My Life So Far

by Chloe Rayban

  ‘Oliver – give her a kiss.’

  ‘You kids at the back – close up, won’t you?’

  Shug moved a half-step towards me and I moved a half-step away.

  He grinned at me. I glared at him.

  ‘Come on,’ said Shug between clenched teeth. ‘We’re meant to be like brother and sister, aren’t we?’

  ‘Ever heard of sibling rivalry?’ I shot back.

  ‘Nice one! We’re in good hissing form today, aren’t we, pussycat?’

  ‘Don’t you pussycat me . . .’

  ‘Will you two belt up!’ said Oliver over his shoulder. ‘There’s a guy with a sound-boom over there – he could be picking up every word.’

  So Shug contented himself with moving up really close. I could actually feel the warmth of his body through his sweatshirt. And then he put his foot on mine and started very gently to increase the pressure until . . .

  ‘OUCH!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ snapped Mum, getting to her feet.

  ‘Shug’s standing on my foot.’

  ‘Oh sorry,’ said Shug. ‘I didn’t realise they reached out so far.’

  I stared at him with hot tears starting in my eyes. I know I’ve got big feet, and I hate them. But I didn’t need him to point them out to the whole world.

  ‘Look, Shug, for God’s sake,’ said Oliver, standing up as well.

  ‘Great. You’re all on your feet. Now can we close in for a big happy family hug?’ called out a voice.

  We all turned at the same moment. Cameras flashed like strobe lightning.

  And that was the shot that appeared in all the papers: Oliver frowning, Mum pouting, Shug glaring, me practically bawling.

  Some happy family!

  Oliver and Shug left as soon as the press had gone. I went up in the elevator with Mum and Vix.

  ‘Thank God that’s over,’ said Mum.

  ‘But Mum, what’s going to happen?’ I said. ‘I mean, you’re going to have to go through with the wedding and everything now . . .’

  Mum looked at me witheringly. ‘Don’t be so silly, Hollywood. We can easily break off the engagement. Let’s face it, we’ve done it before.’

  ‘Mum, how can you treat marriage like some . . . some . . .’

  ‘. . . totally outmoded form of feminine repression?’ suggested Vix.

  ‘But it’s not! It’s totally romantic. Don’t either of you believe in love any longer?’

  Mum and Vix exchanged ‘Isn’t she sweet?’ glances. (Don’t you just hate it when they do that?)

  ‘Oh to be thirteen again!’ said Mum.

  ‘Or maybe sixteen,’ agreed Vix.

  I left them on the sixth floor and stomped off to my suite.

  Monday 2nd June, 7.30 a.m.

  (Thoughts in the bathtub)

  I cannot believe the callousness of adults. Treating love and marriage as if they’re just nothing! I mean, I know how I feel about Rupert. His very name makes my heart turn over with a strange wobbly thump. Just thinking about him makes the lights in the room grow brighter, the colours stronger and the ground take on a kind of bouncy surface like it’s made of that foam-rubber stuff they make mattresses out of.

  The fact that Rupert is totally unaware of my devotion makes it so much more poignant.

  At that moment the thought of ‘Juliette’ enters my mind and the light in the room dims, the colours go a kind of murky grey and the floor settles into that hard, flat carpeted surface we are all familiar with.

  I send evil hate vibes towards ‘Juliette’ and wish her an eternity of bad hair days, a rabid VPL, and a severe case of that nasty ring of flab that always seems to creep its way to the top of your low-cut jeans, no matter how slim you are.

  Then I feel really guilty. I shouldn’t be so mean to her. After all, she is doing her bit for Voluntary Service Overseas – which means she’s giving up precious months of her youth to tend to the underprivileged of the world. The fact that she is only doing this in order to snog the first vulnerable male VSO volunteer she comes across counts against her, however. I add ‘chronic verrucas’ to my anti-Juliette list.

  Then I lie there for a good while working on the first draft of my email to Rupert:

  ‘Hi . . .’

  ‘Hi, Rupert . . .’

  ‘Hi there!’

  Oh, indecision! I put off writing the email till later.

  Later: Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  I went over to Dad’s to make sure he was walking Brandy.

