On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer (17 page)

The next day they were back on the expensive chairs in Filch's office. Amanda leant forward to sign the theatrically oversized contract on Filch's desk. Filch himself was sat bolt upright, gently tapping the tips of his fingers together, barely able to disguise the look of glee in his eyes, though his mouth remained reassuringly sour. Jamie sat back in his chair, a slightly concerned look upon his face, as if he had the smallest of reservations about the proceedings.

“So,” declared Filch, “Welcome to the family.” And he snatched up the contract, briefly checked the signatures and then placed it in a draw. “Well, let's get started then. I suggest we set about this with some degree of urgency. Let's say Friday. Get yourself down to
Butter
in New York, you know, the club. Hilton and Lohan will be there, and doubtless numerous other pap-hunters, has-beens and wannabes. Check out who's around, choose the most popular girl you can find and create a few minor scenes with her during the night. Keep it down though, you wanna just set the pan on the hob, don't let it boil over. Then, as you're leaving, turn it into a cat-fight. Try to get the other girl to throw the first punch if you can, but if not no matter. I'll see to it that the cameras are
there; spread a few rumours or something . . . You just make it good, and believable . . . And make sure they get the pictures they want. Get your skirt ripped off or something if you can. But not boobs. We're not ready for that yet . . . yes, keep them in reserve for now . . . But some kind of wardrobe malfunction could be good . . . I guarantee you double page spreads if you get it right. Excellent! Let's meet again then on Monday at 11 to discuss the results.” And the meeting was over.

And so on Friday night Amanda found herself stalking celebrettes at
Butter.
She had easily overcome her initial reservations about the plan, and indeed Jamie's, after all he was really just a minion; his opinion was only occasionally required, and even less frequently acknowledged. He was under strict instructions to wait by the exit and not to interfere under any circumstances. She was treating the evening as a piece of improvised theatre, and as such had entirely emotionally disconnected from the events she was about to instigate. Of course, being Amanda Palmer, Manda as the press liked to call her, she could approach anyone she liked without fear of cold shoulders. But who should she play? Who would make the best victim to her manipulations? Who was the most popular amongst this evening's many celebrettes? . . . And then she saw her principle target. Madonna, Princess Madge herself. Perfect. So much to provoke her with. Her age alone would probably be enough. And it might mean she leaves earlier than some of the more youthful amongst her fellows. Yes, that would indeed be perfect, and she made her way towards the crowd of wannabes, wannabeseenwiths and other glamour-moths that surrounded Madonna. She elbowed her way through.

“Madge my dear, so good to see you, you look awesome!”

“Oh, Amanda, what fun.” And they did the whole French mock double kiss thing.

“No really, you look fantastic. I mean, look at the two of us. Who'd ever guess you were twice my age?” And so the baiting began. Over the following few hours Amanda truly discovered the bitch within; taught it all the subtle airs and graces, refined and
nurtured it, then let it out into the world with the precision and elegant accuracy of a master. Indeed, so perfected were her jabs and spars that to report the details here would seem inappropriate lest it mar the memory of a once-great artist or inspire entirely the wrong kind of behaviour amongst the younger generation of lady readers. Ever dutiful, Jamie sat quietly near the exit, patiently watching from a distance, appalled at what he was seeing. At one point drinks were thrown, though none of the liquid concerned reached its intended target. Then, finally, at around 1:15am, Madonna and her entourage left with Amanda following closely behind.

As the door to the outside world swung open they were greeted with a torrential hail of flashes. Amanda seized her moment, shouting at Madonna:

“You ******* ****! You'd **** your ****** for ********!! ****** ******** *****!!!” She was correctly assuming that words don't come out in photographs.

The insult hit its mark with all the pointed perfection of a beesting. Madonna reacted instinctively, swinging round and catching Amanda on the cheek with her fist. Amanda then responded by grabbing Madonna by the hair and the two engaged in a wrestling match during which Amanda somehow contrived to have her skirt ripped off. All the while they were screaming expletives at each other like angry chimpanzees. And then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Madonna was gone. Amanda suddenly became once again aware of the photographers and grabbed for her skirt, which was on the floor nearby. She was crying. She was happy. The cameras kept flashing.

