What the Paparazzi Didn't See. Nicola Marsh

‘glamour’ lashes may result in questions like, ‘Have you been to a fancy dress party?’ or, ‘Is there a Priscilla: Queen of the Desert revival at the local theatre?’

      If you prefer au naturel, the key to luscious lashes is prepping with a good serum. Many cosmetic companies have them.

      To open up the eye in preparation for mascara, eyelash curlers are essential. Best to heat them up slightly before applying pressure to the lashes for thirty seconds.

      For more dramatic impact with mascara, wiggle the wand from side to side as you apply, ensuring good coverage at the base of the lashes. It’s the density and darkness of mascara at the roots that gives the illusion of length.

      And always, always, opt for waterproof. (You never know when your sport star ‘other half’ may shoot the winning hoop to win the national championship or kick the goal to break a nil-all draw in the World Cup.)

      For a real wow factor with mascara, the darker the better. Black is best unless you have a very fair complexion, in which case brown is better.

      Similarly with eyeliner. Stick to black at night and softer, smudged brown during the day.

      For eyeshadow shades, stick to neutrals or soft pinks. Let your lashes do the talking!

      If Liza Lithgow had to attend one more freaking party, she’d go insane.

      Her curves resisted the control-top underwear constriction, her feet pinched from the requisite stilettos and her face ached from the perpetual smile.

      The joys of being a WAG.

      Technically, an ex-WAG. And loving the ex bit.

      The reportedly glamorous lives of sportsmen’s Wives And Girlfriends were grossly exaggerated. She should know. She’d lived the lie for longer than she cared to admit.

      ‘One more pic, Liza?’

      Yeah, that was what they all said. Not that she had anything against the paparazzi per se, but their idea of one last photo op usually conflicted with hers.

      Assuming her game face, the one she’d used to great effect over the years, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled.

      A plethora of flashes blinded her but her smile didn’t slip. She turned slowly, giving them time to snap her side profile before she cocked a hip, placing a hand on it and revealing an expanse of leg guaranteed to land her in the gossip columns tomorrow.

      Hopefully for the last time.

      Being a WAG had suited her purposes but she was done.

      Let some other poor sap take her place, primping for the cameras, grinning inanely, starving herself so she wouldn’t be labelled pregnant by the media.

      With a final wave at the photographers she strutted into the function room, pausing to grab a champagne from a passing waiter before heading to her usual spot at any function: front and centre.

      If this was her last hurrah, she was determined to go out in style.

      She waited for the party peeps and hangers-on to flock, steeled her nerve to face the inevitable inquisition: who was she dating, where was she holidaying, when would she grant the tell-all the publishers had been hounding her for?

      Her answer to the last question hadn’t changed in twelve months: ‘When hell freezes over.’

      It had been a year since international soccer sensation Henri Jaillet had dumped her in spectacular orchestrated fashion, three years since basketball superstar Jimmy Ro had broken her heart.

      Reportedly.

      The truth? She’d known Jimmy since high school and they were the quintessential golden couple: king and queen of the graduation dance who morphed into media darlings once he hit the big time.

      He’d launched her as a WAG and she’d lapped it up, happy to accept endorsements of clothes, shoes and jewellery.

      For Cindy. Always for Cindy.

      Everything she did was for her baby sister, which was why a tell-all was not on the cards.

      She’d grown apart from Jimmy and when reports of his philandering continued to dog her, she’d quit the relationship when he wanted out.

      The media had a field day, making her out to be a saint, a very patient saint, and the jobs had flooded in. From modelling gigs to hosting charity events, she became Melbourne’s latest ‘it’ girl.

      And when her star had waned, she’d agreed to be Henri’s date for a specified time in exchange for a cash sum that had paid Cindy’s carer bills for a year.

      Being tagged a serial WAG had stung, as people who didn’t know her labelled her money-hungry and a camera whore.

      She tried not to care, though.

      The only people that mattered—her and Cindy—knew the truth.

      And it would stay that way, despite the ludicrous sums of money being dangled in front of her for a juicy tell-all.

      Yeah, real juicy. Readers would be distinctly disappointed to learn of her penchant for flannel PJs, hot chocolate and a tatty patchwork quilt.

      As opposed to the rumoured lack of sleepwear, martinis before bed and thousand-thread sheets she slept on.

      She had no idea why the paparazzi made up stuff like that, but people lapped it up, and judged her because of it.

      What would they think if they knew the truth?

      That she loved spending a Saturday night curled up on the couch with Cindy under the old patchwork quilt their mum had made—and one of the few things Louisa had left behind when she’d abandoned them—watching the teen flicks her sister adored?

      That she’d prefer to spend time with her disabled sister than any of the able-bodied men she’d dated?

      That every word and every smile at events like this were part of a carefully constructed, elaborate mask to ensure her popularity and continued work that would set up Cindy’s care for life?

      Being a WAG meant she could spend most of her time caring for Cindy; a part-time gig as opposed to a full-time job that would’ve taken her away from her sister.

      It had suited their lifestyle, putting in infrequent appearances at galas or launches or openings in exchange for days spent attending Cindy’s physiotherapy and occupational therapy sessions, ensuring the spasticity in Cindy’s contracted muscles didn’t debilitate her limited mobility completely.

      She’d sat through Cindy’s Botox injections into specific muscles to ease the pain and stiffness and deformity around joints, followed by extensive splinting to maintain movement.

      She’d supported Cindy through intrathecal baclofen therapy, where a pump had been inserted into her sister’s abdomen to deliver doses of baclofen—a muscle relaxer—into her spinal fluid to ease the spasticity and relieve muscle spasms in her legs.

      She’d been there for every session of speech therapy, muscle lengthening and strengthening, splinting, orthotics, mobility training and activities of daily living management.

      Putting on a façade for the cameras might have been a pain in the butt but it had been a small price to pay for the time she’d been able to spend supporting Cindy every step of the way. The financial security? An added bonus.

      Cindy’s care hadn’t come cheap and if a magazine wanted to pay her to put in an appearance at some B-list function, who was she to knock it back?

      She almost had enough money saved... After tonight she could hang up her sparkly stilettos and leave her WAG reputation behind. Start working at something worthwhile. Something in promotions maybe? Put her marketing degree to use.

      Cindy had progressed amazingly well over the years and Liza could now pursue full-time work in the knowledge she’d put in the hard yards with her sister’s therapy when it counted.

      Cerebral