Laid in Chelsea Read online

We immediately saw this as a full-scale Lord of the Rings-type quest. We were determined to get hold of another copy of the key to carry on the legacy of generations of ex-Sibford pupils. Thus two boys from our year, who shall remain nameless, went on a mission to steal the key from the cleaner.

  Having successfully swiped it, they went straight into town, got a copy cut, and then replaced it within an hour so the cleaner was none the wiser. Frodo would have been proud.

  As the oldest boy in our dorm I became the keeper of the key, the key master if you will, and I kept it safely hidden behind the frame of a picture of Rupert and me.

  We took full advantage of the key and used to creep over to the other half of the building in the evenings to party with the girls. It wasn’t about sex, it was just chilling with friends after lights out, and it not being allowed made it far more exciting. I used to go on booze cruises to Calais with my dad every now and then, and on these I’d buy loads of mini bottles of Moët. I’d smuggle them into the dorm, and then we’d sit on the end of each other’s beds drinking champagne through straws, with the housemaster asleep downstairs.

  I hid my booze, along with my cigarettes, in one of the air vents in the ceiling. The more we got away with using the key and having our nights of fun, the more careless we became. So I guess what happened next was somewhat inevitable.

  My love of theatre and dramatics was still shining bright, so as I was preparing to leave Sibford I applied for a Drama foundation course in Cambridge that was run in association with RADA. It sounded like the perfect course for me to do before I put my plan to move to London into action.

  I carefully filled out my application form, sent it off and kept everything crossed. I was over the moon when I got a letter inviting me for an audition. Mum and Dad both came along with me to help calm my nerves. However, just as I was about to go into the audition room my mobile rang and I answered it. Big mistake when I was trying to stay relaxed.

  I heard Astrid’s frantic voice on the other end of the phone explaining how she and her boyfriend Luke had used the Sex Key the previous night and had been caught in her room by the housemaster. He had given them an ultimatum: either they tell him who the key belonged to, or they would both be expelled. If they revealed the holder of the key, they would only be suspended and the keeper of the key would suffer the consequences. Obviously, that person was me. I told her not to worry and that we would sort something out – I could tell she was in a real state about it. I didn’t know how we were going to rectify the situation, but there had to be a way. And besides, my audition was starting in a few minutes.

  God knows how, but I managed to get through the audition, albeit very shakily. I had to perform a Shakespearian piece, so I chose Act I, Scene I from Twelfth Night. I also had to do a strange modern piece about the fact that my hair wouldn’t stop growing and sing a song about the corner of the sky, which I started an octave too high. As I left the college I told my parents everything. I was still quite shaky from the audition and I must have looked terrified. I wasn’t sure if they would be furious or think it was funny. Thankfully for me, it was the latter.

  Astrid was in the year below me so she had another year at Sibford to go, so I told her to tell the housemaster that it was me who was responsible for the Sex Key.

  In the back of my mind I kept thinking that if the drama school found out I’d been expelled from school, there was no way they would let me onto the course. I was so desperate to be accepted and move to Cambridge, but equally I couldn’t see Astrid expelled halfway through her A-levels. I had no choice but to tell the truth. I knew it could cost me my place at drama school – and that was such a horrible thought because I had no back-up plan whatsoever. I would have been so angry with myself if I’d thrown away an amazing opportunity for the sake of a few (admittedly very good) nights of rebellion.

  After coming clean to the housemaster, the school ended up asking me to leave on the day of my last A-level. They broke the news that they were booting me out 10 minutes before I was going into my final drama exam, so I ended up giggling deliriously through the whole thing. Instead of answering a question on the topic I’d been studying I decided to write the entire essay about ballet. I’d never watched a ballet in my life but at that point I thought it was the perfect thing to do. I had reached the point where I no longer cared: school was over for me, I was done. Even though I was asked to leave, the teachers said they were very sad to see me go. The day before, I had even accepted the Dorothy Hawley Award, the main award given to a pupil who has shown outstanding care, consideration and helpfulness in the spirit of service to the community of the school. I was allowed to go along for our leavers’ meal and I ended up admitting everything to the teachers about drinking booze on the school grounds and the fact we had nicknames for them. What did I have to lose? I thought they had better know it all. They just laughed.