The following Monday, at 11:04 am they were ushered into Filch's office.

“Ah, Manda, do come in. Splendid work. You've seen the papers I assume?” He was almost grinning, though it came across as more of a grimace, and the boil on his nose had vividly yellowed.

Amanda had indeed read the papers. She had read the articles over and over, and drank up the pictures as if they were the elixir
of life itself. Generally they were sympathetic towards her in their portrayal of the “incident”, but she didn't really care what they were saying so long as it was about her. That was all that really mattered.

Filch held up a spread from the
Boston Herald
. “MADGE MAULS MANDA!” the headline declared, and there were four pictures: the first showing Madonna's impressive right hook; the second and third of the pair of them locked in a vicious bear hug; and the last of Amanda, in tears, makeup streaked, trying to preserve what remained of her dignity whilst reaching down for her ripped off skirt.

“Oh yeah! It was fun,” she replied, and her face became one large grin. She took the seat closest to the desk, whilst Jamie meekly sat in the other chair, which had been moved some distance away, by the wall.

“And you certainly picked the right girl. She was delighted. Even sent me a thank you card.”

“What? She's a client of yours too?”

“Oh they're all my clients . . . Now! Next step. We have to move fast at this stage to build up momentum. Do you take any drugs?”

“No . . . well, other than the occasional bit of pot.”

“Hmmm. That's not really . . . well we can keep it in reserve . . . Would you? Or pretend maybe? Would you care if the papers said you did?”

“Errr . . .”

“No. Wait. Got it. Perfect. The mystery just adds. We'll check you into the Betty Ford Clinic. Just for a few days. Not make any comment why. Let them speculate. I'll arrange your arrival for 2pm tomorrow. And don't worry, they won't treat you or anything. It'll be like a five star holiday . . . You'll love it. They'll love it. The paper's will love it. We'll all love it.”

“So you work with them then? The Betty Ford Clinic?”

“No. Not with them. They're also clients. They have a suite set up for situations like this. It's good for them, it's good for you,
it's good for me . . . we're all happy! . . . I'll call them now. And, naturally, let a few other people know too. See you next Monday then. Say midday . . . precisely, mind.” And once again Filch turned towards the phone and the meeting was over. As they left, both Amanda and Jamie noted that he had seemed unusually jolly on this occasion. Amanda took this to be a sign that things were going particularly well. Jamie, on the other hand, was just a little bit suspicious. However, knowing what all this meant to Amanda he chose not to air his concerns.

The Betty Ford Clinic was indeed, as promised, much like a five star hotel. Her suite was luxurious, self-contained and in an entirely separate building from the treatment blocks, which was something of a relief as Amanda most definitely did not wish to mix with the “addicts”. But most importantly, she had all the relevant papers and magazines delivered each morning, and thus spent much of the rest of the day lying on her bed drinking hot chocolate whilst flicking through the many pages, reading all about her stay and the various speculations that surrounded it; for in her brief period without publicity she had learnt to value it all the more. As Sunday evening loomed signalling the end of her stay, she displayed a clear reluctance to leave, only checking out at the very last minute. It had all been very refreshing; to be talked about without having to even do anything . . . Filch certainly seemed to know his business.

The next day, at precisely twelve o'clock, Amanda and Jamie were ushered once again into Filch's office.

“Ah, Jamie, dear Jamie . . . I have a little job for you.” Jamie was somewhat surprised as this was the first time Filch had addressed him directly.

“Take this to the address on the front,” and he held out a large padded envelope. “It's important . . . for Amanda.”

Jamie looked at Amanda and her eyebrows said “do it”, so he took the package and made for the door.

“Be quick mind. It's rather time sensitive.”

Once Jamie had left Amanda noticed that there seemed to be
only one chair on her side of the desk. She turned her attention to Filch. His nose had swollen up to almost twice its usual size and his lip bristles were coated in what she hoped was cappuccino foam.

“What was that all about?” she asked, hastily returning her thoughts to Jamie, before her disgust at his appearance showed.

