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Authors: Scarlett Thomas
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it all. Fleur doesn’t know where the Prophet’s packages go; he has spared her that. But she’s been happy to bank the proceeds. But will they be enough? Because if Namaste House is sold then . . .
‘Don’t they say people aren’t spending money any more? I meanluxury spas and designer gurus are a bit, well . . . With the credit crunch and everything, surely people are cutting back?’
‘Celebrities will always spend money on feeling better about being sent thirty grand’s worth of handbags that are named after another celebrity.’
Augustus snorts. He’s not poor himself – far from it – but he looks down on people who make money from singing about having sex on the floor, or on the beach, even though he has had sex on lots of floors and also on the beach. In fact, sex on the beach was almost certainly what got him into this situation with Fleur in the first place.
‘No, I’m serious. It’s really hard to cope with a life that’s so absurd,’ Fleur says. ‘Imagine this. You’ve grown up on an estate in Folkestone, dirt-poor but beautiful. You’ve never had any money. You’ve been on one holiday with your mates to Ibiza that cost under a hundred quid and it was the best time you’ve had in your life. Your friends become hairdressers and waitresses. You get some work doing backing singing and save up to buy yourself one of those’ – Fleur points at the journalist’s Mulberry – ‘which costs eight hundred quid but then you realise that more famous models and actresses and pop stars are being given these things for free, because the companies want their stuff pictured with celebrities. Anyway, to cut a long story short, you make it. You become famous. You release an acclaimed album and you’re savvy enough to pick up a stylist as soon as possible and before you know it you’re walking for Dior even though you’re not a model. You do a duet with the most famous indie singer in the country.
Now
you get sent bags. You get flown first class. You stay in five-star suites. It’s great, but you realise you can never go back to Ibiza with your mates again. You can never get excited about earning enough money for a handbag again. The more money you earn, the less things you actually pay for. Everything becomes worthless. Meaningless. But you have to stay famous because the only thing worse than your current life would be to go back: back to poverty and having to takebuses and buy frozen food and make your own doctor’s appointments. But nobody stays famous. Some people are famous for three years, but that’s about it unless you’re actually Tom Cruise.’
Augustus puts three, no,
four
, lumps of sugar in his tea. Fleur continues.
‘So one day your assistant books you an economy plane ticket by mistake and they won’t let you in the executive lounge. You protest and are removed. You try to upgrade but there are no available seats left on that flight. You don’t even know how to buy a plane ticket any more. You actually use the dreaded words that you used to joke about with your mother: “Do you know who I am?” They don’t. Well, they do, but they’re not going to upgrade you now your mascara is running. And there was that thing in
Grazia
last week, and you’ve put on a couple of stone since you stopped touring. You want to kill your assistant, really kill her, but instead you fire her by text message. You sit in the economy cabin sobbing because for the next three hours you are going to be normal. You may as well be dead. Your lowest point is when you go to use the business-class toilet – because that’s the one you’ve always used before– and the cabin crew politely but firmly steer you back to economy.’ Fleur pauses. ‘That’s where you find spirituality. Right in that moment. That’s when you are most ready to be filled with light.’
‘You are so like her.’ Augustus shakes his head. ‘It’s uncanny. But be careful, though, darling. Make sure you’re prepared for
‘Don’t they say people aren’t spending money any more? I meanluxury spas and designer gurus are a bit, well . . . With the credit crunch and everything, surely people are cutting back?’
‘Celebrities will always spend money on feeling better about being sent thirty grand’s worth of handbags that are named after another celebrity.’
Augustus snorts. He’s not poor himself – far from it – but he looks down on people who make money from singing about having sex on the floor, or on the beach, even though he has had sex on lots of floors and also on the beach. In fact, sex on the beach was almost certainly what got him into this situation with Fleur in the first place.
‘No, I’m serious. It’s really hard to cope with a life that’s so absurd,’ Fleur says. ‘Imagine this. You’ve grown up on an estate in Folkestone, dirt-poor but beautiful. You’ve never had any money. You’ve been on one holiday with your mates to Ibiza that cost under a hundred quid and it was the best time you’ve had in your life. Your friends become hairdressers and waitresses. You get some work doing backing singing and save up to buy yourself one of those’ – Fleur points at the journalist’s Mulberry – ‘which costs eight hundred quid but then you realise that more famous models and actresses and pop stars are being given these things for free, because the companies want their stuff pictured with celebrities. Anyway, to cut a long story short, you make it. You become famous. You release an acclaimed album and you’re savvy enough to pick up a stylist as soon as possible and before you know it you’re walking for Dior even though you’re not a model. You do a duet with the most famous indie singer in the country.
Now
you get sent bags. You get flown first class. You stay in five-star suites. It’s great, but you realise you can never go back to Ibiza with your mates again. You can never get excited about earning enough money for a handbag again. The more money you earn, the less things you actually pay for. Everything becomes worthless. Meaningless. But you have to stay famous because the only thing worse than your current life would be to go back: back to poverty and having to takebuses and buy frozen food and make your own doctor’s appointments. But nobody stays famous. Some people are famous for three years, but that’s about it unless you’re actually Tom Cruise.’
Augustus puts three, no,
four
, lumps of sugar in his tea. Fleur continues.
‘So one day your assistant books you an economy plane ticket by mistake and they won’t let you in the executive lounge. You protest and are removed. You try to upgrade but there are no available seats left on that flight. You don’t even know how to buy a plane ticket any more. You actually use the dreaded words that you used to joke about with your mother: “Do you know who I am?” They don’t. Well, they do, but they’re not going to upgrade you now your mascara is running. And there was that thing in
Grazia
last week, and you’ve put on a couple of stone since you stopped touring. You want to kill your assistant, really kill her, but instead you fire her by text message. You sit in the economy cabin sobbing because for the next three hours you are going to be normal. You may as well be dead. Your lowest point is when you go to use the business-class toilet – because that’s the one you’ve always used before– and the cabin crew politely but firmly steer you back to economy.’ Fleur pauses. ‘That’s where you find spirituality. Right in that moment. That’s when you are most ready to be filled with light.’
‘You are so like her.’ Augustus shakes his head. ‘It’s uncanny. But be careful, though, darling. Make sure you’re prepared for
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