Thursday, October 14, 2010 THE SUN
In the penultimate instalment of starlet Stacey Blyth’s incredible life story, Entitled, she awaits her date with destiny and rehearses what to say to her only remaining relative...
‘KISMET MAKE-UP’
‘You bitch!’
Chiara hurls something soft at my head.
‘Trying to make some money, were you? Pathetic. You... thief!’
Thief?
I’m still wearing the same old Juicy Couture tracksuit (washed and tumble-dried every night, I’ll have you know) and haven’t even dipped into Chiara’s make-up since we got back from Marrakech, let alone borrowed any jewellery or anything.
If no-one’s going to see me, why make any effort to look nice, right?
‘Can’t believe you stole that photo... It wasn’t yours to sell!’
What photo?
I look at what she smashed at me, today’s paper, and find my mums and dad smiling back at me, from the Mamounia ballroom.
The photo.
‘How did they get this?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Chiara rants, ‘but I suppose you giving it to them helped!’
‘How do I know it wasn’t you?’ I said. Answer that!
‘I don’t need the money, do I?’ she spits. Classy.
I need the money less than you do, actually, I thought.
So I tell the truth: ‘I didn’t take it and I didn’t sell it.’
Chiara’s too angry to believe me.
‘If you didn’t’ – if, like it’s the only possible explanation – ‘then who did?’
Hamid? Unlikely. And I don’t think anyone else at the hotel knows or remembers who Estella was – and only I know who the couple are, still.
I read the caption out loud, for clues.
‘“Recognise her? No, that’s not British-born screen star Louise Dulac, it’s her look-alike daughter, missing heiress Estella, snapped in costume at the Mamounia Hotel in Marrakech in 1975, in this never-before-seen shot from the archives.”’
Chiara calms down.
‘Of course! They’ve just linked it to Louise. They must have worked out who the party’s for and come across this picture, somehow...’
Somehow? By magic, maybe?
‘I mean, the photographer must still have the negative, right? It’s his to sell.’
Opportunistic bastard, I’ll sue him – when my money comes through.
‘But do you see what they’ve missed?’
Chiara snatches the paper back from me and re-reads the caption.
‘It just says it’s Marrakech in 1975...’
Which it was, so?
‘...It doesn’t mention Halloween, so it doesn’t mention it was taken after Estella disappeared, does it? They’ve got the last picture of her – and they don’t even know.’
Also, the first picture of me, if my mum’s pregnant in that snap!
‘Yes, that must be it,’ Chiara says to herself, ‘they’ve worked it out and they’re raiding the archives so when they do the story on the party, on Louise’s big birthday do, there’ll be more interest.’
If they’re interested in my grandma, think how they’ll feel about me!
‘Hang on,’ I go, ‘what do we do if Louise does show up?’
‘What do you mean?’ says Chiara.
‘Well, so far, it’s all been about organising this party and dropping hints and all that but if it all works and she really does show up – what then?’
Chiara looks stumped.
‘I don’t know. I mean, we can say we’re fans and we want to show our appreciation for the last great British film star, but beyond that... I suppose we could tell her that she’s got a granddaughter and...’
I go, ‘I’ll tell her the grandchild bit, you tell her that her daughter’s dead.’
Chiara gives me a withering look.
“Unless we’re going to unveil Suki or Amy or whatever she’s called’ – it’s Stacey, now, thanks – ‘that’s probably not a great idea, is it?’
‘You’re probably right,’ I lie.
Because I’ve totally worked it all out already.
I’ve seen a few scripts in my time – no parts I really wanted, to be honest, not very well-written, too much t*t, and so on – so I wrote a little scene for myself:
INT. RESTAURANT – EVENING
LOUISE DULAC sits alone at a table, having eaten her meal and thanked all her guests. She’s overwhelmed by the adoration that’s come her way this evening, years after she’d left behind the social whirl of celebrity, but she’s glad to have had this one last hurrah with the people to whom she means the most.
FAN
Ms Dulac?
LOUISE
Oh, my dear, I’m sorry, I’m a little too tired now for another autograph. I really need to get home to bed. It’s been an emotional evening and I’m quite drained. I’m usually in bed by now – asleep, even! I’ll be feeling the effects of this evening for weeks.
FAN
No, no, I understand. I don’t want an autograph. I don’t need one. Well, I don’t need one right now – maybe in a few days...
LOUISE
I beg your pardon? I’m not going on tour, dear, this was a One Night Only thing. As I said, I’m going home – as soon as my driver arrives; where is Andy? – and I’m going to bed and I’m going to sleep for a week. There will be no repeat performances.
FAN
Sorry, I’ve confused you. I mean, I’m not a fan.
LOUISE
‘Not a fan’? What a thing to say! Why are you here if you’re not a fan? Do you know how many people wanted to come, how many fans were begging to get in? Why, I could hardly get through the door for all the well-wishers. And now you’re telling me you’re ‘Not a fan’ of my work? Such impertinence. Andy!
FAN
I meant, I’m not just a fan. I’m also... I’m also a relative.
LOUISE squints at the FAN, trying to place her.
LOUISE
You are? My eyes aren’t so good. I haven’t heard from any of my nieces or nephews in years, so it’s pretty cheap to come along and try and get on my good side now, you know. I bet you all thought I was dead, didn’t you? Well I’m not. I’ll outlast the lot of you!
