by Chloe Rayban
I call up Mum first thing and ask her what she’s doing. She’s recording all day again. I can hear from her voice that the last thing she wants is me tagging along.
‘Why don’t you go over to your dad’s?’ she suggests.
‘I did that yesterday.’
‘So?’
‘Honestly, Mum. There are all these people there and they’re smoking and playing cards.’
‘You mean I’m still supporting those freeloaders?’
‘I guess so.’
‘What do all these people do precisely?’
‘Nothing much.’ I don’t generally go into details. Mum’s views on Dad’s ‘artist’ friends don’t bear repeating.
‘They must do something.’
‘Well, there’s Fred who’s a poet.’
‘He writes stuff?’
‘I guess.’
‘And the others?’
‘Well, Max makes films.’
‘Umm . . . Good.’
‘And there’s Marlowe. He’s meant to be a model. He’s waiting for his agent to call.’
‘Right,’ said Mum. ‘Leave it with me. In the meantime you better help Vix out.’
10.00 a.m.
When I announce I’m going to help Vix, she’s less than enthusiastic. In fact she makes it pretty clear that having a thirteen-and-three-quarter-year-old helping her is the last thing she needs. She finds a game of patience on her computer and draws up a chair for me.
‘If you’ve really nowhere else to go, sit, play, and don’t speak. OK?’
‘OK.’
I sit and play while Vix makes calls to umpteen travel companies who can’t seem to provide the flights she wants. Eventually she slams down the phone and grabs her bag and says she’s going down to the travel office in person.
My patience game refuses to come out for the third time. I look round for some other ‘positive way to deal with rejection’.
Vix has got two piles of correspondence on her desk which she hasn’t filed yet. I help out by filing all this correspondence alphabetically. I’ve got right through from A to W by the time she gets back.
She stomps through the door, flings her bag down and stares at the table.
‘Holly? Where have all those papers gone?’
‘I had a tidy-up. I filed them,’ I say, waiting for praise.
She has one hand on her hip and she’s looking at me with her head on one side. NOT good body language.
‘You did what?’
‘I filed them?’
‘Oh my GOD!’
‘Not a good idea?’
‘Holly, do you realise – those piles – they were strictly in order of “do first”. Now, I have no idea where the hell I am.’
Tuesday 27th May, 12.45 p.m.
The KWR Inc. Recording Studios
The big event of the day is having lunch with Mum at the recording studios. I turn up as arranged at 1 p.m. and find she isn’t there. So I have sandwiches and Fanta in this little glass booth with the sound engineers.
2.00 p.m.
Mum breezes in and catches sight of me through the glass.
‘Holly, what are you doing here?’ she says through the mike.
‘We were meant to be having lunch, remember?’
‘Were we?’
‘Yes!’
‘Oh babes, sorry! I totally forgot. I’ll make it up to you.’
‘How?
‘Errm . . .’ Mum exchanges ‘Aren’t kids a pain?’ glances with the senior producer and he points meaningfully at the studio clock.
‘I’ll think of something,’ she says hurriedly. ‘You want to stay and watch?’
‘I suppose so.’
I have the treat of watching Mum going over and over the same phrase like fifty times. Soon I’m feeling more frayed than the sound engineers.
By four I’ve had enough and I get Abdul to run me back to the Wessex.
4.30 p.m.
Abdul is taking a detour through the poor part of the city and I’m staring out of the window wondering how on earth I’m going to get through this summer. That’s when a hoarding catches my eye. It has a picture of a really cute dog and cat on it.
PAWS 4 THOUGHT
Adopt a pet today.
It’s an ad for an animal shelter. Underneath it gives a number to ring.
A dog! If I had a dog, I might be allowed to take it for walks – it would have to be a good big dog, mind. But something tells me the Wessex Hotel wouldn’t take kindly to a dog. And Mum wouldn’t be crazy about a dog in her new interior-designed apartment either. Maybe Dad would like a dog. Think of all that fresh air and exercise! It would do him so much good. Yes, most definitely, Dad needs a dog.
