by Chloe Rayban
c) is a bit on the mature side but who cares, he’s still gorgeous
Bxx
Hmm. She really has got it bad. How on earth am I going to break it to her that her dream date is currently going-out-with-my-mum? Big problem. What’s more, I’ve another sneaky little negative feeling lurking somewhere deep down. Today ‘we’re’ going sightseeing. How many people does ‘we’ cover?
I ring through to Vix to check on our schedule for the day.
The voice the other end of the line makes some incoherent croaking noises.
‘Vix, is that you? You OK?’
‘What?’
‘It’s me. I just wondered what time we were –’
‘Holly, it’s Sunday morning. It’s God-knows-what time. I’ve just got to bed. This is Paris. Am I allowed a life?’
‘Oh, right. Sorry.’ I put the phone down. Vix must’ve been out clubbing all night, she sounded really wasted. I consider ringing Mum and decide against it. She can be very scary when roused from sleep. Instead I ring down for breakfast and order in my Very Best French: ‘Croissants, brioches, jus d’orange et café au lait.’ (See!)
‘Would you like English newspapers with that, Mademoiselle?’ Why do they always do that!
My breakfast arrives a few minutes later accompanied by a huge bundle of newspapers. I take a big sip of my orange – nice freshly squeezed, I note – and flip over the first of the papers.
ARE THEY OR AREN’T THEY?
screams the headline. Underneath are two separate pictures, one of Mum and the other a rather obvious press release photo of Oliver.
I read on in disbelief.
A secret rendezvous in Paris. Dinner à deux at the Chasse d’Or …
Some ‘dinner à deux’. I mean, I was hardly inconspicuous. And neither was Shug.
… where the average price for a meal goes into three figures …
Oops! I feel really guilty. The mermaid alone must’ve cost a fortune and we couldn’t even eat that.
I pick up the next paper. Similar headline but this time a photo of Oliver and Mum taken someplace else, getting out of a cab. I squint at it – looks like a yellow cab. When was she last in New York? I try hard to remember. Ages ago!
‘I haven’t decided yet.’ That’s what she said. But this thing with Oliver must have been going on for like months.
The rest of the pile of newspapers has much the same story, except that in the Guardian and the Independent it has been pushed on to page two by some boring political scandal.
And then I realise with a jolt – Becky! Will she have seen the papers? Unlikely, it’s Sunday morning, everyone at SotR should be filing down to the chapel. But afterwards it’s the mad rush down to the newsagent in the village to stock up on chocolate and doughnuts and she’s bound to see the headlines. I have to warn her before she gets down there. Gently, though.
dream date quiz
re night out with o.b.
match the foll. into couples:
Madonna Posh Spice
Becks Kandhi
Guy Richie Oliver Bream
HBW xxxxxxxxxxxx
After that I spread my croissant with butter and honey. It is heartless, I know, to eat at a time like this but remember I only had caviar and salad for dinner and I was positively salivating watching Shug dig into his burger and fries (and ketchup).
Hang on. SotR must be out of chapel. I have a text.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
B
Maybe I didn’t break it gently enough. It’s Sunday, so SotR is out of mobile curfew. I decide to ring her. She answers first ring.
‘Becky?’
A muted snuffle.
‘You OK?’
‘… Glug … ummm.’
‘It’s probably only temporary … like a fling or something. You know my mum.’
‘… Sniff … Sure.’
‘Anyway … I mean he’s far too old for you. You should see him close up.’
‘Holly. Please realise. This is more of a mind thing … It’s not just physical, you know.’
‘No, I realise that. But, Becky. He’s got a son who’s older than us!’
Another snuffle. ‘How old?’
‘Must be ’bout fifteen, I reckon.’
‘Fifteen! I don’t believe you!’
‘Yep. I met him last night.’
There’s a silence while this sinks in.
‘Is he like his dad?’ (I hear a little glimmer of hope in her voice.)
(Oh my God. Shug like Oliver? I rack my brain for the faintest resemblance. Apart from ego size, that is.)
‘They’re about the same height.’
