My Life So Far

by Chloe Rayban

  I glow with pride. Suddenly I can picture myself – something like on the front of that vintage Sound of Music album. Only it’s not Julie Andrews but me with a string of happy healthy animals alongside striding across the hillside.

  ‘Actually,’ I admit, ‘I want to be a vet.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ says Mr Matlock, leaning up against the edge of his operating table. ‘Now, why in the world would you want a job like this?’

  ‘Well, I want to do something kind of different and more worthwhile than my mum.’

  ‘And what does she do?’

  ‘She’s a singer.’

  ‘Winterman . . .’ says Mr Matlock thoughtfully. ‘Pete Winterman . . . You’re not –’ his voice kind of cracks – ‘you’re not Kandhi’s daughter?’

  I nod. ‘Yep, she’s my mum.’

  ‘Oh boy!’ says Mr Matlock. ‘Wait till I tell my kids I’ve had Kandhi’s daughter in my clinic!’ And then he glances back at me. I guess he can tell from my expression that I’m SO NOT impressed by this.

  ‘But you, you want to be a vet – which is very commendable. Young woman, do you realise how hard it is to become a vet?’

  ‘Oh, I’m willing to work hard.’

  ‘Did you know that it’s as hard or even harder than being a doctor? Because you’ve got all these species to learn about. Like cold-blooded creatures and invertebrates and birds as well as mammals.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that.’

  ‘And that it takes six years to qualify.’

  ‘That’s what everyone keeps telling me. They’re doing their best to put me off.’

  ‘Don’t let them,’ says Mr Matlock. ‘Stick to your guns.’

  ‘Thanks. I was aiming to do that.’

  ‘Well, any time you want to drop by for advice, or when you want work experience, remember me. OK?’

  I am flushed with pride. I’m going to be a vet! I float back to Dad’s, fantasising about the brilliant veterinary clinic I’m going to have. It’s going to have a waiting room where calming music is played and there are videos for animals to watch while they’re waiting to be treated. In fact, a choice of videos on a paw-pad like you get in Club Class. Perhaps greyhound racing for dogs and things like figure skating and snooker for cats . . .

  12.00 noon

  Dad has admitted guilt.

  ‘But I didn’t think he’d eat the packaging!’ he said.

  Apparently he let Brandy get his teeth into his Gumball Treat while still wrapped in its plastic bubble.

  Looking on the positive side, however, Dad is so relieved that Brandy’s OK that he has totally forgiven me over the Teen Hits interview.

  Hang on – there goes my mobile.

  It’s a text:

  I think jamie’s 2-timing with emma

  (3rd violin)

  what did I do wrong?

  Bx

  Uh-huh! So even Becky has love-life problems. She’s not immune. Remembering her hard-hearted texts about Rupert, I restrain my sympathy and text her back:

  j. s not only boy in world

  think laterally

  there’s always the woodwind section

  HBWx

  After that we spend a long texting session back and forth. Becky is coming out with dumb stuff like:

  do you think

  I should write him a note?

  Bx

  no way!

  HBWx

  or buy him a present maybe?

  Bx

  purrleese!

  HBWx

  I know I’ll never ever like

  another boy

  Bx

  believe me

  you will

  HBWx

  no I won’t

  Bx

  Eventually I resort to diversionary tactics and try:

  Hey!

  maybe I can get

  mum to donate to

  your strad fund

  i’ll add you to her

  list of charities

  HBWx

  Becky saves every penny she has, because one day she thinks she’ll be able to make a down payment on a Stradivarius. That’s like the most famous kind of violin ever made and, although they’re really old, apparently they sound way better than any violin made today. But Becky doesn’t get that much pocket money and she’s always borrowing from the Strad fund. So the Strad is like an impossible dream, which is going to stay way up at the top of her Ultimate Wish List – like forever.

  I get a text back:

  Cool!

  Huh! Diversion worked.

  Tuesday 17th June, 11.45 a.m.

  The Plaza Residenza

  Mum is due back today at two thirty, so Abdul’s brought me and all my gear over and I’ve moved back into our apartment. I spend the morning doing a big virtue thing to placate her (kind of the equivalent of vacuuming and tidying if you’re a normal daughter).

