the situation. To make absolutely sure of this I spend fifteen minutes in front of the mirror planning a nonplussed greeting. Next, some research. I go into the lounge to find Luke’s laptop.

      Yes, I am aware that I am probably the last inhabitant in the developed world who does not own a computer themselves, but a long time ago my chunky Hewlett Packard was stolen as I travelled up the escalators at Oxford Circus tube station. Obviously, it wasn’t insured. Who takes out insurance on anything in their twenties? Actually, I haven’t got anything insured now, but anyway … I didn’t replace it. It was the right thing to do. I’d developed a problem with the internet. My days had become consumed by celebrity images, the hours nibbled at by Google Alerts, but I wanted to digest more. This over-consumption hit a high in the mid to late noughties … as it did with a lot of women. I dread to think how many times that decade – as a nation – we double clicked on ‘Nicole Richie’ to observe her head getting comparatively more enormous until it was perched on top of her delicate body like a Scotch egg on a cocktail stick. So, now I have a rule. I’m only allowed to use other people’s computers. Limited access is healthier. More people should give it a go.

      I flip open Luke’s laptop, have a quick squizz at the ‘New In’ section on ASOS and then I do a search to find Maximilian’s account on Twitter, but I only find fake ones. Hardly a surprise, Maximilian Fry falls into the Jude Law/Robert Pattinson camp of scandal-embroiled/fiercely private actors who would shun any sort of social media. So, I log on the Internet Movie Database for some career statistics.

      The СКАЧАТЬ