by Chloe Rayban
Gift of the day: A diamond-encrusted camel saddle from the Sultan of Brindal. The camel is following by sea-freight.
(Grab-Machine has risen to Number 15.)
Wednesday 2nd July, 9.00 a.m.
The Plaza Residenza
Mum and Victor are going through the final details of the wedding programme before it goes to the printers. They’re stuck on who is going to give the spoken addresses.
‘Oliver’s going to speak, of course. He’s doing some French thing about a woman called Roxanne, but in English, of course. And then there’s Shug. He has to say something because he’s best man,’ says Mum.
‘Shug’s going to be best man? You didn’t tell me!’ (Best man and bridesmaid – they’re always thrown together.)
‘Yes, isn’t it sweet? He and Oliver, they’re so close.’
‘They’ve got a lot in common. Like the same big heads.’ Mum ignores this.
‘And of course the preacher has to give his address,’ says Victor, ‘but we need another speaker from your side of the family . . .’
Mum and Victor now turn their gaze on me.
‘Me? No way! You know how I hate doing anything like that.’
‘But you are my daughter. And if Shug can do it . . .’
(Shug can do it. Sullen, non-cooperative Shug who wouldn’t do anything for anyone?)
‘He’s making up his speech himself,’ says Mum.
‘You better check it for expletives then.’
‘Nonsense!’ says Mum. ‘Shug’s really turning into a nice boy. He’s just misunderstood, that’s all.’
I make no comment. Shug has clearly been sucking up to Mum like mad.
‘But if you’d really rather not . . .’
I can just imagine the way Shug will gloat if he hears I’m too shy to say something. ‘Chickening out’ will be the least of his comments.
‘Oh, I suppose if Shug’s going to do something, I’d better.’
‘Good. Now, what was that piece that you were doing last year with Rupert? That marriagey thing.’
‘“Let me not to the marriage of true minds . . .”?’
‘Yeah. I seem to remember it was by someone famous –’
‘Shakespeare.’
‘Shakespeare,’ says Victor. ‘He’ll do. He’s one of those all-time classics. Like Elvis – never dates. So what’s this number called?
‘Sonnet number one hundred and sixteen.’ (It was engraved on my memory.)
‘Not exactly a zingy title, but it’ll have to do . . .’
Thursday 2nd July, 2.00 p.m.
The Plaza Residenza
Thierry is ‘in conference’ with Victor over the wedding menu. Now that Mum has eased up on her ‘only raw food’ regime since the salmon incident, his job should be easier.
However, according to Victor:
1) We can’t have anything containing pork, ham or bacon as some of the guests are Jewish.
2) We can’t have anything containing veal or foie gras as there will be other animal liberators apart from myself present.
3) We can’t have any smoked foods because, according to the latest food safety scares, these could possibly be carcinogenic (same goes for soya sauce, black pepper, artificial sweeteners and anything with colourings e-numbered between 1000 and 5001).
4) We can’t have anything with grapefruit in it, in case someone is on hayfever pills and goes into toxic shock. (The wedding is in a garden, after all.)
5) Same goes for anything containing peanuts or peanut derivatives, unless we allergy-test all the guests on entrance.
6) Nothing with a high fat content because quite a lot of Mum’s friends are on fat-free diets (same goes for sugar, and non-sugar supplements take you back to the no-carcinogens problem).
7) We have to danger-flag all non-pasteurised cheeses because some of the guests may be pregnant. Same goes for anything containing alcohol – at least half of Mum’s friends are signed-up members of AA.
8) And we can’t have any foodstuffs from countries where workers are a) exploited, b) under a politically corrupt dictatorship, c) under repressive religious domination, or d) communist.
‘So what are we going to eat?’ asks Mum.
‘We-ell,’ says Thierry, his shoulders going into a kind of automatic French reflex shrug, ‘eef I was you Kandhi, I would simply prepare delicious food in my own way. Eef we kill the guests, let them sue. You can always pay up – you’re so loaded.’
