My Life So Far

by Chloe Rayban

  ‘We’ll take a cab,’ said Mum. ‘We can pay at the other end.’

  So we stood on the curb, hailing every yellow cab we saw. But empty cabs tend to be thin on the ground when it’s raining, and it was raining hard.

  In fact, a puddle had built up in the gutter. When we’d been doused in water for the third time, I turned to Mum.

  ‘I guess we could take the subway,’ I said.

  ‘Subway?’ said Mum, as if I’d suggested wading our way back home through the sewers.

  ‘But we don’t have any money for tickets,’ I added lamely. ‘Perhaps we’d better start walking.’

  ‘We can’t walk all the way to The Plaza!’

  ‘I know. I’ve got it! We’ll go to Dad’s. It’s not far. We can call Abdul from there.’

  ‘Dad’s?’

  ‘Yes, it’s only a few blocks.’

  ‘Oh, I really don’t think I can just turn up . . .’

  At this point a kind of tidal wave swept through the puddle and muddy water slopped into Mum’s shoes.

  ‘Ugghh! Yuck!’ she said. ‘OK, whatever. Frankly Holly, I’m past caring.’

  We arrived at Dad’s front door dripping. Mum was running her fingers through her hair, moaning about how awful she looked.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum. You look really good with your hair all slicked back like that.’

  ‘Do I?’ She gave me a stiff smile.

  Dad opened the door. He still had a red nose but it looked like he’d got over the worst of his cold. ‘Why, hi, Holly! What happened to you? And . . . oh! Hi, Candice!’

  ‘Don’t call me Candice,’ said Mum. ‘You know I hate it. The name’s Kandhi.’ She walked past Dad as if he didn’t exist.

  ‘Well, you’ll always be Candice to me,’ said Dad, following her as she squelched into the loft.

  I explained about Abdul and the one-way street and how the girl had walked out of the shop with my jacket and my mobile.

  ‘You folks look like you could do with a shower and a hot towel,’ said Dad.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mum. She cast an assessing gaze around the loft. ‘Well, nothing’s changed much here.’

  ‘WOOF!’ said Brandy, ambling over and providing a welcome diversion. He sniffed at Mum enquiringly.

  ‘Except this guy,’ said Dad. ‘Meet my new life-partner, Brandy.’

  ‘Isn’t he lovely, Mum?’

  ‘Is this the dog you’ve been walking?’ she asked me.

  I nodded.

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  I let Mum take the first shower while I called up Abdul. He said he was gridlocked on Fifth Avenue and might be some time.

  Mum came out wrapped in Dad’s big bathrobe with her hair done up in a towelling turban.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ she said to Dad. ‘I look a sight.’

  ‘Brings back old memories,’ said Dad kind of wistfully.

  ‘Forget the memories,’ said Mum. ‘You got a hairdryer?’

  While Dad searched for a hairdryer, Marlowe let himself in.

  ‘Wow!’ he said. ‘It’s raining cats, dogs and hippos out there.’

  He shook the rain off his jacket and turned and saw us.

  ‘Hi, Holly! And who’s this girlfriend you got with you?’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my mum.’

  Marlowe paused where he was and just stared.

  ‘Oh, wow! The famous Kandhi! How do you do?’ he said, staring at Mum as if he’d seen a vision or something.

  I expected Mum to be all dismissive, the way she was with fans who got too close. Just the icy smile and her standard cool ‘Hello, and it’s really nice to meet you too’. But she was staring back at Marlowe. The two of them stood for a moment as if glued to the spot. And then Marlowe took a stride forward as if to shake her by the hand. But he didn’t shake her hand, he held her hand in his like it was an ultra-precious object and stared into her eyes,

  Hang on! Mum was blushing! And Mum never blushes. Maybe it was the way she was dressed. I could see Mum was kind of uncomfortable but pleased at the same time.

  ‘Yeah, well. I’d be doing a lot better if I had dry hair and my own clothes,’ said Mum kind of coyly, retrieving her hand.

  ‘No, on the contrary. You look great like that. It reminds me . . . It reminds me of, yeah, that Holly Golightly bit on the fire escape – Moon River.’ He kind-of breathed the words ‘Moon River’ as if it was the most romantic thing ever.

