by Chloe Rayban
‘Oh-my-God there’s a queue,’ she exclaims.
I shrug. ‘So?’
‘Do you mean to say we have to stand in line?’ she asks. I don’t think Mum has ever queued for anything. Well, not since she’s been famous anyway.
‘That’s what ordinary people do, Mum.’
‘But it’s starting to rain.’
Sid offers to go and get an umbrella from the car.
‘No need,’ says Mum. ‘Just go to the head of the queue and tell them I’m here.’
‘No, Mum. What did we agree? We’re going to have an ordinary day. Besides,’ I lower my voice. ‘Do you really want to get mobbed?’
‘No, I s’pose not,’ Mum agrees grumpily.
Mum and Sid and I huddle under the umbrella for half an hour while the queue inches forward. Mum is starting to fume. She is making hissed asides about the inefficiency of the museum and how they ought to sell priority tickets like a kind of Museum Queue Club Class.
At last we get in. Sid and I get a brochure and are taking a polite interest in dull, famous people like President Nixon and Margaret Thatcher and Winston Churchill while Mum steams ahead hardly looking from side to side.
We catch up with her as we approach the ‘Stars of Stage and Silver Screen’ section. This must be where she’s been so keen to get to all along. But she hasn’t exactly lingered there. No, she’s now heading back towards us at some pace, shoving her way through a little clump of people who have stopped by Marilyn and Fred Astaire. For some reason Mum’s furious. She’s far madder than she was in the queue. She’s even madder than she was when she flung the seafood platter …
I about-turn and fall into step beside her.
‘Mum, what is it?’
‘Just go down there and look for yourself,’ she snaps. ‘I’m going to see if I can find someone who’s in charge of this pathetic charade.’
Sid and I dutifully go and look.
We make our way past Cher and ABBA, Madonna and Michael Jackson, Kylie Minogue and Britney Spears. And then Sid stops and says, ‘Uh-oh.’
I home in on the problem. There’s Kandhi looking large as life and dressed to kill but pushed right to the back. I mean, she’s hardly in the limelight, she’s hardly in the light at all. No wonder she’s mad.
Sometime later (grabbing a burger)
Nobody from the management was available. Not on a Sunday. The girl behind the ticket counter and the guy in the little back office who manned the phones each had quite an experience that morning. Mum didn’t actually say who she was, but I think they must’ve had a strong suspicion. (After this I reckon they’ll be eternally grateful the other celebs they deal with are made of wax.)
But now it’s lunchtime. We don’t go to McDonalds. No, this ‘ordinary’ family goes to ‘Sunset Strip Diner’ – London’s most exclusive American-style restaurant where the walls are made of video screens and for the cost of a burger you could buy yourself an average cow. But the burgers are yummy and Mum actually eats meat for once. She settles for steak tartare and a rocket salad.
‘Well, anyway,’ she says eventually through a mouthful. I reckon maybe starvation must’ve contributed to her anger. I mean, one whole hour burning off calories? ‘At least I was in there,’ she continues as she wolfs down another huge mouthful. Then something resembling a smile appears on her face. ‘Apparently they’ve put Sheherazadha into the back room. She’s now in their reserve stock.’
I ought maybe to explain here that Sheherazadha is Mum’s pet hate. She’s hated like only one superstar can hate another. (Bloodcurdlingly.) They came into the charts about the same time. And to start with, every time Mum had a new single out, Sheherazadha like pipped her to number one. Thankfully, in recent months, Sheherazadha has been building up her film career and she’s kind of disappeared from the music scene. I’m just praying she doesn’t make it in films or Mum will be unliveable with.
Later still (taking an ordinary family walk)
Round about three o’clock the rain stopped and the sun came out so we decided on the walk. Except Mum said just walking with nothing to look at was boring, like you might as well be on the walking machine at the hotel – which actually does have something to look at because it’s got a video screen which allows you to walk your way through a choice of the Grand Canyon, the Pyramids, or, if you really want to burn calories, the Himalayas.
Anyway, we took the limo out to the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew.