  Except there wasn’t any vacuuming to do, seeing as Mum has this team that comes in daily and goes through the apartment searching for dirt like a forensic team on a murder hunt. They literally work magic, leaving everything undisturbed bar the dust. I left a paperback on the floor as a test. It was put back just where it was, except that it was closed and it had a book mark inside which said:

  ANGELS

  from

  ‘Next 2 Godliness’

  have passed through this way.

  Thank you.

  Have a nice day.

  But back to my virtue thing. I took out the Gold Card that Mum says I can use for emergencies. Well, this is an emergency, isn’t it? Mum will be back in under three hours! I called up Takashimaya on Fifth Avenue and had three hundred white gardenias sent up. I was kind of tempted to order other colours to cheer the place up some, but I knew this would SO NOT please her. Then I got on to Dean and Deluca and had them fill the fridge with her favourite foods: oysters, wild asparagus and raspberries. I didn’t trust them on caviar, so I sent out to Petrossian for that. Then I spent the rest of the morning spray-misting my palms and feeding my tropical fish – a jungle-themed suite is pretty labour-intensive.

  2.30 p.m. precisely

  I am on my balcony. Down below the street is pretty crowded. TV teams have been out in force since dawn with their cameras fixed on the entrance. They’ve had to move the horses and carriages and stuff further down the street.

  2.33 p.m.

  I can hear what sounds like a parade coming up Fifth Avenue. A stream of limos draws up with a convoy of paparazzi in hot pursuit.

  I watch from above as the tiny figure of Mum climbs out of the first limo and walks up the red carpet into the Plaza Building. And then, as if on rewind, she goes back and does it again. Not until a third rewind are the press happy. Mum enters the building and disappears from sight.

  A minute later she’s up on our floor and in through the apartment doors.

  ‘Hollywood, babes!’ I’m enfolded in waves of ‘K’.

  ‘Hi, Mum!’

  ‘Oh babes! Was I horrid to you on the phone?’

  ‘A bit . . .’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

  I hear the elevator clunk to a stop and the apartment doors open again.

  ‘Look what I’ve bought you . . .’ says Mum.

  Standing in the elevator, swaying beneath a tottering pyramid of gift-wrapped boxes, is Marlowe.

  ‘Oh! Hi, Marlowe!’

  ‘Hi, Holly! Where shall I put these?’

  ‘They’re all for Hollywood, so you can put them in her suite,’ says Mum.

  ‘All for me?’

  Marlowe follows Mum. I follow the gifts.

  ‘It was Marlowe’s idea. I just hope you haven’t changed size.’

  There are five big expensive-looking boxes. I guess this is kind of the equivalent of your mum’s new boyfriend giving you candy to get on the right side of you.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to open them?’ asks Marlowe.

  I open the first box and inside there’s a really beautiful pair of
soft leather riding boots.

  ‘Wow! Thanks, Mum and, errm, Marlowe . . .’

  I try them on. They fit. My feet seem to have stopped growing at last.

  Inside the next box there’s a pair of suede chaps like cowboys wear. A third reveals a pair of riding jodhpurs and then a fine suede shirt. And in the last box there’s a tengallon hat. A complete cowboy outfit made for me. The only thing they haven’t packed is the horse.

  ‘Oh Mum, you shouldn’t . . .’ I say, giving her a hug.

  ‘It’s just a little something to go with the gift I bought Marlowe,’ says Mum.

  ‘Oh? What was that?’

  ‘A ranch,’ says Marlowe with a wide grin.

  I give Mum a hard stare. Mum avoids my gaze.

  ‘Won’t that be nice for you, Hollywood? You know how you love animals. Now you can learn to ride . . .’

  I am about to reply to this when I notice some sort of commotion coming from the salon.

  The doors of the apartment have been left open because people have been coming in and out, delivering Mum’s fifteen perfectly matched Louis Vuitton suitcases, her hatboxes, her shoeboxes and the specially designed Louis Vuitton zip-up bag with the single down pillow inside which she takes everywhere.

