by Chloe Rayban
I’m also informed that Mum will be arriving back late tonight, which means I won’t have to face her till tomorrow.
Thursday 27th February, 6.00 a.m.
Suite 6002
I’m woken yet again at some unearthly hour. Can’t I ever get a decent night’s sleep? But this time I think I’m hearing the strangest sound of gongs beating gently in the dawn. I turn over, telling myself I’m imagining things, and go back to sleep.
Half an hour later I am convinced I can totally hear a gong beating. Boom. Boom. Boom. In the Royal Trocadero? Weird!
I can’t hold out any longer. I slip on my robe and creep to the door and peep out. The bodyguards have given up patrolling my floor because ever since I’ve been here absolutely nothing has happened. From the security point of view, the nasty threat thing seems to be a bit of a disappointment. The guys tend to hang around downstairs instead. But in place of them – now this IS weird – walking down the corridor is a totally shaven-headed monk in a saffron robe. He has bare feet and is swinging a small woven basket with a lid.
He comes to my door, holding his two hands together as if praying, and bows his head.
‘Er, hi!’ I try.
Silently, he holds out his basket.
I peer inside to find a cheese sandwich and a peach melba yogurt.
‘Errrm?’
He bows again. The penny drops. Of course. He’s Buddhist. A monk. He’s asking for food.
‘Hold on. I’ll be back.’
I head for the mini-bar, wondering if anything inside will be suitable for a Buddhist’s breakfast. I present him with a packet of luxury salted cocktail nuts, a Coke and a Kit-Kat.
He bows again in acceptance and moves on down the corridor.
I go back to bed thinking ?????????
9.30 a.m., the Penthouse Suite
All is revealed. I have summoned up the courage to go up and see Mum and found her deep in meditation on a prayer mat opposite my mystery monk.
Vix holds a finger up to her lips.
‘How is she coping?’ I whisper.
Vix casts a glance towards Mum’s bedroom. ‘Well, she’s stopped flinging things around.’ Mum’s door is open. The room’s a tip.
Vix then takes me aside and gives me the low-down in an undertone.
The monk’s name is Sit (which suits him, I later find, since that’s what he spends most of his time doing – admittedly with his legs in a very uncomfortable sort of cat’s-cradle position, but still).
Sit is Mum’s new ‘spiritual adviser’. It seems she’s now done Roman Catholicism – period. Or as Mum told me later: ‘Let’s face it. What has it done for me? All that praying and I didn’t win a single Grammy.’
She now thinks an Eastern religion might be more ‘her thing’. She picked up Sit early one morning when she was jogging at Venice Beach. Apparently, he’s doing a kind of Buddhist version of our ‘year out’, i.e. a ‘year in’ a Buddhist temple.
‘It seems to be helping,’ whispered Vix. ‘To cope, you know.’
I nod. They’ve just got to the mumbly-chanty bit. I creep off to my singing lesson and leave them to it.
10.30 a.m., Suite 6003
I ask Jasper why he thinks Mum needs a ‘spiritual adviser’.
‘Oh, it’s because she’s so insecure,’ says Jasper without a moment’s hesitation.
‘Mum, insecure?’ Are we talking about the same person?
‘Yeah, sure. Imagine what it’s like being at the top. If you’re going to be going anywhere, there’s only one direction. And that’s down, baby. Now she’s missed out on those Grammys she’s scared rigid that her fame is suddenly going to fade away. She’s going to slide down a slippery slope to nowhere and wake up one morning a has-been.’
I stare at Jasper disbelievingly. ‘But, I mean, she’s so famous, she’s so rich, she’s got all these people working for her. Like Mum says, she’s an empire.’
‘A house of cards,’ says Jasper. ‘One litttle pouff and it could all be blown away.’ He turns to the piano and plays a few chords: ‘Down … down … down … down …’ he sings and then he continues with some lyrics.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a chorus from Metropolis. There are all these people in the subway, right? And they’re going down. But it’s also about the city. A city sinking under the weight of all the dirt that’s going on.’
