My Life Starring Mum

by Chloe Rayban

  He looks sulky at this. Mum’s made him postpone the wedding yet again because of the Heatwave. After Wembley, she’s planning a tour in the States.

  We are interrupted by Thierry (who’ll you’ll remember is Mum’s personal French chef). He burst in without even knocking.

  ‘I’m not ’aving it,’ he roars. (Thierry can be really fiery-tempered.)

  Mum sits up all startled with her hair half long and half short.

  ‘What is it, Thierry?’

  ‘Zat beggar. Coming into my kitchen. Eesch morning. Juss as I am slipping. Boom boom boom. I tell ’im what ’ee can do with ’ees basket.’

  ‘Oh, Sit.’

  ‘Yez, Sheet.’

  Vix breaks in. ‘I’m sorry, I booked him into a suite on the seventh floor. But he wouldn’t settle. He insists on sleeping on his bedroll in the yard by the rubbish bins.’

  ‘And he wakes. At first I think eet’s cats and I throw water …’

  ‘Poor Sit.’

  ‘But no, Sheet, ’ee comes in all wet on my nice cleen floor and Boom boom boom.’

  Sit is not far behind. He arrives in the doorway looking sheepish.

  ‘Sit, listen to me,’ says Mum. ‘From now on you have to sleep in your suite. And your breakfast will be sent up on a trolley. No wandering round at all hours. Understand?’

  ‘But, Kandhi. I am men to be welinquishing all worldly pweasures.’

  ‘Well, whatever. Think laterally. Order something you don’t like from the breakfast menu. That should do it.’

  Sit wanders off sadly. Thierry leaves with his head held high, vindicated.

  Thursday 6th March

  Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  I open my curtains to find it’s a beautiful day. But there’s an odd piece of rope hanging down past my window. Window cleaners? I lean out to find Sit has come to a compromise. His begging basket is hanging from his seventh-floor window with a note saying ‘PLEASE GIFT’. Surprised Mayfair shoppers are stopping to inspect – I’ve even spotted a couple dropping something in.

  At around eleven Sit comes to see me.

  ‘Horry. I don know what to do. Look!’

  He holds out his begging basket. In it there is around thirty pounds in cash and a Hermes silk scarf.

  ‘That’s nice of people.’

  ‘No’ when you are men to be welinquishing all worldly goods.’

  ‘Hmm, I see. What if you give the stuff away?’

  Sit shrugs. ‘Maybe. As long as the gift does not give me personal pweasure.’

  ‘Give it to someone you don’t like then. How about Thierry?’

  A slow smile spreads across Sit’s face.

  ‘Maybe, Horry. Maybe you have good idea.’

  Later that day. OOOPs!

  Sit has presented Thierry with a huge bouquet of red roses and the Hermes scarf. Thierry’s masculine sensibilities have been deeply offended. He’s now calling Sit a pervert and trying to get him thrown out of the hotel.

  Friday 7th March, 2.30 p.m.

  Suite 6003

  I am starting to worry about my classes with Rupert. I mean, I’m really pleased he’s my tutor. (But let’s try and forget my massive crush for a moment.) Because this is serious. I can’t help noticing that whenever I get out my science books Rupert kind of flinches.

  Today I’ve decided to take the initiative. I’m sitting with my chemistry book open in front of me when he arrives.

  Rupert hangs up his mac and cycle helmet.

  ‘Umm, now let’s get down to … Oh! Was it chemistry today?’

  ‘Yes, we didn’t do any science all of last week.’

  ‘No, really?’

  ‘No.’

  We work for about an hour.

  It’s more than a sneaking suspicion now. I mean, I was kind of worried when Rupert tried to check on the Periodic Table in my human biology textbook. But I caught him having a sly look inside his briefcase and there was a Crash Course for Beginners Chemistry Study Aid. He is most definitely only one page ahead of me in the chemistry textbook. In fact, I think he might even be on the same page. I’m wondering who’s teaching who.

  I’d better not let Vix get wind of this. She still thinks Rupert’s rubbish. If she finds out he can’t teach science he’ll get fired straight away.