  ‘No . . .’ said Mum. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  I stared at her. I’d never seen Mum so soft and girly. What was going on here?

  ‘No, truly. All you need is a guitar,’ breathed Marlowe again. He didn’t need to talk any louder seeing as how close he was standing to Mum.

  Dad arrived back with the hairdryer.

  ‘Hey, Pete! How did you let this little lady escape your grasp?’ asked Marlowe.

  Dad frowned. ‘I guess you could say she just went her own way.’

  I took my shower after that. Dad came knocking on the bathroom door with some clothes he’d brought for me and Mum to borrow. A few moments later I came out dressed in someone’s tracksuit to find Mum and Marlowe in the kitchen drinking coffee, deep in conversation.

  ‘Yeah, well, I did the couture shows in Milan and Paris this year, but it’s all gone kind of quiet. My agent’s on to it,’ he was saying.

  ‘Well, maybe I could introduce you to some people,’ Mum said.

  ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind me saying this,’ Marlowe interrupted. He dropped his voice bashfully. ‘But, you know, this is kind of like a dream for me, actually talking to you in person.’

  I felt really bad for Dad. Here was Marlowe blatantly chatting Mum up, right in front of him.

  But true to form Dad didn’t react. All he did was comment despondently to me, ‘Get a load of that technique! Never met a woman who could resist it.’

  ‘Oh, but it won’t work on Mum.’

  ‘Wanna bet? Marlowe could chat up the Queen of England, if she happened to drop by.’

  ‘But Mum wouldn’t be interested. Not in Marlowe.’

  Later

  On the way back to the hotel we dropped by the vintage store where Mum had chosen the clothes. I went in to fetch them. The guy was still pretty hostile, but he was a lot less hostile when I handed him the bundle of notes Mum had got off Abdul for his charity. In fact, he came out with me to shake Mum by the hand and presented her personally with the battered plastic bag full of clothes.

  ‘Any time you want to come in, just call me up. I sure don’t know why I didn’t recognise you,’ he said.

  ‘Well, maybe I wasn’t looking my best,’ said Mum, grabbing the bag. ‘Now put your foot down, Abdul, or we’ll be late.’

  So that was OK. Mum had her vintage outfit and she was off on location. I had the afternoon free. It had even stopped raining.

  I got Abdul to drive me back to the apartment so that I could get into some of my own dry clothes. And I asked Thierry if he could rustle me up some lunch. I had just finished blow-drying my hair when Thierry came knocking on my door.

  ‘Hi! What is it?’

  ‘There’s someone to see you. A young man. Good-looking,’ he said. ‘I took the liberty of laying a table for two.’

  A young man! Good-looking! My brain immediately did fuzzy whizzy things and came up with Rupert. He’d flown all the way from Tanzania because I hadn’t emailed him back! He’d been worried about me – so worried he’d caught the first plane out of . . . whatever-the-place-is-called and come hotfoot as soon as his plane landed at JFK.

  I checked my reflection with my heart thumping in my chest and applied a double coat of lipgloss.

  Flinging open my door, I had my lips at the ready only to find, standing in the middle of the salon – oh what a let-down – SHUG!

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded rudely.

  ‘Oh, hello. You’re looking nice,’ said Shug, staring pointedly at my least impressive measurement (which is graduall
y becoming more impressive). ‘Is that a Wonderbra you’re wearing or is that all you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?

  ‘So how are you today?’

  ‘OK until I saw you. Now I feel kind of queasy.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity, because I’ve just been invited for lunch,’ said Shug.

  ‘Lunch?’ I demanded, staring hard at Thierry. He did one of his totally OTT French shrugs.

  ‘See, he’s laid a place for me.’

  ‘Do you think you can handle a knife and fork?’

  Thierry was standing by, looking totally amazed at this exchange.

  ‘I thought, seeing as thees is your friend . . .’ he said.

  ‘Some friend!’

  ‘Oh now, come on, we’re practically related,’ said Shug.

  I was hungry. Very hungry.

  ‘Well, I guess we might as well eat. Your portion would only go in the garbage anyway, so it would come to the same thing.’