“Oh, just a little insurance policy, to see he plays ball . . . You're going to have to get of rid him you know. He has qualms, and in this business you can't afford to have qualms . . .” and he let out a little chuckle of self-satisfaction. “Right, so, where were we? . . . oh yes, how was Betty Ford? Good, I hope.”

Amanda began excitedly gushing about her stay, though it was clear that Filch wasn't listening.

“Well, we certainly generated a great deal of speculation,” Filch continued. “Now we deliver the payoff. The public does so love a fallen angel . . . the only question remains . . . what exactly is the nature of your fall?” He slowly chewed on the last sentence like a hard but delicious sweet toffee.

“Of course we can't give it all away at once . . . we need to keep them guessing, but throw them a few scraps from the high table, a little something to keep up their interest . . . You ever been in any trouble?”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You know, with the law.”

“Not really. Got a few points on my license.”

“Hmmm . . . tell me, are you really committed to this? . . . I mean, just how far are you prepared to go?”

“Oh, trust me, I'm committed. Fuck yeah!”

“Good. So you gotta get yourself arrested, right. Nothing too serious, but not too trivial either. Britney and Winona have already done the shoplifting thing, so it needs to be more than that. Naomi's kinda cornered the assault thing too, and that never really worked anyways; put people off her. Whatever, it needs to show a little vulnerability. Maybe get yourself a 51.50, you know, the psych ward. We need to make them think that you're losing it,
make them sympathise...”

“. . . I could run naked round Times Square, that might be fun.”

“No no no, that's a little too much . . . for now anyways,” he chuckled to himself, obviously enjoying the image. “But I do like your thinking . . . hmmm . . . ok, how about this: a complete emotional breakdown whilst trying on lingerie at La Petite Coquette. I can see it now; wandering the store in tears, makeup smeared across your face shouting at random customers, cursing your figure, all in an unnecessary state of undress. If we're lucky we may get a shot of you sobbing your heart out, naked and vulnerable. Or even better; being dragged off by the police in your underwear. Yes, that really would be a coup. What do you think?”

“Sure, easy. Yeah.”

“And if we can get you a 51.50, I'll get you into Elmira. I have friends there. It won't be as cushy as Betty Ford, but still, it could be a lot worse. And I've heard the food is great.”

“Sure, yeah. Great.”

“So shall we say Wednesday evening, La Petite Coquette?”

“Yeah, Wednesday's good.”

“Oh, and don't mention anything to Jamie. I suspect he will disapprove, maybe cause problems . . . I think you should do it as soon as possible, getting rid of him that is. He has become surplus to your requirements, I do hope you can see that.”

In all her excitement at the pending exhibitionism she had completely forgotten about Jamie. Yes, she could see it had to be done, but the sudden knot in her stomach reminded her that she had grown quite fond of him over the last few years. It would be a shame, but she knew what was important now, and she certainly wasn't going to throw away her chance for mere sentimentality.

On Wednesday evening Amanda gave the greatest performance of her life so far, rightly earning herself the required 51.50 for a stay at Elmira Psychiatric Centre, where she arrived at around midnight amid a veritable scrum of photographers so dense that security had to be called to clear a path for the ambulance through
the main gate. The following morning's papers were everything she had hoped for, some photographs even making it onto the front pages of certain tabloids both in America and even across Europe. That was new. She hadn't hit the European papers for many months now, and though she knew Europe to be something of a backwater, it was still publicity: there were people across the pond reading about her, and wasn't that what “world famous” meant? Yes, things had gone spectacularly well.

As ever, Filch was right, about everything. The food was indeed pretty good, though the service was poor, and she hated the pale green gown they made her wear: it made her look shapeless, washed out, almost ill, like some kind of hospital patient. But it wouldn't be for long. No, her main concern now was dealing with Jamie. She knew he would show up sooner or later, probably sooner, and no doubt gushing with concern and sympathy, wanting to put things right. Ach, he could be so damned annoying! And she curled up in her hospital bed, flicking through the gossip channels, hoping to catch what they were saying about her, taking her mind off the impending scene between her and her oh-so-loyal assistant.