Celebrity Bride Page 7

  The first of these women is the aforementioned inimitable Elody Elloissie – a fashion legend. I'm acutely aware of her work through the pages of Heat. She's a sultry French version of Rachel Zoe, with glossy black hair, razor-sharp cheekbones and an even more razor-sharp tongue. The other woman whom everyone's worried about is Isabella, a doctor who spends her time injecting collagen, Botox and other toxic substances into the faces of the rich and famous. Isabella fell out with Elody when she told Marie Claire magazine that she had treated the world-famous stylist. Elody responded by telling Vogue that Isabella had no style and that her world-renowned parties and charity galas were clichéd and boring. Isabella's husband is Edward, the plastic surgeon to the stars. Isabella and Edward are, apparently, single-handedly responsible for the faces, breasts, stomachs and thighs of everyone coming to the party tonight.

  They avoid Elody, and Elody avoids them. Rufus won't tolerate such nonsense though –he's invited them all. What fun! Not . . . I wish Mandy and Sophie were coming, or even the girls from work. I'd have much more fun if Katy and Jenny were there chucking Maltesers at each other and putting up charts to show who's the reigning Malteser champion (me, last time I looked, unless they've had a small triumph while I've been off this week).

  It's 3 pm and I'm wearing my dress for the evening to show Elody. I have that air of confidence that only comes from wearing something new and flattering. I've sponged off the worst of the Purple Nasty from our night at Suga Daddys, and there's hardly a mark on it. I've also painted my fingernails this gorgeous shimmering colour that makes them look healthy and lovely and shows off my tan. I'm hoping she'll take one quick look at me and declare that I'm perfect, so we can have a glass of wine and become mates.

  More than anything, I'm hoping I'll be as easily accepted into Rufus's world as he was into mine. I took him back to my parents' house on our fifth date. We drove down to Hastings one gentle day . . . It was a lazy, timeless morning in early summer. One of those days when morning fades into afternoon then merges softly and seamlessly into evening. A beautiful warm day that glowed from within and hinted at hot summer months ahead.

  I'd told Mum and Dad that I'd met a man. I'd even started telling them that the man was called Rufus and that he was a world-famous actor, but if you knew my family, you'd know that explaining to them that you're going out with a Hollywood sex god is a little like explaining nuclear physics to a terrapin.

  'Tarzan?' said Mum, when I started to tell her about the films he's been in. 'You mean Johnny Weissmuller? I thought he was dead. Is he dead?'

  Christ, it shows how long it's been since she went to the cinema.

  I heard Mum yelling through the house. 'Tony, Tony, come quickly. Is Johnny Weissmuller dead?'

  'I don't know, dear,' I heard Dad's frustrated voice in the background. 'How on earth would I know something like that?'

  'Your father doesn't know whether he's alive or dead,' said Mum as if she'd added something that was in any way worthwhile to the conversation.

  'Mum, it doesn't matter whether he's dead or alive; I'm not going out with him. I'm going out with Rufus George.'

  'Oh, Tony, have a word with her, would you,' she said. 'She doesn't care whether Johnny Weissmuller's alive or dead.'

  Oh God. Why's it so hard?

  We arrived at Mum and Dad's house in something of a state, with Rufus having nearly killed us en route. He didn't mention that he was yet to drive on the left, having designated all previous driving to Henry. Rufus said he was eager not to have Henry drive us on this occasion for fear that it looked too 'flash'. It seemed slightly ridiculous given that Rufus is an international film star and one of the best-looking guys on the planet. He'd look 'flash' lying in rags in the gutter, begging for food. Rufus is the very personification of 'flash'. He could no more avoid being flash than I could avoid being female – that's just what he is. Still, I appreciated the gesture. I was glad he was worried about how he might be perceived by my parents. I loved that he cared. Just a shame that he had to demonstrate it by risking both our lives.

  'Mum and Dad, this is Rufus,' I said when we arrived at the front door.

  'Oooo, hello,' said Mum, patting her hair and fussing over her flowery apron. She might not know her Rufuses from her Johnnys, but she knows a pretty face when she sees one.