‘Have you got a pen, Abdul?’
Abdul passes me over a biro and I note down the number.
5.00 p.m.
As soon as I got back to the Wessex I zoomed up to my suite to ring the animal shelter.
‘Paws for Thought,’ came the reply the other end. ‘Miriam speaking. How can I help you?’
‘Hi, Miriam,’ I said. ‘I want a dog.’
‘Well hi, honey. You sound kind of young. Could you tell me your age? I’m afraid we don’t do adoptions to minors.’
‘Oh . . .’ (Bummer!) Then I added: ‘But it’s not for me. It’s for my dad.’
‘Well, that’s fine. But it’s your dad I’ll have to talk to.’
(Double bummer!)
‘But it’s meant to be a surprise.’
‘Uh-uh. We don’t do surprises here. That’s how pets end up on the streets. You should see the rush we get post-Christmas.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘And every time they show 101 Dalmatians, we get a whole load of Dalmatians in, a month or so after.’
‘But Dalmatians are adorable.’
‘True. But difficult to train. People go and buy them ’cos they’re so cute, then they find out to their cost that a dog’s not a toy. Now here, we have a one week cool-off. So if your dad’s not happy with the dog, he can bring it back, end of the week.’
My mind was racing. How was I going to adopt a dog for Dad without his cooperation? And I knew for sure Dad wouldn’t cooperate. I was going to have to rope in some other adult.
‘Listen, Miriam, I need to have a chat with my dad, OK?’
‘You do that, honey. We’re open till seven.’
When I rang off I considered my ‘rope-in’ options. It didn’t take long to decide on Abdul. He’s the most easily bribable and blueberry jelly beans are way cheaper in the States. (Abdul is addicted to jelly beans, but only the blueberry ones.)
I went down to where the chauffeurs hung out in a little room with a TV in Lower Ground. Abdul was watching baseball but turned the sound down and half-concentrated while I explained my problem.
‘So you want me to pretend to be your dad?’ he said.
‘Only to sign for the dog. After that we deliver it to Dad.’
‘And what if your dad doesn’t want this pooch?’
‘It’s OK. If you decide you don’t want it, you can take the dog back at the end of the week. And it’s in a really good cause.’ I explained about Dad not going out.
Abdul grinned. ‘OK, I suppose if that’s the case you can count me in.’
Then I got Abdul to call up Miriam.
Miriam asked him some searching questions about whether he’d had a dog before and what sort of accommodation he had. Luckily, he had the phone on speaker and I was listening in, so before he could admit that he spent most of his life in a smoke-filled room below ground in a hotel, I’d fed him some more positive answers.
6.00 p.m., PAWS 4 THOUGHT animal shelter
Abdul and I have driven over in the limo. The shelter is in a really poor part of town and the minute Abdul parks, the car draws a crowd of kids who look set on carving their initials on it.
Miriam must’ve spotted us getting out of the car because when we go in she asks: ‘You sure a pedigree breed wouldn’t be more to
your liking?’
‘Oh no. We’d like to give a home to an animal in need,’ I say.
‘Right. Well, I’ve got the forms here. We better go through the formalities first, and then I’ll get some dogs up on the screen for you to take a look.’
I was a bit disappointed by this. I’d expected to find this big shelter place with loads of pens with animals in, so that you could walk around and browse and maybe make eye and nose contact. I mean, this all seemed very one-sided. What if the dog didn’t like you? To be fair, they ought to take our picture and let the dogs take a look too before they matched us up.
Miriam handed Abdul a form that looked like an exam. It had loads of multiple choice boxes to fill in. I’d primed him ahead, making him memorise all Dad’s details like his age and address and the size of his loft.
Once our form was filled in, Miriam looked at it with an assessing eye. ‘Hmm . . . eighth floor,’ she commented.
‘But there’s an elevator – a really big one.’
‘OK, let’s get some candidates up on the screen.’
