Mile High Guy (8 page)

‘No,
you
decide,’ I insist. Of course I’m only insisting because I can’t think of anywhere exciting enough. After all, I can hardly bring an A-list star to my local pub, can I? Hang on though, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. Hmm. Why didn’t I think of it before? Come to think of it I would LOVE to bring Adam to my local. Imagine their faces. All those people whom I know to see. People that know me to see too but never bother to say hello. Then again, a guy like Adam isn’t seriously going to show up at my local pub, is he now? No, he’ll just think I’m using him to show off to my neighbours. Which I wouldn’t be. Of course not. Well, not really.

But I guess a TV star like Adam would like to hang out in Lillies or Krystle. Not in my local haunt.
I reckon he is the type of guy who’d be whisked through the door and escorted up to some VIP area or VVIP area – whatever that means these days.

‘I know a little pub in Wicklow,’ Adam says suddenly. ‘It’s a lovely traditional old-school type pub with no loud music or pretence.’

Am I hearing things? Is this really Adam Kirrane speaking? Adam, who flies first class everywhere, is chauffeured around to all the best London parties, presumably, and spends half his life on TV? He doesn’t like VIP bars? Well, what do you know?
How wrong can you be about someone?

‘That sounds great,’ I say trying not to squeak like an over excited teenager. ‘Er . . . what time will we meet up?’

Of course what I really want to ask is what time he’d like to pick me up at but I don’t want to come across all diva like. Also, I think it’s unfair to ask someone to be the designated driver for the night. And I don’t particularly want him to stay sober all
night anyway in case I get locked and end up making a fool of myself.

‘Where do you live? I’ll pick you up.’

Okay. Relax. Adam
is
offering to pick me up. Fine, no that’s fine really. I mean it’s not like nobody has ever picked me up before, although TV stars usually don’t, I have to admit. However, I’m now thinking I’m maybe a bit too old to be living with
my parents. Maybe it’s time I moved out, you know?

I give Adam my address.

He says he’ll pick me up at seven thirty.

I make a mental note to remind myself to be ready and looking out the window for Adam’s car so I can rush outside. The last thing I want is Mum asking him what he does for a living. She wouldn’t approve in a million years. Actors end up in the gutter, according to Mum, along with poets, musicians and everybody else who basically doesn’t wear a suit and tie.

I put down the phone and wait for my breathing to return to normal. Oh my God, can you believe THE Adam Kirrane is going to be calling around to my humble home? I wonder should I get a disposable camera? And get someone to snap him leaving
my home, so that if he ever breaks my heart at least I could sell the photo to the papers and make a bit of money? Okay, that’s just me being silly. I would seriously never sell my story or a photo of the two of us. No. I know some girls do but they’re
not exactly respectable girls, are they? They’re usually cheap-looking things who appear in the tabloids dressed in frilly underwear with their mouth slightly parted under some dubious headline like ‘WE DID IT SIXTEEN TIMES’. Sixteen times!
Sure where would you get the energy? Those women are usually peroxide blonde and work either in a bar or in glamour modelling, although sometimes, embarrassingly enough, they are air hostesses with some low-budget airline. Not exactly great for the
global image of our profession, is it?

But seriously, would you really believe those
people do it sixteen times in a row? I mean, do they count? Thank God, tabloids are forbidden in our house anyway. My dad can’t stand them. Anyway I don’t like reading how so-and-so was an animal in the sack and all that. It’s a bit yuck, isn’t it? The only reason I read this rubbish is because passengers often leave the daily rags on board the plane. And I flick through them when I’m having my crew lunch. Out of boredom really. Don’t believe me?

OK then, I admit it. I love the tabloids! Happy
now? I wonder has anybody ever done a ‘kiss and tell’ on Adam. Hopefully not. After all it’s usually footballers and pop stars who get bad things written about them. I haven’t seen too many actors caught up in those kind of scandals. I suppose
they’re too busy learning their lines and going to auditions. I must start reading
The Mirror
again. I love those 3am girls. I reckon they’d be fun on a night out.