  With school now behind me for good, that 2006 summer holiday felt absolutely perfect to me. I had no responsibilities and I had even managed to land myself a place at the drama school despite being kicked out of school. When I opened the letter saying I’d been accepted I was beyond happy. It was exactly where I wanted to be and I felt really proud that I’d secured a place. I was entering a new time in my life, a more grown-up one. I was no longer a school or college pupil, I was a student. I was ready to become an actor.

  My friends and I knew we would all be heading off to university after the summer, so it was our last chance to spend some quality time together before we went our separate ways.

  I headed straight down to Cornwall with some guys, and when I arrived it appeared that half of Britain’s public school population had the same idea. People were pitching tents all around our caravan and it was absolutely packed.

  We celebrated the start of the holiday by heading to the Oyster Catcher, a pub in Polzeath that holds amazing memories for me and is always my first stop when I get to Cornwall.

  As I made my way over to the bar, standing there flanked by two very cool older guys wearing beanies and tracksuit bottoms, was Hattie Clark. My beautiful Miss Vale do Lobo. I stopped dead in my tracks, double-blinking to make sure it was her. She was older, taller and was drinking beer instead of a Squashed Frog, but it was definitely her.

  I had thought about her often over the years. The photos of that summer were still on my wall, so it was such a shock to see her standing there in the flesh. I was so excited when I noticed my friends ogling her, that I really smugly announced, ‘Hold on guys, she’s a good friend. I had better go and say hello.’

  I strutted over, anticipating our emotional reunion. In my mind, it was going to be like that scene from Forrest Gump – tears streaming down her face, she would leap into my arms, whereupon I’d spin her around while all those in the bar watched on in envy. But as I stood in front of her and smiled like an idiot, waiting for the scene to unfold after our three long years apart, she looked at me blankly. I started to panic and blurted out, ‘Hattie, it’s Ollie!’ in a very unmanly high-pitched squeal. She looked at me blankly again before replying, ‘Sorry, who?’

  I was mortified. To make matters worse I smiled really excitedly and said, ‘It’s Ollie, from Vale do Lobo! We spent a week together three years ago!’ Still nothing.

  As if I didn’t look enough of a twat, I followed that up with, ‘I’ve got photos of you all over my wall!’ Yes. Nice one, Ollie. Looking like stalker with a high-pitched voice is always a good way to get the girl. Hattie looked me up and down, cocked her head to one side and, without a moment’s hesitation, said, ‘Well, you’d better take them down then.’ Her two startlingly good-looking 6-foot-5 male companions, with their beanie hats and Adidas tracksuit bottoms, sniggered as she turned her back on me and carried on drinking her beer.

  My heart sank. With a dry mouth and a sinking feeling deep in my stomach, I walked back to my friends, who had watched the whole episode. It was an utterly hideous moment. The girl I had daydreamed about for years had just slammed me down in fr
ont of a bar full of people. I went on to get very drunk that night, and tried my best to act like I didn’t care. I hoped that would be the last I would ever see of Hattie and her sneering face, but sadly she came back to haunt me again. Seriously, that girl is impossible to shake off.

  The rest of the holiday in Cornwall passed by in a drunken blur, though I do remember lots of snogging and even getting a mediocre hand job on the beach (pretty much using tears as lube), as I tried to shake off Hattie’s very public and embarrassing rejection. I returned to Southampton determined to redeem myself – and my friend Stef’s 18th birthday party was the perfect opportunity to do so.

  The party was held in a fabulous house in the middle of the countryside and anyone who was anyone – well, anyone who was a teenager living in and around the Southampton area – was invited along. We all had a few drinks and got quite merry, and my friend George started snogging the best-looking girl at the party, who I will call Dorset Girl.

