Unfamous Read online

UNFAMOUS

  by

  Emma Morgan

  *****

  PUBLISHED BY

  Unfamous

  Copyright 2011 by Emma Morgan

  *****

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 – Suicide Meant Sanctuary

  Chapter 2 – Posh Prison Break

  Chapter 3 – Suicide? Sanctuary? Bullshit

  Chapter 4- Loss In Translation

  Chapter 5 – Loosely Translated As...

  Chapter 6 – Dear Me, Beloved

  Chapter 7 – Fancy-dress Fantasy

  Chapter 8 – Unmask-erade

  Chapter 9 – Charade Unmasked

  Chapter 10 – All I Want Is To Tell My Story

  Chapter 11 – Water Star Was My Ma

  Chapter 12 – Water Load Of...

  Chapter 13 – Shop ’Til You Shock

  Chapter 14 – Shop Tactics

  Chapter 15 – Save The Bait

  Chapter 16 – Alluring Louise

  Chapter 17 – Kismet Make-up

  Chapter 18 – Kismet? Hardly...

  Chapter 19 – The Secret Guessed

  Chapter 20 – You Might Have Guest The Rest

  Chapter 21 – As Duluc Would Have It...

  *****

  Daily Mirror, MONDAY 04.01.2010

  SHH! Sympathy seems to be out of stock on the King’s Road. A certain soggy socializer has earned the nickname ‘Narcissa’ – ex-friends have taken to mocking her so-called suicide attempt, saying she only fell because she wanted a better look at her reflection...

  Monday, October 4, 2010 THE SUN

  Celebrity sidekick Stacey Blyth admits to Thames death attempt, after revelations about her tragic past left her depressed. In her autobiography, Entitled, exclusively serialised only in The Sun, she reveals how the battle to claim her inheritance began in rehab...

  ‘SUICIDE MEANT SANCTUARY’

  ‘When I look back to nine months ago, it’s like that January night happened to someone else. Sort of like I’m a different person now, or I was different then, or I was always the person I am now but didn’t realise at the time and it took jumping in the Thames to realise. One of those three options, I think. I’m pretty sure it’s the last one. Pretty sure.

  So, it’s January and I’m depressed. Not just ‘a bit sad’, like I’ve split up with someone or the weather’s crap or I’ve put on weight (I haven’t, Christmas is no excuse to not count calories as far as I’m concerned; I always try to remember ‘mince pies = fat thighs’ when I fancy one). I’m properly, brain-chemically depressed. Of course, I don’t know exactly how depressed I am until I try to kill myself in the river. That’s the giveaway.

  I’m obviously not in my right mind, otherwise I’d do it indoors, where it’s warm; an overdose, for example. (I mean, what’s an extra pill here or there, right?) But no – I’m already addled so I go for a walk in the middle of winter and jump in the Thames.

  I haven’t even put on a coat!

  I’m wearing this little dress – pretty, but better for garden parties and bank-holiday barbeques, really – and a pair of strappy heels, and that’s it. Oh, and knickers. (I only mention them because certain skanky people I could name don’t bother. I do.)

  At some point, I set off walking.

  And I hate walking.

  I’ve probably not walked more than the distance from car to red carpet in years but for some reason, I decide to go hiking. In heels.

  So I find myself in Sloane Square, and I’m just doing these circuits, round and round and round the trees with the Christmas lights still strung up, like I’ve lost something and I’m looking for it – my sanity, maybe! – then I wander off down a side road and it just goes on for ever. For ever and ever and ever, like it’s not a road, it’s this massive hamster wheel. Or something out of Inception, only it’s not come out yet. So I’m walking and walking and walking and not getting anywhere. (Not that I know where I’m going, but.)

  Afterwards, I see a piece in a paper about it, and all these people are like, ‘Oh, she looked really distressed and wasn’t appropriately dressed, blah blah blah,’ and I think, Why didn’t you do something then? Me, if I saw someone looking really sad, and cold, I’d help them, I’d go, ‘You alright?’ and maybe give them a scarf, if it wasn’t too new, but no-one says or does anything. Maybe they’re saving it up to tell reporters? Pathetic.

  So another weird thing; no-one recognises me. Like, I’m used to being stared at, that’s part of my job, I don’t necessarily like it but I live with it – I’m a professional. So when I see people looking at me, I don’t even think ‘I must look like a crazy lady’, I think, I hope they don’t want an autograph, I haven’t got a pen. But that’s me: always on.

  If they knew who I was I’m sure they’d do something, like call the Police or a paper, but they just ignore me. So my advice to anyone not famous who’s thinking of maybe killing themselves is – Don’t. No-one cares.

