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Chapter Fourteen

The ‘red’ carpet is actually zebra print, and when we arrive, we’re handed a plastic mask that only vaguely resembles a guide dog.

There are also people here in elephant masks, including all of the Born In Buckinghamshire lot, or at least I think it’s the BiB lot from what they’re wearing waist-down.

The lads are flashing red socks, hiked up high, paired with shiny ‘formal’ shoes and the girls are all wearing pencil skirts so tight they can only wiggle in them, and pointy stiletto court shoes.

“I thought it wasn’t about elephants?” I whisper to Layla as we approach the paparazzi pen. I’d forgotten just how bright the flashes actually are and worry they’re going to really emphasise my patchy tan.

“It’s about both, we’re in competition. So we’re to raise as much money for the guide dogs and the BiB gang are all supporting the elephants,” Layla whispers back, as if it’s the most normal sentence in the world.

I try looking around for Damon before approaching the mob of photographers but I can’t see him, so instead Layla and Madison both grab my hands and we step forward as a trio, with me in the middle.

“Shagged a pumpkin, have we, Angelica? If you think you’re Cinderella, it’s your carriage that’s meant to turn into a pumpkin, not you,” the paps begin to shout.

It’s so tempting to yell “fuck off” but that’s exactly what they’re trying to do – to get a reaction.

A picture of me, going berserk at them, will sell for so much more the next day.

Now I know what they’re like, I feel guilty for every time I looked at a picture of a celebrity angrily shouting at photographers and thought ‘she’s crazy’.

Now I realise they’ll have made her crazy, all for their pay cheque.

So, instead, I grit my teeth and smile and laugh until the next person arrives and we can finally step off the ‘zebra’ carpet and try to have fun.

There’s a charity auction later and we’re the ‘prizes.’ On each table sits a catalogue of everything people here can bid for to raise money for the two charities, and we’re at the back, after a spa day at Champneys and a helicopter ride over London.

My caption reads NO ANGEL: WIN A SINNER and I try not to let it get to me, as, after all, it’s all for a good cause.

My great uncle had a guide dog that helped him have so much more freedom, so I really do want to help the charity raise as much money as possible.

But, admittedly, I’m dreading going up on stage so people can bid on me like I’m a piece of meat.

I think of how Crystal eyed me, and glance down at my dodgy tan.

I yank my dress down to cover more but it keeps shifting and twisting round when I walk, and Crystal’s remarks about the ‘large’ knickers are on repeat in my mind.

That and how pretty and tiny she was, and how much she resembled the girls Damon has been papped with every day of the week.

I try and shake all the negative thoughts out of me, remembering how Mam always says comparison is the thief of joy, and she’s absolutely right.

But then she’s never been surrounded by absolute stunners, women whose job it is to look hot, while having to deal with a bloated belly and a patchy tan.

I grab one of the free drinks that are floating around on trays, a ‘Doggy Tini’ which, by the taste of it, is just pure gin.

I down it in one, just as Samantha approaches, all fake smiles and arms outstretched for a hug.

And…is that a new pair of fake tits? When she pulls me in for a hug and I feel their hardness against mine I realise it absolutely is.

“They’re great, aren’t they?” she says, as I goggle at her chest. They don’t feel good but they really do look good. “Ben bought them for me!”

“Your agent bought you new breasts?”

“Yeah, honestly, he’s the best. It’s a gift he gets all his new VIP clients. Anyway, babe, how are you? You’re looking…” she fades out as she realises there are no other words for orange.

It’s sometime hard to believe that, for a while in the house, Samantha and I were proper friends.

When she wasn’t doing the voiceover or calling people to the voting booth to get people’s dump day names, she’d come and hang out with us.

She really took me under her wing for the first few weeks and I so appreciated her support, she’d always been big on the clubbing scene across Liverpool and Manchester, so knew which bouncers to avoid and which bars would let us stay on past closing time.

It was only when she began to notice that I was getting on so well with the lads in the house, especially Reed, that her snaky behaviour began, she’d come over and whisper things like “I’m just telling you this because I care, but Marc said you’re a fat slag and I think you deserve to know the truth,” or she’d try and meddle with my friendship with Madison and Layla, always under the guise of fake concern.

