My Life So Far

by Chloe Rayban

  ‘Mr Wallace!’

  ‘Huh? What?’ He wakes with a snort.

  I get to my feet. ‘I am not staying here a minute longer.’

  ‘I think we should let your mother be the judge of that.’

  ‘OK. Let’s go and see her together.’

  ‘Very well. If you insist.’

  Mr Wallace and I go up in the elevator to Mum’s suite.

  Vix opens the door to us.

  ‘We haven’t scheduled a meeting, Holly . . .’ she says.

  I brush past her: ‘We want to see Mum.’

  ‘What is it?’ A voice comes from the bedroom. Mum comes out dressed in her wrap. Mr Wallace goes bright red. You’d think he’d never seen a woman less than fully dressed before. (Actually, that’s highly probable.)

  ‘Is this important, Holly?’

  ‘Mr Wallace says I’ve got to do detention and he’s –’

  Mum holds a hand up to silence me and looks at Mr Wallace. ‘What are you detaining her for?’

  We both answer in unison:

  ‘Not doing a lot of really vital –’/‘Not doing a load of really boring stuff.’

  Mum makes it clear that she has far more important decisions than my education on her mind. Through the open bedroom door I can see she has a selection of outfits laid out on her bed and a choice of shoes.

  ‘But do I or don’t I have to do detention?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you ring your father?’

  We do that. Dad comes up with the suggestion that I go and do detention at his place. This seems to suit Mr Wallace, who goes off with his head held high.

  9.00 p.m., Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Dad and I have had an ace detention. He’s taught me six new chords on his keyboard and we’ve shared a family-size pepperoni pizza.

  ‘So what’s the problem with Mr Walrus?’ asks Dad, when we’re both feeling nice and mellow and full of pizza. (I’ve told him about the nose hair.)

  I go into a long list of Mr Wallace’s many faults and shortcomings.

  ‘Bit long in the tooth, is he?’ asks Dad.

  I ignore this pathetic attempt to humour me.

  ‘He’s old and he’s grumpy. And he’s SO-OO negative. Do you know what he said to me? He said I’d never make a vet. At the rate I was going, I’d be lucky if I got a job in a poodle parlour clipping nails.’

  A shadow of a smile crosses Dad’s face. And this is SO NOT funny.

  ‘AND he’s confiscated my mobile. Can’t you do something to get rid of him?’

  ‘I guess I could call your mother and talk it over with her.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Thursday 22nd May, 10.00 a.m.

  The Wessex Hotel

  Through Dad’s kind intervention I’ve got my mobile back from Mr Wallace. Dad intelligently pointed out that me not having my mobile is a security risk. What would happen if we were attacked and Mr Wallace was bound and gagged and tied to a chair? (Oh, dream on!) So I’m in a much better mood, even though my mobile’s meant to be turned off while in class.

  We’re doing French grammar and I manage to get right through from ‘Je suis’ to ‘Ils/elles sont’ without a single mistake.

  ‘Good,’ says Mr Wallace grudgingly.

  So we move on to the future. Somewhere mid-future tense, I feel my mobile vibrating. A sly glance under the table shows I have a text from Becky. I take the teensiest peek at it.

  It’s only one word:

  No

  I sit there puzzling over this as we get to grips with the complexities of the past tense – or the ‘passie composie’ as Mr Wallace insists on calling it. He has the most terrible accent.

  With skilful sleight of hand, I text Becky back:

  No what?

  The answer comes back before we get down to the imperfect.

  x

  That’s when I remember my last question to her. Has Jamie kissed her yet?

  No. He hasn’t. So I’m not the last person on earth who hasn’t been kissed. Yet. All I need to do is find one essential – like a boy. He’ll have to be a pretty nice one though . . .

  ‘Are you still with me, Holly?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Wallace.’

  ‘So what was it I just said?’

  ‘Errm?’

  ‘Hollywood? Have you been using your mobile again?’

  ‘Just reading a vital text message. It was only one letter, Mr Wallace.’

  I show him Becky’s message.

