by Chloe Rayban
She storms into her bedroom and slams the door.
Sunday 6th July, 3.00 p.m.
The Plaza Residenza
Just six days to go before the wedding.
Gift of the day: A set of sixty hand-etched monogrammed Venetian wine glasses with pure gold rims. The initials OK looks even odder surrounded by cupids and mermaids.
(‘Grab-Machine’ has crept five places back up the charts. It’s at Number 15.)
Monday 7th July
The Plaza Residenza
Shug was on The Late Show last night. I stayed awake to watch. It was odd how ‘Grab-Machine’ was starting to grow on me, because it was really pathetic. Shug came out with all this stuff about a guy who feels like the whole world is a game of chance. In the video he’s standing buried waist-deep in trashy car parts and this great grab is coming down to get him. I mean, purr-leese? But I had to admit that Shug looked kind of OK in that tight white T-shirt. I mean, I can’t remember Rupert wearing a T-shirt ever. Rupert was strictly of the shirt-with-long-sleeves-rolled-up type . . .
Tuesday 8th July, 9.00 p.m.
The Plaza Residenza
I got Abdul to drive me to Borders and I bought a copy of ‘Grab-Machine’. I put it on as background music. The strange thing was that the more I listened to it, the more I realised that it had this kind of subtext. I guess it was about life really, and politics and the way the whole human race is helpless in the face of eternity . . .
But the really curious thing was, while it was on, a whole day went past without me thinking once about Rupert. It was even hard to picture him now. All I could remember were little bits which wouldn’t stick together. And he was so far away – the other side of the world, in fact. And he’d only emailed me like twice. Did he really deserve the prime position as the love of my life?
I lay in bed a long time after that, wondering guiltily whether I was being horribly fickle. I mean, admittedly Rupert was unaware of my true, deep and eternal love, but it would be pretty hard-hearted to simply dump him.
Wednesday 9th July, 8.00 a.m.
The Plaza Residenza
I wake up with my mind running on the same theme. I wonder what Rupert is doing right now. Probably walking to the tap and filling his bucket with water which he’s going to kind of sloosh over his perfect body. Back at the house, I imagine Juliette brewing coffee for him over a campfire. I wait for the familiar pang of jealousy. But it doesn’t happen. Nothing. Strange . . . Surely I can’t have stopped loving Rupert – just like that?
But he’s got Juliette, hasn’t he? You expect the guy you’re passionately in love with to stay single at least. Look how he’s treated me!
You know something? I reckon Rupert deserves to be dumped.
Having made the decision, I open my laptop.
Hi Rupert!
I followed this, with a ten-page email, in which I update him on everything that’s happened since I’ve last seen him. No problem.
I can’t think why I’ve been so hung up about it.
Later: Armando Mezzo’s Private Clients’ Suite
Mum and I go for the final fitting at Armando’s. There are loads of press photographers camped outside the entrance, knowing that Mum’s bound to come by.
Mum’s doing her dark glasses, incognito, want-to-be-alone bit, but she still has time to pause in the lobby for a fleeting photo opportunity or two.
We are accompanied in the elevator by a guy with an automatic weapon. The Dress is having to be kept under round-the-clock armed guard in case anyone gets a sneak shot of it and publishes it ahead of time. Only Armando and two of his most trusted staff are allowed near it.
Armando pounces on Mum as soon as we’re out of the elevator.
‘Kandhi! Oh, I am so excited! You are going to be just such a dream in zis dress . . .’
(Mum recognises this for what it is – pure pre-sales softening up.)
‘Yes Armando, sure I will. So where is it?’
‘Ahhh . . .’ says Armando. ‘Zee moment has come . . .’
He walks over to an alcove which has been curtained off ceiling-to-floor with a long flouncy blind made of pearly satin. He presses a button. The blind slowly furls upwards to reveal a ‘grotto’ where The Dress is floating as if in a mist of metres of gauzy veil. It’s beautiful. It’s delicious. It’s a dream of a dress.
‘Hmm!’ is Mum’s only comment.
