My Life So Far

by Chloe Rayban

  Without really thinking, I heard myself saying: ‘Well, maybe. When would you want me to do it?’

  ‘This coming Saturday, if you’re free.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask my mum.’ (She’ll probably say no.)

  ‘You do that. Then can you get straight back to me?’

  The girl left her number. I rang Mum right away.

  ‘Hollywood! Were you watching last night? Marlowe said it was really awesome.’

  ‘Of course.’ With great restraint I ignored the reference to Marlowe and said, ‘You were great, Mum.’

  ‘I didn’t feel I was as good as at Wembley . . .’

  ‘Oh yes you were. Better if anything.’

  ‘Hmm . . . well,’ she purred. ‘It was nice of you to call to say so, babes.’

  ‘Mum, would it be OK if I went on Teen Hits? They just rang me.’

  ‘They rang you?’

  ‘Mm-hmm. They’re doing a programme about what it’s like to have a parent who’s a star.’

  Mum sounded reassured. ‘Oh I see, so they’ll be asking you about me?’

  ‘Mmm . . . I guess.’

  ‘Well, as long as you keep to my music. I’ll get Vix to e you over the latest press briefing.’

  My heart sank. ‘So you think it’s OK?’

  ‘You’re always going to be in the limelight, babes. You’ve got to start some time.’

  Thursday 12th June, 9.00 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer (forty–nine hours to go)

  Why, oh why, did I agree to go on Teen Hits? I swear I haven’t slept a wink since I said I’d do it. And I haven’t eaten either. Every time I look at food, my stomach does this big churn-and-turn thing.

  But I’ve got to overcome this because it’s my one big chance to put in a plug for Dad. I keep telling myself to think of something else. I can manage ‘other thoughts’ for about two minutes and then my mind slips back and remembers, and it hits me with renewed force that I am going to be on television, live, in front of thousands or even millions of people in only forty-nine hours’ time . . .

  Hang on, what’s the time?

  No, forty-eight . . . Oh my God, another hour gone by! This very thought has sent shock waves through those tiny hairs that go right down my back.

  I lie in bed trying to have nice thoughts. Any thoughts, in fact, that don’t include TV or Teens or Hits or Gerry Maine.

  Friday 13th June, 10.00 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer (only twenty–four hours to go)

  Last night I actually dreamt my way through the interview.

  In my dream I was really confident. I dreamt myself saying:

  ‘Of course, I’m not just Kandhi’s daughter. Pete Winterman is my father . . .’

  In the annoying way dreams have, instead of saying, ‘You don’t say! What’s Pete up to these days?’ Gerry said, ‘Who?’

  ‘Pete Winterman of The Icemen. You must’ve heard of him.’

  Gerry sadly shook his head.

  ‘But he’s brilliant! He was the one who wrote all Kandhi’s early hits.’

  This was received with a sigh of total non-comprehension. ‘Who is this guy?’ Gerry was asking.

  I got to my feet. I stood up on the set, shouting at the audience, ‘Please, someone . . . someone must have heard of Pete Winterman!’

  But they were all booing and throwing stuff.

  I woke in a cold sweat.

  11.00 a.m. (twenty–three hours to go)

  Dad has caught me biting my nails, and I haven’t done that in months.

  ‘What’s up, Holly?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re not nervous about this TV thing, are you?’

  ‘Oh no. It’ll only be like a five-minute interview,’ I say, wondering if I’m going to vomit at the very mention of it.

  ‘I could call them and say you’ve changed your mind.’

  Now I know what those saints felt like – the ones they told us about at school – when they were waiting to be burned at the stake or disembowelled or hanged upside down or whatever, and they were given the chance to recant. But I wasn’t going to go back on my word any more than they did.

  ‘No, Dad. It’s OK. I said I’ll do it, so I will.’

  Saturday 14th June, 7.00 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer (three hours to go)

  I’m lying in bed, frantically memorising the crib sheet Vix has sent me with all the press information about Mum. At the bottom, double-underscored is a warning NOT to talk about Mum’s private life under any circumstances. Good advice. I can’t figure out Mum’s private life for myself.