FAN
Ms Dulac, I’m not related to your brothers and sisters. Well, not directly.
LOUISE
Andy!
FAN
Ms Dulac, Louise, I’m related to you.
LOUISE
Not possible. Andy! Where is he?
FAN
I’m your granddaughter.
LOUISE
ANDY! I don’t have any... my granddaughter?
FAN
I’m Estella’s daughter. My name is Stacey. Well, that’s what I call myself, she called me Suki. I was adopted, you see.
LOUISE
What are you telling me – my daughter had a baby?
FAN/STACEY
She did. In Marrakech.
ANDY arrives, having readied the car for LOUISE’s exit. LOUISE shoos him away.
LOUISE
And for some reason you were adopted? Why? Couldn’t she cope? She should have got in touch with me, I’d have helped – that stupid, proud girl, so headstrong...
STACEY
My mother died. When I was only a few weeks old. And I’ve only just found out about it. I was adopted but didn’t find out until recently. So now, I have no-one...
LOUISE
No, child, you do have someone. You have me.
THEY EMBRACE.
Too much? I think I’m allowed a happy ending, don’t you?
So I practise my lines in my head and Chiara answers phone calls, because all the weeklies have worked it out now and decided there’ll be enough of an A-list turn-out for it to be worth their while to show up and take pictures for the social pages.
Which suits me – quickest way to reintroduce myself on the scene, after all.
Chiara acts all dumb on the phone ?
?? ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard... this is really just a private function, I can’t identify my client... I’m sure you understand’ – until the weeklies agree to a certain amount of coverage.
I think, she’s trying to make a name for herself. The cheek of it!
Anyway, Chiara arranges for a stylist friend of hers to show up with some vintage dresses later on, but she gets stuck in traffic or some b*****ks. While we’re waiting I have an idea. Another one. I am full of them!
‘Now we’ve got the picture,’ I say, ‘we should probably use it. If we’re going to dress up like Louise, like Estella did, we can copy the make-up, can’t we?’
Not in a million years is Chiara going to look like Louise or Estella or anyone slim, blonde and beautiful, she’s a right big brown-haired bruiser, but she agrees.
So we sit in front of her biggest mirror – for someone who wasn’t much to look at, she certainly had a lot hanging around – prop up the paper and copy Estella’s look.
Obviously, I have an advantage – my face is so similar, it doesn’t take much for me to look exactly like Estella. (Also, I had that dry-run at the riad, didn’t I?)
So anyway, Chiara looks at the paper then sees me in the mirror, and does a double-take, like she can’t believe her eyes.
‘That’s... that’s really good. How have you done that?’
‘I just copied the photo, like you,’ I go, all innocent.
‘Well you’ve done a really good job. Maybe you should be...’
Suki for the night?
‘...A make-up artist. I think you’ve got a talent for it.’
Like that’s saying much. Ooh, I’m a professional face-painter! Whatever.
I don’t kick off, because I know the look will work for me on the night, and then the stylist arrives, all stinking of fags and looking like a skeleton – Too thin, I think; I’m skinny but it just gets ugly, after a point – and we try on dresses.
And I see right away which the right one is for me, but I leave it ’til last because I know it won’t fit Chiara so she can’t have that one, and I want it to be my big finish.
There are only two dresses Chiara can actually do up, so she picks the less garish and unflattering of them and I pretend she looks amazing in it.
Then she goes, ‘Which one are you wearing?’ and I go, ‘Oh, they’re all so gorgeous, I don’t know which to choose...’ and pretend I haven’t seen the white one until right that second. So I change into that one, then walk back in and do a pose like the one Estella was doing in the picture, smiling sweetly.
And I see from Chiara’s face she totally ‘recognises’ me, only she won’t say, and – get this! – the stylist goes, ‘You look really familiar in that... where have I seen it?’ And I give Chiara this Should we say anything? look, and she glares back a No.
So I just shrug and say, ‘I’d like this one, I think it’s just right’ and Chiara changes the subject and shoos the stylist out of the door, only the fag smell lingers. Ugh.
Then – clever, this – I slip out of the dress and hang it up and wash my make-up off, because I don’t want to freak Chiara out and have her uninvite me out of jealousy or anything, because it would be more difficult to make my entrance at the restaurant.
Smoky left behind an evening paper, so I have a look while Chiara’s hanging her poncho up. Still nothing much, celeb-wise, but there is something about our party.
‘Look at this!’ I shout, being all Best Buds again. ‘In the Standard...’
The word in certain circles is Friday’s secret dinner is to celebrate the life and career of Sullivan’s Travels beauty Veronica Lake – but those ‘in the know’ might want to check their facts. The Brooklyn-born beauty died in 1973, after a brief British marriage. But we see what they’re getting at and know how close they are. Let’s just say, there won’t be any need to oil the social wheels to get this party started – the lady in question is no grease monkey, and neither is she crude, but she does cause those around her to gush. We’ve said too much – watch this space for the first report from the party of the year!
‘Party of the decade, more like!’ said Chiara. ‘Or century. Or millennium...’
Or billionaire!
IN TOMORROW’S PAPER: ‘This is my Oscars, and there aren’t any other nominees...’