  'Nice to meet you, son,' said Dad, patting him on the back in a manly fashion. 'Do you want to shove that car of yours up onto the drive so it doesn't get bashed into? The cars come round at a hell of a pace.'

  Mum and Dad live on a crescent, and most of Dad's life is spent fixating on what's going to become of the cars parked outside.

  Rufus thanked Dad and headed off to 'shove' his Maserati onto the drive while Dad stood there in his brown cardigan, directing him into the tiniest space, with all the skill of a drunk. It was a scene which had disaster written all over it.

  'Come inside, dear,' said Mum. 'We'll leave the men to it.'

  I looked over at Dad waving his arms wildly as if to indicate acres of space, while Rufus manoeuvred the car slowly and cautiously into the three inches available. The very last thing I wanted to do was to 'leave the men to it'. It seemed to me that 'the men' were far from capable of being left to it.

  Still, I followed Mum into our small, cluttered family home. The smell of cooking leaked out from the kitchen. Even though it was a beautiful hot day, Mum was preparing a large Sunday roast for my new boyfriend. I walked into the kitchen to find eight of our neighbours, all crammed up against the window and peering through it as my boyfriend and father bonded over car manoeuvring.

  'Oooo, Betty, he's better looking in the flesh isn't he?' said Margaret, the lady who runs the coffee shop at our local church.

  'He is,' said Betty with a leeriness to her voice. 'Oh yes, he definitely is.'

  'Hi,' I said, and watched as the ageing ladies jumped back and pretended to be admiring the petunias on the shelf by the window.

  'Lovely shade of purple, Jayne,' said Betty. 'Oh, Kelly, how nice to see you.'

  The others mumbled their greetings, commented on how well I looked and how gorgeous my dress was. 'Must have cost a fortune!' declared Doreen. 'But I guess you can afford it.'

  I walked into the sitting room and pushed the cats off the sofa so I could sit down. Mum ran in behind me.

  'Sorry, love, I couldn't stop them!' she said. 'Once I told them about Rupert they all wanted to come and see him.'

  'Rufus, Mum. His name's Rufus,' I said.

  'Rufus. Yes. Funny name. He seems nice though. I'll throw this lot out when he comes in, and I can get to know him a bit better. Pretty dress. It must have cost a fortune.'

  I often think that Mum and Dad's generation are obsessed with how much things cost. They mention the price of things all the time, and whether things seem cheap, expensive or reasonably priced.

  'Rufus bought it for me,' I replied.

  As we sat side by side in the warm sitting room, enjoying the sunlight streaming through the patio windows at the back of the house, it sounded as if a small commotion was developing in the hallway. We rushed out to see what was going on to find that Rufus had come into the house and Mum's friends had all gone diving out of the kitchen to say hello, with the result that he couldn't get in. The problem was further complicated by the fact that local boys had seen the Maserati and were gathering outside to see who it belonged to. One sight of Rufus and the crowd got bigger. Rufus needed to get in to escape the throng outside, but was prevented from doing so by the throng in the hallway. It would be safe to say that nothing like this had ever happened in Leemarr Crescent before.

  Mum pushed past me and moved herself onto the stairs that run just off the hallway, next to the sitting-room door. She clapped her hands loudly and everyone fell silent. 'You can all meet Rufus later,' she said. 'But right now I'd like him to be able to get into our home, so would you mind leaving. There'll be plenty of time for autographs later.'

  There was mumbling and moaning from inside the house,
and grunting and groaning from outside but, to be fair to the old dears, they did depart, and the youngsters outside retreated to pore over the car.

  'Thanks,' said Rufus to Mum, causing her to blush hysterically and giggle like a ten-year-old.

  Before long Mum and Dad were chatting away to Rufus as if they'd known him all their lives. We sat in the kitchen to eat 'because it's more cosy', and Mum had drawn the blinds, just in case there were a few people still hanging around outside. 'Now it's really cosy!' she exclaimed as we sat in half-darkness while the sun shone gaily outside.

  'More lamb?' she asked Rufus.

  'No, I'm full. Thank you very much.'

  'Not dieting are you?' she enquired. Mum doesn't think that men should be on diets. She thinks it's 'unmanly'.

  'No, just very full now,' he said.

