How to Be Famous by Caitlin Moran

Author:Caitlin Moran
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-07-02T16:00:00+00:00

For the first hour, we just concentrated on drinking the champagne—Suzanne very pointedly counting out “That’s drink Number One—only four left!” “Drink Number Two there—only three more for me! I’m working in the morning!” in front of Zee.

I could see how painful this was for Zee—being cast as Suzanne’s jailer, when the reality was he was someone who’d just given her £50,000—simply because he believed in her.

Before now, I’d never really realized that was what record companies—little indie record companies—were: transactors of love, and belief. What an amazing invention. What an amazing invention Suzanne is shitting all over.

Still, this was not my biggest problem. Since I had known them, I had harbored the fond belief that, when I got Suzanne and John together, they would become the best of friends. They were the two most alive, vital, funny, not-fuck-giving people I knew—it seemed obvious that, when we all finally gathered in one place, we would form a gang. I have never been in a gang before—ever—and the idea of finally being in one seems like the solution to all unhappiness and doubt. I’m pretty sure that I will never be sad again once I am flanked by my Friar Tuck, Potsy, and Goose.

In the event, this belief turned out to be a wrong belief.

After spending just ten minutes in Suzanne’s company, John took me into the kitchen, on the pretext of finding an ashtray, knocked back two shots of whisky in one go, and said, “Is she an actual fucking madwoman? Has she escaped from a ward, or prison? Or suffered a recent blow to the head?”

I looked out into the living room, where Suzanne was wearing John’s fur coat, and matter-of-factly crushing pills on the table with the heel of her shoe, then sprinkling them into a spliff, whilst continuing a long, unbroken monologue on how, as a teenage girl, she used to sporadically throw herself down the main staircase of her local WHSmith: “They’d think I fainted. They’d take me into their back room and give me cups of tea, and fags, and free copies of Vogue. It was amazing.”

“Why did you do that?” Zee asked, concerned.

“To get cups of tea, and fags, and free copies of Vogue,” Suzanne replied patiently.

When I planned this party of fuck-ups, two weeks ago, I had decided I would theme it like an informal nineteenth-century salon—beginning the evening by introducing intriguing conversational topics which would spark effervescent debate, to the edification of all. I presumed this would be a fairly normal thing to do.

As I said before, I had never thrown a party before.

As I could see that Suzanne was about to launch into another anecdote—“Therapy? Oh God, let me tell you about therapy. My first-ever therapy session, for Narcissistic Personality Disorder, I was half an hour late. I got distracted, doing a Cosmo quiz on ‘How Self-Obsessed Are You?’”—I decided that this was the ideal time to start the intellectual part of the evening.

Again, that was a wrong decision.

Banging on the

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