  Mr Wallace has insisted that even if it is a one-letter answer it obviously wasn’t a one-letter question. So my mobile has been confiscated again.

  OK, you asked for it. Your days are numbered Mr Wallace.

  4.30 p.m., after classes

  Mum is getting ready for a dinner date. Daffyd’s doing her hair. Between bursts of blow-drying I manage to get her attention.

  ‘Mum, I’ve talked to Dad about going to school . . .’

  ‘Oh yeah? Daffyd, part it higher, OK?’

  ‘Umm . . . He says it’s up to you, so . . .’

  (Rest of my argument is drowned by dryer.)

  ‘Holly, I can’t hear you . . .’

  ‘Mum, I can’t stand a day longer with Mr Wallace . . .’

  ‘Daffyd, will you STOP for a moment.’

  Daffyd switches off. Mum, hot and cross from the dryer, turns to face me.

  ‘If you’ll let me get a word in – I have been looking into schools, as a matter of fact,’ she says. ‘And I think I’ve found a solution.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Go on, Daffyd.’

  I watch as Daffyd finishes Mum’s hair and she admires her reflection with a look of satisfaction. ‘Yes’, she continues, as Daffyd holds a mirror for her to check out her back view, ‘there’s this private place that’s not far from here. Good security.’

  ‘Brilliant! How did you hear about it?’

  ‘Oh, this son of a friend goes there . . .’ says Mum vaguely.

  ‘That’s fine, Daffyd. You can go.’

  ‘Who? What’s the school called? Do I know him?’

  ‘Errm . . . yes, you’ve met . . .’

  I search my mind for who it can be. Oh no! NO, please NO!

  ‘Mum, it’s not Shug? Tell me it’s not.’

  (Shug is my least favourite person in the Universe. He’s the son of an ex of Mum’s – Oliver Bream, this really arrogant English actor who thinks he’s God. Which makes Shug Son-of-God. Both of them treat me like I’m some mistake Mum made in the past which she would’ve done better to get rid of.)

  ‘I am NOT going to the same school as Shug!’

  ‘I don’t understand you, Holly. First we’re arguing about you going to school and now we’re fighting about you not going.’

  ‘But there must be other schools in New York?’

  ‘Not like this one. This is where all the stars’ kids go. It’s got maximum security and special classes. You know, some of those poor kids have missed loads.’

  ‘If they’re anything like Shug, they think they know it all already.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so negative about him.’

  ‘Even his stupid name makes me want to kind of . . . regurgitate.’

  ‘I think it’s rather cute. His real name’s Siegfried. But he couldn’t say Siegfried when he was little, so Shug kind of stuck.’

  ‘I’m amazed he can manage Shug.’

  ‘Anyway, there’s no need to start making a scene because you won’t be going there for a couple of months. Their spring semester’s just ending.’

  Mum is starting on her make-up now. She’s leaning into the mirror applying lipliner.

  ‘So . . . if I was at the school, I’d be going on vacation right now?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘So why am I doing classes?’

  ‘It’s not holiday time yet in the UK.’

  ‘But I’m not in the UK.’

  ‘Well, I know, but –’

  ‘Mum, if you’re sending me to
this new school I might as well start right now – on vacation.’

  I watch Mum’s reflection in the mirror as the logic of this gets through to her.

  She stops putting lipstick on mid-lip and says, ‘You’ve got a point there. Why not? This means we could get rid of that Mr What’s-his-name . . .’

  ‘Mr Wallace. Mum, you mean you don’t like him either?’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t like him, babes. The thing is – he’s never really gone with the decor, now has he?’

  Friday 23rd May

  VICTORY!

  Mum has actually told Mr Wallace that we don’t need him any more. I reckon she must have given him a massive payoff though, because when he came to say goodbye, he didn’t look the tiniest bit sad. In fact, he had this expression like a walrus that’s just spotted a massive shoal of sardines approaching and all he has to do is keep his mouth open and they’ll swim right in.