‘Isn’t that a bit gloomy?’
‘Sure it’s gloomy. So’s life sometimes. It’s not all nice, you know, Holly.’
‘No, I know.’
After that I tell him about how Mum so very nearly changed her mind about ‘Home is Where Your Heart is’.
‘Typical insecure behaviour. She’s too scared to commit herself. She has to keep changing her mind until it’s a “fait accompli”.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s French for “too-late-baby-there’s-no-going-back”.’
We spend the rest of the lesson working on a couple more songs. I have been practising my scales and my breathing exercises and Jasper says I’ve extended my range by a couple of notes at the top of my register, whatever that means. But I feel pleased anyway.
I go back to my room thinking about what he said about Mum being insecure. Surely not.
Friday 28th February, 12.30 p.m.
The Penthouse Suite
I’ve gone up to see how Mum is dealing with the Grammy fiasco.
She’s in black, all black. Even her hair is black.
‘Hi, Mum. You OK?’
‘Hollywood, we’ve all decided, it’s time I had a complete change of image.’
‘Sure, Mum, but … black? It’s so kind of last year.’
‘No. You don’t understand. It’s my whole image. My whole being. It’s the inner me that needs changing.’
‘Re-ally?’
‘Umm. Come and give your mama a kiss, baby.’
I go obediently and note close up that she’s not so grief-stricken that she’s forgotten to put on a liberal dose of ‘K’ (her own personal designer perfume) and full make-up including a beauty spot. Black, of course, but still.
‘You know what? People see me as this tough, hard person without a heart. But, believe me, I know what it is to be hurt.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘But I’m going to put all this behind me and start over again.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. So are you going to start work on the Heatwave?’
‘Not today. I’m just not up to it. Besides, I’ve got lunch …’
‘Mum, lunch doesn’t take all day!’
‘Hollywood. This is a very special lunch.’
‘Who’s it with?’
‘Well, if you must know, it’s with Oliver. He was so sweet at the Oscars.’
‘Sweet? Oliver? Oh Mum, you can’t like him. He’s so cold and calculating.’
‘Not when you get to know him.’
‘But he is. I know you can’t see it. But believe me, he’s using you!’
‘Rubbish. You just wait and see.’
‘Wait? For what?’
I can feel goosebumps coming up and the little hairs on my arms are standing to attention. So Oliver’s in the UK. And he’s having lunch with Mum. A special lunch. Alarm bells are ringing!!! Is Shug with him? Oh my God, is a nightmare future with the step-brother from hell heading my way?
2.30 p.m., Suite 6003
At two thirty I manage to erase this horror scenario from my mind as RUPERT is here. He and I have at last got down to maths. Rupert is studying the page for which I got the ‘D minus, please see me’ with a look of concentration.
‘Hmm. Hmm,’ he says.
‘Well?’
‘It’s clear where you went wrong.’
It is. It’s marked in Sister Elizabeth’s red biro, in fact double-underscored.
‘Of course it’s ages since I did, errm …’ He checks the heading. ‘Ahh, simultaneous equations.’
We both look glumly at the page.
<
br /> ‘Look, maybe we should start out fresh with a new exercise book …’ suggests Rupert.
As I’m getting out my pen and nice smooth new book of squared exercise paper, I catch him taking sneaky looks at the back of the textbook where the answers are.
‘Yep, it’s really simple. If the sum of two numbers is ten, what are the numbers?’
‘Search me. They could be anything. One and nine, five and five, errm …’
‘True.’ Rupert pauses and nibbles thoughtfully at the top of his pencil. Oh, lucky pencil to come so close to Rupert’s lips. I’m lost for a moment.
‘But you must remember something from the lesson. It was only last month, Holly.’ Rupert is being quite forceful for once. With an effort I pull myself together.
‘I seem to remember it’s something to do with them changing their signs when they jump over the equals.’
