Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘I’m so excited to meet you, Lexy! I’m your biggest fan!’ gushed the hundredth woman that afternoon to say exactly those words on reaching the head of the signing queue.
Lexy, sitting at a trestle table entirely covered with fuchsia material which had been chosen to match the cover of Lexy on the Loose, flashed a big smile at the woman and said: ‘Thank you so much!’ as an assistant slid yet another copy of the hardback book, open at the title page, in front of her. Most authors did signings in bookshops, if they were deemed popular enough to make it worthwhile to organize one; the demand for Lexy, however, was beyond the capacity of any British bookshop. This signing was being held at Sweetwater, the huge luxury mall in Essex whose customers were the perfect target market for Lexy. They bought her hair styling tools, her hair extension products, her accessories, her make-up. Now they were queuing almost around the mall to snap up a signed copy of her book.
‘I bet everyone says that, don’t they?’ the fan continued. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually standing opposite you! You’re even prettier in real life, and so tiny! I bet everyone says that too, don’t they?’
‘Thank you so much!’ Lexy said, starting to sign the book. To speed up the process, bookshop assistants were working the line, asking each customer for their name and writing them on Post-it notes for Lexy. Until you started doing signings, you had no idea how many different ways there were to write, for instance, all the many, many variants of how to spell ‘Jane’.
‘Hope you enjoy it, Jessi,’ she said, handing it to the fan with another smile even as she turned to the next woman in the queue. It was short and sweet, but there were so many people waiting that Lexy did not have time to have a conversation with each one.
‘I was hoping to see Frank here with you,’ Jessi said, lingering by the table even as the next one came up.
‘Oh, me too!’ said the new fan excitedly. ‘Now that Caroline’s shown her true colours, you and Frank’ll be getting back together, right?’
‘Oh yes, you must!’ Jessi agreed, looking at Lexy with big puppy-dog eyes. ‘You’re such a great couple! I’m still looking for my prince in shining armour, and seeing you two together made me feel so good about having a chance of finding Mr Right!’
‘I feel just the same!’ said the new fan, whose name, Lexy read on the Post-it, was Saira. ‘I’m like, if Lexy and Frank have problems, then it’s okay if I do too, but they have to stay together, because if they don’t, that’s so depressing!’
This is what happens when you put your life on reality TV, Lexy told herself for the umpteenth time, gritting her teeth. People think they know you. They think they have the right to ask you the most personal questions about your love life. And you asked for this. You wanted the fame and everything that came with it. So suck it up and play nicely with the other children.
‘We’re working things out,’ she lied, signing the book to Saira with a scrawl rather than her usual flourishing signature and handing it to her with a smile that said ‘Next!’
To Lexy’s great disappointment, Frank had not been in touch since that glorious evening when Lexy and Sophie had watched Caroline and Santino, still chained together, sneak away to kiss in the woods. Since then, they had become an established couple. Of course, most of the Celebrity Island Survivor relationships didn’t survive past a few weeks once the participants returned to the outside world, but whether ‘Cantino’ – the horrendous name coined for the couple by the gossip magazines – lasted was irrelevant as far as Frank was concerned.
As Lexy had commented to Sophie, Frank dumping Caroline did not necessarily mean that he would take Lexy back. It had been a week since that first kiss, and Lexy was forcing herself to sit on her hands, not contact him in any way; it was indescribably painful, but she was sure it was the right thing to do. What could she say, after all? Now that your girlfriend’s cheated on you, shall we get back together?
‘I was thinking that now that Caroline’s shown what a slag she is, Frank’d come to his senses,’ Jessi said eagerly.
‘Yeah!’ Saira agreed. ‘I mean, Lexy was a bit naughty, but Frank knows she’s a wild girl, and it was Deacon who followed her into the loo, wasn’t it?’
‘And then Caroline just nipped in there while Lexy was off sorting herself out in rehab—’
‘Fucking slag,’ Saira said with great venom. ‘She needs a right seeing-to.’
Lexy, signing a book to a Lindsey, accidentally wrote the name with an ‘a’ at the end rather than an ‘e’, cursed under her breath and grabbed a fresh copy.
‘Ladies, if you could move along –’ said one of the publisher’s PRs, in the kind of tone that turns a suggestion into an instruction.
The fans waiting in line were corralled in the kind of lanes that airports used for passengers going through security, marked out with poles and connecting tape. But there was a generous area at the end of the long signing table that was open to the public, and that created a cosy little spot where fans, clutching their signed copies of Lexy on the Loose, could loudly debate the state of their idol’s marriage.
The PR was indicating the exit, but Saira, Jessi and Lindsey with an ‘e’ paid no attention to her at all.
‘I was thinking Frank would see that and be all “oh my God, what was I thinking, she’s such a slut!”, right?’ Lindsey said enthusiastically.
