Unfamous

Tuesday, October 12, 2010 THE SUN

  In the latest instalment from her amazing autobiography, Entitled, Stacey Blyth explains how her talent for customising clothes helped bring her late mother back from the dead...

  ‘SHOP ’TIL YOU SHOCK’

  This is my idea: ‘We should throw a party for Hamid.’

  Chiara’s jealous she didn’t think of it: ‘What kind of party? He doesn’t drink.’

  I point at the empty tea glasses.

  ‘A tea party. No alcohol in that, is there?’

  They do ‘tea ceremonies’, whatever they are, here at the hotel – I read it in a leaflet while I was on the loo.

  Chiara tries to think of a good reason to shoot me down but can’t. Ha!

  ‘That’s not a bad idea, actually. And if we do it in the Library, we can get the pictures out and reminisce and Hamid might open up a bit more... ’

  Obviously we’ll get the albums out again but I have a plan I’m going to keep quiet for now, for ‘reasons that will become clear’, that might jog Hamid’s memory even more.

  So I go, ‘What should we wear to a tea ceremony, do you think?’

  And Chiara has a little think and says, ‘Really, it should be something ethnic and modest’ – I’m thinking tie-dye halterneck maxi dress – ‘and I don’t think I’ve brought anything like that, really...’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I act, ‘so, what should we do?’

  She thinks again – no Mastermind, her – then goes, ‘I suppose we could go to the Souk, it’s not far.’

  Just call me Suki!

  ‘Good idea,’ I say, ‘let’s do it.’

  A maid comes to take away the breakfast stuff and Chiara somehow sorts out hiring the Library and tea ceremony and all that in sign language, then we go shopping.

  I say shopping.

  ‘We should walk there and back,’ says Chiara, ‘it’s not far.’

  It’s not – on a map. In reality it takes for-e-vah, because you spend every second jumping out of the way of these filthy little mopeds and going ‘NO!’ loudly at local kids who want to guide you everywhere – for money, of course – and I’m starting to have a bit of a panic attack about it all when suddenly the shouting starts.

  It’s like it was at the clinic, only there’s not just the one mosque here, there are... I don’t know how many. You can see loads of towers, and they’re all blasting out these prayers or whatever at top whack but they don’t all start at once so it’s like they’re singing in a round, like I did at Brownies once, and it doesn’t sound holy at all.

  But it does remind me why I’m here, so I pull it together and finally we get to the market. Only you get hassled there too, if you even glance at anything on a stall the shopkeeper comes for you and tries to make you buy, so I pull my pockets inside-out and walk around like that until Chiara sees and pushes me down a side street, all angry.

  ‘Please try and show some respect,’ she hisses, like I’m wearing a bikini and giving men the glad eye.

  It’s like being on a field trip: “You are a representative of your school” blah blah blah.

  Anyway, she yanks me along until we’re in some middle-of-a-maze bit where it’s all workshops and no-one’s doing the hard sell so we sit and wait for a man to serve us.

  Chiara asks for suitable traditional dresses to be brought out, then immediately selects the brightest, prettiest one for herself.

  I hope they don’t have it in her size – what are the odds? – but they do, so whatever I get won’t be as good, although obviously I’ll look better in it.

  But this is where my plan comes in.

  ‘If you’re being all colourful, I should have something plain, don’t you think?’

  Chiara nods, but with a suspicious look, like, What’s the catch?

  The shopkeeper brings out a load of plain dresses but they’re still bright colours, so I shake my head and just say ‘White?’

  The next lot he brings are all pale, with two white ones. One’s got this woven-in flower design, like a chintzy old sofa, the other’s like a Goodyear blimp with sleeves.

  ‘I’ll try that one,’ I say, pointing at the blander one, to Chiara’s surprise.

  In the dressing room mirror, I work out what easy alterations I can make and decide it’s not ideal but it’s the best I’m likely to get. Also, it’s cheap – I’m guessing; who knows what the exchange rate is? – so Chiara won’t mind what I do to it, right?

  She pays – ‘So kind, thank you so much’ I creep – then we go back to the hotel, shouting down the boys who approach and leaping out of the way of the scooters like we’re playing Frogger for real. It’s almost fun when you get the hang of it. Almost.

  Back in the riad, we model for each other, and I see Chiara thinks I’m an idiot because she looks princess-y and I look like her servant girl.

  Little does she know.

  The tea party’s not until later, so Chiara has another Moroccan siesta and I put my masterplan into action. I get some notepaper and a pen from the desk, nip to the Library and copy some stuff down, and I’m back before she’s even started snoring.

  Then I lock myself back in the bathroom with the dress and Chiara’s nail clippers, and start snipping away at the stitches. Finally I’ve got what I want, sort of, so I nab some eyeliner and hair pins for later, and hide it all.

  Chiara wakes up, her face all creased like it’s been drawn on an old piece of paper, and I’m ready for her.

  I go, ‘I’ve been thinking – you know Hamid well, don’t you? Maybe it should just be the two of you, to start with? He’ll open up more to you than me, won’t he?’

  And she yawns and goes, ‘But this is all your idea, I bought you that... dress.’