  ‘Charming!’ said Shug, following me to the table which Thierry had set with a cloth and flowers, and where a big dish of shredded vegetables stood waiting.

  ‘Isn’t this nice,’ commented Shug, pulling out a chair for me.

  I sat down, holding well on to the chair. For all I knew he was about to pull it out from under me.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Look,’ said Shug. ‘You could make an effort, seeing as we’re going to the same school in the fall.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘Afraid you won’t be able to keep up?’

  ‘Afraid I may not get on with the other students.’

  ‘You know something, Hollywood Bliss? You have an attitude problem.’

  ‘Attitude problem? Me?’

  ‘Yeah. Or maybe you just take after your mum.’

  ‘Or maybe you take after your dad? You spend enough time tagging round after him.’

  ‘I’m in New York as it happens, for stuff of my own.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What?’

  ‘Publicity.’

  ‘What are you so famous for, apart from bad behaviour?’

  ‘My debut album.’

  I was so surprised I swallowed a lump of shredded carrot and choked on it.

  Shug got up and patted me on the back a lot harder than was absolutely necessary.

  ‘Enough!’ I gasped as I tried to get my breath back. I’d heard about Shug’s ‘brilliant music career’ but thought it was empty boasting.

  So I said, in as cutting a tone as I could muster, ‘I must rush out and buy a copy.’

  ‘It’s not out yet. Next week. But you know what? I’ll give you one for free.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Is that why you came round? Have you got a signed copy in your pocket right now?’

  ‘No. I’ve got something else as a matter of fact.’

  He drew out of his pocket a page torn from a celebrity magazine. ‘I want you to make absolutely sure your mum sees this. You know how she hates to miss out on anything concerning her.’

  It was a picture of Oliver with some minor starlet wrapped around him. ‘SWEETER THAN KANDHI?’ ran the headline.

  Oh my God! Mum was going to be so not happy about this!

  Underneath there was a load of editorial about how Oliver was going out with this new girl and had broken off his engagement to Kandhi.

  ‘But that’s not true!’ I burst out. ‘Your dad hasn’t broken off the engagement.’

  ‘As I recall, it wasn’t ever “on”, anyway. It was only my dad trying to help your mum out.’

  ‘Well, he’s not helping her out right now, is he? Who is this girl? Has he known her long? Or is she simply someone he hired for the shot?’

  ‘I don’t know why this is upsetting you so,’ said Shug, looking at me calculatingly.

  ‘It isn’t upsetting me.’

  ‘Oh yes it is.’

  ‘It is not!’

  ‘Hang on a minute . . . It couldn’t be that Kandhi actually cares for my dad, could it?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Just think . . .’ continued Shug. ‘She sings about love. She moans and grunts and sighs like some lovesick heifer. But of course the supernova couldn’t actually be in love – that would be far too human.’

  Thierry swept in at that point.

  ‘You want main course?’ he asked. He was carrying a melon scooped out and filled with smoked salmon in gloopy stuff. For a moment I was tempted. How I’d love to see all that gloopy slime running down Shug! But I wasn’t going to sink that far.

  ‘No, my guest’s leaving now. He’s had enough,’ I said. I got to my feet. ‘Well, that’s it. You’ve eaten. You can go now.’

  ‘What, no dessert?’ said Shug.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re sweet enough already?’

  Shug got up too. ‘Well, I’ll leave you the page anyway. You will make sure your mum sees it, won’t you?’

  I slammed the door after him. UGGHH!

  7.30 p.m.

  There was no need to show Mum the picture. The story of Oliver-plus-starlet had spread like wildfire. It was plastered on billboards next to every newsvendor in New York.

  I was hovering in my room when Mum scorched into the apartment. I could see her through the gap in the doorway. She’d come straight from the set, still in costume, which didn’t do a lot for her credibility. She came raging through the salon, looking like a feral cat which had sneaked in through some plush pad’s catflap.

  ‘Who does he think he is?’ she was snarling.

  Vix was running after her. ‘It was probably just to save face, you know. He didn’t want people to think you were dumping him.’

