by Chloe Rayban
‘Oh Mum, honestly . . .’
‘I know it’s silly. I know we’re always fighting. But Holly . . . Oliver’s the only man who really stands up to me. And you know,’ she pulls herself together with an effort, ‘I really respect that.’
6.00 p.m., The Wessex Hotel: Some pretty profound thoughts in the bathtub
Looking at Mum and Oliver objectively, their romance seems to go something like this:
1) If you admit you’re keen on someone, you get dumped.
2) Once dumped you immediately fall violently in love with the dumper.
3) So you do everything in your power to get un-dumped.
4) Once undumped, you can enjoy the ultimate satisfaction of dumping the dumper.
Even with my current level of experience I can see that this was no recipe for success.
Wednesday 4th June, 11.00 a.m.
The Plaza Residenza
I’ve spent the morning packing, unpacking and rearranging all my stuff in my new home!
It’s just Mum and me in the apartment – the rest of her entourage have a staff floor lower down. This means that Thierry can pop up and make our meals and Daffyd and June can zoom up for their ‘hair and beauty’ act, and Abdul and Sid can guard our bodies, but they don’t have to be ‘under our feet’, as Mum puts it. Although they are of course, literally, living down there.
I’ve been right round my room taking pictures on my cell phone for Gi-Gi and Thumper. I know Thumper will really rate the decor – although he might express his approval by eating it, so it’s probably a good thing he’s not here ’cos these palms look as if they cost a fortune.
Anthony’s thought of everything. He’s even had a CD player built into an old gramophone – the kind you see on those old memorabilia cards which have a dog listening to a kind of loudhailer. There’s a flat-screen TV too, disguised behind one of the wall panels. And most important of all, there’s a study nook for my laptop with broadband so the instant I get an email from Rupert it will come up as Mail.
Hang on, I’d better check it right now just in case . . .
Oh. My. God! There is!
Waiter, there’s an iguana in my soup!
I open it.
Hi, Holly!
How’s things?
I’m back in the city to pick up Juliette.
As a ‘Welcome’ gesture I took her to sample local specialities in Blimii’s smartest eatery. (I’d booked the VIP table nearest the tent flap.) The dish of the day was of the clawed and scaled variety.
It tasted a bit like chicken (why do they always say that?) But Juliette, after eating said chicken (I thought it might seem condescending to translate the menu for her), has had a severe humour failure and is not talking to me. Things could be tricky back at the ‘school’.
How do you say in sign language: ‘Don’t panic, but I think there’s a scorpion climbing into your sandal’? Thought you might have got in touch.
But no ‘e’.
Love and all that,
Rupert x
x! (Sigh!) And he and Juliette are ‘not talking’. Hmm, doesn’t sound as if it was love at first sight. And yet on the other hand he took her out for a meal . . .
I try to compose an ‘e’ back to him.
Hi Rupert . . .
Hi there! . . .
Rupert!
I try to picture Rupert reading my email in some romantically ramshackle Third World café. And then someone else materialises beside him. It’s Juliette. Her long, shiny, blonde hair/russet curls/dark locks (delete as appropriate) brush against him as he reads my ‘e’. How can I possibly write to Rupert when there is this total lack of privacy? Instead, I get Abdul to drive me over to Dad’s to check on Brandy.
2.00 p.m., Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer
Fred lets me in. The others are sitting around playing cards. Dad is nowhere to be seen.
‘Where’s Dad? Is he out with Br—’
‘Not exactly.’
Fred leads me to the kitchen, where a sad figure is slumped over a bowl with a towel over its head.
‘What’s up?’
There’s a snuffle from under the towel, followed by Dad’s voice sounding all rough and grainy, saying: ‘I guess I must’ve caught a chill, going out all of a sudden like that.’
‘But Dad, it wasn’t even cold!’
Dad’s face, hot and red from inhaling, emerges from under the towel. A heavy waft of eucalyptus fills the air.
‘Yeah, but what about the microbes? There are germs out there.’
‘Oh come on, Dad! Lighten up. You’ve only got a cold.’
