by Chloe Rayban
Abdul stares at me. ‘OK, so he’s gone for a meal. You want me to creep in and check what he’s ordering?’
‘No one eats at this hour.’
‘So . . .’ says Abdul, ‘we better take a look-see inside.’
2.30 a.m., Al’s café
Abdul and I are down in the cavern under Al’s. The place is packed – so packed we have to stand at the back. I notice Abdul and I are the only ones not wearing beanies – unless you have an Afro, that is.
Through the haze of smoke I can see Dad up front playing keyboard. Brandy is lying under the keyboard as if he owns the place. There’s a guy with a bass and another on drums and another who comes in from time to time on a sax.
They’re playing the kind of music you come across on the car radio when you can’t get it tuned right, or in those films they play in art movie cinemas. Stuff I don’t understand. But the people round us seem to. Every so often there’s a pause and they’re all nodding their heads and saying things like ‘Yeah!’ and ‘Ni-ice!’. So I guess it must be pretty good.
Abdul is nudging me. There are some seats free. We slip into them.
They’ve started another number. It’s made of smudgy sounds that make me think of fog over the Hudson River and deserted streets at night. Lonely places like the streets around Mr Herman Matlock’s clinic. And sad things, like lost animals maybe wandering round with no place to go.
When Dad comes to the end of a riff it’s clear that everyone else feels the same. They’re applauding and stamping their feet on the floor like it’s the best thing they’ve ever heard.
Dad’s taking a break and he’s shouldering his way through the crowd to the bar. People are slapping him on the back and shaking him by the hand.
As he reaches the bar he comes face to face with me.
‘Holly?’ he says. ‘What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night!’
‘It’s OK, Dad. I just got back from Rome. It’s only the afternoon there. And I came with Abdul.’
‘Yes, sir, we were just passing and we saw you with the dog,’ says Abdul (which is kind of true, I guess). ‘Holly won’t come to any harm when I’m around.’
Dad looks Abdul up and down and seems reassured.
‘No, I guess not. All the same, it’s late.’
‘Dad,’ I interrupt. ‘That music. It just knocked me out. Is that what you’ve been writing?’
He looks at me and his face kind of softens.
‘You liked it? Didn’t think it would be your sort of scene.’
‘Nor did I, till now.’
‘Promise me, Holly, you won’t tell your mum. OK?’
‘Why not?’
‘Can you imagine what she’d say? This isn’t exactly the Carnegie.’
‘Who cares what Mum says?’
Dad shrugs.
‘Dad, you know, some day you’ve got to get over what happened when Mum got famous.’
Dad looks at me oddly, and for a moment I think I’ve really overstepped the mark. Then a slow grin spreads across his face. ‘You know something, Holly? I think maybe I just did.’
Saturday 19th July, 10.00 a.m.
The Plaza Residenza
I check for a text from Gina. Nothing. I can’t bear it any longer. I really have to know about this girl that Shug’s going on about. I bet she’s gorgeous. She’s probably an actress, someone really famous, starring in a soap. Or the presenter of a teen show maybe. Or a model. I bet she’s a model with ten metre legs.
I text Gina:
Hi Gina!
you’ve got to tell me
who is this girl?
HBWx
I wait for a text but nothing comes. I bet Shug’s made her promise not to tell.
Sunday 20th July, 10.00 a.m.
The Plaza Residenza
Vix has scheduled a press conference at the Wessex Hotel. Mum comes out of her room dressed in tragic black. She even has a veil pulled down over her face.
I search my mind for something to say to cheer her up.
‘Is there really no way you and Oliver could make up?’ I ask gently.
‘Not after the things Oliver said to me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said I was selfish and self-centred. That I never do anything for anyone if I’m not going to gain from it. I don’t know, maybe he’s right.’
‘But that’s not true, Mum. Look what you did for Becky.’ Mum looks at me blankly. ‘What did I do for Becky?’
‘The Stradivarius. There was nothing you could gain from that.’
‘Holly, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘But I assumed – I mean, I told you how it was practically top of her Ultimate Wish List. After a date with Oliver . . .’
‘A date with Oliver . . . He thought that was so cute. Oh my God!’
‘What is it?’
‘That explains it!’
‘Explains what?’
‘That massive cheque he paid out. He wouldn’t say what for. So I kind of assumed he’d bought me a little present.’
‘Mum, what are you going on about?’
‘A million dollars.’
What?’
‘That’s what it cost. The present I thought Oliver had bought me. Which he hadn’t. So I thought he’d bought someone else a present. Like that ‘bitch’ who’s starring with him . . .’