‘But wait till you see it on . . .’ says Armando.
Mum is swept into a changing room by two of Armando’s assistants. I sit and wait on a little gilt chair.
Several minutes later she emerges looking totally amazing. Although she’s tiny, Mum has a perfect figure (her cosmetic surgeon has seen to that), but Armando has somehow managed to give her top model dimensions (the three-inch-heel Blahniks may be helping). She positively floats into the room like a swan.
‘Jeez, Armando!’ she says in a very un-swanlike tone. ‘There’s a bone or whatever sticking right into my –’
‘No!’ says Armando. ‘Impossible!’
‘Right here . . .’
There is a great flap about the dress, which now has to be totally dismembered and resewn from scratch by Friday. When they’ve all recovered, I find I can get a word in to ask: ‘What about my dress?’
Suddenly everyone remembers I’m there too.
My dress doesn’t come out of a pearly grotto, it comes out of a box.
It’s very nice really. It’s pretty straightforward. Very straightforward. Very straight up and down. In short, I look like a column – a tall pearly-pink column. If you had three more of me, you could support a roof. But if Mum’s a swan, I guess I’m child-of-swan – and we all know what they look like.
Thursday 10th July, 11.00 p.m.
The Plaza Residenza
Only two days to go before the wedding. Gifts are still arriving.
Gift of the day: The world’s most uncomfortable chair made out of stag’s antlers. Plus three more monogrammed bathrobe sets – they now have enough to clothe an entire Turkish bathhouse.
But along with today’s deliveries comes a battered parcel wrapped in tatty brown paper and fraying string. For a moment I think Mum’s relented and invited her mum, Anna, after all – the parcel looks homespun enough.
It’s got a weird foreign stamp on it. But hang on – it’s for me. That writing’s familiar. My tummy turns over with a thump as I realise where I’ve seen it before – in red down the side of my essays. It’s from Rupert.
I tear off the paper. (Oh, how could I have been so hasty and dumped him like that?) Inside, wrapped in newspaper, is the cutest little iguana made out of scrap metal – an old oilcan by the look of it – and there’s a note and a photo.
I look at the photo first. There, in a dusty street, stands Rupert. He’s wearing baggy khaki shorts and a T-shirt. And beside him – no, it can’t be! Who is this woman who looks old enough to be his mother? I turn the photo over.
Me and Juliette taken in Blimii, it says.
Juliette! This is no sex kitten in faded denims, no raunchy babe in Army fatigues, no goddess in floaty Out Of Africa separates – no, Juliette is wearing the kind of outsize shorts that climb up the crotch and a sagging T-shirt that’s tight in all the wrong places.
Oh Rupert, how could I have dumped you? I turn the photo back over. He’s got a really fit body in that T-shirt. As fit or fitter than Shug’s.
I read the note:
Dear Holly,
When I saw this little iguana I thought of you. (Aw...!)
It’s long and skinny and has an expression on its face
a bit like you have when you’re doing mental arithmetic.
I study the iguana. I guess it’s quite pretty as iguanas go.
I was keeping it on my shelf. (My ‘house’ is now furnished – I have a shelf.) But Juliette found it and threw it at me – the little contretemps over the dinner still seems to rankle. So I thought I’d send it to you. How are plans going for the wedding? How are you g
etting on with Oliver – and Shug!!!? Love, Rupert x
And Shug! I think guiltily. How could I have been so untrue to Rupert and had that totally out-of-character impulse to . . . Yes, I have to admit it. Had Mum not come in at that moment I might have had my first precious, passionate kiss with Shug of all people!
Friday 11th July, 9.00 a.m.
The Plaza Residenza
Only one day to go before the wedding. Daffyd’s back from his honeymoon in the nick of time. He and Mum have been up since dawn as he’s had to do a total panic restyle. She wants her hair tone matched to the dress. We’re leaving for LA at 12 noon. Oliver and Shug have gone on ahead. Mum says she doesn’t want to see Oliver again until the day of the wedding – to make it more special. I think this is sweet – and SO-OO romantic. Vix says darkly that it’s because she fears another blazing row and Oliver calling the whole thing off.