‘Yeah, but think what it could lead to,’ says Dad.
‘Look at what he sent out for from the pharmacy,’ says Fred.
There’s a stack of packs on the table: cold cure, cough linctus, nose drops, decongestant, ibuprofen and the eucalyptus.
‘I reckon if he’s taken that lot he must feel terrible,’ I say.
‘I’ll be OK,’ says Dad. ‘As long as I keep nice and warm inside.’
‘It’s nice and warm outside, Dad.’
‘Oh yeah, but I don’t want to risk it.’
‘OK, I guess I’ll walk Brandy for you. Just this time.’
‘WOOF!’ says Brandy, bounding out from under the table.
When Brandy and I arrived at Tompkins Square we found Al standing outside his café enjoying the sunshine. I wandered over to talk to him.
‘Hi, Holly! How you going? You want a Coke on the house?’
He went inside and brought me a Coke and a big bowl of water for Brandy.
‘How’s your dad? Not with you today.’
‘Not too good. He’s got a cold.’
‘What’s he been doing lately? I’ve been looking out for his stuff, but –’
‘Ever since Mum got famous he seems to have stopped writing music. In fact, he seems to have stopped doing anything. He hardly leaves the loft. I was hoping having a dog would help.’
‘That’s too bad,’ said Al. He leant down and rubbed Brandy’s head. Brandy gave him a sloppy dog lick.
‘Well, remember what I said. Any time he wants to drop by, he’ll get a big welcome here.’
Thursday 5th June, 9.00 a.m.
The Plaza Residenza
It’s 5th June already. The precious days of my summer vacation are seeping away and I haven’t even had a holiday yet. Before I know it, it will be autumn semester and I’ll be at that new school Mum’s found. And so will (ugghh!) Shug! I’m not even looking forward to school now. I’ll be coming face to face with him all the time – in the corridors, at the lockers, at meals . . . Grrr!
To make things worse I can hear sounds of discord coming from Mum’s side of the apartment. I’m tempted to stay where I am until these die down. Discord is hard to take first thing in the morning. But I’m ravenous and I need to get through the salon and into our ultra-hi-tech kitchen and see if I can figure out how to get some breakfast.
I haul on my white towelling robe and hope that this will act as camouflage as I creep through the salon.
I slide open my door. Mum has her back to me and is absorbed in going through what looks like a pile of garbage on the floor while bawling out Vix.
Vix is standing with her organiser, trying to take notes fast enough to keep up with Mum’s comments.
I reach the kitchen without being intercepted and start searching for food. There’s nothing that looks like food. No bright inviting packs – only a range of designer containers with anonymous substances inside. The white expanses of wall have nothing resembling a food cupboard either . . . or a fridge . . . or a hob or a kettle. I spot something that may or may not be a sink. It’s an inverted cone of pale green bottle glass with no visible means of obtaining water.
I peek out of the door again.
‘And what does he expect me to do with this?’ demands Mum furiously, holding up what looks like a chain-mail vest.
I dodge back in again.
I hadn’t noticed a remote co
ntrol lurking on the worktop. I start pressing buttons and – hey presto – doors in the walls open. Inside, there’s every culinary gadget that has ever been dreamed up. There’s even a machine for rolling the seaweed round sushi. The fact that this kitchen will never be used to actually cook food, since Mum is still on her ‘only raw foods’ diet, seems a bit of a waste to me. However, once I locate the fridge I find a small bowl of fresh fruit salad inside and some plain organic yogurt.
I venture back into the salon with it.
‘It’s no good,’ Mum is saying to Vix. ‘I can’t wear any of this.’
‘What’s the problem? ‘I ask.
Vix gives a weary sigh. ‘We’re shooting the very last link sequence. And we still have problems.’
‘It’s my punk phase. I’m meant to be in vintage clothing and look what they’ve sent.’ Mum points towards the pile of garbage.
‘Looks pretty vintage to me.’
‘OK, so when you’re seventeen you can wear a bin-liner and a safety pin through your nose and get away with it. When I want vintage, I want it flattering.’