  He told me he was going to treat himself to ‘a little vacation’ in the Caribbean. I tried unsuccessfully to picture Mr Wallace laid out on a sunlounger on some exotic beach fringed by palm trees. I just couldn’t think what he’d do with his briefcase. I had this awful vision of its sad, battered elephant-hide surface surrounded by cocktails with fruit and umbrellas and stuff in them, looking so out of place.

  But anyway, he tried to be nice. He did give me my mobile back. He said he’d still mark my last three assignments and send them back, although this wasn’t strictly in his contract. And he wished me luck and said if I ever wanted to get in touch in the future (!), I could use his mother’s address in Bognor Regis. For one dreadful moment I thought I was going to get a walrussy kiss goodbye. But then we shook hands instead. Phew!

  Saturday 24th May, 9.00 a.m.

  The Wessex Hotel

  I wake up with that wonderful lazy feeling, realising that it’s Saturday. And then I have to double the feeling because it’s not only Saturday but the beginning of the long vacation! And then I triple it because it’s not just the vacation, it’s the end of classes for ever with Mr Wallace.

  This leads me on to think about what I’m going to do with my vacation. All that time on my hands and nothing planned. I could travel with Mum, of course – she should be off on tour any day now. But think of all those hours hanging around backstage . . . Maybe I could get Dad to take me somewhere. Dumb idea – I can’t even get Dad to take a walk. What I’d really like to do is go somewhere distant and exotic like . . . Tanzania, for instance. This conjures up a picture of Rupert in my mind . . .

  I could well have lain in bed picturing Rupert for a good hour or more, but it occurred to me that I hadn’t checked my email once since I’d been in New York and he might well have been desperate to contact me. So I leapt out of bed and opened my laptop and clicked on ‘Mail’ and up came loads and loads of spam which I had to erase to get to:

  A rhino ate my homework

  It was a message from Rupert. Oh, savour the moment! I didn’t even want to open it – this moment should last forever. But of course I did.

  Hi Holly!

  How’s life in the stratosphere? Does the Supernova still have you locked into her orbit? So much to tell you. Tanzania mind-blowing. Try to think of absolute and total opposite to the Royal Trocadero and you’ve got my current accommodation. It has floor (baked mud), walls (four), roof (partial), windows (unglazed), furniture (bedroll). I have made one important purchase since arrival. It currently serves as shower, stool, shopping basket and washing machine. I’ve christened it Basil — it can even be used as a bucket when I go to the convenient tap three hundred yards from my door. The ‘schoolhouse’ is currently in flatpack form, i.e. branches, mudbrick and thatch, which seems to have been delivered without assembly instructions. Basically the job here is: first build school, then teach. But I do have students. They seem keen to learn — they’ve already started digging the foundations.

  You may not get many e-s from me as in order to reach nearest ‘internet café’ — and I speak metaphorically — I have to rise at 4.00 a.m. and walk three miles thru waist-high scrub to intercept bus which takes two hours to reach nearest ‘town’ — the mecca of sophistication where I bought Basil.

  Will try and send another e in ten days as I have to come back here to meet fellow VSO worker. Juliette is coming to teach infants soon as school’s built.

  Love and all that,

  Rupert x

  Juliette! Juliette? What do they think they’re doing sending a female volunteer to work with Rupert? I’ve a good mind to get Mum to complain – I’m sure VSO must be one of the charities she supports.

  I study the email again. ‘Love and all that, Rupert x’. I concentrate for a blissful moment on the little ‘x’. I imagine ‘x’ing Rupert – sigh! But unbidden, my mind starts sending unwanted and totally out-of-line snapshots of this Juliette: waiflike and blonde in a tight, white shirt, knotted at her perfect waist. Or in Out of Africa khaki combats, her long russet curls wafting on the hot Tanzanian wind. Or tall, brunette and raunchy in tight denims. And I know for a fact that all these alternative Juliettes are dead set on snogging Rupert. It’s SO-OO unfair!