At the ticket booth, they gave us a map of the gardens and Mum spent quite some time talking to the man at the gates as he pointed out the various things there were to see.
‘Right,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll lead the way.’
‘Can’t we go inside the greenhouses?’ I asked. ‘They’ve got one with a tropical climate.’
‘Hmm, hothouses,’ said Mum. ‘So stuffy. Maybe later.’ And set off at a considerable speed with the map.
Sid and I followed.
‘What do you think she’s looking for?’ I asked Sid.
He shrugged. ‘Search me. Never known your mum to take an interest in plants.’
Mum shot round the lake and disappeared between two vast hothouses. We caught up with her standing in front of a big round flowerbed covered in mulch. A gardener was at work hoeing between the plants.
‘Can you tell me where I can find the roses?’ Mum was asking.
The gardener leant on his hoe and waved an all-encompassing hand. ‘Take your pick,’ he said.
‘These are roses?’ said Mum incredulously.
‘Unless I’m very much mistaken,’ said the gardener.
‘OK, so roses are your thing. Can you show me which is the one called “Kandhi”?’
Sid and I exchanged glances. ‘Last Chelsea Flower Show,’ said Sid. ‘I remember now. Someone named this rose after her.’
The gardener put down his hoe and led Mum to a far bed. There was a rather small plant whose leaves were going brown at the edges. It looked as if it had been pruned to within an inch of its life.
‘But what’s wrong with it?’ demanded Mum. ‘It should be covered with all these huge pink blooms.’
‘Not at this time of year, miss.’
‘Well, can’t you put it in a greenhouse or something? Look at its leaves. They’re all kind of droopy. I reckon it’s being attacked by something.’
The gardener straightened up and looked at Mum sideways. ‘Well, if you look at it this way, miss. In the world of nature, you can’t all be blooming all of the time. Summer comes, that’s the time for your roses. Other times is the turn of other plants. For everything there is a season, as they say.’
‘Well, I sure hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Mum.
‘Mum,’ I whispered, pulling at her sleeve. ‘Of course he knows. He’s a gardener. At Kew.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ said Sid. ‘My gran grows roses. They’re not much to look at at this time of year.’
We started to lead Mum away before she could make more of a scene.
‘Oh, and by the way,’ said the gardener, as we were leaving. ‘My daughter’s a great fan of yours. You wouldn’t sign an autograph for her would you, Miss Kandhi?’
Later still
‘What I don’t understand is how he knew who I was,’ said Mum in the limo when we were on our way back.
Sid and I both cracked up at this.
I lay in bed that night thinking about our day. Mum has this phrase she trots out:
‘You can’t be a bit famous, babes. You’re either famous or you’re a nobody.’
That’s what it is, I suddenly saw. All the time, she needs to prove to herself how famous she is. She can’t be just ‘ordinary’ like everyone else – or ‘nobody’ as she puts it. That’s why she has to keep sizing herself up against every other celebrity.
And then I realised that I was part of it. She couldn’t let me be ‘ordinary’ either. Everything Kandhi touched had to be glossy, glitzy, out of the ordinary. Above all me,
because I was a part of her. Sooner or later, if Mum had her way, I’d have to be a star too.
I thought about this for a long time into the night and then fell into an uneasy sleep in which I dreamt that I was a waxwork in Madame Tussaud’s all dressed up to look like Mum. But inside I was really me. But since I was made of wax, I couldn’t speak or move. I couldn’t escape from inside, or tell anyone I was there. I just had to stand rigidly glued to the spot while all these people filed by staring at me.
I woke with a start and lay there wondering what it meant.
??????????????????????????
However, I didn’t dwell on it too long because I quickly realised it was now MONDAY and after my singing and dancing lessons I’d be spending the afternoon with RUPERT and if I was going to erase the terrible impression I’d made last week, I’d better do my homework (you see I’d been far too busy to get down to it over the weekend). So I got up really early and lay in the bathtub learning the sonnet he’d set me.
Monday 10th February, 12.00 p.m.