The minute I saw the dogs I wanted to adopt them all. They looked as if they’d been told to pose with really sad and pleading expressions. But the one who got me most was this really ginormous dog. He was described as a ‘St Bernard/German Shepherd cross, male, age 3 yrs approx., friendly and docile’. He had this look in his eyes as if no one in the world would ever love him because he was SO BIG. He must have weighed in at at least 160 pounds. There were no two ways about it, this was the dog for me.
‘That’s the one,’ I said, nudging Abdul.
‘Oh yes, definitely,’ agreed Abdul, raising an eyebrow at me.
‘The St Bernard cross?’ said Miriam. ‘You sure? He’s been a bit difficult to place. Been on our books for a very long time.’
‘But he’s beautiful. He’s perfect,’ I said.
‘Do you realise how much it’s going to cost per day to feed him?’
‘That’s not a problem,’ I said and after a kick, Abdul nodded in agreement.
Miriam glanced meaningfully towards the limo. ‘No, I guess not. But you may not like him spoiling the interior of your car.’
‘That’s true . . .’ started Abdul.
‘Oh, we’ll put a rug down or something,’ I said.
‘OK, if you’re really sure, you can have him on trial starting Thursday.’
‘Can’t we have him straight away?’ I pleaded.
‘No, soonest I can have the dog brought over is Thursday. He’ll be here for five p.m.’
Wednesday 28th May
The Wessex Hotel
Nothing worth recording happened, except I’ve made a list of dog names. Current favourites are:
1) Gulliver
2) Methuselah
3) Genghis Khan
4) Caesar
I try to picture myself in the park shouting out, ‘Genghis Khan!’ Or ‘Methuselah!’, come to that.
New list:
1) Gulliver
2) Caesar
Thursday 29th May, 5.00 p.m.
PAWS 4 THOUGHT animal shelter
As soon as we opened the door there was this gigantic WOOOOF!
‘That dog’s certainly got a voice,’ said Miriam. ‘Come through and get acquainted. Brandy is out the back.’
‘Brandy?’ I asked.
‘Brandy’s the name he answers to. You can change it if you like, but he may not take much notice.’
‘Hi, Brandy!’ I said, bending down to greet him, but I didn’t have to bend very far because this was one mountain of dog. I gave him my hand to sniff and he got to his feet wagging his tail.
‘Sure you still want him?’ said Miriam, looking at Abdul.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ said Abdul, backing away slightly as Brandy started to get friendly. In fact Brandy, sensing that Abdul was the saviour who was going to release him from an uncertain future, was up on his back legs with his paws on Abdul’s shoulders, licking his face.
‘See, he likes you,’ said Miriam.
Abdul was doing his best to look as if he was enjoying these doggy caresses, but was saying, ‘Down, boy!’ in a very firm manner.
‘That’s right. You’ve gotta show him who’s boss. I can see you’re going to get along just fine. Now, if you’ll sign here . . .’
Abdul sent one last warning glance at me but I handed him a pen.
‘Come on, Dad, sign. We don’t want to keep the lady waiting, do we?’
A few minutes later we were back in the car. All three of us. I was in the front with Abdul, and Brandy was taking up the entire back seat.
‘Holly, I sure hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Abdul.
‘Of course I do.’
‘You don’t think it would be better to take the dog back right now?’
‘No way!’
‘But your dad’s not going to want a dog this big.’
‘Dad loves animals. And he’s got loads of space. Come on, Abdul, let’s get going. Miriam’s watching.’
Abdul turned on the ignition. Brandy leaned over and licked the back of his neck.
‘And Abdul, try to look as if you’re enjoying that, please.’
6.00 p.m., Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer
We had a little trouble getting Brandy out of the limo. He evidently liked travelling in cars and Abdul had to enlist the help of a guy who was passing before the two of them could push him out.
‘You want to take him back now?’ asked Abdul.
‘No. It’s just a matter of training, that’s all.’
‘Look, I don’t want to be involved in this. From now on you’re on your own, Holly. You take that dog up to show your dad and I’ll wait in the car. I bet my life on it that you’ll be back down, complete with dog, within minutes.’