The apartment looks like a disaster area. Mum has had professional packers in to pack for the trip. All the wedding gifts are being rewrapped to take with us. They are going to be displayed for all the guests to admire at the reception (a neat way of shaming the people who have only sent, like, salad servers). My clothes are being packed just like Mum’s between layers of crunchy tissue paper – my teddy and my PJs have never had such luxury treatment.
At 12 noon sharp a fleet of limos draws up in front of the Plaza Residenza. Mum and I get in the first one with Vix. After us come Daffyd and June and Sid and Abdul. The next one takes Thierry and Gervase. We’re off to JFK.
First Class Cabin Flight AA 192 to LA, 2.30 p.m.
Mum is treating her entire entourage to a First Class Flight – she says she doesn’t get married every day – although she does pretty often.
We’re meant to have the whole First Class Cabin to ourselves, but as we take our seats I notice another person is already seated up front. By the look of it this someone is in total purdah, swathed in some strange orange robe from head to foot – not an inch of flesh showing.
I settle in my seat beside Mum but before I can ask her who this curious person up front might be, she’s already tossed a couple of sleeping pills down her throat, put on her eye mask, inserted her earplugs and manoeuvred her seat into the reclining position. As usual she’s going to use the flight to catch up on sleep.
I wonder whether I dare wake her. But now of all times Mum needs her beauty sleep. The flight attendants are passing round champagne and I’m given a juice. I notice that whoever-it-is in the front doesn’t take any champagne. Maybe alcohol is against his or her religion.
The female flight attendant is doing the safety demonstration. Whoever-it-is doesn’t appear to be watching as his or her head hasn’t moved – obviously a seasoned traveller. That’s when it strikes me. Orange. It must be. There’s no other explanation. Mum has relented and asked Grandma Anna after all! She hasn’t told me because she wants it to be a surprise. I want to leap out of my seat and run over to her and say, ‘Hi, it’s me Holly. I’ve been so longing to meet you.’
But I’ll have to wait till the seat belt signs go off, so instead I sit in my seat fantasising about how brilliant it’s going to be to have a real, live grandmother. I mean, I know Grandma Anna and I are going to have so much in common – according to Mum, she’s really into nature and stuff. I have a brief and heady vision of the two of us, dressed in something silky and filmy, probably on horseback but maybe even on an elephant, fulfilling my dream, travelling across Rajasthan to visit the tigers in Ranthambore National Park.
But the seatbelt signs are not going off. There’s a storm in the air and they’re staying on because we’re likely to encounter turbulence.
4.00 p.m.
They’re bringing round trays of food. Basically I’m too excited to eat. I’m imagining all the things Grandma Anna and I will have to tell each other in order to catch up. I notice that she doesn’t accept the food either. But she probably has brought her own supplies of that special macrobiotic stuff that orange people eat. I experience a slight negative twinge here. I mean, you expect grandmothers to be into stuff like milk chocs and layer cakes so they can kind of indulge you. She’s not exactly a bundle of energy either. She’s got her head down, probably asleep.
I watch a movie for a while. It’s one I’ve seen, but I’m really into it when I find Daffyd is nudging me. The seatbelt signs are off and he’s on his feet and stretching: ‘Aren’t you going to eat your food Holly? If not I’ll have it,’ he says. I pass it over to him.
‘Daffyd?’ I ask. ‘Do you know who that person is up there in the front?’ I point out Grandma Anna who seems to have slumped somewhat in her seat.
‘Person?’ says Daffyd screwing his eyes and looking in that direction.
‘Yes – wearing orange.’
‘Oh that’s not a person Holly, that’s the dress.’
They could have told me. All that excitement and anticipation over nothing!
I make my way up the aisle to check for myself. Sure enough the seat is occupied by a vast orange nylon zipper-bag with AM for Armando Mezzo embroidered boldly across the front. Apparently a First Class ticket has been bought for the wedding dress, so that it can have a seat to itself and travel with us in the cabin and not be packed up and creased in the hold. Great!
