Famous (7 page)

It was furthermore detrimental to the school’s reputation when we were ordered, via a live televised parliamentary vote, to let our students wear their skirts at any length of their choosing. An apparently ground-breaking decision in the history of education and one which, as I am sure you are aware, has received more than its fair share of media coverage. Luckily this has not as yet affected our allocation of educational government funding for next year. There are several incidents which have occurred throughout the year, for which Amanda was no doubt the ringleader, but unfortunately there is only so much I am permitted to write in a school report.

There is no doubt in my mind that Amanda will one day be running this country. I can only
hope I am either dead or living elsewhere by that time.

Yours sincerel
y

Patricia Blak
e

(Principal)

Mands was the only student at our school to have a covering letter from the principal added to her report. Apparently she didn’t trust any of her teachers to do it justice. But Mrs Blake was very wrong when predicting Mands’ future. Mands wasn’t interested in running the country: it simply didn’t pay enough. I remembered how her teenage bedroom had always been clean and uncluttered, aside from the collection of inspirational posters covering the walls, that is. Posters with pearls of wisdom as
You Are a Winner
,
The Ten Steps to Success
and
How to Achieve Power
. Her parents had deemed her ‘completely insane’ and frequently threatened to either set fire to her bedroom or ship her off to boarding school. (It was only their utter fear of her that stopped them from doing so.) Mands found it amusing that what could only be termed as ambition caused her parents such sleepless nights. I can only presume they wanted another demure well-behaved daughter (like her sister) who never caused them a fuss. Mands simply didn’t fit the bill. It was interesting to note, as Mands pointed out to them as often as she could, that the one who never caused them a fuss was now an alcoholic life model.

My mother was so impressed with Mands’ involvement in the Skirt Incident, I got the feeling she wanted to adopt her. She had high hopes of Mands becoming a feminist icon and running the country. Needless to say both Lizzie and I were eternally grateful we were friends with Mands at school, being enemies with her would have been disastrous for our wellbeing.

‘But we both backed out of parks opposite each other,’ protested the woman, snapping me back to the dilemma at hand. ‘We just didn’t see each other.’

‘Except for the small fact that I had well and truly begun backing out of my park before you had started to leave yours,’ corrected Mands.

This claim was not entirely true.

‘Uh-oh’ said Lizzie, who had turned around for another gawk. A nosy witness was on the approach. It was the worst kind of witness too, an old person.

‘When is the government going to round them all up and build one massive retirement home somewhere in the South Island?’ I wondered aloud.

‘Looks like it was nobody’s fault there,’ said the old man. ‘Pretty much backed straight into each other from what I saw.’

‘Thank you for your input,’ replied Mands, as politely as one can through gritted teeth. ‘But we’re actually managing to sort this out quite nicely by ourselves.’

‘Okay then love, but if you need a witness testimony that’s all I’m offering.’

‘No. Thank you.’

‘Yes, I think that would be a good idea,’ piped up the housewife.

‘What’s the name of your insurance company?’ demanded Mands, choosing to ignore her. ‘I’ll be taking the matter up with them.’

‘State,’ she replied. ‘And yours?’

‘I really don’t think that will be necessary. Although I had better take your phone number for further contact.’

‘Don’t you think you should both swap names and numbers?’ said the nosy old codger. ‘Although clearly it was no one’s fault. How about I write down the details for both of you?’

Old people clearly have too much time on their hands if they are willy-nilly getting involved in vehicle disputes, I thought to myself. He should take up bowls or something.

‘That
really
won’t be necessary,’ said Mands, retrieving her iPhone from the car and taking the lady’s details herself. She then took a series of evidential photographs of the back of both cars.

The screeching of small children trapped inside Ugly Vehicle was by this stage unbearable and Mands thankfully decided that the washerwoman was not going to admit liability, so it was best to cut her losses and take it up with her insurance company. She picked her tail-light up from the asphalt and threw it into the boot. I glanced back at Louie, who was surrounded by shopping bags and staring straight ahead into space, as though willing himself to be transported elsewhere.

‘Great,’ hissed Mands, sitting back in the driver’s seat.