  But of course he’s brilliant at Shakespeare and Shelley and Donne and all those other guys who were writing stuff like yonks ago.

  I know I find them boring but that’s not surprising really. When you consider that they didn’t even have laptops. They had to make do with quills and ink and paper. If they didn’t get it right first time, they’d have all this crossing out. So you can’t blame them if their stuff is a bit kind of tedious. I mean, let’s face it, if you had to write like they did, you’d stick with your first version, wouldn’t you?

  Anyway, I’m doing my best in English in order to impress Rupert. I can always catch up with all those other subjects that I need to get into a vet school later. As Rupert says, it’s important to have a fully rounded education.

  6.30 p.m., the Penthouse Suite

  I find Mum deep into wardrobe test shots for the ‘Home is Where Your Heart is’ video. The photographic team have taken over her suite. They’ve set up great big white umbrella thingies to reflect the light. There are steel equipment cases open all over the floor. June is standing by with a powder puff to damp down the shine on Mum’s face and Daffyd is there to keep an eye on his extensions.

  ‘Hi, babes. Do you want to stay and watch?’ calls out Mum.

  ‘OK.’

  I am always amazed by the way Mum can play to the camera. She’s twisting her body from left to right as if middance and then stopping stock-still and staring into the lens as if challenging it to come up with a drop-dead gorgeous shot. The photographer is egging her on to do more and more outrageous poses.

  She’s dodging in and out of her room coming back with refinements to each costume. The little-girl-lost look is tried with an assortment of raggy things tied round her head. Which rather defeats the purpose of the hair extensions.

  I note that Manolo has come up with a replacement pair of the rhinestone stilettos which are higher if anything than the pair I auctioned. It’d be tough being a little-lost-girl out on the streets with those on. You’d do better to bin them and nick a pair of sneakers.

  After the blue jeans and rhinestones Mum switches to … (Oh no, please, Mum. No!) Few people can have had the mortification of seeing their mother in:

  a) a black lace bra under see-thru white blouse

  b) a luminous miniskirt

  c) fishnet stockings with suspenders

  d) the ultimate embarrassment – a tiny frilly net apron

  ‘What’s this for?’ asks Mum, holding up a rolling pin.

  ‘It’s for rolling out that pastry stuff. You’re meant to be a homemaker, right?’ says Victor, emerging from the shadows.

  ‘You don’t think we’re being just the teensiest bit over the top, do you?’ asks Mum.

  Victor is insistent. New image is new image.

  ‘Now, let’s get on to the dungarees and lawnmower.’

  Saturday 8th March, 10.00 a.m.

  Flat 209, Hillview Mansions, Maida Vale

  I am trying to touch base with reality by visiting Gi-Gi. I am coming to the conclusion that life is more real on TV than out of it. At least mine. When I watch TV, all the people I see seem to have lives that include houses and families and hot meals and things. Mine has a manic superstar who can’t even dress up to look like a mum.

  But nothing seems quite normal at Gi-Gi’s either. Thumper has turned into a monster version of himself. He is not a small fluffy angora rabbit any longer. He is huge. He is so big Gi-Gi has bought him a quilted cat basket and he kind of overspills that. I’m even getting slightly concerned as Hillview Mansions has an ‘only small pets’ policy and at this rate Thumper is going to exceed the limit.

  ‘Gi-Gi, what are you feeding him on?’

  It tak
es a bit of prompting before she admits that now his diet consists entirely of sesame dumplings. She has to make a fresh batch every day. He has been so spoilt that he will not touch anything else.

  I decide to take him down into the communal gardens on a piece of string for essential exercise. However, Thumper is no longer interested in exercise. He takes the excursion as more of an extra meal break and starts munching on the Hillview Mansions daffodils that are bursting into flower on the lawn. We’ve been spotted by a ground floor resident who’s been lurking behind her twitching nets. She bangs hard on the window. So I take Thumper back upstairs again.

  Sunday 9th March, 10.30 a.m.

  Suite 6002

  It’s raining outside. It’s the kind of rain that only London can come up with. Gloomy, continuous rain that never seems to get things clean. The hotel is practically empty. Everywhere you go there are staff standing around looking bored.