So it was just Brandy and me in the elevator. Brandy sat obediently on the floor and nuzzled my hand.
‘Now, this could be your big break,’ I told him. ‘Don’t louse up. No leaping up. No face-washing. OK?’
I went ahead to Dad’s door. When he opened it, I said: ‘Hi, Dad. Surprise! Guess what I’ve got for you!’
‘Aha! Let me think . . .’
‘WOOOOF!’ said Brandy.
‘Oh my God, it’s a dog!’
‘Isn’t he beautiful!’ I said, pulling Brandy forward by the collar.
‘Well yeah, but where’s he come from?’
‘He’s from an animal shelter. Dad, he really needs a home.’
‘But he’s so big!’
‘I know. That’s why no one wants him. He’s been on the shelter’s books like for ever.’ (I decided to lay it on a bit.) ‘I mean, if no one gives him a home, anything could happen.’
At that point Brandy showed what a brilliantly intelligent dog he was. He put his head on one side and looked up into Dad’s eyes with this terribly stricken expression. I could swear he was almost forcing the tears out.
‘But Holly-Poppy, I don’t want a dog . . .’
‘But Dad, you did say if you’ve got it, share it. And you’re sharing with all these people already. And they’re not under sentence of death if you push them out . . .’
Brandy let out this heart-rending whine right on cue.
‘Hey boy,’ said Dad, holding out a hand. Brandy inched forward and gave it a delicate, servile lick.
‘I’ve only got him on trial. If you really don’t want him, I can take him back at the end of the week,’ I said.
Dad stood there staring at the dog, obviously trying to make his mind up.
‘And just think,’ I added. ‘It will give me a bit of freedom too. Mum can’t have anything against me going out in the street if I’ve got Brandy with me.’
‘That his name?’
‘Umm.’
‘Hi, Brandy,’ said Dad.
But Brandy wasn’t listening. He’d already walked past Dad, and was surveying the loft as if he owned the place.
11.30 p.m., back in the limo
‘Uh-huh,’ I said as I climbed
back in.
Abdul looked up from his newspaper. ‘Where’s the dog?’
‘With Dad. I told you he’d have him.’
‘Holly,’ said Abdul, shaking his head, ‘sometimes you amaze me.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You sure do take after your mum.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yeah. You’ve got her powers of persuasion. Don’t you ever take “no” for an answer?’
Friday 30th May, 9.00 a.m.
Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer
I go over first thing to check on Brandy. Marlowe opens the door to me dressed in a bath towel, which means I get the treat of seeing his perfect bronzed chest and medallion. He is just such a poseur.
‘Have you come for the dog?’ he asks.
‘He could probably do with a walk,’ I reply. ‘Has Dad been out with him yet?’
‘Took him to the corner of Mercer and Spring Street.’
‘Where is he right now?’
‘Come and see,’ he says. He tiptoes to Dad’s door and pushes it open a crack.
Splayed out on the bed, right in the centre, sleeping like a baby . . . is Brandy. Dad is asleep too, with one arm thrown over the dog. (Now this is the guy who didn’t want a dog, remember?)
‘Dad, are you going to get up and take this dog out?’ I demand.
Dad opens one eye. ‘What’s the time?’
‘It’s nearly ten.’
‘Uuuurrghh!’ says Dad, and turns over.
‘We had a bit of a night of it last night,’ says Marlowe.
‘I s’pose I better walk him on my own.’
On hearing the word ‘walk’ Brandy leaps off the bed and nearly knocks me flat.
Later: heading very fast towards the East Village
Brandy walks me rather than me walking Brandy. Within minutes we’re out of SoHo and the shops have switched from cool and stylish to alternative and wacky. This is the East Village.
Now the East Village is a dog-friendly kind of place. It has loads of trash bags with nice doggy smells round them, and it’s not overrun with pedestrians so a dog can take up most of the sidewalk without being shouted at. But Brandy doesn’t seem inclined to pause. He’s straining on the leash like a dog with a mission. And he’s dragging me behind him through streets that would have Mum reacting like an overcharged rape alarm.