My Life So Far

by Chloe Rayban

  The wheezing and clanking of Dad’s elevator brought back happy memories of my carefree days before I lived with Mum. It arrived with a screech and a sigh at the eighth floor and I climbed out.

  As soon as I was out of the doors, I was enveloped in a big close hug from Dad. Then he held me at arm’s length.

  ‘Wow, Holly-Poppy! What’ve they been giving you? Growth hormone?’

  ‘Hi, Dad!’ I noticed he was getting a bit of a paunch. And he had a lot less hair than last time I’d seen him. What was left was tied in a ponytail that was starting to go grey at the sides. My heart did a little lurch. Parents should most definitely NOT be allowed to grow older.

  ‘Come on in. Let’s hear it all. How’s life been treating my favourite daughter?’ Because of Dad’s preferred form of communication (he refuses to communicate by anything but postcard) there’s quite a lot to catch up on.

  ‘I’m your only daughter, Dad!’

  ‘That doesn’t stop you being my favourite.’

  I cast a glance around the loft. Nothing much had changed: there were more artworks on the walls and some new stuff standing around which I guess must’ve been sculpture. Not much in the way of furniture apart from a load of Afghan cushions and sagging beanbags.

  ‘So? Where is everybody?’

  ‘Oh, they’re around. Be back sometime soon.’

  We went and settled on a pile of cushions.

  ‘Hey, what you been doing to your nails?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Nothing. I mean, I’ve stopped biting them.’ (At least, I haven’t bitten them much. I was too scared of June getting hold of them and insisting I wore stick-ons.)

  ‘No, those white bits – cuticles. You should push those down, you know. When you’re in the bathtub. Or after a shower. Doesn’t your mum tell you to do that?’

  I stared at him lovingly. Dad really cared about me. He cared about my cuticles. How many daughters can say that?

  At that point (saving you from a totally gooey sentimental bit) there was the sound of a key in the front door.

  ‘Da-dah! There she is! The fabulous, the one and only . . .’ came a voice I recognised.

  ‘Fred’s still here!’ (Fred’s a painter friend of Dad’s, although he doesn’t actually use paint – he more like finds stuff and frames it.)

  ‘He’s just about to move out,’ Dad reassured me.

  ‘Hi, Princess!’ Fred exclaimed as he grabbed me round the waist and swung me round. ‘Are you still going to marry me?’

  My answer was drowned out by cheers and whoops as more people came flooding into the apartment.

  ‘So who’s this?’ said a big guy looming out of the doorway. ‘Pete, are you going to introduce me to this beautiful lady?’

  ‘Marlowe, this is Hollywood Bliss Winterman. Holly-Poppy, this is Marlowe.’

  ‘You can call me Holly – everyone does.’

  ‘Oh boy! I don’t believe this. You’re Kandhi’s daughter!’ said Marlowe.

  I glanced at Dad. I wish people wouldn’t do this. They used to call Dad Mr Kandhi, which was so hurtful. Like he was nothing compared with Mum.

  So I kind of shrugged off the comment, saying, ‘I guess so.’

  But I couldn’t help staring at Marlowe. He looked like he’d stepped out of a movie. All perma-tanned and stubblefaced.

  ‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ I said.

  Marlowe tipped his head on one side and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Just add a ten-gallon . . .’ he said with a wink.

  ‘Oh my God, I have! It’s you on all those hoardings . . .’

  ‘That’s me. Ten yards high . . .’

  ‘Wow! You’re really famous,’ I said. He was the guy from the Hustler jeans ad. The posters were up worldwide.

  ‘Not as famous as your mum.’

  ‘No one is as famous as her mum,’ commented Dad drily.

  I slipped my arm through his. ‘Come on, Dad. Introduce me. Who are all these other people?’

  Suddenly I was getting hugged and kissed by people who seemed to know me. I was trying to match them to the hazy memories I had of shadowy figures coming and going from my life. I couldn’t help noticing that a lot of them seemed ominously at home. They were raiding the kitchen and beers were being cracked open and bottles uncorked.

  ‘Hey,’ called out a voice. ‘Is there anything to eat?’