  The trouble with a luxury hotel like the Royal Trocadero is that there is absolutely nothing to do. If you need food, you’re fed. If you need your bed made or your room tidied, it’s done. Your clothes mysteriously disappear and come back freshly ironed on hangers. I reckon if I stopped breathing they’d have someone on the staff who’d come and do it for me.

  I spend some time sorting through My Personal Private Collection of Very Precious Objects and reorganise them into order of preference with the little pink heart on top. After that I set off for a roam around the hotel.

  Mum and Vix and Daffyd and June are at the studios, working round the clock on the Heatwave video. Sid and Abdul aren’t around either as they accompany Mum everywhere. Sit seems to spend all his time meditating in his suite.

  I pop down to the kitchens to see Thierry but he’s still haughty and grumpy over the flowers affair.

  I text Becky twice. But she doesn’t reply.

  So I swim in the empty hotel pool. I take a jacuzzi which I have all to myself. I even get to sit for a good half-hour in the prime bubbly bit. I stay in till my fingers have gone all wrinkly.

  Monday 10th March (otherwise known as The Longest Day), 10.00 a.m.

  Suite 6003, The Royal Trocadero

  I go next door for my music lesson, but no Jasper. When I ring down to Reception to find out what’s happened to him, I’m put through to Vix. My lessons have been cancelled indefinitely. Jasper will be working with Mum for the foreseeable future. He’s director/producer on ‘Home is Where Your Heart is’.

  ‘But what about me? What am I meant to do?’ I complain.

  ‘I don’t know. What do people usually do? Read a book,’ suggests Vix.

  I do this half-heartedly, followed by a half-hour of arch-flexing exercises. After this I can barely walk so I hobble up to the ballroom for my dance class.

  Stella doesn’t turn up for my dance lessons either. Apparently she’s strained a tendon and has to keep her leg up till the swelling goes down.

  So I stare out of the window and wonder what everyone at school is doing right now.

  2.30 p.m., Suite 6003

  To my relief Rupert has turned up for lessons.

  He’s sorted through the books and put all the maths and science books to one side and is insisting that we concentrate on English lit. Shakespeare in particular.

  We are doing this play called The Taming of the Shrew. Naturally, I like the title. But I soon to find that the ‘shrew’ in question is not one of those sweet little long-nosed, velvety mouse things but a rather cross woman who argues a lot.

  Rupert and I start out by reading the play through together. He reading the hero’s part, this guy called Petruchio who’s trying to ‘tame’ the heroine; and me the heroine, who’s called Kate. I can’t help noticing that Rupert is really brilliant at reading – honestly, he should be an actor. I’m kind of hypnotised by the way his lips move …

  Sigh.

  After we’ve gone through a few pages Rupert stops.

  ‘Holly, could you put some feeling into it? You’re meant to be angry, waspish. You’re meant to hate me, OK?’

  ‘Oh, right, sure …’

  I try really, really hard to sound as if I hate Rupert. Believe me, this is not easy.

  I muddle my way through a long speech which starts with:

  ‘ “Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak. And speak I will. I am no child, no babe …” ’ (If only!)

  Rupert stops me again. ‘You’ve got to try and spit the words out, Holly. Think of how a person behaves when they’re really angry at someone …’

  Suddenly I have this vision of Mum with the seafood platter.

  ‘OK, I’ll try again.’

  I get to my feet. I stand, knees slightly bent, like Mum did. I narrow my eyes. I imagine that Oliver is right there in front of me and the seafood platter is just within my grasp. Then I let rip. I can hear my voice in my head sounding just like Mum …

  ‘ “… My tongue will tell the anger of my heart;

  or else my heart concealing it will break,

  And rather than it shall, I will be free

  Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words …” ’

  ‘Errm, was that all right?’

  Rupert is standing stock-still, staring at me.

  ‘Wow … that was really good, Holly. Where did that come from?’

  I glow all over. Praise!!! Praise from RUPERT, like he’s really impressed by something I’ve done?!!! This is the best moment of my life EVER!

  I shrug. ‘Well, you know. We’ve all got it in us, I guess.’

