Wednesday, October 13, 2010 THE SUN
Stacey Blyth’s must-read autobiography continues, only in The Sun. Today, the socialite learns all about her mother’s tragic overdose, and heads home to plan a birthday party...
‘SAVE THE BAIT’
‘How did he know it was heroin?’
Chiara gawps at me like a thick fish.
‘If Hamid never saw Estella with drugs, and didn’t find the body?’
Chiara hmmms and goes for the papers. ‘I’ve not really looked at the Cause Of Death bit,’ she admits. ‘OK, that word might mean “toxic”, I think I’ve seen it on warning labels before...’
‘But that could just mean she was poisoned,’ I say, ‘not that she was a junkie.’
Another brilliant idea pings into my mind.
‘Room service – hungry?’
We’d missed eating for the tea party, so I order some Mamounia Happy Meals – club sandwiches with fries and Cokes – and when they come and Chiara’s signing off the cost, I poke the death certificate under the maid’s nose and ask her to translate.
She can’t speak English, of course – you can’t get the staff – so she mimes. Smoking first – does she mean lung cancer? – then she pretends to inject herself.
I go ‘Ahhh!’ – understood in every language – and she curtseys and leaves.
‘Definitely heroin.’
‘Oh, that’s expert testimony, alright,’ snorts Chiara, fries poking out of her face like deep-fried fangs.
We eat in silence until a sick-kind-of-funny thought strikes me.
‘Imagine when Hamid phoned Estella’s mum back... “Sorry I didn’t put you through the other night but your daughter’s dead now, so no need to call again”.’
Chiara gets on her high horse: ‘What are you smiling for? It’s an awful thought. And he didn’t call her back, he didn’t have her number. He feels bad about that, too.’
I’m only making conversation... Wait!
‘So, I’m not kidding around this time – he didn’t call Estella’s mother? And the death certificate doesn’t even say “Estella”, it says something else?”
‘It says “Suhana”, yes...’ says Chiara.
‘So...’
‘So?’
‘So maybe she didn’t know. Estella’s mother didn’t know she’d died.’
Chiara puts down her sandwich – a first.
‘God, imagine that... Your daughter disappears, you finally track her down, to this hotel, put in a call she doesn’t take – for whatever reason – and that’s the last you hear of her. You never even find out she died... ’
I pull fries out of the pile like it’s a potato Kerplunk.
‘Maybe they met up in Heaven,’ I say. ‘That would be a nice surprise.’
They do have Heaven in Marrakech, don’t they?
‘Assuming she’s dead,’ says Chiara, like an idiot.
I waggled the death certificate at her... only she didn’t mean Estella, did she?
‘Why are we assuming Louise Dulac is dead?’
She must be, mustn’t she?
Chiara looks up Louise on her laptop.
‘No date of death,’ she says, smiling like she’s caught me out.
‘That might be wrong,’ I say. ‘She’s obscure, you said so yourself.’
‘I bet she’s still got fans who’d update her page, though. I think she’s alive.’
I move to read the screen. Supposedly, she’s 94 now, and she lives...
‘In London?’ Really?
Chiara skims the important bits: ‘ “Home for many years was an extravagant mansion on the Californian coast, midway between Los Angeles and San Francisco... in the late ’70s, she moved to Europe to be close to friend and ex-lover Charles Chaplin”.’
Chaplin? Ugh. That moustache!
‘He’s been dead forever.’
‘He was older than her,’ says Chiara. ‘but Lolita was based on one of his marriages, so... you never know.’
If I knew what Lolita was, I might have been impressed.
‘And now she’s in London. Small world.’
Isn’t it? I wonder if she knows who I am... I mean, not who I really am, no-one knows that yet, just me, but knows of me as I used to be. How weird would that be?
‘So?’
‘So... we go home. And try to find Louise, I guess... and the granddaughter. But she could be anywhere, couldn’t she, and we really don’t know anything about her.’
Is now the right time to say, ‘But I’m her granddaughter’?
Nah. I’m saying nothing. What’s the point, unless we find Louise first?
The yawning contest is re-starting so we go to bed, and when I get up Chiara’s already booked us flights back and is all ready to check out. A car comes half an hour later and, after Chiara signs the bill and gives Hamid an awkward hug that I swear is against his religion, we head to the airport.
So we get on the plane and they give us free papers, serious ones with hardly any showbiz stuff, of course, and I flick through looking at the pictures but Chiara’s just staring at the front page. And it’s such a boring story, about tax or something.
‘Did you notice the date?’ she asks.
‘It’s Tuesday,’ I say.
‘No, the date!’
Means nothing to me. Just numbers.
Chiara pokes at the top of the page.
‘It means next week is...?’
She leaves me to finish the sentence, like I’m in Nursery.