  Dad shrugged and nobody moved, so I went and peeked in the fridge. Nothing had changed there either. It was empty apart from a bottle of ketchup, a jar of peanut butter with fuzz on the top and a tin of anchovies.

  1.00 a.m.

  A delivery boy arrived weighed down with takeout cartons. As soon as he set foot in the loft, people descended on them like a flock of vultures. There were little scuffles and shouts like: ‘Hands off! That’s mine – it’s got double pepperoni.’ ‘Who’s the pasta salad for?’ I don’t like to think how Mum would have reacted. Her carb-counter would have gone into burnout.

  ‘You want some, Holly?’ asked Dad.

  ‘No thanks, I ate on the plane.’

  People were settling down to eat.

  ‘Dad,’ I said, drawing him to one side. ‘Are all these people like living here?’

  ‘Oh, not all of them,’ he said between plastic forkfuls of food.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Errm, well, it’s a shifting population.’

  ‘How many, Dad?’

  ‘Well, there’s Marlowe. And Max, of course,’ he said, indicting a guy who was drinking from a bottle of wine. ‘He’s just here while he finds a publisher.’

  ‘You mean the guy with dreadlocks?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Oh, he’s a poet. His stuff’s really good. And there’s his girlfriend, Juniper.’

  ‘That’s already five including you,’ I said, keeping count on my fingers.

  I turned off while Dad droned on about Max’s imminent breakthrough. I didn’t even care to look in the back rooms. If I knew Dad, they’d still be furnished in classic roadie style – bare mattresses and well-strewn clothes.

  ‘Honestly, Dad, you’re too good to these people.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say, Holly – if you’ve got it, share it. But there’s still space for you, honey. I’ve kept your little room just as it was – in case you ever want to come back.’

  My little room was so small it was what most people call a cupboard. I wasn’t absolutely sure I could fit in there any more. Well, maybe I could, just, if I kept my knees bent. But it was high up and looked out over an epic view. You could see the buildings of New York stacked as far as the eye could see and at night, when they were lit up, it was like Christmas all year round.

  ‘Thanks, Dad. I nearly did come back once, when Mum and I had a row.’

  ‘How is she? The mega-star!’

  ‘She’s fine.’ Reacting to Dad’s tone I found, unaccountably, I was leaping to her defence. ‘She’s making a real effort. To be a mum, I mean. She’s even bought an apartment. It’s having a makeover right now so we’re still in a hotel, but –’

  ‘They came and interviewed me about her film, you know.’

  ‘Supernova?’

  Supernova is this big-budget bio-pic that they’re currently shooting about Mum. Mostly they’re using footage from her videos and concerts, but she’s still got some link sequences to shoot in New York.

  ‘They didn’t want me to play me though,’ continued Dad, putting himself down as ever. ‘Wanted a younger guy. Cast some unknown. But they’re using some of my music.’

  ‘But that’s brilliant, Dad!’

  ‘Yeah. But they don’t want any new stuff.’

  ‘Are you writing any new stuff?’

  ‘Just about to get down to it as a matter of fact.’

  I sighed. I’d heard this before. Over and over again. All the things that Dad was about to do. It made me feel kind of hopeless. If they gave awards for being laid-back, I reckon Dad would’ve got o
ne.

  Things had calmed down somewhat now everyone had eaten. People had stretched out and the air was filling with smoke and the comfortable hum of voices. Someone was picking out an old blues tune in Dad’s music room. Suddenly the sleep that had seemed so impossible back at the hotel started to overcome me.

  ‘I might just go and take a nap,’ I whispered to Dad.

  ‘You do that, Holly-Poppy. Great to have my baby back,’ he said, giving me another big hug.

  ‘Great to be back too, Dad.’

  Like Dad said, my room was just as I’d left it. I checked out the view. I could see the Chrysler Building, which Dad used to pretend was the Emerald City. He said they’d changed the colour so that nobody would know, and that we’d go there sometime, but of course we never did.

  I climbed in under my Jungle Book comforter and found there was just enough room to stretch out. The jungle mobile Dad had made for me, with balsa wood animals he’d cut and painted himself, was still hanging from the ceiling. I blew at it and they started to dance the way they used to do. When I’d lived at Dad’s this was how I’d always fallen asleep.

  9.30 a.m. (New York time). Oops!