‘Now I’m going to have to drive around town with a ruined car until the insurance company coughs up. How bloody humiliating!’

Lizzie and I declined to comment, for fear of also suffering her wrath. Instead we nodded our heads in sympathy.

‘Prego then?’ I suggested, eager to get vino into Mands asap.

‘Sounds great,’ prompted Lizzie, obviously in the same frame of mind.

‘Fine,’ said Mands, still sporting a rather nasty expression on her dial.

We managed to secure a table in the beautiful shaded courtyard, and champagne was immediately ordered. After two glasses Mands’ facial expression softened, her shoulders dropped dramatically, and she no longer looked as though she was going to smack one of us in the face.

There was a beeping under the table. We all lunged under for our handbags but it was Mands who came up the winner.

‘Mario again,’ she said, sighing.

Who’s Mario?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Her stalker,’ I replied.

‘You’ve got a stalker?’ exclaimed Lizzie.

‘Yes.’

‘You lucky cow!’

‘A twenty-three-year-old Brazilian male model,’ I added.

‘A Man-Child.’

‘Get out!’ said Lizzie. ‘You cow!’

‘I know,’ I agreed. ‘He’s a complete fox too.’

‘So, how did you manage that then?’ asked Lizzie.

‘He was in the Trelise show,’ replied Mands.

Mands had organised the launch of Trelise Cooper’s new autumn range two weeks ago.

‘And?’

‘And now he won’t stop texting me and sending me flowers.’

‘Have you shagged him?’

‘No!’ exclaimed Mands, clearly upset at this suggestion.

‘You don’t shag stalkers. It’s against protocol.’

Until this very moment I had absolutely no idea there was a protocol for managing stalkers.

‘Show her your text message,’ I urged.

‘Which one?’

‘The one from this morning.’

‘Oh God…all right then.’

Mands brought the message up on her screen and handed it to Lizzie, who read it out loud: ‘Hey sexy lady! You, me and a bottle of Bolly makes three. What do you say? Will warm the spa in anticipation. Kiss, Mario.’

‘Lord above!’ exclaimed Lizzie. ‘He’s a smooth texter.’

‘But he’s still a stalker,’ said Mands.

‘How do you know?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Because he rings me approximately ten times a day and sends, on average, twenty text messages.’

‘It’s not bloody fair!’ complained Lizzie, ten minutes later.

‘I want one.’

‘Same here!’ I agreed.

‘What are you foaming about?’ said Mands, turning to me. ‘You’ve got one too!’

‘Have you?’ asked Lizzie, looking at me suspiciously.

‘Well…yes…but it’s not the same…he’s not a model.’

‘Well at least you’ve bloody well got one!’ she said, clearly very put out that she didn’t have her own stalker.

‘He goes to her gym,’ added Mands.

‘And he’s a podgy fifty-year-old who wears bike shorts,’ I explained.

‘That’s not what you told me,’ said Mands.

I gave her a sharp kick under the table. She had clearly forgotten we were supposed to be cheering Lizzie up today.

‘Ow!’

‘Why can’t I get a stalker?’ despaired Lizzie.

‘Oh Christ! You don’t want one!’ I exclaimed. ‘They’re a bloody hassle’.

‘Touché,’ agreed Mands. ‘Clogging up your SIM card and inbox. So many fresh flowers you suddenly develop hayfever.’

‘Sounds terrible,’ said Lizzie, although she didn’t look convinced.

At that very moment Mands’ phone rang. It was Mario again.

‘Go on. Answer it,’ urged Lizzie.

‘No,’ replied Mands.

‘Pleeease,’ said Lizzie.

‘No.’

‘Oh go on! Or I will.’

‘Oh Jesus…okay then. Hello? Hi Mario. How are you? I’m fine thanks. Yes, I got the flowers. They’re beautiful, thank you. Tonight? Oh I can’t I’m afraid, I have plans with my friends. Tomorrow? Ditto, out as well. Monday? You guessed it. Tuesday? Same story. Wednesday? Perhaps. Okay then, you too. Ciao.’

‘So?’ I asked.

‘So…he was asking me out.’