5.00 p.m.
I’m feeling totally let down. Not only have I NOT met the grandmother I’ve been longing my entire life to meet, I’ve also missed out on my first First Class meal. Daffyd scoffed the lot. I have to console myself with the most spectacular view from my First Class seat instead. The storm has cleared and we are flying through a totally clear sky over the Grand Canyon. I can see right down into it and it’s a wonderful rare roast beef colour with the tiniest trickle of muddy river like gravy running along the bottom.
After the Grand Canyon we pass over a not-so-grand canyon and then several more which aren’t grand at all, and suddenly we’re out over open flat land. We’re flying over what looks like some mad seamstress’s love-quilt design. There are patchwork squares of green and brown and beige with odd green circles in between, threaded with silver where rivers are catching the light. Occasionally, there’s a lone road drawn ruler-straight, stretching infinitely towards the far horizon.
This is the great empty interior of the US of A.
Same, 7.00 p.m.
We’ve made the trip from The City that Never Sleeps to The City that Never Walks. LA has been stretching out beneath us for quite some time. (It’s 100 kilometres across, for your information.)
Mum has woken up, ordered three glasses of her usual still spa water (no ice), consumed them, and is now ready to disembark.
For some reason we are kept on the plane until last. ‘Why aren’t we going with the others?’ I ask.
‘Security,’ says Mum. ‘They promised to find a way for us to dodge the press.’
Below us on the tarmac is a van with a ventilator on top and ‘VIP Pet Chauffeurs’ printed on the side.
‘You mean to say this is the best you could come up with?’ complains Mum as we climb into the back.
The van is air-conditioned but smells faintly of the place where I got Brandy.
Mum sits herself down on one of the wooden benches. ‘The things I’ve had to do to keep the venue secret!’
I can’t tell you much about the journey. There were no windows in the van. All I can say is that the first bit was kind of straight and the last bit was kind of bendy.
8.00 p.m., Elwyn Jones’s residence
We climb out of the van to find we are high up in the Hollywood Hills. The sun is sinking in the sky, turning everything a kind of molten gold colour, and the view is mind-blowing.
And then, as I turn and scan the horizon, over in the distance I see my name written up fifty foot high:
HOLLYWOOD
in slightly wonky letters. And I feel welcomed and famous in a funny kind of way.
9.00 p.m., Elwyn Jones’s garden
Elwyn’s place is awesome. Totally, totally awesome
. The steps running up to his front door are made of glass with a waterfall running underneath. (They’re a perfect copy of the ones at the Wessex Hotel.) The garden is full of statues which would be copies too, if they weren’t Elwyn’s – according to Mum, these have been shipped over from Italy and they’re all originals.
Elwyn’s not there to greet us. He’s in one or other of his houses in Cap Ferrat or Monte Carlo or wherever. But there’s a housekeeper and a load of guys in uniform who sweep down the stairs and take charge of our luggage.
Elwyn’s not going to arrive till tomorrow, in time for the ceremony. I’m a bit relieved by this because I know if he’d been here he and Mum would have ended up in a long reminiscence session and I’d be left out. But as it is, we’ll have time on our own.
Mum and I are shown to our own private mini-mansion in the garden. There are two suites inside, one for me and one for Mum, plus a great big living area with double French windows leading out on to our own private terrace where a hot tub is gently bubbling.
The sun is sinking fast and the lights of LA are coming on, twinkling as far as the eye can see in the hazy evening light. A cold supper has been laid for us in the garden – all the things Mum likes best. They’ve obviously been briefed by Thierry.
Mum comes out behind me and leans on the balcony rail.
‘Heaven, isn’t it?
‘Mmm.’
‘Can you imagine anywhere more perfect to be married?’
(I can, in fact – like underwater with dolphins in attendance. Or in the rainforest in a cloud of tropical butterflies, or on a kind of tree-platform in a safari park with lions down below. But I say ‘no’ anyway to keep Mum happy.)