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Thursday, October 7, 2010 THE SUN

  The book everyone’s talking about is back, and it’s more explosive than ever! In today’s exclusive extract, Stacey Blyth discovers her ‘real’ name, and plans a trip back in time...

  ‘DEAR ME, BELOVED’

  Chiara’s flat is well flash – I wouldn’t waste time in rehab if I could hang out here instead, no way.

  She must be mental.

  So she wanders off to find this dictionary and I flick channels and order pizza and get comfy. And when the pizza comes I’ve almost forgotten all about the papers and my inheritance and everything until Chiara finally comes back, all animated.

  ‘So, you know we’ve got a will, an adoption form and a death certificate, yeah?’

  My mouth’s busy eating so I don’t answer.

  ‘And the same name is on all three: one woman made the will and died and had her daughter adopted. Well, that isn’t the only name that comes up again and again.’

  I swallow and reply this time: ‘No, the daughter too.’ Don’t miss me out!

  Chiara shakes her head – ‘Apart from her, obviously she’s mentioned.’

  I don’t know, do I?

  Then Chiara looks like she’s about to do a Poirot.

  ‘The couple who adopted the daughter’ – my parents – ‘also witnessed the will.’

  So? I shrug and reach for another piece of pizza.

  ‘Don’t you see what this maybe means?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I think they might have murdered her!’

  I totally start to choke on the mozzarella.

  ‘What are you on? Did you leave the clinic too soon?’

  Chiara looks insulted. ‘I think it’s a possibility...’

  Like I said, I’m not close to my parents, we’ve got nothing in common, but no way am I letting anyone call them murderers. Not that Chiara knows my connection, so I tone it down a bit – and don’t hit her.

  ‘That’s a pretty extreme explanation, isn’t it? Like, maybe, they were just good friends? They witnessed the will as a favour, and looked after her kid when she died?’

  Chiara slumps down, like she’s solved some ancient mystery only she hasn’t.

  ‘Maybe’ she says, all grumpy.

  So we both calm down and eat and watch TV and, when she’s wiped all the orange grease off her fingers, Chiara starts going over the papers again.

  And when she’s reading them, sitting opposite me, I see there’s something on the back of one of the sheets.

  ‘What’s that,’ I go, ‘on the back?’

  And she turns the paper over and I see it’s the will she’d been reading and she doesn’t say anything but her eyes light up again like when she was first telling me what they said and I know I’ve found something she’d missed and I feel pretty smart.

  ‘So, what is it?’

  ‘It’s an invite’, says Chiara, ‘to a party.’

  Is that all? Big whoop.

  ‘Oh well.’

  ‘No, no,’ she goes, ‘a party in Marrakech. At the Mamounia.’

  ‘What’s that,’ I go, ‘like, a mountain?’

  And Chiara doesn’t laugh, she looks a bit annoyed.

  ‘It’s a hotel. This old luxury hotel in Marrakech.’

  And as she says it, I start to picture it. Like, gardens and pink walls and pools and tiles and it’s like I’ve been, only I’d never even heard of it before, had I?

  I know, I just know, that it’s important somehow, so I change seats and sit down next to Chiara on the L-shaped sofa combination.

  ‘What does it say, then? Translate it for me.’

  And she goes, ‘Read it yourself – it’s in English.’

  So I do; it’s an invite to a 1975 Halloween party, all printed apart from down the bottom, where someone’s scrawled ‘Suki from the Souk’ a few times in crap writing.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I ask.

  Chiara does a f***-knows face. ‘Maybe it’s who the invite was sent to? Someone called Suki who lived in the Souk – the market in Marrakech.’

  I don’t think so. ‘You’d write that on the envelope, wouldn’t you? Not inside.’

  Another bit of brilliant deduction from me, there.

  ‘Yeah, you would. Odd. Like it’s odd they’ve typed the will on the back.’

  Recycling?

  I vaguely gesture at the pizza box, then take the last slice as Chiara thinks.

  Then she goes, all assertive, ‘I think it’s symbolic.’

  ‘Of?’ I manage to say, mouth full.

  ‘Of... of... I don’t know, of some significant event. Maybe... the baby was conceived after the party? So the mother typed the will on the back?’

  So I’m about to go, ‘No, my birthday’s not in July, genius,’ then I remember she doesn’t know I’m the heiress, does she, so I think about telling her for a minute then think, No, I’m going to pick my moment, so instead I just go, ‘Or...?’

  ‘Or? Or, that’s the night she met the father, although if she’s given birth and died by the next summer then they’d have had to work fast, so that’s basically the same thing.’

  ‘Any other theories?’ I ask.

  She looks at the ceiling and I study her nostrils and wonder if she’s had work done and decide not, then she says, ‘Or maybe it’s just when she met the people who’d adopt her daughter? That works too. The witnesses. What do you think?’

  I’ve eaten so much I can’t think about anything but being sick, quickly, before I burst – I’m sweating cheese grease – so I just nod very gently.

  So now, Chiara thinks she’s solved another puzzle and she’s all excited again. And the more she moves, the ill-er I feel, so I have to go to the loo and relieve myself of some of the pizza and then I feel much better so I come back and gee her on when she says, ‘We should do a timeline, don’t you think?’

  Definitely.

  She’s given up on the idea of me being her secretary, lucky for her, so I just watch while she writes it all down.