I’d spotted this little scrawl in the margin of my old book with sheep turning into cows as they leap over a gate. It’s what Sister Elizabeth calls a ‘mnemonic’, which is a really difficult-to-pronounce way of saying ‘reminder’.
‘Oh, RIGHT! That helps.’
Somehow, with the aid of the textbook and a lot of checking the answers at the back, we manage to get the whole page corrected.
In fact, I get the exercise I’d found so difficult in school one hundred per cent right.
Rupert marks it AA+. And I’m absolute rubbish at maths.
So you see, he is the most perfect tutor.
5.00 p.m. (after maths), the Penthouse Suite
I decide that I’d better check out how Mum’s lunch went.
I enter her suite to find Mum striding back and forth like a caged panther. She hasn’t seen me. She’s raging at Vix.
‘How dare he blow me out? Who does he think he is?’
‘Maybe he was held up …’ suggests Vix limply.
‘Held up! No one gets held up when they’re lunching with me. Not even … not even … not even if there’s an earthquake and they fall down a crevasse!’
Vix is mumbling about traffic and taxis.
‘Well, I got there, for God’s sake!’
‘And he didn’t call to expl—?’
‘No, he did NOT call. And if he does, not only am I NOT IN, I’m NOT EVER IN EVER AGAIN. Is that clear?’
I back out, not wanting to get involved.
So Oliver has blown Mum out! That figures. When she doesn’t get a Grammy, she doesn’t get lunch. Hmm. I told you so.
The whole thing has confirmed in my mind what I’ve always said about Oliver. As I pointed out to Mum, it’s her fame he’s after. When the teensiest bit of failure tarnishes her image, he’s not seen for dust.
I’d better text Becky the good news.
re dream date with o.b.
o.b. was with k.
then he wasn’t
then he was again
but he’s not any more.
HBWx
I get another text back:
???????
Bx
I text her back:
to simplify:
two egos won’t go into one
HBWx
Saturday 1st March, 9.30 a.m.
The Penthouse Suite
I’m burning to know whether Mum has or hasn’t signed the contract for ‘Home is Where Your Heart is’. So I pop up to Vix’s office to check her in-tray where I saw it a day or so ago. I flick quickly through her papers and, yes, sure enough, there it is. And triumph! There’s Kandhi’s signature on the bottom line with its inimitable flourish. I’m just about to creep back out when Vix’s phone rings. I feel almost as if it’s seen me. I stare at it guiltily.
Normally Vix would have picked up the call on her mobile if she’s not in the hotel. But it continues to ring, which means Vix hasn’t transferred it. In fact, it could actually mean that maybe she’s somewhere loose on this floor and if she hears it she is bound to dash in and answer it. If Vix sees me going through her in-tray there is going to be a scene. So I snatch up the phone.
‘Hello.’
‘Is that Kandhi?’ It’s a woman’s voice. It’s a nice warm deep voice. American. It’s the kind of voice a mum ought to have.
‘No, she’s not here right now.’
‘Is that Kandhi’s PA?’
‘No, she’s not here either. But I could take a message if you –’
‘So who are you?’
‘Errm, well, I’m Holly, Kandhi’s daughter.’
‘You don’t say!’
‘Umm.’
‘Well. Aren’t I the lucky one getting through to you?’
‘’Errm, well …’
‘Because I’ve got a load of things I want to ask you.’
‘Ask me? You have?’
‘I believe you have some pretty interesting insights.’
She must’ve heard about my views on fur farming, caged animals, bio-testing, third world exploitation. Naturally, I’m flattered.
‘Oh, well, I like to speak up for things that don’t have like a voice. You know, animals and things.’
‘Exactly. And I’m sure your mother shares your views.’
‘Well, errm …’ Of course there was that generous donation that Mum gave, anonymously, to the Twilight Home for Distressed Donkeys, but …
‘She wouldn’t be with Oliver Bream, by any chance?’