‘I could tell them to go buy another lot,’ suggests Vix.
‘No time,’ says Mum. ‘I’m due on set at two sharp this afternoon.’
‘Why don’t you buy it yourself?’ I ask Mum.
‘Where am I going to find vintage clothing in New York?’
‘In the East Village. I’ve seen loads of places when I’ve been out walking Dad’s –’ (Oops!)
‘The East Village? You’ve been out walking in the East Village?’
‘Mum, hold on. I wasn’t alone. I was with this dog. Dad’s dog.’
‘Holly, in my book, walking in the city – even with a dog – is still alone.’
‘But you haven’t seen the dog. He’s huge. If anyone came near me, he’d eat them as a between-meal snack. And anyway, Dad thinks it’s OK.’
‘I don’t believe this. Your father is totally irresponsible.’
‘But it’s not a bad idea of Holly’s,’ interrupts Vix. ‘Choosing the stuff yourself. You’ve got nothing else on this morning.’
11.00 a.m., the East Village
We’ve managed to get Mum dressed down enough to go incognito. She made a big fuss about what to wear. She didn’t seem to realise that no one would believe it was her sifting through a load of second-hand clothes in the East Village.
The vintage clothing shops are just opening when Abdul drives Mum and me along Fourth Avenue. It’s taken a while to get there because there’s some sort of demonstration or march going on up Broadway.
‘So where are these places?’ demands Mum.
I point out one of the stores I’ve spotted with Brandy.
‘Can’t take the car up there. It’s one-way going the wrong way,’ says Abdul.
‘OK, so we’ll get out and walk. Curses! Where’s my mobile?’ says Mum.
‘It’s OK. I’ve got mine.’
‘Now, Abdul, hand me my card . . .’
‘Mum, these kind of stores – they don’t always take cards.’
‘They don’t? What kind of places are they?’
Abdul leans over and takes a bundle of dollars from his pocket. Mum never carries a chequebook or cash. As she puts it, she has ‘people’ to look after stuff like that.
‘I’ve got nowhere to carry cash,’ says Mum.
‘I’ll take it.’ I fold the dollar bills and button them safely into the pocket of my jeans jacket.
So Abdul is instructed to drive round and hang on for us up the other end of the one-way street.
‘May be a long way round,’ he says. ‘And it looks like rain. Sure it wouldn’t be better for me to wait here?’
‘Abdul, don’t make things difficult. Do as I say, OK?’ says Mum.
‘When we’re through, I’ll call you,’ I add.
With that he drove away and Mum and I set off down the street and soon came across a place that looked as if it had the right vintage image – at least it was scruffy enough. It took a moment or two to convince Mum that this was a retail outlet. She ventured in as if crawling down a pit searching for the lost ark.
We didn’t find anything Mum deigned ‘fit to try’ in that first shop. So we moved on further down the street and found a place that only seemed to do weird porno clothing.
‘This is hopeless,’ said Mum. ‘I should’ve got Wardrobe to design me something.’
‘Don’t give in, we’ve hardly started looking yet,’ I said. I was enjoying this outing. Some of the clothes were really, errm, ‘groovy’.
I set off at a determined pace down a side street. Mum followed, grumbling all the way. Her shoes rubbed and her hair was getting wet. It had started raining.
‘You better call up Abdul,’ she said. ‘I’ll make do with the stuff we’ve got already.’
‘No way! I know I’ve seen a really good place somewhere round here.’
We had to double back through several streets before we came across the store I remembered. There was a model in the window wearing a stretchy sequinned miniskirt that I’d noted at the time.
‘How about that?’ I suggested.
‘Hmm . . . maybe,’ said Mum.
Inside this store she seemed to gain interest. She gathered an armful of psychedelic flimsy top things.
‘Where are the changing rooms?’ she hissed at me.
I pointed to a rather rank-looking curtained-off area.
‘I’ll try something too, to keep you company,’ I said.