  ‘So’, she goes, ‘the earliest date we have is Halloween, yes? So we start there, Halloween 1975, October 31. And these other documents, the latest one, the adoption form, are from August. They’ve written that in English – the Islamic calendar is different.’

  Like, This isn’t school. Get on with it.

  ‘So we’ve got a... ten-month window. So the mother could have got pregnant at the party, but if she died as a result of some childbirth complication her will wouldn’t really be valid, being “of infirm body”’ – I’m yawning at this point – ‘so I think she probably gave birth earlier and then made the will, maybe because she didn’t think she was well? Then died. Then her daughter was adopted.’

  I don’t see how writing things down makes anything any clearer – or more interesting – but Chiara seems pleased with it all. Bor-ing.

  So then she goes, ‘Shame we can’t read the names, or I’d add them in.’

  And I think, Well I know three of them, pass it here, only obviously I don’t say anything.

  ‘The only one I can make out is the baby’s name, look.’

  She hands me the adoption paper and I recognise the parents’ names straight away, but they’re written in really shabby handwriting so fair enough she can’t read them. And then I see ‘my’ name and it’s easy because it’s written in capitals and it’s only three letters long: AMY.

  (‘Stacey’ is really my stage name, you see. There’s already one famous Amy around, so I swapped it for something else – don’t want to be confused with Wino, do I? So anyway, there’s no need to go, ‘Oh what a coincidence, she’s called Stacey too!’ yet. Relief.)

  And Chiara goes all sad and says ‘Poor baby Amy...’ and I try not to laugh. I mean, I’m fine. I’ve got the best of both worlds – living parents and an inheritance.

  Then she gets this look and pulls a laptop out from under the sofa and goes online and types in ‘baby names’. And I think, Is this making her broody? Weirdo.
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br />   But she types in ‘Amy’ instead, and it says it’s Latin and it means ‘beloved’. Someone told me your name turns you into a certain sort of person, like if you’ve got a common name you’ll be common and so on, so I’m thinking my name meant I’d be popular and famous and maybe there is some truth to the theory.

  Then Chiara searches for other names that mean beloved and I don’t know why but I suppose she’s just bored or something, then guess what comes up?

  Suki.

  Suki means the same thing as Amy.

  She’s grinning when she goes, ‘Do you realise what this means?’

  No. I go, ‘What do you think it means?’, turning it around on her.

  ‘I think the mother was trying out baby names on that invite, she was already pregnant. And maybe she told the couple that night and they bonded and that’s why they adopted the baby and the father didn’t keep it and... ’

  Father? I hadn’t even thought about the father, my father. Where was he?

  Maybe my mum didn’t know... what a tart! Better nip this in the bud.

  ‘Brilliant!’ I shout. ‘I think you’re right. She’s pregnant at this party, she tells her new friends, they’re all close so when she dies they adopt the baby. Brilliant.’

  No mention of the babydaddy. Whoever he may be.

  Chiara seems to suddenly realise that a) it’s late now and b) I’ve finished the pizza, so she puts the papers away and goes to get herself something else from the freezer while I channel-hop. Only I’ve not got very far when I get to this entertainment-news channel where all these actresses are lining up on a red carpet outside a very familiar-looking building. It’s not in London, I’d know it immediately, and it doesn’t look like it’s in Hollywood either. For some reason, I can’t flick past it.

  Then Chiara walks in with some oven chips and goes ‘No way!’

  I go ‘What?’ and eye up her plate; she goes ‘That’s an incredible coincidence...’

  Is it?

  ‘Do you know where that is?’ she asks me.

  And I have a proper look, but it’s hard to make out much with all the flashes going off – welcome to my world – apart from the potted plants and tiles and pink walls...

  ‘It’s the Mamounia hotel,’ Chiara says just as I’m thinking/remembering it.

  So we sit and watch as the shipped-in A-listers float about in floor-length dresses, because of custom, and it looks well nice. Really luxurious.

  Chiara’s not eating, so I go to nick a chip then she says, ‘We should go.’

  Out? I love a party, me, but it’s been a long day and I can’t be arsed to go Up West now, not without a good long grooming session – and she’s only got one bathroom.

  But she points at the TV and goes, ‘To the Mamounia. We should go. Like we’re detectives. Inheritance detectives!’

  We? I haven’t got bus fare, have I, let alone a passport, but she gives me this look that says she can sort things like that out, no worries, and looking at her soft furnishings I believe her. She obviously doesn’t want for much.

  So she puts her plate down and picks up a phone and calls someone who answers quickly – when you’re rich and/or famous, your calls always get answered, see? – and she’s booking flights and making arrangements for someone to take me to Victoria first thing ‘as a special favour’ and sorting out a room at the Mamounia and in minutes, literally just a couple of minutes, we’re all sorted. Pretty efficient – I need hours to get ready to go clubbing, she’s sorted us out with a holiday in no time.

  So she’s a bit smug when she rings off but I let it pass, then she sees I’ve eaten all her chips and I think she’s mainly angry because I can eat what I like and not put on any weight while she’s on the heavy side, if I’m being kind.

  But she doesn’t say anything, just ‘Best pack’.

  So she goes off to her room and I wonder how many days I can realistically last in the season-before-last Juicy Couture tracksuit they gave me at the clinic, when she shouts, ‘Want to pick out some stuff?’

  And of course it’s all too big... but I’m not a bitch so I say ‘Yes’.

  IN TOMORROW’S PAPER: ‘The last thing I want to see is those bloody awful masks...’