  I’m woken by my phone vibrating like a furious wasp under the covers.

  I answer it.

  ‘Where on earth are you?’ It’s Vix.

  ‘It’s OK. Keep your hair on. I’m still at Dad’s. I left you a message.’

  ‘You’re meant to be at a breakfast meeting with your mother.’

  ‘Nobody told me about it.’

  ‘We didn’t think we’d have to. We imagined you’d be in the hotel. I’m sending Abdul round for you right now.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And by the way . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I covered for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Vix.’

  I stumbled out of my cupboard. The interior of Dad’s flat looked like a scene from the nastier side of hell. There were bottles and glasses and paper plates full of cigarette butts and the lumpy shapes of people who must’ve fallen asleep where they were sitting. I crept through the debris and quietly let myself out through the front door.

  I paused on the threshold. Shouldn’t I leave a message for Dad? No need. He’d just assume I’d gone back to the hotel. I’ll give Dad one thing – he isn’t paranoid about security. He was already a roadie by the time he was fourteen. As far as he’s concerned, at thirteen and three-quarters, I’m old enough to look after myself.

  10.00 a.m., The Wessex Hotel – breakfast meeting

  If Mum’s laid on some interview with a journalist, I’ll kill her. On the other hand, if she knows I’ve been out of the hotel for the night, she’ll probably shoot first. But luckily Vix’s cover-up has worked and I make for Mum’s table in the Wessex Dining Room.

  ‘Babes, did you sleep well?’ she says. ‘Meet Anthony. Anthony, this is Hollywood.’

  Anthony doesn’t look like a journalist. He’s wearing a crumpled white linen suit with a black polo neck.

  ‘Have the grapefruit sorbet,’ says Anthony by way of introduction. ‘It’s awesome.’

  I go and help myself to a plate of awesome sorbet and return to catch Mum say, ‘Burnished pewter . . . What does that look like, exactly?’

  I slurp sorbet, assuming that Mum’s planning some new look for a video or something. But no, Anthony turns to me.

  ‘So, Hollywood, have you decided how you want your suite done?’

  ‘My suite?’

  ‘You’re old enough to have ideas of your own, babes. I want you to plan your whole decor for yourself. Just tell Anthony what you want and he’ll fix it.’

  ‘You mean, I can have anything I like?’

  Anthony spreads his hands expressively. ‘Anything . . .’

  ‘Errm . . .’ Why is it that when you can have anything your mind goes totally blank? I thought back over my dream decors of the past. The princess phase, when I wanted a bed draped in gauzy stuff and crystal chandeliers. The punk phase, when I wanted walls covered in graffiti and curtains full of rips. The eco-phase, when I wanted fake grass and a fish pond and banks of real growing flowers where Thumper my rabbit could roam free . . . But all of these sounded far too childish to suggest to Anthony.

  ‘It’s really difficult to imagine until I’ve seen the place,’ I say to stall him.

  ‘She’s right,’ said Anthony. ‘Why don’t I take you both over and we’ll take a look at the site?’

  10.30 a.m., the site

  We don’t have to go far to ‘the site’. They’ve gutted this building that used to be an all-time beautiful hotel and it’s just a few blocks down from the Wessex. We have to wear hard hats to go into the building but once inside we’re taken through passages of billowing canvas to an elevator – which is still covered in polythene and Scotch tape – and whooshed up to the forty-fifth floor.

  As we emerge my hopes of somewhere ‘homey’ are totally dashed. We’re in a massive penthouse which has glass walls all round and the most awesome view of Central Park.

  ‘This is your mother’s salon and her state room leads off,’ says Anthony, leading the way.

  The apartment’s huge. Anthony’s virtually disappeared into the distance, opening doors, saying: ‘Bureau, kitchen, TV room, gym . . .’

  ‘Heaven, isn’t it?’ says Mum.

  ‘Umm . . .’ It’s so stark and cold and white.

  ‘And this, Hollywood, is your suite,’ says Anthony, throwing open a final door.

  I walk in. The room is huge. Ceiling-to-floor windows open on to a balcony. The interior walls are made of mirror so the whole place feels twice as big as it is – endless, in fact. A further door leads to a massive mirror-walled bathroom. This suite gets 100 per cent for style. Ten out of ten for view. But homey-ness is not on the menu. I think of my little room back at Dad’s with longing.

