by Chloe Rayban
There’s a bit of a discussion the other end of the phone at this. Then Vix comes on the line.
‘Holly, what is this? Daffyd’s got a whole restyle for your mother this afternoon. You’ve only got lessons. What’s the panic?’
I wasn’t going to admit to Vix that it mattered what I looked like for Rupert. So I just said, ‘There isn’t a panic, I guess.’
I return to drying my hair. I’m making it worse. And to top it all, what with the heat and the panic and everything, a pimple has appeared on my chin. And I shouldn’t have touched it. And now it’s so much worse that even Coverstick – which says on the pack is designed to disguise ALL unsightly blemishes – doesn’t cover it.
I decide to call Vix to cancel the lesson and dither over my possible menu of excuses.
a) I’ve developed some rampant infectious disease in the past five minutes (I’ve a pimple to prove it).
b) The chambermaid has binned all my exercise books (she thought they were rubbish. She was right).
c) The lock on my door has mysteriously jammed so no one can get in or out.
I decide that c) is the most credible candidate and am about to attack the little pixilated plastic credit card thingy that acts as a room key with my nail sissors.
It’s at that point that the buzzer on my door buzzes. I leap to it, thinking that Daffyd has had second thoughts and has taken pity on me.
It isn’t Daffyd. It’s Rupert. He’s early.
2.30 p.m., Suite 6003
Mortification doesn’t come in half doses. You are either totally mortified or you’re not.
The Royal Trocadero has provided two desks, one positioned facing the other. Like a teacher’s desk facing a class. Except that this class only has one pupil. So the entire attention of this teacher is focused in on me. Or to be more precise – my chin.
As a distraction I start feeding my textbooks to Rupert. He receives them, giving little grunts of recognition or surprise. ‘Uh-huh, The Metaphysical Poets,’ he says and then: ‘Shakespeare’s Sonnets – good.’
He doesn’t make any comment about my chemistry book but flips through a few pages and puts it to one side. Maths joins it with a cough and a frown.
‘So how about starting with a sonnet?’ he says at last. ‘Which one have you been working on?’
I’m not wild about Shakespeare’s sonnets. In fact, of all the stuff we were studying at school, I found Shakepeare the most BOR-ING. I mean he’s so kind of old and out of it. But I was glad to be able to focus on something apart from my pimple. I riffled through the book. I’d left a Post-it in the page.
‘Errm, yes, I remember. It’s number one hundred and sixteen …’
‘Ah … “Let me not to the marriage of true minds …” ’ says Rupert – like he knows the whole lot off by heart.
‘Umm, that’s the one.’
‘So … How about you reading it?
‘Aloud?’
Rupert nods and does one of his wonderful smiles, then suggests I stand up to read.
I get to my feet, feeling weak at the knees. ‘
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds”,’ I start hesitantly.
‘ “Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.” ’
Rupert interrupts there. ‘What do you think Shakespeare means? “Bends with the remover to remove?” ’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, have a guess. What do you think?’
‘Erm, well, I guess … it’s like love shouldn’t be pushed around by someone else. Not bent or removed by anything that might be like … removing things …?’ I falter. This answer seems really dumb.
‘Exactly. True love isn’t influenced by anything outside itself. The next line goes on to reinforce this. So go on reading.’
‘ “O no it is an ever-fixéd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken,
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.” ’
I feel more confident now I’ve got something right. In fact, I’m warming to this sonnet.
Rupert interrupts again. ‘So what do you think those last two lines mean?’
‘Errm …’
‘You must have some idea.’
‘Errm, well. It makes me think of, like, dogs, maybe, wandering around in the night. Not special dogs like pedigree or anything ’cos their worth’s not known, although their height be –’
Rupert is shaking his head sadly.
‘No?’
‘No. I’m afraid not. A bark is another word for a ship. From the French – barque with a q, u, e.’
‘Oh.’ That time my answer didn’t just seem dumb. It was dumb. Really dumb. Rupert tactfully goes on to explain about ships and stars and navigation in Shakespeare’s time.
