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ones did. You could have parked a bloody car in the gap! I was gutted.
    There had been a delay of a few days before I could have my boob job, which threw my schedule, and because we had been away longer than we had planned, Pete had to fly home then to see the kids and so my sister flew out to be with me. I really missed the kids. Princess was only six months old and I had never spent this long away from her before. I spoke to Junior and Harvey every day but I really wanted to be home with my family, but all my other appointments had been put back because of the delay to my boob job.
    A few days after my op I returned to the dentist’s to have my new veneers put on. Yet again I had to have an anaesthetic, which I knew wasn’t ideal as I’d just had one, but my teeth had to be done. I didn’t realise anything was wrong immediately after I’d had the new veneers, probably because I was so drugged up. But the following morning – ouch! It felt as if someone was putting ice on the front four teeth on the right side of my mouth. So I was on painkillers for my boobs and for my teeth, and generally feeling very sorry for myself.
    ‘Only one thing for it,’ I said to my sister Sophie. ‘Some beauty treatments and some retail therapy.’
    First up was the hair. I wanted a change . . . a dramatic change. I’d been blonde throughout my pregnancy with Princess and in the months afterwards, but now I wanted to go dark, really dark. Black, in fact, an intense blue-black. And that’s exactly what I did – and I loved it. Next I had some filler put in my lips. It only lasts six weeks so I thought, ‘What the hell?’ Oh, and I had all my Botox done too – I have it injected into my forehead and round my eyes. I have it done every four months and I love not having wrinkles. One of the celeb mags printed some rubbish about me worrying that I had gone too far with the Botox and that I was concerned that I couldn’t move my face at all. I’m like, yes! Job done. Why do you think I spend all that money on it? That’s how I want to look!
    Retail therapy next. I was still weak from all the surgery and so when Sophie and I hit the shops, I wasn’t with it. I admit, I looked a mess. I was wearing really comfy clothes – tracksuit bottoms, a big jumper and my UGGs – and I had my nose cast on. It probably wasn’t my best look but . . . oh my God! You should have seen how the shop assistants in the designer stores looked down on me as soon as I walked in. They seemed to be wondering how someone who looked like me could possibly afford to buy anything there. They were so snotty, it was a proper Pretty Woman scenario – you know, when Julia Roberts goes into one of the stores in Rodeo Drive, still in her hooker gear, and the assistants are so rude to her? So in Dior I picked up a bikini while one of these snotty assistants was hovering nearby, clearly terrified that I might try and steal it, and she said, ‘They come up very small.’
    ‘I’m just looking,’ I replied, not liking her attitude.
    ‘It is very expensive as well,’ she replied. And straight away a gremlin started up in my belly and I said, ‘I don’t care, I can buy what I like, money isn’t an issue.’ But she repeated how expensive the bikinis were. I was well pissed off! I said to Sophie, ‘I feel like telling her that I can buy every fucking handbag in this shop if I want!’ Then Sophie picked up a Louis Vuitton bag and the assistant exclaimed, ‘Excuse me, that’s my own bag!’ She obviously thought we were going to nick it because she had us down for some kind of lowlife.
    Then we wandered into Louis Vuitton and I ended up buying a grey monogrammed scarf and a bag, and the bill came to something like $4,500. And as I was paying the assistants were busily scrutinising my card as if I’d nicked it or as if it was fake. ‘It is going to work, you know, why are you looking at it like that?’ I said. And all the time I was thinking, ‘What is your