All annoyed, she does it herself;
‘Next week is Louise Dulac’s birthday.’
Oh.
So?
‘I think you left your brain behind,’ she snaps, as the drinks trolley rattles by.
‘So... she might die soon?’
‘So she might be having a party...’
I don’t really respond because I’ve found a really bad snap of someone I used to know and am enjoying how uncomfortable she looked, posing outside an opera house!
‘...And if she’s not, we could throw her one.’
An old-folks’ home hoe-down? Count me out.
But as soon as we land, Chiara’s on her mobile, asking if anyone’s heard about anything happening next week, like a proper press-in-attendance kind of party. This whole time, she’s kept quiet that she’s a socialite? One of the old-fashioned kind, the ones who look frumpy and don’t get pissed (or papped), but still.
‘Doesn’t sound like anything’s happening... yet, but they’ll all be talking about it now, so we should sort something soon, don’t you think?’
That side of celebrity is alien to me. I just turn up and look good, I don’t have to hire venues and chefs and sweat the small stuff.
By the time we get back to her flat, Chiara’s booked a Kensington restaurant – ‘With good disabled access, that’s very important’– and is on to some party planner to get the food and drink and guests sorted.
She finally rings off. ‘Petra’s the least discrete planner in London. I’ve told her bits but pretended to swear her to secrecy, so it’ll be everywhere tomorrow.’
I doubt this very much – I mean, it’s not a nipple-slip picture, is it? ‘Old Lady Even Older’ scoop – but there it is, in the next day’s Standard:
Save-the-date cards are being handprinted for a hush-hush function next Friday. But don’t bother buying a hat – this isn’t a notice about nuptials. The event in question is a birthday party for the last British siren of the ’30s silver screen. Forget the likes of Liz Taylor – we’re told this lady was the true love of local boy Charlie Chaplin’s life, so expect an impressive turnout in her honour. Her name? The organiser is playing a guessing game, but if you’ve any ideas, drop us a line at
[email protected].
Chiara practically whacks me in the face with the paper.
‘See?!’
Yes I can.
‘But it doesn’t say her name, and anyway, you haven’t actually invited her, have you, you don’t know where she is or anyth
ing... ’
Chiara’s shiny with smugness.
‘That’s the brilliant bit – I don’t have to. I’ve put out just enough information to get people interested, and they’ll do the legwork now, of working out who she is and putting in calls and so on. So she’ll find out and be flattered and turn up. You’ll see...’
I’ll see an empty restaurant with people waiting for someone famous to arrive and all it’ll be is you and...
Me.
Of course, I think, this is my moment! Louise won’t show up, why would she? If she’s that old and still alive she’s probably hooked up to a machine, she’s not all mobile and sociable. So they’ll all be waiting but instead of her it’ll be me, I’ll arrive, looking like her – like my mum did, at the Mamounia – and I’ll reveal all.
So to speak. (Although that reminds me, I need to do a flash test of whatever dress I end up wearing, don’t want to ruin the moment with an accidental underwear shoot...)
So I’m planning my own private coming-out party and Chiara makes a big show of phoning Petra the planner and pretending to b*****k her.
‘Look,’ she goes, ‘I understand that people talk and there’ll be a lot of interest but I really want to keep this discrete, yes? I mean, she’s going to be 95, you know... yes, on the day’ – Chiara does an exaggerated wink at me, like she’s a panto dame – ‘so I really want it to be a quiet, respectful affair, just close friends and life-long fans... I’m so glad you understand – ciao!’
‘How many actresses will turn 95 next Friday?’ she asks me, as if I can answer.
‘Why not just tell her the name, if you’re going to give such big clues?’
‘Because Petra needs to believe me about being discrete, otherwise it’s not gossip to her and she won’t pass it on. Facts aren’t fun, are they? But rumours are delicious!’
True. It’s more exciting to know that someone’s pregnant when the dad doesn’t.
I’m playing along with Chiara but I still don’t think she’ll smoke out Louise just by dropping hints to rich idiots, so I keep my plan in action.
All I need is the right outfit – not some cheapo smock, this time.
So I say, ‘You know what we should wear? Proper ’30s vintage.’
Chiara looks thrilled at the thought, and I feel a bit sad/bad for her. Because the thing with vintage is, the reason it’s only really top models that wear it, is only certain sizes have survived, because they were too small for most people to wear, and wear out.
I’m pretty confident there’ll be something glittery and close-fitting for me to wear, something Louise or Estella themselves could have worn, back in the day, but I think Chiara might just have to put on a brave face in the changing rooms, poor thing.
Oh well, she can’t have it all, can she?
That’s my job.
IN TOMORROW’S PAPER: ‘I don’t want Chiara to uninvite me out of jealousy...’