I sit down behind my desk again. I can hardly listen to him. All I can think of is that I have fluffy multicoloured hair. I have a pimple the shape and nearly the size of Mount Fuji on my chin. And I have made myself sound totally brain-dead.
Mortification by the bucket-load.
6.00 p.m., Suite 6002
I am lying flat on my back on my bed staring at the ceiling and trying to work out how I can erase from my life the hideous events of this afternoon. I have only come up with three solutions:
a) To build a time machine and travel back to yesterday so that this afternoon hasn’t happened yet.
b) To book Rupert into a Harley Street clinic and have his memory cells permanently wiped. (Mum might be able to fix this, though it will probably cost a bomb.)
c) Throw myself off London Bridge.
I text Becky hoping for comfort.
disaster!
a) he thinks I’m stupid
b) I am stupid
c) I’m too stupid to think what to do next HBWx
Her reply comes back straight away. She must be in the prep room with her mobile secreted under the desk.
impress the shit out of him
by turning into mega brill
student, stupid.
Bxxxxx
She’s right, of course. It is almost possible that I will live to look back on this day with something resembling calm. With hair re-grown and dyed back to normal colour of course. Pimple, no doubt, will take its own personal route to recovery. Self-esteem may take longer to heal. Besides, I’ve just remembered that London Bridge isn’t in London any more. Some American guy bought it and took it back to the USA. So that wasn’t an option anyway.
At that moment there is a buzz on my door buzzer. I open it to find Daffyd standing outside with his bag and hairdryer.
‘Accident and Emergency?’ he says.
‘Hi, Daffyd.’
‘Hey, what’s up?’ He’s bustling into my room.
‘Nothing.’
‘Sit yourself down. Oh my, you did go to town, didn’t you? We’re going to have to wash this hair again.’
‘It doesn’t matter any more.’
Daffyd plugs in his dryer and then stands looking at me with his head on one side.
‘Now, Holly, you can tell me about it. It’s all part of the service. We’re trained to take personal confessions. It’s in the hairdresser’s manual.’
‘No, it’s nothing.’
‘Oh no, it’s not.’
‘It’s just that I had my first tutorial with my new tutor this afternoon. And basically, I loused up.’
‘Well, he’s being paid to teach you, isn’t he? That’s his problem.’
‘I guess. But I said something really stupid and now he thinks I’m an idiot.’
‘Look at it from his point of view. What an advantage. He’s got something to work on. It’s like people who come to me with really terrible hair. I get so much more job satisfaction when I sort them out.’
‘But when you make a bad first impression, I mean, that never goes away.’
‘Rubbish, you
should hear what I thought of Kandhi the first time I met her.’
‘Mum? What did you think?’
‘Well, don’t tell her I said so. But I thought she was about the most selfish, egotistical prima donna I’d ever met.’
‘Umm, I guess lots of people do.’
‘And then you realise, that’s just your mum on the surface. Those are the vibes she likes to put out. Underneath she’s a really lovely person.’
I look up at Daffyd gratefully. ‘But she’s not always easy to have as a mum.’
‘No mum is.’
‘She thinks she has a right to run my life.’
‘Got ambitions for you, has she?’
‘No, worse. She wants me to be exactly like her.’
Daffyd has meanwhile washed my hair and is now massaging conditioner into it in a soothing manner. ‘You should’ve heard what my dad said when I told him I wanted to be a hairdresser,’ he says.
‘What did he say?’
‘I wouldn’t want to repeat it. He practically took his belt to me. He was a coal miner, see. I had my way, though. And they closed the pit soon after, so I’d’ve been on the dole right now.’
He towel-dries my hair then sets to blow-drying. ‘You’ve got to believe in yourself, Holly. And go your own way.’
‘I wish I knew which way that was.’
‘Just be yourself and you’ll be fine.’