  I was always jealous of George because he was very good-looking, owned a boat, had an amazing body and had somehow managed to gain the nickname Jumbo George, which always went down very well when meeting girls. I was still stuck with Coner Boner, although I was to earn a new nickname later that night.

  That night we all ended up sleeping in a barn together, and there I started fooling around on a hay bale with a pretty girl called Clarissa. I felt like I was in an 80s porno and I had the hair to match. The next day I woke up after an evening of barn canoodling, and was having a morning wee when I noticed that something didn’t look quite right downstairs. There was a small bump on my willy that looked like a scab. When I scraped it off I realised, to my horror, that on closer inspection it had arms and legs. It was a tick that I’d obviously picked up in the barn. I stupidly confided in Pugsley, who then told everyone else, which resulted in me being called ‘Tick Dick’ for the next year. I’m relieved to say that I’ve lived that one down now. Ollie ‘Coner Boner’ ‘Tick Dick’ Locke doesn’t easily roll off the tongue. It’s no Jumbo George.

  My departure for drama school was soon on the horizon, but I was determined to pack in as much fun as possible before I had to knuckle down in the real world. It was one of the last parties of the summer, which my friend Stef was driving us to. As I climbed into the back of her car I was greeted by her very hot cousin, who turned out to be Dorset Girl. She was the same girl I had very enviously watched George snog at Stef’s tick-dick bash.

  Dorset Girl was gorgeous, hilarious and a lot of fun. She had long blonde hair flicked over to one side, and said ‘yah’ instead of ‘yeah’. I thought she was wonderful.

  She had just come out of a two-year relationship with a guy called Jasper and she was on the rebound. Of course instead of that putting me off I decided that night would be the ideal opportunity to make my move.

  We all ended up drinking a lot and sleeping on makeshift beds on the floor of the birthday girl’s house. She came and slept next to me and under the shadow of darkness, we started snogging. Awkwardly, Jasper, who was at the same party, decided it would be a great idea to come and sleep the other side of her, like some great protector. He clearly wasn’t over her, but the fact that she slept facing me gave me all the evidence I needed that she was definitely well on her way to getting over him.

  I asked to see Dorset Girl again, and soon we were practically living in each other’s pockets. She was in her last year of sixth form at a boarding school in – funnily enough – Dorset, about 20 minutes from where her parents lived, so I would travel to see her whenever she could escape from school. It was an innocent but full-on, 18-year-old love. We would make CDs of songs for each other and go on picnics, snogging the entire time.

  We’d walk for miles around the Dorset hills with the dogs all snuggled up together, and then get back to her house, tired but happy. Her mum would cook us a Sunday roast and we’d all sit around the dinner table chatting over wine. In retrospect I think Dorset Girl was my first real love. Up until that point I thought I’d been in love with Tilly, but being with Dorset Girl made me realise that you can’t truly be in love with someone when you know they don’t love you back. What Dorset Girl and I had was perfect. Or so I thought.

  So you’ve finally managed to grab a date with someone who is quite funny and not completely unfortunate-looking – and in fact in the right light looks like they might be quite good in bed. The only problem is you haven’t done much dating recently, so you just don’t know the rules. In this case you need to call up your sluttiest friend and find out the lowdown on the dating scene. Where do you go? Who pays? How far do you go with them on the first night?

  • So, beforehand, always make sure you look good with your clothes off. Your intentions may always be innocent, but if your date happens to declare that they are in fact a billionaire and are flying you to Brazil for the evening, the last thing you want is to have an Amazonian jungle growing downstairs (men, that goes for you too!).

  • Remember that the image you project on that first date will either give you a pass to another date or to another three months of watching films alone, so always dress wonderfully. Girls, try to be a tiny bit seductive – it’s even better if you don’t give him anything, because then he’ll want you all the more.

  • Eye contact is key; don’t stare, but looking right into their eyes is very sexy and you will find you can control the situation through eye contact.

  • Be confident (particularly the guys), but I always find that if you show a tiny bit of vulnerability you might be surprised at the response you get. I have a friend who, after a few bottles of wine, would tell their date how bad his childhood was, which apparently worked every time. Don’t do it on that level, but just give them a glimpse of a weakness.

