My Life So Far

by Chloe Rayban

  HOLLYWOOD BLISS

  MY LIFE SO FAR

  Chloë Rayban

  Content

  Monday 19th May, 6.00 p.m. First Class cabin, Flight KHA 19

  Tuesday 20th May, 12.30 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Wednesday 21st May, 1.00 a.m. The Wessex Hotel

  Thursday 22nd May, 10.00 a.m. The Wessex Hotel

  Friday 23rd May Victory!

  Saturday 24th May, 9.00 a.m. The Wessex Hotel

  Sunday 25th May, 9.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Monday 26th May, 9.00 a.m. The Wessex Hotel, otherwise known as Prison

  Tuesday 27th May, 12.45 p.m. The KWR Inc. Recording Studios

  Wednesday 28th May The Wessex Hotel

  Thursday 29th May, 5.00 p.m. PAWS 4 THOUGHT animal shelter

  Friday 30th May, 9.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Saturday 31st May, 7.00 a.m. The Wessex Hotel

  Sunday 1st June, 10.30 a.m. The Wessex Hotel

  Monday 2nd June, 7.30 a.m. (Thoughts in the bathtub)

  Tuesday 3rd June, 8.00 a.m. The Wessex Hotel

  Wednesday 4th June, 11.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Thursday 5th June, 9.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Friday 6th June, 9.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Saturday 7th June, 10.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Sunday 8th June, 10.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Monday 9th June, 10.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Tuesday 10th June, 10.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Wednesday 11th June, 10.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Thursday 12th June, 9.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer (forty–nine hours to go)

  Friday 13th June, 10.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer (only twenty–four hours to go)

  Saturday 14th June, 7.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer (three hours to go)

  Sunday 15th June, 7.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Monday 16th June, 8.00 a.m. Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Tuesday 17th June, 11.45 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Wednesday 18th June, 9.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Thursday 19th June The Plaza Residenza

  Thursday 19th June In a four-by-four en route for Pookhamsee, way out in the Appalachian Mountains

  Friday 20th June, 7.30 a.m. Paradise!

  Monday 23rd June, 11.30 a.m. Paradise Lost

  Tuesday 24th June The Plaza Residenza

  Wednesday 25th June, 8.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Thursday 26th June onwards The Plaza Residenza

  Friday 27th June, 9.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Saturday 28th June, 12.00 noon

  Sunday 29th June, 10.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Monday 30th June, 12.00 noon The Plaza Residenza

  Tuesday 1st July, 8.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Wednesday 2nd July, 9.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Thursday 2nd July, 2.00 p.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Friday 4th July, 10.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Saturday 5th July, 10.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Sunday 6th July, 3.00 p.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Monday 7th July The Plaza Residenza

  Tuesday 8th July, 9.00 p.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Wednesday 9th July, 8.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Thursday 10th July, 11.00 p.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Friday 11th July, 9.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Saturday 12th July The actual day! Elwyn Jones’s residence

  Sunday 13th July, 7.00 a.m. Thinking back on yesterday

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

  Tuesday 15th July, 8.00 a.m. Elwyn Jones’s residence

  Wednesday 16th July The Palazzo Albrizzi Hotel, Rome

  Thursday 17th July, 7.00 a.m. The Palazzo Albrizzi Hotel

  Friday 18th July The Palazzo Albrizzi Hotel

  Saturday 19th July, 10.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Sunday 20th July, 10.00 a.m. The Plaza Residenza

  Tuesday 5th August, 6.00 p.m. En route to Mum’s Greek island

  Wednesday 6th August, 11.00 a.m. Still heaven

  For Leo Bear

  my personal LA correspondent,

  without whose dedicated attendance

  at parties, premieres and other random A-List events

  this book could not have been written

  Monday 19th May, 6.00 p.m.

  First Class cabin, Flight KHA 19

  The flight attendant is in tears. I think it must be her first day – like she’s just been moved up from Club Class or something. But she clearly didn’t know that Mum’s in-flight beverage preference is (and always will be) ‘still spa water, no ice’. And Mum doesn’t need to be bothered with a menu ’cos all her in-flight food is prepared, sealed and delivered to the airline by Thierry, her own personal French chef.