While Daffyd has been talking he’s been doing masterful things with my hair. Suddenly under his dryer it has become all straight and soft and shiny again. And in that magical way that hair has power over mind – I feel loads better.
Saturday 8th February, 8.00 a.m.
Suite 6002 (being myself)
Saturday is a very good day for being yourself. For a start there are no singing or dancing classes, which minimises the opportunity for others to turn you into something you’re not.
In bed I decide to spend this Saturday visiting those I love most in the world, i.e. Thumper and Gi-Gi, roughly in that order.
I haul myself out of bed and get dressed in my most ‘being-myself’ clothes. Pale blue T-shirt, jeans and Converse trainers. I even manage to flatten my hair down some with gel and squeeze a ponytail band on the little tufty bits sticking out at the back so I vaguely look like myself too.
I ring Vix and ask if I can borrow Abdul or Sid to take me over in the limo. She says no go as Mum needs them but that she will get Karl to come over and fetch me, which is epic because he’ll come over on his Golden Wings and I’ll get to have a ride.
‘Before you leave, though, can you pop up and see Kandhi? She’s got something for you,’ finishes Vix.
‘A present?’
‘Uh-huh!’
I go up to her suite wondering. What could Mum possible have bought me?
Mum is standing by the window, all smiles. Whatever she’s got is in her hand and it’s very small.
‘Hollywood, babe. Look what I’ve got you. I thought you ought to have the latest.’
She’s holding out one of the newest, smallest, coolest mobiles, one that takes video.
‘Brilliant. Cool. Thanks, Mum. What did I do to deserve this?’
‘Do you have to deserve it? Mothers give their daughters little presents sometimes, don’t they?’
‘I guess. Only, I’ll have to transfer all my numbers.’
‘But you’re going to have new friends now.’
‘Umm, I suppose. But thanks anyway.’
‘Call me up soon as you get to Gi-Gi’s, so I can see how she’s keeping.’
‘Why don’t you come too?’
‘Baby, I’d love to, but I’ve got lunch.’
‘You could cancel, she’s always asking to see you.’ Mum never cares if she blows people out.
‘This lunch is kind of important.’
‘Who with?’
‘Oh, you know. Contacts.’
So I go alone on the back of Karl’s bike and it’s brilliant. It’s even got stereo speakers in the helmet – only thing is he’s playing Mum’s latest single, which I’ve heard so many times I feel like it’s stuck on perpetual replay.
12.30 p.m., Flat 209, Hillview Mansions, Maida Vale
I hardly recognise Thumper. You wouldn’t believe how much a rabbit can grow in a few days. (Even at Gi-Gi’s.) He’s not exactly laid out on the sofa with a can of lager in his paw, but he already bears a striking resemblance to Karl.
In the kitchen I find his bowl filled with dandelion leaves, sweetcorn kibbles, popcorn and the weeniest bit of sesame dumpling (nibbled).
‘Gi-Gi, you can’t possibly give him all that to eat. He’ll burst.’
‘He’s growing rabbit, aren’t you, my pet,’ says Gi-Gi. ‘And he loves my sesame dumplings.’
‘He’s starting to look like a sesame dumpling. Honestly, Gi-Gi. He’ll have to go on a diet.’
Gi-Gi won’t hear of this. We spend the next ten minutes trying to make Thumper pose for my camera phone with his ears up. Each time he sees the phone his ears go down in alarm. We get some footage in the end but the clip has a serious red eye problem.
I am starting to have doubts as to whether I’m truly fitted for my second fall-back career choice of ‘wildlife photographer’. But I guess Thumper isn’t wild. And he knows he’s being filmed. Whereas wild animals only get filmed when they don’t know. Which must be easier.
Mum is unimpressed by the footage I send via mobile of Thumper and is more interested in asking Gi-Gi whether she’s been watching out for the video of her latest single on MTV.
Gi-Gi is answering guardedly. For a start she’s hardly had time to view because Karl has been tuned non-stop to Sky Sport. Also I know for a fact that she prefers the Nostalgia Classics Channel where she can tune into her beloved Vienna waltzes.
