by Chloe Rayban
‘OK, well, Mike, yeah, so he’s a nobody. But everybody’s a nobody before they’re somebody … What do you mean, not enough time? I’m telling you, the orchestration’s done … Well, maybe we need to work it up a bit but … So, change the publicity. It’s only a reprint … OK, so you do that. You think it over.’
Mum slammed the receiver down.
‘Vix, get me Harold.’
Harold is Harold Schwarz, the head of DBS, the recording company with which Mum is signed. This means she is going right over Mike’s head – as usual.
‘Hi, Harold. It’s Kandhi … Yeah, well, I’m fine too. Now, listen, this may be a long shot. But Mike’s really enthused. We want to change my intro number for the Heatwave … No problem, he’s taking care of all that … Yeah, sure there’ll be cancellation fees. But this could be a big one. Listen, it’s called “Home is Where Your Heart is” … No, no way. Not cheesy or folksy. Look, believe me. This is right for me, right now. I just feel I’m finding myself, Harold. This is the new me. It’s a woman thing. I mean, now I’ve got Hollywood with me …’
?!
Mum reaches out an all-encompassing arm and drags me towards her.
‘Umm, right here now. Do you want to speak to Harold, Hollywood, babes?’
I guess I have to.
‘Hi, Mr Schwarz.’
‘Hey. Hollywood! You sound grown-up.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What’s this number like? You heard it – this “homey” thing …?’
‘IT’S BRILLIANT. It’s like the best thing I’ve heard Mum sing in ages.’
‘It is?’
Mum grabs the phone back from me.
‘Listen, Harold, the time’s right. All those troops coming back from, you know…. that whatsisname place … Yeah, wherever. This number, Harold. Trust me. It’s got NOW vibes … OK, so we’ll make a demo track. And if anyone needs convincing, they’ll be convinced.’
Mum leans back in her chair. ‘Vix, will you ring through to Mike and say that Harold wants him to get a contract drafted for Jasper. Right now.’
Smug? Do I feel smug? DO I FEEL SMUG. I do!!!!!
Thursday 20th February
The Penthouse Suite
Vix rings down at 8.00 a.m. to say can I pop up to see Mum so that she can say goodbye.
‘Goodbye?’
‘Yeah, she’s leaving for the States at ten.’
I head up there right away.
‘Hey, Mum. What’s all this about you going to the States?’
She should be working on ‘Home is Where Your Heart is’ if she’s to get it ready in time for the Heatwave.
‘I need to be there for the Grammys. I do have to work you know, babes.’
‘But the Grammys are not for a week. How long are you staying?’
Mum looks evasive. She’s fiddling around with the little pots of cream on her dressing table. ‘About ten days, probably.’
‘Ten days! Why do you have to stay ten whole days?’
‘I’ve got loads of people to see in LA. And besides, I do have to top up my tan.’
Los Angeles. It must be really hot and sunny there right now. I glance at the continuous rain lashing against her vast ceiling-to-floor windows. Hang on, Mum’s tan is spray-on, she can top that up wherever. I point this out.
‘But it’s for the Vitamin D. I have to consider my bones too, you know.’
‘Can’t I come too?’
‘Not this time, Hollywood.’
‘But you did say I could go everywhere with you …’
‘No, I think it’s best if you just keep up with your studies, and besides Vix has booked all those appointments for you.’
The dentist. The nutritionist. The dermatologist. Oh, lucky me!
‘But Mum, shouldn’t you be working on Jasper’s song?’
‘One thing you’ll learn, Hollywood, is that in show business, when push comes to shove you can fit anything in … Now Vix, can you get me Mike on the phone? No, on second thoughts, get me Harold …’
Mum clamps her phone to her ear. She’s forgotten I exist – again.
Friday 21st February
(Mainly) Harley Street
The entire day is spent visiting umpteen random surgeries where people have been delving into my innermost private life.