  He wasn’t. He’d roped Marlowe into doing it.

  When I hit the roof Marlowe was unrepentant.

  ‘You have no idea how many girls you meet when you’re out with this old fellow,’ he said, patting Brandy’s head. ‘I’m telling you, he gives a whole new meaning to “pulling power”.’

  ‘This dog is not intended to help you chat up girls. This dog is for exercise. And it’s Dad who’s meant to be walking him.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have to walk him every day,’ said Dad.

  ‘Yes, Dad. That’s the whole point of having the dog.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been busy . . .’

  He was still in his bathrobe and I could see he hadn’t shaved.

  ‘Dad, don’t give me that. Come on, you’ve got to get out and get some exercise.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll get dressed. You wait here, right? You’re coming too, Holly.’

  ‘Certainly I’m coming too. I’m going to see this for myself.’

  It took some time for Dad to get dressed. First he had to find some comfortable sneakers. Then I was sent out to test the temperature so he could decide between sweaters. I got back to find him with the TV on, checking the weather forecast. It was sunshine and showers so he went to find his baseball cap and sunglasses and his mac and an umbrella. When I eventually got him down to street level, I was sent back for a muffler because he thought he could detect a breeze getting up.

  ‘Dad, how long is it precisely since you took a walk?’

  Dad looked thoughtful.

  ‘You know, honey, I don’t rightly remember.’

  By this time, Brandy was practically throttling himself with his leash. He was clearly keen to get Dad acquainted with the gumball machine. He set off at a cracking pace with Dad and me trailing behind.

  Sunshine had got the better of showers and by the time we reached Tompkins Square we were all pretty hot. Brandy was frothing at the mouth – he looked as if he was about to choke on his dog treat.

  ‘We ought to get some water for him,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I could do with a beer,’ said Dad.

  We went over to a café that was right by the park and sat in the window in the sun. It was a cute little place full of retro tin advertising signs and character teapots and they were playing jazz over the speaker system.

  ‘Nice place . . .’ said Dad, loosening his muffler a little.

  The guy who was serving us brought a big bowl of water for Brandy. I couldn’t help noticing that he kept looking at Dad in an odd sort of way. I guess he didn’t get many customers dressed in a mac and sunglasses and a muffler in June. But as he slipped the cheque under Dad’s saucer, he said, ‘Pardon me asking, but aren’t you Pete Winterman?’

  Dad eyed him slowly up and down. ‘What if I am?’

  ‘Yeah, you are. I know you are. I’ve got all the Icemen albums,’ said the guy, his voice kind of cracked with excitement.

  Dad sat up straighter on his chair. ‘You have?’

  ‘Oh boy, I don’t believe this! Pete Winterman! Look, you wouldn’t sign one of my albums for me, would you?’

  ‘Well, I don’t as a rule . . .’ said Dad.

  The guy had already gone off into the back room. The speaker system stopped abruptly mid-phrase and then on came one of Dad’s songs. One of the oldies.

  ‘Dad, listen . . .’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, well. That was . . . yeah. That was kind of OK,’ said Dad.

  The guy came back with the album sleeve in his hand. You could
see it was scuffed where he’d taken the record in and out from years of use.

  On the front was a picture of Dad with long curly hair and a moustache, wearing a skinny leather jacket. The guy handed Dad a pen and Dad scrawled his signature across one corner. Then the guy stood looking at it as if it was like the best thing he’d ever seen.

  I was staring over his shoulder, searching through the band.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ I asked without thinking.

  ‘This was before I met your mother,’ said Dad.

  For one awful moment I thought I’d blown it and that the café owner was going to go off at a tangent and he’d start asking about Mum, the way people always did. But this guy didn’t seem interested in Mum. He said: ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ and drew up a chair. ‘The name’s Al. I’ve just taken over this place. So what are you doing these days, Pete?’

  ‘Well, you know, a bit of this and that.’

  ‘It’s just that . . . well, I know it’s not much, but we’re planning to give these nights when we play music. We’ve got a big space down underneath. Brilliant acoustics. Now, if you could see your way . . . Maybe play a number . . . Or even if you just dropped by. Well, I know it would draw a crowd.’