  But back to the commotion . . .

  A voice is raised. A male voice in the salon is demanding: ‘Where the hell is she?’

  I can hear Vix trying to make out Mum’s left the apartment. Clumping footsteps cross the salon. I hear Mum’s bedroom door being opened and then slammed again . . .

  Mum doesn’t seem fazed. She walks over calmly and leans out of my bedroom door.

  ‘Is someone looking for me?’

  ‘What do you damn well think you’re playing at, Kandhi?’

  I creep up behind Mum. It’s Oliver. But this is not the cold-fish oh-so-English Oliver Bream we’re familiar with. His face is scarlet and his hair is all over the place.

  ‘Hello, Oliver,’ says Mum levelly. ‘How nice of you to drop by. Is your girlfriend with you?’

  ‘Where is he?’ storms Oliver, ignoring the reference to the girlfriend.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who!’

  Marlowe meanwhile is behaving in a very un-cowboy-like fashion. He’s not exactly poised for a shoot-out. No, he’s actually slipped into my bathroom and locked himself in.

  ‘He’s in here somewhere! I know he is!’ rages Oliver, striding into my suite. He starts thrashing through the palms. ‘Come out, you bastard!’ he’s saying. ‘I know you’re in there.’

  Mum has wandered off into the salon, not getting involved. In fact, she has this totally serene and gratified look on her face. And suddenly I realise that this is what she’s planned all along. She’s loving it. She’s relishing it. She’s got Oliver exactly where she wants him.

  Oliver has peeped in my clothes trunk, checked my balcony, and now he’s homed in on my bathroom door.

  ‘Come out you . . . you . . . coward!’ he shouts at the door.

  There’s no answer from inside.

  ‘You can’t stay locked in there for ever,’ continues Oliver.

  (But he could for a pretty long time. After all, he’s got plenty of water. And he could eat all the tropical fish.)

  ‘OK,’ says Oliver. ‘Take your time. I’m in no hurry. I’m outside the door and I am not leaving . . .’

  Mum walks slowly back into the room with her arms folded. She leans against the wall and looks Oliver straight in the face.

  ‘Don’t you think’, she asks. ‘That you are being just the teensiest bit childish?’

  ‘Childish?’ returns Oliver.

  ‘Yes,’ says Mum. ‘After all, you started this.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes you did. By going out with that Vanessa Nobody girl.’

  ‘Excuse me. I was not “going out”, as you so coyly put it, with Vanessa. I was simply helping her with her publicity.’

  ‘ “Helping her with her publicity” didn’t have to include having her wrapped around your body for the whole of the world’s press to see. Not when you were meant to be engaged to ME.’

  ‘But we weren’t engaged.’

  ‘I know we weren’t properly, but everyone thought we were, so it came to the same thing.’

  ‘No. You don’t get it! We were NOT not-properly-engaged when that shot was taken.’

  ‘What?’ Mum demands. (A sentence with so many negatives in it is totally beyond her.)

  Oliver looks as if he’s going to self-combust.

  ‘Can’t you get it through your dumb head?’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, Oliver Bream!’

  Now this could go on for ever. Clearly the time had come for me to intervene.

  ‘STOP! Both of you,’ I shouted. Miraculously, they did. ‘Mum, listen. That shot was taken at the Cannes Film Festival. I had the truth from Shug. It was taken two weeks before you got “not-properly-engaged” to Oliver.’

  ‘Was it?’ demanded Mum.

  ‘Yes,’ said Oliver. ‘It was.’

  ‘So you’re not going out with that Vanessa girl?’

  ‘I haven’t set eyes on her since Cannes.’

  Tears welled up in Mum’s eyes. ‘So does this mean we’re . . . still . . . not-properly-engaged?’ she said haltingly. Her lower lip was wobbling. She bit it.

  ‘It looks like it,’ said Oliver. He took a step towards her. All the anger had gone out of his voice.

  ‘Oh . . .’ said Mum.

  ‘Look, Kandhi . . .’ said Oliver gently.