  Anyway, I’m walking and ignoring the gawkers and finally, like, hours and hours and hours later, it seems like, I get to the river. And I’m like, Now what? I’ve walked all this way and it’s like I’ve reached a wall. I mean, it’s not a wall, it’s a river. It’s like the opposite of a wall, but still – I’m not thinking straight, am I?

  What now? I say to myself.

  And then I think, What would Gwyneth Paltrow do? Sometimes, when I’m getting ready to go out, I do that – she’s very good with accessories, you see. And I’m by this bridge and I remember her in Sliding Doors, where she’s all, Boo hoo I’m having a baby but my boyfriend’s married, and she stands on a bridge and has a think and everything’s alright in the end. (Except she’s two people and one of them dies but maybe it was the other one... I can’t remember right now. Which one had short hair?)

  So I decide to go and stand on the bridge and have a think.

  Now, I don’t want you to think I typically use public transport, but I have been on the Underground, like in Sliding Doors, and sometimes, when the trains are coming, there’s a moment where you think, I could jump now. (It’s not just me, is it?) Anyway, I’m on the bridge, thinking, and then I look out at the river and get the same feeling, that I could jump if I wanted to. So... I do.

  Simple as that. I think, I could jump, so I jump.

  And I don’t remember any falling or anything, just being on the bridge then being in the river, like I was stepping into a swimming pool. It’s like time-travel... or gravity.

  So from bridge to Thames in no seconds and guess what: it’s f***ing freezing.

  Like, I’m cold already, because I’m just wearing this flimsy but flattering dress, but on account of my mental turmoil I didn’t notice, right? In the river – different story. It’s as cold as boiling water is hot. Like, I can’t work out how it’s not ice, it’s so cold.

  So once I’m in the river, I’m like, I need to get out. I’m not an Olympic swimmer or anything but I paddle about on holiday so I’m kicking and trying to keep breathing and not die because it really is too, too cold, and then – ta-dah! – I have this vision.

  I’m somewhere bright and sunny and dusty and noisy and amazing, and I think, Is this Heaven? It’s not cloudy but people are wearing robes. And I’m thinking, I could live here, it looks nice, and then I get all this water splattered in my face – like I’m not wet enough – and hear this ripping noise and someone’s grabbed my dress and next thing I know I’m being yanked onboard a Lifeboat and blinded by all the neon-orange overalls.

  And I go, ‘You’re paying for that dress – I didn’t peel it off the floor at Primark.’

  No response. So rude.

  Instead, someone gives me a scratchy blanket then wraps me up in tin foil like I’ve just run the Marathon (it feels like it) and tries to make me dri
nk something out of a flask, only I’m like, ‘I’m not drinking that, you might have drugged it for all I know.’ I’ve just had a near-death experience, I’m not about to let myself get spiked, am I? I’m not stupid.

  Then we go to their harbour or HQ or whatever you call it and it’s right by the London Eye and I’m annoyed because this is totally the wrong end of town for me. What am I, an MP? And I’m all ready to just go home and have a shower and sort my head out, like, I can take it from here, cheers, and they start going, ‘Oh, you have to go to hospital now.’

  Why? I’m alive. If I was dead, OK, but – hello! – I’m breathing. It’s so cold you can actually see my breath, so what more proof do they need?

  So of course I kick off – I know my rights, this isn’t Iraq – and they just nod and go ‘Oh, she’s hysterical’ and then the Police turn up and I’m thinking, Shouldn’t you have stopped me in the first place, if you were doing your job properly? Bit late now.

  Then it gets really weird. This chubby policewoman in polyester and too much blusher is being all over-friendly and I see she’s got a pad and pen and I think, Here we go, she’s recognised me, I knew someone would... only – get this – she goes, ‘What’s your name?’

  What’s my name? Is this a joke?

  And then I realise – I don’t know. I’ve totally forgotten my own name. Can you imagine that? Like, if you weren’t famous, I can see how that could happen; no-one else would really know who you were so it might be quite easy, but not for me.

  I’m in magazines.

  I’m on guest lists.

  I’ve met Elton John.

  And then I think, What if I’ve got amnesia, like in films? I might have totally forgotten who I am and what I do and where I live. And everyone in the world will know who I am but me. How weird would that be?

  Well weird.

  So I shake my head – not that I can stop shaking right now, I’m still freezing – and the fat policewoman smiles so I can see the lipstick on her teeth and she says I’m in shock and they’re going to send me to hospital for observation and she’s sure my memory will come back soon. And I think, Well I’m very glad I didn’t drink that Rohypnol, then.