‘Right!’ Jessi said. ‘Like okay, we all make mistakes, but he and Lexy are supposed to be together!’
It was clear to Lexy that the women meant to be supportive. But that was only making it worse for her, because she agreed with every word they were saying.
‘Ladies, I really need you to move along! We’re going to have a log jam building up,’ the PR said. It was an unfortunate choice of words, onto which Saira jumped right away.
‘Hot log action!’ she said gleefully. ‘It’s so funny how Pip keeps saying that!’
‘Cracks me up every time!’ Jessi said. ‘Did you see yesterday where he brought in a hot dog and said he was having hot dog action?’
‘He’s hilarious!’ Saira agreed.
‘D’you think Caroline’s getting kicked out tonight?’ Lindsey asked. ‘It’s so time for her to go.’
‘Yeah, Jamie-Lee hates her,’ Jessi said eagerly.
‘Called her a stuck-up bitch yesterday,’ Saira chimed in. ‘I mean, they bleep her but you can see what she’s saying!’
‘Caroline’s nice!’ said a child’s piping voice from behind the women. ‘And you’re not supposed to say “bitch”. It’s a bad word!’
The three women swung round to see Laylah and London arriving. They had been taken away by Gareth’s assistant to get frozen yoghurt with tapioca bubbles and sprinkle toppings, as they had been getting restless with nothing to do while Mummy signed books but chase each other round the pillars and try to terrify the fish in the enormous wraparound tank by pulling grotesque faces. Clearly, Laylah had bullied the assistant into getting much larger servings than Lexy would have permitted. The cups were almost as big as their heads, piled so high with toppings that the yoghurt swirls were visibly teetering. London was holding his very carefully with both hands; it was a miracle he hadn’t dropped it yet.
Normally, Lexy would never have trotted the children out at an event like this. But under the particular circumstances, the publicists handling the book launch were absolutely insistent that the kids should be available for photographs, smiling and happy, showing how delighted they were to be with their loving, newly sober mother.
Lexy had dressed the children up in matching outfits: they were in fuchsia and white, accessorized with gold stars, to match the book cover. It was Lexy’s invariable practice to do this herself when launching her products, dressing up to embody the branding. She herself was wearing a fuchsia jumpsuit with white trim, her hair piled up on top of her head and studded with big gold star pins, her eyeshadow gold and her lipstick the exact same shade of fuchsia. Round her neck was a gold star necklace, and matching stars dangled from her earlobes. Coco Chanel had famously advised that, to avoid wearing too many accessories, you should look in the mirror and take one thing off before you leave the house. Lexy was much more likely to put three more on.
Laylah’s outfit was a miniature version of her mother’s in every respect, apart from the fact that the gold sandals had a one-inch heel, rather than four, and her face was bare of any make-up but lipgloss. London was dressed in white trousers and a fuchsia T-shirt with a gold star on the front. Lexy had even convinced him to have his short tight curls sprinkled with gold powder, telling him it was magical fairy dust; she couldn’t help thinking how much fun it would be to pull these photographs out in ten or twenty years’ time and embarrass him thoroughly.
All day, Lexy had been unable to stop smiling every time she looked at her two gorgeous children. Now, however, she was horrified at what her daughter had just blurted out. Her small daughter was frowning furiously at Jessi, Saira and Lindsey over the top of her frozen yoghurt.
‘You don’t even know Caroline, but you said something nasty about her!’ she said loudly. ‘You’re a mean lady!’
The three women’s expressions were a blend of consternation and excitement. They had been busted by a ten-year-old, yes: but it was Laylah, who they saw on TV every week! They could boast forever about having met Lexy’s daughter. Also, she had mentioned Caroline! This was fantastic gossip, if they could just eke it out a bit longer . . .
‘Ooh, that looks like a yummy ice cream!’ Jessi said in the kind of high-pitched voice people use to talk to babies.
This approach was met with the contempt it deserved.
‘It’s not ice cream, it’s frozen yoghurt,’ Laylah said coldly. ‘You’re naughty and stupid.’
‘Laylah, that’s rude!’ Lexy snapped, catching the eye of Gareth’s assistant and trying to indicate, by rolling her eyes furiously, that she needed to whip the children away immediately. This was the problem with not having a nanny; there was no one to tell Laylah that her frozen yoghurt would be confiscated if she didn’t apologize straight away, then whisk her off again to keep her out of trouble.
‘She was rude first, Mummy! She was rude about Caroline!’ Laylah screeched.
‘I miss Cawoline,’ London said wistfully.
‘You miss her?’ Saira pounced on this juicy gossip nugget, bending down to London’s level.