  Perhaps I should explain, you see, my mum is Kandhi. Now you’re doing that wide-eye, no-way thing. KANDHI! Yep, Kandhi’s my mum (UN-fortunately). Superstar pop idol, tenth richest woman in the world – if I’m up to date, that is.

  Anyway, being Kandhi’s daughter is NOT the bundle of laughs, luxury and long shopping afternoons you’d think it would be. No, as a matter of fact it’s a total PAIN. Because MY mum seems to think my life is hers to do whatever she likes with. SHE wants to move to New York? WE move to New York. The fact that I’ve had to part company with my best friend, the best great-grandmother ever and the most adorable lop-eared angora rabbit in the world doesn’t matter. Remembering Thumper makes me really miserable. In fact, I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to enjoy anything again as long as I live. Hang on, my little linen tablecloth is being laid out ready for my First Class meal . . .

  ‘What?’

  Mum has hauled the earphones off my head and I was SO-OO into that film.

  ‘Your meal’s been prepared by Thierry as well, babes.’

  ‘But can’t I have . . .?’

  No. It seems my in-flight meal choice is a starter salad, followed by a main salad, with fruit salad for dessert, accompanied by still spa water. Great!

  Mum’s still on her ‘only raw foods’ diet. And so am I when she’s around. (‘You are what you eat’ is one of Mum’s favourite sayings. I reckon one day I’m going to wake up with roots in place of feet.) However, rebelling at this point is going to entail a long, tedious lecture and I want to get back to the film. So I dutifully munch my way through my meal, hoping that I’ll be able to get the flight attendant to snaffle me some of those little chocolate squares they serve with the coffee when Mum’s not looking.

  So why are we moving to New York? Mum says she’s sick of being ‘a five-star nomad’ and that ‘you can only take so much of hotels’ – even if they are the world’s most exclusive and extortionately expensive ones. She wants to settle down and get ‘a home of our own’. My choice would have been to settle in London but does anyone listen to me? No way. Mum’s had London – period. She’s looking for somewhere new to dump me because she’s currently involved in this massive world tour, The Heatwave. She’s had a smash hit launch in Europe and now she’s got the States, the Far East and the Rest of the World to do. She said this whole ‘settling down’ thing came to her in the middle of a long-haul flight. For The Heatwave she has five continents and thirty-five countries to cover, so she checked out the American Airlines in-flight world map and found New York was the obvious choice because it was ‘right in the middle’.

  10.00 p.m.

  The flight attendants have closed all the shutters and dimmed the lights and I’ve sent my seat through so many manipulations it now thinks it’s a bed. Mum’s been laid out with her eye mask on and her earplugs in for a good hour so I guess I better try and get
some sleep too. But somehow my body can sense that it’s still really light outside and refuses to feel sleepy.

  I lie awake going through my Ultimate Wish List – giving it a spring clean, update and tidy.

  1) Boobs (any size beyond AA). This wish seems to be resolving itself, so maybe I can afford to drop it. I replace it with:

  1) An email from Rupert

  Rupert is the tutor Mum hired to teach me when she snatched me out of boarding school without so much as asking my opinion on the matter. It turned out for the best really, because Rupert was the most perfect tutor any girl could have. I’m lost for a moment picturing the way the little smile lines play around his perfect lips. (I know I shouldn’t be having such illicit thoughts about a teacher and one that’s way older than me, but I am growing up. And Rupert’s only four years, two months and three days older than me. He’s just got to hang on in there and wait.) And besides, Rupert isn’t teaching me any more because he was most cruelly dismissed by Mum and is now in Tanzania doing Voluntary Service Overseas in a highly dangerous location where he could be stung by a poisonous spider or swallowed by a boa constrictor or snogged by some rampant female VSO worker. Rupert has been replaced by my new tutor Mr Wallace (of the nose hair), who is currently travelling with us, but back in Economy. Ugghh!

