My Life So Far

by Chloe Rayban

  ‘Nah, those press guys have had their helicopters circling the city since dawn. They just homed in on the place where they saw the most hats.’

  This makes an enormous lump appear in my throat. ‘You think?’ I manage to croak.

  ‘Yeah. It was a dumb idea to have the wedding in the open air in the first place.’

  ‘But it’s all ruined. They didn’t even cut the cake.’ (Snuffle.)

  ‘Hey, it looks pretty intact. Why waste it? I’m starving, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, we shouldn’t, it’s –’

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s only going to get chucked.’

  Before I can stop him Shug has thrust the knife into the cake. Instantly, ‘Kandidly Yours’ starts playing and the little bridal couple on the top tier do a stately pirouette together.

  ‘Jeez! That is SO-OO naff!’ says Shug.

  ‘No it’s not.’ (But I have a sneaking feeling that maybe he’s right.)

  ‘You know what? I reckon this whole marriage thing is pretty off. Veils and dresses! I mean – give me a break – they’ve been like having it away for months.’

  ‘It was all going to be really, really . . . romantic.’

  ‘Rubbish. It was false and tacky. You know what? I thought the water cannons were the best bit. All those designer outfits getting trashed. I thought that made a statement.’

  ‘But think of all the preparations! And it’s all got spoilt.’

  ‘Come on, cheer up. Have a slice of cake.’

  I take the plate he offers despite myself. The cake is full of fruit and fresh cream and layers of hazelnut meringue, so I can’t help cheering up . . . a little bit.

  ‘You know what?’ says Shug.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got cream on your chin.’

  ‘No I haven’t.’

  He flicks a bit at me. ‘Now you have.’

  I flick some back at him. ‘Not as much as you have.’

  Then he flicks a big sloppy lump. ‘Well, you have now.’

  After that cake and cream flies. I give as good as I get. At the end of the fight, I reckon Shug has more cake on him than I do.

  Sunday 13th July, 7.00 a.m.

  Thinking back on yesterday

  OK, you can stop right there. Nothing happened in the garden apart from a food fight. You should’ve seen what a mess we were in at the end.

  But I did discover a fundamental truth about human relationships – it’s really hard to loathe someone you’ve covered in whipped cream.

  So anyway . . .

  I’m currently lying in the hot tub recovering from the stress of the whole disaster, planning what I am going to say to Mr Jones. I shudder at the thought of that horrible gash in the side of his Lamborghini. It slid sideways under a water cannon blast and slammed into one of his Italian Renaissance statues. But I guess they can stick the head back on – it looked like a pretty clean break.

  And I am going to have ample opportunity to apologise because I’m due to have Sunday lunch with him today. Just the two of us.

  By twelve o’clock I am dressed in a suitably apologetic skirt and proper shoes with tights and my hair dragged back into a penitential ponytail band. A chauffeur-driven limo has been sent to fetch us because Mr Jones’s Lamborghini has been hoisted up on to a carrier and taken off to the menders. We are both very quiet in the limo. I stare out of the window, horribly conscious of the fact that he’s really angry with me. I can almost feel him seething.

  The limo takes us to a hotel called Chateau Marmont on Sunset Strip. It looks a bit like a castle – the kind of castle that has dungeons and things below where they imprison people like me who’ve done terrible deeds.

  I follow Mr Jones inside and find it’s reassuringly plush, all panelling and cushy sofas, so I guess it wouldn’t be too much of a punishment to be a prisoner in here.

  We are shown to Mr Jones’s usual table in the window. It’s all a bit old-fashioned – not a bit what you’d expect for the King of Punk.

  Mr Jones orders a Campari for himself and I ask for a Coke. I reckon that apology time has now come.

  I clear my throat and say in my clearest and most apologetic voice: ‘Mr Jones, I just want to say I’m so sorry. About your tux . . . and the garden and all the plants . . . and your car, and the statue – and everything else that got damaged. But please, whatever it costs, just send the bill to Mum . . .’

  He looks into his Campari and sighs.