‘Ummm?’
‘Well, I mean he must be potentially. He has half his genes, after all.’
‘Potentially?’
‘Well, I think maybe, like right now, he’s going through a kind of father-son rebellion thing. You know, wanting to be his own man. It’s quite normal at his age.’
This obviously has a favourable impression on Becky because her next question is: ‘Do you think you could get me a photo of him?’
‘I thought this was more of a mind thing.’
‘It is.’
‘I’ll try. OK?’
‘Thanks. And Holly?’
‘Umm.’
‘You could still maybe get me Oliver’s autograph?’
‘OK.’
‘You promise?’
This is like totally uncool – to ask someone you know personally for their autograph – but I promise anyway.
11h00
Mum rang through eventually to say we were all going to meet in the lobby. I arrived to find Sid and Abdul in deep conversation with two guys who were clearly bodyguards too, and who I assumed must be Oliver’s. The four guys had their heads together, obviously discussing security tactics for the day, so I didn’t like to disturb them. I went and sat on one of the Vendôme’s big squishy leather sofas and flicked through a magazine.
Then who should arrive, swinging his way down the main staircase, but Shug.
‘Seen my dad?’ he said without so much as a ‘Hi’ by way of greeting.
I waited a fair moment, licked my finger and and turned another page of my magazine before I deigned to say, ‘No.’
He slumped down on the couch opposite and propped his filthy trainers up on the arm.
The concierge was watching him with a pained expression but didn’t say anything. I concentrated hard on my magazine, homing in on an article, but I could still feel Shug’s eyes focusing uncomfortably on me.
‘Interesting, is it. Your magazine?’ he asked.
‘Yes, very,’ I said. Realising too late that I was deep into a double-page spread about how to tell whether or not you have cellulite.
Shug took some gum out of his mouth and placed it in the middle of one of the Vendôme’s pristine ashtrays. Instantly, a gloved hand swept it away and a new ashtray appeared.
‘Nice service,’ said Shug, taking another piece of gum out of his pocket. He hesitated, and then tore it in half. ‘Want some?’ he asked.
‘No thank you,’ I said.
He smirked at this. ‘Didn’t think you would.’
He chewed thoughtfully for about five chews and then took the gum out of his mouth and shoved it in the new ashtray. The gloved hand reappeared and took it away.
‘Just kills me how they do that,’ said Shug.
I’d had enough at this point. I put down my magazine and looked him full in the face.
‘How would you like it if you had to clear up after people like you?’ I demanded.
Shug shrugged. ‘They’re paid to do it, aren’t they?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Oh, so what is the point?’
‘Frankly, I don’t think it would help to try and explain,’ I said.
There was silence for a while apart from Shug fidgeting. And then he asked, ‘So what time we meant to be leaving?’
‘We?’
&
nbsp; ‘Oh, maybe you’re going spend all day reading magazines?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought sightseeing was exactly your thing. Surely a guy like you must have something better to do than go trailing around after his daddy?’ I countered.
‘Better than going out with Kandhi the megastar round Paris? Now come on.’
‘Anyway, your guess is as good as mine. I haven’t the faintest idea when we’re leaving.’
‘Depends what time the prima donna gets her image fixed, I guess.’
‘You talking about my mum?’
‘Are there any other prima donnas round here? You, maybe?’
I thought the coolest thing to do was to ignore this remark, particularly since I couldn’t think of a cutting enough reply. I got to my feet. The time had come to interrupt the important security discussion going on behind us.
‘Yeah, well,’ Sid was saying. ‘If he hadn’t transferred to Real Madrid …’
‘Excuse me, guys. Does anyone know what our schedule is?’
All four of them immediately fell into security mode, doing a load of watch synchronising etc., which was totally unnecessary since it was only me.
But it was just as well, as there was an audible gasp from everyone in the lobby as the elevator doors opened to reveal … Mum.
