Famous (12 page)

Lizzie and I were at a loss to come up with a decent excuse. And Mands was very persuasive. So, that is how I ended up lying back on Lizzie’s chaise longue after work on a Thursday night while a nurse who was an old friend of Mands’ sister Jessie injected a skin-enhancing chemical into my forehead. If only I’d had a closer look at that syringe coming towards me I would have noticed it contained far more liquid than those which had headed towards Mands and Lizzie’s foreheads. In fact, about twice as much to be exact. But I’d been too busy taking one last nervous gulp of champers to look beyond the steely needle.

After extracting the needle from my forehead and giving my skin several little firm taps about the place, Jenny, the nurse, packed up her botox kit, downed a glass of champers herself, and vacated Lizzie’s terraced townhouse. It was much like any other medical house call, except when you had the flu you generally didn’t lounge about with your two best friends drinking champers and eating fabulous hors d’oeuvres.

Lizzie and I lay on a sofa each and Mands lay sprawled across several cushions on the floor.

‘Can you feel your forehead?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Kind of,’ said Mands.

‘What forehead?’ I replied. Mine was so numb I was not convinced it was still there.

‘Mine feels really tingly,’ said Lizzie, getting up and pouring us all another glass.

‘Pass me the mirror,’ I instructed Lizzie. ‘I need to look.’

She handed me the small oval mirror.

My forehead was still there, right above my eyes, but it wasn’t responding to any sort of tapping. Or pinching for that matter. I screwed up my face but the only things to move were my lips and chin. I asked Mands and Lizzie to screw up their faces as well, so I could compare my new look. Their foreheads were also completely crinkle-free, but the rest of their faces didn’t appear to be frozen in one spot like mine.

‘Come and have a look at me,’ I instructed, still holding the mirror in front of myself. ‘My bloody face is stuck!’

They both hovered over the top of me, assessing my claim.

‘Give us a smile,’ instructed Mands. I did as I was told.

‘A smile,’ she repeated.

‘I
am
smiling,’ I replied through clenched teeth.

‘Oh,’ said Mands.

‘And a frown,’ instructed Lizzie.

‘I said a frown,’ she repeated.

‘I am bloody frowning.’

‘Oh.’

The way they were both staring at me was beginning to make me nervous.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I’m sure.’

‘See if you can’t put some effort into it,’ said Mands.

‘I
am
putting some fucking effort into it,’ I replied, positive that my face must be resembling a crinkle-cut crisp with all of the effort I was putting in.

‘Are you angry?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Very,’ I replied.

‘Really? You don’t look it,’ they both laughed, slapping each other on the arm.

‘Well I am, increasingly. At the both of you.’

‘Try wiggling your nose,’ said Lizzie.

But my nose was having none of it.

‘I’m frozen solid,’ I despaired.

‘It would appear so,’ they agreed.

‘P’haps we should give Jenny a call?’ suggested Lizzie.

‘Give it another half an hour,’ said Mands. ‘You’re probably just having a different reaction than us and it’ll wear off soon.’

‘Okay,’ I agreed, reluctantly. ‘Pour me another drink then.’

Half an hour passed and I still looked as though my face had been dipped into a concrete mixer.

‘Lord,’ sighed Mands. ‘Best we give her a call then.’

I lay back on the sofa in my inert state and let Mands do the talking.

‘Good news or bad?’ asked Mands, when she had hung up the phone.

‘Bad,’ I said, opting for the light at the end of the tunnel.

‘She says she may have given you too much.’

‘What?’ I cried.

‘She’s just checked her liquid supplies and it would appear four doses have been used…as opposed to three.’

‘Meaning she gave me twice as much as you two?’ I asked.

‘Correct.’

‘She’s terribly sorry.’

‘Can’t she just come back and take it out?’ I wailed.

‘Ah…no…apparently not.’

‘Is there anything I can do to fix it?’

‘No.’

‘Bloody hell! What’s the good news then?’

‘It should settle down in a week or so…maybe two.’

‘You mean I’m going to look like a piece of lead for the next two weeks?’ I cried.

The whole disaster was eerily reminiscent of my blotched St Tropez tan the previous summer. I’d been led to believe, after shelling out two hundred dollars, that my whole body would come out bronzed and glowing as if, well, as if I’d been holidaying in St Tropez. Instead I’d come out all blotchy and streaky, as if I’d been lying under a rain cloud. ‘Should change the name to Auckland tan,’ I’d told the salon owner, when I phoned and demanded my money back. ‘That’d be more accurate!’