Mum has called me twice. First call was to find out the verdict of Mr Evans, the cosmetic dentist. He’s suggested something called veneers. This means rubbing down my perfectly healthy teeth and sticking false fronts on. I had a sneaky feeling that while he was examining my teeth he had a model of Kandhi’s up on his computer screen and he was trying to make mine into an identical copy. (Hers are, of course, one hundred per cent perfect, so you can’t really blame him for using them as a guide, but still …)
Second call was rather fraught as it was when I was at the dermatologist, Mr Crick. Mum was freaking out because she was by the pool at the W Hotel LA (sigh) and had just noticed the teensiest mole which she hadn’t remembered being there before. She wanted Mr Crick to get her total body plan up on his screen to check out if he had this one already mapped, or not.
He had. It was OK. She didn’t have to fly back straight away.
Saturday 22nd February, 6.30 p.m.
Flat 209, Hillview Mansions, Maida Vale
Thumper has put on another twelve grammes since last week, which is worrying. I have looked through How to House Train Your Rabbit to see what the average weekly gain is for a growing rabbit, but it’s not covered. However, he is making good progress with his house-training regime. Karl has hardly had to bring out Gi-Gi’s dustpan and brush this week, which means that his work-load is back to normal, i.e. changing the channels on the remote control.
Gi-Gi has cooked a special dinner for Karl because Dortstadt Wanderers are playing, and if they win this game they’ll get into the running for the European Cup. It’s all in Dortstadt Wanderers colours, which are a particular shade of burgundy, so everything she has cooked is in burgundy or white.
We are having a weird kind of burgundy soup which has taken Gi-Gi two whole days to make and has had to be strained through egg white, followed by some kind of meat in white sauce, spiced red cabbage, white rice, black cherry tart and sour cream.
Gi-Gi has said that we are allowed to eat it in front of the TV as the match is really important for Karl.
While eating, or rather drinking, our soup, which has sour cream and chives on top, Karl sits sighing and moaning as it seems that the Wanderers are not ‘doing so good’.
‘What is this soup, Gi-Gi?’ I ask. It tastes kind of weird.
‘Borscht,’ she says, bustling off into the kitchen to fetch the meat course.
We’re in the middle of the second course when we get to half-time. Barcelona are now two goals up and Karl is so depressed that he says he’ll have to go down to the corner shop to buy another six pack of lagers.
While Karl is out I do some random zapping with the remote control and what do I come up with? The Oscar Ceremonies. I’m glued to the screen, as I really want to witness the great event of Oliver NOT getting Best Actor in a Leading Role Award.
Karl has been gone three minutes and I fume as we are given flashbacks of the guests swanning down the red carpet into the Kodak Theatre in Los Angeles. These are followed by tedious fill-in facts and figures – like there are one thousand five hundred journalists present! But now we’ve cut back to Claire Danes, looking dazzling in this kind of silvery shimmery evening gown, who is about to read out the nominations for Best Actor.
I pray that Karl has run out of cash and had to go to the cashpoint, or tripped or got stuck in the elevator, or run over, whatever.
‘And the nominations for Best Actor in a Leading Role are Oliver Bream for Antoine in Loyal Subject …’ The floodlight zooms round and rests on Oliver, but I don’t hear the rest because WHO is beside him, in her latest cream satin Armando Mezzo off-the-shoulder number, but MUM. And WHO is beside HER with his hair all gelled up in spikes like a stegosaurus but
SHUG.
‘Oh,’ says Gi-Gi. ‘What a pity Karl missed seeing your mother. Mind you, I never did like her in cream.’
I swallow a great lump of meat as I hear the fateful words: ‘And the winner is …’ And see Oliver leaning over and giving Mum this massive kiss on the lips. And now he is making his way accompanied by all that schmaltzy music up on to the stage to claim the award. He kisses Claire Danes too, but only on the cheek.
Oliver is well into doing his smile-and-bow-charm-thing when Karl arrives back and we have to switch channels. Dortstadt Wanderers are still losing.
Karl notices my down-at-the-mouth expression and assumes it’s because of the match. He sympathetically passes me a can of lager and without thinking I take a sip. It’s yukkk!