  ‘Well?’ says Mum.

  ‘Well, maybe it needs some plants – palms and things,’ I suggest. (Or screens or blinds or drapes, or something to make it feel more like a place you could actually live in.)

  ‘Plants?’ repeats Anthony, sounding so unimpressed by this. ‘Just plants?’

  ‘Hollywood’s really into nature. Plants, animals, things that grow – all that kind of stuff,’ says Mum.

  ‘What about furniture?’ asks Anthony. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll need a bed . . .’

  ‘A bed! But what kind of bed?’

  ‘Are there kinds of bed?’

  ‘Kinds of bed? Are there kinds of bed? Hollywood Bliss, there are Italian baroque, French provençale, British fourposters, Victorian brass beds, sleigh beds, hung beds, testers, half-testers . . . or there’s hi-tech – steel and glass, circular, blow-up, a water bed . . .’

  ‘No, listen, honestly – for me, anything. A hammock would do.’

  Anthony pauses. ‘Stop! I’m getting pictures in my mind. Could you give me a free hand here? Oh, this could be stellar!’

  I look at Mum and shrug.

  ‘Anthony is a genius,’ says Mum. ‘Trust him.’

  11.00 a.m., The Wessex Hotel

  On the way back to the hotel I check my mobile and find I have a text from Becky.

  She doesn’t communicate much for a best friend. I mean, not ten times a day like most best friends. But she has a pretty good excuse. She’s transferred from the convent boarding school where we met to a specialist music school in London. So now she has like double the workload. She does music all morning and has to cram all the other study into the afternoon, not to mention practising.

  The text reads:

  Hi Holly

  you know

  that cute boy Jamie I told you about

  who plays third trombone?

  he’s asked me out!

  Bx

  Becky! Becky has a date. Immediately I want a date. He doesn’t have to be anything very grand. Just a boy. Practically any boy will do.

  But where would I meet a date?

  a) In
the hotel lobby? I haven’t spotted anyone under fifty staying at the Wessex.

  b) In our luxury penthouse? Not unless a passing helicopter drops one on the terrace.

  c) At Dad’s? Any boy I met at Dad’s is bound to be weird.

  Back at the Wessex, we find Mr Wallace waiting for me in Reception with his battered briefcase. They’ve hidden him behind a bank of tortured bamboo so he doesn’t get mistaken for a guest.

  ‘Aha! Hollywood!’ he says, leaping to his feet. ‘Now, in theory this is still term time – you should be doing school work.’

  ‘But I’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘We have the requirements of the syllabus to fulfil all the same,’ he says. ‘Now, I’ve sorted us out a workspace. Not ideal for our purposes, but –’

  Mum nods. ‘I know how important your schooling is to you, babes. You don’t want to fall behind, now do you?’

  I eye Mum suspiciously. Since when has she taken an interest in my schooling? She clearly wants to be rid of me.

  11.10 a.m., The Wessex Hotel Executive Conference Suite

  Mr Wallace and I have been given this horrible stark conference room to work in. It’s freezing cold because the air conditioning has to be on full blast since it doesn’t even have a window – it’s underground. We’re sitting at this endless table that can seat at least a hundred people and I’m trying to concentrate my mind on my work. I can almost feel the other ninety-nine people who aren’t there, looking at me in disapproval because of what Mr Wallace is saying about my books so far. He’s not at all happy about my progress in science subjects.

  ‘Take Chemistry, for instance. Where exactly did your last tutor leave off?’ he’s asking.

  I explain that my last tutor (Rupert, sigh!) didn’t really leave off anywhere. In fact, we barely got started on Chemistry. I think I knew more than he did.

  ‘But Chemistry is really important, Hollywood. It is the key subject if you want to realise your ambition.’

  My ambition is to become a vet. I know it may sound a little over-ambitious for someone like me, who is kind of challenged on Maths and Chemistry and stuff – although I did get an A+ once in Biology for my drawing of the life cycle of the frog – but it’s what I desperately want to do. And it must be easier than becoming a superstar like Mum because there’s only one Number One and there are loads and loads of vets.