As Mum delves deeper, asking detailed questions about her video, Gi-Gi deftly turns the tables by asking where Mum is right now and could this magical telephone receive pictures as well as sending them. Mum is evasive.
I interrupt. ‘Oh yes, you know it can, Mum.’
Mum says she can’t remember which buttons to press, which is odd because I’ve seen her sending shots to her press agent with no trouble at all.
I spend the rest of the day lazing around Gi-Gi’s apartment and helping her make poppy-seed marble cake. In the afternoon the sun comes out and Gi-Gi and Karl and I take Thumper down into Gi-Gi’s communal gardens with a big flask of sweet Russian tea and the cake, which is still warm. We all sit on the grass and stuff ourselves, including Thumper who gets his first taste of proper green growing grass.
And then we spend the next hour trying to locate him since he has responded in true rabbit fashion to a taste of the wild by tunnelling inside the communal gardens’ clump of rhododendrons.
I am SO relieved when we get him safely back upstairs to the apartment. Thumper is not so pleased. He takes one look at his litter tray and does a single resentful rabbit poop in the middle of Gi-Gi’s best Persian rug.
Sunday 9th February, 9.00 a.m.
Suite 6002
I wake up and lie in bed wondering what to do today. At school every minute was crammed. I’ve never had so much time on my hands. I daren’t ring Mum for hours yet to ask what she’s doing.
I decide to go down to the hotel’s health centre in the basement and have a swim. I don’t expect they’ve ever seen a navy regulation SotR swimsuit down there before.
I’m just doing my fifth length when I notice a little huddle of Trocadero guests has gathered and is staring through the glass window that separates the pool from the gym. They’re on the swimming pool side, and whatever it is they’re staring at is in the gym.
I haul myself out of the pool to check out what it is.
I don’t believe this.
It’s Mum. She’s laid out like a prisoner on a rack doing amazing stretchy things. There’s a guy standing by who looks like he’s just dropped out of a Mr Atlas Contest. He has a permatan and his biceps are so well developed I swear he
can’t get his arms down by his sides.
I force my way through the huddle and enter the gym.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Hollywood, babe! Meet Gervase, he’s from Argentina. Isn’t he wonderful?’
Gervase ripples his muscles in my direction and condescends a smile. ‘Please to meet you.’
Gervase, it appears, is Mum’s new personal trainer (Mastermind of the Raw Food Diet). Mum’s really worried because she overdid it just a little yesterday at lunch (she had half a glass of dry white wine instead of water) and thinks she may have gained a few grams. She is busy working these off. It seems Gervase actually has a system for working out how many calories Mum can burn per minute per machine. She still has half an hour to go on this one.
The machine leaves her just enough breath to speak.
‘So what have you planned for today?’ she pants.
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh.’
‘I thought maybe we could do something together?’
‘Umm …’ Pant. ‘Sure.’ Pant. ‘What?’
‘Oh, anything. Nothing special. Just spend Sunday like ordinary people.’
A frown passes across Mum’s brow. She obviously hasn’t the faintest idea what ordinary people do on a Sunday.
‘Like?’ Pant.
‘Like, I don’t know, maybe visit the zoo, or a museum. Have a burger. Or just maybe take a walk.’
Later that day (spending Sunday like ordinary people)
At around eleven thirty I meet up with Mum and Sid in reception. Mum has dressed down, i.e. no stilettos, no designer labels, no Gucci sunglasses. I think she must’ve borrowed some stuff from Vix. She’s wearing jeans, sneakers and a lime-green fleece. No one in their right mind would confuse her with Kandhi. Sid is wearing similar casuals. We look for all the world like a mum and dad and daughter on a day out.
Our ordinariness is somewhat marred by the fact we leave in the limo. But when we arrive at Madame Tussaud’s (because that’s what Mum’s chosen) we leave it discreetly round the corner and head for the Waxworks on foot.
Mum pauses as its familiar dome comes into view.