The Royal Trocadero ballroom
I have just finished my dance class. Or to be more precise I have just finished an hour of agonising exercises.
Stella is not happy with my progress. In fact, she is SO not happy that she has called Gervase up to the ballroom to advise her.
They are both now standing staring at my feet.
My feet. (My least favourite bodily feature.)
‘Well, I think that’s the problem,’ says Stella.
Gervase nods sagely. ‘I sink so too.’
‘I’m afraid we both think. You’ve got a problem with your feet, Holly.’
I know I’ve a problem with my feet. They’re size nine, for God’s sake.
‘The problem is, you’ve got fallen arches.’
‘Fallen arches?’ This sounds like some architectural disaster.
‘Or flat feet if you prefer.’
I do NOT prefer flat feet. For me flat feet come under the heading of unmentionable disabilities alongside nits and piles and halitosis.
‘I mean, it’s nothing to worry about,’ Stella continued. ‘Especially at your age. But we’ll need to get you along to a specialist to get them sorted out.’
‘A specialist? Sorted out?’ I have lurid visions of being operated on. Or maybe strapped and buckled into leg irons.
‘I’ll get your mum to book an appointment for you. But till it’s sorted out we better leave off dance lessons.’
‘Oh, you’re not going to tell Mum, are you?’
‘Holly, it’s only flat feet.’
‘But Mum’ll be so cross. I mean, she expects everyone around her to be so perfect, specially me.’
‘It’s not your fault, Holly. They should have noticed this at school.’
2.30 p.m., Suite 6003
Rupert has arrived wearing a navy polo neck. He looks so-oo cute. In fact, doubly cute because he’s like totally unaware of it. I forbid my skin to blush. I’m just being totally matter-of-fact, like he’s any other teacher. I try hard, and unsuccessfully, to pretend he’s Sister Marie-Agnes.
‘OK, shall we start on another sonnet? You ready, Holly?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Holly, your book. The other way up, maybe?’
‘Oh, right!’
We read a couple more sonnets and then Rupert asks me to recite the one he set me for homework.
All is going well (with maybe a little prompting). I hurry through the ‘bark’ bit, which unfortunately brings to mind last Friday’s fiasco. And I still manage to stay composed.
After that my brain goes totally blank.
‘“Love’s not time’s fool …” ’ prompts Rupert, ‘ “though rosy lips and cheeks …” ’
It’s the rosy cheeks that does it. Oh, pl-ease, skin, DON’T! But no, I can feel a mega-blush flushing up my neck and over my face. I try to bury myself in my book.
‘Head up, Holly, I can’t hear you,’ says Rupert. ‘Maybe you should begin again from the beginning.’
‘You want me to start over?’
‘I think it would be a good idea.’
‘Right.’
So I do it again. Same sonnet. Same blush. Same mortification.
So that about sums up today’s lesson.
I’m sure I’m not the first person to have a crush on a teacher. And I certainly won’t be the last. But what I’m telling you now, is that if it ever happens to you – it is the most agonising and humiliating experience. Made worse of course by the fact that the teacher considers you to be nothing more than a kid, who is no way old enough to have illicit feelings like mine. Sigh.
Tuesday 11th February, 11.00 a.m.
Mr Crookes’s waiting room, somewhere in Harley Street
Mr Crookes, Mum’s consultant osteopath, said he could see me right away. So my feet and I are here waiting to be seen, with Sid and Abdul for company. The room is silent apart from the ticking of a geriatric grandfather clock. A receptionist in a white lab coat has told us we have to wait and we all sit on velvet-covered armchairs and read from the selection of magazines and papers on offer on the coffee table.
Sid is reading Autocar and Abdul has The Times open at the sports pages. My magazine is called Country Matters. I’ve chosen it because it has a picture of a hare on the front which reminds me, in a comforting sort of way, of Thumper.