  And I go, ‘Oh, I’ll totally go, don’t worry about that, I was just thinking I’d come along a little later...’ And make my big entrance.

  ’Tis I, the daughter of Estella Dulac, here to claim my birthright!

  ‘Fine, OK, do that. Give me half an hour then show up,’ says Chiara.

  So she gets dressed up and floats out and I go, ‘See you soon,’ run back to my bedroom and put on my costume – not “dress”, yes?

  I’ve drawn how the make-up should be, and the dress, so I match it as best I can. The eyeliner’s easy – just lots of it – and I can make the dress work if I detach the sleeves and re-pin some of the braiding, using the free sewing kit. Up close, it’s not much of a match but from a distance, it’ll do. Good.

  It feels like the clock’s going backwards, so I give up waiting and walk slowly through the gardens to the library steps. The French doors – are they called ‘French’ in Morocco? They’re called ‘French’ in England, I suppose – are closed so I can get quite close without being noticed; I see Chiara and Hamid looking at the album together.

  She’s nodding and he’s, well, looking sad. Is he crying?

  I move up onto the bottom step, to see better.

  Hamid’s gesturing now – maybe rocking an invisible baby in his arms? – then wringing his hands and looking all anxious.

  What’s he saying?

  I can’t hear anything, so I move up another step.

  Just Charlie Brown voices: Wah-wah-wah, wah-wah-wah-wah-wah?

  One more step...

  Hamid screams.

  He’s looking right at me, horrified, shouting like he’s been shot.

  And it’s scary, so I run away – what would you have done? I run all the way back to the riad, panicking, take off the dress, wash my face and brush out my hair and try to think what to do. Only I’ve gone blank, like the screaming blew all my ideas out of my ears and my head’s empty.

  What will I say to Chiara? Why didn’t I show up?

  I can hear her coming, so I slump on the sofa in front of the TV, hoping she’ll believe I showered then dropped off. That’s believable, right?

  It seems not.

  ‘Where were you? Where the f*** were you?’ she shouts.

  I do my best woken-from-a-deep-slee
p routine. ‘What?’

  ‘Hamid’s tea party – why didn’t you... did you fall asleep?’

  ‘What time is it?’ I say, not even convincing myself.

  Chiara looks furious and freaked out, all at the same time.

  ‘You’re not even dressed!’

  ‘I had a shower and... er...’

  She stomps about for a bit, looking very un-regal despite the dress, then sits down heavily next to me. ‘You missed... everything.’

  I can’t be arsed to keep up the sleepy act. ‘So what happened?’

  Chiara lets out a massive sigh, like she’s a punctured human balloon, then goes, ‘Hamid lost it. Totally lost it. He was telling me all about Estella then he just went crazy.’

  And then she says: ‘It was like he’d seen a ghost.’

  Confession time.

  My plan was just to dress like Estella and for it to be obvious I was her daughter. Not to look, through a window, like I’m my own dead mum.

  Oh s***.

  Have I ruined everything?

  ‘So did he say anything before... before?’

  Another big huff.

  ‘He said plenty.’

  Then silence.

  ‘I suppose it’s better out than in, with some stuff, isn’t it? I prompted.

  Isn’t it?

  Chiara looks me in the eye and says, ‘Estella Dulac died here.’

  Here? ‘At the hotel?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘In this riad?’

  ‘In this room.’

  I shudder, and not for show, imagining a dead body by our feet.

  ‘Right here? How?’

  Chiara has that sparkle in her eye now, like when you’ve got amazing gossip.

  ‘Drugs.’

  This I hadn’t expected. My mum – on drugs? That doesn’t sound right. Wait – was I a crack baby, is that why I’m always so slim? I suppose there’s an up-side.

  ‘She was on heroin, it turns out.’

  ‘Really, with a newborn baby?’

  ‘Hamid was as surprised as anyone,’ says Chiara, relaxing back into the sofa. ‘He checked up on her every day and said he’d never seen any sign of it, she’d always looked OK, just a bit tired and stressed out at times. But never like she was out of it, never.’

  ‘So... did he find her?’

  Another sparkle from Chiara.

  ‘No – and that’s the thing he feels most guilty about. He should have, it was on his roster to call in mid-afternoon and do his checks, but his wife was ill so he had to nip home and sort some stuff out, and when he got back, there was an ambulance and Estella was being wheeled out on a trolley, under a blanket.’

  ‘So, of course, he blames himself. He thinks if he’d been there somehow it would never have happened and she’d be alive today.’

  Doubtful. ‘It’s not his fault, is it?’

  ‘Well... that’s not all.’

  No?

  ‘Her mother rang, the night before.’

  ‘The actress?’

  ‘Louise, yes. She called, sounding all drunk or something, and Hamid said Estella was out, because he thought her mother sounded like she wanted a fight and that Estella was too tired to cope with it.’

  Come on! ‘Missing a call couldn’t have killed her, could it?’

  Chiara shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so, but Hamid thinks if she’d just spoken to her mother, Estella might not have overdosed. He thinks she’s dead because of him.’

  I hope that doesn’t mean he’ll want a cut of my money...

  IN TOMORROW’S PAPER: ‘Facts aren’t fun, are they? But rumours are delicious!’