  • Comedy is the way to any girl’s heart. Everyone loves to laugh and you will be surprised at how powerful an aphrodisiac that is. So guys, get on a comedy course …

  • Now the greeting and the goodbye are always difficult. Always stick to a kiss on the cheek at least – shaking their hand will only ever give the wrong impression. When it comes to the goodbye, you should know what to do, depending on how well the date went. If you know it went like a Shakespeare sonnet, go in for the kiss – you’ve probably shared a bottle of wine by then, so just go for it. If it went horribly, say it was lovely and make a quick exit.

  • Girls, in my eyes, if the guy has asked you on the date then they should pay! Always offer, I repeat always make the gesture of getting your card out, but you should not be expected to pay. If they make you pay half on a first date, you need to rethink this one.

  By mid-September 2006 I was due to start drama school in Cambridge, so Dorset Girl and I said the first horrible goodbye of many. We both cried our eyes out.

  I was really excited about starting at Cambridge, but I was also very happy in my relationship and she was a big part of my life. I wished she was coming with me. She was 17, a year below me and still at school, so she wasn’t able to visit me like she could if she was at uni, so it was hard.

  It wasn’t a huge deal for me moving away from home because I had been used to boarding school, so, despite missing Dorset Girl terribly, I settled into Cambridge life very quickly. I loved the place and I remember being very impressed that it had the famous Nando’s because I’d never been to one before. I did my first ever proper food shop, admittedly at M&S with my dad’s credit card so I guess buying hummus and olives wasn’t exactly what you’d call your usual student experience.

  It was at Cambridge that I also began to experiment with fake tan. Having grown up in a house with my mum and sister, I’d watched them put on make-up and suddenly become better-looking as a result. I saw no reason why I couldn’t do the same. I’ve always wondered why, if men are good-looking, they wouldn’t cover up the massive spot they’ve got from a big night out or pluck their eyebrows to make themselves look better. If girls can wear make-up, why on earth can’t men? With this in mind, I started wearing my mum’s Touche Éclat, but
it was too light for me and made me look as if I’d been wearing large goggles while sunbathing. After several weeks of looking like a sunkissed raccoon I decided that it wasn’t for me.

  I saved up my money (OK, I used the credit card), went to Boots and bought a darker concealer that did the trick perfectly. I’m sure Dad would have been delighted. Then I started experimenting with the fake tan.

  I’m quite olive-skinned naturally, but I also have quite a grey complexion. It’s like I’m half Mediterranean, half old man. Because of that I tend to look slightly dead without any fake tan.

  After all, if there’s one thing that makes pretty much everyone look hotter, it’s a tan. If everyone fake tanned, the world would be a better-looking place. Except redheads; they look amazing the way they are.

  Anyway, my drama course was very energetic and every morning to start the day we had to do a warm-up to ‘I Predict A Riot’ by the Kaiser Chiefs, which involved us running around the room as fast as we could, with a hangover. We also had to do miming exercises with our Polish teacher, Kasha, where we had to pretend to be abstract things like a cloud or an embryo. I thought it was absolute bollocks but I’m sure it must have taught me something.

  We had to do eight hours of ballet a week and I was absolutely shit at it. I had to wear a leotard and tights and needless to say I felt completely ridiculous. Me and one of my course friends, Gabby, who was bit of a clown, literally and metaphorically (more on her later) used to sit at the back of the class laughing. I dreaded every class, but there was no opting out of things you didn’t enjoy.

  Even though life in Cambridge was amazing, as soon as Friday afternoon arrived each week I would drive three hours to Dorset Girl’s parents’ house so we could spend those two special nights together. We were still infatuated with each other.

  Dorset Girl’s family was incredible. If I had to choose any parents to look after me apart from my own, it would be them. They are kind, loving, understanding and very young at heart. They owned a house in Barbados and after a couple of months of being together I was invited to join the family for a week on the island.