  ‘Save face! Who is this nobody he’s with?’

  ‘Well, she’s not exactly a nobody. She’s just made this film and it nearly got the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Fest–’

  ‘I don’t care what it got! Oliver has no right to humiliate me like this!’ She stormed into her bedroom and flung herself down on the bed.

  I peeked round her door, trying to think of something comforting to say. I tried, ‘Hi, Mum! You’re better off without him. You know what I’ve always said about Oliver . . .’

  ‘Yes, Hollywood,’ Mum said between clenched teeth. ‘I do know. And I am now going to take a bath and I do not want to be disturbed by anyone. Hand me my mobile, Vix.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Vix. ‘Get an early night.’

  Mum disappeared into her bathroom and locked the door behind her.

  Vix slumped down on one of the sofas. ‘Oh boy!’ she said. ‘Quel nightmare!’

  ‘Do you think Oliver’s really going out with this new girl?’ I asked. ‘He can’t have known her long.’

  ‘They must’ve met when he was in Cannes at the festival a few weeks back,’ said Vix.

  ‘Typical of him. Arrogant bastard! Dumping Mum like this.’

  ‘We better try and think up something pretty damn quick to tell the press.’

  I took refuge in my room, thinking hard. Mum and Oliver. Oliver and Mum. It was like watching a sitcom stuck on Fast Forward. Every time you took a breath they were into a new confrontation. Which was odd really when you came to think of it. I mean, Mum and Oliver should know more about love than anyone. How many Kandhi lyrics can you think of that aren’t about love? And Oliver Bream is currently the screen’s greatest lover. Whole cinemas full of people are reduced to jelly by the way he can say, ‘The thing is, I think I might be in love with you.’

  And yet the two of them simply can’t get it together.

  Friday 6th June, 9.00 a.m.

  The Plaza Residenza

  I make Mum’s breakfast and put it on a tray. After a good night’s sleep, hopefully, she’ll be feeling better.

  I creep to her door and knock gently. There’s no answer. I venture in. Mum’s out for the count with her eye mask on and her earplugs in, and her clothes and shoes strewn all over the place.

  Something tells me she must’ve gone out last night in spite of what she
said. Dotted round the room are various items that suggest she’s been on the town. A bunch of red roses – wilting. A bottle of champagne – empty. And a load of helium balloons slowly deflating.

  I creep out again. She’s going to be wrecked when she wakes up.

  11.00 a.m.

  Mum emerges from her room fully dressed and made up. I’m engulfed in a waft of ‘K’ perfume, from inside which her voice is saying, ‘Kiss me goodbye, babes, and wish me luck.’

  ‘Why? Where are you going?’

  It seems Mum’s leaving for Vegas today for the next leg of her Heatwave tour. The way things stand, she’s decided to leave early.

  ‘But what about me? Can I come to Vegas?’

  ‘No, Hollywood. Not this time.’

  ‘But that’s not fair! You bring me halfway around the world because you want me to be with you, then the minute we get a home together, you make off. You can’t simply dump me here and leave.’

  ‘You’ve got to understand. At a time like this, I really feel I want to be alone,’ says Mum with a tragic expression. The fact that she’s taking Vix and Daffyd and June and Sid and Thierry with her doesn’t seem to matter.

  ‘So what’s going to happen to me? I can’t stay here by myself.’

  ‘I’m leaving you Abdul so you’ll have transport. You can go and stay with your father,’ says Mum.

  ‘But it’s so crowded – there are all those friends of his lazing around the place.’

  Vix comes in behind Mum, carrying a load of files.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she says, dumping the files with the pile of luggage. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Looks like some of them just made it,’ she says. She and Mum exchange knowing looks.

  12.00 noon

  This is meant to by my holiday, but it’s Mum who’s jetting off for Vegas, where I know for a fact that it’s brilliantly hot because I checked the weather forecast. Whereas I’m being driven over to Dad’s in the pouring rain and I’ve been having a big moan to Abdul about it and he isn’t even trying to sound sympathetic.

  He’s taking a diversion through the East Village. Because of the rain the traffic is dreadful as usual. We’re crawling along when suddenly I spot – oh no, I don’t believe this!