  'Leave the boy alone,' Dad interjected, protectively. I loved the way Dad talked about Rufus; treating the multi-millionaire film icon as if he were a snotty-nosed teenager. He called him 'boy' constantly and talked about the financial instability of Rufus's 'line of work'.

  'Must be tough for you,' he said, on more than one occasion. Happily Rufus had the good grace to nod and smile in the semi-darkness, and failed to mention that he earned enough to buy the country.

  'Why don't we pull the blinds up, Jayne, there'll be no one there now,' said Dad, as Mum laid huge bowls of apple pie and custard down before us. 'It would be nice to enjoy the sunshine at the end of the day.'

  'Good idea,' she said, pulling the cord. We all looked up, and there, in front of us, stood around 500 people, packed onto the lawns, peering right through the window and cheering madly at the rising blind as if at a rock concert.

  'Rufus, Rufus, Rufus!' they chanted. 'We want Rufus.' Camera flashes exploded and people came running towards Mum's little kitchen from all directions.

  'Jayne, let's not have the blind up after all,' said Dad, quickly and calmly. 'It's quite nice to eat without the sun bothering us.'

  Elody sweeps into view at 4 pm – a whole hour late. (One thing I've noticed about Rufus's world already is that everyone is late . . . all the time. I don't understand why. Can't they just leave a little earlier and get places on time?) By the time she appears, I've worked myself into quite a panic about whether she'll like me or not. What if she doesn't? Will Rufus think less of me? Is this a test of my suitability as a girlfriend? I could fail it. Oh God, no.

  I got myself into such a state worrying about the whole thing that I went down to talk to Julie in the kitchen. She's great Julie is, really down-to-earth and honest. I get the impression she's a good judge of character. She's roughly the same age as me and the sort of girl who has views on the world and is very happy, no, delighted, to share them with you!

  She looked up from a pile of sea creatures when I walked in and grinned at me, while tearing their limbs off, cracking a claw and throwing it into a large pot. There were crabs, lobsters, prawns and some unidentifiable gruesome animals that look as if they'd kill you without a second's thought.

  'Dangerous work,' I said.

  'I'm hoping there's no such thing as an afterlife,' she laughed. 'Because I'm sure these poor bastards will come and find me and tear me limb from limb as revenge.'

  'Talking of being torn limb from limb . . .' I said. 'I'm about to meet Elody Elloissie for the first time, and I hear she can be a bit of a nightmare.'

  Julie's lip curled and she laid down the big, clumpy axe thing in her hand. 'Uuuummmm,' she said. 'How do I say this?'

  'So she's a nightmare. I get it.'

  Julie's twisted and contorted face at the mention of Elody's name told me everything I needed to know.

  'Well, she's not easy,' Julie conceded. 'But she's been through a lot. I hear that if you get to know her, she's OK. I'd warn you to be careful though, love. I mean, I'm sure she's fine, but keep your wits about you.'

  Elody slides out of her car and walks as if on water; there's no clumpiness or heavy footfall, just a gentle glide from the car as if she's on ice. She's dressed all in black and is painfully skinny. One interesting accessory is a water bottle, which she grips like a marathon runner as she floats effortlessly towards the house. Despite the water bottle though, she's clearly never run a step. You know how you can look at someone and just know that the most athletic thing they've ever done in their life is to open a bottle of wine? Well, I know that about her.

  I don't like what she's wearing at all – a kind of black cape thing that flies out behind her. Underneath it, a corset-style top clings to her tiny frame; she's Batman with tit-tape. She has skin the colour of freshly fallen snow and tomato-red lips. In fact, no, not tomato – the lips are blood coloured. The whole bizarre costume screams 'transvestite vampire woman'. I guess it cost her half a million quid to look like that, so I'm not saying it's not fashionable or desirable or anything, it's just not, well . . . pretty. Is it old-fashioned of me to say something like that? She looks like a vampire bat instead of a woman and, where I come from, that's not a good thing.

  She kisses me on the cheek when we meet and I feel myself hoping she's not going to bite my neck.

  'I think we're going to be the best of friends,' she says confidently, and with a surprising amount of warmth.

  'I hope so,' I reply with a smile.