  ‘Why don’t you, Dad?’ I urged.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Dad. ‘Now we ought to be on our way,’ and he reached for the bill.

  But Al took it. ‘Oh no, this is on me. It’s been a pleasure. And you won’t forget, any time you can spare a moment of your time . . . I know how busy you must be . . . Just call . . .’

  He handed Dad a card. Dad looked at it briefly then put it in his pocket.

  Tuesday 3rd June, 8.00 a.m.

  The Wessex Hotel

  I wake to find my ‘post’ has been slipped under my door. It’s a little blue envelope with a proper stamp stuck on, addressed in scratchy fountain pen. A letter! Such a rarity can be from one person only – Gi-Gi, my great-gran who doesn’t trust any of these new-fangled inventions such as fax or email, although I’ve tried to explain them time and time again. And she won’t make international calls because that’s a wicked extravagance, although Mum pays her phone bill.

  As I slit open the envelope I think I can smell the faintest whiff of Gi-Gi’s rose talcum powder. Inside are two folded pages covered in her looped and curlicued writing – both sides. I then engage in the tricky problem of deciphering this ancient code.

  After fifteen minutes, I’ve gleaned that Gi-Gi has made fifteen pounds of (I think) quince jam. She’s won sixty pence at bridge, and Mr Robinson (from Number 57)’s leg is much better – he may even be walking without a stick soon.

  Having made my way through this riveting news, I am concerned to find that my rabbit Thumper is happy and eating well. Knowing Gi-Gi (who spoils him rotten), this means he’s Michelin Rabbit by now, blown up to such a size he has a leg on each corner.

  I consider writing back to Gi-Gi. I need to update her with the latest news. This is tricky. Currently Mum is Not Properly Engaged to Oliver Bream, but by the time a letter reaches her the non-engagement will probably be a non-event. I decide to shelve the letter to Gi-Gi until things have sorted themselves out.

  Over breakfast (I have located that mini-box of Lucky Charms and poured myself a big bowlful) I try to decide what to do with my day.

  I am just about to take my first delicious mouthful of cereal (I’ve sorted all the pink heart-shaped ones on to my spoon) when Mum wafts into the dining room.

  ‘Babes, there you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere . . .’

  I shove the incriminating bowl of Lucky Charms on to the next table and say: ‘Hi, Mum!’

  ‘Haven’t you finished your breakfast yet?’

  ‘No . . . I mean, yes. Why?’

  ‘Good, because, guess what? Anthony’s called up to say the apartment – our home, Hollywood – is finished.’

  ‘Oooh . . .’ I say, as I see a waiter deftly scooping up my untouched bowl of Lucky Charms and taking it away.

  ‘Well, you could sound a bit more excited about it.’

  ‘But I am.’

  ‘Good. So what are we waiting for? Let’s go round there right now.’

  ‘The site’ has changed somewhat since our last visit. The billowing corridors of canvas have been whisked away to reveal a lobby lined with shiny white marble, flanked by an endless line of vases of arum lilies. We enter the cylindrical elevator, which has now had its wraps off and is all brushed steel and glass. Mum punches in the code for the forty-fifth floor.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ she says as we are whisked upwards.

  I open them to find the apartment doors opening on to acres of white. The floor is now a sheer expanse of burnished metal. There’s a column of transparent shelving with rows of white books on it. There are four white leather sofas forming a square with a clear glass table in the middle. And on the centre of that is a clear glass vase filled with nothing but water. On the walls are four identical white paintings. At least I think they’re paintings. They’re in frames, which is a bit of a giveaway, but they could well be part of the soundproofing.

  Mum follows my gaze. ‘Aren’t they brilliant? I had to bid against the Saatchi Gallery for them. They really took me to the cleaners.’

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t just get them to go with the decor?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re Minimalist, babes. You’ll understand this sort of thing when you’re older. It was a movement. Big in the Seventies.’

  ‘But that one’s even got a mark on it.’ I point out a tiny smudge in the far right corner.