‘Is it true Caroline helped you write the book?’ Jessi, greatly daring, asked Lexy, thinking that she might as well try the question that everyone in line had been strictly told not to ask. Jessi already had her signed copy of the book, after all: what were they going to do, rip it out of her hands?
‘Is Frank going to go to Australia to see her?’ Lindsey asked, going for gold. ‘Is he upset about her and Santino?’
‘Okay, that’s enough!’ the PR said, swooping in with a mad stare, her arms outstretched like condor wings to shoo the three women away from the signing table.
If Lexy’s PR Emily had been present, the situation would never have got to this point. But Bailey and Hart’s publicists were handling this, and skilled as they were, they did not deal with soap actors and reality stars on a regular basis, but much dowdier and less famous authors. They had not anticipated the intense, fervent curiosity which Lexy’s fans directed towards every detail of her life.
And then, of course, there was the unfolding spectacle of Caroline to add extra fuel to the flames – not just Lexy’s love rival but her unacknowledged ghostwriter, appearing live on television every night, making it clear that she had moved on from Frank by draping herself over Santino every chance she got.
Jessi, Saira and Lindsey were herded in short order through the exit, a loud stream of ‘Thank-you-so-much-for-coming-Lexy-really-appreciates-your-support-enjoy-the-book’ pouring from the PR’s lips. Lexy signalled frantically to Gareth’s assistant, wide, sweeping gestures that told the young woman to pull Laylah and London around to the back of the table.
‘Eat your yoghurt quietly while I finish up my signing,’ Lexy said. ‘And don’t talk to anyone.’
‘Why did the lady say Cawoline was mean to Mummy?’ London asked through a very large mouthful, brightly coloured sprinkles smeared all over his mouth.
‘Don’t say her name any more till we’re home! ’ Lexy hissed over her shoulder, so vehemently that London’s eyes popped wide, the way only small children’s do, saucer-like with surprise. Then they stretched even wider in panic: in his shock, he had choked on a tapioca bubble. Laylah exclaimed:
‘Oh my God, London! Mummy always says to chew the bubbles properly!’
She pounded him on the back, blue eyes glittering with sheer glee at being able to both swear and hit her brother without instant retribution. Lexy shrieked even as London let out a massive cough, his narrow little ribcage spasming as he hoicked up the bubble. The waiting fans, having gasped at the sight of London in distress, let out a collective sigh of relief as the tapioca bubble flew out of his mouth and splatted messily onto the fuchsia fabric. Then they burst into spontaneous applause.
Lexy was already dashing round the table to London, dragging him into her arms. If she had spent more time bringing up her own children, however, she would have known that this was a terrible mistake. Her inability to stay calm turned a minor mishap into a full-blown drama. London, seeing his mother burst into tears of relief, started crying too, clinging to her, his yogurt-smeared mouth staining her jumpsuit. It was a total meltdown. The more they hugged, the more they sobbed.
London’s mishap, as it turned out, had provided the perfect release for the stress Lexy was going through that afternoon, the humiliation of sitting behind a signing table with a bright smile when every single woman buying her book knew that it had really been written by her husband’s mistress. It had been hard enough to hear Caroline’s name, let alone tolerate the fact that her daughter was still attached enough to that woman to defend her in public.
Additionally, Lexy was terrified by the fact that Frank still had not been in touch. What if he ended up not even leaving her for another woman, but simply . . . leaving? Wouldn’t that be even more humiliating? The prospect of this, always on her mind day and night, was so overwhelming that once she had started crying, she simply couldn’t make herself stop.
‘Okay!’ the PR said, eyes still manic, clicking her fingers at the tech guy who was sitting at the far end of the table, laptop open, equipment stacked in front of him. ‘We were saving this as a fantastic surprise for Lexy at the end of the signing, but I think we should do it now . . . let’s go!’
Huge TV screens were strategically positioned around the central atrium of Sweetwater, where the signing was taking place. These had been displaying the usual content that ran in a loop in luxury malls: promotional videos for shops and restaurants, catwalk footage of the latest fashion shows, interspersed with fuchsia and gold banners announcing thrillingly that Lexy was signing her book ‘RIGHT NOW IN THE ATRIUM!’ together with a prominent image of the cover of Lexy on the Loose.
No audio accompanied the images, however. Sweetwater had a low-pitched, carefully chosen soundtrack piped through its speakers, calibrated to adjust for different times of day and evening, based on their research into its visitors’ shopping patterns. Now, however, the mood music faded away and was replaced by the very familiar theme tune to the number one reality show in the world, Sugar Girls.