‘Yes, I gathered that. Are you going to go?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Because you should never date stalkers.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they’re stalkers, Lizzie! It’s against the rules.’

‘Oh. Why didn’t you just tell him you’re not interested?’

‘Because,’ I explained, ‘she likes having a stalker. It’s good for morale.’

‘Oh.’

‘Isn’t that right?’ I said to Mands.

‘Bingo.’

But even stalkers reach a point where they just can’t be arsed anymore. Three weeks, one-hundred-and-eighty text messages, seventy phone calls, and fifteen bunches of flowers later, Mario realised it was time to move on and find himself a new object of desire. Mands was disappointed at no longer being stalked, but was pleased to finally stop sneezing.

3

The following Wednesday (with my life lulled back into a false sense of security) I met Mands and Lizzie at Prego for dinner. They were both already sitting at our usual table, bubbles in hand and one waiting on the table for me.

‘Rumour has it a certain someone got lucky the other night,’ I said once we’d placed our orders.

‘Wasn’t me,’ said Lizzie.

‘I know it wasn’t you. It was Mands.’

‘Who was he?’ asked Lizzie.

‘David Tyler.’

‘The developer?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Bingo,’ replied Mands.

‘I thought he was going out with that woman on the orange-juice ad,’ I said.

‘Not anymore.’

‘So, what was it like?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Like…hugging a rug.’

‘Eew! Hairy one?’

‘Very,’ replied Mands. ‘Walking carpet.’

‘Did you not know he was a gorilla?’ I queried.

‘Nope. Unfortunately I’ve only ever seen him in a shirt and tie.’

‘That’s the problem with shirts and ties,’ said Lizzie. ‘You never really know what’s lurking underneath.’

‘Until it’s too late,’ concluded Mands.

‘Hairy hands?’ I enquired.

‘No, funnily enough. Dead giveaway, those are.’

‘Could he not get it waxed?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Apparently not,’ replied Mands.

‘And could you not have done a runner?’

‘Too late…by the time he got his shirt off.’

‘Did you touch it?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Very briefly.’

‘Oh thank God for that!’

‘Until I got my ring stuck in it.’

‘You got your ring stuck in his chest hair?’ we cried.

‘Yes…for about twenty minutes…didn’t think I was going to get it back.’

‘And did you?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Eventually…once I had cut his hair away with a pair of nail scissors.’

‘And what was he doing?’ I asked.

‘When?’

‘While your hand was stuck to his chest?’

‘I think he was enjoying it actually.’

‘Eew!’ exclaimed Lizzie.

‘I know. I just kept trying to think of smooth surfaces. Bench tops and the like. It was completely horrible!’

‘Bet it was,’ I said.

‘Yuk,’ said Lizzie again, screwing up her face. ‘You’re putting me off my dinner.’

‘Sorry,’ said Mands. ‘It wasn’t pleasant.’

‘Trust you won’t be going there again?’ I asked.

‘Not unless he’s planning a wax attack.’

‘Bryce the Bastard had serious chest hair,’ said Lizzie.

‘Not like this he didn’t, dolls,’ said Mands.

‘How do you know?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Cause I’ve seen Bryce’s chest on many an occasion, Lizzie. He was always taking his top off for no good bloody reason. Wasn’t he, Sam?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘He was.’

‘And anyway Bryce’s wasn’t that bad,’ continued Mands.

‘Not like David’s. I’m surprised he manages to stand upright and not topple over forwards, it’s so bloody thick.’

‘Okay,’ said Lizzie, putting down her fork and pushing her plate away. ‘Enough.’

‘Agreed,’ I replied. I was also swiftly being put off my dinner.

‘I desperately need wax,’ said Lizzie, attempting to change the subject, but not very successfully.

‘Same here,’ I replied. ‘It’s a jungle down there.’

‘Had one yesterday,’ said Mands.

Mands had a strong aversion to body hair, both her own and anyone else’s. She was continuously getting waxed, plucked and lasered. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy the pain.

‘Why don’t you come to Jewel with me?’ suggested Lizzie. ‘They’re fabulous. Best bikini waxers in the country.’

This was quite a substantial claim.

‘Okay,’ I replied. ‘Why not.’