It made it really hard to argue with her because she’d simply retaliate that she was “just trying to help” and that sometimes “the truth is really hard to hear.”

It seems, even now, even after making her intentions to me very clear when we last saw each other at the telly awards, that she’s still got her eyes on the prize.

I tell her I’m fine, that I’m excited to be in London while also trying not to tell her anything solid about my life, knowing how often she can take even the smallest snippet of information and twist it for her own gain.

“I think it’s so great how well you’re handling it all, honestly,” she simpers.

“If I was still living at home, with no real opportunities coming my way, I mean, God, I’d take the house burning down so badly.

I’m just not upset because Ben’s lined up so much for me, you know, he even says that Celebrity Mountain Cadets are interested in me! ”

When we were in the house we all sat around and spoke about what our dream reality TV show would be.

Mine was always Celebrity Mountain Cadets , where they take twelve celebrities, from all different backgrounds, a chef alongside an ageing rock star alongside a footballer, and they’d all have to live in a camp up the top of a mountain and do all these crazy survival challenges to win prizes, like ice swimming or camping on a tiny ledge on a cliff.

I thought it sounded like such an adventure but Samantha had wrinkled her nose at the prospect of appearing on the show (and me, for wanting to go on it) and said she’d much rather appear on a chat show, or if she was going to ‘lower herself’ to contestant status like us, it would have to be on one of “the beach ones, so I can just sunbathe all day looking hot” and she’d always maintained that “honestly, I was such a lad for wanting to do Mountain Cadets ” and had laughed in a way that implied I was idiotic.

“No one looks sexy in camo, unless it’s a mini skirt,” she’d said back then.

“Oh that’s brilliant, good for you,” I say through gritted teeth.

There’s no way I’ll show her how jealous I am.

Unfortunately, it means she just carries on talking, obviously with a mission to get under my skin.

“Also, are you here with Damon tonight?” She doesn’t stop to give me time to reply.

“Babe, I’m telling you this for your own good.

Ben’s told him it’s good for his image to be seen with you, but you need to know he’s just doing it for the media. Oh, oh babe, don’t cry…”

I am not about to cry. I’m sticking my tongue on the top of my mouth, it’s a trick Mam taught me, it stops the tears coming out. Besides, I actually feel more like decking her than crying. And, I remind myself, how can I trust a word Samantha has to say?

Samantha doesn’t pause for breath. “I only tell you because I care! Now look who I’m about to introduce you to.”

She waves a woman over, who steps up squealing, arms outstretched as if for a hug but when she’s within body contact, the pair just do air kisses and begin exclaiming how ‘fabulous’ they both look.

The woman is short, in a crushed velvet suit that’s a tad too small for her.

But her face is kind, she has a rosy-cheeked insecurity to her that doesn’t quite match the way that she’s talking.

She’s bouncing on her toes with a kind of pent-up energy.

She says to Samantha, “Can you believe they’re not offering champagne tonight?

I’m having to drink this hideous sugary cocktail, when I’d much rather a glass of Moet.

You’d think they hadn’t looked at the guest list before arriving!

” Before she notices I’m standing there, and says, “Angelica, so nice to meet you finally. I thought you were an absolute hoot on North Stars , you’re such a great actress!

I don’t think I could have pretended to be that obsessed with that himbo, Damon! ”

She begins to laugh, and Samantha joins in and I don’t know how to explain to her that our reality TV is just that: reality, just with the boring bits edited out.

I wasn’t faking anything. Now though, outside the house, I am faking things more and more, like right now as I force out a gurgle of a laugh as I’m not sure what else I’m meant to do.

“Nice to meet you too,” I say, waiting for her to tell me her name.

But she doesn’t. Perhaps she’s so important she never usually has to.

Only I’ve got no idea who she is. “I think the cocktails are delicious,” I say, wishing I had the bravery to also point out the event is for charity, not for providing us lot with free drinks. They’ve already been generous enough.