  8.00 a.m. (two hours to go)

  My nerves have taken on another humiliating physical symptom. I’ve been to the bathroom so many times, Dad has asked if I need medication. I daren’t leave the apartment so for once Dad is forced to walk Brandy.

  10.00 p.m. Teen Hits studios

  Abdul is accompanying my body (what’s left of it) into the studios of Teen Time Motion International Inc. I’m so empty, my stomach is positively flapping against my backbone. I know what’s going to happen. I’m going to walk on to the set and pass out in a heap on the floor from sheer starvation.

  Abdul is given a coffee and seated in Reception. I’m told I’m going to have a quick chat with Gerry before the audience arrives, but first I’m taken down to Make-up to get my face fixed for the cameras.

  ‘See you after,’ says Abdul, giving me an encouraging wink.

  I think this unlikely. There is no way I am going to survive this ordeal.

  Downstairs, I’m so nervous that I stumble through the makeup studio door and lurch into the room as if jet-propelled. There’s already another person sitting at the mirrors having his make-up done.

  ‘Oops!’ he says.

  Oh my God! It’s Shug! Shug of all people! The last person in the world I expect to see. No, correction, the last person in the world I want to see.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I ask. The total amazement of finding Shug in the room actually stops me feeling nervous for a moment.

  ‘Promoting my new single perhaps? You must’ve heard it.’

  His tone is as arrogant as ever. I give him a mock smile. ‘Must’ve missed it,’ I say. ‘But maybe it’ll be on again.’

  ‘Oh, very funny! It’s been on a lot, for your information.’

  ‘So what number is it? In the charts?’

  (I know for a fact Mum’s Heatwave numbers are occupying almost all the Top Ten.)

  ‘Charts?’ he says condescendingly. ‘I don’t think we’re talking the same kind of music, do you?’

  ‘You mean popular or unknown?’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ he retorts.

  ‘Same reason as you, I guess. Aren’t we being interviewed about our oh-so-famous parents?’

  I sat down in the chair the make-up lady was offering. She went to work on my face. Pinned to the chair, I was forced to confront Shug’s reflection. God, he looked pathetic! He’d gelled his hair till it stood up in spikes like a stegosaurus.

  He contented himself with making silly faces at me in the mirror.

  Once made up, we were shown into the studio and introduced to Gerry. He was a lot smaller than he looked on screen, but had the same friendly baby face.

  He’d prepared a load of questions to ask us. Most of mine were about Mum, and I’d got the answers off pat because I had literally learned Vix’s crib sheet by heart. I’d have to find a way to slip in a few references to Dad when we were doing the programme for real. Shug was visibly impatient all through my questions, obviously dying for Gerry to get on to him, so . . . I . . . took . . . my . . . time . . .

  Shug was doing his bit (and showing off like mad) when all of a sudden the studio got tense. Gerry said they were about to bring the audience in. We were sent to ‘take five’ in the room next door. Someone would come and get us when the time came.

  In the room next door (literally minutes to go)

  We were gi
ven a coffee and told to relax. Coffee was a big mistake. On an empty stomach the caffeine kicked in and my nervousness made a big comeback. I was now positively shaking.

  Shug sat slumped on a chair fiddling with a biro, clicking the nib in and out.

  This was really getting to me.

  ‘Can you stop doing that!’ I snapped.

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘No way. Are you?’

  ‘Nervous about a stupid five-minute interview? Give me a break!’

  But I could tell he was, by the way he kept jerking his foot.

  We waited for what seemed like for ever. My mouth had gone dry and I felt sicker than ever. And then a girl wearing a headset came to get us.

  ‘You’re on in twenty seconds,’ she said.

  She was listening intently to an earpiece. Then she opened the door and ushered us through.

  I am now having a total out-of-body experience. I see myself as if from far, far above, walking on to the set.

  Our entrance is covered by Gerry, who’s getting the audience to give us a big hand.

  ‘A big welcome to Hollywood Bliss Winterman!’

  The body I’m out of sits down and does a wobbly smile.

  ‘And Shug Bream . . .’