  So back to the list:

  2) A trip to Ranthambore National Park in Rajasthan to visit what’s left of the Royal Bengal Tigers (v. important. This can stay)

  3) Dad to record a hit – or maybe sell more than 100 white labels

  I consider this for a while. Perhaps I ought to explain – my dad is Pete Winterman, lead guitarist and vocalist for The Icemen. I don’t expect you to react to that, because The Icemen sank into oblivion before I was born and Dad isn’t famous any longer. He doesn’t actually do any recording any more. In fact, he doesn’t even go out much these days. He certainly won’t be at JFK Airport to meet us, because he can’t stand publicity or anything to do with the press. All the time Dad was with Mum he was hounded by them, and so was I. I featured on the front of every major media publication before I could walk. The only peaceful part of my life was when I was at a convent boarding school in England and nobody knew who I was. Which brings me to wish number 4 on my U.W.L.

  4) Teeth that fit for Sister Marie-Agnes. I can drop this one as I’ve heard this has been dealt with by something called Dent-u-Fix, so No. 4 is now: Hair that doesn’t frizz when damp (this MUST stay)

  5) To pass Maths GCSE with a Grade C or above (might have to change the qualification if I go to an American school)

  6) That Gi-Gi (my great-grandmother) lives for ever and ever, or a long time at any rate (this definitely stays)

  7) That beetroot had never been invented (hmm . . . might think on that one)

  8) That caged birds are banned (definitely still in)

  9) That Becky, my best friend and ace violinist, gets the Stradivarius she’d give her right arm for (well, maybe not her right arm)

  All of which means I can now have a new number 10.

  I was pondering on choices for U.W. No. 10 when I must have fallen asleep. Because the next thing I know all the cabin lights are on and they’re serving breakfast – or is it tea, because it’s still light outside and we’re told to put our watches back because it is now 4.00 p.m. New York time.

  As I eat my tea/breakfast of fresh fruit salad and yogurt, I ponder over whether if I continued to fly in this direction I would start to get younger and younger. And if not, why not? I decide to set this as a problem for Mr Wallace. That should give him something to think about.

  4.00 p.m., JFK Airport

  Mum is breezing towards Immigration Control, saying what a comfortable flight that was. I am tagging along behind her, watching out for the rest of the entourage who have been forced to slum it with Mr Wallace in Economy.

  ‘Well, there are so many of them,’ Mum always says. ‘I can’t be expected to pay First Class for them all.’

  Mum and I sit waiting for them, separated from the world of ordinary mortals by the VIP Lounge glass doors.

  They start filtering through one by one. First comes Sit, Mum’s religious adviser (and devoted fan). Poor Sit – he’s drying his eyes on his saffron robe. He holds his hands together and bows his head low before he heads off to the Transit Lounge. He’s on his way back to LA because Mum’s had Buddhism – period. She’s currently checking out other religions to find one that might fit her personal profile better.

  Sit is followed by Vix (Mum’s personal assistant), Daffyd (her personal hairstylist), June (her personal make-up artiste), Thierry (her personal French chef), Gervase (her personal trainer), Abdul and Sid (her bodyguards) AND, not forgetting of course, my tutor Mr Wallace. At that point Mr Wallace’s nose hair comes into view, closely followed by Mr Wallace.

  We join them as they go through Passport Control.

  Mr Wallace is moaning about the fact that he didn’t sleep a wink on the flight. (A lucky break for all on Flight KHA 19, I note. Mr Wallace snores for Britain.)

  Daffyd is already on his mobile to his fiancée Bronwyn in Bangor. June is having trouble hauling along the trolley bag containing Mum’s emergency make-up supply. Sid and Abdul are doing their 360-degree head-turn-and-eyeswivel-thing – after all, this a public place and they are bodyguards.

  Once our passports are checked, Mum takes a deep breath, raises herself to her full height and turns on her Winning Press Smile. I follow her through the automatic doors and I’m blinded by camera flashes. There are only about fifty or so photographers present. That is nothing – you should see it when she draws a crowd.