Gift of the day: An 18th-century Florentine baroque gilded love seat covered in its original hand-stitched antique petit point from Oliver’s Italian director, Carlo Minetti. Mum’s comment: ‘You’d have thought Carlo would’ve known I’d gone minimal.’
(‘Grab-Machine’ has slipped right down to Number 20, so there!)
Friday 4th July, 10.00 a.m.
The Plaza Residenza
Oliver’s back. He flew in from Italy last night. They finished shooting early as the weather held and they didn’t have to go into contingency time.
Mum has been out since dawn on essential body maintenance. She’s gone for a mud massage and an algae body wrap, maybe waxing if they can locate a stray bodily hair that’s been overlooked. Then she’s having her tan resprayed in spite of the fact that she has a real tan from our vacation.
She panicked because Daffyd is still away on his honeymoon, but she has agreed to have her hair done by someone else as long as Daffyd is supervising on a video-link conference call and directing the scissors as they cut.
Question: Is Mum going to be able keep this standard up for her entire married life?
Gifts are now arriving by the hour. The doorbell has sounded and I have automatically pushed the Open button.
But it isn’t a delivery. It’s Shug.
‘Hi!’ he says to me. ‘Where’s your mum?’
‘She’s out. Why?’
‘I’ve come to see her.’
‘You’ve come to see Mum? Why?’
Close up, I can’t help noticing he’s slimmed down some since I last saw him. I become horribly aware that I’m dressed for bumming round the apartment. I’m in my least favourite tracksuit bottoms and I actually have my pink fluffy slippers on.
‘How long’s she gonna be?’
‘I don’t know. Why don’t you come back another time?’
‘No,’ says Shug, turning away from me and wandering across the salon as if he’s aiming to stay. ‘I can wait.’
He sits himself down on one of the white leather couches. I hover. What am I expected to do? Entertain him?
I catch sight of myself in one of Mum’s ceiling-to-floor mirrors. The mirror does NOT have good news for me. Shug may be my least favourite male in the universe, but he is male. And I do have my pride.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say, shoving a pile of magazines in his direction.
I race into my suite and positively fall into the bathroom. Hurriedly, I fling on some make-up and scrape my hair into a ponytail band. I rake through my closet for my new flattering jeans. Where do clothes go when they know they’re wanted? I can’t leave Shug too long or he’ll wonder what’s going on. Only when I’ve thrown everything out on the floor do the jeans surface. I drag them on and force my feet into shoes, pulling-a-clean-T-shirt-over-my-head-as-I-head-back-into-the-salon – then . . . I saunter . . . slowly . . . back . . . into the room.
Shug looks up from the magazine he’s been reading.
‘Oh, you didn’t have to change for me,’ he says.
I can feel my face flaring bright red.
‘I didn’t change for you. I’m about to go out as a matter of fact.’
‘Oh? Where?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ (Wouldn’t I!)
‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’ He returns to his magazine.
I pause. He’s really getting to me now. I can feel anger brewing up inside, but I’m not going to lose my temper. I want to show him that I’m a female worthy of respect. He can’t simply walk over me like t
his. So I stand my ground and watch him for a while. I can tell he’s pretending to ignore me. He’s not really reading that magazine.
‘Not going out then?’ he asks without looking up.
‘I can’t go out now. What will Mum do if she comes back and finds you here alone?’
‘Don’t worry about me. I can handle older women. If she comes on to me, I’ll just fend her off gently.’
His arrogance takes my breath away. I am about to lash out at him when he looks up. It’s just an eye-flick from the magazine and back again.
He’s kidding. Of course he is. I can feel a giggle surfacing. With difficulty I control my face. ‘That was disgusting. Have you forgotten that my mother is about to marry your father?’
‘How could I?’ says Shug, spreading his arms wide at the mess of gift wrap and cartons spread over the floor. ‘The whole world is waiting with bated breath to see if she turns up this time.’
‘Oh, she’ll turn up all right.’
‘Yeah? How d’you know?’
‘Improbable as it may seem, my mum really cares about your dad.’
‘Does she?’ There’s another eye-flick at me, serious this time.