  I can see I’m going to have to lay it on thick. ‘Really, Mr Jones, don’t be too hard on me. It really, truly wasn’t my fault. I totally thought that the person who rang was the caterer with the cake –’

  ‘Holly,’ he interrupts.

  ‘Yes, Mr Jones?’

  ‘I’ve got the most almighty hangover from yesterday. Do you think you could talk a little more softly?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And there’s something else . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you think you could call me Elwyn? It’s tough enough being, you know, old and out of it and somewhat passé. But you don’t have to rub it in.’

  ‘But you’re not so old, Mr – I mean Elwyn.’

  ‘I feel pretty old today.’

  ‘You must be really, really mad at me . . .’ I say as softly as I can.

  ‘To tell you the truth, Holly, I thought the end of the wedding was the best bit. It was kind of like a happening . . .’

  ‘Really? You don’t have to be nice about it.’

  ‘Holly, I am never nice. You know what my ideal wedding would be?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I’d give all the guests paintballs and let them fight it out.’

  ‘That is so cool. Have you ever been married, Elwyn?’

  ‘More times than I care to remember.’

  ‘So where are all your wives?’

  ‘New York. Cannes. Puerto Rico. Oh, and I think there’s one in Wales – the blonde. At least she was then.’

  ‘Have you got kids?’

  ‘Only one godkid. And that’s more than enough! Come on, drink up. Let’s have lunch.’

  Over lunch Elwyn came out with all these stories about what he and Mum had got up to in the music business way back when they were on tour together. He had me in fits of laughter. I hardly noticed the food in spite of its scrumminess because I was so into what he was telling me.

  ‘Anyway,’ he finished, ‘you’re going to catch up on it all tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s your mum’s premiere. Supernova. Remember?’

  In all the excitement about the wedding I had totally, totally forgotten about it.

  Same, 3.00 p.m.

  After our lunch, during which I made a real pig of myself because Elwyn insisted I had everything I liked best – including extra double-chocolate topping on my Divine Dark Dessert – he suggested that as my godfather he should treat me to a tour of Tinseltown.

  I guess the afternoon was a bit of a blur, but if you want me to list the High Spots, these are the ones I remember (listed in order of appearance):

  1) A Great Dane wearing sunglasses in Rodeo Drive.

  2) A post office with valet parking!

  3) An LCD sign that updates you on how many McDonald’s hamburgers have been consumed worldwide to date. For your information, the total at the time recorded was 99 billion 12 thousand and 29 . . . and still rising

  4) Twin chihuahuas wearing identical pink velour designer hoodies at Venice Beach

  5) A psychic who told me I’d realise my dream! So I am going to be a vet

  6) My photo taken between two Mr Universes on Muscle Beach

  7) Endless avenues of palm trees

  8) Acres of blue sky

  9) Having a henna tattoo of a python done right up my arm

  10) Eating a corn-dog watching the sunset on the beach at Malibu

  11) A Pussyfoot cocktail big enough to drown in at the Viper Lounge

  Monday 14th July, 9.00 a.m. />
  The day of the Supernova premiere

  I have absolutely nothing to do until 5 p.m., when I’m due to meet Mum and Oliver at Mann’s Chinese Theatre for the Supernova premiere.

  They’re flying back for it, direct from their secret honeymoon destination. Stars apparently only have mini-break honeymoons – they can’t admit to being able to fit anything longer into their schedule.

  Elwyn has appointments all day but he’s insisted on giving me a large stash of dollars to make up for all the godfather presents he hasn’t given me to date. He has also given me the use of the chauffeur-driven limo. So I do what any self-respecting person does in LA – I go shopping.

  But I’m not shopping for me. I’m shopping for Brandy. If LA is famous for anything, it’s shops for dogs – although not many of their customers are the size of Brandy.

  Elwyn’s chauffeur says he knows all the best places and he takes me on a tour of stores with names like Poochi, Wag and Barkers.

  My favourite is a really stylish one in West Hollywood called Dogue. But it’s kind of tricky finding anything for an extra-outsize German Shepherd cross. I’ve checked through a load of Kenzo military-style dog jackets, but frankly I can’t really picture Brandy in one. They’ve got epaulettes and he’s already kind of heavy round the shoulders. And the Chanel dogstooth check coats are way too girly.

