Page 27

“Full of sugar, though,” she repeats. “Full of sugar. Speaking of sugar, though,” she looks me up and down (what is it with people doing that to me?

!) “You know, you should meet Morgan.” She beckons over a tall, earnest looking man who is wearing an insanely tight polo neck under his suit. “Morgan McHugh, meet Angelica Clarke.”

I smile, but Morgan just frowns at me, looking at me through his heavy-framed glasses like he’s trying to solve a theory.

“Morgan has just got over two million dollars funding for his new high-nutrition, low-fuss meal replacements shakes – NuYu.”

This seems to stir him up. “They’re not ‘shakes,’ babe,” Morgan drawls in his LA tones.

“They’re the food of the future. Silicon Valley’s foodstuff of choice, they’re going to revolutionize how we eat.

High-fibre, low-calorie, superfood-enriched and brain-stimulating.

NuYu is nutrition for the 21st century.”

Thankfully, Sam’s friend cuts off his advertorial speech. “Anyway, best take my seat for the auction. Lovely to see you, Samantha; and call me, Angelica, if you ever fancy doing a fitness DVD, you know before-and-after?”

“So gorgeous to see you too. You look amazzzzzing, Geraldine,” Samantha trills, and the woman toddles away, waving at people as she goes.

“Who was that?” I ask. “And is it not really fucking rude to tell someone they need to do a fitness DVD?!”

“Oh you’re not seriously upset by that, are you?

” Samantha asks. “That’s Geraldine Smith, she’s the producer of some of the top-selling fitness DVDs around.

Hideous little woman, ugh did you see her outfit?

She looked like a magician. But a good person to know.

I mean I would never do it, and she’s never asked me, as obviously,” she moves her hand up and down her body, she’s in a wrap dress so tight it’s practically mummifying her.

“I don’t need the transformation they always like in these things.

But you, babe, you could kill two birds with one stone.

Why not get yourself in shape and make some money from it?

God, in fact, I should really charge you commission for introducing you to her! ”

“Ladddiiieeesss and gentlemaaaannn,” the booming voice over the loud speakers interrupts me before I lose my cool and come close to throwing my cocktail in Sam’s face. “It’s time for the charity auction to take place, please take your seats and your paddles and get ready to spend generously!”

I’m grateful to be able to escape Samantha and be able to just sit and listen for a while, without having to question whether I’m speaking to the right people or fully utilising this event to boost my career.

I hate all that bullshit. I want to be able to just focus on the videos they’re playing of the prizes you could ‘win’ (although I’m not sure why they keep claiming you win the prizes, when you’re the one paying for them) and drink my excessively sugary cocktail in peace.

But as soon as I sit down, I can’t concentrate.

I’m just hit with the avalanche of insults that have been hurled my way today, from Crystal to Geraldine to Samantha, and they pile on top of everything I’ve had to read about myself since the show hit the air.

I feel like I am no longer Angelica, but instead have been replaced by a blob of butter, just sitting here all melting and unloveable.

I’ve always felt satisfied with my weight, I’ve had ups and downs like everyone has, but mostly whenever I’ve put on a little extra, I’ve called them my ‘fun pounds’ knowing it was just because I’d been out having a blast with my friends and, always, finishing my nights off with a kebab.

But recently, the fun pounds haven’t felt so fun anymore.

Not when the trolls are saying things like ‘oooft she’s got more belly rolls than my dad’ and ‘no wonder Damon isn’t into her, not when she’s slowly morphing into the Michelin man.

’ I know they’re just trolls, and those faceless keyboard cowards definitely won’t have perfect bodies, as they type furiously from a basement somewhere, but it’s really hard not to let them get under my skin.

Verity said that, with time, I’ll get used to tuning them out.

But this fame game is all so new, and the nasty voices keep jabbering away at me, drowning out anything nice I’ve heard about myself.

“And now for the mega prize of the night! They’re hammered, hilarious and horny and…you’ll probably get a shag at the end of the night, it’s dates with the cast of the hit reality TV show, North Stars !”