  Shug slumps into his leather seat and glares at the camera.

  ‘So, Holly. Tell us. What’s it’s like being the daughter of the world’s biggest superstar?’ asks Gerry. Before I can answer, he turns to the audience and says, ‘News just in – sales of Kandhi’s Heatwave album have just topped a million! Which means another platinum disc is winging its way to her . . .’

  There’s a burst of applause at this.

  Shug slumps even further. Gerry turns back to me.

  ‘So is the superstar a super mum, Holly?’

  ‘Well, to me she’s just my mum,’ I hear myself saying.

  Out of the corner of my eye I can see Shug off-camera making ‘I-want-to-vomit’ signs. This gets a titter from the audience.

  ‘But there’s my dad, of course. Now I’m in the States I spend a lot of time with him . . .’

  ‘Oh, Pete Winterman?’ says Gerry. (Nice one). ‘What’s he doing these days?

  ‘He’s started writing music again.’ (Shug’s now drumming his fingers.)

  I persevere. ‘His new stuff’s really brilliant.’

  ‘I spend a lot of time with my Dad too,’ interrupts Shug doing a silly imitation of my voice. The audience laughs uncertainly. I glare at Shug. Gerry’s totally losing it. I can see his eyes glazing over as he listens to something that seems to be buzzing in his earphone.

  ‘Interesting,’ says Gerry, turning back to me. I can see he’s ad-libbing now. ‘Wasn’t it Pete who wrote Kandhi’s early hits?’

  ‘Mm-hmm. “Sweet Dreams” and “Kandidly Yours” and “Sweet-Talkin” –’

  Shug interrupts again. ‘Of course my music is really different from Kandhi’s . . .’

  Gerry has trouble keeping his screen smile fixed on me. I wonder if the audience will notice if I pinch Shug hard? He’s just within reach.

  ‘Not just trashy popular –’

  ‘Yes, now Shug,’ says Gerry, cutting in and stopping him mid-sentence, ‘You’ve recently recorded a single. Let’s take a look at Contrôle Technique’s new release, ‘Grab-Machine’.

  With that the music slams in and Shug’s video comes up on the big screen.

  While the cameras are off us, Gerry whispers frantically: ‘Look, you two, can you stop this?’

  I sat fuming through Shug’s single. I was so furious I’d even forgotten to be nervous. It was pretty pathetic. I mean, he wasn’t even singing. He was kind of grunting the words. Self-pitying stuff about a guy who feels like the whole world is against him. He was in this massive machine like you see in cheap sideshows where you pay five quarters and this big clamp comes down and picks up a ball and takes it out.

  When the last chords faded out, Gerry concentrated on Shug for a while. Shug did some typical aggressive showing off about how he didn’t give a damn about charts and popularity. The rowdier guys in the studio were egging him on, clapping and whistling. I reckoned he must’ve had loads of his mates in the audience.

  Then Gerry turned back to me . . .

  ‘So, Holly, what do you think of the news about the Heatwave album?’

  ‘It’s really great, but I still love Mum’s old stuff. The stuff Dad wrote.’

  ‘What she’s trying to say is that good ol’ Kandhi’s gone downhill since she split with – ’ interrupted Shug.

  ‘Well, that’s all we’ve got time for, I’m afraid,’ cut in Gerry, and the music drowned out the last words of Shug’s sentence.

  As Gerry went into his wind-up, we were led off the set.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to interrupt?’ I asked Shug as cuttingly as possible.

  ‘Were you intending to hog the whole interview, or did you just do it on impulse?’ demanded Shug.

  ‘What about that stuff you were doing with the audience?’

  ‘Oh yeah? And what was all that stuff about your dad?’

  Gerry came off set at that moment and stormed into the room.

  ‘Jeez! You guys gave me a bad time. What’s up with you two?’

  Shug just slumped on a chair. ‘You ask her.’

  ‘Oh great! Ask me! I was the one who was giving the hard time, was I?’

  ‘Takes two to make an argument,’ said Shug.

  ‘You should know – you’re the expert.’