Okay, okay, I’d better get moving. I am going out on a date with one of the world’s biggest hunks
and instead I am imagining a night out with three women. Get real here, time is not on my side. First things first. What the hell am I going to wear? I wander upstairs and open my wardrobe door already knowing I’ll find nothing remotely suitable.

I also know I’m going to try on ten different outfits before choosing the same thing I always wear out, which is basically a black polo neck (classy, warm and hides the dirt) and jeans because they are Miss Sixty and flattering. They make me look like I haven’t made any effort and that’s essential for tonight. I do not, absolutely not, want to look
like I’ve made any kind of effort. I am sure all the girls Adam takes out make an enormous effort. Like wearing lots of make-up and going to the hairdresser. Speaking of hairdressers, I catch a glance at my own wig in the mirror and think I’d better ring Peter Mark now!

An hour later I’m sitting with my head back in the basin and a pain in my neck. Janice, my favourite hairdresser, is asking me if I’m going anywhere nice.

‘I’m going on a date,’ I tell her.

Janice looks surprised. Well, that’s not that surprising really. After all, for the four years I’ve been coming here the reply has always been ‘Oh, you know Janice, just a night out with the girls.’

She raises an eyebrow but I wish she wouldn’t look quite so flabbergasted.

‘Anyone nice?’ she asks.

‘Well, I hope he’s nice,’ I grin. ‘Obviously.’

I’d love to tell her. I mean I’d love to announce to the whole salon who I’m really meeting later on but I’m sure nobody would believe me. I feel bad for not telling Janice though considering I probably know more about her fellow than his own mother does. But I mustn’t tell anyone yet. You see if it doesn’t work out, I don’t want people to be asking me all about him for the rest of my days. How annoying would that be?

‘Nice and straight?’ Janice asks, attacking my head with a comb.

‘Yes,’ I nod. Janice always asks if I want my hair nice and straight.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’

‘Oh, please, yes,’ I nod enthusiastically. ‘Black.’

‘And a magazine?’

‘A paper please.
The Mirror
if you have it.’

I’m looking forward to reading about what those 3am girls have been up to. What an exciting life they must lead. Schmoozing with A-list stars as part of their job. Wow! I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of them though. Dear God, no.

Janice disappears and returns with a huge mug of strong coffee,
The Mirror
and the
Evening Herald
. Ah bliss. I just love a trip to the hairdresser, don’t you? It’s great to be pampered. If I were rich I’d go to the hairdresser every single day.

‘Will I put a bit of leave-in conditioner in your hair? It’s very dry.’

I don’t answer. At first. Instead my eyes are glued to a picture of Adam. It’s a huge picture and he looks so stunning. He’s smiling, revealing picture perfect teeth and he’s wearing a tux. His necktie is loose and he’s sitting on the ground with his legs
crossed.

‘A bit of leave-in . . . God, he’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’

‘Ye . . . es. I’d like just a little bit of er . . . leave-in conditioner. Not too much though.’

‘He’s sleeping with your one, Jane.’

‘Who?’

‘Your man. Nick.’

‘Nick?’

‘Your man.’ Janice points her comb at the picture.

I suddenly remember that Adam’s screen name is Nick. And that Jane is obviously sleeping with Nick and not Adam. Which is a relief really. If Adam was sleeping with someone called Jane in real life,
obviously I wouldn’t be too happy.

‘Do you watch the show?’ I ask fishing for info.

‘Do I watch it?’ Janice’s eyes widen. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m a complete addict. My fella hates it though. He hates Nick. I just think he’s jealous though.’

‘What’s Adam, I mean Nick, like?’

‘Oh, he’s a bastard,’ Janice’s comb slices through my wet hair. ‘But you know a lovable bastard. He gets away with stuff ’cos he’s good-looking. You should watch it.’

I agree. I should.

‘I wonder if he’s like that in real life though?’