  I try to creep by in the wake of Mum’s incredible popularity. Maybe if I stay really close, the press won’t notice I’m there. But no such luck – they’re snapping me too. I know my hair has stuck flat to my head, my eyes have diminished to slits and I’ve lost the ability to coordinate lips, tongue and cheeks. How does Mum do it?

  Sid and Abdul escort us along at a trot and before we know it we’re out through the concourse and sliding into a waiting limo. Phew!

  ‘Are we going straight to the apartment?’ I ask Mum as the limo heads out past the long rows of nice homey suburban houses that skirt the airport.

  ‘It’s not ready yet, babes. The designers are still in there. But I’ve booked us into a nice little place overlooking the Park. You’ll love it.’

  Still Monday 19th May, The Wessex Hotel – and still only 6.00 p.m.

  Mum’s ‘nice little place’ isn’t homey at all. It’s so interior designed that everything is black and spiky and shiny. Even the plants have been tortured into weird, unnatural shapes.

  Mum’s all wide awake and ready to give a press conference in her suite. My jet lag has kicked in with a vengeance. I feel so disoriented that the floor seems to be doing odd wavy things beneath my feet, so once in my room I fall into bed and sleep until . . .

  It can’t be only midnight, can it?

  It’s ominously dark outside. I climb out of bed and stare down at the car lights sweeping in a never-ending arc around the park. I’m in ‘the city that never sleeps’ and it certainly looks like I’m going to fit in, ’cos sleep is the last thing on my mind. In fact, I feel ready to get up, go out and run round the park.

  I decide to call Dad.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Holly-Poppy! You’ve landed!’

  ‘Hi, Dad. How are you?’

  ‘I’m just fine. How are you, baby?’

  ‘Wide awake.’

  ‘Oh, it’s that jet lag thing.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Hmm. You want to come over?’

  ‘Aren’t you about to go to bed?’

  ‘No way! Who goes to bed at midnight?’

  ‘Mum does.’

  ‘Well, I guess your mum has to get her beauty sleep.’

  ‘I don’t like to wake Sid or Abdul.’

  ‘I’ll get a cab sent over for you. Bulletproof to keep your mum happy.’

  The
cab turns up ten minutes later. I leave a long message for Vix, telling her I’ve had to go over to Dad’s because he’s really been missing me and is terribly hurt that I hadn’t gone to his place straight from the airport – and asking her to cover for me.

  Tuesday 20th May, 12.30 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  Dad has this massive loft space in SoHo. He’s had it for ever. Like before SoHo got on the cool-and-stylish bit of the New York city map. And now his block is surrounded by top designer boutiques and restaurants, but you still go up to his floor in this grotty goods elevator. But when you arrive, it’s like this space filled with massive paintings and sculpture and stuff done by friends who’ve dropped by and stopped over. Most didn’t have any cash to pay for food or anything so they’ve given Dad all these pricelessly valuable artworks instead.

  I used to live here with Dad while Mum was too busy being famous. When Mum and Dad divorced, Dad got this massive settlement from Mum which meant he didn’t have to work any more. So he stopped doing virtually anything. I mean, even things like getting his hair cut sent him into trauma. Living with Dad was like being part of a big and rather weird family. There were always friends hanging around doing deep arty things – like painting people purple and letting them roll around on canvas. Or making movies in which nothing actually happens, which win awards in film festivals nobody’s heard of. Or writing really serious music which goes on and on and on, repeating noises like the way the elevator door screeches and the throbbing sound a fridge makes when you leave the door ajar.

  Then, one day, someone from the Social Services Department dropped by and asked where I was going to school. Dad looked kind of vague because by the time I was six or so he’d already taught me to read and write and pick out tunes on his keyboard. And I could do all the sums needed to check if they’d overcharged us on the takeouts.

  But the Social Services lady was SO NOT impressed. That’s when Mum stepped in and took charge of my education and sent me to boarding school in England. But back to the present . . .