This is the last thing I want to do. I notice how the BiB lot haven’t raffled themselves off.

Instead they’ve offered all these ‘exclusive’ prizes – a ski lesson with Sebastian, pilates with Penelope Titherington-Thomas, clay pigeon shooting with the slightly horse-faced one from the show who claims to be a relation of the Windsors.

But us lot? We’re selling fun – a messy night out.

So I paste on a smile, preparing myself to do the last thing I feel like – go and stand on the stage, beside Samantha and Layla who are both much skinnier than me and seem unbothered about the fact we’re going to have stay up here while people bid for dates with us.

It’s like being picked for the netball team back in school.

I feel so out of place and awkward, but also like I’m being a buzz killer if I complain.

As we walk to the stage, Madison accompanies us and Layla can’t stop laughing, finding this whole thing so much fun.

“A millionaire might bid for us,” Layla’s saying.

“And we’ll fall in love, like Pretty Woman but the reality TV version. ”

The lads are walking behind us, pumping their guns at all the old ladies in the crowd and blowing kisses.

Damon looks handsome as ever, but also, I realise with dawning horror, he’s a completely normal tan colour.

How did his end up a subtle golden shade and I look like I’ve been hosed down with Irn Bru?

We all line up on the stage and the spotlight is so bright I can barely see the audience, or who’s bidding for who.

The lads have already made it into a contest between them as to who will raise the most, and Samantha’s snuck up behind me and whispered, “bet I’ll get double how much you get,” and, while it’s exactly what the lads have been saying to one another, it feels so much bitchier when it’s us girls.

I want Layla to get lots of bids (and hopefully bag a millionaire as then, surely, I’d get invited to their mansions all the time) but I don’t want it to be a competition.

But I guess, by nature, it is a competition.

Just like the show. Just like this stupid award Sam seems so fixated on.

The lads go first and, unsurprisingly, Marc gets the most bids.

And the woman who ‘wins’ him is actually really hot, she’s an older lady but clearly spends a lot of money on herself, everything about her from the tight leather pencil skirt she’s wearing, to her swishy blow dry screams expensive.

Behind her back, Marc high-fives the lads, mouthing “MIIIILLLFFF” at them.

I look over at Madison to see if this has upset her.

After all, I know she’s just as weak with Marc when he comes calling, as I am with Damon.

Damon comes second and Reed comes last, which I think is very unfair, as he’s the sweetest of the lot.

Damon’s bidder, I am relieved to see, is an actual old lady, she must be over seventy, though she’s got a wicked glint in her eye.

She pulls him in for a massive kiss and he just manages to move his face in time for it to miss his lips.

Madison yells, “You get yours, honey” at her, and the old lady comes over and gives all of us high fives. What a legend!

When it’s our turn Layla goes first. “She’s the size of a pint glass and just as tasty, this little pocket rocket will blow you away!

” The bidding races away and soon it’s Sam’s moment.

When the ‘winners’ come to collect their prizes I realise both Madison and Samatha’s dates are older men, both with moustaches.

Layla’s date is grinning like he’s just won the lottery, whereas Samantha’s man is much more reserved, and somehow vaguely familiar.

It would be typical if Sam had bagged some kind of celeb.

I stare at his moustache and try to think why I recognise him.

I wonder if the advice of ‘never trust a man with a moustache’ counts when they’re well over sixty and most likely couldn’t cause much trouble apart from a run on Viagra.

When it’s my turn I try to strut into the spotlight, just like Sam and Layla did. But the strut ends up more robotic than I would have liked, and then, because I realise this, I decide to make a joke of it by doing the actual robot when I get to my spot. The audience looks on, confused.

“We know her moves in the bedroom are much better than her moves on the dancefloor. Could you be the one to tame our little saucepot?” The crowd cheers and I try to smile, rather than wince.

I curse myself for ever saying that. I notice Damon out the corner of my eye pumping his arms and grinning.

“She’s lovely, lively and we all know she’s got no inhibitions!

Could you be her next conquest? It’s Angelica! ”