  I have breakfast in my room, as I am too miserable to descend to the dining room. All my holiday plans are in ruins. What is the point in going to Tanzania now Juliette will be there? In my mind I am desperately trying to compose a suitable email in reply to Rupert’s.

  I try:

  a) Noble-and-unselfish: I am so glad you have a female VSO worker to share your lonely evenings under the stars Ugghh!

  b) Mature-and-far-seeing: Be careful NOT to get involved in a relationship just because you’re marooned together miles from anywhere.

  c) From-the-heart: Rupert you are my one and only true love I’ll never love anyone else as long as I live. Wait for me!

  None of these alternatives seems to have the totally cool and detached tone I’m searching for. But Rupert’s not going to be checking his email for another eight days or so (when he goes to pick up Juliette), so I have eight whole days to think up the right response.

  In the meantime I do what any girl in my place would do.

  I text my best friend:

  Disaster!

  Rupert has new female

  VSO volunteer

  coming to live in his

  shack.

  advise please.

  HBWX

  A text comes back from Becky almost immediately:

  poor you

  try to

  find a positive way

  to deal with rejection

  Bx

  I stare at this answer in disbelief. How could any best friend be so callously cold-hearted? Just because she’s got a date with Jamie. The text positively oozes self-satisfaction.

  I text her back:

  how?

  HBW

  Her text returns:

  keep busy

  Bx

  Now this is a tall order in the Wessex Hotel, where even your robe is hung up for you if you happen to leave it on the side of the bath. I scan my suite for potential activities. In the end I take a nap. Well, I’m still jet lagged after all.

  Sunday 25th May, 9.00 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  I wake and have rather less of a euphoric feeling. Yes, sure I’m on holiday, but what precisely am I going to do with my time? I ring Mum. She’s booked up recording all day. She suggests I spend the day with Dad.

  So OK – I get Abdul to drive me over to Dad’s. He’s the parent who really cares for me. He’s bound to think of some brilliant way to spend the day.

  When I get to his place I have to ring for ages before anyone opens the door.

  It’s Dad. He’s unshaven and his skin looks positively grey.

  ‘Hi, Holly! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Dad, you look dreadful.’

  ‘Honey, I feel it. I’m going back to bed.’

  He disappears into his room. I survey the place. It must’ve been some night last night. By
the look of it, Fred has been making one of his movies. The apartment is like the scene of a chainsaw massacre. There are stray body parts from a load of shop window mannequins strewn around. Some of these have been roughly reassembled like some hideous evolutionary mistake. There are headless legless bodies with umpteen extra arms and armless leggy ones – goodness knows where the heads have gone. I track these down to the kitchen, where a load of black rubbish bags are leaking what looks like human hair. The janitor’s going to get some shock when he throws out the trash.

  The sink is piled high with dirty coffee cups and the air smells like an ashtray, so my ‘positive way of dealing with rejection’ takes the form of washing up, cleaning, and tidying loose body parts into black plastic bags.

  At last I can hear water running in the shower. When Dad comes out of his room, I give him a lecture.

  ‘Honestly, Dad – the way you lot live!’

  ‘You sound like your mum.’

  ‘In that case she’s right. Just look at yourself.’

  Dad looks at himself in the mirror and groans.

  ‘Exactly.’

  One by one the others wake up. They are in a similarly wasted state. Fred checks his body parts and insists I go through the trash with him. He claims I’ve mislaid a left leg.

  Marlowe is nowhere to be seen but there is a constant stream of calls for him on Dad’s phone. They’re all girls and they all want Marlowe to call them back.

  I suggest ordering up breakfast for everyone but this is greeted by a chorus of : ‘No way!’ I’m sent out for paracetamol and cola instead.

  They sit for the rest of the day drinking cola and playing cards. The place is blue with smoke.

  You know, sometimes adults can be SO-OO sad. I’m worried about Dad. No, correction, I am seriously worried about Dad. He never takes any exercise. He never goes out. He’s turning into a fat, slobby version of his former self and I have to do something about it!

  Monday 26th May, 9.00 a.m.

  The Wessex Hotel, otherwise known as Prison