The Rise and Fall of Becky Sharp: ‘A razor-sharp retelling of Vanity Fair’ Louise O’Neill. Sarra Manning
your real self – like, say, the ten other contestants who’d already been kicked out of the house – were either liars or idiots. Or both. Yes, definitely both.
‘I’m so nervous,’ Amelia said, her wispy voice catching at the same time as her soft, pretty features began to wobble. Becky recognised the signs, Lord knows she’d seen them often enough to recognise when Amelia Sedley was about to burst into tears. On average, at least three times a day. On the day that Amelia had been cruelly cast aside by Gav, an ex-Marine, now personal trainer, from Wigan so he could fall into bed with Chloe, a glamour model from Braintree, she’d cried an unprecedented ten times. ‘Anyway, I won’t win. I don’t want to win. You deserve to win, Becky.’
‘Oh, Emmy, if anyone deserves to win, it’s you,’ Becky said, even as the possibility of winning sent a thrill through her.
‘So, the votes have been counted and verified and I can reveal that the winner of Big Brother is …’
Amelia grabbed hold of Becky’s arm so that Becky could feel the tremors running through the other girl. Amelia was entirely lacking in any inner reserves of strength. In fact, after Gavgate, she’d been planning to walk, but it was Becky who’d persuaded her to stay. ‘Chicks before dicks every single time. And if you leave, then I’ll leave too. We made a promise that we were in this together, Emmy, because together, nothing can stop us. So, come on! Stay! Stay in the name of sisterhood.’ Becky had spent hours locked in the toilet rehearsing that speech, so Amelia was right: if anyone deserved to win, it was Becky Sharp.
‘Amelia Sedley!’
You have got to be fucking kidding me!
It took everything she had not to screech it out loud, instead Becky bit her tongue so hard that it brought tears to her eyes, even as she hugged Amelia, who also had tears in her eyes, because she was gearing up for her biggest, ugliest cry of the summer.
‘I’m so happy for you, Emmy! Of course it had to be you!’ Becky said loudly enough that her words could be picked up over the chanting of the crowd.
Amelia was sobbing too hard to reply so Becky rubbed soothing circles on her back and murmured inanities into the other girl’s blonde hair.
‘Congratulations, Amelia, you’re our winner!’ the presenter bellowed and Amelia raised her head from where it had been nestled on Becky’s shoulder and showed her red, blotchy face to the world. ‘Now hold tight, Becky, I’m coming to get you!’
It was very hard to keep her face from contorting into a snarl of rage but somehow Becky managed it. It was going to be even harder to exit the Big Brother house with Amelia, still sobbing, clinging to her like a limpet on steroids.
‘Becky, this is Big Brother! Becky, you have been evicted. You have two minutes to say your goodbyes and leave the house.’
‘We should go out together,’ Amelia insisted phlegmily as Becky patted her back and prepared to disengage. ‘Really, we’re both winners.’
‘No, don’t be silly! This is your moment and I’m not going to spoil it for you.’ Becky would rather die than be accused of stealing Amelia’s thunder. As it was, because she was the runner-up, she’d get a rushed exit interview before they came back to get Amelia. Then there’d be fireworks and cheering and Amelia would cry again as she watched the winner’s prize of £70,000 hit her bank account. Like Amelia even needed the money. Becky eyed Amelia’s tight, black, designer bodycon dress and then looked down at her own ASOS knock-off. At least she could take some small comfort from the fact that Amelia had put on at least half a stone since she’d entered the Big Brother house and her expensive Herve Leger dress now resembled sausage casing.
‘Becky, this is Big Brother! You have been evicted. You have one minute to leave the house.’
‘Emmy, please, I have to go,’ Becky said firmly, disentangling Amelia’s arms from her neck. ‘Drink some water. Go and repair your make-up so you look beautiful for your big exit and I’ll see you on the flipside.’
Then she gently pushed Amelia to one side. Took a moment to straighten the skirt of her white dress, which was tight but not too tight, short but not too short, and slightly off the shoulder but not low cut because only the wrong sort of girl did legs and cleavage. Then she straightened her spine and, in time-honoured tradition, took a second with the mirror by the door. Fluffed her red hair, ran a finger under one eye to check that her mascara hadn’t run and mouthed very clearly for the benefit of the viewing public, ‘Come on, Becky, you got this.’
She pulled open the door, took a deep breath and began to climb the stairs.
‘Becky! You have been evicted! Please leave the Big Brother house!’
She was climbing towards freedom after being trapped for weeks in a state-of-the-art prison. OK, a prison with a huge gold sofa, a swimming pool full of unicorn and flamingo inflatables and copious amounts of alcohol as a reward each time the housemates completed an asinine task designed solely to humiliate them, but a prison nevertheless.
Outside was unknown. Becky had played a clever game but the general public were fickle. Who knew how she’d come across or how she’d been edited?
‘Becky! You have been evicted! Please leave the Big Brother house!’
There was only one way to find out.
The doors swung open and the almighty wall of noise that greeted Becky made her rock back on her spindly silver heels. All those people cheering her? Not one single, solitary boo. She put an unsteady hand to her heart.
You like me. You really like me.
Ha! Suckers!
It was a blur of light and heat and noise as Becky’s hand was firmly taken by the excitable Emma Willis and she was pulled through the crowd, a camera in front of her, brazenly in her face this time.
There was a gratifying amount of poorly made banners with her name on them or proclaiming ‘Chicks before dicks’. Hands thrust at her. People screaming. Then up another flight of stairs on to a stage and past her former housemates sitting in two rows. Becky hadn’t even made contact with the chair before everyone’s attention was focused on the big screen above them which showed Amelia sitting on the big gold sofa in the Big Brother house with her head between her knees as she tried not to pass out.
Considering that Amelia was a posh girl, proper posh, who’d been torn from the bosom of her loving family and sent off to boarding school at the tender age of ten, Becky had been astounded that she wasn’t made of sterner stuff. In a year out from university, she’d even spent two weeks in Niger working in an orphanage, which had done absolutely nothing to toughen her up.
Maybe the joke was on Becky and Amelia was playing the longest of cons herself. But then Emma tapped Becky on the knee and a producer counted them back from a commercial break and she needed to focus on her own long con.
‘So, hello, Becky Sharp,’ Emma said by way of introduction. ‘The housemate whose shoulder everyone cried on, who had more girl power than all the Spice Girls combined, and who might not have found love in the Big Brother house, but found her way into your hearts with 37.4 per cent of the final vote. It was very close, Becky. Amelia just pipped you to the post with 39.1 per cent of the vote.’
Becky shook her head and smiled. ‘The best girl won,’ she said to approving cheers, because what else could she say?
‘And you had quite the chequered love life while you were in the house,’ Emma continued cheerfully. ‘You seemed fated to never get your man.’
‘Well, I went into the house to find myself rather than find love, though love would have been nice too,’ Becky said, and she caught the eye of Carlo who she’d enjoyed a brief flirtation with, safe in the knowledge that