  ‘Cut it out. Enough!’ said Gerry. ‘Holly, I don’t know what to say to you. And Shug, this is a warning. If you want to get blacklisted by the media, you’re going the right way about it.’

  Sunday 15th June, 7.00 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  I’m in BIG trouble with Mum. She’s seen the interview and she’s gone ballistic. She was furious at Shug and none too pleased with me either – bringing up all this stuff about Dad when she wanted me to rave about her.

  ‘I expect, at the very least, that my family will stand by me,’ was how she finished tearfully. Then she put down the receiver.

  I stared at the phone indignantly. That was rich coming from Mum! Her family standing by her? Wasn’t she the one who was always walking out? She walked out on Dad, didn’t she? She walked out on anyone she judged wasn’t quite up to her standard: agents, friends, managers, publicists, husbands. Not to mention me.

  It gets worse. Not only am I in trouble with Mum, I’m in trouble with Dad. He’d seen the interview and has gone catatonic!

  It seems the music he’s writing now is pure stuff – deep and serious. He’s trying to live down all that early stuff he did with Mum. Oh, how could I have got it SO-OO wrong?

  I don’t think I’ll ever be happy again as long as I live.

  Monday 16th June, 8.00 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  It gets worse. Next morning I find Dad is on the kitchen floor, trying to tempt Brandy to eat. He has a spoonful of dog food and he’s offering it to him, saying: ‘Yum-Yum!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I demand.

  ‘The old boy’s acting up.’

  ‘Acting up? How?’

  ‘Well he’s kind of off his food. Gone really picky. Thought maybe it was the food. I changed the brand, but he won’t eat this new stuff either.’

  Brandy? Off his food? Picky? Normally the second you put his food down, it’s gone.

  ‘Come on, boy! This is good stuff. Look, I’m eating it myself,’ says Dad, pretending to shove some in his mouth.

  ‘Dad, this dog is really sick. We’ve got to get him to a vet.’

  ‘You think?’ says Dad, panic in his voice. (This is the guy who didn’t want a dog, remember?)

  I calm Dad down and take things into my own hands. I call up Directory for a list of local vets.

  11.00 a.m., Mr Herman Matlock’s Veterinary Clinic

  I got Abdul to drive me and Brandy to the clinic. Dad didn’t want to come. He sa
id he still wasn’t quite over his cold. I reckoned the way he was panicking we were better off without him.

  Mr Herman Matlock’s Clinic is way down in the poor end of SoHo. But the waiting room has a nice reassuring disinfectant smell and there are pictures of happy, healthy animals on the walls. (There are also pictures of nasty parasites and diseases and things, but I ignore these.) I leave Abdul reading a leaflet on Pet Psychology and follow Mr Matlock in his clean white doctor’s overall into his consulting room.

  Mr Matlock oozes reassurance too. He strokes Brandy’s head. ‘Now, what’s up with this little fella?’ he asks.

  I explain about him not eating and he asks proper vet questions about how long for, etc. Mr Matlock’s already got Brandy on his back and is feeling his stomach with expert hands.

  ‘All seems OK down here.’

  He takes his temperature, which is normal.

  Then he puts a lamp on his head and looks down Brandy’s throat.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he says knowingly.

  He’s found something. In my imagination it’s some horrible growth. I steel myself for the tragic news.

  Mr Matlock isn’t saying anything. He’s scrabbling round in a drawer full of instruments. He takes out a long pair of forceps, saying, ‘Now you, young lady, do you think you could hold his head still for me?’

  This is an epic moment. I am assisting at my very first veterinary intervention. I clamp my arms round Brandy’s head and say calming things to him.

  ‘Got it!’ says Mr Matlock.

  He holds up the forceps. Clamped in them is a tiny semi-circular sliver of transparent plastic.

  ‘Now what on earth could that be?’ he asks.

  I shrug. Whatever it is is a total mystery.

  ‘I’ll give him a shot of antibiotics. His throat is pretty inflamed, but he should be fine in a day or so.’

  Mr Matlock is washing his hands. ‘Incidentally,’ he says, ‘I liked the way you held that dog. You’ve got a way with animals.’