SO-OO unfair. She was dressed in the Armando Mezzo black leather bustier and matador pants that had been judged highly unsuitable for me. She’d added a scarlet-lined cloak and three-inch-heel boots and had her hair scraped back from her face in a chignon. June had done wonders to her face. Today it was her pale look – ivory skin and sculpted cheekbones, accessorised by a single black beauty spot off centre on her chin. A bit overdressed maybe for sightseeing, but I ’spose she had to impress Oliver.
‘Hollywood Bliss, babe,’ said Mum, giving me a fussy public display of affection. ‘And my, it’s Shug too.’ She looked as if she was about to kiss him and then stopped herself just in time and said instead, ‘I can see you two are getting along just fine.’
Neither of us responded to this.
‘Well, whatever,’ said Mum. ‘I wonder where Oliver can be?’
Right on cue the elevator doors opened again and Oliver stepped out.
He made a big thing of saying, ‘Good morning,’ to Mum and kissing her on both cheeks.
Shug seemed to think this was a great joke. ‘What’s so funny?’ I hissed.
‘Frankly, I don’t think it would help to try to explain,’ he said in a silly mock version of my voice.
13h00, on board a ‘bateau mouche’
It should have been a perfect day. We’d left by the rear exit of the Vendôme so had given the press the slip.
We had an entire Seine ‘bateau mouche’ to ourselves. It had a domed glass roof that gave an all round view of the river. Our ‘bateau’ was a luxury version of course, complete with red carpets, banks of flowers and six uniformed waiters lined up in a row to greet us as we came on board. And there was a buffet large enough to feed half of Paris laid out for our lunch.
As the boat set sail from the quay I couldn’t help thinking that in spite of present company this wasn’t a bad way to spend a Sunday morning.
There was an open part of the deck where you could sit on benches in the sunshine. I positioned myself up at the very front, looking back down the boat, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face. It was sending dappled light through the plane trees and Paris was all misty and glittery in the January light.
‘Heaven,’ said Mum, leaning against the rails and smiling her sweetest smile at Oliver. Oliver sent a besotted smile back. (How many times have I seen guys look at Mum like that?) Shug didn’t seem to have noticed. He was spending his time alternately lounging on deck smoking and sneaking inside and helping himself with his fingers from the buffet.
All was pretty well perfect until we reached the part of the Seine where the riverside walk dips down so that pedestrians can enjoy a stroll at river level. Then things got somewhat less perfect. In fact, all hell broke loose. Out of nowhere, the air was filled with shouts of, ‘Kandhi, over here.’ ‘Oliver, give us a smile.’ And all of a sudden the world’s press was escorting us along the riverbank on an assortment of bikes and roller blades and even some weird kind of three-wheeled electronic scooter thingies. At any rate, a couple of hundred zoom lenses were focusing in on us close enough to capture a hangnail.
Mum instantly turned on her Dazzling Press Smile. I tried to hide beneath my hair. Oliver leapt to his feet and shouted at them to go away and leave us alone. And Shug just stared at Mum with an odd sort of smile on his face.
‘How’s about we have some lunch,’ suggested Mum and got to her feet and walked inside. We followed her to the table. It was quieter inside but there wasn’t much more in the way of privacy seeing as the bateau had this all-round glass roof.
As soon as we were seated the waiters leapt into action. Reverently, they carried over the centrepiece of the buffet – a vast silver dish on a stand, piled high with crushed ice and just about every form of shellfish the sea could offer, laid out with geometric precision.
‘Oh, oysters. Yumm,’ went Mum. (Her ultimate diet food, not just raw but live.)
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Oliver, piling oysters on to Mum’s plate, ‘is how the press knew we were here. I mean, I booked the bateau under a false name and we were really careful to use people who up to now have been totally trustworthy …’
‘Yeah, that’s true, Dad,’ said Shug. ‘I really wonder how they got on to it. Don’t you, Kandhi?’
Mum seemed far more interested in her oysters. ‘Yumm, yumm,’ she said, making little slurping noises as they slid down her throat. ‘Come on, Oliver, see how many you can eat. Holly, please try one. They won’t bite you.’
‘And come to think of it, it was kind of odd about how they sussed out last night,’ continued Shug.