So that’s why Mum was so vague about how long she was staying in LA. She wanted to be there for the Oscars. How long has she been back with Oliver, I wonder? And now he’s got Best Actor. I know Mum, she’s attracted to fame like wasps are to jam. There’ll be no holding her back now. I better get used to the idea – Kandhi and Oliver are an item.
Later that night, Suite 6002
I am sitting in the bathroom feeling really queasy. This has been the very worst night of my life so far. I’ve discovered what was in the soup – beetroot. I’ve discovered what was in the stew – veal. I’ve accidentally drunk lager (only a sip but that was enough). And I’ve discovered that if things go the way things usually go with Mum, I could shortly be stepsister to my least favourite person in the entire universe.
Sunday 23rd February, 7.00 a.m.
Suite 6002
I am woken by the phone ringing.
It’s Mum. (Mum at this hour!) But then I remember that in LA they’re eight hours behind so she hasn’t gone to bed yet.
‘Hollywood, are you all right?’
‘You woke me up to ask?’
‘Oh, were you asleep, babes?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m awake now.’ As I surface, last night’s Oscar ceremony comes back to me in vivid detail, so before she can continue, I blurt out, ‘Mum, admit it. You didn’t go to LA for the Grammys. You went for the Oscars.’
‘Oh, you saw us. I just happened to bump into Oliver and he had absolutely no one to sit at his table so I guess I took pity on him –’.
‘No one to sit at his table! I’m not a baby, Mum.’
‘Well, whatever. I was the only person he really wanted.’
‘Exactly! He wants to be seen with you because you’re so mega-famous. He just wants to get pictures of you and him together plastered all over the papers.’
‘We stars do these little things for each other.’
‘So you’re not going out with him?’
‘Oliver? No way.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Wasn’t his acceptance speech just brilliant?’
‘Mum, tell me the truth. Are you or aren’t you?’
‘Of course not. It’s just as you say – all for publicity, babes. Don’t take any notice.’
‘As long as you’re sure.’
‘Would I lie to my one and only baby?’
I consider this and decide, ‘Yes, quite possibly.’
But when the Sunday papers come up with my breakfast, shots of Mum and Oliver together have spread across them like some disease.
IT’S ON AGAIN! shouts the Sunday Times.
TINSELTOWN’S TWOSOME says the Sunday Telegraph.
SHE’S NAMED THE DAY! claims the Sun.
KANDHI’D CAMERA adds the Sunday Sport, showing a shot of Oliver’s hand steering Mum’s Armando Mezzo’d bottom along.
Then – ooops! I have a text from Becky. (She must’ve seen the Oscars.)
Re: dream date with o.b.
Why didn’t didn’t you tell me he was back with your mum?
B
I text her back:
sorry i didn’t know
HBWx
She texts me back:
don’t you two ever talk?
I text her back:
not about anything that matters
Her reply comes back as one word.
s.a.d.
Bx
Did Mum and I ever talk? Well, sure we talk. But Mum never listens. And now she’ll have Oliver to talk to, so she’ll have even less time for me.
This thought makes me feel very small and insignificant, so I bury my face in teddy and indulge in a vast all-engulfing tidal wave of self-pity.
8.00 a.m.
It’s Mum on the phone again. Can I get no peace to have a decent attack of self-pity? She wants to know if I’ve seen the papers.
‘Yes I have! And they’re all saying that you and Oliver are practically married.’
‘Babes. Would I get married without consulting you?’
‘You did the last time.’
‘Yes, well, that was different. Fernandez was a mistake. Never trust a polo player. I’d’ve known if I’d been able to speak Spanish.’
‘Didn’t he speak Portuguese?’
‘Well, whatever.’
‘I worry about you, Mum.’
‘I worry about you too, babes. But remember, whatever happens, your mama’s always there for you.’
That’s rich from someone who’s the other side of the world.
‘So when are you coming back?’
‘We’ve got the Grammys tomorrow. And then there’ll be all the post-publicity. You know, when you win – you’ve got to be there for the fans.’
‘You can’t be sure you’ll get a Grammy.’