I’d found a really cool remodelled leather jacket and some flared trousers that looked about my size.
We were crammed in the changing room with two other girls and Mum kept rolling her eyes at me as if to say this just wasn’t on. But she started trying on the clothes all the same. I did my best to ignore her and stripped off to try the flares. Actually, when I got them on I realised why they’d been dumped. They had the really curious effect of giving you ‘clown thighs’. I reached for the jacket. This was better. I jostled against the others, trying to get a glimpse of my back view. Mum was fussing like a scalded cat, stuck halfway in and halfway out of a stretchy spandex minidress. I hauled the dress off Mum and suggested she try getting into it feet first. Actually, the jacket didn’t look that good on me. Regretfully I took it off.
Peering out of the curtain, I wondered whether to venture out for something else to try. I spotted a girl wearing a nice cropped jeans jacket walking out of the store. Just like my jeans jacket . . .
I swung round and searched frantically over the floor. Hang on . . . that was my jeans jacket!
‘Mum, I think that girl just walked out in my jacket!’
‘Well, don’t fuss, Holly. Jackets like that are two a penny. I’ll buy you another. Now, what do you think of this skirt?’
‘No – but Mum, you don’t understand. That jacket had my mobile in the pocket and all the mon—’
‘OK, so we get another mobile . . . I think it’s a bit saggy, don’t you?’
I was hauling my clothes on.
‘Wait here,’ I said to Mum, and dashed out of the shop. Once outside there was no sign of the girl or my jeans jacket. I searched down the street but it was no use. She’d disappeared into thin air.
I got back to find Mum fully dressed. She had a little pile of vintage clothes set to one side.
‘Well, it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. I reckon the sequinned miniskirt, the Lycra boob tube and the Shetland hand-knit and we’ve got the Look.’
I followed Mum as she strode up to the guy behind the till.
‘OK,’ said Mum. ‘We’ll take this lot.’
‘But Mum . . .’
The guy made a great fuss about writing down all the items in an exercise book. He chewed on his pencil as he added them up.
‘That’ll be seven dollars,’ he said at last.
‘Seven dollars?’ said Mum incredulously.
‘Well, I could knock off a dollar, maybe. But ma’am, this is for charity.’
‘No, but seven dollars . . .’ said Mum. I think she was trying to work out if he’d missed a couple of noughts or something.
‘Mum,’ I whispered, pulling on her sleeve, ‘we don’t actually have seven dollars. My jacket . . . remember?’
‘Oh . . .’ said Mum as she caught my drift. ‘Right. Do you do credit?’
‘Oh no, ma-am, I’m sorry, but –’
‘But you don’t seem to understand. I need this stuff.’
‘That’s what they all say.’
‘You mean, you won’t let me take this – this trash just for the sake of seven measly dollars?’ said Mum.
‘Now look here, missy. You listen to me. If you don’t like the merchandise, there’s no need to to be offensive . . .’
‘Missy? Offensive? Do you know who I am?’ said Mum.
‘Oh sure, yeah. You’re one of the Rockefellers. We have them in every day,’ said the guy.
Mum bundled up the clothes in her arms and was making for the door. I ran after her.
‘Mum, don’t –’
But it was too late. The guy came out from behind the till, grabbed at the bundle of clothes, and they had a little tussle. The guy won.
‘Now just leave quietly, OK? And I won’t have to call the cops,’ he said.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mum so furious. She was storming down the street. It had started to rain really hard too and she was getting soaked.
‘Where’s Abdul? Where the hell is Abdul? Call him up, Holly!’
‘Mum, my mobile! Don’t you remember? It was in the pocket of my jack–’
‘Oh my God!’ said Mum, turning to face me. ‘You mean we’re stranded. In the East Village!’
‘Well, no. I mean, maybe we can find a public call box and –’
Mum started striding again. ‘A call box? What do they look like?’
‘There’s one!’
I leapt at the call box. I knew you could make a call collect if you didn’t have money, but the call box phone sounded ominously dead and when I looked down I could see why. Someone had ripped the cord out of its socket.