‘Oliver Bream? No way!’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘That creep. Last time they were meant to meet he didn’t show up.’
‘No way. Blew out Kandhi?’
‘Umm.’
‘She must’ve been mad.’
For some reason I’m getting vibes that this person is not so interested in my ecological views after all.
‘Could you tell me who I’m speaking to, please?’ I remember, too late, to ask.
‘Oh, just a friend.’
At that point the phone goes dead. And then I remember, even more too late, that I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about Mum. Certainly not the press. But this woman didn’t sound like the press. Did she?
I don’t have time to ponder on this. Because I can hear Vix coming down the corridor. If she discovers I’ve been talking to anyone about Mum she’s going to throw an epi.
I’m out of here.
Sunday 2nd March, 10.00 a.m.
Suite 6002 (Black Sunday)
I’ve hardly got the heart to write anything as I am in total shock due to the report in the Weekday News under the heading:
GUESS WHO’S BLOWN OUT KANDHI!
The article below goes on about the fiery relationship between the two superstars. They’ve even raked out the old shot of Oliver covered in seafood. There are quotes from me that have been amplified beyond belief. And from somewhere they’ve unearthed a very ancient school photo of me, in uniform. (I even had my brace at the time.) Oh why, oh why did I talk to that ‘friend’ of Mum’s?
There’s only one consoling factor. Mum never reads the newspapers. She gets Vix to go through them for her so that she can cut out anything relevant. (And edit out anything negative.) Vix always has a pile of them waiting on her desk that she hasn’t had time to tackle.
I feel it would be kinder to Mum to remove the Weekday News with the offending article and destroy it. I’m doing Vix a favour too because I’m reducing her workload.
Monday 3rd March, 9.30 a.m.
Suite 6002
Disaster!
Vix has had a call from Oliver, who must be signed up with some creepy underhand paparazzi press cuttings agency. He has just received the cutting from the Weekday News – with the ‘Guess who’s blown out Kandhi’ article.
Vix has summoned me to her office and faced me up with it. I even have to admit to confiscating the Weekday News from her pile.
‘Please, please, don’t tell Mum,’ I beg her. ‘It’s bad enough being stood up. But having the whole world knowing about it – Mum’ll kill me.’
Vix has said that she and Oliver have
agreed not to tell Mum because she’s having a rough time at present what with the non-winning of Grammys, etc., and that even at the best of times she reacts so badly to negative publicity. But that from now on, I owe her one.
I have also had to promise on my word of honour never, ever to talk to the press again.
In fact Vix has cancelled both my singing and my dance lessons this morning and, much worse, my lessons with Rupert this afternoon. She’s given me the job of catching up on her pile of press cuttings as a punishment.
11.30 a.m.
Just when I think I’ve reached my lowest ebb – newspapers can be SO depressing – I get a call through from Reception.
‘There’s a visitor here for you, Miss Winterman.’
‘A visitor, for me? Who?’
‘She won’t say. Please could you come down to the lobby?’
I go down in the elevator with grave misgivings. If it’s that no-good journalist lady I’ll give her a piece of my mind.
But as I alight from the elevator – NO!
YES! Standing there in her grey SotR regulation coat and beret – is BECKY!!!!!!
I don’t think the Royal Trocadero has experienced quite so many decibels for some time. We actually made one of their cut-glass chandeliers vibrate!
When we’d calmed down some I took her up to my suite.
We were both talking at once.
‘So what are you doing here?’/‘What’ve you done to your hair?’
Somehow, I managed to establish that it was half-term. She’d come up on a day return with Miss Symes, who had something to do at the British Library.
‘She said she’d be about three hours. So we haven’t got that long. Oh my God, is this your room?’ finished Becky breathlessly.
‘Well, yes. I guess …’
Becky was opening cupboards and checking out the balcony. She ended up in the bathroom. ‘I don’t believe it. You’ve got a bath and a walk-in shower. It’s huge. An average family could live in here! You are so lucky!’