  Mum looks at the smudge lovingly. ‘I had to pay double for that one. That is the artist’s original thumbprint. He’s dead now, of course, so this is a one-off.’

  I turn to the door of my suite with dread. If Anthony has worked his ‘Winter Wonderland’ magic in there, I am going to make a scene.

  ‘Go on, take a look,’ says Mum.

  Tentatively, I push the door open. I can hear jungle noises. I push it further.

  ‘Wow, Anthony – you are a genius!’

  Anthony has transformed my room into a tropical jungle. He’s filled it with beautiful fringed palms which are waving in the breeze created by a rattan fan. Because of the mirror walls, this forest seems to go on forever. I part the palms and discover my bed. It has been hung from the ceiling on ropes like a hammock and has floaty mosquito nets enclosing it. A load of antique leather cabin trunks are dotted around to take my belongings. There’s even one with shelves and hanging space inside like a wardrobe.

  I push open the bathroom door. The entire far wall has been replaced by a huge ceiling-to-floor tank of tropical fish, so when you take a shower or a bath it’s as if the fish are swimming alongside you. There are angel fish with long fluttering wings and a shoal of little electric blue fish. There are soft-winged black rays and a little flotilla of bright yellow ones . . .

  I come out of the bathroom to find Mum watching me from the doorway.

  ‘Well?’ she says.

  I’m so knocked out, I’m totally speechless.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ she asks.

  ‘Mum, it’s wonderful! It’s the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen. It’s unbelievable. Thank you.’

  I go and hug her.

  Mum hugs me back. ‘Well, at last I’ve got something right.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

  ‘Oh come on, Holly. You don’t have to pretend we always see eye to eye.’

  I pause, not quite sure how to react. I’m not accustomed to Mum being like this.

  ‘Well no, I guess not,’ I say tentatively.

  ‘And we don’t get nearly enough time together. But that’s going to change.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Of course it is, now we’ve got our own home.’

  I’m so used to fighting with Mum, I don’t know what to say when she’s being really nice.

  ‘Come and sit down, Hollywood,’ she says, leading me across to o
ne of the big white sofas. I perch uncomfortably on the shiny white leather. She leans towards me, asking confidingly, ‘Tell me honestly. Wouldn’t you really like to be a proper family again?’

  For one insane moment I think she’s talking about me and her and Dad. But her next sentence puts me right on that one. ‘How would you feel if I actually did marry Oliver?’

  So that’s what this is all about. She’s trying to get round me. She wants me to give the seal of approval to her big romance.

  ‘Do we have to talk about this now?’ I reply grumpily.

  ‘It’s as good a time as any.’

  ‘You know I don’t like him.’

  ‘Well, maybe in time you could get to like him. He’s always very nice about you.’

  ‘Oliver’s nice about everyone. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s just being his oh-so-British self. And what about that son of his – Shug!’

  ‘I’d be marrying Oliver, not Shug.’

  ‘But Shug is always hanging around him like some sort of – ugghh! – fungus.’

  ‘Holly, honestly!’

  ‘And I thought Oliver had made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want to marry you anyway – that this “silly engagement idea”, as he called it, was just temporary, to help you out.’

  ‘I know,’ says Mum, and she sniffs and fumbles in her pocket for a hanky. ‘But we can’t get un-engaged just like that. I don’t want to be made to look ridiculous.’

  I feel like pointing out that their current romance looks pretty ridiculous anyway, when I notice a tear running down Mum’s face.

  ‘Mu-um? You’re not crying, are you?’

  ‘No.’ But she blows her nose hard.

  I can’t stand it when Mum cries. I’m so used to her being strong and self-willed, when she breaks down I kind of go to jelly.

  ‘Mum? Surely you’re not still keen on Oliver? You can’t be. He’s so . . . so . . .’

  ‘What? (Sniff.)’

  ‘Well, pig-headed . . . and arrogant . . . You can’t be in love with a man like that.’

  Mum bites her lip: ‘I didn’t think I was when he was being so nice to me. But now he’s being horrid and insists we’ve got to call the whole thing off . . .’ This came out with a sort of shuddering sob. ‘I can’t get him out of my mind!’