Chapter 17: Pornstars Get Upgrades

‘What the hell is this?’ I said, genuinely angry. ‘This is all a joke to you?’ I was waving my fake passport at the red-headed woman, the passport which said I was a pornstar.

‘But…’ said the woman.’

‘Do you think it makes me feel empowered?’ I said. ‘Do you think it’s my secret dream to be a pole dancer because being leered at is a sign of being a strong woman in control of her own sexuality?’

‘Mary Sue…’

‘You know, of course, that almost every woman in porn is grossly exploited, and that glamorising the superstars legitimises the bottom-feeding bastards enslaving the crack-addled junkies.’

‘Of course I…’

‘And you realise that making sex a legitimate industry helps the arseholes enslaving thousands of girls who’ve been sold by their parents or escaped repressive dictatorships only to find themselves in brothels where…’

‘Stop it, Mary Sue!’ snapped the red head. ‘Yes, I know.’

‘Then, presumably you won’t mind when I tell you to…’

‘Shut up, Mary Sue. I get that you’re excited to have the chance to be angry about something you understand, after everything that’s happened, but we don’t have time for your high horses, I’m really sorry. We’ve got to get you out of the country right now, this is a special flight, and believe me, that passport is going to make you a lot less conspicuous than one saying you’re a barrister. And also, security will remember all the wrong things about you. This is stuff we know about, and you don't,’ she added harshly, handing over a make-up box. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes. Go to town.’ I tried to snatch the box, but I felt sheepish. What had that been about? Ginger-girl was obviously right – I’d gone into rant mode because I’d been pushed around ever since I’d met David Tennant and he’d cut off my husband’s head. I had a chance to vent, and I’d taken it. I am the most predictable person in the world.

I looked into the make-up box. It was full of things I had never been able to afford, by which I meant things that were so expensive I refused to buy them. It transpired that they genuinely were better than the things I had at home. We were approaching Luton airport by the time I’d finished. In a weird way, I felt protected, like you do at a fancy dress party where your costume armours you against your normal shyness. Maybe it’s what pornstars do? Maybe they pretend that the pornstar person is a different person to them. Maybe that’s how they pretend to be in control of what’s happening to them, or pretend not to care? Or maybe they’re just addled. I looked at my lap, and I said, ‘But my clothes?’

‘Bag behind you. Change now – now one can see in.’

The bag contained a little t-shirt with a Rolling Stones-style mouth-and-tongue twisted so it was licking my breast, a pair of high heels with Perspex and fur, which made my jeans suddenly look as if they might have cost a thousand pounds, and a wig very like my hair looked before I hacked it off, but with golden highlights and a slight curl. ‘Wait,’ I said, struggling into the shirt, ‘Surely I’m not allowed to wear a wig? Not going through customs?’

‘Also, you’re not allowed to go through with a fake passport.’

‘Oh, yes.’ I thought the wig would look preposterous, like every wig I’ve ever seen a man wear, but it didn’t. Maybe we only notice the preposterous wigs, and that’s why we all think wigs are preposterous? I looked like, well, I don’t really know what pornstars look like, but I didn’t look like the me who went to work this morning.

When we got to Luton airport, the redhead gave me a quick look, nodded and handed me a pair of huge shades that covered most of my face. ‘When they speak, say nothing. Just look bored.’ We turned into a drive marked service vehicles only, and up to a chi-chi aluminium and glass terminalette. Everything was there – a customs man, a passport control, an x-ray machine and the world’s smallest Starbuck’s concession – but on a dinky scale, and with a lot more deference. Ginger did everything for me, while I stood six feet away, trying to look haughty and feeling stupid.

There was a screech of wheels from outside, and a skidding sound. I was terrified, but I think I kept the fear behind my panda glasses as I ‘boredly’ turned my mask to the main doors of the terminalette. Ewan McGregor was setting a huge black motorbike on its stand. He rushed in, glanced breathlessly at Ginger and theatrically mopped his brow. ‘Whew,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d be too late. The Teacher only called me an hour ago.’ Then he turned to me and said, ‘Are you all right, Mary Sue?’ I nodded. ‘Come on then.’

Ewan McGergor’s bag preceded mine through the X-Ray machine, and he handed over his passport. When it came to my turn, the man apologised that I would have to take off my glasses. I did so, but I could have been a Cyclops for all he’d have noticed. From the moment he read my passport, his eyes never got above my breasts (‘How tiny they are!’ he must have been wondering. ‘Is that her thing?’) and, in tiny glances, my mouth. It was creepy, but I could see that my job was no surprise to him, and there was no chance he’d remember what I looked like. Ewan McGregor was practically pulling me out of the door when he suddenly swivelled. ‘Harold,’ he called to the man on the X-Ray machine, and tossed him a set of keys. ‘I know you’ve always loved that bike. Treat her well.’ The man’s face lit up, and I noticed that the red-haired woman was quietly leaving.

‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ I called.

‘I’ll see you later,’ she replied. ‘If we’re lucky. Stay strong, Mary Sue.’

I’d ever been to Luton airport – I always imagined it was a crappy one, and maybe it is for normal passengers, but the bit where all the film stars keep their private jets is very nice. Fifty yards walk in the hazy twilight and we were climbing the stairs of an unbelievably cool-looking plane, and Johnny Depp was at the door ushering us in, saying, ‘Thank God you’re safe, Mary Sue, let me take your things, not a minute to waste, you are ok aren’t you, Vanessa’s dying to meet you, but she’s just getting the kids to sleep, hi Ewan.’

The engines were already roaring as I climbed in, and the moment Johnny Depp closed the door, the plane started to move. ‘Champagne?’ said Ewan McGregor. ‘You look as if you need it.’