  ‘You being helped out?’ asks a voice.

  It’s a lady assistant with a poodle-dog hairstyle with a pink bow in front.

  ‘Oh – well, no. I’m looking for a present for a really big dog.’

  ‘Well, our new winter season’s stock has just come in. How about a K9 overcoat? We have these vests in red or blue ballistic nylon. They’re lined with fleece, so great for sloshing around outdoors.’

  ‘Well, actually this dog is more of a city dweller. He lives in New York.’

  ‘Something smarter then? How about something from our designer collar range?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  She takes me through a selection of collars with studs and false gems and ones on which you can have the dog’s name embossed in diamante. But nothing seems quite Brandy’s style.

  ‘Seems like he’s a pretty tough customer to please.’

  We move on to the Dining area, where I ponder over an aerated, charcoal-filtered dog fountain. Or a special dog bowl ergonomically designed so that your dog can eat without the strain of bending down. In the Sleep-eezy section there’s an air-conditioned massage dog bed. Or a tartan pet sleeping bag which comes in extra large and is kind of cute . . .

  It’s in the Petfotec section, after pondering over the selection of Neva-Lone Pet Videos, that I find the perfect present: The Pet-U-Love Vu-Cam.

  It’s a neat little camera that you set up close to the pet-u-love, and it sends live Tru-Vu pictures to your PC. Which means I can check on Brandy whenever I like and find out if Dad is taking him for his walks or not.

  I am having a demonstration of how it works when I notice Elwyn’s driver is hovering and looking at his watch.

  ‘But we’ve got ages before it starts,’ I point out.

  ‘Depends how popular the movie is. Traffic’s not looking good.’

  5.00 p.m., Gridlocked!

  Seems like the whole world is going to Mann’s Chinese Theatre. The traffic is stop-start all the way up Wilshire Boulevard.

  Elwyn’s driver is trying all the back-doubles but we’re still getting snarled up in any route leading to Sunset Boulevard.

  ‘Sure looks like your mother’s fans are out in force,’ he comments.

  At last we’re in Sunset, but the traffic’s practically at a standstill. My heart sinks as I watch the minutes ticking by on my watch. I’m meant to be meeting Mum on the red carpet outside the theatre. She’s going to kill me if I’m late.

  5.10 p.m.

  I’ve had enough. We’re only five or so blocks down from the theatre but nothing is moving. Everywhere there are people in Kandhi T-shirts promoting the movie. There are guys selling Supernova balloons and Kandhi posters and facsimiles of signed photos. Wherever I look there are pictures of Mum. And all of them are staring back at me reproachfully as if to say: ‘How could you be late for my premiere?’

  ‘OK,’ I tell the driver. ‘This is where I get out and walk.’

  ‘But they’ll never let you in if you arrive on foot,’ he objects.

  ‘Rubbish! I’m Kandhi’s daughter.’

  ‘Don’t rely on it . . .’ he says warningly.

  ‘Goodbye and thanks,’ I say, slamming the door.

  I start to run along the sidewalk and I’m swallowed up by the crowd. Running soon ceases to be an option as the crush of people builds up. Within minutes it’s so thick that I’m forced to push my way through.

  At last, between massed bodies, I spot the barrier. There’s the red carpet stretching away beyond the cordon, but my route forward is totally blocked by people.

  Suddenly a scream goes up – as if the whole place has been set on fire or something. By jumping up and down I catch a glimpse of Mum, lit up by the strobelighting of camera flashes. She’s being handed out of a stretch limo.

  The screaming goes up a few more decibels as Mum is followed by Oliver. The crowd is going crazy.

  There’s nothing else for it. I go down on my hands and knees and crawl the last hundred metres, forcing my way between the legs of the crowd.

  I emerge by the barrier. I’ve made it!

  ‘Hi!’ I gasp to the security lady who’s manning the cordon.

  She doesn’t seem to have heard me. ‘Hi!’ I say louder. ‘I’m meant to be in there. Will you let me through please?’

  ‘Your pass?’ she says.