‘I’m sure she’s just being cautious,’ comforted Mands.

‘You know how nurses are.’

‘Fucking hell!’ I wailed, a tear streaming down my plastercast face.

‘Oh dolls. It’ll be okay,’ said Mands, putting her arm around my shoulder.

‘Get off me!’ I hissed. ‘It’s your bloody fault. Why couldn’t we have just gone out for dinner or something?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she soothed. ‘I really am.’

‘Pour me another,’ I instructed.

For the next ten days I was unable to venture out in public, aside from the necessary places of course, like work. I ferried myself from home to the office and back again. I cancelled as many meetings as I was able, which wasn’t difficult once Gareth took a look at my face. ‘We don’t want people to think we’re frigid nationalists,’ he’d said. After he’d finished laughing, that is. I was unable to laugh, or cry for that matter. Oh, I could shed tears all right, but I was completely unable to complement them with any of the necessary facial contortions. I was like a crying statue.

For nine nights, I was a nocturnal prisoner in my own apartment. As I completely blamed Mands for my inoculation predicament she was forced to keep me company each evening, and to bring me whatever cuisine my taste buds desired.

Finally, by day ten, my face had begun to show some emotion again and Mands and Lizzie came round to help me celebrate. It was also a consolation gathering. Mands had organised a fashion show the previous night for one of the country’s up-and-coming young designers and unfortunately one of the models had tripped up on the catwalk. In fact she had tripped right off the side of the catwalk and onto a row of international buyers.

‘Fucking stick insect!’ berated Mands, as we sat in my living room with our glasses of wine. ‘She completely ruined the show!’

‘Look Mands,’ I comforted. ‘With all of the shows you’ve ever organised, isn’t it likely a model’s going to trip up at some point?’

‘They don’t get paid to trip,’ she glared at me. ‘They get paid to
walk
.’

We ordered a delivery of Thai takeaways, which shut Mands’ torrent up just long enough for us to eat.

‘All of that work,’ she cried. ‘Sabotaged!’

‘I don’t think she sabotaged it, dolls,’ said Lizzie, embracing the voice of reason. ‘I doubt she really wanted to trip up.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ replied Mands, ever the conspiracy theorist.

Lizzie and I decided to take Mands out to a bar immediately, in the vain hope this would cheer her up. Plus, we both silently agreed, if we were out then perhaps we could talk to other people and not have to listen to her sulking. After a close inspection in the bathroom mirror I was comfortable with the way my face was looking. It was to be my first public outing at night post the botox balls-up.

We walked into the bar. But this wasn’t just any bar. This was the chicest bar in the city, aside from
Salute
, and it was completely white — white walls, white counter, white booths and white bar stools. It was also owned by none other than Darcy and Samuel, and very aptly named Pure.

‘I feel better already,’ declared Mands, climbing onto a bar stool.

‘And you’re about to feel even better,’ said Lizzie, ordering three lychee martinis.

The drinks had the desired affect of making Mands forget about the footloose model and move on to more pressing topics.

‘The carpet rang me yesterday,’ she announced.

‘The ring thief?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And?’ probed Lizzie.

‘And…he wants to take me out for dinner. Seems getting my ring stuck in his chest hair had the undesired affect of turning him on.’

‘Eeew!’ exclaimed Lizzie and I. ‘You’re not going to go, are you?’

‘Course not,’ replied Mands.

‘So, what did you tell him?’ I asked.

‘That I didn’t think my girlfriend would approve.’

‘Oh you idiot!’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s just going to turn him on even more. You’ll never get rid of him now!’

‘Well, he put me on the spot, didn’t he?’ So now if we bump into him when we’re out, one of you has to pretend you’re my girlfriend.’

Lizzie and I stared back at her. She’d be bloody lucky.

‘And,’ said Mands, clearly on a roll, ‘the Swedish Stallion rang today.’

Sven, the Swedish Toe Sucker, had returned to his native land last week, after selling up his various restaurants around the city.

‘Really?’ asked Lizzie and I. This was far more interesting.

‘And?’

‘And he wants to fly me to Sweden for a holiday. Next month.’

‘Fabulous!’ we cried.

‘Well no…not exactly,’ said Mands.

‘Why not?’ we asked.

It certainly sounded fabulous.

‘Because…I’m pretty sure he’s only flying me over for my feet.’