We have to wait some time. I’ve been through all the pictures of people at race meetings and shooting parties and I’ve read up on how to double-dig your veggie patch ready for spring and I’ve got to the back, which is full of small ads for ‘Saddlery by Appointment’ and ‘Custom-Made Riding Boots’, when my eye is caught by a picture of a very sad donkey. It’s an old donkey with its head hanging down in an Eeyore-ish way. As I read the text it gets worse. The ad is asking for funds for a retirement home for working donkeys, some of whom are picked up by the side of the road too exhausted to carry on.
My feet are forgotten. What do my flat feet, or rather ‘fallen arches’, matter in comparison with the fate of these poor suffering donkeys? While the receptionist isn’t looking, I surreptitiously tear the ad out and hide it in my pocket.
I go through the ‘consultation’ in a haze. I have my mind on far more serious matters. While my feet are flexed and examined and made moulds of, I am searching my brain for a way to get my hands on enough money to ‘bring comfort to the last days of these poor suffering beasts’.
Personally, I don’t have much money. In fact, any money. I have a second credit card on Mum’s account which I can use for ‘Essentials and Emergencies’. I doubt if Mum would rate a large donation to a ‘Twilight Home for Distressed Donkeys’ as either of these. If only I had something to sell or auction. I did pretty well on eBay with the signed photo of Kandhi. But a donation to a cause like this needs to be way more substantial.
While staring at my feet I have a sudden inspiration.
Shoes. Mum’s got hundreds and hundreds of pairs of shoes she never wears. There are two whole trunks of them that go round the world with her wherever she goes. She wouldn’t notice if just one pair of the oldest ones went missing. I mean, she has to pay so much excess on her baggage I’d be doing her a favour really.
9.00 p.m., the Penthouse Suite
Mum’s out all evening doing a run-through of her song for the Brit Awards. I’ve told Vix that I need to have a little search through Mum’s shoe trunks to see if there’s a pair that is worn enough to have a decent imprint of her feet. Mr Crookes says maybe my foot problem is genetic and he’d like to have a look at a pair of Mum’s shoes to prove it. (Well, it’s true in a sense, he does think maybe it’s genetic.) He also thinks he can cure it. All I have to do is a half hour of exercises every morning which includes such riveting ways of passing the time as picking up pencils with my toes and flexing my non-existent arches. The other exciting news is that from now on I’ll be wearing these big clumpy things inside my shoes. Which means I may need to get a larger size of shoe. A larger size! Th
is is SO not fair.
Delving deeper into the trunk I rake around for shoes that have a real Kandhi look to them. No one is going to want to put up a grand for a pair of cheesy sneakers. There’s a pair that is absolutely perfect. They have diamante straps and razor-sharp heels and MB embossed under the instep. (Hmm, not Mum’s initials. Still …) BUT, the shape of Mum’s feet can be seen clearly as a slightly darker shade on the pale buff leather. The true imprint of the sacred foot – I should get a bomb for these! They look totally impossible to walk in. In fact, they’re shoes I’ve never seen her wear.
Now all I need do is to photograph them with my new digital phone, send the shots to my email address and pop down to the hotel’s Executive Infotec Suite and set up the deal on eBay. A reserve of a thousand pounds? Would that be too steep?
I wrap them in a hand towel and I am making for the door when I hear Vix coming down the corridor. Somehow I don’t think it would be a totally good idea to let Vix see which shoes I’ve selected. I shoot out of the door.
‘Did you find a pair?’ she asks.
‘Oh, yes. Thanks. See you.’
Down in the Executive Infotec Suite I log on to eBay. Maybe that career as a photographer would be possible after all. The shot of Mum’s shoes came out really well.
Thursday 13th February, 12.30 p.m.
The Royal Trocadero Executive Infotec Suite
I pop down to check on how the bidding is going, and SUCCESS! Competition for Kandhi’s shoes is extremely fierce. They reached their reserve and then bidding went mad. I have made £2,640 for the ‘Twilight Home for Distressed Donkeys’. Having double-checked that the donation has been paid direct to the charity by credit card I have mailed the shoes to the lucky bidder through the Royal Trocadero postal system.
I am now basking in the after-glow of a virtuous deed well done.
Friday 14th February, 9.00 a.m.