Vanished Years Read Online Free PDF Page A

glass of wine and wished I was dead. This was a nightmare.
    Actually it was a dream come true. Ever since I can remember, I have had a recurring dream about being sent back to boarding school. Sometimes I am packing my trunk. At others I am arriving in my dormitory, or going in to school prayers. Everybody whispers as I walk by, because I am not a child in these dreams. I am the person I am on the day of the dream, so usually I am a famous movie star. Sometimes I am going to a première in my school cap and shorts. I can’t take them off because I might be spanked. (Wet dream.) Sometimes I am late for a performance in the theatre in London because I am brushing my teeth at a row of sinks, ludicrous in dressing gown and slippers, in a crowd of tiny boys. (Anxiety dream.) Or sometimes I am on the skids and am sent back to school by my agent. (Realistic dream.) No matter how much I try to explain that I shouldn’t be there, that I have to leave, no one listens. Theylook right through me because they can see only a small boy acting up.
    ‘But Mummy, I’m famous now.’
    ‘I know, darling. Isn’t that super?’
    How can I go and live in a dormitory with other boys?
    ‘You’re boring me now, darling! Pull yourself together. You’ll love it when you get there.’
    Dreams do come true. This was the first day of school. There were the big boys, with their untucked shirts and terrifying testosterone levels, the friendly matrons and misses, sympathetic but distant, and finally, appearing out of nowhere, everyone’s hero, our very own scoutmaster, Mr Curtis.
    ‘Gather round, everyone!’ he said.
    ‘Hooray!’ we all roared. We jostled in, eager scouts and cubs. Richard was rather like a big blond schoolboy, a white rat. He had that confidence one loves in the school’s most popular prefect.
    ‘Sir. Sir. Sir.’
    We all put up our hands in worship, hoping for a nod, a wink, a wank even.
    ‘Now you all know the form,’ he continued, arms akimbo. Only his toggle was missing. ‘It’s going to be tough. But a lot of fun, I think. I believe you’re going to the hotel now, and the sooner you all get started the better. There’s a lot of work to do. Any questions?’
    ‘Yes. I have one,’ drawled Jo Brand. ‘Couldn’t we just click our fingers like they did in Los Angeles?’
    Polite giggles. Mr Curtis threw back his head and laughed.
    ‘No, Jo, we can’t!’ he said.
    I wanted to ask when dinner was, but didn’t dare.
    ‘Well, good luck everyone. Have a smashing time.’
    Everyone picked up their suitcases, signed their release forms and braced themselves for the next circle of the inferno.
    I was bundled into a car with Alastair Campbell. It was already nine o’clock. Alastair and I were squeezed onto the back seat while two camera sharks and their pilot fish squatted at our feet, pointingtheir various tools in our direction. There was obviously going to be no off-camera time. We were both rigid with performance as we scrolled through our phones, pretending to look for people to call and ask for money.
    ‘I don’t know anyone,’ I moaned.
    ‘Of course you do,’ encouraged Alastair, looking over my phone. ‘Who’s Joe Escort?’
    I took a moment to think. The camera’s black hole rounded on me enquiringly, dilating into a close-up.
    ‘Um. An escort called Joe?’
    ‘Any money?’ replied Alastair without missing a beat.
    ‘Tons probably. Cash too.’
    We drifted off into our own thoughts. I tried to think of some ingenious way to escape, because I knew I could not spend four days with these people and their cameras in our faces 24/7. I had arrived at my charity Waterloo. Here I was, sitting in a car with the man who sexed up the dossier that took us to war in Iraq. Actually he was rather nice in person, but so was Hitler. Alastair was discreet and world weary, like a retired gym teacher. He seemed big, badly dressed and sexy, and his sad eyes looked medicated. Maybe taking us to war had exhausted him.