Janice looks at me oddly in the mirror; as if she’s never considered for a minute what he might be like in real life.

‘You wouldn’t know, would you?’

‘I wonder what it’s like to be an actor?’ I ask dreamily.

‘Oh I dunno, I’ve never thought about it,’ Janice laughs.

I’ve left the hairdresser now and I’m lying on a sunbed in a tanning salon. People
think it’s strange that I use sunbeds because I never go mahogany brown. I just get a bit red in the face and acquire a few more freckles but sunbeds make me feel like I’ve been out in the sun. And I feel warm for the rest of the day. So that’s my excuse. Of course I’m not telling people to hit the nearest sunbed as a way to keep warm though, as that would be ridiculous.

While I’m here in the salon I’m wondering should I get a facial. But then I think I’d better not in case my skin breaks out in spots before tonight’s big date. It’s happened before.

I’d love to buy something new to wear, but sure there’s no point, is there? I’ll wait till my next trip to New York where I can pick up something in Lord and Taylor. That’s my favourite shop in the whole
world. Did you know that Lord and Taylor on Fifth Avenue has a whole floor for petite people like me? I love the clothes there and love the way I don’t have to get the legs of everything taken up. Little people like me shouldn’t be discriminated against.

Yes, I’m small, which I used to find really annoying when I was younger. Because it didn’t help me get into bars and clubs. But now I kind of like being small because people think I look younger. I’m not tiny obviously because I had to be five foot three to be an airhostess. I’m exactly that but was terrified going in to be measured for
the job. I also had to have an eye test because good eyesight is required (God knows, I’ve never been able to figure out why!) and I’m as blind as a bat. However, I cheated and kept my contact lenses in throughout the eye test. Well, I was
desperate
to
get the job!

I’m off the sunbed now and feeling hot. I wipe my sweat off the machine out of consideration for the next customer, get dressed and head outside. I make my way up to O’Connell Street to get the bus home. I don’t drive. I mean I
know
how to drive but I just don’t. I can never understand these people who amuse themselves by ‘going for a long drive’. Driving in the city terrifies me. So I’m waiting for the bus and suddenly it’s getting really dark and I’m having a panic attack in case it rains and my blow-dried hair goes all frizzy.

All I got was a blow dry. Nice and straight. I’ll
need to get the roots done again next week, which is a pain. I get them done once a fortnight. In fact sometimes I feel I’m only working to pay for my hair.

Oh great, here’s a bus. I hop on quickly and go upstairs to get a seat at the top at the very back.
The reason I like sitting at the very back is because I’m hoping nobody will sit beside me. Haven’t you ever noticed that people on the top of a bus never go right down to the back? Unless they happen to be annoying kids.

I think it’s because people don’t like to draw attention to themselves. I mean if you walk down to the back of the bus, and find no free seat, you have to walk away again and everybody stares – very embarrassing.

My phone rings. Oh no. I hate talking on the bus. Adam’s number is flashing and I kind of freeze. Oh God, what’ll I do? I can’t answer and tell him
I’m sitting on the 46A. How uncool would that be? Then again, I can’t let it ring and ring and annoy the hell out of the other passengers. So I answer tentatively.

‘Hello?’

‘Katie?’

‘YeeSSS,’ I answer a bit too enthusiastically. My sister once told me I sound like a funeral undertaker when answering the phone, so now I make a huge phoney effort to be cheerful.

‘Where are you?’

‘Well I’m out with friends actually. Just having coffee . . . and a bit of a laugh, haha.’

I notice a couple of people on the bus turning around. They either think that (a) I’m completely mental or (b) simply a liar. But I don’t care. It’s not like I’m ever going to see any of them again.

‘Are you in town?’

‘Yes, yes I am. That’s right.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Em . . .’ I try to think of somewhere trendy. ‘Ba Mizu, it’s just behind the Powerscourt Townhouse centre. Do you know it? It’s very nice, very relaxing.’