‘What?’

‘He asked how they were on the phone. And he said he misses them. A lot.’

‘He misses your feet?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Did he say he misses you?’ I asked.

‘No…not exactly.’

‘Well, that’s not so bad is it?’ said Lizzie. ‘So he wants to see your feet? At least it’d be a free holiday.’

‘Exactly,’ I agreed.

‘But I think he’s in love with them,’ confessed Mands.

‘With your feet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you jealous?’ I asked. ‘Of your feet?’

‘Maybe,’ replied Mands, shifting in her seat.

Aha. It was one thing to be jealous of another woman, but jealous of your own feet? That was something else entirely.

‘Chop them off then,’ suggested Lizzie. ‘Then you’ll know if he’s for real.’

‘And I’ll also be a cripple.’

‘Small sacrifice,’ we replied.

‘Fuck off,’ said Mands. ‘The both of you.’

‘Right,’ declared Lizzie, at around midnight. ‘I’m off. Got to be in court tomorrow morning.’

‘I’d better go too,’ said Mands. ‘Huge day tomorrow, bloody flower show or something.’

‘Flower show?’ I asked. ‘But you despise gardening.’

‘Completely irrelevant,’ said Mands, who was by this stage swaying on top of her barstool.

‘Guess I’m going too then,’ I said, finishing my drink.

I walked to the toilet on the way out and literally bumped into Darcy, who had just arrived and was having a few after dinner drinks with friends.

‘Sammy daahling. Come and join us for a nightcap?’ he asked. ‘We’re sitting at the table down the back.’

‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Love to.’

Just because Mands and Lizzie were leaving didn’t mean I had to. His timing was perfect. Plus, I had arranged some downtime at work tomorrow morning, in anticipation of a foggy head. It would be a crying shame to waste it. I gave Lizzie and Mands a kiss goodbye and told them I was staying on. I approached Darcy’s table and found him sitting with two men I’d never seen before.

‘Sammy, this is Steve and Alistair,’ introduced Darcy.

‘Hello,’ I replied, shaking both of their hands and simultaneously processing their appearance. Alistair was knicker-shatteringly handsome. Dark and swarthy, with a beautiful head of silky sun-streaked brown hair and luminous green eyes. Steve, although nowhere near as gorgeous, was still attractive with a very sexy smile.

‘Now, what would you like to drink?’ asked Darcy, pulling me out a chair. ‘Champers?’

‘Sounds great,’ I replied. ‘Thank you.’

‘How’s your night been?’ asked Steve.

‘Good,’ I replied. ‘Out with the girls. And yours?’

‘Excellent,’ replied Steve. ‘Alistair and I have just been talking bar concepts with Darcy.’

‘Well, you’re talking to the right person,’ I replied.

Perhaps they’re a couple? I wondered. More than likely.

‘I saw you and your friends on the way in,’ said Alistair. ‘I was trying to work up the courage to come and talk to you but, as it turns out, now I don’t have to.’

Guess they’re not gay then. He was a bit arrogant though.

But, truth be told, I was rather fond of arrogant men. God knows, I thought, if I’d known they were sitting down here I certainly wouldn’t have been wasting my time standing at the front of the bar.

‘What do you do, Sam?’ asked Steve.

‘Sam is the hottest young account exec in town,’ interrupted Darcy, who had arrived back with my glass of champers.

‘Really?’ said Alistair.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘He’s clearly delusional.’

‘No argument there,’ laughed Alistair, giving Darcy a friendly pat on the back.

As we chatted away I noticed two girls sitting at the opposite table who couldn’t seem to peel their eyes off Alistair. There was no denying he was gorgeous, but they really were being a tad too obvious. About half an hour later their curiosity got the better of them and they approached our table.

‘Mind if we join you?’ asked the brunette.

‘Not at all,’ replied Steve, gesturing to the empty seats.

Alistair shuffled towards me to make some room. He gave the girls a polite nod hello and then leaned towards me to continue our conversation. I appeared to be penned in between Alistair and the wall. Not that I minded - if one was going to be penned in it really didn’t get any better than this.

Darcy took the girl’s arrival as his cue to leave. Apparently Samuel was at home with the flu and he was supposed to be playing nurse.

By now we were one of the only groups left in the bar. Steve also decided to head home and the two girls followed close behind, once they realised Alistair and I were far too busy talking to each other to bat them an eyelid. When they had left, Alistair leaned even further in towards me.