‘Yes, she does. Believe me. I know Mum.’
‘Good, because if she does anything more to hurt Dad I am personally going to throttle her,’ says Shug.
I’m silent for a moment. It’s kind of cute the way he cares about his dad, defending him like that.
‘Is that why you came here today?’ I ask in a calmer tone.
‘Kind of. And I wanted to see you too.’ There’s a longer eyeflick at me this time. In spite of myself, I can’t help noticing that Shug has nice eyes. I mean, no way near as nice as Rupert’s – which are blue, pure sky blue – but nice-ish all the same.
‘Me?’
‘Is there anyone else in the room?’
‘No.’
It’s gone very quiet all of a sudden. I don’t think the traffic has actually stopped rounding the corner from Fifth Avenue, it’s just my heart pounding in my chest, drowning it out.
‘Look, Holly . . .’ he starts.
I wait. I don’t say anything. I just stand there. In some totally curious way I simply can’t account for, I want to hear what he has to say.
‘Don’t you think it’s about time we stopped fighting?’ He looks up at me with that ‘whipped Alsatian’ expression of his.
I’m tempted, but I’m not going to let him off so easily. Not after the way he’s treated me.
‘I don’t recollect us fighting. All I can remember is you being obnoxious –’
‘Selective memory, eh?’
‘No . . .’
‘Each time we meet, you’re like . . . like a she-cat with claws out.’
‘No I’m not.’ (But maybe he’s right. Why is it Shug makes me so tense?)
‘Yes you are.’
‘No.’
‘You know you are.’ He gets up from the sofa and takes a few steps towards me.
‘But I’m not.’ (I’m backing off.)
‘Just look at yourself right now.’ (He’s coming closer.) ‘Look how you’re on the defensive.’
‘No I’m not.’
He’s closing right in. He has nice white teeth – regular. His dad must’ve paid a fortune in orthodontics like my mum did.
I move back another step, which takes me right up to the wall. I can smell his aftershave. I can almost feel the heat of his body as he puts one hand up on the wall and – he can’t be . . . he is . . . he’s about to . . . his lips are approaching . . .
‘Hi, you two!’ Mum bursts into the apartment.
The two of us leap apart.
‘Hi, Kandhi!’ says Shug.
Mum goes to Shug first and gives him a hug. I watch fascinated. Not so long ago these two were out for each other’s blood. Now they seem to have totally bonded.
‘Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived.’
(She knew he was coming! She could’ve warned me.)
‘Holly, be a babe and put some coffee on for us. Shug and I want to talk music.’
SAME but feels like YEARS later, 11.00 a.m.
I’m in the kitchen, staring at the coffee machine while my mind is doing whoozy whizzy things inside my head. What was going on in there just now with Shug?
Shug, I remind myself firmly, is the guy I loathe. No, heavier than that – despise. The guy who days ago I would have happily carved into bite-sized pieces and fed to my tropical fish.
Then I have a lightning flashback. I’m against the wall . . . He’s leaning towards me and . . . NO! No way! I would not let Shug near me. Because I’m in love – truly, deeply, meaningfully IN LOVE – with Rupert.
I tell myself firmly to get a grip as I spoon ground coffee into the coffee filter paper. I turn on the filter machine and watch it as it slowly, in-fin-ite-ly slow-ly heats up. I want to dash back into the salon. I need to take another look at Shug. To confirm in my mind that he’s not changed one bit. He’s still that totally irritating, self-obsessed, arrogant, errm . . . and all those other things.
‘How’s that coffee going?’ Shug is leaning in through the door.
‘Coming.’
I pick up the coffee pot. Shug waits in the doorway so I have to kind of slide my body sideways past him. He’s looking me straight in the eyes now with a kind of questioning look.
I DO NOT respond. I carry the coffee with complete composure to the table. Shug holds the door open for me as I go back for the cups. I get another eye-flick as I pass. I return with the cups and sit lightly down on the sofa beside Mum.
She hasn’t noticed any of this. She’s on the phone.