  The lesson ends in a kind of heady daze. Rupert thinks I can act. I can act Shakespeare!

  5.30 p.m., Suite 6002

  I’m back in my room taking a bath. I’m lying in the bathtub totally dreaming that Rupert and I are really famous, like we’re in this movie and I’m acting really cool in front of the cameras with no problems at all.

  No, not only am I NOT crippled by stage fright, I am actually enjoying being the centre of attention. Which normally, as you may have gathered, is SO NOT me. Seriously, I have a phobia about performing. It’s like the phobias people have about flying, or spiders, or snakes. My phobia just doesn’t happen to have a name, that’s all. Maybe it should – like ‘performaphobia’, for instance: the irrational fear of making a complete dick of yourself in front of an audience.

  But when I’m with Rupert this phobia’s cured. In my bathtub fantasy we’re walking down a red carpet to our very own world première and all these people are crowding in on either side applauding like crazy.

  I get out of the bath and dry myself. I want to rush up to Mum’s suite and maybe read that bit out loud to her to prove that ‘Yeah, there is a bit of the performer in me after all. Like, those genes haven’t totally passed me by.’ So I ring Vix to see if Mum’s free. I can hear from the bleeps that Vix’s phone is still on transfer. She answers me in a hushed voice.

  ‘Who? Oh, Holly, it’s only you. No, I can’t talk right now. Looks like we’re going to be in the studios all night at the rate we’re going.’

  In the background I can hear Mum’s voice being played back over and over, singing a phrase from ‘Home is Where Your Heart is’.

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I guess I’ll order up something from room service and get an early nigh—’

  Vix has already rung off.

  Same day STILL: 9.00 p.m., The Royal Trocadero

  I’ve had my lonely supper and I’m wondering if I can find someone to talk to.

  I peep out of my door. There aren’t even security guards to talk to as they don’t patrol my floor any longer. It turned out that those ‘nasty threats’ were all from the same person – a madly obsessed prowler who had this ‘thing’ about Mum. He’s been rounded up and put behind bars. So we’ve gone from ‘High Alert’ to ‘Medium Alert’ to ‘Not Alert At All’. The security guys currently spend their time playing pool in the hotel leisure centre.

  The hotel is really still, like there’s no one left alive in it. Even the muzak’s been turned off – there�
��s only the steady hiss of the air conditioning.

  The only other person who isn’t involved in the Heatwave is Sit. I decide that even if he is meditating he could probably do with a break.

  Sit’s suite is on the seventh floor, which is not so grand as the sixth. The carpet is just that little bit less poumphy and their light fittings don’t have little crystal bits hanging off them, but it’s still pretty grand for someone who’s meant to be ‘relinquishing all worldly pleasures’.

  The smell of joss sticks leads me to Sit’s suite. The door has been left slightly open. But I guess if your only possessions are a bedroll, a faded saffron robe and a begging basket, you’re not going to be paranoid about security.

  ‘Sit?’ I call out. ‘Can I come in?’

  There’s no answer, so I push the door further open.

  Sit isn’t in the suite. I note that he has rearranged the place somewhat. He’s pushed the couch to one end and up-ended the bed against it. The bedside rug has been laid out in front of a sort of altar where the joss sticks are burning.

  But what grabs my attention – what totally stops me in my tracks, what makes my jaw drop – is not a tubby smiling figure of a Buddha, like you’d totally expect to see on that altar. No, it’s a blown-up photo of Mum. I now notice that there are more photos of her stuck around the walls. (I totally hope Sit has used Sticky Fixers or there’ll be no end of a scene when he moves out.)

  This confirms in my mind the niggly doubt I’ve had all along. Like, I thought he was too good to be true. It’s clear now that Sit is just another fan.

  Fans – they’ll do anything to get close to Mum. There was even one who glued himself to the underside of Mum’s limo with superglue. Luckily for him, security found him on a routine under-car body search. But it just shows how obsessed they can get.

  I creep out of the room and pull the door to behind me, wondering what to do about it. I mean, it’s not as if I think Sit is dangerous or anything. Maybe it would be kindest to keep the whole thing to myself.