Heads jerked up all around the atrium at the melody: the name of the show was now blazoned on the screens. The theme tune played out, the volume increasing, even though the opening sequence – in which Silantra, Shanté and Summer each popped up in turn, dressed in white and flashing huge smiles in which their perfect pearly teeth were barely visible behind their hugely inflated lips – did not appear. The music was a tease, to catch the attention of every fan of the show. Finally, Silantra’s face and impressive cleavage appeared on screen.
‘Hi Britain, I’m Silantra!’ she said in her hugely well-known sexy purr, and her hardcore fans screamed in excitement at the realization that this was not a clip from an upcoming show, but Silantra actually talking to the gathered crowd.
‘How’re you all doing?’ she asked, and many of them, eyes wide, actually called back: ‘Great!’ or ‘Fine!’ or ‘I love you, Silantra!’ as if she could somehow hear them.
‘So I’ve recorded this clip to say Hi to my new bestie, Lexy! Hey, that kinda rhymes,’ she realized, tilting her head. ‘Bestie Lexy! Hah, you can see this isn’t scripted, yeah? So, like, I hope the book signing went really well, Lexy. I’m like totally psyched to be appearing on your show. And you should come to the States and guest star on Sugar Girls! We had such fun hanging out in London! Everyone, you gotta watch that episode of Lexy’s show.’
Silantra winked, a slow, sexy gesture that was much more significant to Lexy than to anyone else watching. The straight guys present whooped at its sheer eroticism. Only Lexy knew what Silantra meant: if Lexy was willing to spend another wild night with Silantra and her wide array of toys, Lexy would be granted the prize of a guest appearance on Sugar Girls.
It was a huge opportunity. It would open more doors to her in the States than anything else could ever manage. And it was entirely risk-free: there was absolutely no way that Frank would ever in a million years guess that there was a very specific quid pro quo for the tremendous privilege of being in an episode of Sugar Girls. Who would?
Besides, although it wasn’t Lexy’s usual sexual preference, she had thoroughly enjoyed that night with Silantra. It had been great fun; it truly hadn’t even felt like cheating, as it was so removed from her day-to-day life. If she were single, she would do it again in a heartbeat.
But she wasn’t. She was married, and even though she was currently estranged from her husband, she wasn’t going to cheat on him. Which was ironic, considering that she had been perfectly happy to cheat when she had actually been with Frank.
Damn it, this is Doktor Weinstein’s voice in my head, isn’t it? she thought suddenly. In her sessions at Schloss Hafendammer, the doctor had hammered home the point that adults behaved exactly the same way when they were alone as if someone was watching. Children, he had said firmly, sneaked a drink or a cigarette in private, as if it were cheating someone else and not themselves. Adults, however, were able to discipline themselves without the need for observers to keep them in line.
In her sessions with the doctor, Lexy had not talked about her one-night stand with Silantra. It hadn’t even occurred to her as something to feel guilty about, and since it hadn’t been tied into her drinking in any way, it hadn’t seemed relevant.
But it did now.
‘And hey,’ Silantra concluded, ‘don’t forget to watch the new season of Sugar Girls, starting the seventh of September on Bravo TV!’
She waved a theatrical goodbye. It was noticeable that Silantra, whose speech was usually littered with likes and yeahs, was perfectly capable of forming a sentence without either when it came to publicizing her show as clearly as possible.
‘Miss you, Lexy!’ she finished, blowing Lexy a kiss.
The screen flickered and reverted to the usual mall programming. The audience, which was now swelled with the shoppers who had flooded out of boutiques at the sound of Silantra’s voice, was buzzing with excitement. Lowering their phones, they checked the images and videos and excitedly posted them on social media.
I’d kill to be on Sugar Girls, Lexy thought. Funny expression – you say that without thinking. And when you do think about it, you realize that not only wouldn’t you kill, but you wouldn’t fuck someone to get what you want either.
Not any more.
Lexy was growing up, and not before time. She was the mother of a nine-year-old and a four-year-old, for God’s sake. And by Doktor Weinstein’s definition, her choice to turn down the opportunity Silantra was offering truly counted as an adult decision, because Frank would never know that she had made it. ‘Hey, honey, I’m so committed to you that I’m not going to fuck Silantra any more, not even to get on her show,’ was not a line Lexy would ever be using to convince her husband to come back to her.
Lexy had a sudden, vivid picture of one of the Lego towers London loved to build; once they were as tall as he could possibly manage, he would gleefully knock them down and promptly start to rebuild a different one from the same pieces. That was exactly how she felt – as if she too had been torn down, and now was slowly reassembling herself into a very different shape, from the ground up.
Or maybe she was a Transformer! That was an even better metaphor, and of course it also came via London. He was obsessed with those films, could watch them in an endless loop.
She realized, with a half-smile, that her images were entirely drawn from London’s choice of entertainment. That would never have happened just a few weeks ago; back then, she wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what toys her son played with, what films he loved best.
She really had changed.