‘Yeah Mike, I know, but if you could square it with The Late Show they could slot him in. They’d do it for me, I know.’ She’s nodding at Shug as if to say: ‘Yes, you’re on.’
Shug slides down on the sofa opposite me. His foot just glides ever so accidentally against mine under the coffee table.
I totally ignore it.
‘Now who’s for coffee?’ I ask, cool, calm and collected. I pour three cups.
Shug takes a sip and chokes.
‘What is this?’
‘Coffee?’
‘It’s kinda sweet.’
Oh no I haven’t! Yes, I have. I’ve absent-mindedly taken down a jar of pure dark demerara sugar and brewed a pot of it. It’s Thierry’s fault. The jars look SO-OO alike. It’s a mistake anyone could’ve made.
Saturday 5th July, 10.00 a.m.
The Plaza Residenza
I wake and remember yesterday. Or to be more exact, I remember the precise moment just before Mum came into the apartment when I think Shug nearly . . . Oh my God! What nearly happened, but didn’t because of Mum, was my first kiss ever! With Shug of all people! What an escape! Because I just know if he had kissed me – and I’m pretty sure he was going to – I would have totally messed up. Like banging noses or clashing teeth or having my tongue in totally the wrong place or whatever . . . And then Shug would have known that I, Hollywood Bliss Winterman, have never been kissed before. I go hot and cold at the very thought. Imagine what would happen in September when I’m the new girl in his school! He’d probably tell all the other guys. How he would crow about it! He must never, never know.
Later, after a very long recovery process in the shower
I find Mum pitter-pattering around the apartment in bathrobe and bare feet, checking out the gifts and making little purring noises or sighs as appropriate.
She just loves the camel saddle – she’s going to use it as a conversation piece. She’s dragging it round the room, trying it in various locations, but none seems quite right. She’s wandered out into the hallway with it.
Vix is on the phone to someone, enquiring about a delivery.
‘Well, if you can’t do a thousand I guess we’ll have to take the five hundred and look around for more.’
She puts down the phone and calls over to me in an exhausted voice, ‘Holly, you know about animals. Do
n’t pigeons eat butterflies?’
‘I imagine they do. They are insects. Why?’
‘Well, Victor’s got five hundred white fantail doves coming. But the thing is, your mum wants them let out simultaneously with a swarm of Giant Blue Ulysses butterflies. You know, kind of symbolic – her colour and Oliver’s mingling . . .’
Hang on – my hackles are rising. Caged birds! Rare butterflies!
‘But she can’t!’
‘That’s what I said. Imagine the carnage.’
‘No, but those doves – they’d have to be caged.’
Mum comes back at that moment, still dragging the saddle. ‘That’s the point, Holly. I’m letting them out. I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘I know you’re letting them out, but they have to be caged first.’
‘But of course. How could I let them out if they weren’t?’ Mum’s fast losing her cool.
‘Mum, birds should not be caged on principle. And what about the butterflies?’
‘Oh, they’re OK. They’ll be just hatched. Too young to know the difference.’
‘I don’t believe you! Using poor, innocent, just-hatched baby creatures to decorate your wedding.’
‘Hollywood, if you knew what people are doing to get their hands on an invitation, you’d realise how lucky those creatures are.’
‘Yeah, there are loads still bargaining for more cash,’ Vix mutters evilly.
‘Well, I’m going to get on to the National Ornithological Society and see what they say,’ I threaten, reaching for my mobile.
‘Don’t you dare!’ snaps Mum.
‘You can’t stop me.’
‘And what about the butterflies?’ asks Vix, giving me a sidelong look.
‘Well, I guess they have a society too.’
‘Oh Hollywood, you are being difficult,’ says Mum.
‘Mum, pigeons, doves or whatever eat butterflies. It’s a totally dumb idea in the first place.’
Mum stares at me. ‘Do they?’
‘Yes!’ Vix and I say in unison.
‘OK, have it your own way both of you. Ruin my day.’ Mum dumps the saddle on the floor. ‘The one really important day of my life . . .’