  This whole time, I’m thinking, They do know who I am, they’re just pretending, I’m sure my friends will be waiting at the hospital, like it’s a surprise party or maybe a hidden-camera show or something. (They’re always asking me on I’m A Celebrity... but I keep turning them down, I don’t think the calibre of the other contestants is high enough. And I don’t like rice.) But I’m in this hospital bed for ages and no-one shows up and it’s not even a private room and the noises are – Christ, I can’t even begin to describe them. It’s like if people aren’t swearing or being sick they’re hacking up furballs, non-stop.

  So it’s like, two, three in the morning now, no-one’s shown up and worst of all I’ve got this tacky plastic wristband with ‘Jane Bloggs’ scrawled on it: the lumpiest, frumpiest made-up name in the whole wide world. (In America, they say ‘Jane Doe’, I saw it on Law & Order. At least then, you think of a lady deer, all graceful with nice eye make-up.)

  And I still can’t remember my name.

  Who could forget me?

  Then, out of nowhere, I remember this phone number. And I don’t know whose it is; maybe it’s mine, in which case it’s no use because I’m here so who’s going to answer? It’s not like I’m going to leave myself a voicemail, is it? And then I think, Wait – if it is my number, I might say my name on the voicemail message. CSI!

  So I pretend I need the loo, only really I go looking for a phone. I pass a mirror at one point and I don’t realise it’s me immediately because I’m wearing these horrible green pyjama things and don’t look my best, so that explains why no-one recognises me. Relief!

  Anyway, I find a phone and call the number and it rings a few times and I’m waiting for the voicemail message – only it gets answered.

  Who answers a phone at this time of night?

  Someone very bored, by the sounds of it.

  ‘Hello, The Sanctuary,’ mumbles this monotone woman. ‘Do you have an ID number?’

  So I still can’t remember my name at this point but, just like with the phone number, a code pops into my head, like a cash-card PIN code, and I hear myself saying it.

  I hear typing then the woman drones, ‘Thank you Miss Blythe. How may we help you?’

  Blythe? My name is Blythe?

  It does sound familiar... It just doesn’t sound very me.

  Fine. I’m Blythe. Anything but ‘Jane Bloggs’.

  I can hear clomping great footsteps coming, like the night shift is staffed exclusively by giants, so I quickly whisper the name of the hospital and ask for an immediate pick-up.

  ‘Very good, Miss Blythe – a car will be with you shortly,’ says this robo-receptionist.

  So I hide from Hagrid and friends then head to reception and maybe ten minutes later, if that, a private car pulls up and I’m off. And people say there’s a downside to fame!

  Blythe, Blythe, Blythe... I try and imagine the name in a caption on a picture of me – not one from tonight, obviously, a premiere or opening or whatever – but no, nothing.

  It’s like I remember my life, but not me in it!

  Anyway the car takes ages so I start nodding off in the back seat, but eventually we end up outside this big old mansion and I think, Ooh, lovely, a country-house hotel – I hope there’s a spa, but once you get inside, past the pillars and that, it’s just another hospital. And there are papers all ready for me to sign, and that’s when I see my real name.

  Stacey Blyth.

  Everything makes sense now. I’m Stacey. I look like a Stacey. I’m fun and young and blonde and bubbly and, yes, racy. I imagine that’s my tabloid nickname: Racy Stacey.

  So I sign the papers, happy to ‘reconnect to my self’, as they say here, but that same bored receptionist from when I phoned up earlier is giving me a funny look the whole time, like she’s suspicious or something.

  How would she look after a dip in the Thames? Even worse than she does now, the stout old sow. I know it’s the night shift, but I also know straighteners work at all hours. As do toothbrushes, for that. Would a breath mint go amiss, in her line of work?

  Anyway, they show me into this room with an offensive fruit-salad duvet cover and what looks to be a negative thread-count, and I’m about to ask if they’ve got a spare double when I realise how tired I am so I just collapse into bed and – bang – lights out.

  Heaven.

  That’s what I dream of. Not big beardy God heaven, the sunny one I saw when I was in the river, with the people in robes and the noise and the having a good time. Maybe it’s Greece? I think in my dream. Maybe I’m telling myself I need a Mediterranean holiday?

  But I’m not imagining my future.

  I might have forgotten my name but I’m remembering my past – at last!’

  IN TOMORROW’S PAPER: ‘I could grass her up, there’s no evidence I was involved...’

  *****

  Daily Mirror, TUESDAY 05.10.2010

  SHH! Editors at several top publishing houses are bemused by the so-called celebrity memoirs being ‘exclusively serialised’ in a downmarket rival. They rejected the scrappy manuscript months ago and can’t imagine who’s bothered to polish it all up – or why...