Oliver stopped in the middle of squirting lemon on an oyster. ‘Last night?’
‘Oh, Dad, haven’t you seen the papers yet? No, I guess you were too busy.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Oliver, starting to lose his cool.
‘Well,’ said Shug. ‘Seeing as I thought you two might have missed them, I just happened to bring a few key pages along … I know how Kandhi hates to miss out on anything concerning her …’
Mum’s eyes narrowed and she glowered at Shug, but she said nothing.
Keeping his eyes on Mum, Shug leaned down slowly and groped in the big baggy pockets of his combats, bringing out a series of torn-off front pages. He carefully smoothed them out on the table.
OFFICIAL! AN ITEM screamed the last one over a picture of Kandhi and Oliver together at some awards ceremony.
Oliver stared hard at Kandhi. She said nothing but I saw her lips do that little quiver thing they do when something’s really getting to her.
‘So how did they know?’ asked Oliver in a threateningly level voice.
‘How the hell should I know,’ snapped back Mum. ‘They probably use clairvoyants!’
‘Oh, sure,’ retorted Oliver. ‘Like you dressed up today for the weather!’
‘Any other guy would give his right whatever to be seen with me,’ hissed Kandhi.
‘I reckon Dad already has,’ interrupted Shug.
‘And you can keep out of it,’ snapped Mum.
‘But I thought we agreed,’ stormed Oliver. ‘No press coverage. You promised …’
‘I promised! Do you think I can control the press? Who do you think I am? Even God Almighty doesn’t have a say in what they do.’
‘No, not when they’re being tipped off …’ slipped in Shug.
Mum shot him another look that could kill.
‘Tipped off?’ said Oliver. He stared hard at Mum. ‘Are you trying to say they’re being fed stuff?’ His voice was cold with anger.
‘Well, what do you reckon, Dad?’
Hot angry tears filled Mum’s eyes as she stared back at Oliver. Her lips narrowed. ‘Fed stuff? I�
�ll show you who’s being fed stuff …’ she snarled.
And with that, Mum summoned strength that I didn’t know she had, lifted the giant silver seafood platter from its stand and flung it straight at Oliver.
It hit him full in the chest and tipped its contents right up into his face just like custard pies do in the movies.
Oliver stood up at that point. Not a good move actually, since he was facing the riverside where the reporters were gawping at him. A barrage of camera flashes like strobe lightning caught the moment. As crushed ice and seaweed and various random forms of marine life slid down his front, Oliver, with icy-cold dignity, did his incredible smile and frown charm thing and bowed to the cameras.
Mum was totally bawling by now and heading downstairs to the loo.
‘Well, I hope you’re satisfied,’ I said to Shug and started to follow her.
‘Looks like it did the trick,’ said Shug.
Mum had locked herself in and I could hear her tearing off tissues and scrabbling in her handbag.
I tapped gently on the door.
‘Mu-um?’
‘What?’
‘You OK?’
Sound of nose-blowing. ‘Yep. I’ll be out in a sec.’
I waited. Within two minutes the door was thrown open and Mum reappeared. Magically her make-up was totally repaired. She literally looked as if nothing had happened. Sheer professionalism, you have to admire her for that.
‘Right, Hollywood. We’re going back to London,’ she said.
She strode up the stairway ahead of me, two steps at a time.
I hurried after her. ‘But Mum, we only just came, last night. I mean, I haven’t even seen the Eiffel …’ Mum paused at the top of the stairs and turned. The expression on her face made me fall silent.
‘Hollywood,’ she said. ‘We’ve done Paris, OK? We’ve done shopping. We’ve done dinner.’ And, waving her hand in the direction of what I think was Notre Dame, she added, ‘We’ve done sightseeing. So we’ve done Paris. Period.’ She turned to Oliver. ‘Tell the captain or the driver or whatever you call the guy that drives this damn thing to turn it round. Hollywood and I are going back to London.’ And with that she sat down at the table again. ‘Now, do you think I could have my lunch in peace?’