‘You mean, it’s Oliver who gave Becky the Strad!’
‘It must’ve been. I couldn’t think what he could possibly have spent that much on, not in some musty old Viennese music shop.’
Mum is scrabbling in her bag for her mobile.
‘Oh my God! Cyril was right.’
‘What’s this got to do with Mr Bateman?’
‘He said, “Marry the man if you must, but never have a joint bank account.” ’
Tuesday 5th August, 6.00 p.m.
En route to Mum’s Greek island
Mum and I are in a helicopter. It’s currently circling Kandhiki – Mum’s Greek island. Mum’s out for the count as usual with her eye mask on and her earplugs in but I’m trying to wake her. We’ve actually begun our descent. There’s an island down below us, looking like a tiny rock glowing golden in the evening sun. And we’re spiralling down towards it, closer and closer.
Mum’s planned this big family holiday to make up for everything that’s happened lately. It’s going to be just her and Oliver and me – and Shug.
7.00 p.m.
We’ve touched down. This is a big moment for me as I’ve never been to Mum’s island. Nor has Mum, but I guess she’s used to not going to places she owns. She’s got a Tudor mansion in Kent and a castle in Scotland she’s never been to either.
There are all these people lined up to greet us.
‘Mum, who are these people?’
‘Staff, babes. An island can’t run itself, you know.’
There’s a lot of ducking and bobbing and saying stuff like ‘kalisperasas’ as we are led down to a speedboat moored below the helicopter pad.
‘Cool, isn’t it?’ says Mum. ‘No roads, no airstrip. It’s so hidden away – no one can bother us here.’
7.30 p.m.
Our speedboat is rounding a headland and Kandhiki Bay comes into view. A perfect arc of sandy beach lies below three white marble terraces carved into the hillside. A line of Grecian columns leads up to the entrance of the villa.
‘Spiro always did overdo things,’ says Mum as we disembark, ‘but I guess the location’s OK.’
The location is more than OK. Limpid blue water laps the beach. The water is still warm from the sun. I want to linger on the beach, maybe have a swim, but Mum is fussing about getting inside and sorting out our rooms and stuff.
I follow her up the path between the columns and switch on my mobile. I have a text from Gina.
You, you dope
Gina L. x
It takes me a moment to realise what she means. Me?
Oh my God! That girl Shug was going on abo
ut. She’s not an actress starring in a soap. Or the presenter of a teen show. Or a model with ten metre legs. She’s a perfectly ordinary girl who wants to be a vet.
ME!
That whoozy-whizzy feeling has come back again!
10.30 p.m.
I’m lying in bed listening to the waves lapping gently against the shore. The sea is ink-black and the moon is casting a long beam of light across it. It’s so quiet I can hear the fishermen’s voices from way out to sea. There’s the scent of some plant hanging over my window – white stuff.
I stretch luxuriously in bed. Tomorrow Oliver will arrive.
And Shug.
Wednesday 6th August, 11.00 a.m.
Still heaven
I’ve spent the morning lazing on this raft. It’s about fifty metres from the beach and it rocks gently to the rhythm of the waves. I wait until the umpteenth moment when I’m really hot and then plunge into the water.
12.30 p.m.
A speedboat is rounding the headland and I can see two figures standing in the back. It’s Oliver and Shug!
I raise myself on one elbow and wave.
But Shug’s too busy to notice. He’s taking his jacket off. But hang on, it’s not just his jacket he’s taking off – it’s his shirt . . . and wait a minute . . . there go his jeans. Shug’s climbed up on the hull of the speedboat in nothing but his boxers...
And he’s dived off!
12.31 p.m.
Shug’s head has appeared right beside the raft.
‘Hi!’ I say.
But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he hoists himself up on the raft and all of a sudden cold wet arms are around me.
We don’t bump noses.
Our teeth don’t clash.
Don’t ask me what happened to my tongue. I simply can’t remember.
Wow, Shug! Some first kiss!
We’re so involved that we don’t notice the head of a guy in a scuba diving suit that pops up out of the water right by the raft. There are all these camera flashes. And BLOOP! he disappears.
Which is how my first totally personal private kiss got spread across the front page of every single tabloid in the world.
Why is life is SO-OO unfair?
Other titles by Chloë Rayban from Bloomsbury
Drama Queen
Featuring Hollywood Bliss
My Life Starring Mum
First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square,
London, WC1B 3DP
This electronic edition published in August 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Carolyn Bear 2007
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4088 3488 6
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