Deep in her cavernous Sussex mansion, a lonely tear-drop fell from Heather Mills’ face, falling onto her huge, expensive dining table, made to look even larger by the fact that she was sat alone at it. “It’s just not fair”, she said to herself, her shrill voice echoing around the massive room, “All I want is to have lots of media attention, so I can tell them to leave me alone”. She pulled herself up from the table, sending the chair flying backwards. Her maid, Petunia, came scuttling in. “What’s wrong, Miss Heather?” she enquired with a worried look on her face. “Oh, Petunia, I wouldn’t expect you to understand, you’re not beautiful, famous and intelligent like me”, Heather sighed. “Try me, Miss Heather!” Petunia smiled kindly. The ex-wife of the ex-Beatle paused for a second and then decided to pour her heart out.
“Well, you see, Paul, you know, my ex-husband, Paul… he’s just won a bloody Grammy for his stupid album. Kisses On The Bottom… a title that I came up with, by the way, while we were in bed together and… anyway, you don’t need to know about that. Anyway, the media have gone crazy about him. He’s been in The Sun, The Times, The Mirror, all the American papers, all the music magazines and, well, I have just opened my second vegan café in Brighton, which is obviously much more important, and guess what media coverage I got? A few lines in the Brighton Argus! Where’s MY Grammy?!?” Heather’s eyes started to fill with tears and her lip quivered for dramatic effect. “I’m… getting less coverage than a paedophile… and the world, well, they love Paul, don’t they. Saint Paul! He stabbed me with a wine glass you know and refused to buy me an antique chamber pot for me to tinkle in at night! It’s just NOT FAIR!!”
Petunia nodded silently. “Permission to speak freely, Miss Heather?” she said softly. Heather, salt water welling in her eyes, nodded gratefully. Petunia cleared her throat. “Well, the way I see it, Miss Heather, is that nobody is interested in you any more. Most people, if they can be bothered to have an opinion about you, think you’re an incredibly annoying, attention seeking, vindictive bint. In fact, they were only interested in you because you were married to Paul… and, even then, people just put up with you because you were married to somebody they liked. They’re not interested in your vegan café because nobody likes vegan food, not even vegans. They eat it because they have to. In fact, I think the majority of people would be very happy to never hear your name again, let alone reading about you in the paper. You’re a narcissistic, self-important fantasist who, even if Paul did stab with a wine glass, people would probably understand why he was driven to it. I, myself, have considered doing the same about five times already today and this has been one of your better days. You have a harsh, shrill voice which causes dogs, dozens of miles away, to howl, and a face that makes you look as if you drink nothing but vinegar. If you want my advice, and I’m sure you don’t, then you will live a quiet, happy life, enjoy the money you have, keep out of the papers, stop doing all this crazy PETA stuff and let the world forget you.”
Heather, visibly shocked and tight-lipped, mulled these words over. She shook her head, composed herself and nodded. “Yes, yes, Petunia, you’re right. I need to get myself in the papers more, get people to listen to me and like me… maybe even present my own talk show on television and, of course, do much more work for PETA. Perhaps open a vegan café in London called “Heather Mills’ Vegan Café” near to Abbey Road, too! Thank you, dear Petunia, you’ve been a massive help!” She gave her bewildered maid a quick hug and flounced off to call her publicist. Petunia shook her head sadly. “Every day”, she said wearily. “Every bloody day…”