  ‘Yes, Oliver?’ Mum was looking up into his face.

  ‘Errm, the thing is, I think I might be . . .’ This could well have led to the most romantic moment in the history of the universe had the door of the bathroom not shot open at that point and Marlowe emerged brandishing a loofah.

  ‘Right. Back off, you!’ he said threateningly to Oliver, as he slid round the inner wall of my suite, making for the door. Having located said door, he literally fell through into the salon. Oliver didn’t even bother to follow.

  ‘. . . in love with you . . .’ finished Oliver, taking another step towards Mum.

  ‘Oh Oliver!’ sighed Mum, taking a step towards him.

  I went out to check that Marlowe hadn’t landed on the floor or broken a leg or something, but he’d actually fled. The apartment was empty.

  I went to close the front door after him.

  And then on second thoughts I went out through it. Right now I reckoned Mum and Oliver could do with some quality time together.

  Later

  Abdul drove me to Dad’s. The way things stood it seemed tactful to stay there the night.

  By the time I arrived, Marlowe had called in, grabbed his stuff and taken a cab to JFK Airport. He was on his way to the ranch Mum had so kindly given him.

  Wednesday 18th June, 9.00 a.m.

  The Plaza Residenza

  When I got back the following morning, I found Mum on the phone.

  She held up one hand to me, indicating not to interrupt.

  ‘Yes, Armando, it’s vital. Why can’t you fly out till tomorrow?’

  ‘. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .’

  ‘What’s wrong with a private jet?’

  ‘. . . . . . . . . . . . . .’

  ‘Of course, Armando – just put it on the cheque.’

  She put the phone down.

  ‘Honestly, people can be so penny-pinching.’

  ‘Why do you need Armando so urgently?’

  ‘To design the dress, Hollywood. Sometimes I don’t think you’re quite with it.’

  She got up and made for her bedroom. I followed her.

  ‘Dress? What dress?’ I said.

  She turned and looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

  ‘You mean, wedding dress?’ I continued. ‘Isn’t this all happening a bit fast?’

  ‘Why wait? Oliver and I know we’re right for each other. We’re
planning the wedding next month. In LA – so as we can be sure of the weather. And it will fit in nicely as I’ve got to be there anyway for my premiere.’

  Mum had seated herself at her mirror and had started rubbing white base coat into her face.

  ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Mum?’

  ‘Marrying Oliver? Of course I do. Who else could I possibly marry?’

  ‘Well, last week everyone seemed to think you were marrying Marlowe.’

  ‘Marlowe?’ Mum was fussing around looking for eyeliner.

  ‘I thought you were really keen on him.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Holly. He’s only a model, and not a very successful one at that.’

  ‘Mum, honestly, you should be ashamed of yourself. I think you were simply using Marlowe to make Oliver jealous.’

  ‘Sometimes men need a little something to bring out the red blood in them,’ said Mum, leaning into the mirror and lining one eye thickly with black. ‘Let’s just say Marlowe was in the right place at the right time.’

  ‘But it wasn’t fair to simply pick him up, then drop him like that.’

  ‘Fair?’ said Mum, turning on me with one eye lined and the other not. ‘He got a ranch out of it, didn’t he?’

  ‘Mum, really!’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Mum, turning back to the mirror. ‘I don’t think Marlowe truly cared for me. It was just my fame that attracted him. It’s hard, you know, Hollywood, being me.’ (!) ‘At least I know with Oliver it’s me he really cares about. You see, Oliver’s so famous he could have any girl.’

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘So you will be our bridesmaid, won’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so . . . As long as Shug isn’t going to be pageboy.’

  ‘I can’t exactly see Shug in knee breeches now, can you? But of course he’s got to be there.’

  ‘Ugghh!’

  ‘You two are going to have to try to get along.’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘Now, Hollywood, don’t be difficult.’

  ‘I’m not being difficult. But Mum, you must realise it’s Shug who’s been making trouble between you two all along.’

  ‘Hollywood, you must understand. That poor boy’s mixed up. And it’s no wonder. He’s never had a proper mother –’