‘Harold reckons I’ll get several.’
‘Well, don’t stay too long.’
‘What’s the hurry?’
‘You’ve got Jasper’s song to prepare for the Heatwave. Remember?’
‘Oh, that. Well, as a matter of fact, I met up with Gerry Oldman over here and he’s got an amazing new song …’ Alarm bells are ringing. Jasper will be absolutely devastated if she backs out.
‘Mum. You can’t change your mind now.’
‘Umm, well, maybe Mike was right. Jasper’s number is a bit “homey”.’
‘No, no way. Look, believe me. This is right for you, Mum, right now. It’s like you’re finding yourself. It’s the new you. It’s a woman thing. I mean, now you’ve got me with you …’ I have the oddest sensation as I am saying this that I’ve heard it before.
‘You really think?’
‘Mum, I know.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘I know I’m right.’
‘OK. Ask Vix to e me the contract to sign.’
PHEW!
Tuesday 25th February, 9.00 a.m.
Reception, the Royal Trocadero
I’ve had another card from Dad. This one has a picture of a Barbie doll on the front in full wedding gear.
On the back, Dad’s scrawled handwriting reads:
Holly-Poppy
What’s all this about your mum getting spliced again?
Tell her Oliver Bream is:
a) a cold fish
b) a stuffed shirt
c) a joke
B-C-N-U
Your ever-loving DADx
I needed to tell him I was totally in agreement, so I popped down to help myself to a free postcard of the Royal Trocadero from reception and I found the whole place in chaos!
Toppling stacks of little gold chairs were being carried into the main conference room. Deliveries of flowers were arriving by the minute. It looked as if there was going to be some sort of massive party. Or society wedding. Maybe royalty was about to drop by.
I asked the concierge what it was all about.
‘It’s for your mother,’ he said. ‘Press conference, all day tomorrow. We’ve been asked to prepare the main drawing room and the two side rooms for round-table forums. They’re starting as soon as she flies in. It’s going to be a big one.’
I peeped into the conference room. A massive video screen had been erected, fronted by a long table set with a row of mikes. Down the
sides of the room people were busy pinning posters of Mum on boards. Buffet tables with snowy cloths already had pyramids of champagne glasses and a battalion of ice buckets was lined up at the ready.
Wow. Mum was taking this publicity thing seriously. But I guess when you win the Brits and the Grammys – maybe even several Grammys – you’ve something to celebrate.
I take my postcard back up to my suite and compose my reply.
On the front, I mark the windows of my suite and Mum’s balcony with a cross. I then add a speech bubble to each. Mum’s says: ‘Oliver, Oliver, wherefore art thou Oliver?’ Down from below comes a bubble: ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’ And from mine comes: ‘Not if I have anything do do with it!’
On the back I simply write:
I agree totally.
I’m on to it.
H-Px
Wednesday 26th February, 8.00 a.m.
Suite 6002
I’ve woken up in the middle of a terrible nightmare in which I’m hearing a message on my answerphone.
I grope for the button and replay the message. It wasn’t a nightmare. On my voicemail there’s a message from Vix, in her full-mourning voice, saying they’re waiting in the hotel for Harold and Mike to come for an emergency meeting, but she can’t talk loud because Mum hasn’t got a Grammy.
This is SUCH NOT GOOD news. Mum’s never not got a Grammy before.
I lie in bed thinking of the waste of it all. All those gold chairs set out waiting for no one. Those banks of flowers starting to droop, going brown at the edges. All those ice buckets with their ice turning to water. The canapés laid out on their trays in the kitchen going so sadly soggy.
I decide to spend the day working as hard as I can at my classes, trying to make it up to Mum somehow.
When Jasper gets in the whole thing gets worse. Apparently not only has Mum not got a Grammy, Sheherazadha has. This is even badder bad news.
I ring Vix to ask how Mum is coping. But I’m told by the woman on the phone that she can’t talk because they are currently involved in a ‘damage-limitation’ conference in which they are ‘reassessing Mum’s image projection parameters’, whatever that means. I sure hope it’s effective.