Dead Famous

“Of what?” Jazz asked innocently.

“Of my vagina.”

“Oh, right.”

“Any time you want someone to help you celebrate it, Layles,” said Garry.

“Sherrup, Garry,” said Moon. “It’s not about fookin’ blokes, it’s about bein’ a strong and spiritual woman, in’t it, Layles?”

“Yes, it is, Moon, that’s exactly what it’s about.”

Kelly was still a bit confused. “Well, I don’t get what these anthropologists are on about. Why would any girl want to have a face like a fanny?”

Layla had to think about this for a moment. She had never been asked before. People she knew just tended to nod wisely and ask if there was any more guacamole.

“I don’t think they mean exactly like one. It’s just an impression of genitalia in order to steer the male towards procreation.”

“Oh, right, I see,” said Kelly.

“It’s why female monkeys turn their bottoms pink. If they didn’t they would have died out as a species long ago. Trust the woman to find a way.”

Everybody nodded thoughtfully.

“Did you know that monkeys have star signs?” said Moon. “Yeah. This mystic went to London Zoo and did horoscopes for all the advanced primates, and do you know what? She got them all bang on, their personalities and everything. It were fookin’ weird.”

DAY SEVEN. 8.00 a.m.

For the previous day or two Dervla had made a point of always being the first up in the morning so that she might have the shower room to herself. On this occasion, however, she found Moon had beaten her to it, not because Moon had suddenly transformed herself into an early riser, but because she was only just on her way to bed.

“I’ve been sat up all night reading that Red Dragon book Sally brought in. You know, the first one with Hannibal Lecter in it. Fookin’ amazing, I were fookin’ terrified. I reckon that’s the scariest kind of murder that, when there’s no fookin’ reason for it except that the bloke’s fookin’ mad for topping people, you know, a serial psycho.”

Dervla waited while Moon brushed her teeth and staggered off to bed.

“Wake me if I’m missing out on any food,” Moon said as she left the bathroom.

Now Dervla was alone, standing before the basin mirror in her underwear. She sensed movement behind the mirror. The housemates were occasionally aware of the people behind the mirrors: there were tiny noises and at night sometimes, when the lights in the bedrooms were off, shapes could vaguely be made out through the mirrors. Dervla knew that her friend had come to meet her.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” she said, as if having a private joke with herself, “who’ll be the winner of us all?” She pretended to laugh and put some toothpaste on her brush. None of the editors watching could have imagined that she was talking to anyone.

Soon the writing appeared, just as it did every morning. Ugly ungainly letters. The messenger was clearly having to write backwards and perhaps, Dervla thought, at arm’s length.

“Woggle number one with public,” said the message.

She nearly blew it. She nearly blurted Woggle’s name out loud she was so surprised to discover that he was in the lead. Fortunately she stayed cool, allowing her eyes to flick downwards only momentarily.

Her anonymous informant completed his message. “Kelly 2. You 3,” it said, and then, “Good Luck XXX.”

Dervla finished brushing her teeth and washed her face. So she was running third. Not bad out of ten. It was certainly a surprise that Woggle was so popular, but when she thought about it she supposed he must have a lot of novelty value. It would soon wear off.

Kelly was much more of a threat.

She was a lovely girl. Dervla liked her. Clearly the public did too. Never mind, Dervla thought to herself, there were eight weeks to go yet. A lot could happen in nine weeks and surely Kelly couldn’t stay so happy and so sunny for ever.

Before leaving the bathroom Dervla wiped the words off the mirror and blew a little kiss at her reflection. She thought that her friend the cameraman might appreciate a small friendly gesture.

DAY THIRTY-TWO. 11.35 p.m.

Coleridge tiptoed from the kitchen into the living room with his second can of beer. Upstairs his wife was asleep. She had been asleep when he’d arrived home and would still be asleep when he left the house again at six the following morning. She had left Coleridge a note pointing out that although they lived in the same house she had not actually set eyes on him for three days.

Coleridge searched out a Biro and scribbled, “I haven’t changed,” beneath his wife’s message.

The note would still be there the next night, only by then Mrs Coleridge would have added “more’s the pity”.

She didn’t mean it, she liked him really, but, as she often remarked, it’s easy to think fondly of somebody you never see.

Coleridge had brought home with him the Peeping Tom press pack relating to week one in the house. On the front was attached a photocopied memo written on Peeping Tom notepaper. It was headed “Round-up of housemates’ public/press profiles at day eight.” The writer had been admirably succinct.

Woggle is the nation’s pet. Mega-popular.

David is the bastard. Hated.

Kelly has phwoar factor. Popular.

Dervla is an enigmatic beauty. Popular.

Layla is highly shaggable but a pain. Disliked.

Moon is a pain and not even very shaggable. Disliked.

Gazzer and Jazz liked. (Not by feminists and intellectuals.)

Sally, not registered much. When has, disliked. (Note: gay community think S. an unhelpful stereotype. Would have preferred a fluffy poof or lipstick lez.)

Hamish not registered.

Coleridge leafed through the clippings. Most of them confirmed the Peeping Tom memo. There was, however, some discussion about the fact that House Arrest Three was defying expectations and performing much better than had been predicted.

“The saggy souffle rises!” one headline said, referring to its prediction of the previous week that souffles do not rise twice, let alone three times. This was news to Coleridge, who had not realized that when the third series of House Arrest had been announced there had been much speculation that the reality show bubble had already burst. Coleridge had presumed that this sort of show was a guaranteed success, but he was wrong. The press clippings revealed that many shows conceived in the heady days when it seemed that any show with a loud and irritating member of the public in it was a guaranteed winner had failed to live up to their promise. And at the start of week one the new series of House Arrest was confidently expected to be a big failure. But it had defied all the grim expectations, and after seven shows had been broadcast it was already doing as well as its two predecessors. Nobody was more surprised about this than Geraldine herself, something that she freely admitted when she appeared on The Clinic, a hip late-night chat show, in order to promote week two.