  'Pretty face. Now go and get yourself dressed in your party gear and make yourself utterly fabulous and I'll see if I can help make you look even more gorgeous,' she says to me after looking me up and down with an unnecessary scowl on her face.

  'I am dressed in my party gear,' I say, feeling about three inches tall. I thought my look screamed Marilyn Monroe (but without the suicidal tendencies obviously), but no, apparently not. It screams something different entirely. Something that Elody is struggling to come to terms with as she moves from one searingly expensively shod foot to the other.

  'You're dressed?' she enquires. 'Dressed for the party? You can't be serious.'

  Shit. 'Yes, I'm dressed for the party,' I say, trying to sound confident but feeling utterly deflated.

  'OK,' says Elody quite kindly when she sees how offended I am. 'Look. There's no problem; my challenge today is to convince you that the glamorous clothes I have with me will be better suited to the party than the ones you have. Trust me, and don't look scared. I'm here to help. You'll look more lovely than ever by the time I've finished with you.'

  'Oh thank you,' I say, and I feel myself cheer up instantly. Indeed there are times, as Elody talks, when I feel real warmth coming from her, despite the deathly appearance. She seems to genuinely want to help me to fit into this new lifestyle that I've come stumbling into.

  'Now, let's have a look at you,' she says, standing back and letting those scary catlike eyes travel up and down my body. She's stroking her chin and I feel like a piece of meat being sized up by a butcher. 'Lovely décolletage,' she says. 'Good bone structure too.'

  Then, there are times when she talks when I feel so stunned by her rudeness that I can barely stay upright.

  'You obviously like eating chips.' She scowls.

  Whaaat? I mean, really. Is there any need for that? The truth is that of course I like chips – who doesn't, for God's sake? But I'm not fat. I'm a size 12. Is that fat? According to Elody it is.

  'I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude,' she says, and I feel like saying, 'Well, lady, you just have been . . . whether meaning to be or not.' But I don't, of course, I just stand there feeling like the fattest person in the world.

  'Everyone I deal with professionally is incredibly slim. You are more . . . um . . . generous in the flesh department. But – no worries. I'm a professional; I can handle this, and I can help you lose lots of weight if you want to . . . trust me – I have a very easy way of doing it.'

  I look at her with raised eyebrows, eager to hear her weight loss tips, but she's moved on.

  'Now then.' She takes one of my hands in hers and looks at my nails in amazement.

  'Goodness gracious, was this for a joke?' she says,
grimacing at the sight of the pale-orange colour on them.

  'Don't you like this shade?' I thought I was on pretty firm ground with the pale-peach fingernails.

  'Mmmm . . . beautiful colour on a fruit like an apricot,' she says. 'But, interestingly, absolutely horrible as a nail polish colour.'

  OK, that'll be 'no' then!

  I totally understand now when Rufus said that Elody's bark is worse than her bite, and why Julie grimaced into the crab claws at the mention of her name. The woman has this quite breathtaking habit of seizing upon every opportunity to criticise without quite realising that she's doing it. As soon as she realises that she's caused offence, she backtracks by saying it's not a problem and she's here to help, but the offence has been done by then. I guess it's because of all she's been through. I accept that the woman is deeply injured, and I keep trying to remember what Rufus said – that Elody has been through a lot, and I need to cut her some slack – but it still doesn't make the abuse any easier to take.

  Many of her criticisms arrive silently, like a knife in the ribs. Some of them come thundering towards me with all the subtlety of a herd of charging rhinoceroses.

  'It must be odd to be so busty,' she says. 'I mean, don't you feel a bit cumbersome? Like a lactating cow?'

  'No,' I say, alarmed at the suggestion. 'I've never felt cumbersome. In fact, not until this very minute.'

  'Oh sorry,' says Elody, presumably sensing the resentment she's caused. 'No offence meant; I guess I was just thinking out loud, because I know I'd hate to have big lumps of lard stuck on the front of my chest. Now, what have we here?' She reaches over and pulls swirls of taffeta and sheets of silk from her bag; they ripple to the floor, a great wave of blues, greens and azures shimmering in the light. 'You'll look gorgeous when I've finished with you,' she says, scooping the dresses into her arms and leading off towards the bedroom. 'Just you wait and see.'