  ‘I haven’t got a pass. I’m meant to be with Mum.’

  ‘So where is your mother?’

  ‘She’s through there.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Which lady is it?’

  ‘It’s Kandhi. I’m Holly, her daughter.’

  The security lady gives me a sideways look. ‘Sure, and I’m Pope Pius the Twelfth. Now will you get back with the others? I’m trying keep things moving here.’

  ‘No, but I am. I really am.’

  ‘Look, if you’re going to be difficult . . .’ she says threateningly, unhooking her mobile. She speaks into it in an undertone, ‘We’ve got a fan here, Arnold. One of the crazy type. Not sure if she’ll go quietly.’

  I shrink back as I spot two massive guys detaching themselves from a huddle of security guards.

  I go quietly. Very quietly. And fast. In fact I disappear like magic into the crowd.

  Clearly there’s no way I’m going to get past that lady guard. I stare over to the other side of the street. This is where the main body of fans is congregated, opposite the entrance to the theatre, where you get the best view of the stars. I can see a solid press of people thrust up against the security barrier. If I could get over there and out front, maybe I’d be able to attract Mum’s attention.

  I wait with a clump of crowd that wants to cross the road and when the lights change, I scurry over.

  The crush of people is even heavier on this side. I edge along behind them until I’m level with the entrance to the theatre. By jumping up and down, I can make out that Mum and Oliver are lingering for the benefit of the press. They’re making a kind of ‘royal progress’ down the red carpet, stopping here and there to have a word with a journalist they know or to have their picture taken.

  Frantically, I start elbowing my way through to the front. There are protests from all sides as I break every form of fan etiquette, but at last I’m up against the barrier. From where I’m standing the people on the carpet look like another species – bright, glittering, untouchable – caught in the blitz of camera flashes.

  ‘Mum!’ I shout. But my voice – one voice in a million – is lost in the general screaming. Mum’s eyes slide over the crowd. I leap in the air waving. ‘I’m here, Mum!’

  There’s a chubby little girl squashed in beside me, holding a handma
de sign. She’s stuck on pictures of Mum and written ‘I love you, Kandhi – Melanie’ in wonky felt-tip letters with glitter and flowers round them.

  ‘Why do you keep calling Kandhi, “Mum”?’ she asks. ‘That’s really dumb.’

  ‘Because she is my mum.’

  ‘As if . . .’ she says, rolling her eyes.

  ‘No, she is. She really is.’

  ‘If you say so . . .’ she says. She pulls at her mother’s sleeve and says something in her ear. I can tell her mum doesn’t believe me either. But she kind of humours me all the same.

  ‘Keep screaming,’ she says. ‘They come over sometimes. I once saw someone actually get an autograph.’

  ‘Mum!’ I try again.

  Mum’s reached the end of the carpet. She’s turning to face our side of the street. This is my chance.

  ‘Mum!’ I scream fit to burst a lung.

  For a moment I think she’s heard me. She’s stepped off the far pavement. She’s walking over the road towards me. Oliver’s following.

  ‘Mum! Oliver!’ I scream, waving both arms in the air. But I guess this kind of makes me blend into the crowd because everyone else is screaming and waving.

  Mum and Oliver are over on our side of the street now. They’re out of my sight line further down the barrier. Pens and books and scraps of paper have appeared out of nowhere and are being thrust towards them.

  I lean over the barrier. I see Mum sign a couple of autographs and accept some flowers. Oliver is following, signing too.

  But just as I think she’s coming within earshot, Mum seems to lose interest.

  ‘Mum! Oliver!’ I croak. I’m going hoarse now. But it’s no use. My heart sinks as they turn. Oliver puts an arm around Mum and the two of them walk back across to the theatre.

  The chubby little girl is crying because she hasn’t had her poster signed.

  ‘Oh, give me that,’ I say, crouching down and taking it from her. ‘I’ve done Mum’s signature loads of times. No one can tell the difference.’

  Her tears dry in amazement as I scrawl on it ‘For Melanie with love and kisses from Kandhi’.

  That’s when I hear a voice out of nowhere, saying: ‘What the hell are you doing down there?’